The Ha-Ha

HA-HA 2021

Image by Charlotte Griffiths

The Outsider Jakob Venables

I Used to Live Here Once Monty Bolton Image Eloise Smith

The Rise of Zeno Jude Kelly Image Sasha Palfreyman Loving Life Jade Neal Image Sasha Palfreyman

My Creation Story Felicity Hill Image Rohana Saunders Myth Kacy Nguyen Image Adela Wilson

The Hunter Ben Charlesworth Paralysis Monty Bolton Broken Malachi Silas Racing in 1966 George Campling Image Anna Pratley

The Big Apple Nancy Christensen Image Adela Wilson

Ghazal: Art Eloise Smith

Ghazal: Cricket Philip Croker Ghazal: Nature Nicolas Woods-Cano Image Joseph Curry

Standing on the Shore Harry Adams

I Used to Live Here Once Simran Panesar Image Kitty Miller Image Rosie Moore

Presents are Memories Mae Serjeant Greece Freddy Masters Image Michelle Rose Image Hamide Loci

First Time

Smith

Knew

Image by Maddie Abbs-Woodd

THE OUTSIDER

The old person lives in their house With nobody else but themselvesStuck between life and death.

Kids look through the window Trying to find out the mystery of who lives In the dark dwelling… An outsider who lives on the inside. Just sitting at home reading the newspaper Or watching the telly On a gloomy and rainy day. The birds tweet in the garden Wanting the bird feeders to be filled up.

No-one comes in, No-one goes out.

Going to bed at sixTeenagers throwing rocks try to get a response But just keep the tormented one awake for the rest of the night.

Wishing they had someone to talk to, To share their life stories with, Showing them that they don’t smell, That they don’t bite, That they would be happy to be around people.

But no-one comes And so the insider stays an outsider.

Words by Jakob Venables Image by Eloise Smith

I USED TO LIVE HERE ONCE

He was lying on the beach, remembering the sand between his toes, the wind in his hair. He remembered when times were simpler, easier. He walked up the beach stairs, worn from the crashing waves, towards his old family home. Everything was the same, at first glance. But when he looked closer, he saw all of the differences, that he didn’t remember.

The strong, elegant cherry tree had been cut down, and replaced with a young, weak willow. The potholes in the road had been filled and cleaned up. It was odd, this road never got much attention from the council. What could have happened here to catch their attention?

It was a fine day as was any in this part of America; the sun was shining and there was a light breeze swishing the trees but suddenly he felt a chill go through his spine, as if the wind had passed through him. As he approached his past home, he felt a sense of longing. He had been away from it for so long, that is was beginning to look new.

He was just about to open the front door, when he heard a giggle coming from the back yard. He knew better than to go looking around someone else’s house, but he just couldn’t help it.

As he turned around the corner, he saw two young children, a boy and a girl, playing tag together. He walked up to the children; yet they didn’t blink, they didn’t flinch they didn’t move, they just ran after each other. He whispered at first.

‘Hello?’ and when he gained the confidence he introduced himself. Nothing. But suddenly the children turned to him, but it looked as if they were looking through him.

‘Come on,’ said the boy, ‘let’s go in now.’

‘Yes, Mom will be looking for us,’ replied the girl, still staring.

And that was the first time he knew.

Words by Monty Bolton

THE RISE OF ZENO

There were once two brothers, one called Zeno and another called Loki. One day they both emerged from the ocean unexpectedly on a small underdeveloped island. They explored the island all day looking for Purpose.

Eventually, Zeno and Loki begin to fight over whose fault it was that they had no Purpose. Loki travelled to the other side of the island, leaving Zeno. Months passed of boredom, but one day Zeno decided to make a change. He led a gigantic sea monster from the ocean. The monster was big and ferocious; it was dark purple and on all fours. It stumbled onto the sand, struggling to walk on land. Zeno cared for it for another two months helping it walk and understand the island. Then, one day, the beast laid eggs in the sand.

Months passed of Zeno observing the eggs. One day, Zeno was minding his own business playing around with some rocks when the eggs began to move and eventually crack open. A small human crawled from one of the eggs. Zeno was surprised and happy, he has made life. A year had gone by and he now had 7 humans working and making a living environment. But one day, Zeno became curious what Loki had been up to these past years, He flew with his special trident over to some trees to spy on Loki.

Loki was preparing an army, he obviously had found the same kind of beast Zeno had, and somehow Loki had thousands of soldiers hidden away with weapons. Zeno flew away with his magical trident in fear his people would die. He took them to go into hiding in a nearby cave. Zeno leaves the humans safe inside of the cave whilst he was checking on Loki, Zeno saw Loki in his camp and all of his troops they were looking for Zeno’s humans. Zeno flew down and confronted Loki.

“Loki what are you doing here?’ Shouted Zeno with rage, Zeno was ready to fight but he was also worried since he had no plan on how to protect his humans and go fully into attack mode. Zeno didn’t want to destroy the whole island with the power he contained so he needed to be careful, not to get too angry. Loki explained how angry he was and how he shouldn’t have been sent to the other half of the island, Loki wanted to rule the humans and build an army.

Zeno was fuming at this point and shouted, “I’ll never let that happen, Loki!” Loki then charged at Zeno with a punch but Zeno dodged it, and grabbed his hand and threw him into some trees. Loki screamed and made an energy ball in his palms he shot it at Zeno and he fell to the ground. Zeno now had white glowing eyes and he had a white mass around his body, he was getting angry and Loki tripped in fear, Loki had never seen Zeno like this. Zeno yelled and shot a white energy boulder straight at Loki’s face, Loki was close to death and he couldn’t walk.

Zeno was so angry he wanted to give Loki something worse than death, Zeno banished him and his army into the underworld, so they lived forever in flames and despair with no chance of coming back to the surface. Zeno brought his people to the centre of the island and rebuilt their houses and let them live on, Zeno eventually went looking for more across all the ocean and found an even bigger island, he brought his people to the island and helped them get started on rebuilding new life.

But Zeno knew he must leave. He told them how to create and build, he wished them luck and flew into the clouds, into heaven. Loki is now known as Satan and Zeno is now known as God.

Words by Jude Kelly

Image by Sasha Palfreyman

LOVING LIFE

There is only a god here, his name is Cherokee. He is more powerful than anything. He is creating a seed, the seed is opening. Crack: light is spilling out. There is a god in there; his name is Cheyenne. “Create something extraordinary”, Cherokee says.

And so life begins.

Cheyenne didn’t know what to do. What should he make? How should he make it? Then a song began. It came from the seed, the Ly-O-Lay Ale Loya. It was soft and sweet, then Snap. An idea sprang into his head: “I should make sons”, he muttered to himself. He also thought he should make them with love.

And so came the four Elements.

He took some of his hair and spun it with his fingers, faster and faster he went then, a spark, a flame. The fire in his hand was creating a son. His name was Paiute, and he was the element fire. Cheyenne wanted to make more sons, so next he spat into his hand, he rubbed his hand together, and then came a water droplet. Inside the water there was his second son. His name was Iroquois, and he was the element of water. Cheyenne needed more so next he took a big breath then let it all out with one blow. His air got caught in the space and formed into a small white mist. Inside the mist there was his third son. His name was Sioux, and he was the element of air. Cheyenne wanted one more son so he took one of the leaves from his crown and ripped it, then he formed a circle of the leaf in his hand. In the middle of the circle grew his fourth son. His name was Navajo, and he was the element of life. While he was making his sons, he kept humming and humming and humming the song Ly-O-Lay Ale Loya to himself.

Cheyenne told his four sons to make the something with their powers. The four sons knew that it was now or never. And so Navajo made a big circle and covered it with soil of all sorts. Then Iroquois made a waterfall and spilled it all over the earth. After that Sioux put air in the sky so creatures could breath, then Navajo put many creatures, and all living things on the planet. Every time they created something they had to promise that if they made it they would love it.

Words by Jade Neal Image by Sasha Palfreyman

MY CREATION STORY

The void. An empty nothingness, a black vacuum that we now know as space. No day and night, no night and day. No planets or stars, or light or life. No sun. Just an empty void.

Then one day it changed. Out of the nothingness fell Ria. Hurtling down she fell into the ocean. SPLASH. She lay there bobbing on the ocean, the water lapping over her. Yet it wasn’t cold, there was no temperature nor was there any passing time. There was still nothing. After a while Ria found something; sitting on the water was a Water Iris. It was as beautiful and colourful as life itself, one of the most perfect things Ria had ever seen. But as she looked closer, she noticed something. Emerging from the Water Iris was a figure, Bo.

Together Ria and Bo made a plan. They wanted to create life, time, beauty and much more. They set out on their work. Firstly, they split the Water Iris into three parts: Land, Sky and Heaven. Then they set out creating whatever they could think of: trees, birds, clouds, flowers and fresh fruit.

But Bo wanted more. He wanted it to be his creation, he wanted to be the leader. So as Ria was busy creating all things good, Bo went behind her back. If he couldn’t create all things good, he would create all things evil. He created storms, death, night. Anything he could think of that would bring unhappiness, fear and sorrow.

However, one day Ria noticed. She witnessed her creations die and storms wipe things out. She knew it was Bo but didn’t want to believe he would want to ruin something he had created and believed in. She went to him and confronted him. He didn’t admit it at first, but luckily after she listed all the horrific things she had seen, he admitted he had been the cause and that he was sorry.

Ria was angry, angrier than she had ever been. He had betrayed her, but she understood why. After a while, she went to him and gave him her forgiveness. He promised her he was sorry and together they carried on their task to create life and beauty.

It took a while for Ria to regain full trust of Bo. But soon enough they had completed their goal and they were the closest of friends.

Together they flew up to Heaven and continued to watch over their work.

Words by Felicity Hill Image by Rohana Saunders

MYTH

It was yet another stormy day in Arizona. In fact, stormy would be an understatement. The wind was tempestuous. Although this may be bad weather for a human, the only thing there to experience the storm was an owl. Not any old owl this ominous, hooting, unseen animal had the eyes and brains of a fully programmed computer. You may be confused by what I mean by this and to make it sound simple I’ll tell you this animal could analyse anything from an ant’s death day to a tree’s exact age with just one stare. This mastermind would just sit in a tree waiting for someone or something new to appear. Although, nothing was unfamiliar nor intriguing to the owl until the lightning struck at midnight. Bang!

The lightning struck the tree and suddenly the unseen owl could now easily be identified. The poor owl prettified but not clueless knowing if one more lightning bolt hit the tree, no matter how intelligent the owl is, it will not be able to survive. As predicted, the lightning struck once more hitting the owl perfectly. Although, it should have, it did not hurt. The owl started to extend and grow larger and larger until the owl was now the size of a woman. This was the creation of the first female god. She created the word “goddess” she represented analysation and intelligence. She had the mind, eyes, ears and strength to rule the world. She was called Optictnina and as you can probably tell by her name her eyes were her best weapon. The owl’s knowledge and the humans body and the title of a goddess all combined gave her the position of the most powerful thing ever to be created. But although she had the power to rule everything she had to get there somehow and this was not easy.

