Issue 1 – Lists by DNA Magazine UK

Issue 1: Lists

June 2017

Contents

The Ladybird Books

Served Cold

The Medway Pirate

Canicular

Preparing for Grammar School

Unhappy Anniversary

Rob Walton

Michelle Smith

Co-op, Saturday

Survivor Guilt

Liz Falkingham

Christopher Stanley

Jane Frankland

Alex Moldovan

Jenny Woodhouse

Tracey Walsh

20 Remember When

Dietry Suffering

Sweets and Swimming

Lazy Susan

The Same People at the Bus Stop

The Family Business

Cheese, Perfume...

What I Would Take Up to a Mountain

Lisa Reily

Rhianna Varney

Chloe Timms

Diane E Tatlock

Susan E Barsby

Santino Prinzi

Side Tracked

Indolence

The Morning Pages

I Really Hate My Bedside Table

Katie Marsden

Marie Gracie

Olivia Spring

Diane Simmons

Ion Corcos

Front Cover: Teddy Kelley (Unsplash)

Editor’s Note

’m writing this two days after the terrorist attack on Manchester Arena, which has left at least 22 people dead and countless others injured. From the horror, stories of heroism have risen from the ashes of the devastation left behind—from a homeless man comforting a dying woman, local offers of food and shelter, to taxi drivers providing free rides out of the city to stranded concertgoers, there is now an atmosphere of compassion and solidarity that has been missing since the EU referendum last year. DNA Magazine celebrates the experiences of the indvidual, tearing apart the faceless homogenous demographic groups thrust upon us. The mainstream media often seems hostile to dissenting opinions and politicians can appear disconnected from the lives of the people they represent. Shades of grey have disappeared, as nuances vanish when life is spoken about in black and white. This journal exists to challenge this viewpoint. It revels in the countless unique memories we all have and encourages empathy and dialogue. The stories, poetry and twitterature in this journal allow you to peer through windows into the lives of strangers and see a snippet of what the world is like for them. It provides faces to the faceless people around us and revels in our unique individualism. There will always be people with different interests, different viewpoints and different experiences. We will always see the world differently to everyone else, but this should be embraced—not feared. I hope you enjoy reading this issue and return for the next one (inspired by Identity) in September.

Katie Marsden Editor-in-Chief

Editor-in-Chief Katie Marsden With thanks to: Alexander Jones Dr. Carrie Etter Emma Head Gary Clarke

dnamag.co.uk hello@dnamag.co.uk @DNAMagazineUK /DNAMagazineUK

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The Ladybird Books

Rob Walton

Image: © Suzanne Rodzik

he girls look at the Ladybird books in dust covers behind glass and know dad won’t let them read them and wonder what the fuck he’s playing at.

The Medway Pirate

The Medway Pirate Michelle Smith

ack in 2001, myself and my partner decided to escape the drug-riddled estate we lived on and started to hunt around for a boat. It was the start of a 15 year boating adventure and the man who started it off was Jim Hawkins. We first met Jim when we bought Little Wing, our first boat, from him. Little Wing was, like many things Jim dabbled in, a bit wonky and never quite what she seemed on the surface. When we came to view Little Wing, Jim asked us to meet him on Rochester Bridge just outside Strood in the evening. He appeared out of a darkened alleyway on a bicycle and it took us a while to register that he was missing his left leg. The picture of a pirate was complete. He loaded us into a waiting tender and took us out into the inky blackness of the River Medway. When we got to Little Wing it was pitch black and we couldn’t see very much of the boat (part of Jim’s piratety plan) but she floated, there was space and we were desperate. In spite of all her defects, I’ll always remember our time on her with happiness and Jim was part of that. Jim lived on a boat called Teklana, which he’d built after the motorcycle accident that caused the loss of his leg. She was a marvel of space utilisation and a perfect fit for Jim. The bath was hidden under the bed and everything was within easy reach. Jim often took Teklana out onto the Medway for cruises and he delighted in offering the steering wheel to his guests, watching their consternation when they realised that there was no space for their left leg. As amazing as Teklana was however, she was bug ugly—not helped by the bargain bucket, swamp green paint that Jim had slathered on her. Another of Jim’s foibles was his religion. He worshipped used £20 notes. I can still hear the way he said it too, drawing out the ‘uuuused’ and tapping his fingers together with glee. But sometimes this love of money and wheeler dealing backfired and he would lose his temper. Like with the red escort van. Someone had sold it him and, after a couple of failed attempts to sell it, Jim went batshit. He craned the van onto the roof of Teklana, took it out into the middle of the river and chopped it into itty-bitty pieces. When he got back his hold was stuffed to the gills with bits of van, which he then proceeded (impishly) to dispose off bit-by-bit in the household waste. Last year, we went back to check on our lock-up and say hello to a few friends. We ran into Jim. He was just the same. The same darting interested eyes, the same white frizzled hair and beard, the same nut brown and wrinkled face. He even had the same bicycle. I was glad. Glad that a memory was still reality.

