REFLECTIONS Issue Eight – Winter 2011 Welcome to the eighth issue of 'Reflections'. Hey- this means we've been going for two years now, remarkably, publishing poetry, fiction and artwork in a regular quarterly handy-sized magazine. To nick a quote about the Grateful Dead (me, some sort of 'hippy' ?!)- we're not the best at what we do, we're the only ones who do what we do... not only do we publish established writers next to people who have never seen their work in print before; not only do we host weekly 'spoken word' gigs in Exeter, Devon, England, but we are now possibly the only poetry mag in glorious 3D! Yes, for this issue our regular cover artist, Adam Grose, has created a 3D cover for you to marvel at- so grab your free 3D glasses that came with this issue and take another look! Over the past two years we have enjoyed the work of: Matt Ashford, Vicky Franklin, Kirsten Irving, Emily Ings, Natasha Kuler, Steve Smith, Jon Stone, Ben Tallamy, Juliet Warry, Steve Harris, Hum, Carly Lightfoot, Tom Matthews, Oli Nejad, Jules Reed, Matt Roberts, Ian Taylor, Phill Wyatt, Jo Gedrych, Adam Grose, Tom Hutchinson, Dave Marsdin, Laura Quigley, Matthew Turner, Matthew Banks, Ruth Butler, Emma-Jane Lewis, Adam Brummitt, Kate Wilson,Vicky Cowell, Zion Lights, James Turner, Dan Underwood, Shelley Bennett, Steve Carnell, Geoffrey Godbert, Helen Louise Owton... and there's more to come, in this and future issues. Huge thanks go to all the above, and everyone else who's been involved along the way... I mentioned our gigs in Exeter- they're every Sunday evening at 'The Oddfellows'- live poetry and storytelling in a lovely, friendly bar. If you are ever around these parts, please come along- bring your own stuff to read/perform, or simply settle down with the beverage of your choice and enjoy some great writing!
- In This Issue Kimwei Westbury is a singer guitarist and writer she's been performing at our Oddfellows gigs and competed for 'Bard of Exeter' her poems here stop time Laura Quigley writes poetry fiction and drama in Plymouth one day we'll meet face-to-face thanks Laura for all your support Steve Carnell is a great and humorous performer here showing a more serious side Badface is a friend of a friend and shall remain nameless by his request Piers would have preferred me to put some of his poems in here but I like this excerpt from a novel that he has read to us live as we've got more prose fiction this time 'round and I like the contrasts in prose style like Katie Moudry who's also new to the magazine Matthew Banks is not his ghost stories have chilled us for the past few issues with a clear exact style that creates tension with the psychological makeup of his characters Ruth Butler is an honest voice Angeline Trevena dreams of antiques and butterflies Kate Wilson is in the snow spinning Helen Louise Owton is angry I've put a 'political' one of mine in so she doesn't feel lonely and a couple of other things Adam R Grose not only produces amazing artwork but poetry too teaches and we are indebted cheers man Ren Foster is in here for the first time with photographs he's a great musician we've played live a few times together him improvising on guitar percussion and I believe clarinet to some of my poetry We haven't given individual contact details for our contributors this issue, but I'm sure they'd like feedback- stuff about getting in touch with us is at the back of the magazine.
Kimwei Westbury Remembering Bess Shards of sunlight beaded and embroidered in your hair. It's morning. You stand by the window, the sun inside you, and I am woken by your light. Other mornings we wake together. Through dew-warm half-sleep, I feel the tingle of your kiss evaporate from my hips. Your touch like a flower's petals opening across my skin, turning my blood to sparkling wine. But on those days, when you rise before me to look out to the dawn through glass, I watch from the bed to see dawn break across your irises, and tapestries of gold unravel from the edges of your body into the light that pours into this room; our haven. Your body; my sanctuary. I remember you Bess.
Twin Forged We were cut from the same magic; Two night skies meeting each other; A rage of words in a still-less stillness; A vacuum before sound.
Embers Your thousand days older than me spread like a calm army across my back. While your palms pressed like continents on the knife-cold ocean of my skin, Death called us: Whispering through the ice, in quiet-glorious invitation to dissolve into each other's warm. Our embers, merging as they fadedthe smoke: our breath, intwining as it left our bodies cold. Your thousand steps into the white with me spread up this spiral staircase of breath, until you could go no further. Then, like continents in an ocean of light we un-merged. When they found you, by the smoke you breathed out from my embers (now inside you, spreading like an army of warmth across your chest) they saw my body frozen beside you. From then, you carried my warmth always and never again felt cold.
Ruth Butler The world is getting away from me The world is getting away from me: its edges are becoming blunted, its colours dimmed. The world is darkening. And it is quieter now, but it is still whispering. The world's small voice is fighting through a clamour of internal sound. I feel your presence, although I do not know you. You are someone from somewhere in the past. When did I see you last? Yesterday? Last year? Half an hour ago? ... In 1983? Do I like you? Or dislike you? You are so close to me. My mind is a morass of memories. You are somewhere in there, I know.
