Tales

Editors

Hugo Douglas-Deane Dougie Dodds Niamh Jones

⁑ Beneath the Pilot Stars

ADAM ROBERTSON CHARLTON I

III

Born from sleep into darkness, The captain awakes; Wriggling like a netted fish To escape the hammock’s embrace.

Like a silhouette’s reflection On a looking-glass sea, The sepulchral ship came closer Until in the headland’s lee.

As a water baby surfaces He emerges step by step, Then stairs up at the mast In the centre of the deck.

And as the breeze dissolved And the basalt hills grew tall, A moaning echo came to him; Drowning the wind’s last call.

An opaque mist now parted, That had clung around the keel, And two coasts equidistant, Lay visible but surreal.

Reverberating like a fog horn, Yet on a fogless night It enticed the captain deeper, Deeper into the calling light.

Asleep his ship had sailed him For half a year before, The siren calls of winter, Woke him to go ashore.

And as the captain’s head swam, Saturated by the sound, The ship cried out mournfully; For she had finally run aground.

In the west his home had been, It ached within his brain.

But as it did a light shone bright Blinding memories of pain.

Climbing down the captain found An arachnid beach of eyes.

Black, wet pebbles glistening; Eyes crying obsidian dyes.

In the east it twinkled and winked, Like a conspiratorial friend; And not the dawn he realised – But a light to mark lands-end.

But as he left the shore behind, That lonesome moan heard at sea Dissipated through the trees; Now a hive, and each voice a bee.

II

IV

Eyes wide like a sunset, He grasped the wheel with hands, Without a certainty they had lost Overboard in distant lands.

A swarming storm in his head The captain climbed still higher.

Each bee a forgotten voice amplified As he drew nearer to the fire.

East he steered once more.

Towards a light that fluttered; A moth chased by other moths.

Its guidance heeded yet unuttered.

Until suddenly there were no trees Just man and rock and light.

Underneath the pilot stars, In the crystal of the night.

And cadaverous at the helm, The wind’s breath upon his back, He finally had a heading: White fire atop hills of black.

But from the fire ran tangled lines Interwoven like a cobweb: Ethereal silken tendrils, One of which ran from his forehead.

4

V Drawn closer to the flames; The voices quietened until The final whisper was silent; The predator before its kill.

In the eye of a nebulous web, Fire caressing his face, The captain reflected in the flames, At the end of his nocturnal chase.

And then his face began to change, Metamorphic within the fire And in turn it became the gaze Of those loved in a life prior:

VI

A lady’s face that had no name, Seamless like ship’s sails.

Then that same lady’s face; Creviced like dells and dales.

Then there was darkness on the hill; Embers emolliated by immolation.

Silence hung in rings of smoke, Infused by the odour of cremation.

A childlike and oval face, White just like the moon, Yet with a smile that glowed Like the sun at noon.

Out to sea the mist had settled, But deep within its grip Something else was drifting by; Another mournful ship.

Enticed this far by fiery ghosts That had echoed through his head, The captain stepped into the fire And embraced the burning dead.

As if receptive to the ripples; The flames resurrected once more.

And although the ship was far away, These flames were taller than before.

5

Tales from

SAME SMITH-HOGAN

ack Carey

Written by J

Excerpt from Alpine Retreat Magazines Winter Addit ion 1985 Tucked a little way north of New Hampshire, away traditional tourist haunts of the East Coast, is from the more County. Set to the backdrop of the stunning YoungNorthwoods blood Mountains, Northwoods is quickly becoming the most talke d about winter tourist destination in America. The Old World charm of this quaint township will immediately draw you in and will refus e to let you go…

Northwoods County Police Department 1985 – Dispa tch Transcript 1 *Caller later identified as Peter Miscavaige. Schoo l Teacher at Northwoods High.

DISPATCH: Northwoods County Police Department, what’ s your emergency?

CALLER: Hi, yes…um I… DISPATCH: Hello sir? What’s your emergency?

CALLER: I’m, I’m over at the green, there’s somet hing out on the playing field DISPATCH: Sir, is this the green on Smart’s Field ?

CALLER: Yes! Yes, the playing field, there’s a littl e boy, out here there’s something…

DISPATCH: Is the boy in danger, sir, I’m going to need you to be specific DISPATCH: Can you give me your name please sir?

CALLER: Jesus Christ, get a squad car or a patro l or something down here I can’t explain to you what the fuck is going… *The Line goes quiet* DISPATCH: Sir? Sir? Is the boy in danger *Dispatch operator Nancy Deans is heard calling to colleague Bill Steve nson* Bill!

Bill! We got a child, possibly injured on Smart’s Field !

CALLER: You may want to send more than a squad car.

END OF TRANSCRIPT 1 Congressional hearing 1987: investigation of North Police Department during the events of October 3rdwoods County 1985 Special Prosecutor Lance Turnbull interviews Lt. Richa rd Smith.

Lt. Richard Smith was on call during the events of October 3rd and is recorded as the first law enforcement office r on the scene.

SP: Lt. Richard Smith, describe to us the events of October 3rd 1985, as best as you can RS: Where do you want me to start?

SP: Just after the call to dispatch RS: Of course that’s fine SP: Please continue RS: The call came in around 8:30 SP: PM or AM Mr Smith?

