Issue 16: Love by Continue The Voice

Vol16 - LOVE SPRING 2022

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L O V E

EDITOR’S NOTE Spring has come and gone and we are now deep into hay fever season! I find summer to be a controversial season because although sunshine does great things for people, it also makes people burn. Summer fashion has gloriously comfortable fabrics and bright colours but also brings out body insecurities. With the neverending rise of social media, #hotgirlsummer is on everyone’s minds but what does it really meant to have a #hotgirlsummer? Well, I believe that it means grabbing a beverage and snack of your choice, getting comfy, putting on your sunnies and

delving into this issue which is full of glorious art that won’t leave you sunburnt and sweaty; but instead will leave you feeling loved up. The idea one of our team members had for doing an issue on the theme of Love was not one I took to quickly as a cynical single woman in my 20’s. However, this issue has been a wonderful way for me to reframe love and has reminded me of all the ways love exists in our lives. You can loveanimals,ideas,celebrations, people, food, nature, moments and the list goes on. My favourite piece of this issue was ‘From A to R: A Brief Theory of Love’ by Carlo Rey Lacsamana, and I truly recommend reading it more than once! I also was mesmerised by ‘Lost In You’ by Edward Lee and want the lines ‘These small, silent gestures are. What you do when you love.’ framed and hung above my bed from ‘Small Gifts’ by Rod Drought. Kirsty Taylor (She/Her) Editor-in-Chief

CONTENTS From A to R (a brief theory of love)… Poetry Corner…

…14 - 17

Poetry Corner Continued…

…18 - 20

The Last Sunday…

…22 - 24

Being Loved by and Loving Tia…

…26 - 28

1964…

…30 - 32

Charity Spotlight: Streetreads…

CONTENTS

…8 - 13

The Gallery…

Small Business Spotlight: Edinburgh Ballet Theatre…

…6 - 7

…34 36 …37 - 38

Featured Artists…

…39

Playlist…

…41

Coorie Moments…

…42 - 43

How do you show your love?…

…44 - 45

Next Issue Ad/Call for Submissions…

…46 - 47

…48 - 49

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CONTENTS

FROM A TO R: A BRIEF THEORY OF LOVE By Carlo Rey Lacsamana I was browsing the internet when I came across this image. It is from a New York Times dispatch in 2014. It is a handwritten note scrawled on a torn cigarette case by a refugee found in Pozzalo, a small coastal town in Sicily where hundreds of refugees land frequently. The letter, The New York Times reports, is written in Egyptian dialect. Translated into English: ‘I wanted to be with you. Don’t you dare forget me. I love you very much. My wish is for you not to forget me. Be well my love. A loves R. I love you.’ At a glance one would think of the imageassomeindecipherableinscription on a papyrus, like a language long dead. Instead it is a heartbreaking document of our time. A letter whose urgency and finality of tone underlines the ultimate sorrow of this century: migration. This image, this letter, has entered my dreams countless times; even during my waking hours it comes to me like a bird sweeping by the window, enwrapping my consciousness in its flight. How many times have I imagined writing a letter on an overcrowded fishing boat adrift in the Mediterranean only to lose it during the confusion which ensues when the boat has reached the shore? There is something quite deceiving about A’s handwriting. The longhand is

possessed with a rare grace as though the note had been written in a moment of safety and peace, not in the hour of darkness. There is not a trace of rush, pressure, or even defeat; only an aching care as though this tiny letter were a compass when the immensity of the blackness swamped all the maps and meanings. ‘I wanted to be with you.’ The desire of the heart is for nearness. Longing denotes the distance between two bodies. The ‘want’ is to surge toward the other. For longing does not make us whole; it makes us unfinished. So those who must contend with separation must always reach for, touch at, move towards, course through, embody, evoke, connive, declare, write… In longing sleeps the bone of reunion. ‘Don’t you dare forget me.’ It is not a command but an entreaty. A hope against hope. Forgetting is the ultimate defeat of the exile. Remembrance is a life vest. Every migrant knows this. To leave one’s homeland is a definite, unalterable farewell. In separation everything is taken away except what can be remembered which is a relic of what has stayed.

consequences. I’m not sure whose hell is more profound: the hell of the one who stayed or the hell of the one who left. No other words in the human language scare the powerful than these words – ‘I love you very much’ – in the mouth of the powerless. For in the very utterance of these words something happens, everything is risked. All reassurances are left behind, all acts become possible, all energies are contrived in the here and now. The promise of togetherness is in the instant. There is no force thatcantopplepowerthanthedangerous, unifying capacity to love of the powerless.

Note the third person singular present tense ‘loves’. A word, an act, plucked out of the human ribs. It is recurring. It is happening. Driving closer to the coast, reaching the promise of remembrance.Adeclarationthatbears witness to the cruelty of this life. ‘Loves’ – that formidable, aching resurgence of will.

‘My wish is for you not to forget me.’

From the fear, the ache, the pain, from the inconsolable inevitability of separation. From the refusal to accept the world as it is.

More than anything else the wish is not to survive but to be remembered. Survival is no survival if abandoned by memory. One can only truly live in the presence of remembering. ‘Be well my love.’ Or: I’d rather you live without me than I live without you. ‘A loves R.’

‘I love you very much.’

From whence did the words, ‘I love you’ first arise?

Repeat ‘I love you’ until the beloved is brought up the shore safe and sound. I have not read a letter so heartbreakingly brief, so tragically helpless and tender it makes us all fugitives in this world of injustice. Wherever A and R are, whether alive or otherwise, may God watch over their souls.

Carlo is a Filipino born and raised in Manila, Philippines. Since 2005, he has been living and working in the Tuscan town of Lucca, Italy. He regularly contributes to journals in the Philippines, writing politics, culture, and art. He also writes for a local academic magazine in Tuscany that is published twice a year. His articles, stories, and poems have been published in magazines in the U.S., Canada, U.K., Germany, Netherlands, India, and Mexico. Visit his website or follow him on Instagram @carlo_rey_lacsamana.