At the Party of The Deaf In the house of the deaf and the non-deaf, waste-paper bins are littered with crumpled conversations. In the house of the non-deaf and the deaf, you feel guilty of omission when you realise that the joke you laughed about was not funny enough to be written. At the party of the deaf, the non-deaf can't talk or hear, as the sound system's too loud, but conversations fly from hands to hands, across the crowd, and they're smiling on the far side of the room, smiling at those things you never heard. There is music in the flutter of words.
Piers Captain Fiskebolle ...an excerpt from a novel... And he is suddenly reminded of that time when salty old Captain Fiskebolle the Norwegian tramp-steamer second mate and longterm dry drunk came to see him at home in his old tramcar down there by the river. And maybe four or five late winters ago it must have been... and all chuffed and charmed with it all he was too.
Goodness me and graciousness! And what a lovely old tramcar you have here Mister Blackeddie! And wery excellent... wery excellent. And all so nice and clean and nice and tidy I see. Yah yah... excellent! And wery excellent! Oh come off it now Cap'n Fiskebolle... cut the crap. Clean enough is what it is... and clean enough and no cleaner! And I happen to know of a good optician up there on the high street if you need to go changing your glasses! But it's all quite nice yah yah... and all quite nice and spotless it is! And no spots anywhere! And I could eat my lunch just sitting there on the floor I could! Yah yah... and all quite nice and shipshape it is... yah yah. Shipshape! No it's not... just the classic cursory sweep and once or twice a week is all it gets... and just the absolute minimum really. An 'E' for effort and all that! And I just keep it like this... and more or less just halfway neat and tidy I mean to say... because I'm just a little slow and lazy down there in the domestic department. And in the long run and at the end of the day as they say... it's just a whole lot easier that way.
And try and try as he might our poor old Captain Fiskebolle he never quite managed to get himself a handle on that one... what with his no-nonsense Old Norse origins suddenly having his adopted Modern English meanderings in the vice-like and stifling grip of a headlock. And him there on the horns of the dilemma. And all a bit too much it was... tidy enough is good enough and good enough is shipshape and shipshape is lazy and lazy is easy in the long run. And it put the poor old fart in a real bind it did... and quite the quandry of his later years mind you. And with no way out. Stuck fast in the full steam ahead of his all too common common sense and heading for the edge. And blew a boiler he did... our poor old Captain Fiskebolle suddenly all at sea and with the rudder sheered off at the pintles and gone by the board and then the reverse gear gone bung and too and stripped of its teeth and turning in space... a toothless aspiration at best. And stuck there revving and roaring away and not getting a grip... stuck there rudderless and with no reverse between his naturally unchosen mother tongue and his chosen adoptions. Gripless and all without traction... spinning in space and heading for a fall... heading for the looming edge of nervous breakdown and total collapse and then and by all post-factum accounts coldly and cruelly tripped-out by fickle old fate and a non-certified spare-part circuit-breaker in the back of his brain and gone somewhat spare with the stress of it all. And all quite catatonic by most later accounts... and suddenly locking himself away there in the wheelhouse of his rusty old tugboat with neither food nor water for about three weeks and madly rubbing and scrubbing and sweeping away with a dozen all different-coloured brushes and brooms... a dozen all different and colour-coded dustpans. And a red one for dropped matchsticks and a green one for breadcrumbs... a matching set of bright toothbrush pink for pocket fluff and the like.
Three weeks and a little more... a-scrubbing and a-sweeping away there and painstakingly filtering out the bitten-off fingernails from the dried snot and then the dried snot from the cigarette ash... the pubic hairs from the normal and non-sexy ones and putting it all carefully into strictly separate and clearly-marked plastic bags with those fancy zippo resealer things on the tops and all labelled of course in his long gone old grandfather's most formal and deep fjordian Norwegian and in good old nineteenth century strict and nonconfusible categories and suddenly... bingo and kaboom! And he blows the boiler... takes that long hard look over the edge and recoils in abject horror... suddenly deathly terrified of everything in any way English and is back on the grog by the end of the week... aquavit and schnapps of course. And three bottles a day by all accounts and hearsay... and after almost twenty-one years on the wagon mind you and lived out another six months. Six months and a bit less by all accounts and hearsay and was as dead as a dodo by the first frail signs of the Spring come sveltly round again to forgive him all his winter indiscretions. Poor old Captain Fiskebolle he died one freezing winter morning just before dawn and by falling from a bridge... falling between bridges by all accounts and hearsay and while stepping on to a grand old Victorian railway and pedestrian bridge that someone had just snuck-up under and stolen in the middle of the night and was quite simply no longer there to be stepped onto. A bridge that wasn't. A historic and apparently valuable old Victorian cast-iron railway bridge that someone had surrepticiously and in the middle of the night snuck-up under and slowly unbolted and removed... and lock stock and barrel. And just lucky it was and for everyone of course that the trains were all on strike again and not running. Unbolted all of it and carried it off. All entire and holus-bolus... and nut and bolt by rusty nut and bolt. And all four hundred and thirty-one million six hundred and seventy-two thousand one hundred and fourteen of them. And right there and under the watchful noses of the river police mind you. And sadly the ill-fated old Captain Fiskebolle was never seen again... never found. Carried out on the tail end of the tide and into the English Channel and turned into prime Norwegian fish food and never seen or heard of again... nor hide nor hair. And despite the very best and unflagging efforts of the river police and the coastguard mind you... a small army of volunteers and even a troupe of frogmen specially bred for the purpose. But but then again... with a name like Fiskebolle one should never go raising one's hopes too high of course. And especially in this neck of the woods. And poor old Fiskebolle... done in by the details he was... by the dust and the pocket fluff. Done in and diappeared forever down the river by them foreign bodies. Out with the fresh and bubbly tide and the bright new day's detritus. (And then putting the clean air filter back on the old engine and screwing it tight... shutting the machine down and stubbing out his cigarette.) And you have to watch out for those foreign bodies you do.