Now she had the power to do what she wished. Everything you see, hear, smell, taste and touch today was her doing (you may not know it but still to this day Optictina has been watching, analysing and improving you). She keeps a record of everyone’s and everything’s life in a booklet. If this book was ever found or destroyed Optictina would go down with it. Every year lightning strikes at midnight in Arizona in memory of her creation.

Words by Kacy Nguyen

Image by Adela Wilson

THE HUNTER

Only sixty seconds, that is all I have to hide. The hunter is in my house, he is coming for me. It needed to be good, my spot, it needed to be the best. I couldn’t find one.

The hunter had found me. I would have to count next round.

Words by Ben Charlesworth

broken

PARALYSIS

I wake. Limbs stiff, eyes rattling around my sockets, the only moving thing. My bed drifts, floating in nothingness. My eyes twitch, darting to the corner of the room’s abyss. A figure. A shadow. A monster creeps towards my wooden body. Wicked smile, ghostly form, a claw reaching out…I wake.

Words by Monty Bolton

A big hand clasping me. Its whole grip suffocating me. Suddenly, it opens up. I see clearly now. I’m falling. Crack! My shell is breaking. My whole insides poured out. Everything streaming out of me. My shell thrown away without a thought. And then I’m gone. Immediately forgotten about. Forever.

Words by Malachi Silas

RACING IN 1966

The roar of the crowd, mixed with the sound of seven litre engines, is incredible. And the Ford GT40 in this all. The last lap comes. The Ford in second, but the Ferrari 330 is first. The Ford speeds up to the Ferrari. Now side to side. The flag falls.

Words by George Campling

Image by Anna Pratley

THE BIG APPLE

Tall, towering sky-scrapers blocked the ocean skies, Glass buildings soaked up the burning sun,

Car horns beeped, Busy people rushed off to work. Polluted, humid air, Very different from cold, bitter England.

Huge screens and neon bright lights, Instead of dull brick streets.

Temperatures rising, Temperatures dropping, Different from home. The patter of rich business people’s feet

Against the smart, marble floors. Golden lifts as sparkly as a long desert beach, Or grey, boring lifts.

Which country do I prefer?

I might have given you a clue.

Words by Nancy Christensen Image by Adela Wilson

GHAZAL: ART

If I am the canvas you the brush, then stroke me.

If I am the idea you the pencil, draw me.

If I am the dirty brush you the water, clean me.

If I am the paint you the finger then smudge me.

If I am the pencil you the light then guide me.

If I am the artist you the model, freeze for me.

If I am the fabric you the needle, pierce me.

If I am the mistake you the rubber, expunge me. `

If I am the marble you the chisel, scratch upon me.

If I am the artist you the friend, compliment me.

Words by Eloise Smith

GHAZAL: CRICKET

If I am silly mid-off, I protect the wicket.

If I am batting, I want to score some runs. On the green I am one off from a half century, I keep my cool and play the easy shot. Renew me. If I hit the ball and it rolls for four. You cheer me.

If I hit a century to win the cup final. You praise me. If the team is in a circle with the cup. You respond to us.

If you ask for photos with the trophy. We return the favour for you.

Words by Philip Croker

GHAZAL: NATURE

If I am the horse and you the rider, care for me.

If I am the tree and you the axe, cut through me.

If I am the field and you the child, run through me.

If I the flower and you the bee, pollinate me.

If I am the mountain and you the conqueror, climb me.

If I am a challenge to your will, then respect me.

If I the autumn leaves and you the rake, collect me.

If I the sandcastle and you the waves, don’t wreck me.

If I the earth and you the moon, orbit me.

If I the asteroid and you the earth, embrace me.

If I the tree and you the vines, don’t use me.

If I the sea and you the sky, keep me close.

If I the rain and you the mud, absorb me.

If I the prey and you the predator, don’t kill me!

Words by Nicolas Woods-Cano

Image by Joseph Curry

STANDING ON THE SHORE

He was standing on the shore by the sea and remembered the path back home. He remembered the road running by the shore. He had to be careful because at one point it got narrow. Pat pat pat went his bare feet on the baked asphalt road. Past the narrow bit was a patch of grass. That was the safe spot where he could stop after being careful on the road. Vroom!! went the car as he jumped on the grass. It was the car of the old man. His car was green and old. Every time the car went over a speed bump it sounded like it would rattle itself to pieces. He was always careless and one day he was going to hit somebody.

It was only a couple of yards from his old house. He ran up the old drive like he always used to. It was steep like he remembered but there were new cars in it. The boy also noticed that in the back garden the wood carving was gone. That was odd. What was even stranger was that there were children sitting where the carving used to be. They were around his age, 13 years old or so.

He went up to them, but not too close so as not to alarm them. He could now hear that they were murmuring to each other but he could not hear what about. He could now also see that one was a boy and the other was a girl. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I used to live here once.’ What was wrong with them? They could not hear him. The boy felt a sudden stab of anger.

These children were living in what used to be his house and not even stopping to look at him. ‘Hello!’ he said more aggressively this time. They still did not respond. He lashed out in anger and tried to hit the boy but his fist seemed to be repelled by some form of magnet. At the same time as his attempted assault the boy’s face seemed to change.

He shrivelled his face like he had eaten something sour.

‘It’s cold out now. Let’s go inside.’ The girl agreed and off they went. The boy realized what had happened and fell to the ground sobbing, afraid and alone.

Words by Harry Adams

I USED TO LIVE HERE ONCE

It was just how she remembered. She took in the nostalgic feeling as she danced over the road that she knew so well, wobbling playfully over the loose slabs and jumping over the stones sticking out like she had never known any different. The next part of the road was wider and she liked to run from side to side in a zigzag pattern. The last part was the most difficult as it was narrower and steeper, and more uneven, yet it was the most familiar as it led to what she called home.

There was one thing that made her feel slightly uncomfortable, and that was the sky. She had not noticed it at first, in her rush of excitement, but now, the sky did look a bit more turquoise than she remembered and it had a glassy look that she definitely did not remember. Yet, she pushed this aside and took it all in; the smell, the sound of birds in the fields, the feel of the ground in her shoes.

The journey was long, but fairly easy apart from the rocky path leading up to her old house, which seemed alien with its modern extensions, and clear back garden, instead of being a jungle of mystery as it used to be.

As she drew nearer to the house, she could make out a car, but not the old pick-up truck that used to be in its place. Instead she saw a smaller BMW that took up half the space. Further on, she noticed a couple of children playing in the garden, and went up to them to greet them.

The two were happily playing and talking together as she approached them. ‘Hello’, she said shyly, ‘I used to live here’, but they took no notice. She moved towards them, perhaps they couldn’t hear her.

‘Hello?’ she repeated. The boy raised his head and looked at her. Finally, she was going to meet them, but they boy only stared blankly and said to his sister, ‘Do you feel that?’

And the girl replied, ‘Somebody watching us?’ The boy nodded, ‘Let’s go in.’

‘Yes, let’s.’

Her face fell, confused. And that’s when she knew.

Words by Simran Panesar

Image by Kitty Miller

Image by Rosie Moore

Presents are memories

When I was young I didn’t understand presents. They used to be things that I wanted Like toys or clothes that you grow out of, the only reasons why I couldn’t wait for Christmas or my Birthday.

My sister would travel a lot, she still does and I don’t see her much at home, but she sends me all sorts of gifts from all around the world, presents that seem normal to various different cultures.

Like when I received the strawberry-red, lime-green and lemon-yellow hat, sent from Jamaica, that was one of my favorites.

When she was in Australia I got a magnificently decorated boomerang made of red ironbark wood, smothered with delicate dots of an array of hues, and little chestnut kangaroos alive with detail,

I hung that on my wall. The cluster of glass candy-cane bracelets from Pakistan, A tranquil turquoise Scarab Beatle from Egypt, like boiled sugar gone hard, the nazar eye from Turkey, vividly coloured pasta from Italy

An aqua-edged tambourine from Brazil.

I used to wonder why she sends me all these thoughtful gifts, but they are more than just meaningless things that I want, they are signs of kindness, friendship and love, memories not just gifts, they are pleasurable and you should care and cherish them.

When I was young, I didn’t understand presents, they used to be things that I wanted, but now I understand that they are a connection of heart and mind.

Words by Mae Serjeant

Image by Michelle Rose

GREECE

The streets buzzing with noise and laughter, like no one ever slept, Music floating down all the cobbled streets, Sea the colour of sapphire, lapping against the burning sand, Sky as hot as a thousand suns, waves crashing and children playing.

Words by Freddy Masters

the first time she knew

She was standing, leaning against the steel gates with the morning sunlight reflecting off them. The breeze was slowly opening and closing the gate as much as the padlock would let them. She thought back to all those years ago when she would crawl under it or slip through the bars, not the one with the paint coming off but on left side where the bars were slimmer. If you rattle the handle, then push it towards the ground gradually lifting it up.

The bushes and the little trees seemed neater almost as if they were made of plastic. As she walked into the car park, she saw that the ash had gone to make more space for the cars. Glad to see the winding pathway between the cars still had the same wild look.

She stopped in her tracks as she saw the old house; surprisingly the huge front door was still mint green and had the same brass door knob surrounded by the antient wisteria. She gazed up at the old-fashioned doorbell, taller than the door itself with the spiralling handle leading up to the little hole in the wall. The flooding memories of her leaping up to ring it startled her as in her head she could hear the deafening DONG it made and fading back into the car park giggling hysterically.

She craned her neck to look at the gaping windows with the with the aged panes stooping with age. It was a fine spring day but as she thought about those blazing fires in the hall she shivered, cold and envious.

Gradually making her way towards the grounds, she worked out whereabouts in the woods the tree house was and if it was still there. Admiring the vast cedar with the branches that scrape the sky, she spotted all of the wildflowers, faces drawn to the sun light.

Two children stood by the daffodils, a girl and a little boy, she waved to them and called “hello” and then “I used to go to school here once too.” The little boy turned his head to see her and screamed.

“ Ww...what is tthe...the...tha...a..at” the boy stuttered.

The girl stood motionlessly staring at her. “Run!” the girl shouted.

That was the first time she knew.

Words by Eloise Smith Image by Hamide Loci

SPECIAL PLACE

There was a tree that grew and grew, and grew among its friends. They yearned for sky and sun and light, to which they would defend.

They could stand against the autumn time, and winter at its worst.

But there was one thing they could not do, withstand the human curse. These humans they would come along, and wipe the greenland clean. Steal away their special place, in which they grew all green.

That special place to which they love, hoovered up by thieving crooks. All destroyed by man’s great power, to turn into a million books.

That special place where they grow, burnt to ashes on the stake.

