Reflections13

REFLECTIONS Issue 13 – Spring 2011

It's been very busy here at 'Reflections' over the past three months since our last issue.

Personally, I discovered 'Soundcloud' through my great friend (and brother-in-law) Matt Franklin, and have made some recordings of a few recent poems, as well as some older stuff, and spread them to THE WORLD on that site. Search for stevesmithpoems and have a listen. Matt is an amazing folk/blues guitar player, singer and songwriter- check his stuff out under MattFranklin. We collaborated on my first CD release, 'Fragments', back in 2006.

There's also been lots of development on the website front! The first 'Reflections' website was designed and meistered by Dave Marsdin, and was a fab experience of b+w archives and photos and biogs and 'virtual copy' back-issues 1-3. With Dave's move to the freezing wilds of N.E England, and my own lack of skills in the field, this site mothballed then vanished.

I asked Kate Wilson to have a go and design a new site in March this year, and she's done an amazing job; you can now have a read of issues 3-12 at exeterreflections.blogspot.com, with contributors' biogs and links, news, and other stuff forthcoming. Those of you who have read 'Reflections' before will know Kate as a sublime poet- also check out her own blog at kate-j-wilson.blogspot.co.uk.

With Kate having shown me the ropes, I've also done a site for just my own writing- there's lots to read at steveswebsofwords.blogspot.com.

But hey! You don't want to just read stuff on a screen! You've bought a copy- a real copy- of this magazine. And that, dear reader, is where our true love lies. Personally I don't like reading from a screen. I want a book. Or a magazine. Or a CD booklet (well, actually, a triple-gatefold 12'' LP). I'm very pleased that we've got internet highways and byways to connect with people, but hey, I want- and will continue, funds willing- to produce a proper, printed work of heart that is 'Reflections' magazine.

This issue we've got: poetry by Michael Harris, Steve Smith, Emily Stevens, Francesca Sanders, Kate Wilson, Kevin Cotter, and Ian Taylor; prose by Ryan Walker, Matthew Banks, Badface, Laura Quigley, Steven Harris, and Adam Brummitt; visual art by Emma Owen, Adam Grose, Robert Bellisio, Leona Turford and Sara Bellisio.

Badface Badface Investigates- Falling to Your Death I'm falling. Plummeting in petrifying free fall.

As the ground approaches with stomach-twisting speed I notice a tatty white sheet hastily thrown across my probable point of impact.

In that moment I know that the bastard has betrayed me. He's taken my mother's money and stabbed me in the back.

I'm going to hit the ground and die before I can finish the four-letter word I'm currently screaming.

Shit.

Why else would he put out that sheet if not to make cleaning up my remains easier?

That lazy bastard.

Despite my rapidly approaching demise at the tender age of fourteen, I begrudgingly admire his fore-planning.

Even though I'm currently more scared than I realised it was possible to be, I simultaneously, and paradoxically, feel indescribably amazing.

As soon as I entered this warm summer sky, and as a consequence the chilling embrace of undiluted dread, my body flooded with adrenaline.

Beautiful adrenaline. The biological response known as fight or, ironically in this case, flight.

Despite adrenaline’s best efforts, I'm still definitely going to die.

And all because - when my siblings and schoolmates were asking for mobile phones as birthday presents - I asked to do a bungee jump in a pub car park.

The important, and I now realise fatal, point: there is a pub car park.

For me roller-coasters will never be as scary as the poorly maintained teacups manned by a disinterested teenager at the funfair. People never die on roller-coasters, but people die and get horribly maimed all the time at funfairs.

Why do you think they move about so much?

The one notable exception to my roller-coaster rule was in primary school when I snuck into the queue for Nemesis even though I was shorter than the minimum height restriction. I queued for two hours. Only to realise as the car pulled away from the station that minimum height restrictions are to ensure that the harness isn't too large for you.

I was convinced that I was going to be flung off the ride and land smeared all over the pages of a tabloid newspaper, so I closed my eyes and screamed.

I didn't die of course, but I did miss the whole ride, which I've never forgiven myself for.

Which is why, even though I can see the ground rushing towards me, I keep my eyes open.

If I am going to die like this, I don’t want to miss a second of it.

I am still falling to my unavoidable gory death by the way. Adrenaline has a habit of slowing your final moments right down and really drawing it out. If adrenaline was a person it would direct action movies.

The sick fuck.

I should also probably point out that I didn't choose to bungee jump - I was bungee pushed.

That bastard in the crane saw my millisecond of perfectly reasonable hesitation at the edge of the platform and shoved me so he wouldn't have to give me a refund. Then he must have unhooked the bungee cord to cover his tracks. I can't feel the weight of it at all. I've been spinning my arms and trying to grab it but its definitely not attached anymore.

Bastard.

It's too late now though because the moment of impact, my last moment, is inescapably approaching. Arsehole-probably-in-on-it-too-adrenaline is cruelly stretching the moment out longer and longer the closer I get to the ominously stained sheet. As I slow down to the point of almost completely stopping I desperately will my death to be quick and painless.

However, death is stubbornly refusing to come.

Suddenly I realise that I'm not falling anymore. I'm rising gracefully and inexplicably into the sky. When I reach a safe distance from the ground I stop gently and hover. It is just the briefest of pauses, but I manage to see a pub car park full of riotously laughing drunks.

Too late I realise that the cord was weightless because everything is weightless in free-fall.

Before I've had time to smirk coyly at my amusing misunderstanding I realise that I'm in terrifying free fall again and that that bastard has definitely cut the rope this time.

Michael Harris Will This Be The Year?

Will this be the year 2012 when, Arthur's sword shall rise from secret waters, held by The Maiden's hand to heal the Land and all the mystic spirals on ancient rocks be translated into words of hope when each burrow and circle stone burst like Sun's-rays to tell the Tribes that the Times have come.

Will those words in myths and songs and stories told around fires warmth come to Being will all past Dreams come true?

The Forest Unease in Silence a distant sound of tree on tree a leaf falls on a twig a splash off of branches, the swish of tail from a startled doe. crunch of pine needles under foot, a caught leaf between shoe and sock echoes off of the bark wind whispers atop pines canopy once again I am at Peace with the FOREST.

Back In The Day in my day Js were 3 skinners not king size rizlas acid was pure and came on sugar cubes or blotting paper. music was music not get yer frig out boomboom. festivals were free not pay thro' the nose.

VWs were just transport not vintage for ££££s.

Bob was at Isle of Wight and Mr. Hendrix too. heads helped other heads not become rip off merchants, a butterfly landed on my nose; R.I.P. Brian. demos in the sq.+ 2 c.n.d. banners on bedroom walls.

I wore beads and not worried by jeers. smokey bear picnics in the nation's parks, where even the boys in blue tried a tong or two.

YES there were fears vietnam cuba; the beginning of the breakdown of true government but back in the day: there was hope. back in the day.

Ryan Walker Busking For Beginners: Dos & Don’ts, Quick-Tips & Hard Facts Musicians will never be a wealthy bunch. Unless the fairytale scenario becomes a reality for you (which, by all accounts, brings its own worries) then finance will always be a concern.

One hardly needs to wonder at this; as a vocation, roles as a musician don’t pay well at all, the tools required for the job are extortionately over-priced and the market is flooded with competitive groups and solo players all jostling for work, making the musical trade a most cut-throat business. Dog-eat-dog, as Howlin’ Wolf put it. It’s hard to make ends meet, but there is one avenue which acts as a last resort from economic plight: busking.

