From the Lighthouse: Issue 1

Durham University English Society

from the lighthouse

issue one

Welcome to From the Lighthouse.

It is my pleasure to introduce the very first issue of the Durham University English Society's literary magazine. We started out with our first inaugural competition in 2014, so this issue has been a long time coming. I'd like to thank the English Society, and our sponsors, KPMG, for making this publication possible, and of course all our contributors, with special thanks to Galane J. Luo for our cover photo and Mike Appels for our lighthouse logo (both from the Photography Society). It has been a real pleasure to edit and produce the first edition of what will hopefully become an established publication for Durhamite writers.

If you would like to get involved in the next issue, submissions are already open on the theme of change: we're looking for translatons, essays, scripts, poems and prose. And our second annual competition, judged by the excellent poet Helen Mort and the writer and Mslexia editor Debbie Taylor, is accepting entries in poetry, flash fiction and short fiction until 24th January, so get submitting. See the last page for more information.

I hope you enjoy our first issue, and all those to come.

Helen Bowell, December 2015.

CONT ENTS Heartstrings by Anna Marie 4 ­ 5 Hupcejová Home by Victoria E. Addis 6 Country Road by Victoria E. Addis 7 Lost by Jenora Jagdish Vaswani 8 Old Ireland by Eoghan Lyng 9 Shadow by Jack Smithies 10 Two Scenes by Jack Smithies 11 Cousin Julia by Sydney Peck 12 ­ 15 Put the kettle on by Isobel Davies 16 ­ 17 Etruscan by Danielle Silverman 18 ­ 19 The Party by Tom Bennett 20 ­ 23 Cold by Kenny Bhatia 24 Ladybower by James Kearney 25 An Angel of the Galaxy by Ellie Ng 26 Tea by Ellen Orange 27 ­ 28 Eggs by Hana Kapetanovic 29 ­ 30 Grains and Babes by Hana 31 ­ 33 Kapetanovic ­3­

Heartstrings Anna Marie Hupcejová It is three in the morning and I hear my phone ringing. I wake up, look to my right at the nightstand – but the phone is static. That very moment I have a flash­back to when her name appeared last on the lit­up mobile screen, seconds before I picked it up.

“Jared? I need you.” Hazy from sleep, I said: “Emma, no.” To which she replied, “Yes. I’m right outside your apartment building.”

“No.” I hung up. On the brink of falling asleep, the door bell rang. I groaned, got up, picked up the phone by the door and pressed the speaker button. Immediately her voice came through: “I need you.” To which I replied, “You don’t. You don’t need me, you need what I can’t give you anymore.

Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Good night.” Seconds after I hung up, the bell rang again. With a groan, I picked it up: “I nee­“ “No, you don’t!” I said. She responded: “Jared. Please! It’s your fault I need it, you must have something left.”

I gave in, let her up and soon, she appeared. She was pale, her hair and clothes soaking wet from early­morning rain and her eyes shone with hunger and despair.

“Take it out!” she exclaimed after dropping her coat.

“Emma... no.”

“Why not?” she said. “Whenever you wanted me to give it to you, I did.

Now I want some back and it’s suddenly a problem?”

“Emma,­“ “What?!” Silence. “Take it out! If you won’t, I’ll take it out of you myself.” I looked at her, once an independent being who held her head up high... Now dependent ­ on me, though we were over for a while already – it was a painful sight. So I just gave in.

“Fine.” I went into the living room and took out from one of the cupboards a small suitcase. She sat down on a nearby chair like a patient at the doctor’s, mumbling: “I need it, Jared... I do, I really do...” she kept on repeating those words until I said: “Hush. You will be alright soon, Emma.” I gave in to those large eyes of hers that closed as she began to breathe deeply in and deeply out. She then slid away a part of her blouse, exposing the left side of her chest. It was even bonier ­ 4came ­ than how I remembered the last time she over with the same desire...

I didn’t want her to start making a scene and wake the neighbours up, so I just opened the suitcase and took out the tubes and pump. She inhaled again with her eyes still closed as she listened to the metal claws being put inside the endings of the tubes. Once they were inserted, I took off my shirt and placed one end of the claw tube onto the left side of my chest and pulled the other onto her chest’s still unhealed bruise.

“It’s going to sting a little bit now,” I warned her. Her eyes still closed, she smiled. As I then pushed the claws inside our heartstring marks, she moaned deeply from pleasure and pain. The translucent tubes within seconds turned red.

I watched the corners of her mouth shiver in satisfaction as I pumped the circulation. Watching the liquid of life and love past passing between us, I whispered: Marke but this flea, and marke in this, How little that which thou deny'st me is; Me it suck'd first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled bee.

When I looked up from the now half­empty tubes, she was already watching me. Life seemed to have been restored to her skin, eyes and lips; she no longer resembled a walking corpse. Even her chest seemed fuller. She turned her head to the side playfully and asked flirtatiously: “Why always that Donne poem?” I squared my shoulders before saying: “That was the last time. The last time you were here, the last time you got it from me, you hear me?” She nodded and mockingly replied: “I hear.” She got up from the chair and ruffled my hair as she passed my half­naked body. She seemed physically stronger than before, whereas my own figure seemed weakened, drained. She picked up her coat from the floor and with a victorious backward glance at me, she said: “But next time, it will be you begging for it.” With those words, she left.

I sat there for a while longer with the tools surrounding me and blood dripping from the claw endings. Then I realized that there was a blood trail running down my fresh heartstrings bruise.