RS: PM SP: Thank you RS: The call came in around 8:30 PM, night. I got the ca I remember Nancy dealing with a bar ll when I was in my cruiser. I had was on that fig just finished ht in the centre of SP: This is the sa town me ba r fig ht that was mentioned of the Republic Ba

by Mitch Heron, ow ner RS: Correct. I had r? ju st fin is hed booking two gu in. Smart’s Field ys when th was only a five-minu and drove over te drive so I hopp e call came ed in my car SP: At this time, yo u su sp ec te d no th call in? ing out of the ordi nary about the RS: Nothing at all no , I… we ll no ne SP: Did you know Pe of us could have gu essed RS: He wasn’t on my ter Miscavaige prior? ra da r, lo ca l te to have been in co acher I think, my ntact with him kids were too old SP: When did you su sp ec t so me th in g RS: Probably when wa I got close, the ai s wrong r was pretty thick, foggy * *The fog like cond itions were corrob orated by several other officers.

SP: When did you fe el so me th ing was wr *SP is heard clarif ying terminology wi ong when did alienmonkeyboi present* th Colonel Jon Patt erson who is RS: About when I sa w the kid, the boy di SP: Did you see Mr spatch had talked Miscavaige at this about RS: No I did not point SP: Mr Miscavaige or in distress at was later found severely injured, wa s he at all hurt RS: No, not that I this point? re me mb er , he was just standi by his side ng there, the kid was SP: The kid? Mr Sm it h?

Co ul d you clarify which RS: No, I couldn’t child th tell you, I could headlights only see as far as is was? my cruisers SP: We have a numb you made aware of er of missing children reports on Oc this after the even to RS: I was told brie ts of Smart’s Fiel ber 3rd, were d?

SP: But you were no fly the next day t aw ar e of this before seeing Miscavaige? the child with Mr RS: No, no I was no t, I do n’ t see why you need to same questions keep asking me the SP: Its just proced ur e Mr Sm it h, we ne RS: The facts? The facts are I saw an ed to accumulate the facts and crush a car alien kill three po lice officers *Short intermission seen to be in phys where water is given to Lt. Richar ical distress. Refr d after* eshments are brough Smith, he is t in shortly SP: Mr Smith, is it RS: What? I’m sorr true that you suffer from stress in y who the fuck told duced paranoia?

SP: Were you highly you that? st re ss ed the nigh RS: You slimy litt le shit! No I was t of October 3rd? or delusional! not stressed; I wa s not paranoid SP: Mr Smith…

RS: Yes I saw the write up your boys unhinged did on me, paranoia , delusional, SP: I…please END OF TRANSCRIPT

of the Narview with Private Ben Kuncewicsz Congressional hearing 1988: Inte be intertional Guard Reserves. . Pvt. BK is the fourth person to in 1986. ed Special Prosecutor - Lance Turnbull harg disc y rabl onou ing. He was dish viewed in the Congressional hear just want BK: Speaking freely sir? rject as little as possible, we SP: Completely, I will try and inte self your edit t happened, don’ you to explain everything as it barely on the base anyway, maybe two to three I’m so , rves rese the in , some admin.

BK: I’m help out with some basic training times a month I’ll get a call to clerk in the Warsaw County Bank, so this isn’t During the week days I work as a that, I’m not a soldier … or rather a full my life. I just wanted to clarify time one. ks water* *Pause as Private Kuncewicsz drin many of us are Commanding Officer is asking how So we get the call, maybe 18:00. chemical warfare scenarios. This was when I fully trained with biological and got a bit confused. in the middle SP: Why were you confused? , I mean for such a small base, BK: Well he knew none of us were fully trained with a rifle. of nowhere, most us weren’t even SP: What happened next? to say, but to be honest BK: I don’t know what I’m allowed sir, its fucked up

⁑ Sonnet

SAOIRSE SMITH-HOGAN Tales of the time turning tentatively.

Running riot around the bleak, and blue, Mammoth abyss. So dark. And quietly, Whilst you wait, in an apprehensive stew To be sucked under, swallowed, stolen through Things you cannot see, things you cannot hear.

Now, breathe in. You must not allow him to Snatch you; prise you; bewitch you. Oh, the fear.

Be true. Weaken the nightmarish unknown, And use your strength, the might I know you feel, To be liberal and forthright. The groan.

Him. Coming for you, a snake on your heel, Sliding towards his prey. There is danger.

Phobos, please, tell me…Who is this stranger?

8

⁑ Limericks

SOPHIE CHAPMAN There was a starved lady of Rye, Who was caught eating all the pie; She was sick everywhere, the town cried with despair, And so she was exiled from Rye  There was an old lady of Hull, Whose medicine did make her lull; It sent her to sleep, so very very deep, There is a dead lady in Hull.  There was a young lady of York, Who stole all of the children’s chalk; She fell into a well, and got dragged straight to hell, No one saw her again in York.

⁑ A Conversational Tale

ABBEY HANCOCK

I

n the traditional conventions of conversation there only ever seems to be one way to begin; hello. Usually it’s given with a slight smile, maintaining eye contact all the while and sometimes, if it’s a special occasion, you may even lean in for a slight embrace.

Names will be shared and your head will nod understandably, as if ‘Darren’ is a complex word that needs at least two seconds to think over. A lot can be said for this exchange. This first meeting is the beginning.

Their voice will always compare to this hello and that smile will form the basis for every expression they share. Alternatively, this hello may only highlight the irritating tendency of the raising the pitch of their voice after each sentence, or the fact the smile seems to lift a fraction higher on the right ride of their face.