The substance and worth of these words canonlybemeasuredbyone’sinvolvement. Unlessoneisinvolved,unlessonecontends with the inevitable, one fails to sense the urgency of these words. It is one thing to say I love you and stay and another thing to confess and be swept away. Both have unaccountable

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‘I love you.’

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POETRY CORNER THAT MOMENT BEFORE

BY KELLI J. GAVIN

WHEN YOU RETURN BY MARTINA ROBLES GALLEGOS

I love your smile.

When you return, we’ll go camping again;

No, not your smile. That moment before you smile.

We’ll go hiking or swim in the stream.

That moment when your eyes light up.

We’ll travel by car or even by train.

When your eyes shine.

Under the moonlight, we’ll have the best dream.

When your eyes glint as if at a moment’s notice, they will fill with tears. When the small lines by your eyes squint ever so slightly.

When you return, we’ll rebuild our friendship;

That knowing look. We’ll do everything you enjoyed before –

That look of amusement. That look of recognition of what is yet to come.

Getting on aeroplanes or even a ship,

Your lip twitches as if preparing to ask me something. We’ll enjoy our lives each day even more.

Maybe ask why it has been so long since you have felt the joy sweep over you.

We’ll go to the beach and play in the sand,

When your shoulders relax. When the corners of your mouth turn upwards.

We’ll collect seashells and get our toes wet.

When you make real eye contact.

We’ll watch surfers and the parachutes land;

When you look at me. Walking the seashore, we won’t break a sweat.

When you look into me. Your lips begin to part and you take a slight breath.

When you return, it’ll be my time,

Not a full breath, just enough to fuel your response. To make sure each day is sweet as sweet lime.

You enjoy this. Me watching you. I smile because of that moment before you smile.

Kelli J Gavin of Carver, Minnesota is a writer and professional organiser. 400+ pieces published in over 50 publications. ‘I Regret Nothing – A Collection of Poetry and Prose’ and ‘My Name is Zach – A Teenage Perspective on Autism’ were both released in 2019. www.kellĳgavin.blogspot.com

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Martina was born and raised in Mexico and came to the United States at 14. She got a Master’s degree from Grand Canyon University after a near fatal hemorrhagic stroke . Her works have appeared in the Altadena Anthology: Poetry Review 2015, 2017, 2018, Hometown Pasadena, Lummox, Spirit Fire Review, Poetry Super Highway, Vocal media, Silver Birch Press, Central Coast Poetry Shows, Basta! and more recently, in the award-winning anthology, When the Virus Came Calling: COVID-19 Strikes America. Published by Golden Foothills Press, editor, Thelma T. Reyna.

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Small Gifts

My friends say you are no longer a little girl. It is true you are now a young woman eager To take the high dive into the pool of life.

By Rod Drought In a few days

I take a bite of egg,

You are leaving home for good.

Try to read the book before me

I do what I always have done,

But get lost thinking back to a time

Make breakfast while you get ready.

When I felt most significant as a father.

When the English muffins

Times when I would rock you in your

Spring from the toaster,

Crowded room of dolls and dreams.

I give you the halves with the most crunch.

Quiet except for the creaking of the chair

If a yolk should break when I flip the eggs,

And the peculiar snuffling sound you made

I will claim that one for myself.

After a good cry, holding you Until some upset had passed, A time when I never felt so much alive.

These small, silent gestures are What you do when you love. Acts you do without a second

I awaken from the revelry when

Thought that seep into your soul

Out of the corner of my eye

Like a tab of butter on toast.

I see a coffee pot tipping Its last drops into my cup.

You come from downstairs ready For your future dressed in scrubs,

Your hand, white-banded wristwatch

Hair pinned back, Performing the silent gesture

White-banded watch around your wrist.

Before heading out the door. Sitting down at the table you Rod moved to Arizona from South Salem, New York on a snowy New Year’s Day in 1995. His poetry often reflects the two states as well as other parts of the United States. He has four books of poems which can be found on Amazon.com and his website: droughtsthirst.com. Drought has been published in numerous poetry journals and is co-administrator with Margaret Gudkov of the Facebook page: Port of Call Poetry, an online forum for poets around the world. He is a brother, father, grandfather, and avid New York Yankee fan.

Bury your head in your laptop Cramming for a test.

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When

English Breakfast By Linda McCauley Freeman

By Carlo Rey Lacsamana

I don’t drink coffee, so I rummage for the strongest tea in the cupboard.

When the ink bites your skin

The dog is relentless,

remember to light the match with just one word: Love.

convinced you simply must be

To uncover the blindness

somewhere. Not believing

of all other words.

you are not in all your usual places — the green armchair,

When the nib of the pen dips into your wound remember

your desk. But the stereo is silent

to brush your fingers across my face

and he mopes on the couch,

to tie each of our incomparable pain

his face in his paws. Waiting.

as one. When the poem relieves us

I reread the note you left

of the poverty of deafness

while my water boils. Four

be quiet, be still

exclamation points after I love you

for love is speaking of the unsaid, the unsung

from a man who rarely exclaims

the language of poetry.

anything. This is good. Even a heart at the bottom, though it is rushed and looks more like a bird in flight. Carlo is a Filipino born and raised in Manila, Philippines. Since 2005, he has been living and working in the Tuscan town of Lucca, Italy. He regularly contributes to journals in the Philippines, writing politics, culture, and art. He also writes for a local academic magazine in Tuscany that is published twice a year. His articles, stories, and poems have been published in magazines in the U.S., Canada, U.K., Germany, Netherlands, India, and Mexico. Visit his website or follow him on Instagram @carlo_rey_lacsamana.

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Linda is the author of the full-length poetry collection The Family Plot (Backroom Window Press, 2022) and has been widely published in international journals, including in a Chinese translation. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize 2022. Recently she was the featured poet in The Poet Magazine, and appeared in Delta Poetry Review, Amsterdam Quarterly, and won the grand prize in Storiarts’s Maya Angelou poetry contest. She received a grant from Arts MidHudson and was selected for Poets Respond to Art 2020, 2021 and 2022 shows. She was a three-time winner in the Talespinners Short Story contest judged by Michael Korda. She has an MFA from Bennington College and is the former poet-in-residence of the Putnam Arts Council. She lives in the Hudson Valley, NY. Follow her at www.Facebook.com/LindaMcCauleyFreeman

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THE GALLERY:

Ian Bertolucci

Monkey, Oil on Canvas (2022)

Italian artist Ian Bertolucci graduated in 2019 from the Academy of Fine Arts of Carrara. Their realistic oil paintings are characterized by dense, bright colors, intense light, and strong contrasts, which together define - almost sculpt - incredibly lifelike forms.