Engulfed in flames, tearing roots, impossible to remake.

That special place where they call home, cut by scarring saws. Every tree that’s in their sight, crushed by human jaws.

That special place they are engraved, forever solid in the earth.

Until some greedy looking human, comes to see what they are worth. So when you go to throw away, A book behind your pace.

Remember trees and what they do, remember their special place.

Image by Olivia Roberton

Words by Lucy Keeling

NOT LOOKING BACK

She was walking down the battered concrete drive, taking in all the torturing memories. The bramble bushes lining the road arched up over her, closing her in a tunnel of thorns. Barely anything had changed. Apart from the brambles that were blossoming in a blood red flower and somehow seemed more sinister than before. Apart from the big steel cages that once lined the barbed perimeter fences now broken and bent. Apart from the windowless stone building that now had barred holes in the side.

Everything was the same but different. The barbed fences still existed but now contained twice as many barbs and twice as few fences. The security was vamped up. She could tell. She knew why.

Her heart raced and her head throbbed. She couldn’t tell how she was feeling. She had mixed memories from this place. But she couldn’t quite remember any of them.

It was a dismal, grey day. Much like the others she had spent here. She wandered the cracking concrete of the quads, taking in the same but different features of the place she had spent so much time in. Her second home. It seemed empty. Almost too empty.

She turned a corner and was facing a big open field. She remembered that too. But it was too empty. She remembered it being full of children. Sad, emotionless children. The grass of this field was bone-dry, and dead as if nobody had used it in a very long time. But there were two figures, sitting underneath an equally long-since dead maple tree.

She was almost happy to see life. She made her way over and realised that it was two children. Young children of about seven and ten. A girl and a boy. The girl was crying and the boy was comforting her. Her heart wrenched seeing such a little child so upset.

She made as to move forward but the boy suddenly looked up and said, ‘Lizzy. Can you feel that chill?’ As he said this, he shivered and hugged the little girl closer.

She bent down and whispered, ‘Are you alright?’ she got no response. She tried again. ‘Are you alright?’ This time the boy stood up and she noticed something strange. He had lash marks all along his arm. She went to touch them and see if he was okay. They looked fresh and raw.

But the boy grabbed the girl’s arm and pulled her up. ‘We should sneak back in,’ he said, ‘it is nearly inspection time and I don’t want any more of these,’ and he held up his arm. They ran back to the big stone building, not once looking back.

That was the first time she knew.

Words by Poppy Symonds Image by Adela Wilson

the storm

Torrential. Storm Coming. Fierce winds coming. Lightning clapping every second. The terror only getting worse. Papers spreading awareness of the storm. Shrieks over the radio only getting louder. Crashing and crumbling whilst lives are falling apart…

Whilst lives are falling apart. …Houses being fled because of trees falling on top. The ground trembling terribly all around people leaving their town. Children lives being scared, it will never be the same…

It will never be the same… Hospitals now overflowing because of the casualties involved in the storm.

The terror only getting worse. Lightning clapping every second. Fierce winds blowing. Storm raging. Torrential.

Words by Emily Martland

Image by Rufus Hardman

1.2.3. ChaLLENGE

Erupting. Lava flowing. Molten lava destroying. Rocks explode into shards. Spitting ash into thin air. Lava spreading out of the mouth. Fleeing people run for their lives. Animals keenly watching, deciding what their fate is. Clouds rushing out, smoking lava flowing like a river. Bulbous clouds forming the fascinating scene, animals evacuating. Gasping people spying over wandering about the fate of the village. Village houses destroyed in the exhausting toil of the flowing boiling lava. The tremors shaking the ground like an angry giant, thunder shouting, kids screaming. Bubbling lava flows faster and faster running to the beach like an excitable child. Lava meets the sea spawning obsidian, lava solidifying on the side of the sharp mountain.

Words by Thomas Avery

what is there

There’s something inside me, something small, The thing that makes me stand up tall, Maybe it is determination, all proud and strong, Maybe it has been something all along, Who knows what it is? I know I don’t, Because even though I know not, I think it might be, quite a lot, A lot, I think, Of love, so blink, And look around at what we’ve found, It’s everywhere, here and there, So love is what is there. (it’s not somewhere over the rainbow, it is here)

Words by Florence Adepoju Image by Matilda Wyatt

the white road’s skull

The story I’m about to tell you is a true tale of a tentative young lad. I met him ten years ago, yet it seems to me that it could have been yesterday, so crisp and clear it is in my memory, one that could never be erased.

“I walked along the worn, chalky path, avoiding scattered with small rocks, from time to time rising my head to see the hills cloaked in mist, only hearing some loud-mouthed crows around myself. I could find no start or finish to this path. As I glanced upon the chalky path, and its disconnected bits of rock, I saw a pattern, a consistency between them. And after a few miles of training my sensitivity to the pattern I soon found an anomaly, and this is how I came upon the Skull. The Skull was very smooth.”

The old man pulled this amulet out of his pocket, wrapped in a pouch of crimson velvet, and it seemed to encapsulate my interest in a way no other small object had ever before, in all my life.

Words by Rafi Layish

I saw a peacock

I saw a peacock, with a bone in its mouth, I saw a dog, with leaves falling off it, I saw a tree, running away from a wolf, I saw a deer, trying to break into someone’s house, I saw robbers, in a fish tank, I saw a fish, sat on a swing at the park, I saw a baby, jumping to rescue a cat, I saw a person, with three wheels, I saw a car, eating a ham sandwich, I saw a child, even in the midst of the night, I saw the man, that saw this wonderous sight.

Words by Lyla Simpson

Image by Maddie Abbs-Woodd

beyond

The darkness rolls in, Slowly coming into sight. It doesn’t happen in day, So it’s called the night.

The black-blue ink leaks, Along the glassy surface over our heads. It casts a huge shadow, Over our Earth as it spreads. Until the day decides to rebirth, So we live in the light once again. But before then, This dark void above, Drives people to look up, Instead of looking down. To discover the pale skinned moon.

And the punctures across the sky, Lets the milky light seep in.

Pin pricks of hope and awe, Clusters of many, thousands in our grasp. Each one a soul, Soon passing by, Waiting for yet another day to go away. This place, It’s a cold, terrible cavern. The sinister glow gives it its sublime radiance, As it cries into our eyes. A destination too far, Even for our highest reach. That’s why it is, A place beyond.

by Emily Hardy

by Jasmine Mellor

Words

Image

THE Farm, my friend

The willows weep in the distance, Their tears remember the love and laughter

As they stand majestic, parental and proud, Overlooking The Farm, My Friend. Long grasses have grown through the years, Hiding the dark dens we built. Scattered sticks seal the memories Of The Farm, My Friend. We learnt to ride Russell together, Chestnut mane softly brushed our cheeks. His grave now stands tall Guarding The Farm, My Friend. The stream still possesses our stepping stones

Like a passage to another world;

The journey now is mine Farewell, The Farm, My Friend. The house where our childhood lies Is home to another two boys. You were a brother, not just my mate, As I leave… The Farm, My Friend. We plotted from dawn ‘til dusk

As two adventurers, discovering life’s secrets, Before together, now lone travelers, Parting now, The Farm, My Friend. So, I turn back the pages of memories

As I embark on my own clear path Your story has fulfilled my book, Forever, The Farm, My Friend.

Words by Charlie Anthony

we shouldn’t waste our time

This planet’s melting, We shouldn’t waste our time, Forget about the bears, Forget about the trees, Forget about the temperature, We can’t, Pay attention to our phones, Pay attention to our clothes, Pay attention to our hair, If people continue to say we should, Clean up our mess, Fix this, But we should, Save ourselves, Of course we will, We’re all human. (Now read from the bottom to the top)

Words by Florence Adepoju Images by Sasha Palfreyman

we pass them every day

We pass them every day. We know without them, Nothing we do could be possible.

Going deep into the earth. Deeper. Run your hands over the worn exterior, Listen to all the stories it has to tell.

Listen intently. Don’t miss a single detail. They live through lifetime after lifetime, Generation after generation. Knots, dents and scratches allow you insight to their lives that would otherwise be Invisible. Struggles.

Through seasons, To seasons

Never giving up. Being before born us. Growing along with us. Dying with us. We could all learn a thing or two..

Words by Aoife Kirkham

the conjuror

After ‘The Withered Arm’ by Thomas Hardy

The village was more alive than usual. Milker’s hands exchanged baskets of sandwiches, jars of jam and chequered blankets to those who fussed around their expressionless children, trying to make them look smart in the few rags that they considered rich. The family from the manor even came into the village (a rare occurrence for them to join those who worked the land), the daughters showing the marks of the lady, their parasols spinning in an impatient frenzied manner. Though the day was bleak, the villagers had never been more bright.

The gallows stood empty for a moment as the Yeomen and their families crowded around the structure. They stood with transfixed aversion as the conjurer slumped, a noose placed around his neck. His greasy hair hung limply like it had already been lynched. His face was drawn, his eyes both lorn and full of rage as he muttered his final words before the event all had come to watch. His tongue clicked and weaved sounds that snarled and enveloped those surrounding him with a malignant heat. With his final breath he laughed before his neck snapped, his head lolling to the right side. His face, still smiling, showed no remorse and though he may once have been comely, he now seemed more like an apparition sent there to curse that village and all its inhabitants.

A silence fell over the once rowdy crowd, their energy drained. Even the children had stopped chasing one another and every person became as pale as the lace of the parasols.

‘That fiend!’ Yelled one farmer breaking the eerie shroud that had woven through the throng , throwing a stone at the body. The stone, a weighty grey lump, moved through the air as an incubus moved through the forbidden night. It hit the body and the farmer smirked with a raw animal kind of satisfaction, but his expression snapped suddenly to one of an afflicted dog. The stone went straight through the strung up carrion and landed with a dull thud on the grass opposite. Several screams pealed through the seething air before every single individual sprinted in a bovine manner. The stampede fled to their gigs, pushing one another in an attempt to leave first. The surrounding Egdon Heath chimed with the shrieks of the villagers as they all scurried back to their bartons, the image of that smiling face leaving an impress on all. As the farmers cowered in their cots, all unable to close their eyes for rest, the strung up sorcerer faded, a spectre in the weak light of the new moon. At the rate the figure evanesced the water meads flooded with black water. The

water rose until it was level with the tilled land. Families gathered around their small windows, attempting to catch a glimpse of what was in the horizon. The abyss rocked back and forth, seemingly trying to ready itself, before swarming upwards like a colony of bats. The water twisted and writhed. Like a bird seeing prey, the water lurched and swallowed the village in one gulp, crashing against the stone walls until they were nothing but rubble. There were no cries for help as the water drowned all living things, just the sound of a violent tide.

Like a triumphant army returning from battle, the black slime taking everything with it as it slid back into its bed. As fast as it came, it went transporting all farmers, milkmaids and ladies to another dark land.