Nevertheless, you’ve made the correct introduction so you can now move on to the checklist criteria that always follows. What job do you do? Where are you from? What do you want to do in the future? Before you’re even aware you’ll have learnt that ‘Darren’ is in-between jobs right now due to the economic climate of today’s generation. He’s originally from Basingstoke and is all about living ‘in the moment’ rather than worrying about what’s to come – but you could have guessed this from that hello he’d begun with. This will continue, whether you like it or not, and soon you’ll realise you’ve been standing in the same spot for the last 20 minutes. The reality is even worse when it’s noted that you haven’t even started to brush the subject of politics. Your shoes are killing. Your dress feels a little too snug. Your makeup is smudged; worn down like your interest in this conversation.

You’re now at the crossroads. Do you involve yourself further with this person and subject yourself to another hour or so of chat about their preferences of dogs and cats etc.? Or do you excuse yourself, escaping to do something trivial like fill your glass, retreat to the restroom, or maybe (if the situation is particularly dire) leave? You haven’t got much to make your judgement from and there isn’t much time to decide. Think back to that first hello and you’ll find your choice will be a clear one.

9

⁑ Love Drug

ALEXANDRA PARAPADAKIS WHEN THEY TOLD ME ABOUT YOU: Gossip “Can you see the track marks up her arms?”

“I spy With my wide eye The stranger upon her neck.

Like the birthmark of a bloodhound, Like a grisly flesh pinch, An angrily sealed wound, A Chinese burn, A beating burning bruise, A bloody blush: The bite of the hungry.”

“Teeth she counted like cash, The molars which paid her fine And got her Alice’s very own wonder -ful escape” “Can you see the track marks up her arms?

Can you see the stranger upon her neck?

It sits like a noose.”

WHEN I SAW YOU: My confession to you “When you lit that cigarette The bones of me shuddered, The blood in me halted.

What I wouldn’t do for you to light my flame with your lips....

Because I’ve had men tell me that my lipstick tastes of petrol, That my mouth lights fires, That my tongue causes explosions And of course, that opening my legs is the best way to put a fire out.

But this fire begins at your pupils, Your eyes are like matches And I know that, all of us? We are really always burning.

And I’d like to wash my hands in the candles of your stare, In the sparks of your words Because it’s stopped hurting.

It’s stopped hurting!

And I want to feel you burn me, These scars are yours.

What I wouldn’t do for you to light my flame with your lips.....”

WHEN I KNEW YOU: What I told my friends “To kiss her now will pierce your tongue and numb your mouth.

This is the smile that cuts, Tears deep, tears the tears apart The eyes that fixate on her lips, The ears that listen to her voice.

This is the mouth that eats.

It eats, eats, eats away at your flesh Till there’s nothing left, But it’s stolen in her laughter, interweaved between the gaps of her teeth.

She sold it in her songs, She traps it in her pocket and only blows it out into the wind, Sometimes, When her lips are quivering, quirking, dancing into curves…

This is the smile that cuts!

It will cut you into bite size chunks, easy for her to gobble up and digest, Easy to eat, eat, eat away.

And I keep finding cuts on my fingers like pin pricks....

I think it’s from tracing her lips.”

WHEN I LOVED YOU: My thoughts At first love was a pump, a needle, Eyes wide when you’re high ...Or see someone you like.

Stifled, we always rivalled Till no more, the beat became sore And we spiralled, overdosed, Hot headed, cold blooded.

Passion became blown out, The anticlimax of a candle...

Like the heroin ran through her heart, Like the cocaine contorted her chest, Like the salvia had shaken her soul, Like the meth had muddled her mind And she was gone.

Only pockets of chemicals and cash remained...

And she was gone to me Like there was only ever heroin in my heart.

A Tiny Speck

TOM MCGIE You find yourself standing outside a bar at half past two in the morning.

From the inside a tapestry of sound still oozes - the chinking of glasses and excited laughter combined with Dire Strait’s ‘Sultans of Swing’ infiltrates the otherwise tranquil evening atmosphere. Across the other side of the river from where you stand, an entwined couple stagger merrily towards their bed. Everywhere else is empty and quiet, except this little pocket of night time activity from which you’ve just ejected yourself.

You reach into your coat and pluck what appears to be the very last cigarette from the packet. As a matter of instinct you brush behind both your ears to make sure you haven’t already got one there at the ready. No. This cigarette that you grasp in your hand is the last one you’ve got - it’s too late to find someone who has more; at this hour no one’s going to stop for an oncoming, slightly drunk man, standing at 6’4’’, tottering out of the darkness. You’d better make this one last then, you think to yourself.

Usually, the thought of being fagless at this stage of an evening would fill you with emotions ranging from glum melancholy to (depending on the type of stimulants consumed that night) utter fear and dread. Tonight, however, is different. When you bought this particular pack of cancer sticks, you’d vowed to yourself that it was going to be your last. Tomorrow morning, when you awake cigarette-less to a lurching stomach and a thunderbolt headache, it won’t matter, because smoking will be a thing of the past. You’ll rise gloriously from the pits of debauchery and addiction, and like a phoenix from the flames, will emerge into a beautiful new phase of life. The next time you pass this bar, or perhaps encounter one of your friends who is still gripped by this hideous addiction, you’ll stride proudly on by, embued

Written By Tom Mcghie

with the knowledge that you’re onto a better plane of exist ence, shackled no more by trivial temptations.

You sigh out the first few drags of this cigarette and then flick it away triumphantly. A new era begins! A Stalin-esq ue purge of old values to mark the starting gun of a joyful fresh regim You walk back into the bar and see an elderly Venetian e. man rolling a cigarette - you mow him down as you walk past to your table . The group of unfeasibly attractive Italian girls behind the bar who have fags at the ready have a grenade thrown in their direction too.