Images: ÂŠ Michelle Smith

Little Wing Fourbouys Bonnie Bay Zwerver Gideon Saving Grace Eve Netty Johanna Johanna 2 Carmel Kitty Niagara Marjorie Sandbass Jink Teklana Filande Sundancer Hoop de Zegan Seima Klipeki Falcon Kenrose Castlehill Ansera

This piece was inspired by the list of boats Michelle and her family have lived and worked aboard. Above: Klipeki, a boat Michelle repainted. Below: Castlehill.

Co-op, Saturday

Co -op , Saturday

Image: ÂŠ Liz Falkingham

Liz Falkingham

here’s a sofa in my mother’s house which has been there since I was a child. The cover is pale gold in a velvety material—I used to rub my face against it, fascinated by the sensation of the nap moving to and fro beneath my cheek. It opens out into a bed, although no one has slept on it for more than 30 years. I’m fairly certain the last person laid out on the mattress was my granny, and she was dead, not sleeping. You accept things as a child which your adult self would worry away at like a loose tooth. When we moved in with my grandparents, it didn’t seem odd that they slept in different rooms, on different floors, of the cottage on the crossroads. Maybe the fact our lives had been upended by my dad’s death and our house lost, meant nothing seemed strange anymore. Perhaps there is only so much of the not-normal you can take before it just washes over you, dirty water off a duck’s back. Later I learnt my granny slept in the dining room because her asthma made climbing the stairs impossible. The asthma which caused the faint, familiar wheeze-hum in her breathing, and was kept in check by drugs that, one day, would stop her heart. We moved the sofa recently, along with all the other slowly-accreted items of a room more used for storage than eating or sleeping or sitting. A burst pipe had ruined the carpet and to replace it meant excavating through layers of domestic geology with spiders instead of worms, dust instead of mud. In the unfaded patch suddenly exposed, the usual populace of a sofa underworld revealed itself – LEGO figures, two penny pieces, drifts of dog hair pushed beyond the vacuum’s noisy reach, an old Radio Times from when Swap Shop was on. A shopping list. I knew immediately it was one of my granny’s lists. Her handwriting was a beautiful copperplate from the days when schools thought that mattered: I had seen it on carefully-affixed captions in photo albums, and in her pocket diaries which filled a drawer in the sideboard. I had read, years before, the diary from the year my dad finally gave in to the bowel cancer which had spent five years killing him. ‘Pick up dry cleaning’ one entry had read and ‘Weather cold and bright’ was another. And then: ‘John died today’. This list was headed ‘Co-op, Saturday’ and beneath were the ordinary items that filled the glass-fronted kitchen cupboards of my childhood. Then: ‘Pick up prescription’. Was it the last one? My granny died of a heart attack on an ordinary day in March, crumpled onto the sofa that pulled out into a bed. While she struggled for breath, a faint blue gathered at the corners of her mouth. Ice cream liquefied as bags of shopping sat forgotten. It’s gone now, the Co-op. Knocked down for a vast Tesco. It’s ugly but you can order online, no lists needed.

Survivor Guilt

Survivor Guilt Christopher Stanley

Image: Tookapic (Pexels)

let the speed creep up above the limit as I chase a dream of freedom through reddening lights. Fifteen minutes later I crunch onto the gravel driveway outside my house, pulling up alongside my wife’s Ibiza. Engine off, I lean heavily against the car seat and close my eyes. My ears are haunted by their shrieks and howls. My body remembers every blow—every heel and elbow and knee. My skin still bears the marks of their claw-like fingers. They were wild-eyed and relentless, but I’d escaped. Outside, the afternoon sun presses against my aching shoulders. I pat my pockets for my house keys but they’re empty. Did I drop them? Did I leave them behind? The thought of going back there for something so stupid—it’s inconceivable. I return to my car and check the driver’s seat and footwell. I fumble through the clutter in the door pocket. Eventually, I locate them in the cup holder, hooped around the teat of an old dummy. I know it’s not a miracle but that’s how it feels. The lobby is full of boots and raincoats in shades of red and blue. The walls of the hall are lined with photos of my wife and sons. In the kitchen, I fill and boil the kettle for a cup of tea. This is what I need. I’m already feeling better. Then I see the clock on the wall and wonder what I was thinking. I don’t have time for tea. I left my family behind. We planned the weekend carefully, leaving little to chance. What started out as a list of names became thirty, pirate-themed invitations, followed by acceptances, late additions and declines. We confirmed numbers with the venue and assembled gifts for all the guests. We thought we were organised but we were mistaken. Even with the list of names pinned to the fridge door as a reminder, we still managed to mess up. When my wife found me, shortly before I escaped, I was consoling our twin boys. Like me, they were exhausted to the point of giving up. The air itself seemed to be screaming; nowhere was safe. On my wife’s face was a look I’ll never forget. ‘The party can’t end,’ she said, ‘without party bags.’ On the worktop in our utility room, there are three boxes, each containing bags of sweets, toys and balloons, one for every child at the party. I throw all three boxes into my car and race back to rescue my family, hoping I won’t be too late. Soft play can be murder.