Words by Dee Biles

Image by Maddie Abbs-Woodd

IDEAS

Don’t try to take a photo of this place on your phone, but instead cross the wooden bridge and explore where the water gushing by you thunders over rock weaving its way to the mouth where it will be swallowed. Where the moss waxes rocks making you slip, as you climb your way up the Pike. And there at the top feel August then slowly bend to pick up a rock, worn smooth by the generations who have been there and feel the story flow through you, place it, place it on the top of the stack that gets buffeted by winter gales and dried by the summer sun, Covered in autumn by leaves and surrounded by flowers in spring, don’t try to take a photo with your phone instead, Save it in your memories.

Words by Malachy Brown

Image by Phoebe Hichens

THIS PLACE

The music sounded, And the iridescent dancers swayed and rolled, Filling empty spaces between cerulean silks and woollen magenta. Deeply rooted, Like veins beneath skin, Ancestors reached to praise the azure skies With their long limbs adorned With peacock’s feathers Which missed the oracle’s eyes.

Apollo dappled his paint

Like a bored child, The nitid nature a cause itself for celebration. His father bounteous, Not a blank villein in in sight.

Though, once an innocent blue, The skies turned red

As if a gash had teared through.

Shrill trumpets beckoned

The end and start of new.

Image by Mae Serjeant

Words by Dee Biles

Image by Poppy Morgan

MINDFUL

Silence. Your thoughts are now the only thing that you can hear. Within these deafening thoughts, your mind starts to part from you. Disturbing visions rush through your head, changing direction every time they travel through your mind. You are in the middle of nowhere; a dark forest which appears endless. While adapting to the darkness, your mind starts to play tricks on you. Like a lion, thoughts start to creep stealthily. Objects start to fly through your eyeline. You hear things - footsteps, the rustle of leaves, voices. The voices are soft, persuasive, threatening.

You panic, am I crazy? Is something wrong with me? You’re losing yourself. It hits you. Lost. An abundance of sickening visions bombard your mind. You’re lost. Physically and mentally lost. There is a moment of nothing; no worries, calm as silence before a storm, in a world of your own. Then it hits you. A sudden burst of emotions: anger, fear, loneliness. Everyone is born with this curse, although no one is conscious of it. It’s there, making your every decision, thinking your every thought, processing every scene, down to every light particle.

It’s a blistering cold day, overcast grey, spitting rain. It’s an average Saturday for Jason – football and booze. Head to toe in his Adidas originals, dsquared2 jeans, Stone Island and CP Company. He leaves, not knowing what the day beholds, not knowing that this day will be his last. Telling his wife that he loves her, he goes, and leaves the house for the last time. Everything is normal - same pub as usual, same starting line-up, same result, 1-0 win. But he doesn’t feel himself; there is a voice in his head, slowly taking over, inserting horrible thoughts and visions taking over. Death. Visons of death floating around his mind, stunning him, scaring him.

Intoxicating himself more and more, he tries to get rid of that voice, that wicked, disturbing voice. He’s there with his closest mates, blokes he’s known since primary school. They try and ask him what’s wrong multiple times; Jason gives the same worrying silence each time. After a couple hours of drinking and pre match cheering, they head to the stadium. Not a word is said by Jason, worrying his friends. Usually, he would get that feeling of excitement as he walks past the opposing team’s fan bus, looking for a fight, cheering your team’s name with pride. But none of this is there. Jason is empty. Zero emotions. He starts walking, weak at the knees, to the opposing team’s fan bus, from which all the fans have now dismounted, cheering and cussing Jason’s team. His mates are shouting for Jason to come back as they are being held up by police, but again he gives them the silent treatment. Then he’s thrown to the ground. A police officer has stopped him saying, “You’re going to get your head kicked in mate; it’s you against 2000 fans, behave yourself son”. Again, no words are returned. The fact is, Jason cannot control himself; it is that voice again, repeating his name over and over, the voice gentle but horrifying, slowly taking over his body, muscle by muscle. He finally gets reunited with his mates, all of them swearing at him, telling him to man up, stop being stupid. In the end they tell him to go home, saying “You don’t look well mate, get a taxi and go home.” So, he listens, he leaves just as the game kicks off. He does what his mates have told him to do, calls a taxi and waits in the car park, full of cars, deserted of life. But then it’s back. The voice slowly starts to take over, Jason slowly losing control, his eyes being the only thing that he can control. His body takes him into what’s known as the endless forest; 10,000 acres of nothing but trees and darkness. He keeps walking, deeper and deeper, until suddenly he stops. Darkness takes over.

Silence. Your thoughts are now the only thing that you can hear. Within these deafening thoughts, your mind starts to part from you. Disturbing thoughts rush through your head. Changing direction every time they pass through your mind. You are in the middle of nowhere; a dark forest which goes on for miles on end. While adapting to the darkness, your mind starts to play tricks on you. Like a lion, thoughts start to creep stealthily. Objects fly through your eyeline. You start to hear things, footsteps, the rustle of leaves, voices.

Jason realises that this is it - this voice will be the end of him. He begins to lose control as his mind takes over, a screeching evil laugh ringing through his ears, the voice laughing, knowing that victory is upon them. Now it’s a battle; life or death. Do you stop and give in, or do you fight until you’ve got nothing left to give? Even then you’ll still lose, the mind is the most powerful thing known to man. It has won. Entered a body, destroyed it, and moved on.

Words by Jack Peachey

Image by Bella Starkey-Vickers

EXCERPT FROM ‘WHISKERS AND THE BEE’

Basking under the laurel hedge, the herbal scent of summer filled my nose, the dappled light allowing me to seamlessly merge i to the shadows. Under my paws the crisp earth lay parched in the sun. Watching my subjects lounge in the garden I relaxed, tricking them into thinking that they owned me was part of my masterful plan to exploit them. The garden was my domain and I had a duty to protect it. My ears swivelled slowly as I heard a buzzing sound which was piercing through the soft orchestra of crickets.

Honing in on the source, my pupils tracked the strange striped flying thing which was causing the din. Steadily I crouched, coiled like a spring, finding grip through the earth as I tensed. The object bobbed and weaved erratically unlike any bird I had ever hunted. Instinctively I went in for the kill; staying low to the ground I slithered, ears back, waiting for the opportunity to pounce. As fate would have it, the object dipped too low, caught by my scythe like claws as they ripped through the air. Milliseconds later it was downed, held between my pads in the twisted grass.

Whatever it was vibrated aggressively , its high pitched noise painful to my ears. Unsure of what I had caught, with utmost delicacy I unfurled my paws. This was when it attacked; a searing pain of needles flooded through my right paw and caused me to wail in shock. As if shot from a gun I ricocheted toward the open French doors and into the kitchen. Driven by pain, I tore up the floral curtains, leaving ever-longer gashes with every desperate step. From here I leapt to a shelf (a comfortable area to doze) which was usually kept out of bounds due to the small trees that grew upon it. Tail swishing vigorously, I charged along it, knocking one pot, another pot, then a third. Jumping back down to the cream tiled floor, I attempted to accelerate, only to find myself drifting like a car on ice. Once I found grip, I was off, surging fast into a lap of the house.

Words by Lucas Bennett

Images by Arabella Scrimshaw-Wright

EXCERPT FROM ‘THE GLASS EYE’

I am standing in the doorway of the cavernous building. The onrush of damp moist air hit me, the wind wildly brushing against my face as it passes. As I walk forward, the door slams shut, rattling behind me; locking me in, with a loud clattering thump as it hits the crooked door frame.

I whip around petrified, the splintered, oak floorboards creaking under my pressure. The rattling door slowly comes to a standstill, resting in its fixed frame, screaming as it does like a young child in the dark. I frantically tug at the rusted handle, nothing! I try again! And again! Still nothing! the temptation to give up was compelling. I am trapped, I remain trapped, locked inside, for no one to see, for no one to pass through; what do I do?

An overwhelming power controls my body, a volcano of fear and terror, bubbling inside, ready to erupt at any time. I become agitated, my forehead dripping with tears of sweat, which desperately fall, crashing to the ground, seeping through the tiny cracks, escaping. Leaving me alone in this nightmare.

The fear takes control of my body, I am unable to move, I crane my eyes up, to find I’m stuck in the moment with thousands of eyes staring into my innocent soul...

Hours pass by, how long have I been here? I try to free myself; the door still won’t budge. What is this place? I am struck by a moment of sonder as I gaze around the room. Old posters lie covered in dust, untouched for days, months, years even? The poisonous air intoxicates me, forcing me to gasp for breath. As I calm down, I find thousands of lifeless dolls surrounding me, staring back into the open space. My eyes flick around the room, finding, what seemed like living people dotted in every square inch of the room, high and low, some toppled on each other, some standing tall, some hiding. My strained eyes are caught by a small figure, hiding behind a row of dolls. It seems to be blinking, struggling to move! I can hear them all now! Tic Tok, Tic Tok, as the clumsy wooden dolls click their paralyzed eyes, crunching mechanically as they do. I move closer towards the mysterious lifelike figurines, Tic Tok, Tic Tok the sound is becoming louder, and louder. I am inadequate to block the sound out. I gingerly scramble up the broken chairs and shelves, reaching out for the trapped doll. Tic Tok, Tic Tok. Slithers of sunlight shine brightly through old bookshelves, into the dull, unlit room. Sickly green weeds, crawl out from the floorboards, reaching and grasping for my legs. Tic Tok, Tic Tok. I carefully scamper up the hundreds of dolls, hesitant to put a foot down. Slowly one foot then another, I make my way up the shelf, trying to escape the torturous room. My brain is whizzing, turning, twisting inside my head. But I stop, there’s something new, something not quite right, something different to everything else!

Words by Charlie Hodgson

QUILLA AND THE JAGUAR

Puckered fingers struggle through my thick mane of strangling ebony hair, not too dissimilar from hers in her youth, curls catching on each snag of tired skin. Red ginger heliconia, opulent and heavy, masks her breath warm yet stale, traveling cautiously through the hushing draught. There is a gentle withering in her voice, her words now delicate once intense. She whispers melodies in my ear, slowly teaching me the tale of the Jaguar and his merciless attack on Inti the sun god and Mama Quilla the moon goddess, protector of women. She speaks sternly of the eclipse and its demon presence. Her voice muffles. The angel trumpets lean closer to listen; she jerks up coldly and forbids herself from explaining. As if a warning, the stove blooms, the cardinal flames lick teasingly at the brim of my thin woven mat and smoke curls around my gaunt ankles. Young and tender, I am swallowed by her intelligence, she feeds me drained chuno and corn - I savour the sweet sting of spice. Without her I am adrift... Abuela Chaska nurtures me well but my hunger lies for that mellow tickle in my mama’s laugh. * * *

Plum, jade, navy, silver: an elixir of colour in the labyrinth of the sky. My body is unrested and sore, my mind is throbbing. Abuela Chaska’s soothing remedies recall. Quinine and coca slightly numb the wailing ache that is lodged between her heartbeat and mine. Only three months pregnant yet her subtle kick is agony. My only remedy is the soothing swash of Lake Titicaca, I envy the moonlight as it bathes untouched in the rush of a cool embrace. Perhaps I might join the moonlight and swim alongside the plump petals of the lilies and cantutas. However, I know this is not wise as the strange men with large

dogs are swarming the village in preparation for the eclipse. A woman, never mind a pregnant woman, found alone on such a night ought to be a sacrifice for the jaguar. I stay still, illuminated by the embers of old Abuela Chaska’s stove. If only she was here now.