Steve Carnell Leaves On Line My mind was wandering the other day I imagined winning the Turner prize Involving a tree and a fishing reel People stood with staring eyes Each leaf attached with care and line Then as the season ended The leaves denied of gravity's pull Would all hang there suspended Before you ask, I have no clue Where an idea like that begins But I do know if I entered it It's the kind of shit that wins
Lighthouse Held aloft one shining eye Blinding protector Feet lapped by a monster Monotonous hero Unsung by the dry Erect and sheathed by sky Penetrating darkness And fucking fog senseless Phallic blinking cyclops With your Sun envy Brightly screaming Stop rocks warning Daytime distraction Tourist attraction Never yet always alone Enjoy the spotlight
The Price Of Trees Braving all weathers for numerous years Armies of trees standing stubborn and fast Reaching out with the strongest of fingers King of the forest the longest to last Obvious choice for a childhood climb Dark is the day when all the sky shows Everything stops when every tree goes
Twisted Oak Lines unseen betray the years Over time the branches shift Casting shadow on lonely grave Under strong protective sway Flowers die in dark, alone Sunshine fingers never reach Ring of death around it's base Sadness lurks beneath the tree
Katie Moudry Veiled Mrs John McKay takes her seat beside her husband, thanks God for the fashionable veil that hides her face. “The blue veiled hat today Ma'am?” her maid had asked as she laid out the clothes before church. “Yes, that would be best I think,” she replied. Slowly taking her seat at the dressing table to look in the mirror. The bruise blooms on her cheek. An ugly flower rooted in his anger. Powder next to cover it as best she can, and then the hat. She catches eyes with her maid reflected in the glass, as she helps adjust it to hide the mark and pins it into place. A look passes between them. Understanding perhaps. Even pity. And where once her pride would have taken offence to that, now she takes it gratefully, even though she doesn't understand its source. “Thank you Sarah, that is all,” she says. “Yes, Ma'am,” Sarah replies, closing the door behind her, feeling a moment of disquiet inside before going downstairs to the kitchen. Mrs McKay can't understand why Sarah doesn't pass on her blackened face through the tittle tattle network of servants' gossip that let ladies know about their neighbours. It's from Sarah she learnt that sometimes when the colonel drinks too much and falls asleep by the fire he wets himself. Which children have run up debts through gambling and high living, that have been quietly paid and hushed up. Which respectable old gentleman has wandering hands. The timid, placid woman seeing a younger man behind their husband's back. But not this. And she is grateful but does not wonder why, as she never wonders about the person that lives behind her servant's eyes. On her half days Sarah goes back to the village to visit her Ma. Arrives sometimes to find her with a cut or bruised eye. She never says anything, though sometimes her Pa catches her looking at it and then looking at him. And he knows that she knows that his hands that bring the wages in, put the food on the table, the roof over their heads also did this. The hands that pick up Ellen and bounce her on his knee change after a few drinks, not always, but some times, and then they don't belong to him but to an anger within that flails its arms, sometimes at her, sometimes one of the older boys, the walls of the room a legacy of his rage over the years. And if you were to ask Sarah what she thought of this she'd say, “This is how it's always been, you try to stay out of his way, it's no different than for most women of the men round these parts. At least it doesn't happen that often, and he gives Ma his wages, doesn't drink it all down the pub.” And she wouldn't know how to think what it must be like for her Ma to know the coins she put in his hand to go for a drink later pay for her broken skin and bruised arms. And if her Ma could put it into words she'd say something like, “Here are the thirty pieces of silver with which I betray myself.” But none of this is said or thought, it's just a disquiet that lives inside her every time Sarah sees her mistress's mottled face. And she wants to say, “I understand how it is,” but knows she never could, and so keeps her silence as a sign she understood.
And Mrs John McKay sits in her family's row at church, and thanks God for the fashionable veil that covers her eye, so that no-one has to know. Sometimes she's envious of the bricklayers' wives, who can stand openly bearing the marks of their husband's rage on their sallow faces. But more than that she's envious of Christ up on his cross, almost naked, his pain unveiled, and wishes she too could take her clothes off, and stand in the aisle, so they can worship her wounds. “For I too bear the scars of what is called love,” she thinks. “What Jesus did was nothing compared to this. His pain is seen and glorified, not hidden under layers of clothes: corsets that pinch, petticoats, silk dresses covering the bruises society's too ashamed to show. They say he died for our sins to save us, who am I meant to be saving through my sufferance, for whose sins do I atone?” The service ends. The society lady and the bricklayer's wife both go back to their different homes.