14 MO

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Red Orange Yellow Green, Oil on Canvas (2022)

“My artworks are my way of celebrating the moments that make life unique and special, whether they are ordinary or extraordinary. I believe that sometimes, due to the commitments and challenges that life presents us, we are unable to observe the beauty of what surrounds us. Art has the power to show us what often goes unnoticed - it has the ability to reveal the magic of little things.” Three Strawberries, Oil on Canvas (2022)

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Left: Pink Discoball, Oil on Canvas (2022)

Right: Strawberry Waffles, Oil on Canvas (2022)

Dragon, Oil on Canvas (2022)

POETRY CORNER

2 They should be ashamed of the way they treat others

PINK SUNSETS

Instead because they're not to throw stones

By Linda M. Crate

And to love their neighbours as themselves regardless Of who their neighbours are;

Never meant to fall in love with you, Knew you saw me as a sister; Tried to bury how I felt until the truth

I refuse to be ashamed because I still love you

Became so loud that I couldn't quiet

All these years later even after our fall out because love

The ringing in my ears until I admitted the truth –

Isn't meant to wither away and die –

Didn't really know how I was supposed to

Even if it's unreciprocated, I know that I cannot and will not ever

React,

Forget you, thank you for teaching me all that you did about myself

Grew up in the church and all I could think

And about the world even if pains me that I see you in pink sunsets

I was going to hell over something I could not control;

That we will never share together.

But love is love no matter what shape or form it takes –

Won't be ashamed of my rainbow heart Even if they tell me that I should be,

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Linda's poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has ten published chapbooks: A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017), splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018), More Than Bone Music (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, March 2019), the samurai (Yellow Arrowing Publishing, October 2020), Follow the Black Raven (Alien Buddha Publishing, July 2021), Unleashing the Archers (Guerilla Genesis Press, August 2021), and Hecate's Child (Alien Buddha Publishing, November 2021) and three micro-chapbooks Heaven Instead (Origami Poems Project, May 2018), moon mother (Origami Poems Project, March 2020), and & so I believe (Origami Poems Project, April 2021). She is also the author of the novella Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022).

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Miss-Cued By Allison Fradkin (she/her/hers)

The first time we kiss, we are wearing playbill-patterned pyjamas, blaring the soundtrack to Starlight Express, and swearing off guys, all of whom we’ve never cast an eyeball at in the first place. We’ve been too busy making eyes at each other: root beer float-brown gazing at gumball-green. Except now we’re looking at each other just enough but not too much, like actresses cheating out to deliver dialogue. Only we’ve both gone up on our lines. Or maybe we just haven’t learned them yet. Eventually, we pick up our LGBT-cues and the distance between us starts to dwindle, until your sugared grapefruit scent and piggybank pink pucker are kissably close – closer than a checker on a square.

I just can’t wait to be kissed. So I don’t. I lean in and latch on. When it comes to kissing you, there’s no business like slow business. Everything about it is appealing: the overture that relevés into the opening number, with its thoroughly modern melody; the up-tempo standard that grape vines into the introspective piece, rendered with restrained longing. And when the power ballad pivots into the emotional climax, with its harmonically-held high notes, one singularly sensational kick line starts inside my heart. From the stereo, the cast launches into ‘A Lotta Locomotion,’ and even though it’s not the locomotion, we are definitely doing a brand new dance now: experiencing something wonderful, loverly, and truly scrumptious. Afterwards, we huddle in a cuddle of ingénue giggles,

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stage whispers, and bass clef-style smiles. We share the lyrical sentiments that inspired our introductory intimacy: ‘I’m the bravest individual I have ever met,’ Sweet Charity contributed. ‘I’d be surprisingly good for you,’ evoked Evita. ‘I think I’m gonna like it here,’ Annie averred. ‘We’re gay and thespian,’ you remind me, threading your fuchsia-frosted fingers through my theatre curtain-colored ones. ‘So what she really warbled was: I think I’m gonna like it queer.’ I try to reply, but the intermission between our first kiss and our second kiss has ended on a high note. The skate-shod Starlight singers may be on a roll, but this lip-locked lesbian is in a role: your leading lady.

Allison delights in applying her Women's & Gender Studies education to the creation of satirically scintillating plays, prose, and poetry. An enthusiast of accessibility and inclusivity, Fradkin freelances for her hometown of Chicago as Dramatist for Special Gifts Theatre, adapting scripts for actors of all abilities; and as Literary Manager for Violet Surprise Theatre, curating new works by queer women, trans folx, and non-binary folx. Allison's auxiliary activities include vintage shopping, volunteering, and tending to her thespian tendencies.

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Mystical Make-Up By Naomi Howell-Steven Isn't it strange how people with the least relationship experience tend to give the best relationship advice? Objective insight is a very powerful tool, but so is love. It is a tool so powerful it has the ability to completely dismantle us, And build us again completely. Love permeates all Conquers all, And it protects us all. It is the be all and end all And it is not to be played with. Naomi is 25 years old, born and raised in South-East London. As well as working in the education and hospitality sectors, she is also a makeupartist and social media content creator. She believes that 'sticking her fingers into so many pies' creates balance in her life. You can check out Naomi’s makeup and fashion content here. https:// www.instagram.com/majestic_mayhem/ 20

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THE LAST SUNDAY By Caterina Baldi