Non-musician friends of mine always say things like ‘Well, its ok for you isn’t it? If you’re a bit low on money you can play a few songs on a street corner, get the rent that way.’ As with many things I’ve found in this short but colourful life of mine, it’s not quite that simple. But I used to think it was. Bitter experience taught me otherwise. When I started busking, I went through many trial and error scenarios and discovered that, unless I (as my mother would say) got all my ducks in a line, then I wouldn’t make a penny.

The following is a name and description of the aforesaid ducks and in what order they go, plus a few hard facts.

Plan Ahead This sounds obvious, but it's worth having a good long think about what you’re going to play when you’re out there. The trick, of course, is to play to your strengths. For example, if you’re a singer you want long songs with long verses. But, you’ve got to have plenty of them. How long is the average gig set? One hour? An hour and a half? But how long can you keep playing? Street playing doesn’t have a strict time limit, so you’ll find yourself playing for 4 hours, maybe more. This is where prog musicians have the last laugh. They’ll find it hard hauling all their gear down to the town centre, they’ll have it even harder making it all run off batteries, and their material may not appeal to Average Joe outside M & S, but they won’t have a problem making songs last for half an hour.

If you’re about to start busking, the chances are you are already used to playing live gigs, which means you have a standard setlist that you know off by heart. That setlist will do just fine, but will need some adapting before it can make you any money on the pavement.

Here’s the main difference between live gigs and live busking (apart from the roof): your audience is not a captive audience. If, like me, you’re used to the rules of live material, you’re used to making songs as interesting as possible. As many dynamics as you can fit in.

Catchy chorus lines, a fun verse riff and a bridge section that takes everything down so you can build it back up to an uplifting crescendo. Forget all that. Your audience is only going to be listening to you for twenty seconds. If they walk by and you’re in the middle of the down-tempo, alternate time signature, ‘oom-pa-pa’ bridge section that you’ve spent weeks perfecting – you will probably not receive the shiny pound coin that you crave. Because they don’t have the big picture. Of course they don’t, because they’re only listening for twenty seconds. I know, it sounds obvious, but if you don’t plan ahead, and think about what you’re playing and how to cut down that hit live song to just the catchy bits, then your pockets will not be jangling by the walk home. You’ve got only a short snatch of time to impress a stranger so much that they want to give you their loose change so take that catchy riff of yours and the fun progression that centres the song, cut the rest and play them over and over and over and over again. As your audience has only been within earshot for a few precious seconds, they’re not going to know that you’ve been playing that

hip-shake-groove pattern for the last ten minutes. That’s between you and the poor soul of a shop-worker who has no choice but to work nearby you and listen to that groove all day.

Quick tip: Keep an eye on your instrument case full of change. If you’re doing well and making lots of lovely money, its a good idea to pocket the valuable coins periodically.

Unfortunately, we live in a world that includes opportunist thieves and you can’t be too careful. And, if you’re lucky enough to be the recipient of a £5 or £10 note (it has been known), then pocket that immediately. Quite apart from anything else they can blow away in the wind.

Watch the Weather They’re dull and they’re often wrong, but they’re still the best guide we have. The weather is one of the most important factors in busking. We don’t need it to be warm but we at least need it to be dry. All musicians (and most fools) know that water is death to any musical equipment, be it acoustic or electric. This, again, sounds like an obvious point, but if you don’t check the weather, and a carefully planned busking mission gets called on account of thunderous rain only fifteen minutes in, then you’re going to feel like a right muppet. Just as important is the fact that bright sunny days bring out more people and make them happier and more inclined to give money to Strummy-Joe the guitarist, rolling out another rendition of ‘Knocking On Heaven’s Door’. Buskers like those rare, bright sunny days: those are the days that reap the most rewards. A big duck in the line.

This is a good time to bring up another, easily missed point. Instrument cases are often weather proof, but amplifiers rarely even come with a cover. Water-proof covers can be bought or easily made yourself. They’re a good investment, worth the time to buy or make and can turn a battery-run amplifier into a long term investment rather than a short-lived waste of money (as indeed are rechargeable batteries, expensive at first but, ultimately, a godsend).

Hard Fact: Busking is competitive. Just like any other avenue of musical employ, we all try to out-do each other in an effort to win the bling. There are a lot of us out there and we all need to eat.

The Early Bird Catches the Worm It’s an old saying, but it’s true. As the above hard fact says, ours is competitive trade and you have to fight for what you can get. The buskers who make a success of the street playing game know where the best places to play are and they’ll get there as soon as they can. It means giving up the few and long-held perk of the business we have which is a long lie-in, but if it means the difference between eating and not, it’s one easily given up a few days of the week. The summer months are the most popular to busk in and the streets quickly fill with musicians and music. In those hazy summer days, the early bird saying has especial importance. The best time to get to your chosen pitch is 9am or earlier. In fact, the earlier the better. Camping out for the night with all your gear in the city centre in a sleeping bag like you’re waiting for a Led Zeppelin reunion concert ticket is unnecessary, but a ready alarm clock and a swift rinse in the shower can make the difference.

Quick tip: Pee before you leave the house. Needing to empty your bladder while doing anything is uncomfortable, but in this case it’s an excruciating torture that can cancel your musical mission as quick as a thunderstorm. Once you’ve found your perfect spot you don’t want to have to walk away from it and risk losing it to answer nature’s call. Do it just like your dad said before you went on a family holiday; pee, then pee again.

The Best Spot Ok, now we get to one of the crucial points. Where do you go? Ideally you’re looking for a busy, people filled place. Lots of different people who have lots of loose change. A bustling, happy place of commerce which has a constant audience turnover. Your average high street is the ideal place, and they’re not hard to find, but there are a few factors which are worth bearing in mind. If you use an amplifier (a good idea for anyone) then you have to bear in mind the acoustics of your chosen patch and how you will sound. A narrow high street is going to amplify your amplifier even further, and give you a level of reverb which would have been unpopular even in the eighties, making the whole experience overly loud and annoying for all involved, including you. If you place yourself in a wide open courtyard flanked by two busy roads then you won’t be heard by any, unless you turn your volume dial to maximum which will make most small amps distort to a disgusting level so, again, you’ll be unpopular. The ideal is a wide, open space which is in the middle of the shopping centre of your local town or city and enjoys a constant flow of shoppers who have forgotten their low bank balance and are indulging in some off-work frivolity. You can contribute to that frivolity and reap the rewards. Cha-ching!

That weekends are the best time of the week to go busking almost goes without saying, but the absolute best opportunity comes from bank holidays. On a sunny bank holiday many people will be in a happy and generous mood due to an extra day off work and more inclined to throwing you a bone.

Now, if you place yourself in the shopping district then you will encounter shop owners and their employees who, no doubt, will be well acquainted with buskers and will greet you with a weary raised eyebrow. In general, these unfortunate beings who find themselves in the retail industry won’t have a problem with you plying your trade but they do have a nonemergency number on which they can call the authorities and if they don’t like you then they will use it and someone in uniform will ask you to move on. This is where the ‘material planning’ part I mentioned earlier comes in. For example; if you are in a heavy metal band and you are thinking of using your usual stage material in the street, think again. The metal genre is not retail friendly. What these sales craving robots want is music similar to that which they play in their store, something they can ignore and is easy listening. The balance needed is somewhere between the ignorable dirge the shop owners want and the consistently flashy and catchy stuff you need to play in order to impress the masses.

Accessible but exciting. Fresh, but not original.