Hours pass like months in the lonely void I soak myself in. Sluggishly, my eyes are prised open from their slumber by the sunken vibrations of the howling dogs and the ringing screech of metal against metal. Cries of anguish flood into my hut, I feel her small undeveloped body press against mine, an acid taste rises towards my throat I clamber towards the door. The door opens. The world is black. The stars have fled, Inti’s last flicker of light is seamlessly ingested. The Jaguar, holding the sun between his teeth, black velvet body like a blanket over the night sky. The warning cry of man and dog sounds like dripping blood, a feeble murmur against the seething Peru thunder. Crickets dance in the dimming glow, relishing in their short-lived lives. On and on, backwards and forwards, the stems of the crumbling honeysuckle, choke the long grass. Their bodies snap like threads. Lost in the ugliness of the slow burning abyss, my fingertips burning, toes icy. Once a dream was the quiet world of western South America, sweet mama adrift in a segment of my memory but Abuela close and warm. Clouded villages kept a secret from civilisation, we remained unknown, untouched in a carved realm fit for kings and queens. Mountains sculpted, axes against butter. Now naked and defenceless we wait.

The last segment of golden light becomes a fragment. A wish. My shoulders cave, bones protruding, frail and hungry I limp back into the comfort of my hut.

The howling will not stop. The aching will not stop. I am praying her heart will not stop. Jaguar edging closer, teasing the stars with his thieving talons. Inhaling the woody evergreen resin of the cedar. Exhaling the sickness and doubt that drinks from my green pulsating veins. Close. The air is tight and suffocating; the damp warmth is unforgiving. My spindly bones reach for the lantern beside me, metal is burning to touch. Hot oil slops onto my swollen belly - I wince at the biting pain and sink my teeth into my broken lips.

White winged guan and the puffbirds screech and argue as their bird song becomes louder, faster. A sharp pang surges through my lungs and my body fills with a peppery fluid. Clutching my stomach, nails dig into the grooves of my skin. My chances were slight on the day of the moon. I knew this much, but something within me had hoped my Abuela was wrong – the eclipse only visits every hundred thousand nights. I had hoped Inti would protect me and my babe, that the jaguar would have mercy and pass on through the darkness in peace, with grace. I had hoped these silent legends would remain distant memories not develop into allconsuming realities, stealing her body from mine.

Each hair on my arm rises to battle, rigid and firm as her heartbeat begins to slow. Harmonizing against the twisted rhythm of the mosquitos beating wing. Screaming men become drums in the nights’ haunting lullaby. Bones click and snap as I stretch my tired quilt over my legs. Eyes screaming through the burn, toes curled, lips pursed. The petal of a Peruvian Sundew floats down onto my sodden brow. My baby’s warmth is gone. Two heartbeats become one.

Words by Maddie Abbs-Woodd Image by Daisy Colliss Quinton

A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

AFTER

‘PIANO’ BY D.H. LAWRENCE

It was exactly thirty minutes before the witching hour and with the gentle smell of petrichor erupting into the streets of England’s harrowing capital, the gentle tapping of leather shoes against dampened pavement echoed like the beating of a drum, setting the rhythm for any lost melody that dared to creep its tendrils into its morose cacophony. The great hands of the looming clock soon began their penultimate journey of the hour and Lawrence, equipped with both his favoured ink-pen and a dark cloud amongst his thoughts, exited the nearby bar with the intention of visiting his dear mother, a demand of his that had erupted upon hearing the distant memories and musings of the night.

And with that moonlit serenade beating serenity into his veins, D.H. Lawrence of house number seventy-five averted his gaze towards the road sign that marked the presence of the nearby graveyard, a lonesome yet restless location that resided within one of London’s forgotten corners, tucked away and kept for only the broken to beseech. The wind was harsh; as it whispered, the grasp of darkness began to creep its tremendous fingers amongst the thread work of the world around him, bringing with it a short spell of rain that urged the man to dash for shelter, as there was nothing he despised more than the weight of raindrops on his silver spectacles.

Upon finding himself a suitable shelter, he caught sight of a businessman of medium stature and rugged demeanour, his eyes as dark as pools of ink and smirk as cutting as the hands that sculpted him, “My, my! You look quite lost. Are you by any chance in need of an umbrella? Here, take it, I don’t mind. One has found that a drop of rain works quite well in cleansing the soul.”

Taking the umbrella into his hands and allowing it to unfold, Lawrence glanced at the man standing before him and offered a nod (as was considered suitable for swift gratitude) and continued his path. Awfully persistent, however, his rugged companion furrowed his brow and followed shortly behind, his mind ticking with the mechanical workings of a thinker, “Is that how mortals express gratitude? I never once thought that your traditions would be so uncouth...”

Shaking his head, Lawrence brought his stride to a slow and glanced towards him, his caramelesque hues refusing to waver from the businessman’s sombre physique, “It’s been very lovely to meet you, good sir, but I’m off to visit my mother. Now, would you please stop bothering me?”

Furrowing his brow, the mysterious stranger continued to persist, “Pardon me, Mr Lawrence, but my name is Eremiel,” the man spoke, threading his hands through his silver hair as his tone morphed into a harsher one, “And I think you’ll find that I’m not here to bother you. Indeed, I am here to inform you that it is in fact time for you to die.”

Turning on his heel and looking at the man in shock, Lawrence’s features morphed into a vibrant expression of distaste, “Time for me to die?” It was clear from his general demeanour that Lawrence was a man of healthy body and mind, urging him to approach the situation with curiosity, “What folly! I wish to see my mother and I insist that you leave me alone. What emotions can erupt from demise but ones that cause pain?”

Remaining calm, a smile began to tug at the corner of Eremiel’s lips, “Serendipity, if necessary…and even pleasure in the case of the wicked.”

Allowing his lips to curl up into a smirk, Eremiel placed a hand onto the man’s shoulder and met his gaze with insistence, “You see, death? You should be proud of death. It’s clean. The world is filthy; teeming with the vile and grotesque abominations we call mankind, but death? It’s a clean slate. Unadulterated,” he smiled, urging Lawrence to grow nervous, “You should be glad that your blood is so pure…The Indians held a belief that blood holds all of a human’s bad spirits, so once a month they’ve drive a blade across their skin to let the spirits escape and run free.”

“Good sir, would you please cease?” by the time the words escaped his lips, Lawrence was growing nervous, “I just want to visit my mother for the last time. Please.”

“You know, any normal person would claim that it’s the blood loss that killed them, but I disagree…” Eremiel continued, removing a blade from his left pocket and resting it on the skin of the man’s neck. Breathing in sharply, Lawrence supressed his urge to try and escape “…Some had done such bad, terrible things that when the time had come for those spirits to run rampant throughout the blood-stained streets, those bad deeds had forced them to succumb to the one thing they had forced so many others to seek:” pausing, Eremiel slipped the blade back into his pocket and took a step away from his quivering acquaintance, “Cleanliness, Mr Lawrence. Lamentation…feeble and futile—”

“Death.” The man choked out, growing more and more scared until his body began to convulse with every fleeing tear. Rain plummeted towards the ground like a thousand roaring missiles as its dreary children fell into the grasp of the pavement beneath it, observing the scene with a tender fear as the weight of the day’s occurrences settled upon its granite shoulders.

With an abundance of apprehension, Lawrence closed his amber eyes and brought his breathing to a hold, “T-Take me to see my mother, then, Eremiel,” he stuttered as calmly as his mind could muster, hope fleeting as swiftly as his thoughts did.

“If you so wish,” Eremiel responded. Stretching his arms up towards the stars beyond, the man allowed his lungs to erupt into a yawn and – with his eyes growing dark – he took one final step towards him.

Words by Amelia Pratley

Image by Lydia Dale

An ominous cloud loomed over Old Trafford’s pavilion end, bringing with it the promise of rain and darkness. Nervously, David stared up at the floating menace, sweat gently trickling from his face as he passed the final gold coin from one hand to the other, marking the end of an exceptional over of test cricket. Three formidable boundaries from the first three deliveries, only to be followed by a surprise wicket two balls later. The crowd’s suspense was almost tangible, their anticipation palpable. David could feel their skin tingle, hear their teeth grind, even taste the nervous breath they released as they stood eagerly awaiting the final four overs of the day’s play. The cloud rumbled. The sound reverberated around the vast stadium. The tension swelled. David had begun to ease into the rhythm of test match umpiring before the sudden arrival of this peril. The players too, both Australian and English, were surveying the threat anxiously, not wanting to lose playing time to the unavoidable gloomy weather it would bring. With both players and spectators apprehensive, David shuffled slowly over to the recently dissected wickets from his previous position as square leg umpire.

Upon arrival, he bent down, hand outstretched, and pressed his fingers on the pitch. His wrinkling skin brushed against the rough, barren grass. The ground underneath was solid, stubborn, like the bark of an aging willow. The perfect conditions for a lethal fast bowler. He turned his head and, as expected, saw the burly figure of the Australian all-rounder, infamous for his destructive bouncers and the occasional rogue beamer, pacing back and forth. Exuding confidence, his muscles rippled as he tossed the shining red ball into the air – his weapon. The predator’s eyes narrowed unnervingly as he stalked his prey at the opposing crease: The night-watchman. England’s outstanding spin bowler, usually the number nine batsman, but sacrificed by the skipper to prevent the loss of another fine English batting talent before the day’s end. A lamb for slaughter. His awkward frame trembled with panic as he saw Australia’s most ruthless player readying himself to bowl.

David held out his left arm, his white jumper hanging loosely from it, allowing the batsman a brief moment of mental preparation before the carnage began. David turned his head to view the large scoreboard. The score stood at 109-2 on the First Day of the test match. The colour

seeped from David’s already nervous face. 109. A mere 2 runs from 111The Nelson. The notoriously unlucky score. He could feel the watchful eyes of the entire stadium focused on his back. He could hear them murmuring, a crescendo of booing, jeering, and heckling. He stood there, still and silent. Like a statue. Lifeless. Unresponsive to the growing hubbub of the crowd nor the confusion of the Australian fielders. A feeling of numbness seeped from his head to the tips of his toes, his brain consumed by his superstition. He turned his head hopefully towards the sky, searching for a turbulent storm, but saw only the single dark cloud. He had no choice. He dropped his arm.