I remember one Sunday when I stayed at home while everyone else was at your funeral. It was a Milanese Sunday like many others. The indecisive sky, the half-empty streets, a day of restless thoughts stretched to Monday. Everyone was at your funeral. Only I was missing. It was supposed to be a farewell day, to say goodbye. I had already said goodbye. For months now, you have been tired of living. You even smell tired with your sugary and rotten scent. I have already said goodbye to you several times. ‘Goodbye, Marcello.’ False start. ‘Uh, are you still here?’ False start again. Then one day, you were gone for real. I knew it would have happened, and I was only waiting. There was no need to say anything. You just wanted to be let go. Even now, I can't find anything strange in there. If I think about it, I expected it. You put on my bras and tried on my clothes when my housemates were out. And for me, it was normal. I screamed at you to take them off because I didn't want them to take your shape. But you insisted on walking on my heels, the tallest ones. I gave in. Then you asked me to button my shirt down to the last button and put on the brown jacket. So, you said, I was Anny Hall, and we could wear our soles through the streets. Milan versus Manhattan. I

always satisfied you. Every Italian woman has it in her blood to fulfil the male's whims and fantasies. She needs the male's approval to exist. It assures her she is his favourite slave and gives him the vice of always wanting her around. In this way, she is safe. And Delilah can spare herself the furtive cut of Samson's hair because he will offer her his scalp spontaneously. But we were friends. And those were the dress rehearsals of two young ibex measuring their horns. After graduation, you dreamed of becoming a linguist, me a researcher. But you wanted me to make up stories, like the ones I wrote and read to you. I've never been able to picture you with your job or your love life. You were born to live others' lives. It terrified you to watch yourself take shape, so you constantly moved to escape the danger. You didn't even sit to study. You memorised pages after pages while walking, on public transport or under the arcades if it rained. Maybe just your ass hurt. Despite your maximum average being with honours, you remained a misfit. And you cover it with imagination and jokes, like a dog after pooped. I remember the nights walking along via Porpora, and you who approached the prostitutes and called them ‘Mom!’ then apologising for being wrong. You found out where our professors lived, and you took me to their house to ring their bells and then run away – the part you liked best. Or when we went out to pubs without paying. We had become experts. Then once they ran after us, I paid for you too, full of shame. You messed up, and I made up for it. Yet you always wanted the best for me. Once again, always

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for your benefit. You complained that you came from a family like many others, in your opinion trivial. You wanted obsessively to be surrounded by cultured and literate people. You drowned in books, cinema and theatre, but it was never enough for you. And the faint trail that remained after each binge wasn't sufficient to keep you alive. You expected your friends to shine to give you some light as the moon asks the sun. You were a dynamo that we all kept running while pedalling. No wonder you were excited when I met Giovanni because he taught Italian Literature at our university and lived in a lovely apartment in the centre, a few steps from San Babila. Instead, I fell in love with his thick glasses and the way he disappeared behind a book's trench in the library. He told me that he worked in publishing, and I believed it. I did not know that the very morning I finally found the courage to talk to him, he had tested almost all my friends with the last initial between M and Z. Months had passed. I started a relationship, and you were a bit much. There was no more space for you, or it was me that I cut myself off. We were both abandoned, with each other and with ourselves. You sank into an increasingly poor reality, and I was practising to be a wife. I don't remember you in the days I got pregnant. My smell had become sweet and milky. My belly and my breast grow a little in two months. I had quit smoking. I was happy for this child, even though it was not the right moment. I was only 23 and still studying. After the abortion, I had my gaze fixed, and I had stopped eating, and you were talking to me about the winter season of the Strehler Theater. I didn't know

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where to put all that pain. I had decided to absorb it by asking all my cells totakesome.Ihadoptedforthemechanics of bulletproof glass that distribute the impact over the entire surface to prevent the glass from breaking. Thinking back today, we had not chosen to separate ourselves. We were standing in line, and it was our turn. You then understand the rites that you judge as barbarians of certain tribes that involve amputating a part of the body to mark the transition from childhood to adulthood. For me, it was a definitive farewell to one part of me to join another unknown and hostile half. The farmers know how difficult the grafts are, and most of the time, the plant dies. But human beings differ from other species for omnipotence and obstinacy. You were rooted in your gem state. So, in Paris, you jumped into the Seine. In Milan, under the yellow metro. And, I swear, I have heard of complaints that day about the delays. I knew it was your fault. If I laughed, I don't remember now. Then you hung yourself from a tree in the North Park, like Pinocchio. I hope that on the other side, the Dolce Vita has stretched out its arms to you, with Anita Ekberg calling you from the Trevi Fountain with her white and exposed chest, ‘Come here, Marcello. Hurry up!’. About me, my graft sprig managed to survive in finding a piece of land where to grow. It is a tissue of soil surrounded by pretty houses and kind neighbours. I rise slowly, gradually. Cyclically I produce fruits that cause astonishment. They are red and sweet. I host a few animals. Ants walk in a line on my branches as a collar of pearls. A blackbird, some robin and a

family of sparrows found a shield between my leaves and relief in the hot summer days. But I can't do anything to protect them from cats. Lately, I should grow big enough because kids have started to play around me. They climb my high and hang to my branches to swing. I can handle their weight. Then two teenagers hid behind my trunk, and they secretly kissed. Last Sunday, the neighbours had a party. They surrounded me with lights and set the table with wine and delicacies. They laughed and joked late into the night. I hadn't noticed, but I was also sitting at their table celebrating.

Caterina was born on 6th March 1983. She is an Italian children's books illustrator, author, translator and English teacher for little kids. She never misses an episode of her favourite Neapolitan soap opera. Swimming in the winter sea is the year's purpose, but she has not found the courage yet. Her picture book, ‘Three Cats in the Sink’, will be published by Settenove in May 2022. She is eager to write thousands of new stories and tales.

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Being Loved By and Loving Tia

'She never complains,' I told the vet. 'They don’t,' the vet explained. True, Tia had never complained about anything. Nor had she ever held grudges. I looked at Alex, torn between following the vet’s advice, and the dread of ending Tia’s life.