You drink and, taking Scarlet by the hand, march solemnly down your out shameful pit of depravity and into the cool, clean nightof this .

Although the outside is far darker than the interior of the bar, it feels quite the opposite. You now ease into this future of morality, of good health, of self-esteem....of....of.... boredom..... of..... holier than thou preaching... of nothingness.

Is this really what you want?

As Scarlet leads you down an alleyway which comprehend this new, unknown reality. Its two o cuts through to the street where your apartment is on, you begin to fully the hell were you thinking? There are millions ’clock in the morning, you’re drunk and without any form of nicotine. What you’re gripped by a rather powerful compulsion of opportunities to stop smoking, and you’ve chosen this one?! Suddenly to have a cigarette.

There’s probably still quite a lot left of the fag you flicked away outside the bar.

You try and ignore these ominously familiar inter nal mutterings as you totter through the darkness delicate touch of Scarlet’s hand as your guide. with only the No! Urgin g yourself to claim sovereignty over your impul avoid a basket of flowers hanging from one of the ses, you narrowly doors that Scarlet pulls you past.

Probably enough in there for a small head rush, at least!

The light of a main street – your apartment’s stree becomes more venomous and powerful, but you just t – now comes into view. With every second the addict’s voice put your head down and put one foot ‘What’s with all these godda mn flower baskets!’ you laugh in a rather craze in front of the other. d fashion. The pair of now stand on your street, pausing for a moment whilst Scarlet checks to see which way your you apartment is. But you don’t follow her gaze – your eyes ing sign of a Tabac, some fifty yards down anoth are fixed firmly on the flickerer alleyway.

‘Must be a 24 hour one,’ you hear yourself say.

‘What?’ Scarlet turns in your direction, only to see into the shadows like the deranged addict you are.you running

⁑ Dear Sister ALICE HUTCHINS In a small village at the heart of the earth, where the sun shone in abundance, there lived two sisters. One had immeasurable beauty, and one had the kindest of hearts. The first, by name Asha was beheld across the land as more radiant even than Venus, the goddess of beauty. The second, by name Elise was plain to set eyes upon, yet adored more than any other for the purity of her soul. As they grew, Asha’s looks began to pale in comparison to the kind and gentle nature of her sister. She grew bitter and jealous of the love Elise received, and sought out a witch in the middle of the night to help her solve this problem.

‘Create me a potion that will make me a better person than my sister, I want to be revered more than she!’ demanded Asha.

Now the witch brought out a cooking pot, and poured into it kindness, courtesy, love and humility.

‘Be warned’ she said to Asha as she handed her the potion ‘this will only work if good deeds are carried out to keep the potion in effect. Do not commit any wrongdoings whilst under the potions influence or the consequences will be a heavy burden to bear.’

Asha dismissed the witches words and drank the potion in haste, eager to outshine her sister. Though the weeks passed and Asha continued to take the potion, she did not receive praise for her kind and beautiful spirit, as did Elise. She had done no good deeds to deserve the people’s love.

Her jealousy became too much for her, and one day in a fit of rage, she took a dagger and stabbed her sister, right in her golden heart. As Elise fell to the ground, Asha fell down beside her, instantly overcome with the shame of what she had done.

‘It is okay Asha’ Elise gasped as she lay bleeding upon the grass ‘I still love you, my sister’ As Elise drew her final breath in this world, Asha wept for the awful crime she had committed and her tears scattered like daisies across the lawn. It was then that she remembered the witches warning as the beauty began to seep from her skin. Every tear that fell took with it a part of her youth. Her hair turned to grey, her hands withered, and she aged sixty years in that instant. Her face was now as hideous as her soul, and in that last action she had sealed her fate to be hated and abhorred forevermore. She lay down beside her fallen sister, and died there in her sleep, dreaming of how beauty came not from the paleness of her ivory skin or the golden locks of her hair, but from deep within her own heart.

13

⁑ Two Stars

RAHUL MEHTA

W

E ARE TWO STARS IN THE OBSIDIAN SKY. OUR LIGHT SPANS the celestial plains. Part of a greater constellation, we bathe in the dark blue

sky above. We are older than words, than love, than the passion and deception of men and women.

The ebb and flow of matter precedes us, like the soil exists before the seed. As with a ship’s sails buffeted by intemperate winds, we accept our fate – what point is there to quarrel with the laws of nature? Our fellow leviathans, old companions from deceased galaxies, have been dismantled and reassembled. But here we stand, recycled, reincarnated. This could have been a love story.

Just as you gaze at us through the infinite ether, little more than scintillations against the oblivion, we watch you. Your lives are but fleeting whispers in the cosmos, yet we observe and record every word. Hear our tales of love, while there is yet fuel in our furnace.  To be in love is to feel Death’s breath on your neck. The spastic heart, the cold skin and sweaty brow. If he had been only a few decades older, this would have been an omen. But for now, it is the dance one’s mind does as it descends into the depths of love. The excitement which stems from an accidental graze of the hands is stalled by the knowledge that first love is fragile. No enlightened poetry or parent’s counsel can prepare him for the decision he must make. In a single syllable, he can leap, dive, and seek his love’s answer. But in that single breath lies also the precipice of despair, the risk of romantic failure. Ah, to love again, but never to know first love!

With time comes the stiffening of joints and vessels, the slow transformation from flesh to marble. As in body, so in love. The inferno which soaks bed sheets in forbidden sweat mellows, like warm embers in the fireplace. There is no need for coal nor fresh wood – this is aged love, fermented in countless warm embraces. The pursuit of hedonism is left on a todo list, pinned to the fridge next to children’s doodles and nostalgic Polaroids. Written on the lines which scatter across weathered faces are vows and promises.