Steve Smith Didn't You? Didn't you tell me That life was sweet, Didn't you tell me Not to grieve, Didn't you tell me Only breathing makes you better; Didn't you tell me We were young, We would fight and would be strong, We would win and scattered Limbs were a fantasy; Didn't you tell me education Would be free throughout our nation And there wouldn't be rich or poor We'd have equality; Didn't you tell me That the state Of the nation was to care, For everyone out there Be they blind or sick or lame In body, mind, and the insane Would be cured; Didn't you tell me You'd be true, So we'd place our trust in you As the bankers come in ranks, Count their coffers while the coffins Of the underclass mount up Around the necklace of britannia; Did not you say That we'd be safe, Did not you promise A transparency (What a fucking evil fallacy), Didn't you tell me All has changed, That you'd rearrange social mobility So that all can be saved From the sewers, From the slums,
From the soon-to-be tents outside your House, The shanty towns of the dispossessed While you stuff in your mouth Some canape of sickly sweet Delusion? Now we are telling you That up with this we will not put As our voices rise together With true conflict and dissent To tear down the walls of excrement That you've dumped upon The honest and the innocent.
January #2 I saw the sun set on a snowscape Of train lines and streetlights, The fire kissed the clouds With an illusion of warmth, As the decade just ended Seemed far in the distance Behind us with echoes of laughter And screams; The hushness of morning, Closed curtains glowing Unearthly so early, How late in my day; Seeds sown May wither, Might burst into flower, Devour us or feed us or nurture Our thoughts of the past And the future, in an icy grasp Clasped. The rain tights the collar, Your eyelashes flicker, My dreams cast in streetlight Sparked dark once again As we stutter, in the mystery Of all should be simple Away from machines And the nightmare's pretence. I thought I saw a movie once, Where the ghosts of faces Come shrieking or with sadness Out of the snow Falling, into the eyes of the actor, While he walks on black and white air. And behind him, in the distance, She's no longer a statue, She's alive, she's reaching, She's nearly there.
Oddfellows I didn't know what poem to read tonight. Should it be a winter poemI've got a handful of those: Some seasonal; some speaking of a Winter of the heart, Or of my own mind. Or should it speak of Christmas? I don't believe... I've done one of those, yet... Not even for my dear grandchild. Might it be religious, then, well... There's quite a few, tucked into my collar, And as all poets and writers know: If you're stuck for a theme, A metaphor or two, The bible's gonna give ya Some easy pieces for a Tarnished silver tongue, It's true. How 'bout political? Yes- I've ranted and raged, Castigated cunts on green leather benches In vitriolic polysyllabic protestBut for what good is that worth? So what sorta poem shall I read tonight? Shall I come back to love? Oh how many times, how many times Have I tried and failed... And how many times have I tried And failed to write about it. Tried and failed to express Truth: What Ever is heart and mind and meaning. So maybe I won't read a poem tonight. Maybe I'll just say: look up to the sky On midwinter's morning, And wish that you'll see the eclipse of the moon, In totality, And write or speak Or better maybe just think Your own poem.
Helen Louise Owton Reading Newspapers These media messages fucking scream at me! They're not even subtle anymore, Please tell me it's as obvious to you; tell me you see! Storming in, first hitting the middle class poor, Making welfare cuts, unemployment...we face, Footballers falling through the class from hero to zero, Putting the working class back in their place. Clever armchair politicians; avoiding accountability though. Resignation of Hague's gay advisor, How horrendous! Let's just get that story 'straight' ! What a surprise! Reinforcing homophobia, Don't tell me you fall for this prejudice bait! A wealthy woman divorcing her husband, Oh the shame! Forced to claim benefits from ruined relationship, Acceptable if repaid; the 'Good Civilian' fund, Playing on a woman's guilt; reinforcing dutiful citizenship. Hmmm... difficulty planning this next story, Practising the traditions you preach, Controlled media covers exclusive newborn baby, The nuclear family, you teach... Hold on! We haven't stamped our religious views clear, Let's bring the Pope over to apologize! Protestants up in arms; I almost shed a tear, Distracted to piously fight amongst your own lives! Good old conservatism, -Condemnation, -Reinforce prejudism, Sprinkling their ignorance and stigmatism. How ironic that we 'voted for change,' Budget cuts becoming an excuse, To get anything done! What happened to orange? Too weak to fight the abuse, Liberals puppeted into the background, Coalition [ahem] demolition of an opposing Party, Under their right wing; obedient followers found, I would keep quiet, but I ain't that pretentious or stupid to pretend to 'act classy!'
Oh I don't pretend to not recognise, This Animal Farm situation, Labour's reaction to coalition. Brothers-in arms; collective faction, It's laughable; double-action, The humiliation, Of some of these politicians! Come-on you suffering students... let's start a revolution!