By Meredith Stephans

‘I think we should put her down,' said the vet, probing into my eyes. I lowered my gaze and could feel my face swelling and burning beneath my face mask. Minutes earlier, I had told her that my fourteen-year-old black Labrador Tia was unable to walk and had been sittinginherownurine.Wehadplaced her in the backyard so she wouldn’t soil the house, but she was lonely out there because she was used to sitting at the feet of my grown-up daughters. 'That’s another reason to put her down,' continued the vet. 'She’ll be lonely outside if she is used to being with you.' Tia’s hind legs had finally given way. Her left hind leg had lost its shape and pointed underneath her belly in the opposite direction. Her left hind paw pointed backwards. She could still manage to pull herself around with her forelegs, panting as she struggled to move her ample body to follow my daughters as they moved around the house.

which at least helped us to detect their movement and understand where herattentionwasgoing.Themovement in her hind legs became laboured. Instead of running up and down the stairs to follow family members, she would carefully negotiate each stair. Then, finally, the day came when she could no longer use her hind legs. That was when I decided to take her to the vet, accompanied by my boyfriend Alex. 'I heard that you could give injections to cure arthritis,' I pleaded with the vet. 'It’s too late for that,' explained the vet. 'When I pricked her toe with the needle she showed no response at all. The kindest thing to do for her is to put her down.'

'No, you don’t,' the vet conceded. I was relieved as I probably would have agreed to follow the vet’s advice if it hadn’t been for his suggestion. We thanked the vet, and Alex carried Tia to the car. My house is on a slope, so we decided to relocate Tia to Alex’s house with a flat backyard and big windows overlooking it. If Tia had to live outside, she should at least be able to look inside to sense the comfort of human presence. I tried to give her Omega-3 fish oil tablets in the hope that this would help Tia regain movement in her legs. Tia still had a voracious appetite, which was a sign that she enjoyed her life, but she would not accept fish oil tablets.

Encouraged, we decided to take her on holiday with us to Kangaroo Island offthecoastofourstateofSouthAustralia. Tia regained her skill of walking on four legs,andherhindpawwentfromflapping backwards to its rightful position. She was able to walk around the yard, but we still carried her over longer distances. This was the first of three trips with Tia. We took her on motorhome trips to the outback and coast. Tia still enjoyed her food and we took this as a sign that she had the will to live.

'If you smother them in peanut butter she will eat them,' Alex suggested. I covered the tablets in fish oil and added some doggie painkiller for good measure. Tia couldn’t tell me if she was in pain, so I had to assume this possibility and give her some pain relief. Tia loved the peanut butter and quickly devoured the accompanying fish oil tablets and painkillers. I followed through with this regimen three times a day.

Tia had always been athletic but had recently started showing signs of ageing. Her muzzle and belly turned grey. Her eyebrows turned silver,

'We don’t have to decide today, do we?' he concluded.

Over the next few days, we were surprised to notice Tia starting to walk on three legs instead of two. Couldsheberecoveringafterreceiving such a dire prognosis only two weeks earlier?

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After our most recent trip, Tia lost her appetite, first shunning dry food and then fresh mince. Her enthusiastic tail wagging gradually diminished to a flicker. Every morning I would ask Alex, an early-riser, if Tia were still with us, and he would nod. Tia had the will to continue but her body was failing her. One afternoon I went shopping with great trepidation, fearful that her moment would come when I was out. When I returned I saw Tia’s limp body resting on her bed. In anticipation, Alex had prepared a grave for her at my house, at the bottom of the garden under the pear tree, in front of a white rosebush. His daughter, Verity, designed a plaque for her, capturing her gentle expression, floppy ears and soulful eyes. Alex protected it with marine oil. We laid her to rest at the site of the many years of faithful companionship and comfort she had provided. Back at Alex’s house, I look out at the courtyard, inadvertently searching for her, before realising she has gone. I certainly respect the vet’s advice, but am still glad we were able to have her with us for the three months after we were advised to put her down, both for her sake and for ours.

Meredith is an educator from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in The Journal of Literature in Language Teaching, The Blue Mountain Review, The Muse, Borderless, and anthologies published by Demeter Press, Canada. Her professional passions are language education and writing. In her free time she enjoys caring for her Border Collie and sailing.

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1964 By DC Diamondopolous

sticker on the windshield. 'I’m dropping off my daughter. I’ve never seen anything like this. Kids all the way down to Hollywood Boulevard.' 'They camped out overnight,' the guard said, shaking his head. 'It’s crazy.' 'Dawn, don’t do anything embarrass your mother.'

When Dawn saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan she understood what those women in her mother’s dirty books were talking about. Her life changed from sunshine and lollipops to ascreaming fit of juvenile ecstasy more powerful than an atomic bomb. Bye, bye, Frankie and Annette. Hello John, Paul, George, and Ringo. Dawn squealed from the front seat of her father’s black Cadillac de Ville. She glanced back at her best friend, Judy. 'Look,' she said, feeling her braces scrape the inside of her cheeks. She winced and pointed to the Hollywood Bowl’s marquee. Tonight 8:00pm. 'The Beatles In Concert' Sold Out. 'I think I’m going to faint.' She lifted the Brownie to her eye and clicked the camera’s button. Hundreds of kids rushed along Highland Avenue. Police guided traffic, waving their arms, blowing whistles. 'My God,' Dr. Murphy said. 'You’d think it was V-Day.' He drove his car into the side entrance and rolled down the window. 'My wife’s on the board,' he said to the security guard, pointing to the

'Let’s go, Judy.' Dawn squeezed her chubby body through the crowd, dragging her friend behind. At the gate, she reached into the pocket of her lavender peddlepushers, pulled out two green tickets, and handed one to Judy.

'I’m not a baby.' 'Hang on to that camera. I’ll pick you up at 10:00.' 'Thank you, Dad. You’re the best.' 'Thank you, Dr. Murphy,' Judy said. Dawn and Judy walked down the incline, the strap of the Brownie gripped tightly in Dawn’s hand, photography as much a mania for her as the Beatles.Girls dashed out from the underground tunnel. They jammed the footpath, bodies spilling over inside the moving walkway – a stampede of teenagers with zits, headbands, and Aqua Net flips. Their mother’s Jean Nate perfume whiffed through the frenzy. A yellow haze circled the warm August evening below a pale blue Los Angeles sky. 'Everyone’s gone ape,' Dawn said. 'Including me,' she shrieked, grabbing the sides of her head.