Even Aphrodite, in her infinite knowledge, cannot prepare you for loss. We love with the foresight of immortals within the hour of the mayfly. But the soaring heights of new love can only be countered by the depths of grief in bereavement. A lady sits in an armchair greyed by age, and the colours run off the walls. Her last laughs were buried with her husband. The second hand of the clock, like Death’s scythe, will one day swing upon her resigned body, and she will smile. Until then, she waits and reminisces, with only loyal memory for company.

In another time and place, a young man wakes to find a silhouette beside him. He recognises its form and gesture, and he weeps. This shadow is the love that could have been.

Spurned lovers will find no other company as they navigate their own solitude. The wraith teases with outstretched arms, but his arms pass through its faint form. Rejected, refused, but not requited. He may find solace at the edge of a blade; but even in his final breath, the ghost of a forsaken future will stand before him. Sometimes, hell precedes death.

When this rejection simmers and boils, its toxic fumes shall poison the wretched soul into a state of obsession. Love unreturned, or even spurned, is hatred earned. Driven to mania, he chases her through dreamscape and dark alleys. His love descends into selfishness, as his infatuation becomes volatile. Hallucinations about a relationship that never was keep him in a state of flux, as reality and fantasy conspire to goad him into committing the ultimate sin. If Life cannot guarantee safe passage of her love to him, perhaps they’ll find it in death? �

Love is the greatest folly. It defies reason and pride, a world apart from the love of family, nation, or life itself. This is the love which dances in the ether, which one seeks in autumnal scenes and romantic novels. The love of the insomniac as well as the dreamer. Even we, who have watched the waxing and waning of reality itself, cannot make sense of such a thing as love. You will find no philosophy amongst the stars.

Listening for Spiders - By Fiona Sangster I lie awake at night listening for spiders. I can recognise the sound by now: the scratch of a weight on the paper blue-tacked to the walls, the crinkle of a plast ic bag or chocolate bar wrapper. This bedroom is a mess, tin cans on a string.

Sometimes it’s nothing. I have loud neighbour s and this building is old. Most of the time it’s the rain, because patters on the window are almost indis tinguishable from the sound of an unwanted house guest. But three times so far I’ve heard a noise, turned on the light, and caught the creature in the act.

Whe n that happens, I shut my door and sleep on the sofa bed in the living room for a week until I think it’s died.

Only three times that my efforts have paid off. But still, every single night I lie awake and listen, so hard it starts to hurt my head and blur my vision.

I listen until I fall asleep. I stop after that.

Often, I think back to the last time I had a boy in this bed. Two, nearly three years ago now, I lay in this bed with my childhood sweetheart breat hing hot on my skin, telling me he didn’t like himself so he didn’t understand how I could like him. I felt the same way about myself, but I didn’t tell him, beca use he’d made me uncomfortable and I didn’t want to do the same back. Our heads were on this pillow as we looked up to the glow in the dark stickers we’d put on the ceiling.

When Jamie told me he was lucky to have me, and wove his fingers into my hair like an anchor, I rolled my eyes, because it wasn’t luck that led me to him. Luck implies randomness.

I couldn’t live without his boy smell, the scen t of different shower products of the gender I hard ly knew, his leg thrown over me in the single bed and my face in his hair. It didn’t smell of anything in parti cular. It just always reminded me of boys. I would have found that scent and followed it from halfway acros s the world. Nothing random about it.

I suppose I date men now. I can smell my skin.

Scott wears too much cologne, it stays on me for days.

He cooks impressive Italian dishes whose nam es neither of us can pronounce. It’s odd that we don’t laugh when he struggles to say “focaccia”. That seems to me like something people would laugh about.

Scott tells me I am refreshing. He called me a palette cleanser when he was drunk and then forgot about it. Our age gap excites him. Twenty-three and thirty-four, not the most scandalous in histo ry but still vast enough that he calls me “good girl”. It seems respect is only important to men when it’s to do with othe r men .

At least this bed doesn’t smell of Davidoff Coo l Water. Scott hasn’t slept here. His place is much nicer, anyway – modern and expensive with wind ows instead of walls. He’s a banker or some thing. One of those dark haired, tall men that wear navy suits and go to bars. That’s where I met him, actually. I was tipsy and he was sober and he bought us drinks and brought me hom e. When I woke up he asked if I was doing anything Friday, and as usual, I wasn’t.

My room isn’t making much noise tonight.

The light of my alarm clock illuminates the photo on the wall next to the bed. Jamie and I at prom, a few minutes before I would tell him I want ed to be with him and he’d say he felt the same. I can see the nervous tensi on in my eyes, how the arm I had around him has its fist clenched.

I didn’t end up going to university. Jamie got an apprenticeship at a construction company , went to work in big boots and overalls. My man in uniform, I’d call him. We moved out as soon as we turn ed eight een, birth days only a week apart in August. My job at Tesco pays over minimum wage, and he gets an allowance dow n at the site, so we get by.

That was present tense, wasn’t it? Fuck, it’s been almost three years. I don’t smell of boy anymore.

But I do.

I lather. I rinse. I repeat. I repeat. I repeat.

But I cannot wash him off.

I have slept in this bed alone since he left it.

I stay awake for hours until the light bleeds through the curtains that he bought from Asda four years and nine months ago. This single bed is too big for just me.

I hear a rustle on my floor. The distraction brings me a brief moment of peace. It’s nice to listen every night for something that’s not “I love you”.