Matthew Banks God and the Damned The cell door opened and then closed with a bang. Sitting under a barred window, a man looked up at his visitor and smiled. “Ah, you've arrived!” The visitor, a priest, looked down at the prisoner, who stood up and offered him the chair. The priest noted that the man had a wide pleasing smile and lily white skin. He looked no more than twenty-two despite being twice that. However in one hour, he would be executed for his horrendous crime. “Yes, my son, I have come just as you have requested. Are you ready to confess to your sins and receive absolution? " The man sat back down and the priest sat in a chair opposite. “Well," he said," I want to tell you the truth and hope that you'll realise that Death is my only salvation." “Do you not fear Hell, my son?” “I would only fear Hell, if I'd committed the crime that I've been convicted for. But as my conscience is clear...” “But how can you say that, when you've been convicted of murdering your entire family. You have refused to answer questions about what happened the night your wife and children were slaughtered, even refusing to speak in the dock. Surely your silence is an admission of guilt. I cannot help you unless you confess and tell me everything." Getting up from his chair, the man began to pace. The priest fearful of an attack watched him carefully, ready to call out for assistance. The man turned around and stared at his visitor. “Priest, I have nothing to confess except my innocence. I loved my wife, my children, and in losing them I have lost everything. I don't know what killed my family, I wish I did - but I don't.” Looking at the prisoner, the priest chose his next words carefully, for the glint of insanity seemed to glimmer within his eyes. “Don‟t you mean who?” “I know exactly what I mean.” “But the evidence was stacked against you … surely…” “Listen to me very carefully,” the prisoner hissed, through clenched teeth, “I did not
murder my family … I don‟t know what killed my family… but it certainly wasn‟t me.” “If this is true, my son, then why didn't you say this at your trial? Why didn‟t you defend yourself?” “What do I say? That Morvella House has a way of getting rid of those it doesn‟t like? That a house, that bricks and mortar can hate! Who would believe that? It sounds like utter madness. It is utter madness, and yet it‟s…” He paused, then continued, “ It seems that everything and everyone I have ever loved has been taken from me, it‟s the Heylt curse, and I've no more fight left in me." The man sighed and as he sat down, he buried his face into his hands. “It‟s so hard...so damned hard” he murmured. The grill in the door opened and a guard looked in. “Everything all right Father?” “Yes, my son." Looking at the prisoner again, the guard closed up the grill. “Tell me my son," said the priest turning his attention back to the man,"Everything that has happened in your life to make you think like this. Help me to understand." The prisoner looked up from his hands. Tears stained his puffed up face. “Father, I was never meant to have been born. I was an un-wanted child of a Heylt. Do you have any understanding of what that means? Do you have any idea what it was like growing up in Morvella House? The loneliness, the emptiness… No! No, of course you don‟t, who would? So I always had to prove myself, excel in everything I did. There was no choice but to succeed. It made up for the love that I didn't receive. God, I was such a lonely child. At sixteen I fell in love for the first time," he sighed and then continued, “She was so beautiful. Hair was as black as night, eyes like twin emeralds. We loved each other, but our love was a secret for various reasons now lost in the depths of time. One day I went to meet her at the Cove as arranged, and she wasn't there. I waited an hour, but still she didn't turn up, so I went and called on her best friend at Clagmoor Heath. When she answered the door, I could see that she had been crying. She took me in and told me that my love had committed suicide that morning. Now, I cannot express to you how I felt. The guilt of not being there was monstrous. I wanted to join her in Death. So many wild ideas ran wild through my tormented mind that cigarettes and alcohol became my life. I don't think I ever recovered from her death.” “Why did she commit suicide?” “I don‟t know. If only I had been there? After, I went to work at a jeweller. I enjoyed the job and met lots of people, which kept my mind occupied. It was there that I met a very
pleasant young woman, who helped ease the pain - but she too left me, taking her own life. Such a fool am I. I was later told by a mutual friend that her death was my fault because my family were cursed and she in turn cursed me because of what had happened. Well, I've lost everything, not once but three times, and I can't go on.” “But their deaths weren't your fault. They decided to end it. You did not make that decision for them.” “You can't help but wonder if you helped in their decision in some small way. Something you said, something you may have done.” A melancholic silence fell upon the room as the man went into deep, reflective thought. The priest studied him carefully and then said, "Go on with your story." The prisoner smiled and seemed to regain some lost dignity. His eyes were red from when he had cried. He knew that the priest thought that they were crocodile tears, but he no longer cared. He sighed and then continued. "After she died, I lost my job. I felt that I had lost my way and didn't know in which direction to go. I was confused and lonely. I was twenty with a full life a head of me, but the loneliness, the emptiness and meaningless of it all kept washing over me. I couldn't believe that two people I loved had been stolen from me. It seems that every time I find a little happiness, somewhere along the line it's taken from me. You see once I love someone, I love them. There's no maybes or mights. To me love doesn't stand still, it grows continually, like a tree in a forest. It grows and becomes stronger with each passing day and you can't change how you feel. You can't turn an Oak tree into a Willow or Ash tree, so whatever