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'I know where to sit,' Dawn said to the attendant. 'I come all the time.' Dawn hurried through the gate. Reserved Section Row J 17 38. 'Eee, look at our seats,' she cried, sweeping her blonde bangs out of her blue eyes. 'Box seats. Second row. Centre,' Judy said, clutching her heart. 'I am so stoked.' Inside the box were four seats. Dawn and Judy took the front two. Dawn turned and snapped a picture of the rising tiers as thousands of girls crammed the aisles. She took photographs of people in trees and the surrounding Hollywood Hills. Giddy, she aimed the Brownie at the stage with the pool in front. She took a picture of Ringo’s drums sitting high on a platform. The sun ducked behind the canyon as teenagers reached their seats. The lights in the Bowl turned on. Dawn wriggled her shoulders and moved her bra straps – something new since she’d grown boobs as big as her mothers. She straightened the pink bow above her bangs, made sure the clip was tight and centred – just in case Paul looked ather.Becauseofherbraces,sherefused to smile when Judy took her picture. At 8:00, a man walked on stage. When

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he said the word ‘Beatles’, Dawn and over 18,000 girls screamed a mating call to their heroes. The host introduced Jackie de Shannon. She sang her hits. The Righteous Brothers followed. Dawn clapped politely, drummed her foot, propped her flip with the palms of her hands, and waited for the fab four from Liverpool, England. When the last act left the stage, a hush spread around the amphitheatre. The host came out and presented the KRLA deejays. In unison they said, 'And now here they are, The Beatles.' Dawn and everyone erupted into screams. The noise was so great Dawn couldn’t hear herself. Girls stood in the aisles. Camera bulbs flashed. The Hollywood Hills twinkled with lights. Tears rolled down Dawn’s baby-fat cheeks. She raised the Brownie, but with the emotion of seeing her idols up close – the sexy way John sang 'Twist and Shout' with his legs slightly spread and, oh, Paul, so dreamy – Dawn stopped snapping pictures and just let herself bawl. She peeked at Judy pulling her hair, wailing. If Dawn wanted to be another Margaret Bourke-White, she thought, she’d better get with it. She wiped her eyes, lifted the camera, and aimed it at Paul. But the girls in the first row kept jumping up and down, waving their arms, and the klutz next to her was jabbing her elbow into the

side of Dawn’s head. Dawn pushed past the bozo and grabbed the edge of the box-seat. Girls ploughed into each other. Dawn forced her way down the steps until she stood behind the pool. She lifted the Brownie. Bad angle. Standing on tiptoes, she held the camera above her head. Someone shovedher,andtheBrowniewentflying over the pool. Dawn lunged, caught it in midair, belly flopped into the water with her arms extended, saving her camera from ruin. 'Oh,' she yelped. Drenched. Her teeth chattered, face hot. But what a vantage point. Dawn waded to the ledge, put her elbows on the platform, and clicked pictures a pro would be proud of. She saw a cameraman in the wings with a press pass pinned to his shirt taking pictures of her. Oh no, if her mother found out she’d ground her for a year. Fans leaped into the pool, splashing and slopping water, trying to heave themselves onto the stage. Guards arrived and fished the girls out.Dawn looked up at Paul. He winked at her and grinned, a smile that gave her heart wings. DC Diamondopolous is an awardwinning short story, and flash fiction writer with hundreds of stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC's stories have appeared in: Penmen Review, Progenitor, 34th Parallel, So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library, Lunch Ticket, and others. DC was nominated twice in 2020 for the Pushcart Prize and in 2020 and 2017 for Sundress Publications’ Best of the Net. DC’s short story collection Stepping Up is published by Impspired. She lives on the California central coast with her wife and animals. dcdiamondopolous.com.

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SMALL BUSINESS SPOTLIGHT:

EDINBURGH BALLET THEATRE This issue, we’ve spoken to a slightly different sort of enterprise: Edinburgh Ballet Theatre, Edinburgh’s only non-professional ballet company. They’re made up of adults who dance ballet, but not professionally, and are putting on a show at the Fringe Festival in August at Greensides Church, Edinburgh. We chatted to the directors, Vanessa Smer Baretto and Rachel Clowes, to tell us all about it!

How did you both get started in ballet?

Vanessa Smer-Barreto, Photographed by Rachel Chung

What is Theatre?

Edinburgh

Ballet

VSB: We are a group of adults that meet every Sunday with the intention to prepare for dance performances. Most of our members attended dance classes as children and teenagers, but not all of them. We also have dancers who started later in life, a few fairly recently. Others have extensive dance experience, even professionally, or are dance teachers themselves. Quite literally, we put up a show performed by adults. We recognise there are not many opportunities (yet) for adults to perform, and

Rachel Clowes, Photographed by Rachel Chung

we want to fill this need. RC: Edinburgh Ballet Theatre is a non-professional adult ballet performance group. Its aim is to give adult dancers the opportunity to perform which so often can be hard for adults. We also aim to provide an inclusive environment that is supportive to the dancers and their ability. We are not trained teachers but have experience in putting on a performance and aim to put on a polished show but expect the dancers to still be training and attending class elsewhere.

VSB: My parents put me in ballet classes when I was four. I auspiciously started my dancing career as a bee in Hansel and Gretel, running from a corner with the girls in my group, all of us making ‘Zzzzz’ sounds. I loved it, and still do, I am so grateful to my parents for making the effort of introducing me to art and taking me to classes every afternoon. RC: I started around 14. I always wanted to dance but living overseas made that difficult so I didn’t start dance classes till I was 11. Around 14, I became engrossed in dance and just wanted to do as many classes as I could so I ended up doing four ballet classes alone that year in addition to jazz, lyrical, hip hop, contemporary and a little bit of tap.