An appreciative cheer arose from the crowd. Sweat dribbled from David’s face as he listed favourable outcomes of this delivery. Dot ball, wide, single, boundary. He could hear the fast-approaching bowler, spiked shoes churning the earth to dust. Not a double, David prayed silently, anything but a double. The bowler reached the crease, excitement rose, the ball left the hand, flying vehemently through the cool air. Full toss pitched just outside leg stump. The satisfying crunch of ball hitting bat resonated around the stands. Rapidly, the ball rolled towards fine leg. David sighed with relief. But a fumble! The ball evaded the fielder’s desperate grasp, bouncing forward. Instinctively, the batsmen looked for a second run, charging to the opposing creases. By the time the ball was finally captured and returned to the keeper, the night-watchman was already standing securely, waiting for the next delivery. Cursing profusely, David glanced up at the scoreboard… 111-2. The Nelson.

The renowned Lord Nelson had famously died with only one eye, one leg and one etcetera. Furthermore, the number 111 resembled a set of stumps without its bails, so, David considered this number, and its multiples, highly unlucky for a batsman. He recalled reading, as a youth, about the Nelson cricket team of New Zealand. In both their first and final innings as a first-class team, they had been dismissed for 111. Even at such a young age, a fear of the score had been immediately established. In a county cricket match, his natural response to this score would be to lift a leg, in an attempt to counteract the inevitable misfortune it could bring. But did he dare give the crowd, or the press, an excuse to ridicule him on his first international call up? His leg itched to rise; he could feel the muscles

Image by Katie Maguire

automatically attempting to do so. Uncertain, he looked across the pitch and saw the number nine batsman, still nerve-stricken despite his impressive double from the previous delivery. The batsman’s hands were shaking unrelentingly, causing the bat, held precariously in his hands, to shudder violently. David could predict a wicket, it was inevitable, but did he value a dismissal above his reputation and future as an umpire. A seed of doubt was beginning to grow in his mind, venomous tendrils clawing at his brain, questioning his values and his superstition. David willed himself not to believe. There was no logic behind his fear, yet he remained under its spell. Every inch of his body was focused on preventing his knee rising. His eyes were determinedly screwed up in concentration, his legs locked out, his fists clenched by his side.

A moment of respite. The Aussie bowler began hurtling towards the crease once again, and David would not dream of distracting a bowler halfway through his movement. The bowler’s arms flashed like lightning, the ball rumbling down the pitch towards the nightwatchman. A violent bouncer, which leaped from the solid earth, missing the batsman’s head by inches before being smothered by the keeper’s gloved hands. A feeling of unease was starting to sink into the boisterous, slightly tipsy, spectators. They could see the severity of the situation, just like David could. Would they accept his peculiar response to this dangerous score, or would he fall victim to mockery and insult? His body burned with anguish, fighting viciously against its restraints, desperate to lift the leg. David stared at the Australian allrounder, willing him to go faster, imploring him to begin his run up once again. The bowler appeared to be walking in slow motion, as if underwater or ensnared by chains. David remained intent on keeping his leg down. Focus, he told himself. Remain calm and focus. Finally, the bowler began his run up again, the spectators’ shouts rising as the suspense grew. Reaching the crease, the all-rounder catapulted the ball from his hands. It did not bounce, nor swing. A beamer. David watched the ball slice through the crisp air, colliding painfully with the night-watchman’s helmet. Ricocheting into the air, the ball was caught easily by the first gully. The batsman collapsed to his knees with his hand raised, the sharp corner of his helmet sunk deep into his cheek. A roar of rage burst from the English fans, their infuriated faces alive with malice. The Aussies rushed forward, the medical staff sprinting behind them. They surrounded him, offering him reassuring words, assistance and apologies. Blood dripped from a gash in the batsman’s cheek, oozing slowly down his stubbly chin and neck. David spat angrily, disgusted by his lack of action, as he watched another casualty to the Nelson be escorted from the field.

Words by Jamie Wehrle

PERFECTION FROM THE SONG OF THE STREETMAN

Perfection

Perfection is our correction Only inhibiting our wildest rejection

Perfection is bitter and angry at the world For not following his perfect guidelines that Drew our cultured hearts away from his wasteful timelines

Perfection is addictive said the Streetman’s song It’s seductiveness and senility Stringing you along

Perfection is your oppressor And you it’s enemy of the night Taunting and teasing Forcing you to be (his) type of right

Perfection is weak said the streetmans song Never tall enough, never big enough To stand on his own

Perfection is validation a senseless flight Value and image

Being the anchor of your sleepless night

Perfection is expectation to be the best To slave and to try Nothing more nothing less Perfection is cries, cries of the night Wholeness and evaluation of the world’s Bitter bite perfection is approval and a thumbs up of hurrah perfection is acceptance of being just what you are

perfection is the Streetman singing his last song making a few mistakes here and there pushing his little world along perfection is peril the guidelines the mindlines that make us move perfection is finish the completion , the perfection the ends limits

Words by Tenisha Aparo Iboch

Image by Matilda Wyatt

With full knowledge that the derelict house was forbidden, she entered nonetheless. Her care-free nature escaped and instead, she became overawed by a sense of fear. The floorboards creaked as though trapped yells were fleeing through them with each step. The walls stood still but somehow glared with invisible eyes, tracing the path of anyone who entered. Towering oaks encapsulated the fleeing innocence. The space was vast but dark, damp, and claustrophobic. Breathing was hard despite the expanse of air which sparked thoughts of something paranormal perhaps; something unearthly in the atmosphere. The roof had a leak, the sound of water simultaneously trickling, descending, plunging down the rotten beams. An unnerving, rather torturous sound, however strangely familiar. Senses became enhanced in this derelict space; simple sounds, smells and sights were skewed by the setting. A good time to leave would have been at that moment, when the eerie nature of the building was felt by her. But she was trapped, with only thick evergreen forest to run to, there was no escape. The house stood proudly coiled between the elevated timber.

She heard the ghoulish creek of floorboards that moaned below. Those immobile walls glared on those who entered. The forest, green and littered with twisting arthritic fingers, stood there. Alone. The minor fragments of glass shattered beneath. She was encompassed. There was no escape. The crumbling of those dismembered bricks, the dilapidated exterior, were ready to disintegrate any instant. A thick blanket of dust lay still on top of the roof, moving only to allow the odd speck to slip away from its support. Whispers of lost voices echoed all around. Dark shadows lurked in the still air. She stood there, still unable to believe what she was experiencing. Moonlight slipped through those iridescent panes. That unnerving sound of branches scratched against glass as the wind rustled the trees. And those curtains, those aggravating curtains, they shook as if they were laughing. No one knew of her ways and what she had to offer.

Her throat tightened due to the thick dust circulating through the pressured swirling winds, getting trapped and hindering her breathing, making staying alive tiresome. Choking, strangling, slipping into

unconsciousness. Her cough in response encouraged the floorboards to shake slightly, thus dislodging something below. Her imagination controlled her, she presumed she would find a horde of rats which would put her suggestions of supernatural activity to rest. Instead she encountered an iridescent vessel, like nothing she had seen before, elegantly decorated with arabesques in blue, green, red, and white enamel with gilding. Those unavoidable colours. Enticing. Little did anyone know about the concealed terror the devil would provide. She edged closer to an area in the floorboard that she felt gravitated towards; she began to lift another rotten board. She was eager, enthusiastic; however still agitated as well as disconcerted. She gradually began to lift the saturated board to then uncover a strangely enticing note, it read:

“Be careful. Do not get too comfortable. You will never know when she might decide to turn on you. The majority like her, however, they have not seen her execrable side like I have. Get rid! You do not deserve her and the pain she provides. Suffering will occur for you and the ones thou assemble with. She lives in there. The devil. She lives within that vessel. Break it and she will be released. Thou may not escape her. Thou may not run. She is there. She is always there.”

She thought nothing of that rotten insubstantial paper. It looked ancient yet sturdy which encouraged her to pick it up in a surge of excitement. The glass pulled away from her hand and shattered on the beams below.

From that instance the aura changed, a purple hue pushed over the blackness of the night-time. Dark shadows lingered in the air. She stood there, still unable to believe what she was experiencing. Moonlight slipped through those lustrous panes, the sound of branches screeching as they scratched against the glass, and the harsh rustling of leaves intensified the already overwhelming soundscape. The once slightly spooky construction suddenly transformed into a tumultuous mess. She no longer knew where to look and could not identify certain sounds because the atmosphere was too turbulent and complex. There was no time to think; her only option was to try and escape, the dusk was infiltrating. The bitter sun abruptly began to sink. She had no idea what pain was about to come.

Pratley

Words by Ted Rand-Bell Image by Anna

THE GATEWAY TO HELL

The boats start up for the lengthy 8,500 mile journey. Accompanying them are hundreds and hundreds of bare black figures, standing helplessly next to one another. Their clothes ripped from their dark skin and hands sealed to each other with an uncomfortable pain from the shackle. The unimaginable number of people on the boat meant there was a severe lack of space. No room for eating, drinking or excreting. Black bodies sweat in the sweltering sunlight as dense steam rises and they all become unwillingly damp. A droplet is swept away with minimal strength from one’s forehead. The inhumane conditions have no other choice but to result in premature death through the birth of diseases such as smallpox, scurvy and measles. The smell of rotting bodies floods the boat to the ever decreasing minority of innocent black lives as they savour every last breath as if it were their last. The live beings stand out from the others as they poke out of the boat like pins in a voodoo doll, surrounded by the tormenting sight of their decaying brothers and sisters. Days slowly pass by, bringing little food and water with them as each day leads to more dehydration, starvation and suffering. The women stripped of any rights they had left, as a result of the disgusting sexual abuse carried out by the diabolic crew in front of their children’s eyes. The floor drowned from sick and human faeces as the fight for survival became almost impossible. But this was only the beginning. They had made it through the first wave and had no idea about what as to come. Being priced and sold to an apathetic white owner, soul destroying whipping, continuous cotton picking and inevitably, death. Their skin was dark which meant their future was dark.

Words by Emily Mumford

HOME

If I swim if I run if I fly if I dig, if I am big or small, if I am strong or weak, if I live in solitude or in a pack, if I hide in a burrow or sleep in the open air, if I eat with my family or eat on the go, if I travel the oceans or the sky, if I am curious or uninterested, if I have one child or many, if I sleep at night or in the day, if I hunt my food or if I rip it from the ground, if I live in fear or if I live in happiness, if I wake to the sun or wake in the snow: a home is a home is a home.

Words by Patrick West

Image by Poppy Symonds

MIGRATION

As we travelled through the dusty streets of Tecate heading for the border in our psychedelic motorised rickshaw. I took a final glimpse of the beautiful landscape through the battered window. The vast mountain that loomed over our vehicle was enrobed in greenery; a site of solitude. That was my mountain, my place of peace disappearing behind me. I clutched my brother’s palm so tightly that he whimpered soft, silent cries. Fear was etched in every line of my mother’s face. She forced a weak smile but dismay was devouring her.