16

⁑ The Sparrow’s Conquer

SANDRA TSE

The sparrow, perched upon a string of fairy lights, clapped its beak together in warning to the gathering crowd below. It surveyed its kingdom in the style of a majestic prince.

People gathered around the bonfire. The flames roared and crackled along with the shouts and laughs of the crowd against the dark night. The mingling bodies reek of sweat and burning wood. Reflected in the light of the fire, the human’s clothes shone neon green, crimson red, sparkling with gold and silver.

At that moment, nothing existed beyond the colourful spiralling party which the sparrow surveyed with satisfaction. A few flags stood at the end of each string of fairy lights, dancing in the breeze. The sparrow spread its wings at them proudly.

These strange, flapping birds were nothing compared to him.

But then the wind moaned. The sparrow froze, alert. The wind was growing stronger. The fire suddenly doubled its strength. The warm flames turn into a blazing inferno, shooting higher and higher, seeming to touch the night sky. The people jumped back in alarm. Shrieks of laughter and terror ran through the crowd.

The sparrow left its perch on the lights. Its heart pounded in every fibre of its body. This world suddenly seemed alien. Yet, looking down, it saw the strange birds still stationary. They flapped in the breeze as usual.

The sparrow dropped back down onto the fairy lights, slowly, slowly.

It clasped its beak firmly together. It must protect these other birds.

Stationary, these other birds needed its leadership.

The bonfire grew no more. The flags seem to be thanking the sparrow with their odd sparkling colours, glittering gold and silver. The sparrow sang its victory song, unheard amongst the din of the bonfire party.

⁑ Last Letter

ALICE HUTCHINS Dearest Clarisse, I walk alone on the road that always leads to home. The heart that I have left somewhere along the way is starting to ache as I search for you in the stars that bind me eternally to that time. My sorrows stretch endlessly before me, just like this road that always leads to home, where I pause to stand and look up at you in the night sky.

You are a continuous part of my dreams and the emptiness inside of me reaches out to you even though I know I cannot reach you from here. When I think of the times we used to spend on this road I weep, for your memory casts those brilliant times into a fading shadow. Even now I can recall the pale light that illuminated your silhouette as you watched the same star-studded sky I look to now, on this road that leads to home. The only noise which perforates the silence on this desolate lane is the ticking of my watch, but it resonates in my sleepless heart like the sound of your footsteps.

Only the moon looks down with pity upon my deserted heart now, in this empty place once full of your laughter. It seems as though our tale has ended too soon.

Now that world we shared has burned to ash, but the flame of hope still smolders in my yearning soul that I may one day be reunited with you once more.

I stand now upon my doorstep, staring back down the road that led to home, and hope some day it will lead me back to you.

Yours, always.

James x

17

⁑ The Magpie Man

NIAMH JONES

The magpie man lives alone in his tree root cave, Lives alone in his cocoon of sparkling, dancing treasure Lines of silver forks and spoons in size order Little rustling scraps of tin foil, instead of plaster Flashing house keys, car keys, yacht keys, twelve-year-old-diary-keys, Keys to lovers’ padlocks latched to a distant bridge.

The magpie man cradles his favourite in one inky wing The one which clattered and chattered and beat its little drum Not quite a fox, not quite a rat, Though pointy and whiskery enough to be both combined It filled his cave with mechanic life, masking the tinkle of the diamond necklace at his door He knew it was the most delicate, most precious of all his delights It stared up at the magpie man with eyes of summer skies Little scarlet waistcoat resting on a rusty, furry paunch Frozen mid-drum, relaxed in tension, ready to strike Casually stiff as if it had been caught mid-parade by an angry witch Paws jutting out, still clinging to the worn drumsticks Slightly crooked legs stuck out mid-march The magpie man laid his favourite to rest in its nest of dry leaves and moss And poked his beak out into the dawn chorus Scratching at the hard winter frost with his bald, pink, human feet, The magpie man dwelled on the one who didn’t run away when he hopped clumsily out of his cave Not like those chattering carefree ones, it stayed with him It marched around him in endless circles, but never out of his door.

Tugging at a worm half frozen in the soil, The magpie man didn’t see it at first, Only when the orangey streak twitched in the brambles Did he blink and look at it.

Not in a waistcoat, not with a drum, Not quit a fox, not quite a rat, But unmistakably, a cat.

The worm snapped back into the dirt And the cat prowled forward, which surprised the magpie man, Where was its drum? Where were its little drumsticks? Why was it walking on all fours?

It was surely injured, with a face as squashed as that.

A single beady eye curiously combed the furry thing, As it skulked ever closer.

Half of the magpie man was tearing at his insides, telling him he should be afraid, The other half wanted to pick up the fluffy pig-cat, Rub his beak in its fuzz, maybe make little cooing happy noises at it.

This half won.

Slowly, surely, he stepped backwards into his cave, Perhaps the cat liked shiny things too.

18

The cat reached his patch of earth, and stared down at the frozen worm, Batting at it delicately from time to time, watching it slap against the soil.

Only when it saw the sparkle on the dirt did it freeze.

The magpie man worried that his new friend was afraid He pulled his arm back, Only then did the cat attack.

Lunging forward in a blur of fur, The cat fumbled with the little sparkle on the ground, He couldn’t trap the little rainbows, he couldn’t bite the light The light that was leading him forwards towards the big bird manThe cat stopped.

He sat erect and alert, questioning. Doubting.

The magpie man pulled the diamonds back sadly, He knew this part all too well, he knew the result Of trying to tempt a friend close.