Why is ballet so important? And why is promoting adult ballet performers even more so? VSB: Ballet is an art that when performed well can take both viewers and dancers to experience a level of emotion that can touch our very soul. It is difficult to put into words, you have to experience it. Art shapes the epoch we live in, the more people are involved in art, the better it will be for our society to live and evolve together. Adult ballet performers have the added advantage of experience. Many emotions in dance are complex, and require a deeper understanding of human nature than a young child can muster. But adults can express them very well in some cases. RC: Ballet is joy whether you are dancing it or watching it. It is an important form of self-expression, storytelling in addition to being a great form of exercise. There has been a huge growth in adult ballet especially in Edinburgh.

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We hear lots of stories of dancers who used to do ballet but had to give it up when they went to university or left school or dancers who always wanted to dance but never got the opportunity as a child and it is amazing to hear that they have followed their passion or are continuing it into adulthood. Often these dancers bring so much joy and passion to their dancing which is so lovely to watch because it comes through in their dancing. Ballet is great for adult dancers because it works the whole body in a fun and social environment. It is a workout for not only the body (cardiovascular system, muscle strength, balance and coordination) but is also mentally stimulating.

RC: Marianela Nunez and Mayara Magri. Love watching both of these dancers on stage.

Tell us all about your upcoming show – Alice in Wonderland.

STREETREADS

BOTH: Alice was going to be performed in Summer 2020! But then well, you all know what happened. So we are finally here, and very happy to do this show for the Fringe 2022. It is a fun show to put together. There are so many characters, everyone gets a chance at the stage. We loosely follow the book, although Alice is slightly older, more a young teenager than a girl.

This month we spoke to Lily, one of the volunteers for Streetreads – a charity based in Edinburgh that provides books and stories to people affected by homelessness.

Who's your dance hero?

VSB: Can I mention two? Maya Plisetskaya – her unapologetic abandon when dancing, her strength and willingness to push her ideas forward despite the constrictions of the Soviet machinery of her time are admirable. And Bournonville – back in the XVII and XVIII centuries, ballet favoured men instead of women. In the XIX century, it was the women who were appreciated, whereas men were cast aside. And then there was Bournonville who championed both, and choreographed beautiful dances that form a harmonious scene with all genders given opportunities.

Charity Spotlight:

Where can everyone buy tickets and find you on social media? To find Edinburgh Ballet Theatre on social media: Instagram: https:// www.instagram.com/ edinburgh.ballet.theatre/ Facebook: https:// www.facebook.com/edballet/ Tickets to Alice in Wonderland: https://tickets.edfringe.com

Let’s start with a bit of background about Streetreads. Why was the charity founded? Streetreads was founded by Rachel Cowan – also known around Edinburgh as the Book Wumman – who, in 2015, began handing out books to people experiencing homelessness around Edinburgh. She had the ambition that any homeless reader in Scotland could access books if they wanted. Rachel knows about the devastating impact of homelessness and wanted to help change that by using stories, so in 2018 she and Simon Community Scotland collaborated to make Streetreads a reality. Books not only offer escape, solace and adventure but are great conversation starters and help build the connections that are vital to assist recovery from homelessness.

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The main mission is to connect people with books and to provide whatever is necessary for that person to read, whether that be reading glasses, large print copies, books in foreign languages and even a space to read those books. The first Streetreads Library officially opened in August 2021 in Edinburgh and is open for service users to access, providing a safe, peaceful and comfortable space to browse, read and chat with volunteers with a cup of tea and a biscuit. The Library aims not only to provide books but also to provide a space for people using our services to access where they can just be, without fear of judgement or reproach. We’ve also had a few authors visit The Library for readings and book signings including Andrew O’Hagan, Ian

Interview by Grace Balfour-Harle

What is your mission? And what services do you offer?

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Rankin, Tendai Huchi, and Doug Johnstone – and we also offer creative writing workshops. What does entail?

being

volunteer

There are always various tasks to do in The Library such as cataloguing, organising donations and shelving books. However, the main role of volunteering is spending time getting to know the people using The Library, building relationships with them and making the space as comfortable and welcoming as possible. Books are often a starting point for deeper conversations and they provide connection to others as well as an escape from the realities of traumatic, tough times. How can Streetreads?

people

Streetreads? What are your hopes for the future of the charity?

FEATURED ARTISTS

Continuing to promote The Library to make more people aware of the project and start putting on more events now that we can open the space up to everyone without restrictions! You can keep up to date with Streetreads on their website ( w w w. s i m o n s c o t l a n d . o r g / o u r initiatives/streetreads) and on Twitter (@streetreads).

Bursting With Love by Gita Viswanath, a published author of two

Interview by Beth Ralston

Lost In You by Edward Lee. Edward is an artist and writer from Ireland. His paintings and photography have been exhibited widely, while his poetry, short stories, and non-fiction have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. He is currently working on two photography collections: 'Lying Down With The Dead' and 'There Is A Beauty In Broken Things'. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/ website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com.

support

We always welcome new supporters and partners to help us fund the bigger costs of this project. People using Streetreads request books from us all the time and if we don't have them, we'll buy them to give away. We also accept donations of books in new or nearly new condition – the most popular genres are Crime, Thrillers, Historical Fiction, and Non-Fiction. We are also looking for more volunteers to help run events and take books out into the community. We are also always looking to connect with storytellers, writers, publishers, creative thinkers – the list goes on! If you would like to volunteer, get in touch at volunteering@simonscotland.org.

novels and several short stories, poems, and essays. Gita writes when she is sad and paints when she is happy.

Graphics by Cheryl Weber Richardson. Cheryl is a writer and graphic artist with Midwest roots. She lives in Boise, Idaho, and has prose and poetry published in Writers in the Attic anthologies, 2015, 2017, 2018, in Tree Roots and Branches, 2019, and in A Quiet Wind Speaks: Poetry of the Live Poets, 2021. She has shown her art as a member of Idaho Watercolor Society, Treasure Valley Plein Air painters and Inkspots Calligraphy Guild.