happens, love will always be there.” He paused. Opening a pocket on his shirt, he took out a packet of cigarettes, took one out and offered the packet to the priest, who shook his head. After putting the packet back into his pocket and lighting the cigarette, he continued with his story. “Sometimes, I felt that I was never going to have the love and happiness that most people find in their lives. So for a year, I went out to burn up. I'd lost all respect for my body. I smoked, drank and took drugs to excess, anything that would end my miserable existence. Then my mother died and it sobered me up. I never really knew my father, as he died when I was six, and my mother was the world to me. Her loss made me realise that I was being stupid and that where there's life there's hope. I smartened myself up. I suppose that I'd thought that I was immortal and that no matter what I did, no matter how I abused my body, I'd live. My mother's death brought reality crashing down around my head. Someone else that I really loved had been taken from me. Despite pulling myself together I was still
at rock bottom....” He sighed again. “I suppose you could say that in life there is light and dark, and I seem to be more in tune with the dark rather than the light. Everyone used to say how nice I was; yet I longed to be happy and to be loved. Every time I found what I was so desperately searching for it was taken from me. Again and again ...you think I'm stupid to throw my life away like this, but death has never frightened me...it's life that scares me. I've asked myself „Why‟ and no answer has been forthcoming. Perhaps love and happiness are just a myth and one simply cannot live a myth, reality is always there to wake you up. You know I used to feel that the darkness was reaching out to claim me and now I go to meet it. To quote John Donne, „I runn to Death and Death meets me as fast and all my pleasures were as yesterday.‟” The man stopped and took a drag of his cigarette. Then he spoke again, his voice soft. “Then I met...?” The grill in the door opened and the guard looked in again. He smiled at the prisoner. “Twenty minutes to go,” he said as he closed the grill. They heard his footsteps echoing off the tiled floor as he walked back down the corridor. “Arse hole," muttered the prisoner as he took another drag of his cigarette. The orange tip grew bright then faded. He stubbed the remains out. Moving to get more comfortable in his chair, the priest leaned forward and clasped his hands. "...And then you met..." he prompted kindly. “Then I met my wife. I was at the ale house, sitting in a corner on my own, feeling very despondent, and this radiant woman came across to me and asked if she could join me. Surprised, I said yes and from then we just talked and talked. She was so beautiful that I found myself drowning in her aura. I think that from the first moment that I saw her I was in love with her. I suppose you could say that it was a case of love at first sight. She was beautiful, intelligent, witty, kind and caring. We got on so well and believed in so much, that I still find it hard to see whatever it was she saw in me. I looked a wreck. Still she took me under her wing and I cleaned my act up. Within three months of knowing each other, she had moved into my house and a month later we were engaged. Yet despite my happiness I knew that I'd lose her. I suppose I knew it from the start really. I don't know why or how, but I just knew it. She wasn't of this world… Do you understand that? And yet she was more of the world to me than anyone I ever loved. God, she was a deity to me. Six months after moving in we were married. Two years later she bore my son. He was such a beautiful baby...” The man stopped as tears cascaded down his face. He wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve.
“Go on my son.” “I was there at his birth ...I was there at both my children's birth. I held my wife's hand and spoke to her throughout. We had a bloody good life together and I loved them more than life itself. Now they are gone and I have nothing left to live for. Oh, I suppose I could just go on going through the motions of living, as if we'd never loved,” he sighed again and wiped his eyes, “Just the motions and nothing more.” Tears streamed down his face and his voice had an edge to it. “This is what these bastards have accused me of. Me, who loved his family beyond all measure. Yes, Priest I am innocent of these crimes and I shall meet my family on the other side, of that I have no doubt.” “But how can you be so sure, my son. Surely only God Himself will know the answer to that." "Because she came to me, two nights after, at the hospital. She told me that she loved me and needed me, that we had to be one, and that she was so lonely without me. She looked so radiant and more beautiful than ever before. She was bathed in a golden light. I felt so pure and knew that what she said was right. That is why I must join her. Our love lives on.” “Ah, but surely if she truly loves you, she'd want you to find her killers and bring them to justice and not waste your life like this! God would not wish this for you.” “There is no God," he paused, and then continued, “I used to think that there was a God, but now I think that He's left us to stew in our own juices. Either that or He's dead." “You‟re wrong, My Son. God is here; all you need is to have a little faith. Open your eyes and heart and you'll know it to be true.” “Listen Priest," replied the man with a cold hard voice, “If there was a God and He's so loving as you say, then why has He taken everyone and everything that I have ever loved away from me? Tell me Priest why?” The man spoke with such vehemence that the priest shot back in his chair, almost toppling over. The man laughed a hollow, empty laugh, better suited to a corpse than a living man. “You see Priest; you can't answer my questions can you. If there ever was a God, which I very much doubt now, then He has never forgiven us for crucifying His Son. He has made Hell a place called Earth and only those who He can be truly bothered with will join Him in Heaven. You believe in Heaven, don't you Priest? Well I'm going to tell you something now that will surprise you. You reckon Jesus sacrificed Himself, well given the chance of living or dying, I'm sure He'd've wanted to live. The only person that has done a lot of sacrificing is God Himself - especially us humans. Remember the Great Flood, just how many thousands died then. Forget whether they were evil or not, that is open to conjecture, we're all meant to be made in His image. Or all the countless wars, murders, rapes that go on