Hard Fact: Brace yourself. Busking in the winter months gets really cold. As you’re not moving much your extremities will suffer and you won’t be used to playing your instrument with numb fingers. Wrap up warm with many layers, good thick socks and gloves (guitarists will need fingerless gloves – your finger-tips may turn purple, but that’s the price you pay for looking that cool).

Be a Good Sport There are two generally observed but unofficial rules that buskers have. Failure to abide by them will result in unpopularity within your local busking community and, in a competitive business like this, goodwill from the competition really helps. Firstly, don’t set yourself up too close to another busker for obvious reasons. This can be frustrating when your favourite spot becomes out-of-bounds, but take it as a lesson on getting up earlier.

Make sure you’re well out of earshot before you set up camp. Secondly, remember that there are others wanting to make a few bob too, so don’t stay all day long. Give it three or four hours and move on. It’ll give other musicians a chance to busk that day and make a nice change for the nearby shop workers. These two simple rules can and will make the difference between you being welcomed back next time and you being asked to move on for

evermore. Plus its good karma.

Dedicated Determination Busking sounds like the one of the simplest things in the world, but you’ll be surprised how nerve racking it can be. Putting yourself on public display outside of the designated haven of a pub or a club will make you nervous, when you notice all the unwelcoming stares from passers-by and self-doubt starts dominating your imagination. Another fallen tree in the road can be the cold temperature getting the better of your resolve. When it’s so nice and warm in bed, and outside looks cold and horrible, it’s so easy to put off getting out of bed until it’s too late. Of course, everyone knows that feeling, we all get that feeling five days of the week before having to go to work, but the difference with busking is you don’t have a boss or manager tapping their watch and you’re not letting anyone down except yourself.

Be strict with yourself and take a firmer grip of your determination. If you’ve worked hard to get all those ducks in a row (charged your rechargeable batteries, prepared your songs, waited for a bright sunny morning and dug out your woolliest jumper) then you owe it to yourself to get out there and give it your best. The most common reason for busking is a desperate financial need. So, when you wake up and you really, really, really REALLY don’t want to go busking, just remember that you really, really, really REALLY need the money.

Hard Fact: Busking can be very demoralising for many different reasons. The song you thought would be the most popular and spent ages perfecting doesn’t make you a penny.

Or you only make twenty pence in an hour. Or mentally ill people keep talking to you and scaring away your crowd. Dig deep into your reserves of resolve because it can get very bleak.

Quick tip: Working in a pair or in a group can be very beneficial. You keep hold of your busking spot while you take it in turns to get food and make use of public conveniences. It’s also good for battling those bleak demoralising times I mentioned. The downside is you have to share your earnings. Hmmm.....

Know When to Quit It’s important to know when to walk away. If you don’t make as much money as you’d hoped for but you’ve played everything you’ve got, you’ve been there for four hours and you’re stomach is rumbling it’s best to go away and come back another day. Everyone, especially you, will have had enough by now so it’s best to make the most of what you have and skedaddle. If you really want to you can move to a different spot once you’ve recharged both your batteries and your amplifier’s. But working for five to six hours straight is bad for you, your performance and won’t do anyone any favours..

Quick Tip: When you’ve finished for the day and you’re all packed up and ready to go home, take a good long look at the floor to make sure that you have everything. If you walk away without something, be it a tuner or a pound coin, then it won’t be there when you come back.

This piece of writing paints a slightly jaded picture for anyone looking to do some busking but they are worthwhile warnings that I’ve learnt through bitter experience. Having said that, busking can be both lucrative and uplifting, it can give some much needed financial aid and build your self-confidence at the same time. Many is the person who will go out of their way to thank you for your performance or compliment your skills and that’s a great feeling. Having crowd of people build around you feels just as good as a gig situation does, sometimes better.

You have no chance of paying off an £800 council tax bill by busking, and it won’t get you that dream car that you’ve always wanted. But it can get you out of sticky situations when your money just isn’t quite long enough, you’ve run out of washing machine tablets and your electricity meter is about to run out.

And, sometimes, its good fun too.

Good luck!

Steve Smith The Death of Percy Bysshe Shelley I The agate moon surrounds me Sending the blistering stars around In form and feeling: As we stutter, and shuffle inconsequential To their flight; my love now speaks In soft flesh, and whispers in the morning That no-one can impale.

We wander breathless, I walk Alone in sparked streetlight damp, Down some corridors and doorways Yet- always am I found and back To you, with memories of flowers Spiked on hillsides and soft Salt marsh with sheep, and Horses calling to save each other From perceived harm. I do not Pretend to answer the wind or Prometheus on his rock, Sup with tyrants of hours or Tortured gentle-folk, Or selfmade martyrs pulling tents Free-wheeled in traction or those Who would pluck eyelashes for gold.

Meanwhile.

She rest deep-seated And I could never pretend: As in mimosa and masked Snapdragons in mirrors Of mirrors of you.

And in my dream I was sometime a hero, And in my dream I was mostly at loss; Drinking, saturnizing not Neatly complying with dust; Yet with dust we will complain.

And last night, awoke, I span webs Of words, with morning's dew They broke, scattering onto Slagheaps of the unwritten, unspoken: In attempt to recreate We only fashion humunculi, Or golem, but are we too Clay. Images of imagery, Made in furnace to be forgotten

In one corner, casually kicked And so broken?

Know this.

And you who Would hail one in Valediction Beckoning Know this too.

II Once he rested in the dunes, Wine uncorked, wind blowing The sibilant coarse-grass: Once- the young poet – dreaming Of other futures.

Another once he stood on the sand With the beachfire raging, This young poet- bittersweetly ignorant Of the waves that would erase His scratches in silica, The maps he meandered In some reverie of forecast.

And the weather was unsettled.

And the weather was glorious.

And weather, sometime stopped.

There were southwest nights of laughter, Screams of leaving, and returning: How to erase the bitter taste Of rejection, betrayal unexplained By she who wore her hair down As she wore him downAs an affectation of identity She keeps yet.

The young poet took a deep breath: He breathes in derision of justice: This is simply one time, he decides Some time things are wrong, Wrong but needed.

And yet.

For all their faults, That decision Proves right: Even as he scrawls across his face: I am a fake.

III It was not a desert.

Written words were few yet Real-life, truly, held him closely: As sunsets in mid-January skies Glimpse gold in low horizon; As mistletoe still greens upon The seeming dead of branches; As squirrels clutch the husks of maize Long after gleaning harvest; As I hold your small soft hand, My own lined gnarled and battered; As the snakes inside the tomb Uncurl and are unravelled; Long the wait and dusty the trail Through souls have we travelled; Here break.

I am remembering the forgotten.

Memories risen from the lime.

Time's ash reconstituted.

Humunculi of form, of emotion.

Here stop.

Orpheus tempted to turn.

Reawake.

Fake.

Strike the match and burn.

I see Orion remembering a song from long ago; I see the ploughing of past; I see Venus off the coast of Cyprus, drowning; I see the last of wine soaking into the sand.

IV Waistcoat, purpled, and gloves, And handkerchiefs, and carriages On someone else's whim: she Drowned herself you know, Fangs in tips of tails.

The past absinthe, the last Grey forelock early sailing For us in daily rancour Mourning make me whole Come frost again.

And in that cemetery, by your mother's grave We first made our love.

And on the Serpentine I folded a worthless paper bill Into a boat and sailed it, my love.

And I'm on my way to Africa, America, Atlantis, To forsake my love.