A single, iridescent tear coursed through his feathers And he turned back to his delights.

And the cat that wouldn’t run away.

Inside his cave, he hung the necklace back in its place, And adjusted his forks And sat, knees to chest, amongst the wrist watches, pocket watches and mantelpiece clocks And closed his bleary eyes.

He felt the icy fingers of a tiara pressing against his flesh, He felt the soft tickle of the keys against one foot.

Soft? Tickle?

His eyelids flew up To see, a murky ginger apparition Affectionately rubbing its chin on the magpie man’s toes, Eyes shut, trusting, A little wheezy purr pulsating though its body.

The magpie man lives with his cat, Lives with his friend in their tree root cave.

The carefully ordered cutlery littering the floor, the tin foil walls shredded and plucked, The keys bitten and mangled, and the diamond necklace hung outside the door to catch the sun.

The two creatures watch their favourite beat its little drum, As it marches around them in endless circles.

19

⁑ Time for A Tale

Goodnight in her hands.

‘Can I tell you a story?’ She said, holding my head e from by everyone. He spend his days protecting the peopl ‘Once there was this big, brave king, who was loved d by s’ She started to stroke the hair out of my eyes, stran dragons, witches, and all sorts of monstrous thing strand, carful not to get any in my eyes. d.

‘His name was King William, just like you’ She smile had one small downfall. He didn’t know how to love. He had was, he as ess ‘Now, King William, strong and fearl all was happy. That was how it started, that’s how they ruled for many years, and he was happy. Everyone st almo d looke It . smearing something across her cheek start’ She moved her hand from my head to her face,

purple in the half light. . He He couldn’t tell what, but something was just not right ‘But soon he realised there was something missing. he but him… loved they them all safe. He loved them, and devoted his life to the kingdom, working hard to keep put he t effor gh, he needed something greater for all the wanted more. Simple love and admiration wasn’t enou d rical fizz and splutter, started from somewhere behin in for them’ The sound of something cracking, an elect her. The lights flickered slightly.

There was an almighty ringing in my head.

‘He wanted more’ She cocked her head to the side. each d gently on my chest. ‘More and more and more’ with ‘So he took more’ Her hands moved down and reste ed down, her eyes turning dark. word the pressure on my chest increased as she push they the kingdom was squeezed for every last drop of what ‘Taxes were raised, the poor were prosecuted, and t on rately to fill the hole he found in himself’ The weigh had. He took their happiness for his own, trying despe I wanted to move but I couldn’t. my chest was so heavy breathing became difficult. and give uction, desperately wanting them to love him more ‘He pushed the kingdom, right to the brink of destr , one torso my a blind desire’ Her hands started to walk up him everything. There was no logic behind this, just heavy step after the other. top of her dress was ripped.

‘He would humiliate those who disobeyed him’ The was puffy and an angry ‘He would beat those who were weak’ One of her eyes yellow. ol’ Her hands stopped ‘He would snuff out anything that he couldn’t contr their slow stroll just over my collarbone. ure increased, a ‘Do you know what those poor people did?’ The press cold force pushing me down, sinking me into our bed.

I let in a gasp of ‘They let him’ the weight was realised suddenly, and warm one. I could the fresh air. She smiled again, a crooked smile, but a es and swellings, woman I married again, stuck behind a mask of bruis but there none the less.

I would apologise, cry out about how sorry i was, and that ‘They let him, and he destroyed them’ I wanted to er what. I would make things right. never hurt her again. I would get her back, no matt ‘But do you know what my love?’ red on her hands now, the She knows… i’ve said this all before. I could see the broken lamp by her knees.

Dougie Dodds t’ won’ ‘I d it breathed fire.

The pillow was cold on my face, but the force behin

20

⁑ Stories From

NIAMH JONES

Goodnight

id contortmean. I feel stup I er ph ra og ot racted. ph t happy, I’m dist ants me to. The no w m he I’ at y. th pp ha ay w ok d where it’s makes me lo I can’t sit the d if I try and fin e pose he thinks in m m so he to ill in W f . el re ys s face is ewhe ing m ’s got stuck to hi is a breeze som e he er ok Th lo . e ow Th sh ? this cold es That will . I haven’t been ound with my ey en ar th ok en lo oz st fr t Ju si ? er that I’ll coming from something prop . Well, I suppose g ds in in do m e m he ve s, Lo ye . iend. telling me that e would love this a favour to a fr sh ’s w it , ho , um Oh M . n um w M ss. Calm do I think she since I last saw photoshoot no le for the photos. a e , m in ts ty et an w pr st ok ju e nes that I have to lo for liking the bo though maybe sh r t, bi he a d ke at an ch e Th W r. e not I say, friend. es. I thanked he ne’s bag. A phon on eo kb m ee so ch in y ng m si ed ’t need to zzing, convul said that she lik girlfriend. I didn ere’s a phone bu s th hi ow ng N lli . ca ce y fa y bo hold up m r daughter. A her calling thei ot m A . nt le si on nt. ony reading put mine on sile was on his balc e H . w do in w y there m saw him out of . So why isn’t he I al y. rm da no er ll st A ye k. e in overdr He was ther tchen and got a akes everything ki m s e hi er th to g in t in en be is scalding ly? Him not and then he w my ears, my tea n’t looked proper t ve ul ha sa I as be es ay av M w d told me that today?