everyday. Where is your God, when His people need Him the most, Priest? Tell me where is He? I'll tell you where He is - He's in your mind, a fragment of your twisted imagination. For I now firmly believe that if there were a one true good God, He wouldn't allow this evil to prevail on Earth, and my wife and children would be alive and I would not be here, waiting to join them.” “I‟m sorry; I'm so sorry my Son that you think like this. We've each got to make our own way in life and bear the burdens of happiness and sadness. I'm so sorry that you have suffered more than others, but don't let bitterness dominate your life. Out in that world there isn't just one second chance, there are thousands of second chances, and if you allow yourself to die then you'll miss out on the chance to right this great wrong that has been done to you. I fully understand why you feel so embittered, but please don't let it eat you up. Life must go on if we are to survive.” The cell door opened. Four guards entered, while two stood outside. The priest and man looked up. “It‟s time to go,” said the guard. The man stood up, pushing his chair back. “I‟m ready.” “My Son," said the priest, “Do you wish me to accompany you.” "No,” snapped the man impatiently, “Let‟s go.” The prisoner was led away between four of the guards and the priest was left alone in the cell. He could hear other inmates chanting and singing. Getting up, he noticed a box under the bed. He went over and pulled it out. It was full of photographs and letters from the man's family. Picking the box up and putting it under his arm, the priest left the room. There was a small metallic click and from within his robes, he produced a miniature tape recorder. He pressed the playback button and the prisoner's voice spoke, “I'll tell you where he is...” It was a good quality recording. As the priest walked along the corridor, he pulled off his dog collar. Hearing a plastic sound clatter on the floor he looked down to see a badge, and bent down and picked it up. As he rose, he glanced out of the window and saw the lever being pulled. The man that he'd just spent an hour talking to hung down like a rag doll from the gallows, his neck snapped. It was over. In the priest's mind he heard the prisoner‟s voice saying, “The darkness reaching out to claim me...” and he wondered whether he'd joined his family. He looked down at the badge and read the word that stared back at him, 'journalist'...for that was what he really was and now he'd got the story that other journalists would give their souls for... the final story of Jackson Heylt.
Laura Quigley Blue Flatline my blue boy. The horizon is your home now. Oceans cradle you as salt winds tell you stories and bring to me the murmurs of your sleep. We found your perfect shell upon the beach, rolling in the surf, caught by a rocky pool, the seaweed of your hair tangled in the sand. I put my ear to you and heard only the cry of the sea. Like awestruck children, we collected you, treasured the hollow casing that remains. But it is not enough. Not enough. Swollen tide, please, burst open, and let me run along the reef of his new playground. Let me feel the sun he feels dancing through the echoes and the torrents of that deep forever. Last night I lay alone on my dry bed. The lamplight burned my eyes when a sudden sea-wind ripped through the room, billowed the sheets, tossing my hair, books blasted from the shelves and amidst the storm came the blue-lit silhouette of your face and I heard your clear voice say “I am not afraid�. I am not afraid. The shoreline of my heart, it bleeds salt water. But I know that my child is with the sea.
Cinders Cinders threw the shoe. Well, what would you do? To a fairy god-mum Who promised freedom Then took it away? And her wicked sisters They danced on till day. While she had to go home, In the dark, all alone, With a pumpkin, some vermin And a heart full of yearning. Some Ball. Wolf Hello Hood. You look good. Trannie Grannie‟s in the wood. Eyes? See you... Ears? Hear you... Teeth? Eat you... Bring me all your lace and curls – I‟ve a taste for little girls.
Angeline Trevena I Dreamed of You Last Night I dreamed of you last night tucked away between battered books, and occasional tables with the keys to their drawers missing. You settled yourself on a moth-eaten chaise, pushing aside a faded tapestry fallen on your shoulder like needlework hair. You tutted at the dust and brushed yourself down but here you were happy; swollen with words. I sat at a desk the green leather peeling, the roll top jammed. Chairs stacked high threatened to engulf us in Windsors, Queen Annes and Hepplewhites. I peered at you through the woven wicker of a picnic hamper and you looked back through a hole in a canvas painting; my face just visible through the hindquarters of a horse. And here we wrote poetry; long, sweeping statements pulling epic histories into iambic pentameter.
Caterpillar I caught a butterfly on a spoon today and I was almost tempted to eat it: to feel the colours in my throat its feet on my tonsils; but then I saw your face reflected in its eye and I knew that you had filled my pockets with sherbet lemons and chocolate limes and that I could let the insect free. And I've written your name so many times that it's not a real word anymore but mine is, next to it, it's solid and real and something you can hold on to or throw into the grass as you wish. I caught a butterfly on a spoon today and I wanted to keep it as a gift for you or stir it into some pasta. Come home early tonight, and run your fingers through my hair leave fingermarks on my cutlery and my bathroom mirror. I want to remember that you were here and I want to believe that you're coming back.