We had no choice. We had to escape from the harrowing nightmare we had been born into yet this mountain and the dirty streets were all I had ever known. Soon they would be ripped from me. As the skies began to fade the border edged nearer, a transient kaleidoscope of fear and danger. For a moment, the future was blissfully unknown.

Until we heard a piercing screech of a police car.

The sound of the siren ripped through my eardrums, shifting our journey for freedom into a terrible game of chess. My brother wailed and crawled into my lap, frantically striking his fists on the window. My mother’s hands trembled on the steering wheel. We were terrified. The police have two faces. To you, they may be generous and provide safety but for us, they were ruthless killing machines who would stop at nothing to eliminate the ‘displaced’.

We were pulled over by predators who had finally latched onto their prey. They demanded that we got out of our vehicle and my mother clutched at our clothes as she reluctantly dragged us towards them. Their pitiful smiles made me sick as they ordered us to show our green cards. My mother’s face fell, for in that instant our promising future in America was demolished. They forced us to our knees as we begged for our lives. We were at the mercy of a revolver.

Would you pull the trigger?

Words by Lucy Marshall Image by Marni Cox

IN RESPONSE TO THE SUBLIME...

The walls of the world rush up to meet

Those towers of significance, High above our blinding eyes. The fabric of our fragile form cut

From the ever-moving cloth of Earth, These never-ending ribbons of our shrunken being Unwind around those trembling minds. Until we tumble Into A pit of imagined sins

Deep beneath the indifferent suns

Like dust settling

On an alien thought.

NEIGHBOURS

They kept apart as The caged horse rolled Through the grass, mown short for Boredoms sake. In the devilish April sun, They spoke as if nothing Had changed, But their talking showed That it had.

Words by Lauren Thomas

Words by Barney Bolton

DELIVERY OF A STORM

The Earth falters her footsteps in pain, Sudden anguish overcomes her. She sips her breaths and pauses, a beat, But the earth begins to ache again.

Pixels warn of a storm, alertingCloud is on its way, Voices whisper water, endless water Before the world becomes rain.

Riverbanks now seas, tides folding in, Fields and oceans – full grown – chase Down cobble-stone meadows, And befriend the liquid land.

They collided with my love’s house, Hurried through the doorway and refused her quiet prayers. Smiles, framed, crashed to the lonely depth. Her heavenly hymns were buried in the wicked blue.

Now her little treasures and tiny dresses, Hail and greet her pale knees and feet. Her dainty doll - half drowning - breathless Her gold and silver crib rocks loveless.

The power’s gone – there’s no light inside, But the rain’s hushed and the walls blush mould. Water surrounds her lonely home And on the cold, damp furniture, She sits alone.

Words by Mae Topley

Destined for Vero’s beach, follow the Indian river

The sky shines as bright as Zeus’s eyes Whilst the golden globe releases her citrus and scarlets to the congregation below Waiting for her flames to evoke creation But then like Samnites lining up for combat Envied the daughter of the sky blew back her shining knights of armour The echoes of unforgiving orders shepherd these outlaws

To victorySummer’s light retreats away from the conflict so she can not glimpse the desolation she once conquered One minute-light- then darkness Swallowed up by the devils’ soul

And as the Herculean Gods begin to hurl their wicked dragons diving into the crusade Send an avalanche of drums beating heavily forced from the doom-back clouds churning and roiling Dragons awake spiralling the sky into an emerald eruption One prevails, destined to tame these blasts and howls-then pause Now amongst these wyverns he flies Propelling fury back towards their masters For he bears the blazing blade the nightmares of all beasts And plunges it into the black heart

If you knew the way this shelf once piled with landslides of pages now filled with an abyss of blanks

If you knew the way this gateway for the past and future now a burial for the new and old to rest

If you knew the way this picture once hummed with the laughs of children now echoes their shrieks and whimpers

If you knew the way this spirit temple worshiped by faith and peace now despised by mistrust and destruction The end of a summer’s day Paradise lost

Words by Benjy Pegram Image by Adela Wilson

SO MUCH TIME

It’s a funny time

Where day to day we are imprisoned We are constantly trapped in a cycle saying we are fine But also stuck inside the walls and our thoughts Our mind becomes this sort of landmine

We must que in a line Two metres behind Smile, and wave, but don’t dare touch your valentine Because I can’t risk it I have a mum on the frontline

News feeders fill up the air time Sometimes with what we already know Hoping it shows a decline You stop and think to watch 30,000 but we still wait for the Punchline

Parents drink a bit too much red wine Mainly to drown the stress of teaching division The kids play on their own coming up with their own storyline

Whilst some just sit Playing with their feline or canine

I can’t quite talk every time Not because I am busy But because I can’t quite think this onetime Its okay though , you keep getting Messages saying you can contact them anytime,

one, two three, said Caroline Hold, twist, run for that summer body Doritos on the sofa or that needed waistline?

Or ignore it, and do what you can After all make that needed call on the landline

There’s no opportunity to be offline, The only way to talk Is to be there all the time

But I am tired of this, I want to go outside

To be with my friends, feel the sunshine Please stop setting me another deadline For I am terrified of turning on the TV for the next headline

I would like to politely decline I funnily enough just want to wake up for school time But it’s okay if you want to talk, for there’s a hotline, on fulltime, daytime, night-time even noontime We do have a lot of time

Remember it’s okay to be scared, its okay to be worried But stay strong and stick to the rules for those on the frontline.

Words by Molly Cockin Image by Maddie Abbs-Woodd

THE MAUSOLEUM (EXTRACT)

Nightfall

Enter through the gate, encased with beauty, foreshadowing the malevolent earth, now take a look; its exquisite nature entwined with neglected succulents all linked, fused together by delicate, lithe arms. Feel a chilling breath cascade through the circuitous weeds, thistle’s and groundsel surrounding the carpeted floor, a mystical presence, enough to frighten the veiled creatures of this forgotten hideaway. Shy creatures tend to only appear at night, dancing like leprechauns, to harmonious music, the size of thimbles- twinkling lights to our soft, watery eyes. Their enduring, decisive harmony echoes softly through your consumed mind. Listen. Out of nowhere it awakens and now possesses you; it has become a part of you. There’s no way to purge it, only to continue down my wondrous path. You have belatedly returned, the news of my death has reached you, oh come to me my love.

I will take you to me, stowed away, I am buried between the discovered memories of the past and the unearthed obscurities of the future, a halfway point; I lay untouched in the discomforting gleam of the awakening sunlight. Unearth me and eradicate my unrequited love for you. I have been waiting.

Daybreak

Eventually, the precious breaths of mysterious wanderers will embrace me. Turn. I stand solemnly watching, observing, as they touch my soul, seek my buried truth. Like a quest it is hidden, and those who desire it may discover it. They’re usually all the same, ubiquitous, with an identical vulnerable look in their eyes, carrying a soft glare of enthusiasm. All wide-eyed and opened-mouthed, the typical look someone gives when they’re witnessing something colossal. You should weave your way through the traipsing amblers to where I will reunite us.

Words by Lydia Dale

THE

GIFT (EXTRACT)

Flat five was hateful. And dirt cheap too. It lay up at the peak of the ancient oak staircase, which twisted and turned so violently, as though it was its wish to deter any poor soul who may find themselves victim to what nested within. It lay there untouched, under peaceful pretence, and remained so for many years. Not a soul ventured inside, not even the most desperate money hungry landlords would brave it. But the evil lingered, quietly brooding, seeping through the walls into the dark creaking wooden floor, up through the ancient furniture and resting in the swaying chandelier, scanning the bleak barren rooms below like a hawk. Waiting eagerly for a victim, and a victim it soon would have. In she wandered, pattering spits of water from the heavens berating the slanted windows, lining the stone shaft above, accompanied by the desperate wind whistling and wailing through the misshapen window frames, crying a warning. But no call from nature would stop her, the frantic wails falling silently on her clueless ears. Because how would she, how could she know?

So up the stairs she struggled, three bulky bags lugged in tow. The splintered door swung open in a crooked frame without prompt to exhibit the neglected box. It was eerily untouched, the interior likened to that of a particularly lavish antique store, but one that hadn’t been set foot in for many years. Sloping pale blue walls encased the assortment of elegant furniture which looked as though they had been plucked directly from an extravagant manor in the 19th century; all striking dark mahogany. In the centre of the room resided a mirror. Delicately garnished with pure gold which glistened in the flooding sunlight, which spilled through the cold large window opposite (on the rare occasion that sunlight graced the sky). It was embellished with vivid opals and gems of all colours of the rainbow, crushed into a fine dust and brushed lightly over the bumps and curves of the ornate surface. Yet the beauty which graced the surface could still not compensate for the poisonous force that clung so desperately to it’s dust speckled surface. The girl soaked up her surroundings, but unbeknownst to her, it was soaking her up too...

Image by Wanyu Wang

Words by Olivia Roberton

CLINGSTONE

A woman, Bearing two gentle hearts, Each pulsing for the other, Blushed with joy at the sound Of the tiny hum inside her. Since her days of beginning, Breath had fled her body, When falling into the future

And her palmate hands unfolded – awaiting fruit and flower, Her roots deepened and heartwood steadied, Hoping for her clingstone child.

At last, she heard a beat, An almost silent tick, ticking, Like a tawny tap, tap with water dripping, Or the soft pluck of a little string. From then on, with a crescent palm Warming her meandering body, She fueled the flesh with something more than love -

Something deeper, more deadly, And as certain as death.

But like the winter – the bud arrived too soon in simple chaos, where hope buries itself to escape the panic. And within two days the ephemeral, hushed silent.

It didn’t rise again.

Lives passed within an hour. Time boiled, becoming thick and syrupy – in the wicked heat.

Burnt black, its viscous waves drowned one another. ‘Take it sip by sip.’ They pleaded, But the woman couldn’t drink it, couldn’t bare the bitter sap. Not one drip touched her lips, so the clocks stopped.

She buried her rhythm; knelt where it lay. Weeping to some God above but reclaimed no comfort.

Bud scars reminded her of her fallen freestone, Left to decay throughout her days, And now bare and barren – her pistil remained to rot.

Her lungs, jarring what was left of her, bled rolling groans to empty air.

And when the biting winds of realisation blew, She became more grief than human.

Budbroken by a mother’s love, Risen from her loss and lifted by her salty tears in the soil, Circled by snowdrops, catching the mother’s milk in their sepals.

It lulls and cradles as it swivels and folds.

A mother born from death, whose boughs and branches protects: A tree beyond meaning.