The radio’s soun t enough, Jesse n’ t? as gh w ri y, at th az If Cr d. ings tire whelming. me? Why are th though I’m not to en en ev pp ha ch it is tw th and my eyes ng. Why does him to stop calli ld to I e. m s ve he lo wrong... nds always slightly rowing your ha th ep ke u yo , ne Fi it’s not g at me. What? s left hand but in hi ur on st ng ge ri is a s er ha rfect He The photograph led up jeans, pe me how to sit? ol R ow t. sh en to em ng at yi st tr wonder if Mr It’s a fashion around. You’re en cultivated. I o cool for that. to be s is ha he , ol co ng ri is be home. . Th a wedding asn’t accidental y window might w m It om s. fr se an as m gl e en if hair and fake home because th key back. But ev y go m to t ge ed ne to I y . tr go ake me feel home. I should Cool will let me esn’t mean to m might be in my do e e ss ss Je Je .

Or m . is hi of s. Except I hope he I haven’t got rid ture just happen e us na e ho lik y m s, of en t pp re broha I get him ou en ask why you’ ght and day just th ni d ke an Li up s. u en yo pp t me to call. e doesn’t cut sad, it just ha she doesn’t wan crush you. Natur be t ay n’ m do t y bu da h d ra an night uld call Sa t to see him. I co a problem. ken. I don’t wan nt. It’s still not le si on t no ill st My My phone’s ast someone is. le t A . lf se m hi s happy with otographer seem ph e Th . ne do Oh, we’re phone rings.

21

vakishen Berverly Anne De The book I had taken from a shelf at my favourite bookshop was old and dusty, with a slightly tattered dark brown cover. Its title, “Memories”, was imprinted in gold, with the name of the author in in smaller print at the bottom. The small, thin anthology felt heavy writthe at peered and my young hands. I tenderly opened the book short ing on the first cream-coloured page. It was blank, except for a message.

“To Majorie, With love and best wishes.

From, Julie Christmas 1919” My heart clenched upon reading those words. They seemed to dive alstraight into my chest and wrap themselves round my bones. It was me. to most as if they should have meant something e’ I could not tear my eyes away from the message. The name ‘Majori off ting ricoche and mind began echoing in the deepest trenches of my the walls of my skull. An oddly familiar ache followed. The strange that pain had sprung, not from my own heart, but from the crisp page my under burn it felt I held between my forefinger and my thumb. I skin. I closed my eyes.

I do not remember opening them, but I must have, for I was suddenly looking at a young brown-haired lady, looking cosy in fluffy Christon mas jumper and curled up on a couch that I was apparently sitting in, sunk were cheeks her too. I noticed her thin wrists and the way she and I felt an inexplicable feeling of impending grief. But then I and eyes, glowing pushed a soft strand of brown hair of out her jolt, a With her. at felt affection blossom in my chest. I was gazing I realized that I was attracted to her. That I loved her.

She was staring at me, excitement dancing in her gaze. I looked on down and saw that same book, catching a glimpse of the fresh ink I and her, towards d that same page as I closed it. My arms extende small A loved.

I girl watched as my hands presented the book to the how worm of panic was rising up in me. I was attracted to men only; should n questio nt I could I love her? Who was she? The more importa my have been who I was at that moment, but something had interrupted I like felt y suddenl I train of thought and forced down my alarm. knew what I was doing again.

“Majorie,” her name tumbled beautifully out of my mouth in a voice I did not fully recognize. “Merry Christmas.” I could feel my throat closing. I was choking up.

The girl whose name was Majorie eagerly reached for the book with her fragile-looking hands, and as she sat back, ran her fingers over her the soft leather brown cover as tenderly as a mother would stroke sleeping baby’s cheek.

“Thank you, Julie, my dear.” I rememb er thinking that he smooth as a river r voice was sweet, flowing over pebble as s. Tears stood in she said this. her hazel green ey es as Somehow, I knew in my heart that we bo th understood that last Christmas toge this would be our ther. Somehow, I kn ew that she was dy told me. ing. I knew that sh e had

Armed with this ne w revelation, I wa s unsurprised when face and I leaned tears streamed down forward to kiss he my r.

“I love you,” I wh ispered, just as ou r lips touched.

I opened my eyes.

* * *

I was still in the bookshop. Majorie had disappeared. An d Julie…

I had been Julie.

That had been Juli e’s last Christmas with Majorie.

If Julie had intend ed for me to fully comprehend her mess job quite thorough age, she had done ly. The magic had her worked so effective possible situation ly that this entire that I had just ex ly imperienced raised no panic in me, no r did it send me into a frenzied st ate. ng perfectly. rstood everythi Instead, I unde py of Mathe beautiful co se ha rc pu to g l. Sitting that I was goin at it was specia th ow kn Julie, sensing to me years afbook, had wanted most a hundred al op sh ok jorie’s beloved bo y pt spirit know r in a dingy, em to let Julie’s g in ng lo , on a small chai ed dd no ious l Christmas, I ew just how prec ter that fatefu d that I now kn an e, ag ss me r en he that I had gott rie. her. And to Majo to s wa this book lt love burn ments, I had fe mo w fe e os th ved Majorie. In lie’s soul.

She – I– had lo ving flame of Ju lo e th d he uc to had inside of me. I that little breath warm on my d, re pe is wh forever in it, I will,” I ve will live on lo r ou “Y “I’ll treasure e. nc re at it with reve book as I gazed these pages.”

Illustrations p.5, 9, 15, 19, 20 – Dougie Dodds p.15 – Niamh Jones p.8 – Allan Claydon p.12 – Mandi Johnson p.13 – Bann Beiruti p.17 – Alice Douglas-Deane p.18 – Alice Hutchins