Served Cold

Served Cold Jane Frankland

battery-powered walking Barbie who pushed a trolley of groceries—I can’t remember what else was on my Christmas list that year, but the Barbie was on it and the two tins of peas were not. Hate is not a strong enough word to describe how I feel about peas. They are repulsive. A stain on the unblemished reputation of delicious green vegetables everywhere. It’s not so much the taste but the texture. I imagine eating PlayDoh would have a similar consistency—dry and grainy, stripping the moisture from my mouth. But there was no escaping them. ‘You’ll eat what you’re given or you’ll eat it cold tomorrow.’ Swallowing tablets now doesn’t faze me, after being force fed peas regularly during my childhood. The only way I could ever clear a serving of them was to swallow them whole, four at time. It would take me forever (and I’d get stuck with the endless job of doing the wiping up afterwards) but the last thing I wanted was to have to eat them for breakfast. Even Hercules never had to put up with challenges like that. But I served my time, ate my peas and only faced them once at breakfast. Which was what confused me when I opened my Christmas stocking that year. Sure, I wasn’t an angel but I wasn’t the naughtiest kid either—though my parents might disagree with that. I tried hard at school. I hadn’t yet (accidentally) knocked my older brother’s tooth out with a roller-skate and I always ate my peas. I couldn’t understand what I’d done that could possibly be that awful. Because sitting at the bottom of my stocking, wrapped separately in bright paper that mocked me with its festiveness, were two tins of garden peas. They hadn’t been on my Christmas list. I now know that they were picked out by my dad, the biggest wind-up merchant the world had ever seen before a certain orange-faced president came along. In his defence, they certainly fitted with the toy I’d been begging for— even if the tins didn’t quite fit into Barbie’s trolley. And I hope, though I doubt it, that they brightened the day of whoever received them from the food bank I left them in. I never lived those tins down.

Image: © Suzanne Rodzik

They went down in the family legends, the story brought out and polished every time peas are served at mum’s table. ‘Do you remember the time Father Christmas brought Jane two tins of peas for Christmas?’ Like I could ever forget. Still, I’ll have the last laugh. If my dad ever goes into a care home, I’m going to pick one that serves cucumber with every meal. Revenge, after all, should be served cold and as a side salad.

Canicular

This piece was inspired by Alexâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s childhood summers at his grandparents home in Romania and the many different ingredients he helped preserve for the treasure trove of food in the pantry.

Canicular Alex Moldovan

Image: Clem Onojeghuo (Unsplash)

he yellowed fridge would hum the tenth-storey afternoons away, watching the heat evaporate off freshly tarred roofs. The sky would dome above our heads like an upturned porcelain bowl. We slept the days, dreaming of rain. Sweat would stick to our skin even as the constellations rose from the radio-hill haze. It was there, by the feather-light of dawn, that I learned the alchemy of taste, watching liquids swirl through rubber tubes into slowly filling osier-bottles that grandfather would mark with years yet to come. In that kitchen, with its cigarette-stained cloths and spaghetti-painted chairs, where grandmother would serve steak and mash underneath ladles of tomato-sauce, where uncles and aunts would unload their pockets to reveal darkchocolate bridges to tastes yet undiscovered, where the pantry door stood peeling in the light, just behind grandfather’s chair that was always mine… … it was there, drifting in the somnolent air, that flavours lured us away from daytime meditations of Arctic seas and mystical Tibetan heights. The pantry had whispered through our lungs, telling of vast, unguarded wealth touched only by time and grandparents’ hands. We pressed our faces against the door, feeling the draft filter thorough our hair. And tiptoeing we plunged into the vault. There we’d admire the preserved treasures of seasons’ past, rubies and opals and gold, crushed and jarred along bent wooden shelves with sapphire troves of blueberry pie. The sweat would cool on our backs. We hid there, feet buried in potato sacks, passing compote bottles between our hands, and summer never found us. Sticky-mouthed, we pretended not to know about the missing jam, or the empty bottles hidden on the highest shelves. It was in that pantry that we learned to pickle winter in small, clouded jars.

Preparing for Grammar School

Preparing for Grammar School Jenny Woodhouse

he recommended supplier was Lewis’s in Manchester, but we couldn’t afford to go there… ÚÚ Satchel. Grainy leather was cheaper than shiny, and rucksack straps better for the back than a shoulder strap. ÚÚ Shoes. Black, of course. Lace-ups were better for the feet. The smart girls had low-cut slip-ons. ÚÚ Gym tunic. My mam made it. No buttons on the shoulders like the shop-bought garment. Humiliation in the changing room. ÚÚ Navy knickers for gym. At least with them you can’t go wrong, there’s only one kind. But when it came to shorts versus divided skirts for hockey, I was on the wrong side. ÚÚ My hockey stick had a wide head. Narrow heads were coming into fashion. I hated hockey but that was irrelevant. ÚÚ School hat. Dull navy felt or lovely lustrous velour. Felt was more durable. ÚÚ Navy gabardine mac. Home-made also. Not double-breasted, no belt or epaulettes and… lined with red fake fur.

So I wasn’t the most popular girl in my form, and I wished my mam didn’t love me quite so much.