Words by Mae Topley

Image by Marni Cox

THE VOID (EXTRACT)

FADES IN: [*INTRO MUSIC-BEETHOVEN SYMPHONY NO.7 OP 92 FADES]

DESCRIPTION-A Sparse, dimly lit apartment, in its corner a dark decrepit figure is sitting hunched in an armchair, staring, seemingly dead, his red eyes wide open- late 20s yet looks older, unshaven, underweight and unwashed, a broken figure. His conscience completely switched off.

The man rebooting, shuffles out of his chair and drifts to the adjacent door -swinging it open. His bathroom, a damp cubicle, is crawling with the same sense of dread as the rest of the home. The man[ALAN]stands transfixed at the mirror; turning on the shower to his right in one prolonged swoop, whereupon he drifts back to looking at himself.

There is something about his monotone, robotic manner that suggests anything but a human.

Image by Thomas Woodwards

ALAN (V.O)

Hey?

I know…I know I look bad at the moment; I have-I just feel off[hesitates].

Don’t worry-this will be temporary-TRUST ME- [smiles]

I guess... -I...I’ll start with...that morning-I...

[ALAN’s voice fades to the upbeat trot of jazz pianist Bill Evans.]

Fade

Cut to interior-train.

Description–Packed underground train, the stench of cheap fragrance stewed with wafts of B.O, and coffee breath fills the cabin; ALAN is caged, he stands out amongst the corporate herd, plugged into his music. His twitchy mechanical eyes scanning to-and-fro. ALAN walks out of the station; a sea of eyes linger, escorting ALAN to his destination. A pack of men in black, prey behind ALAN, surreptitiously watching]

ALAN (V.O)

I seemed on edge-lagging behind. I felt everyone was looking at me...like some-sort of monster.

[Men draw closer]

[ALAN and the music abruptly stop. ALAN cranes his neck up, shaking his head – eyes fixed on a colossal corporate tower standing in front of him.]

[The men diverge]

Here live the zillionaires we don’t know about-The secret shadowy clan-the masters at playing God without permission–the ones who secretly running the world...and-I worked for them.

[Enters building]

BLACKOUT

Cut to interior-building

Description-Corporate Tower’s top floor. Two immaculately dressed men sit at polar ends of a long white table. One of the men,[AZAZEL] is a vast man, whose presence dominates. The other,[VICTOR] ferret-like, very much inferior. A box covered in a theatrical silk cloth sits incongruous to the marble corporate-mausoleum]

[The men stare at each other]

[Pause]

AZAZEL

So...Victor, our little project...

VICTOR

...Ye...s-we have a sent out our best men to keep an eye on him...W...We have re-coded the mind too...to-hate itself...l...like you asked...? -we added new lines of code ...[smiling]to develop his ‘consciousness’. WE HAVE COMPLETE CONTROL.

AZAZEL

Yes...very good! ...His cerebral cortex looks ‘healthy’. [points to the box]. Smaller than I thought! [booming laughter]

[VICTOR joins him unconvincingly]

Where is he now! Is he here?!

VICTOR

Yes...downstairs...we have staff observing him...the pill is to dispatched later, it will take 18 hours to re-wire his code, for him to reach the Void.

AZAZEL

Brilliant! Keep him close. You’ve done well VICTOR!

[Walks over to VICTOR]

...soo...well...

This experiment, “ALAN” ...he’s going to be your way up.

[Tense music starts]

FADE

Words by Ruben Hammond

PEST CONTROL (EXTRACT)

4th December, 3 pm.

I was awoken in the early hours by my strange dreams (and the neighbour’s Siamese screeching). The world to me, right then, appeared as the stalest, blandest sandwich, solitary in the darkness of the fridge, soggy bread and chewy ham. I lived my days so unilluminated, they shadowed themselves, overcast and underdone. Ravenous for recognition, I want something remarkable to rid me of this diurnal predisposition, to remove the unaffectionate darkness.

And there he was, my saviour? I highly doubted it. Another new neighbour moved in at number 6; a shadowy figure cloaked by the night, scuttling home from the Fox Inn. His figure was highlighted by stripes of gold, pathetically produced from the adjacent lamppost, the sad survivor of a boozy Saturday night. Caught gawking, I pulled together a pitiable smile and scrambled away.

4th December, 8 pm

An incessant knock forced me up from the sofa, found a stranger staring back at me (judging by the size of him, I’m surprised the door wasn’t knocked down).

He was soaked, grimly picking at his stumpy nails.

“Hi, I’m Luca, I uh I’ve just moved in at number 6.”

His nervous voice was low, dauntingly low; so low my blood froze into an ice lolly Luca would probably devour. “I’m Lilith.” He blankly smiled at me, his brow accumulated an ocean of sweat, he appeared to be eyeing me up, sussing me out, almost, like a malnourished predator. Avoiding the sweaty eye contact, I looked down to examine Luca’s pristine presentation, like a peacock displaying its worth he blinked erratically. His white shoes glowed, radiantly, impossibly immaculate, no dirt in sight. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“Oh, no, no, just wanted to… introduce myself to my… neighbours,” anxiously flashing me his barbed-wire, razor-sharp incisors, canines and molars. “So… um…goodbye.”

He abruptly turned around, strutted back to his new nest, clearing a neat path through the trail of grime, like a cockroach.

5th December, 9:30 am

Luca posted a striking, hand-written card, featuring a snail, about a crass housewarming, ice-breaking, fun-filled evening ‘to get to know everyone!’

I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.

I left it on the side, I had no intention of going; why would I surround myself with the least interesting, wretched, tedious, repetitive people? Jeopardise my precious immune system? I don’t think so.

Yet melancholic reflections violently swayed my rotten, leaking boat of self-assurance, casting it off its destined course of total and utter misanthropy; for once I felt... sympathetic? Was it those shoes?

So, I went.

Words by Izzy Coles

Image by Herbie Waters

EXILE

Lucia Spring 56 B.C.

‘Watch me Mamma, watch me’. Hoof-bitten chariot tracks metamorphose into soft, serpentine paths, rolling barren sea-licked hills line the horizon, folded and fringed with white rocks that taunt the restless waves below. I watch her, but the tingle of hell’s devilish whispers impair my vision, the frost foraging my bare shoulders, gasping in thick raspy breaths also demands my attention. ‘Again, again’. Here, it was, as if the tendrils of grey in the sky were ever-existent, pulling me away, up, into the ocean away from the land. ‘Here Mamma, here, hold my hand’ her second child gently pleaded. Who would have believed that, hand limp in hers, as she pulled her away from the sea’s jenom and that riotous, wicked wind whipped at her hair, as mud squirms through her toes like feeding maggots.

The snaking path was lined with mothers, children, infants; they slotted in. ‘ Mamma, why are they staring?’ Scrutinizing her naked feet, caked in thick black mud, she stared forward, scanning the line to see if there would be room? The youngest child now pounded the plank ascending into the cart. “Come on Mama, come, come” urged the oldest, snatching at her other hand.

And then her frail shoulder connects against a fist, feet staggering back into the mud she slowly looks up, eyes adjusting to the misty light, streaks of hair falling down from her face, finding a large figure in front. Blinking away from the pain and rain, the figure holds up two fingers. Her chest hurts, tight with fear. A gradual panic rises, how is this possible? There was room last she checked, no, no, it cannot be. If she keeps her head down and moves on… maybe?

This time the force hardens, shoved back, sliding and hissing at the impact of soft slippery ground “Mama! Mama?” the eldest croaks and falls to her knees stroking her mudded face. The figure bellows, his face hard and hollow. Does she have to choose? By the look on her face I knew she didn’t want to. She tries to smile, though her lips bleed through the reopened crevasses of her mouth, and her dry throat seizes up with the heartbeat pounding in it. She knows she has to choose, or they

will take both. she shuts her eyes, needle pricks of rain hitting her bare body. She just sits there, goosebumps in the dirt, crying, contemplating, her slumped body rising and falling with gasps of breath. Don’t make her do this, don’t take her babies, are my only thoughts. Frosty air slapped her face in a fast flare of wind, a heavy white haze sat dense ahead, still, veiling the scene that she blindly dragged herself through. Don’t look at them, don’t see their faces.

The mist pirouetted from her lips as she gasped “take her” the words rolled off her tongue like foreign language, which shivered her sickened skeleton. Her daughter’s screams ran through me like venom in my blood, she screamed for her comfort, for her love, for her mamma. Her daughter’s screams were gorged by the fierce elements. Her brothers cries for his kidnapped sister, tearing his mamma’s heart like seismic waves that tear the earth, by the way she held her heart, rocking.

Minutes passed, next only for her to quietly walked the plank up, pain silently engulfing her. A whip snapped, and in union we all shifted to the side as the cart jolted to move, clip clops of hooves muted by the slick, meandering, wet paths.

From that moment on we travelled for three suns and two moons, starless night after starless night, she scarcely slept with the restless shrilling wind and babies crying. When daylight peaked naught changed, apart from the landscape of course. The sunset sunlight shined, surrounded by fields beyond fields of crisp green grass that were stained with the colours of scattered flowers. Ahead was an anomaly that parted the beautiful scene, a circle of stones, that even her tear swollen eyes widened at the sight. They were gigantic, I could not decide whether they were touching the sacred gardens of Caelus or the forbidden undergrounds of Hades.

Words by Adela Wilson Image by Danny Arbuckle

BIRDS IN THE EASTERN VALLEYS (EXTRACT)

Birds in the eastern valleys mounted the wind and ventured further, iron ribbons journeying from the glacier rolled down the mountains, sheets of green were soaked by the tawny light but as the golden showers parched, the land’s skin chilled. Morning rang light and wildlife woke to hear it. Hills met hills and pools of trees and churned up earth and infinite streams. The world unfolded into itself: endless and eternal. It was new before the fire arrived and people scarred the surface – their weapons lusted for destruction, their minds settled for creation and this ungodly union led to Time. Previously, it had not ticked but observing the birth of both man and evil, Time introduced minutes – nasty things like horseflies in heat, their relentless bites reminders of how long there was left. Hours, days and weeks were put in place to count down the end of it all. Neatly ordered. Precisely documented. Tightly restricted. Beings lived around Time, they were clutched within his hands: past, present and future. Time was a bleak punishment, though it excited interest beyond expectation, it fueled debates and confrontations wider than the seas themselves and smaller than the surrounding sand. In particular, Scientists, people who explored the logic of earth (unknown to them that the world’s unfathomable purities abided no commands of rationale), sought reasons and answers to grotesque extents, places between the grave and above – or below.

Time had interacted with humans for some many years, until it encountered Arthur Valentine, a man whose knowledge and love oppressed all the other qualities of character, he was well acquainted with Time – knew it well and it’s intentions, but still passion to seek every justification churned in his stomach. Most importantly about this man – Time was an ally. Valentine lived and labored alongside it. He used it to document his life.

Words by Mae Topley

Image by Ted Rand-Bell

Front Cover images by Adela Wilson

Back Cover Image by Freddie Beaumont