Badface Investigates - Insanity I‟m sat bolt upright in bed. I have no idea what time it is but it‟s very dark in here. Voices are circling my head whispering things that I can‟t fully understand, I‟m trying to listen to them for some clues as to how to make them go away but they all keep talking at once so I can‟t make out a single thing. Like I said, it‟s pretty dark in here. There are definitely several distinct different voices, none of which I recognise, except maybe occasionally my mum is in there. She always was a bit over protective. Because they are all talking at once I can‟t focus on them. They also seem to change the subject as I try to concentrate on them, which isn„t very helpful. The closest thing I can liken it to is when you‟re on a mobile phone with bad reception and a broken speaker bit, except I‟m on six or seven, and mine are imaginary. I become aware that I have something between my teeth right at the back of my mouth. It‟s small and hard. It‟s spherical, I figure it must be a ball bearing. I‟m just wondering, how did that get in there? Then it starts to grow, really slowly. It‟s pushing my jaw open from the inside. I‟m really panicking now… My thoughts are swirling uncontrollably and incomprehensibly, I want to scream but unhelpfully I‟m paralysed by fear. Besides, what would I tell anyone who came to my rescue? It gets to the size of one of those big marbles and it suddenly dawns on me that this is a hallucination, it can‟t possibly be real. I just need to prove it‟s not real to my brain and it‟ll go away. I bite down as hard as I can, in the mistaken belief that my teeth will pass through the non-existent magical growing ball bearing. Now I scream. It feels exactly like I‟ve bitten down on a solid metal object, and my teeth never touched each other. The unexpected pain is like my teeth exploding. All I can think is, that was nothing like the hallucinations people have in films, in films you can„t feel hallucinations. Fortunately for some reason the imaginary ball bearing has disappeared. I suppose I better explain how I got here. Alcohol. Except while all this is happening I‟m stone cold sober. The problem is that it‟s the first night of sobriety in about a year and apparently my brain isn‟t very happy about it. According to the doctor I‟m currently experiencing hallucinations caused by classic alcohol withdrawal. As weird as it sounds, this is exactly how my evening played out. I‟m still reeling from the pain in my mouth, writhing about on the bed like someone whose been kicked in the unmentionables, when the bedroom door opens and my ex-girlfriend walks in all drunk.
As you can imagine this really isn‟t a good time, I‟m not exactly equipped to deal with her right now. She stumbles awkwardly across the room towards me slurring some story about being at a BBQ nearby and popping over on the way home, although I can‟t be sure because it„s hard to understand her between all the other voices I„m hearing. I try to pull myself together long enough to kick her out the room and give my housemates a lecture about letting her in - it‟s a long story. But she sits astride me and starts to flirtatiously stroke my chest. Her touch intensifies the voices in my head and their circling becomes dizzyingly fast. I feel drunk with sensory overload. But I‟m sober. She starts to unbutton my trousers, apparently undeterred by the panic and confusion that must be written all over my face. This is too much, I‟m not having regrettable sex with the ex, especially in the middle of a psychotic episode. I freak out and try to push her onto the floor. Except my hand flies right through her and she disappears. Before I‟ve had time to fully digest what just happened a man leans through the window, which is closed, and puts a selection of ginormous carrots on the bed. An impressively large one about the size of a television catches my eye and I start to barter with him, before suddenly realising that I just hallucinated my ex-girlfriend so perhaps this night-time mutant carrot seller is also a figment of my apparently insane imagination. Instant panic. I throw my head into my duvet and scream as loud as I can to block out all the voices. I scream and scream until it seems too ridiculous to continue. I slowly emerged from my duvet cocoon nervously surveying my room. Everything was normal. The voices and hallucinations were gone. Also thankfully none of my housemates have heard me, they already think I‟m a bit of a freak what with all the drugs I„ve taken in the last year. Relieved that my brief brush with insanity was only temporary I lay back and try to sleep. Then I notice that my mouth feels a bit weird, almost like there is something between my back teeth… oh fuck.
Kate Wilson Yesterday Morning I Met Myself
Yesterday morning I met myself while walking on White Horse Hill. It was January first, a sheet was lain, and I was bitten by Winter‟s chill. Wearing a stitchless duffle coat, and passing the sparse tree line, my other self, sprinting on white, smudging feet on the steep incline. For all her speed she was slow to see that I watched with a hanging jaw, wondering which direction she‟d take, if she‟d turn, and I‟d have to withdraw. She could not see me like this, grown tall and pale and sad. Anchored by worries that slowed my step; worries that she‟d never had. Then she turned her eyes to rest on me like she knew this was when we‟d meet, lips circling words I could not make out, before vanishing in a haze of sleet.
I'm spinning so fast the day's a white blur and I'm just pretending I don't know who is watching. I don't want Mum and Dad to feel it's getting to me; I perform my show reel, until I'm too dizzy. I know you're there, hiding your face without blinking, recalling this place, though not what I'm thinking. My swollen eyes, reach out to you 'I'm still here' I mouth to you, your face unclear in a shower of sleet. I hold tears in our blue eyes: after all our years you look the same size.
REFLECTIONS Published by Steve Smith / Reflections Magazine copyright Steve Smith 2011 Editor Steve Smith Sub-Editor Vicky Franklin Front Cover Adam Grose Inside Front+Back Covers Ren Foster Other Stuff Steve Smith All work is the copyright of the authors and artists Get in touch with us by emailing exeterreflections @ googlemail.com Twitter- @ExeReflections We're on Facebook too ... and new website coming soon...
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Ren Foster As a photographer I'm constantly endeavoring to hoist the burnt-out husk of an automobile or the gate, rusted to a tender; to the pedestal of a more traditional flower focused macro shot. There are many surfaces, textures and colours that are regularly overlooked, out of reach and out of sight. I wish to capture them all and show them for what they truly are, beautiful artifacts which have their own rich history and stories to tell. The world has abundant beauty, if you are willing to look. renxcreative@gmail.com