Image: Â© Jenny Woodhouse

Ungappy

Image: Courtesy of The National Archives. Contains public sector information licensed under the Open Government Licence v3.0

e appears on my family tree—Great Uncle Walter. Died 14th April 1917, France. My father’s named after him, though he wasn’t born until 17 years after his uncle died at age 20. Two years later Walter’s mother, Harriet Walker, received the terrible news that he had been killed. Correspondence from the army included the return of his personal effects along with an itemised list. I want to know why he had a German book and an Egyptian postage stamp. Who was in the photographs? Further research for the family tree turned up interesting facts and documents—including tracing the whereabouts of Walter’s grave at Savy in France. My dad visited to pay his respects and I hope to do the same one day. Walter’s name is on the Royal Scots Regiment’s memorial at Edinburgh Castle, though nobody in the family knows why a Manchester lad joined a Scottish regiment. There are no family stories about Walter. My grandad didn’t talk much about the brothers he lost. The only other fact we know about him is from another list—the 1911 Census—when, at age 14, Walter was an apprentice printer. The most poignant discovery, though, came when adding another great uncle to the chart. Edward, one of Walter’s older brothers, was also killed in the First World War. He died on 14th April 1918. I had to check the date several times before I believed it. Edward was killed exactly a year to the day after Walter. How must Harriet have felt when the news reached her? There were no lists of personal effects this time and no grave to locate. All that is left to remember Edward Walker by is his name on a memorial at Loos in France. Two other sons returned to Harriet from the war eventually, though one of them, my grandad Jack, spent many months in a prisoner-of-war camp first. I have one photograph of my great-grandmother, Harriet, but her signature on the army forms makes me feel closer to her and what she suffered than any picture.

Remember When

Remember When Lisa Reily

emember when she said your lecturer only liked your writing because you paid to do the course? How you were throwing your life away if you left home to travel the world and write? She was wrong. Remember when you became a teacher because your mother told you that teaching was a good job for a woman with kids—but you never had kids? You didn’t have to listen to her. Remember when you didn’t learn piano because you were worried about the cost? Didn’t go to drama school because you were too scared to fail? When you thought people at 40 were old? That it was okay to work late and put things off—there would always be time? These weren’t your ideas. Remember your work colleague who was waiting for her retirement to do what made her happy? Your boss who told you there’d be a place for you if you just stayed on? They’re all still exactly where they were— only older.

Image: Ioana Radu (Unsplash) l

You don’t have to listen. You don’t have to wait. Do what you want. Now. The future’s no different to now if you don’t take a chance. Life is waiting.

lazy susans

This piece was inspired by the inventory list in the second-hand store Rhianna works part-time in.

Lazy Susan Rhianna Varney

ll evening, I worked in a second-hand store. It was full of everything: peculiar antiques, unwanted candles and multiple copies of The Great Gatsby. The broken spines and yellowing pages smelt like history. It’s wonderful, the things that humans make. The items were scattered around the store with little organisation. There were old paintings next to vintage shoes; bracelets hung on every surface. It was a library of human inventions, which nobody wanted to read from anymore. The first customer was dressed in an opulent suit, with an aloof expression. He walked straight towards me, intent in his eyes. ‘I’m looking for a torch.’ I flicked through the inventory list and found one mention of a torch. After moments of looking, I found it on a shelf, next to a pile of lazy susans. There were single, unused batteries hiding in vases, pots and bags. I placed one in the back of the torch, but it didn’t turn on. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s broken.’

Image: Rudy and Peter Skitterians (Pixabay)

The reason they’re called lazy susans is lost to history. It’s one of those inventions, which relies on the human capacity for laziness, like dog ball throwers and extendable forks. Perhaps they were just made for the sake of making them. When the second customer asked me for a clock, I had to inform him we had no working clocks in store. ‘Why is everything in here broken?’ He stared at an antique clock on the side. ‘I’m sorry,’ I replied. ‘The clocks have never worked.’ Christiaan Huygens invented the first clock. Before that, did people pay less attention to time? Whenever I’m at work, I can almost hear my watch ticking, drumming against my wrist to the same beat as my pulse. When the third customer arrived, she asked if I would take a bell jar off her hands. Our policy says we must take everything, so I placed it on the shelf with the lazy susans, the broken torch and the multiple stopped clocks. Did you know glass is 100% recyclable? One day, perhaps the bell jar will be made into something beautiful. It’s wonderful, the things that humans make.

Mark Lane

sidetracked

(1884–1967)

St. Mary’s

(1884–1938)

Hatch End

(1865–1981)

City Road (1901–1922)

British Museum

(1907–1932)

Blake Hall Aldwych

(1907–1940) (1946–1994)

Down Street

(1865–1981)

(1907–1932)

Side Tracked White City (1908–1959)

Katie Marsden

South Kentish Town

(1990–)