Matthew Banks Morvella House III The carriage pulled up outside two stone pillars, holding iron gates. The driver carefully placed two cases onto the ground and climbed back up. A tall broad man, with a shock of auburn hair stepped out of the carriage.

“Why have you stopped here, my good man?”

“You know why that be, Sir,” replied the driver as the carriage pulled away.

“Locals!” he thought, shaking his head. Picking up his cases, he walked up the overgrown driveway. Turning a bend he saw the house and took in the faded Victorian splendour, that was impressive in spite of the peeling walls and ill-fitting windows. It reminded him of a painting from the past untouched by the frantic madness of the nearby city. The house, serenely graceful in design, shadowed by trees grown tall and lush across the years, and set back into the hills, overlooking the small village of Gull Cove, suddenly felt like a return home for him. How long he had been away, he couldn’t remember, but he felt good to be home at last.

He climbed the wide stone steps towards the crumbling front door. In spite of the rotting woodwork the brass fittings were highly polished and gleaming, the stone steps well-scrubbed and clean. He knocked on the door, the heavy brass knocker under his touch felt familiar. The door was opened by an elderly lady, her face lined like splintered glass. Her grey blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, held there by a scarlet ribbon. She looked enquiringly at him, her sharp blue eyes taking him in.

“Good afternoon. I’m Charles Heylt. You are?”

“That’s right, you are expected, please come inside. I’ll show you to your room, it’s upstairs.”

She moved easily ahead of him, despite her age, his luggage making him clumsy and slow. The front door closed behind him, and as he turned to see who had closed it, he saw no-one. Catching up with the old lady, he saw that she had stopped outside a door. She opened it and motioned for him to go inside.

“Here you are Mr Heylt, this is your room.”

The room was light and airy, high ceiling and spacious, with colourful animal prints on the walls, and a blue toy box at the end of the double bed. A large bay window looked down upon a wild garden. It felt strangely familiar to him, like a long lost memory.

He smiled and nodded approval.

“It’s just right – it reminds me of…”

Handing him the key to the room, the old lady interrupted him.

“The bathroom and lavatory are down the hall, but you know that. I live…just off the kitchen. I am this houses’ keeper and I welcome you home.”

Then she was gone, with a whisper of a smile on her face. “What a strange old fashioned creature she is,” he thought, “And she reminds me of someone.” Pausing, he tried to remember who he thought she reminded him of, but he couldn’t remember.

He walked across to the window and looked out. The trees were gently swaying, there were exuberant clusters of flowers and weeds in a garden which someone had once carefully designed. He could see a gently decaying summer house at the end of the garden almost consumed by an abundance of climbing roses, and a pond with a statue of an angel set in the middle. He stood at the window watching as the sun splashed the sky with pink and gold. Somewhere voices shouted greetings and footsteps ran up the stairs. Sighing, he made his way over to the bed and opened his luggage. He placed his clothes into the large wardrobe and chest of drawers.

Looking into what he perceived to be a toy box, he found extra bedding within.

Suddenly feeling tired, he lay on the bed and let his mind drift across the years, like moving pictures, dreams and dramas filled his mind until sleep changed day dreaming into nightmare. He awoke with a start, his heart pumping, fear gripping his stomach, breath gasping in his throat. Somewhere someone was crying – maybe a child, there was a whimpering quality to the sound that indicated immaturity. He lay there listening to voices, somehow full of menace, guttural and demanding.

Outside the wind was rising, rattling the windows. A storm - tossed bird, black and squawking hit the glass, making him jump. Sitting up he watched the shadows passing in the moonlight, and feeling uneasy he got up and crossed to the window.

There was someone down in the garden, kneeling by the pond, but looking straight up at his window. The shadows made it difficult to see, so he moved the nets to get a better view of the nocturnal visitor. Leaning closer to the window, he still couldn’t see clearly, the image was indistinct. Veils of mist seemed to cloak his eyes.

He rubbed them roughly with his knuckles and looked again. There was something strangely familiar about the crouching person, seemingly staring back up at him, but he was unsure what it was. The window rattled against the wind, and he took a step back. Moving to look again, the visitor had gone, and Charles suddenly felt as though he had seen something that he shouldn’t have. Shaking his head, he went back to bed.

The following morning, he was determined to work. Firstly he decided to re-arrange the furniture. He moved a sturdy wooden table over to the window where the light was better for him to work in. Then he placed his typewriter upon it and tried to write, yet nothing would come. After an hour, and surrounded by balls of screwed up paper, he decided to try again later. It didn’t help that there was music seemingly coming from another room, and that he had put up with it for over three hours. Over the music came a laugh and he snapped.

He walked along the corridor and hammered on the door. It wasn’t locked and swung open easily beneath his fist. He stepped into the room expecting confrontation, but it was empty. The room was cast in grey light and the colours seemed to have been bleached out of the fairy prints on the walls and a bed throw, once white, now a dirty grey speckled with faded rust splattering spots. There were no toys strewn on the floor and no dolls upon the shelves, and yet evidently it was a child’s bedroom. Yet Charles was sure that this was the room where the music originated from. Breathing intently, he suddenly realised that the music had stopped.

Glancing out of the window and seeing the sunshine on the garden, he decided that he needed some air. “I’ve been working too hard,” he thought.

The garden looked cool and shady. He ran down the stairs, paused as he thought he heard someone following him, saw that there was no one there and went out of the front door. By a side gate, he entered the garden. The perfume of wild flowers

and cultivated blooms warmed by the morning sunlight filled the air. Looking around the wildness of the garden, Charles saw in the distance, a tall man, in what looked like ragged military clothing. He called out a ‘hello’, but getting no response, decided to go over to the stranger. Trailing branches snatched at his clothes as he pushed between the spreading foliage. Yet the closer he thought that he was getting, the further away he seemed. The stranger seemed to be heading towards the summerhouse, so he deviated and followed. When he got there, there was no-one there. He noticed the crumbling shape of the rustic woodwork, softened by its covering of climbing roses. The woodwork snapped beneath his feet as he stood on the first step, he tested the second, stepping inside onto the creaking floor, and crossed to the carved wooden benches lining the walls.

He sat there looking down the garden towards the house. The silence was regenerating, the peacefulness, soothing. Only the rustlings of insects broke the silence. From the summerhouse, he could see no evidence of the decline in the structure of the house. It looked alive, and he even fancied that he could hear laughter and see vague figures running in and out of the trees and bushes. It reminded him of his childhood. He stared harder, imagination he thought was an amazing quality of the human mind. He thought that he was glad that he hadn’t gone to war, as his wealth had made sure that he had stayed safe. He could only see an empty garden now.

Walking back towards the house he thought about the peacefulness of the summerhouse. He had spent many a happy hour there…a long time ago, or so it seemed. He found the front door of the house was closed and felt in his pocket for his key. He looked up at the empty windows, not a sign of life anywhere, then out of the corner of his eye he saw a young girl up against one of the windows, her hands palm flat against the glass, her pale face, distressed, her red lips mouthing silent words to him. Violently she was pulled away from the window by some unseen hand, looking back over her shoulder; her eyes begged him for help. Then for a second there was another face at the window, cold, hard and triumphant. The face was his own. Then it was gone.

Fumbling with his key, his temper rising, Charles finally opened the door and ran up the stairs two at a time, towards the room, where he had seen the girl. He banged with his fist, finally his temper got the better of him and he gave it an almighty kick. It didn’t budge.

“What’s going on in there? Open this door immediately.”

He could hear scuffling sounds, furniture falling, crockery breaking and whimpering.