29 &33 And

lastly,

what’s

for

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Cate’s Brother Space Man – Sam Ryder London’s Requiem – Louis Dunford 21 – Bryce Drew 20s – Bow Anderson Stoned at the Nail Salon – Lorde Gasoline (feat. Taylor Swift) – Haim Friends – Ella Henderson Manic Monday – The Bangles hope ur ok – Olivia Rodrigo

P L A Y L I S T

– Maisie Peters

Listen Here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1spgwtEVsMJuv6rB3I84aN?si=a180d7b7b4114b41

NATALIE WONG JIAYI

ETHNOGRAPHIC ENCOUNTERS

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Coorie Moments Coorie: a Scots word meaning ‘to snuggle or nestle’

Planning a trip with your best friend. Holding a baby for the first time and they fall asleep on you.

The feeling when you meet someone for the first time and know you’re going to be best friends.

Seeing your sister after a long while.

The moment when someone tells you they like you.

Your first kiss when it’s all exciting and new. The feeling when your person comes in the door.

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How Do You Show Your Love? ‘Love starts with caring for ourselves. With simple actions we can show love: listen with an open heart and mind, speak with kindness and respect, reconnect with human touch to erase the illusion of separation from others.’ – Cheryl Richardson

‘I show my love by listening, expressing affection in a way that's compatible with and respectful of our individual love languages, and doing thoughtful things without expectation of reciprocation. ’ – Allison Fradkin

‘My husband and I have been married 23 years. About two years ago, we started a daily appreciation practice. Each night before we go to bed, we do "our appreciations," where we each acknowledge something we appreciate about the other and/or what the other did that day. We started with three things each, but now we have no limit, and when we are done, we ask the other, "did I forget anything?" This simple practice has proven to be extremely powerful in allowing us each to be seen, heard and recognised for everything each of us do to contribute to our daily lives from as simple as "I appreciate you emptying the dishwasher this morning" to "I appreciate what a great poet you are" to "I appreciate your sexy legs!"’ - Linda Freeman

‘I show my love through gift giving, hand written lettersandcards,wordsofaffirmation,andquality time. I will also write poems and essays to and about the people I love, as I tend to write about various things and people in my life. I try to show my love in as many possible ways as I can so those I care about know that they are never truly there, and I will always be with them supportingthemalongthewayintheiradventures and their dreams in any capacity that I can.’ – Linda Crate

‘Love manifests itself every day, in every moment, in every small gesture. It is always present, even when we feel bad. It means taking care of what I do, being precise and constant, and caring for the details. Love does not tire, and taking care of it is pure joy. There is no distinction between the people I love, my work, and the world I live in. We are love. ’ – Caterina Baldi

By showing, embodying gratitude. By not taking things for granted. By seeing and feeling deeply even the smallest act or thing. To be grateful for the things that love us and do not love us – that do not help us. That requires practice. But what is love if not a more intense kind of longing. A longing that doesn't make us immune to the ordinariness of everyday life. To long is to love the modestly immense present: all its beginnings and endings. Gratitude.’

‘I love to surprise people with unexpected gifts. Especially with my specialty "oat bars," organically made and incredibly yummy.’ – DC Diamondopolous

- Carlo Rey Lacsamana

‘As displayed in my poem, Small Gifts, I show love in little ways. To those I love, I will give the largest slice of pie, listen to their troubles on the phone when I have troubles of my own, do just about anything to make a loved one laugh. Being a father and grandfather, the biggest way I show my love is being there, giving time. Of course,simplysaying“Iloveyou”oftenisagiftthat reverberates and transcends time. ’ – Rod Drought ‘

‘I show my love by cooking for my loved ones!’ – Gita Viswanath

‘ThewayIshowmylovedependsontherelationship. For my adult children, by being available while doingmybesttoletthemmaketheirowndecisions. For my partner, by massaging moisturiser into his forehead, cheeks and neck every evening before he falls asleep, not to mention allowing him to take me way out of my comfort zone to sail in remote waters. For my border collie, by crooning to her, as she howls back in synchrony turning her nose to the air. For George,byrememberingtodefrostturtledinners for him and feeding him with chopsticks, until he goes into hibernation.’ – Meredith Stephens

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By listening, being present, and being there when needed.’ – Edward Lee

‘I hope that I am able to consistently show love in word and in action. I show love by making intentional eye contact, listening before responding, and being the last to let go when embraced. I ask questions and wait to hear the answer. I strive to give of my time, talents and treasure. But I also make sure that my yes is a yes and my no means no. The simple words of "I Love You" are spoken often to my husband, children, friends and family. When I speak those words, they are meant wholeheartedly.’ – Kelli J Gavin

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O P EN CA LL FOR S UB M I S S I ONS:

Continue the Voice Presents:

ISSUE 17 - BOTANICALS Would you like to be part of our summer issue on the theme of ‘Botanicals’? We are looking for art and writing of all kinds to be a part of the issue and would love to hear from you! Here are some questions to get you started:

What are your favourite botanicals? Do you use botanicals?

Coming to a laptop, tablet or mobile phone near you on the 25th of September 2022 at 12pm. It can be found on Issuu or at www.continuethevoice.com/zine

Do you have any connections to certain plants? Where is your favourite garden? Why do we love being in nature? Head to www.continuethevoice.com for all the details or email continuethevoice@gmail.com with your work/proposal and a short (100 words max) readyto-print bio. The deadline for submission is July 24th 2022 at midnight (BST).

Our summer issue will have all of our features that you know and enjoy, alongside art, poetry, and new writing dedicated to the theme of botanicals!

Subscribe to our website to get sneak peeks of features to come, and other exclusive content.

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The Team at

Continue The Voice

Share your thoughts, send us your stories, read our blog or buy us a coffee!

@continuethevoice Editor In Chief: Kirsty Taylor

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Head Editor: Grace Balfour-Harle

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Editor: Beth Ralston

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Copyright © 2021 Continue The Voice. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without written permission of the publisher. Artists and writers accredited maintain copyright to their own work so they should not be reproduced without written permission from them also. The views expressed in Continue The Voice are not necessarily those of the contributors, editors or publishers. All information contained in this magazine is for information and information only and is, as far as we are aware, correct at the time of going to press. Continue The Voice does not accept any responsibilities for errors or inaccuracies in such information.

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