(1907–1924) l

Graphic: © Katie Marsden

t’s not that I want a huge crowd of people lining up between velvet ropes to see me. I’m a Londoner—I want to blend into the bustling mass. I want to have purpose, to be useful, to be going somewhere. I want someone to remember that I’m here. To remember my story. To remember that I’m down here—alone. I was set up to fail. Unwanted by the residents Mayfair—who had no use for me, even before my doors first opened in 1907. Why would they want to descend 60 feet into the grimy depths when they had their carriages and cars? They didn’t want me bringing the riff-raff into their privileged enclave and forced me onto a side street, just off Piccadilly. Out of sight. Out of mind. From the beginning, I was surplus to requirements—too close to Hyde Park Corner and Dover Street. Before long, trains skipped right on through, ignoring me. First, it was just on Sundays. Then it was every day. Permanently. I never made it onto Harry Beck’s iconic map. I was sacrificed on the altar of speed and progress. Faster trains and quicker journey times were the mandate of system managers. Everything stopped on 21st May 1932. There was no dignity in closure. My western platform was butchered. I was bricked up, isolated from the rest of the network and forgotten. Endless minutes passed in silence, except for timetabled bursts of moving thunder. The Blitz brought me back to life. It’s ironic that my failure led to my finest hours. I was perfect for aiding the war effort. I was close enough to the political heart of the capital without being well known. My tunnels were deep enough that German bombs could not crush me. Wide enough that they could divide my passages into conference rooms and typing pools—with space left to push the tea trolley around. For 40 nights, Churchill’s cabinet edited the course of history on my conference room table. Above ground, the city convulsed under enemy attacks, but down in my quiet tunnels Winston would escape. It was an all too brief working partnership. All too soon, the cabinet bunker was finished and we parted ways. But my service wasn’t over. I became the beating heart of the rail network. I remained in service for the rest of the war—the base of operations for the committee charged with keeping the nation’s trains running. The movement of men and munitions were coordinated from my passageways, keeping Britain functioning. Then the war ended.

Image: Underground Electric Railways Company of London (Wikimedia Commons)

I was decommissioned in 1946. Everything was painted grey—even the light bulbs. The power was turned off again and I was left to crumble in the dark. Alone—except for the occasional visiting engineers, who scrawl their displeasure in my dirt covered walls. London has forgotten me and I’m left in fractured silence to remember. Next time you’re travelling eastbound between Hyde Park Corner and Green Park, look out the window and wave—you might catch a shadowy glimpse of me peering back.

The Morning Pages

The Morning Pages Image: Roger Karlsson (Free-Photo-Gallery.org)

Marie Gracie

y stream of consciousness isn't like Salinger; memories and dreams. A river interrupted by â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;to-doâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; lists; my unconscious floats on top.

Dietary Suffering Chloe Timms

is heart is running at 20% capacity. He’s about three bacon sandwiches away from a cardiac arrest. Something needs to change. ‘Interesting…’ he says, as the caesar salad is served in front of him. Not the pie he’d seen in the fridge, its butter-browned crust curled like an invitation. The juice of a piccolo tomato oozes down the fork prong, a stray seed in its tide. He sighs. ‘This is all very nice,’ gaze squinted, rummaging between the romaine leaves ‘but I could’ve done with some more croutons. Some more cheese maybe.’ He means a wedge of cheddar, housed in thick-cut industrial white bread, with a layer of butter as thick as his thumb. Salad garnish pushed to the outer rim of the plate. He wants recognition for the cigarettes he’s stopped smoking and the caffeine he’s given up. For eating salad two days in a row. For stopping at a daily glass of red, instead of the bottle. The doctors ask little about his lifestyle and habits, there’s no scolding or suggestion. A new prescription, a call to the hospital to push him up the waiting list—he’s satisfied. He wants the pills—a spray perhaps—the operation next week not next month. Sympathy and a quick fix solution. In his lunch hour he begins texting photos of his meals. Orange juice (gin-less and frothed) and a mayonnaise doused salad. His dietary suffering begs for a fawning response of congratulations and I give it out of obligation. A pat on the head. The midday photos of salad continue for two days and then stop. Thursday’s lunch, I discover, was bangers and mash. He staggers through the door, marathon crippled breaths wheezing ahead of him. ‘I’ve had enough,’ he says. The blame shifts to the new tablets; he’s been googling side effects. Obviously it’s not the jam-flooded croissants for breakfast or the wine he had at lunch, or the three course meal with a cheese board. It’s not the Snickers he reaches for and consumes in four bites at the sink, gasping as he masticates. None of that has any effect on his heart. His body is betraying him, through age and design. He has no part in its decay. ‘Is there any bacon?’ he asks, eyeing up the fridge.

Image: Lukas (Pexels)

Caeser Salad Ingredients

Image: Lukas (Pexels)

2 chicken breasts 1 tsp sunflower oil 1 romaine lettuce 10 cherry tomatoes lemon juice salt pepper dressing l

bus stop

THE SAME PEOPLE AT THE BUS STOP

Image: Alex Iby (Unsplash)

Santino Prinzi 1. The bleached blonde, top-knotted single mother. Baggy vest top, leggings substituting trousers. With her cigarette in one hand, the empty pram, and two young kids running around, you’d assume she doesn’t care that she is as fat as her children are loud. Her roots are coming through, her nails are chipped. You’d assume that she will drop those kids off at school, blame their behavioural issues on the teachers, then go home and smoke a pack of twenty, waiting for her dole money to come in. But she doesn’t. What you don’t know about her is that she still manages to work two jobs to pay the rent while raising those kids. She doesn’t have the time or money to replace her torn jeans or get her hair done all fancy-like in a salon. She spends all she has on those kids: money, energy, time, love. And would you look at them? Will you stand there and look at them: they’re happy.