“Open this door!” he shouted again.

He hit his fists hard against the wood, voices shouted, someone sobbed.

“Open this door or I’ll break it down.”

There was no response. He backed away and ran at the door, hitting it with his shoulder, falling forward as the door opened easily beneath his full weight. The room was empty except for a chair with a Victorian china doll, with its porcelain face cracked from the temple to cheek, and flowery dress and blonde curly hair. Its dark empty eyes seemed to be staring accusingly at him. He frowned for he was sure that had heard the voices and movements. The side of his head started to throb.

Emma Owen

The house felt expectant and mysterious, as if it were waiting for something to happen. Charles walked along the corridor, listening out intently for any sound. He didn’t like the silence and he began to wonder whether he’d seen what he thought he had. One door was open and he walked into yet another empty room, or was it?

On the floor was a long tattered Air Force coat. He picked it up, and dropped it back down just as quickly. Then over against the wall, faint movements like shadow pictures on a screen, indistinct. He walked towards them, stretching out his hand to touch the wall. He gasped in pain as his fingers felt the icy coldness, which had the adhesive quality of ice cubes clinging to his skin. The shadows were getting clearer, coming closer. Clearly defined, a face emerged – his face, smiling sadly. Charles felt himself being sucked in towards the shadows, his whole body being emptied of life.

“We cannot escape,” he heard his voice say over and over.

Charles pulled away, willing himself to fight against this reality, and backed towards the door. The coat that was on the floor rose up and filled out until Charles saw the figure of himself in full Air Force uniform. Eyes scrutinising him, knowing him, tracking him across the room, repeating the same words over and over. Slamming the door shut, Charles ran along the corridor, nearly collapsing down the stairs and out of the front door. Gasping for breath, he remembered the tranquility of the summer house. He ran through the garden, stepping too hastily onto the rotting woodwork, the summerhouse floor collapsed as his foot pushed through it. Splinters penetrated through his shoe and into his skin. Swearing, he pulled his foot from the hole. The smell of rotten wood held another odour, ancient and identifiable. He knelt down and looked under the rotting floor, pulling back in horror as he saw the badly decomposed body lying there.

His fear followed him as he ran out of the garden, ignoring the branches that seemed to try and hold him back, down the driveway, through the stone pillars that held the gates and found himself back in the corridor where his room was. He looked around confused.

“You cannot escape,” he heard his voice say.

Looking around, he saw himself, looking sad.

“Who are you?” Charles hissed. His head began to swim, confusion blinding any sense. His head ached and he felt sick.

“This is not happening this is not happening…” he repeated to himself, as though trying to exorcise what was happening to him. He felt himself gag, but stopped at being sick. His legs felt weak, and he leaned against the wall, and slowly slid down.

Darkness descended and he blacked out.

Dawn was just breaking when he awoke to three loud bangs that echoed along the corridor. Sluggishly, he rose and made his way down the stairs towards the kitchen.

His head ached and he felt strange. He was tingling all over and he just wanted a glass of water. The smell of Earl Grey hung in the air as he made his way towards the sink. He noticed a china cup and saucer on the table, its contents mildewed with age. He frowned. Was what he saw, heard and felt all but a dream? He was not sure; he couldn’t gather his thoughts as his head pounded. Silence hung heavy in the air.

“Hello,” he called out, “Is there anyone here?”

Somewhere a clock chimed, and the cup rattled upon its saucer as though it were being pushed away. Charles made his way out of the kitchen and down the corridor until he came to a stop outside an oak door. There was a brass sign upon it saying ‘Private’. He tried the handle and the door swung open under his touch. He could see that it was a study. Three walls contained shelf upon shelf of books, deteriorating with age. The fourth wall held a bay window, that he hadn’t noticed before, with a large desk in front of it. It looked like it was in use, for there was paperwork scattered across it. Looking around the room, Charles noticed that a lot of the books were about various wars, and there was a frame holding some medals within. Walking around the desk, his eyes fell upon a photograph. His eyes opened wide, for the picture was of a family. The wife looked in her mid to late thirties, of the two children the boy looked to be about sixteen, but the girl was the girl he had seen at the window, and the father…

A low moan erupted from his lips, and he rushed out of the room, out of the front door, stumbling down the steps and down the drive towards the stone pillars, but as he crossed the threshold to the outside world, he found himself back in the corridor where his room was. Shaking his head in disbelief, he opened the bedroom door, and went inside. There was no trace of his belongings inside. He hunted high and low but there was nothing. Then his image in a mirror caught his eye, tall, handsome and dressed in full uniform and the long blue coat…the nocturnal visitor in the garden, the man he had seen in the garden, heading for the summerhouse, the entity that had confronted him, taunted him… realisation dawned… they were the same…he screamed…

EPILOGUE Mrs Hartman had a busy day at the shop, with the main topic of conversation being the appearance of Mrs Heylt, after a period of four years. True, people had gone up to the house, but the gates had always remained firmly shut and locked. In the end people thought that Charles had put his wife into a sanatorium, and that he’d been posted overseas. It was strange to Mrs Hartman that he hadn’t come to see her before going though, not after all that had happened between them. She smiled to herself over her little ‘in-joke’ that Elaine, who loved gossip, had failed to pick up – that it was she, herself that had been the ‘light relief’ for him, whilst his wife hid herself away. Mrs Hartman had never really liked her; she had found her aloof and self-centred. Charles, on the other hand, was always the centre of attention, with his jokes and conversation. Yes, he was extremely handsome and any woman would be willing…

“Do you need me anymore today?” Elaine’s voice cut through the memories and brought Mrs Hartman sharply back to the present.

“No, Elaine. You can go now and I’ll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

It was late afternoon when Mrs Hartman made her way up to the house with the bread. She was slightly annoyed that Elaine’s trivial questions had got in the way of the questions that she’d wanted to ask Mrs Heylt, that and the fact that she’d mentioned the letter. It had taken her completely by surprise. She thought about how old Mrs Heylt looked and yet she could be no more than forty, if that, and no matter how hard she tried she could find no remorse in her heart for how badly she thought of her. After all she was promised to Charles, and yet when he came back he was married. The sun was at its height as she reached the top of the winding hill. Shielding her eyes from the sun's glare, Mrs Hartman was surprised to see the gates to Morvella House, open and inviting.

“Well, I’ll be,” she muttered to herself.

She walked across the road and through the stone pillars that held the iron gates.

She noticed that the two stone birds that sat upon the pillars were weather worn and one had lost its wings. She knew that they were phoenixes as Charles had told her that they were part of his family’s coat of arms. She’d tried not to think of Charles, of his arms around her, his soft lips upon her, and his wife coming into the shop today had brought it all back to her, and now here she was being a good Samaritan to a woman that she didn’t even like!

As she made her way up the drive, she remembered that as a little girl she’d dreamed of one day living at Morvella House. The only two things that had scared her were the woods that surrounded the house, and the pyramidesque mausoleum of the Morvella/Heylt family that not only dominated the skyline, but the house and village below. Remembering these things made her have an involuntary shiver. Fear, she thought, was a funny thing – some of your childhood fears are passed down from generation to generation. She didn’t know of one child that would play in Olcome Woods, nor of any that would venture on to Gull Cove beach at night, but then, as Elaine had once said, “You villagers are a superstitious lot and haven’t moved with the times.” On remembering that, Mrs Hartman gave a little laugh and thought Elaine was a silly girl, more interested in boys than listening to her elders.

She remembered old Mrs Heylt, Charles’s mother. She had liked her and had always made her feel welcome when her Grandmother had delivered to the house, and as young children, old Mrs Heylt had allowed her to play with her son and the perfume of wild flowers and cultivated blooms warmed by the sunlight filled the air, and brought a remembrance of happier times to her.

Turning a bend she saw the house and took in the faded Victorian splendour, that was impressive in spite of the peeling walls and ill-fitting windows. Not quite as she remembered it, yet somehow the same. As she climbed the wide stone steps, the front door opened – yet there was no-one there. Pushing the door wider, she called, “Hello,” but on receiving no response, she crossed the threshold. A shiver ran through her as she felt the cold in the passage. Again she called out, “Hello.” Again she received no response, so she made her way towards the kitchen.

The door to her left was open, and she looked inside. She recognised the parlour and she was shocked to see that it was in stasis, from when Charles held a party for his wife. The chairs were pulled back from the table in the centre of the room, there was broken glass on the floor from when Charles had thrown it off the table, and there were the pieces of paper that had made up the impromptu Ouija board.

She remembered that night well… although she couldn’t quite remember why Charles had lost his temper… what she did remember was Charles taking her home.

She smiled at that memory. Then she made her way to the kitchen. There was noone there, though she was sure that she could hear the laughter and voices of children playing outside in the garden, but when she looked through the window, she could see no-one out there. Sighing, she took in the kitchen, again as she remembered it. Then she noticed the cup and saucer on the table, its contents covered in mildew and she began to worry. Somewhere a clock chimed and she heard a dull thud come from upstairs. She made her way back down the corridor, to the bottom of the wide staircase.

“Hello, Mrs Heylt are you there?”

Silence. So she started to climb the stairs, each step giving her a slight chill. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, she looked down the long corridor and called out again. Pulling herself together, she walked down the corridor. All the doors were shut and she found the silence worrying. She knew that Mrs Heylt should be here, but couldn’t understand as to why she wasn’t responding to her calls. At the end of the corridor was the master bedroom, which she knew well. She knocked on the door and called out again, but on getting no response, she opened the door and let out a moan of shock and surprise.

Lying on the floor were the perfectly preserved bodies of Nicola, Charles and Philip Heylt, a single gunshot wound to the side of their heads.

Morvella House has stood for five hundred and eighty years and may yet stand for another five hundred and eighty. In whispered voices, the locals say it is the house that would not burn. Inside, no dust motes float, or cobwebs glisten within the rooms and corridors. Doors remain firm, windows remain shut, and floors remain polished. Silence lies heavy within its walls and whatever walks there, walks in the shadow and gloom.

Francesca Sanders The Lovers One tree bears fruit, the other flame.

I succumb; stained hands pressed against singed lips. The number seven stitched into my skin.

Your tongue threads ethereal superlatives and the air is dense with promise. The resonance of the letter Z, suspended from skeletal branches.

Tears wash away that blazing youth; No colour, but the memory of your oceanic gaze and how it felt to drown.

Threading daisy chains in a glass menagerie; sipping tea from a fine china cup and pronouncing all your vowels.

The keys of the piano, carved from my hollow bones; some mute symphony spelling out sweet nothings.

I try not to blush as you dissect my heart; collect up scarlet shards and store them in a jam jar.

Dust gathers on the surface of the lid.

Kevin Cotter Walks and Travels : Observational Snippets ‌ of ice and mornings the ice was granite pure, a sharp bite with a memory of the worlds newness mist, flood thickening over the banks of the drying river, chilling on the hill, morning this time, when the sun touches our meeting, twenty five years old, through the bare laced web of winter branches ‌ of events of earth and water, mud slides the joyful boots as uncertain parents eye the sight, confused a little charred clay on a spluttering fire, chocolate melt between baked banana skin, a chill banished in the orchard's corner sand stepping around the empty embrace left as the birds flew across the wave wrinkled shore, swan brothers leaving their sister ‌ in Wales grey wild slate, hillside water gathering over green falls into deep pools. ochre shades of bracken, bare coned pine, empty stumps marking the harvest with an old memory of oak wild lands of industry, stone slate relics of a hard work time seen through a leisured lens .. of animals heavy cloven tip toes frightening the early commuters with their bulk, onwards home our wide eyed beauties! wild pale shadows flap against the rivers flow, princes returning home a unicorn's horn tossed at the river's shore, a giant in the dusk four buzzards soar on the cold blue sky over the woods at Stoke Hill - so glad I am not small and furry! earth hoof, a cast of the real in rich leaf mould, then, in wonder, mist moist ponies are challenging our expectations and dreams .. of curiosity blue cheese in the deck chairs, fine china tea, articles of curiosity

gilded colonnades fence the thefts of antiquity, the art of the museum

Steven Harris Not a Dicky Bird My name is Norman Collins and my head is birdless. Why have I been left out? What's wrong with me? Everyone else has a bird perched contentedly atop their heads, where is mine? The young butcher in town has a sparrow-hawk proudly standing on his strawblond hair; it glares at me every time I pop in to enquire after cheap cuts of meat. The local vicar delivers his Sunday sermons beneath the judgemental gaze of a sleek crow. Mr Johnson, the headmaster of the junior school at the end of my road, carries a delightfully cheeky robin who whistles and jerks his beak around comically whenever I stop to chat.

Any time I go into town I am surrounded by bird-headed people- colours and feathers and squawks and chirping are all around me. Why does nobody say anything about my glaringly birdless head? Don't they know I'm a freak?

My brother David came to visit me only yesterday and chatted away as normal. I know he must realise I'm missing a bird. I know he must notice that every time I glance up at the scruffy but friendly-seeming starling standing on his grey-tinged and thinning hair I feel the absence of my own avian companion all the more. Yet he never mentions it, ensures we talk about trivial matters like the weather or where he and Kelly are planning to go on holiday next year.

Do the birds fly off into the sky when only their owners are looking? I've never seen a bird leave anybody's head but I'm obviously not able to stare at someone for twenty-four hours a day. What do they eat? Where do they excrete? There are never any unpleasant white/black smudges on their humans' shoulders so either the birds never eat and therefore never need to crap anything out, or they must be able to leave their designated head to attend to such personal matters.

And what about hats? I've seen plenty of friends with and without hats. Whether their heads are covered or not their bird is in place. That must prove that the birds are able to at least hover above the head long enough to allow their human to put on or remove a hat.

I've never owned a hat. Is that the cause of my birdlessness? If I bought a jaunty little cap to cover my balding cranium would my intended bird finally swoop down from somewhere on high and take its rightful place above me?

Or is my receding hairline the problem? David will go the same way soon enough. Will he lose his bird when his hair finally starts to creep further and further backwards, leaving just a ridiculous island of hair across the forehead, isolated from the remainder at the back and sides like mine? I wasn't always balding, of course, so why would my current state of hair loss preclude me from having a bird like everyone else?

I've only ever spoken to one person about this problem. Mrs Crouch who used to live next door feigned confusion about what I was referring to but their was definitely a knowing glint in the black eyes of her lesser-spotted woodpecker. Those beady specks of darkness bored right into me, perhaps needing to work out who, or more likely what, this birdless, clueless human creature might be. Mrs Crouch quickly found an excuse to end our conversation and pretty much managed to avoid me thereafter. I've never had the nerve to bring the subject up with anyone since.