2. Then there’s the pretty girl. She’s the one who assumes the single mother is a slob. Must be in her late teens, perhaps early twenties, and she imagines that the single-mother has more children than teeth. Not like that, she tells herself, my life isn’t going to be like that. But she doesn’t know what her life is going to be like. Her mother wants her to be a teacher, her father wants her to be a lawyer, her grandparents, when lucid, think she’ll be prime minister. What they don’t know (but is plain to you and me) is that she is struggling with the pressure. You’d mistake her now for staring at the bearded guy who is pretending to read, but she is staring into nothing, and nothing is screaming back at her. Jacqueline of all trades—she could do anything she wanted if she could just make up her mind. 3. But now the bearded guy who’s pretending to read a book. How do I know he’s pretending, you ask? Because he’s always on the same page: different book, same page. The titles and genres switch almost daily, but it’s always the same story. The same bus, the same day, the same words falling upon his mind without any impact. But the truth is, he knows these books aren’t providing him with the escapism he craves. He knows too that the authors aren’t to blame; it’s his own fault. Monotony’s unwelcome embrace has its hold, and he doesn’t know how to break free.

Image: © Katie Marsden

And then there’s me, but that’s another story.

Indolence

$ Indolence * I spoil it really. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s got a flowery notebook. A calligraphy pen. Post-it notes. But so far, my list has not ticked off anything.

Image: Miesha Moriniere (Pexels)

Marie Gracie

bedside table

I Really Hate My Bedside Table Olivia Spring

(I have too much stuff for me to be happy.) 1. All my pill bottles. I hate them. They’re ugly. They don’t make me feel better when they should. I pay so much money, and these capsules don’t even work. 2. An ugly white box of tissues. I hate it because it is so long, it takes up so much space. I have nowhere else to put it. Next time I am going to buy the more expensive tissues with cute designs. 3. My beautiful glass bowl. The matching lid that slips right into place. It would make me so happy if it wasn’t surrounded by ashtrays and pills and lighters. 4. My perfume bottle. Every night I knock it over in my sleep despite my efforts to move it away from the edge. It feels like a horrible battle I cannot win, and it is just perfume.

My extension lead. I hate that it just won’t stay on the table.

6. Headphones, keys, more pills, rolling papers, cookies, scissors, a wallet, a coin purse. I have no space. My bedside table is choking me. All the objects are screaming for help and I can’t help them. 7.

My room is too small for me to be happy. It is a tower I want to tear down.

Can an ill person ever be happy?

sweets and swimming

Sweets and Swimming Diane E Tatlock

‘

o out to play, both of you,’ says mum. ‘And take that dog with you. It’s getting on my nerves.’ Mum’s always telling us what to do: be quiet, eat your greens, go out to play, take Blackie, be back in time for tea. That’s what mums are for, I s’pose. Top of the list usually is don’t go near the river. I want to go to the park, on the swings. Not the see-saw though. It hurt my leg when it fell on me. There’s a dent there now. ‘We can go to Back Woods,’ says Alan, my brother. He’s a big boy. We like the Silk Stream in the woods. Mum doesn’t like us going there, says it’s dangerous. When it rains it does get a bit deep. But she didn’t tell us not to this time, did she? Anyway, she won’t know where we’re going if we don’t tell her. And I can throw sticks for Blackie. Alan chucks stones in the river. They make big splashes. Blackie’s chasing her tail. She’s mad, our dog. I laugh and go to pick flowers. Then there’s a big, big, big splash. Like an aeroplane falling into the river. ‘Blackie’s fallen in!’ shouts Alan. I see Blackie with her nose sticking up out of the water, her teeth showing and her eyes looking wild like my cousin when she says she hates me. Blackie’s going

Image: Procter and Gamble Heritage Center (Wikimedia Commons)

round and round in circles. ‘Can’t she swim then?’ ‘She hasn’t been to the baths to learn with us, has she? Silly.’ He punches my arm. But I don’t cry. Alan knows everything ‘cos he’s big, he knows what to do. ‘We’ll have to do a rescue. Form a chain.’ I made daisy chains in the garden. Don’t see how they’ll help, though. ‘Come on,’ he yells. ‘I’ll lie down. You hold my feet. Don’t let go.’ I lie down too. It’s very muddy. Hope I don’t slide down the bank. It’s lucky Alan’s got long arms. He reaches Blackie and pulls her out. She runs up the bank and shakes water all over me. I give her a hug while Alan puts her lead on. ‘C’mon,’ says Alan. ‘Mum’ll wonder where we’ve been.’ I look at the mud on my dress. ‘I know where you two’ve been.’ Mum points a finger. ‘Get that dress off. Now. And no sweets this week for either of you.’ Well. That’s not fair, is it? We rescued Blackie. And she’s learned to swim. But I s’pose that will be top of the list now: don’t take Blackie swimming.

The Family Business Susan E Barsby

s the driver, dad chose the music. There was no arguing with this rule. As a teen you tried to use your cassette Walkman on one journey—but your earphones couldn’t compete. Secretly you came to love the companions on your journey: Kenny Rogers, Chas & Dave, Crystal Gayle and Caravan by Barbara Dickson. Dad’s early classical period comprised of Mozart’s Horn Concerto and the William Tell Overture, both accompanied by him pounding a beat between the steering wheel and the window, a metallic clink every time his signet ring caught the glass. Thankfully, by the time he found Wagner you’d grown up and no longer needed the car. But it was musicals the whole family loved. Mum with MGM golden age numbers committed to memory with her father as he prepped for his starring roles. Dad, always one to make a statement, brought home the soundtracks from the big London shows. Both sang along, harmonising together effortlessly in a glowing convivial version of their marriage. Woe betide any singer with poor diction: the mocking repetition of their mistake taught you all to pronounce your lyrics correctly. You learned the stories long before you saw any of these performed. Played 76 trombones, rebelled against Yente the Matchmaker, washed that man right out of your hair, drank ‘domestic’ champagne in high society, prowled the streets with Cats, wept with Mrs Johnstone, lived and died on the barricades with Jean Valjean. You discovered the stories, asked for more details: who was this? What happened next? The roads passed in a blur of grey while you belted out your frustrations, your lost loves, and your yearning and excitement. Today you drive. Today you choose. The sniggering neighbours behind their thin walls are out of earshot. You, your playlist and the M1. A new generation sits in the back of the car and on the stereo sits a new generation of musical, the genre that will never die. Today you fight the American revolution with hip hop, you tango in your cell block and, to make her smile, you bring out the Disney songs. At four she is word perfect, and already embracing this universal truth: any introvert, safe in a car, will grab the chance to stand centre stage in the starring role.

Image: Milada Vigerova (Unsplash)

Cheese , Perfume … Diane Simmons

t’s May 1977 and my pals and I are sitting in a circle in our corner of the common room. Alan, as usual, has offered us all a bite of his Penguin. We normally just shake our heads, but this time, everyone takes a tiny bite. People were bound to snap eventually. We’re all a bit tense—it’s the last day before study leave for our A levels and we’re panicking, wishing we’d worked harder. When they’ve stopped giggling about the biscuit, they all start quizzing me again. I was hoping the biscuit eating would distract them, that they’d move on to talking about television or where we’re all going on Friday night, but Gary leans back on his chair and stares at me. Despite his confrontational look, my heart does a little flip. ‘What about cheese?’ he asks. What about cheese? I have no idea what he is on about. Does he not know cheese comes from milk? He must do—he does A level biology—surely everyone knows? I smile, hope I look confident. ‘I’ve done my research.’ Alan clicks the lid back on to his Tupperware box, gives me one of his supercilious looks. ‘You can’t carry on wearing the same make up and perfume. You do know that?’ ‘Of course I do! I’ll buy new stuff.’ Gary shakes his head ‘And then there’s soap—I can’t see how you can do it. The whole thing’s crackers!’

Helen looks up from filing her nails. ‘If you’re not going to use it anymore can I have your Charlie perfume?’ ‘I suppose so.’ ‘I’ll have your mascara—mine’s gone a bit manky!’ Donna says. I mentally go through my makeup bag, try to work out what I’ll have to replace. There’s no way I can afford everything new—I only get £4.40 a week from my Saturday job and I’ve my clothes to buy from that. Maybe I can sell Helen and the others my stuff, but I’m not sure that makes sense. Perhaps I should just bin it. They carry on firing questions at me until the bell goes. I do my best to answer them, carry on lying where I have to. I’m exhausted when I get home. I head straight to the kitchen, eat two custard creams, then panic. Am I allowed those? It never occurred to me until today that biscuits might be a problem—or cakes and sweets. Why don’t they put the ingredients on packets? I pick up my George Bernard Shaw cookery book, flick through it again—it gives no guidance, has none of the answers my friends will demand. I need to get to the library, get a better book. There’s more to being a vegetarian than I thought.

mountain

What I Would Take Up to a Mountain Ion Corcos

a book on Zen the coo of a pigeon

Image: Juan Arreguin (Unsplash)

a snake to eat the sounds of the night the Zorba soundtrack, so I can dance at the top longer than I otherwise would a tray of baklava a sprig of rosemary to help me remember the way back down.

Contributors

Susan E Barsby is a full-time communications adviser, mother, writer, knitter, conker fetishist, grammar nerd, and caffeine addict. She’s currently querying a novel about 1930s variety theatre. She blogs about books at Books from Basford. Twitter @SusanEBarsby.

Maria Gracie has probably been a frustrated creative person for a very long time … about two years ago she had a bit of a career change and since then has a little more time. She started throwing some paint around and experimenting with flash fiction. Twitter @mk161965.

Ion Corcos has been published in Every Writer, Grey Sparrow Journal, Plum Tree Tavern, Rose Red Review and other journals. The themes of his work centre on life, nature and spirit. He is currently travelling indefinitely with his partner, Lisa. Find out more at ioncorcos.wordpress.com.

Alex Moldovan spends his spare time reading dead authors and rolling weird dice with friends. Having spent numerous winters in Scandinavia, he’s mastered the arcane arts of Viking Wizardry. Powers include growing heroic beards and understanding everything IKEA related.

Liz Falkingham comes from a farming family near Holmfirth, West Yorkshire. Now married and living in East Yorkshire, she works as a freelance rural and equestrian journalist. Long listed for the 2016 Mslexia short story award, she has also won a number of flash fiction competitions.