Last year I became so exasperated that I tried catching free birds. I stretched a net across my garden, made of mesh so fine that I could barely see it myself. Beneath the net I made sure that my bird table was well stocked with bread and seeds and nuts and strips of meat fat: all the things garden birds love laid out for them. Within an hour of setting up my trap

I heard frantic chirping out by the bird table. Rushing out, I saw a striking male great tit struggling to free itself from my net. Carefully I untangled his little claws and held him in my palm tight enough that he couldn't escape but not so tight that I was crushing him. I could feel his tiny heart beating so fast it was like holding my phone when it's ringing on vibrate. Warmer, of course, and slightly tickly from the feathers.

I wasn't sure what to do next. I tried talking to him in the lowest voice I could manage, explaining that I just wanted to be like everyone else, that I would be honoured if he'd be my bird. He seemed to calm down. Certainly he stopped twitching around in my hand and his heart rate slowed a fair bit. Tentatively I tried to place him on top of my head but as soon as I lessened my grip he flew off, cursing me roundly in bird language, I've no doubt.

Over the next few days I caught two more great tits, a chaffinch, lots of sparrows and a long-tailed tit. With every single one it was the same story, even when I tried tying a shoebox to my head and placing the last sparrow inside it and putting the lid on as quickly as I could. The string holding the shoebox quickly began to strangle me as the sparrow darted around inside the box, making it slide down one side of my head. Luckily I had cut the string with a pair of scissors that were still to hand so it wasn't hard to free myself from my ridiculous bird container.

Through one of the air holes I'd made I could see the sparrow trying to flap his wings inside the box. His actions struck me as both desperate and angry. Wouldn't I feel the same way if a hulking great creature attempted to imprison me inside a box barely big enough for me to turn around in? I opened the box to let him out. For a brief moment he hovered right in front of me, looking directly into my eyes. This is it, I thought, I've made a connection with this bird and now he's readying himself to sit on my head. I will fit in at last, be the same as everyone else. I can carry myself with pride for the first time since I realised that I am the only birdless man in the town. My triumphant thoughts were interrupted by the sparrow crapping on my shoe and flitting off into the treetops.

After that I gave up my attempts to capture a a bird and tried to resign myself to my birdlessness. I became depressed. That's probably why David has been visiting more often but if he understands the reason for my malaise, why doesn't he say something? I wish I could just bring it all out into the open. The Mrs Crouch incident distressed me more than I could begin to explain. I just don't think I could cope if David also refused to acknowledge the situation. It's like I have a dreadful illness, something terminal and shameful that noone can bear to speak of out loud. Could I bear the pity of the birdheaded when I am forever doomed to be birdless? I doubt it. I've considered ending my life several times in the past few weeks but I am too much of a coward to commit the act.

When David left yesterday an idea came to me as I watched him walk down my path and out through the rickety green gate I keep meaning to repaint. Perhaps it was the loook David's starling appeared to throw my way, as though he understood my yearning for true, feather-sealed kinship. Perhaps it was just seeing the vertical bars of the gate. I don't quite know where the idea came from but I've been working on it all night.

Using the struts from some old palettes at the back of my shed I've caged myself in. No-one can get inside now, and I cannot leave. Before I nailed the last of the wooden bars up against the door I popped into town and bought so much bird seed that I had to come back and fetch my wheelbarrow to carry it all home. I have water from the taps, seed to last me some time: if I cannot have a bird to complete me then I am going to live like one, rattling around the confines of my cosy little jail. Who knows, I may even sing.

Kate Wilson Glaciers Glaciers are melting at break neck speed, my daughter tells me over breakfast, a spilt tabloid sound bite.

She imagines romantically, an Atlanta; a lost world where the skin on her neck cracks and splits into green gills.

Water is a backwards birth, discovering weightlessness, she drifts forever; a girl, a mermaid, at rest on the current.

How can oblivion be so beautiful? I ask.

Because we survive, she answers.

I envy her optimism.

But already I draw my last breath and she is pulling away with long strokes, and I know I’ve already drowned

Love Poem When we lie together close curled, morning light splitting dreams, Death is near.

A stillness, so complete we barely breathe.

When my body breaks I hope this is where my soul goes

Laura Quigley The Reluctant Pirate The modern image of English pirates as colourful rogues is far from the truth. Piracy was generally a profession for bloody-thirsty murderers and thieves; evil marauders intent on destruction and lining their own pockets.

Not all pirates, however, were cruel cut-throats. Born in Plymouth of lowly status, Captain White was in the merchant service in Barbados when he was captured by a French pirate who took him and his crew as slaves, and burnt and sank his brigantine. The crew were then used as target practice by the pirates, causing many brutal deaths, and the French pirates threatened to kill Captain White too but accidentally killed one of their own instead as White attempted escape.

Accidentally ship-wrecked, Captain White and the captured crew escaped the drunken pirates and paddled in a long boat to Augustin bay. There they found themselves strangers in a strange land, with no transport to make their way home, so they agreed to join another pirate ship captained by William Read. Read steered a course for Madagascar and White reluctantly assisted in Read’s raid on the Bay of St Augustine.

With their ship now manned by 240 men and 20 slaves, and mounted with fifty-four guns, they headed for the East Indies and stopped at Zanzibar for fresh provisions. Once a Portuguese settlement, the town was now inhabited by Arabians. White went ashore with Captain Read, but they were ambushed by the governor. After fierce fighting, they managed to escape, under cannon-fire from the Zanzibar fort, but suddenly the Captain and twenty men were dead. Bowen replaced the Captain, and the notorious pirate Nathaniel North took on the role of quarter-master. (North would later be known as ruler of his own pirate colony at Ambonavoula.)

Captain Bowen set about attacking the Moors’ ships trading in the Gulf with such success that Bowen’s wealthy crew dispersed and Thomas White found himself stranded alone in Methelage, eager and free at last to find a ship to take him home. His only hope was another pirate ship, the Prosperous, and although again a ‘forced man’, he became their quartermaster. However this ship too was taken by pirates, and again and again Thomas White was forced from one ship to another, joining in the plundering, all the while desperately trying to make his way home.

Eventually Thomas White had enough money to buy his own ship and, taking on a crew in Madagascar, he chose not to head for home after all, but decided to stick with the pirate’s life for a while longer and continued to plunder local ships in the Red Sea. So successful a pirate that he and his crew managed to take the Malabar, a much larger ship of about 1000 tons and 600 men, with the loss of only one of his own crewmen. But White’s own ship was left damaged by the encounter, so White took the Malabar for himself and left the Malabar’s crew to sail away on his damaged vessel, with sufficient provisions for them to reach land.

On the Malabar, they then chased a Portuguese merchant ship while pretending to be an English ship by flying the English flag. The Portuguese gladly let the Englishman board, only to be told by Captain White (untruthfully) that war had broken out between England and Portugal and White was there to take the Portuguese ship, which he did.

Two days later, they took an English ship, the Dorothy under the command of Captain Penruddock, sailing from Sudan. After exchange of fire, Thomas White boarded the Dorothy, and took Captain Penruddock’s money and, after a vote – for they were democratic pirates – they allowed Captain Penruddock and his crew to have the Portuguese ship while White took the Dorothy.

A day later, they captured a ketch of 6 guns, under the command of Captain Benjamin Stacy. Amongst the money stolen were 500 dollars, a silver mug and two silver spoons, which belonged to a couple of children on board under Captain Stacy’s care. Finding the children crying, White asked them what was wrong, and Captain Stacy replied that the items taken were all the wealth the children had to pay for their upbringing. Captain White called on his men, told them it was cruel to rob innocent children, upon which, by unanimous consent, the money and items were returned to the children, and gifts were given to Stacy’s crew before they were allowed to proceed on their way. White’s pirates, it seemed, were not the brutal murderers they pretended to be.

After another raid in the bay of Defarr, they sailed for Madagascar, each man now with a fortune to his name. White settled at Hopeful Point, built a house, raised cattle, and found himself a woman by whom he had a son. But the lure of pirate adventures was too much, and White decided to join a Captain Halsey on just one more raiding party. It would be his last. He would never return to England after all.

From Halsey’s raids, White returned to Madagascar very ill and died six months later. In that time he drew up a will, which put his son into the care of three men from different nations, with the instructions that the first English ship visiting Madagascar should carry his son back home to England.

Some years later, an English ship touched in at the harbour and the boys’ guardians faithfully discharged Smith’s last wishes – the boy was adopted by the English captain and brought up to become a good man and to live a better life than his father.

Laura Quigley’s new book “Bloody British History: Plymouth” is published July 2012

Emily Stevens Sometimes Sometimes When I am writing and I spell something wrong I scribble over it.

So no one can see my mistake.

But sometimes When it’s a long word you can make the scribble look like a dinosaur and then you don’t think you’re a bad speller but a good artist.

Dylan Dylan the dog has a collar and a tag that says his name and telephone number.

It is his real name but the telephone number is made up.

Maybe Dylan doesn’t want prank callers.

Or maybe my Mum doesn’t want a dog.

The Erl King Dancing light Faery bright “Follow me to my home.”

I hold a hand A face is near “With me you are alone.”

The caged birds Free form hope they Sing a song for me.

They sing The song I know is wrong.

I know it is for me.

I am the bird.

I am his home.

I knew it was for me.

Ian Taylor The Passing Place Here, under the shadow of the flowered daffodils left unpicked to die, spinsters alone with no vase, near the gone-to-seed cauliflowers, in their cauliflower graveyards stretching for field after field after field, broken only by the lone, stone circles of men long forgotten, our bus threads its way through the impossible lanes.

Here, under the beady eye of the crow and the magpie, where there are more fowl on the wing than foul people, far south and west of the footprints left by a three legged cat who lives in our boarding house, past the church adorned with a surfboard crucifix, as the land narrows, peters and expires, our bus threads its way through yellow gorse veins.

Here, at the end of the world, at the sign of the dangerous cliff and beyond 'the first and the last' tavern, hope hides out in the scones and the free refills of tea or hot chocolate, where a pasty counts as a King's ransom, but is bigger than his wife's corgi, that same hope soon abandoned, despite the beauty, the sea, sun and unending light, as our bus meets another, far far away from the passing place.

From the Freak Files Political Pontification from The Politics Desk

By Adam Brummitt Sleepless Nights in a Cartoon World, The Adult Viewfinder Should Not Be Three Dimensional, The Joke Isn't Funny But Far From Over…

I feel it incumbent that I open this edition of exploring the annals of The Freak Files with a level of candour. In the last two months I have suffered fairly considerable ill health - for which you can keep your bloody pity, though I appreciate your concern - and was for a time not certain whether I would bother to submit my column that some have come to follow. I then gave, again, some consideration to my writing a piece on my experience in The Occupation Movement*: a piece with a subheading to the effect of 'Playing Revolutionary, Fighting the Good Fight with Kid Gloves, and The Point-andClick Protesters and Inactive Activists…'. Perhaps that will come at some point, but I don't need to advocate more directly anarchistic methods to these supposed anarchists - has any bank or other higher echelon of the capitalist structure so much as batted an eye? - it's not my place.

I was, though, in the wake of illness, plagued by a period of insomnia. As I have gradually re-entered the world from a mere two months, I'm confronted by massively unchecked legislation being hurried through Parliament without discussion (it is to privatisation of all under Big Society, cuts galore in a repression in which a government must *spend*), frighteningly religious and heinously avariced Presidential hopefuls (this is to Rick 'Believes-SatanicInfluences-are-Effecting-the-Obama-Administration' Santorum and Mitt 'I-LikeFiring-People' Romney), escalating tension between election-year-inspired threats exchanged between Israel and Iran of nuclear use and development (The United States, The State of Israel, and Iran are in a coordinated trifecta of election-year negativity campaigns, with no campaign complete without at least one villain), attacks on reproductive rights, attacks on civil rights of all varieties, a sense of being constantly policed, the general oppression one feels by experiencing a system that long predated anyone living and might be existence itself, culture reduced to MEMEs, interaction reduced to 'comments', sex on every street corner (…and I love sex), etc, etc, etc. *Breath* It's a wonder anyone sleeps. However, if taken from a different lens of our viewfinder, this litany of existential terrors , the sheer extremity of the situation becomes one of absurd, punch-drunk hilarity. We are, in fact, living in those times. I realise this is actually something of a romantic perspective, as though The Spanish Inquisition, The Cold War, or The Holocaust would have been a plumb period of time in which to live. Taken in context, however, there is something forgiveable, or if not forgiveable, understandable provided the ignorance of the time. The examples given were perpetrated by corruption and generally skewed sense of reality.

Consider, if you will, the many advances in mere perspective on the world, to intellectual thought to which we have been privy in the last fifty years. It's fairly tremendous (shifting views on the world, race, gender, sexuality) and more

than that it should herald a certain renaissance of more enlightened understanding of our world and one another. It is a needed transition, but the aged infrastructure of yesteryear is diehard in dying hard. As an American Pundit and Comedian pronounced in earnest during his HBO stand-up special 'But I'm Not Wrong', 'America is stupid' (calm your pride, it isn't as though Britain hasn't been The 51st State since the mid-50s). Later in the routine, though, upon musing over the many examples of this stupidity, Maher quipped, 'Oh, America, I could never leave you, you amuse me'.

It is nearly hysterical to live in a time when stupidity prevails in the face of knowledge and information about which all should (*should*) know better.

America is revealing itself to be the volatile theocracy it accuses everyone else of being, Cameron is essentially converting measure by measure the private sector into a dark mutation of Reagan-era capitalist America, the Christian Right (in title alone) are actually becoming potentially dangerous.

This is stasis: the period of inactivity before civil war, and I'll be damned if the suspense doesn't have me on pins and needles. Someone push a button and let's have a party among the survivors, otherwise it's a needless weight on the shoulders of us all. Say what you will of post-apocalyptic life: it isn't boring.

Laugh or cry as the smoke fills the air; the prior *is* an option.

There is something liberating about accepting the chaotic uncertainty over which no one person, no ten people have an iota of control. Could one claim that it is a patina of victory for self-agency? It's a construct that is revealing itself to have brow-beat and enslaved for generation, and so many are now seeing it for the glass house it is? As much as rockets blazing, could this be the death rattle of our current system of society? Does there seeming to have been the beginnings a gradual awakening (not all informed involved, not all involved informed) not resonate with an ember of hope? It is largely the system - nebulous as it is - or us, and for my part I know the power I and you, Dear Reader, possess: it is the ability to merely, by pronouncement, deny the authority of the power structure.

I, [HERE INCLUDE YOUR NAME], do hereby pronounce my ability to self-govern save for in those situations in which I shall cede limited authority to a government that cares for me physically and psychologically.

If signed, if thought the government now has no justifiable power over you: walk on the grass, smoke outside a courtroom, take time from work to write a book, smell the roses, and bin your television - that's where the demons live. *'The Occupy Movement', I realise, but anyone who would take to task noting this actual *correction* should (you'll pardon me) be slapped

REFLECTIONS

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