Santino Prinzi is the co-director of National Flash Fiction Day (NFFD), the Flash Fiction editor for Firefly Magazine, and a reader for Vestal Review. His debut flash collection Dots and Other Flashes of Perception is available from The Nottingham Review Press. Find out more at tinoprinzi.wordpress.com.

Jane Frankland exists in a world of her own, one where peas are banned. She’s dabbled in history, engineering and design and now DNA Magazine will be the first publication she will be published in. She specialises in writing creative non-fiction and adapting work for digital platforms.

Lisa Reily is a former literacy consultant, dance director and teacher from Australia. She is now a budget traveller with two bags, one laptop and no particular home. As well as writing short stories, she also writes poetry, feature screenplays and scripts. Find out more at lisareily.wordpress.com.

Diane Simmons’s stories have placed in many competitions including Writers’ Forum, Woman and Home, This Morning, Worcester LitFest, Ink Tears, NFFD micro, and The Frome Festival. Publications include Mslexia, The Yellow Room, FlashFlood, FireFly and five NFFD Anthologies.

Chloe Timms, 28, is a recent Masters graduate from the University of Kent and is currently working on her first novel. She’s written about disability for The Guardian and Muscular Dystrophy UK and (by some fluke) had a poem shortlisted for the Bridport Prize.

Michelle Smith is 38 years old and lives on a teensy boat known as The Yoghurt Pot on the Kennet and Avon canal with her partner, two children and a smelly hound. She also enjoys reading, cooking, and writing nonsense about boating. She founded The Liveaboard’s Cut magazine in 2016.

Rhianna Varney is currently in her secondyear studying a BA in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. Her favourite form of writing is flash fiction with her favourite collection being My Mother was an Upright Piano by Tania Hershman. Next, she plans to enrol in an MA in Creative Writing.

Olivia Spring is a journalism student at Goldsmiths and interns for SANT magazine. She wears 50s dresses, collects vintage teacups, reads Sylvia Plath and Adrienne Rich, and makes collages. Her work can be found at oliviaspring.tumblr.com. Twitter @oliviaspring8.

Tracey Walsh started writing in 2014 and her first flash story won the Flashbang contest 2015. She’s had short stories and articles published in magazines, including The People’s Friend and The Weekly News, and longer stories published as My Weekly Pocket Novels. She is a lifelong crime fiction fan.

Christopher Stanley lives on a hill with his three sons who share a birthday but aren’t triplets. In 2016, his stories won multiple prizes and were published in The Molotov Cocktail, Firefly, Raging Aardvark’s Twisted Tales, The Ham and the NFFD anthology. Twitter @allthosestrings.

Rob Walton, Scunthorpe-born and Tyneside-based, has flash fictions in Spelk, Number Eleven, Flash Frontier, Pygmy Giant, The Ham and others. He is a past winner and current judge for NFFD. He also writes poetry for adults and children, and collaborates on visual art projects.

Diane E Tatlock spent her working life in the world of Physical Education. After retiring, a long-standing love of words led to study with the OU and a developing interest in writing short stories and flash fiction. She now enjoys entering competitions for fun.

Jenny Woodhouse retired to Bath and studied Literature/Creative Writing with the OU. She has a novel looking for a home, and her short stories keep shrinking into flash fiction. She’s appeared in FlashFlood and a NFFD anthology and has been the Frome Festival’s writer-in-residence.

Thank You

o publication can be produced in isolation. I would like to thank the following people for supporting me in this endeavour, from giving me skills to design, edit and curate this publication, to providing me with essential advice or financial support via Launch Pad. Without these people, this magazine would not have developed beyond the initial spark of an idea.

LAUNCH PAD

niversity is a time for students to think big and chase brilliant ideas. Launch Pad, founded by the Development and Alumni Relations Office, provides a crowdfunding platform to help staff and students realise these ambitions. The platform engages with friends and alumni of the university, giving them the opportunity to engage with these endeavours. DNA Magazine therefore also thanks Amethyst Biggs, Naomi Box, Symone Weekes and Susan Hammond for their efforts in developing this platform. More projects can be found on the Launch Pad website: bathspa.hubbub.net.

Back Cover Image: Toa Heftiba (Unsplash)

Jill Marsden Gemma Matthews Lyn Mills Gaynor Morgan Gordon Morgan Santino Prinzi Katharine Reeve Suzanne Rodzik Diane Simmons Chris Stanley Lucy Sweetman Danielle Weinburger Gavin Wilshen

Image: John Silliman (Unsplash)

Ruth Anderson Louisa Bailey Gary Clarke Colin Edwards Adam Ellison-Quinn Carrie Etter Swagata Ghosh Caroline Harris Emma Head Steve Hollyman Alexander Jones Daniel Marsden David Marsden

‘It’s a human need to be told stories. The more we’re governed by idiots and have no control over our destinies, the more we need to tell stories to each other about who we are, why ‘It’s a human need to be told stories. The we’re we are, where wemore come governed by idiots and have noand control ourbe from, whatover might destinies, the more we need to tell stories to each possible.’ other about who we are, why we are, where we come from, and what might be possible.’ Alan Rickman Alan Rickman

DNA Magazine is a quarterly micro-magazine celebrating flash memoir and autobiographical writing.