Ever since, I am wondering how many times these heartstring sessions have taken place already. With the vivid images of the curled corners of her smile and shared blood flow in my mind, I suddenly grab my phone and dial her number...

After a while, her voice comes through: “Yeah?” And immediately I respond, with my voice deeper than usual: “Emma? I need you.”

Anna Marie is a postgraduate student of English Literature from Prague, currently on Erasmus at Durham University. Her main area of focus is English Romantic poetry. During her undergraduate studies at Charles University, she ran the student magazine The Musepaper. She wishes to create a similar platform for creative writing by non­native English speakers in the future as well as write short ­5­ stories in her free time. Her blog is at fb.com/annaisabroad.

Home Victoria E. Addis For my brother. *** Home is being found berry­faced among the raspberry bushes Or laughing behind the neat stick rows of runner beans, one half­eaten in each hand.

It’s collecting wind falls; coxes and cooking apples, pears and plums, And sharing hazelnuts with the squirrels.

It’s planting flowers in my own patch, while you planted potatoes, And stroking the soft, green caterpillars that lived in the cabbages.

It’s catching minnows in the stream, And pouring squash into big bottles for the haymaking.

It’s cleaning out cow sheds with a shovel, and cycling around the farm yard on a second hand fold­up bike that closed as we rode it.

It’s secret dens in the old lime kilns, And taking an inflatable dinghy up a shallow stream.

Home is a memory, and in it We will always be dipping jars into tadpole ponds, And carrying earthworms in our pockets.

Victoria E. Addis is a masters student studying Modern and Contemporary Literature and Culture at the University of St Andrews. Before deciding to continue in academia, she taught English as a foreign language both in the UK, and in China, and got engaged to Welshman. She currently lives in Durham with the aforementioned Welshman, and a Border Collie named Ruskin. There she continues her studies, and blogs books and culture under the banner of "A Hermit's Progress". Her poetry draws heavily from her own experiences, and has been published in a number of small journals around the UK. ­6­

Country Road Victoria E. Addis I see the twitching of nesting足 birds in the hedge, You turn away to watch a car disappear around the bend.

Here we are again; Taking different walks along the same path.

Photo by Georgina Tall 足7足

Lost Jenora Jagdish Vaswani We withered away into bare necessities. After all, that’s what the priest said, “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.” I suppose it was comforting. Shrivelling into an insubstantial chassis, we became the air we breathed. Translucent skin stretched across frail bones, darkness under dulled eyes and the paleness of spectres, we were shadows, flickering behind closed doors over the long silence of a vigil. The closer we got to the other side, who was to say we couldn’t stretch an arm across the veil and clasp that cold hand one last time?

The spark that animates, that propels beings towards a leisure amble along a life of laughter, polite society and the dainty clink of a teacup, or even a hurried dash along a road of promotions, pay rises and framed certificates that hang like a man condemned to the gallows as a warning to those who pass beneath ­ it was gone. There was only the absence. The jolt when you step forward and there’s nothing beneath. The abruptness of a conversation cut off by the flat monotone of a dial tone. It had deserted us.

We picked at the food our neighbours brought the way flowers are picked.

First, a quick nip, then a burst of sensory delight before the bloom wilts to brown. The ghost of a childish giggle haunted the room behind the closed door.

As if it could shut out the memories: the desperate wheeze of deflating lungs.

The grim sickness that had descended upon the sweet­yellow walls still wafted through like the sour recoil of ammonia.

The growth had spread too far, the doctors had said. There wasn’t anything left to do. It was only a body rebelling against itself, the result of a slight confusion in the meaning of moderation. No one to blame; no words to breathe.

Only the drip, drip, drop of a tap left running as we faded to nothing.

Jenora is another one of those strange humans who have made the inexplicable choice to study English Literature. She can usually be found curled up in a duvet reading or snoozing. If you'd like to read more of her work, check out her website at boundlikeabook.weebly.com. ­8­

Old Ireland Eoghan Lyng Will you tell me where my country lies beyond this wall of tears?

The saints and scholars who adorned the place have taken to their beers.

The land, once filled with grass and trees, has turned into a void.

Enterprisal governments at once both cool and coy.

And the workers wash their socks and shoes, hoping for a kiss, And dream of ‘Tir na N­og’ and a better life than this.

I watch these brave souls from afar, thinking of the past, These people and their lives are dying, how could they ever last?

As the bars are filled with martyrs fighting for their cause, Where once they asked for an ego boost and a round of applause, Now they’re satisfied with another pint and Mary’s lovely smile, Before they throw their rotting corpse on the always­churning pile Of those sick and buried, from the paw prints of another life, Jimmy used to own a ‘Mistubishi’, now all he has is his wife And she’s smiling from the offset, but her eyes have seen younger days, His mother is the only one who fills his soul with praise.

The rest is filled with Guinness and other brands of stout, And he’ll never really know what life is all about, While tax evasion schemes in ‘The Independent’ cry aloud, Ireland’s national anthem’s played ­ and how!

The tiger’s sailed his boat away.

Drink up dear friends! That’s where he’ll stay.

Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man and sometime poet. Graduating with a B.A in English and Irish, Lyng left University College Cork with his copy of 'De Profundis' with him, a copy his library desperately want returned!

­9­

Shadow Jack Smithies In a wet summer— the kind that frustrates itself into outstaying its due— one bright, blue afternoon, a child at play has paused: stood, looking at her shadow on the green.

She sees a life uncluttered by this blank companion hard and unyielding as the ground on which it falls.

And she could kick and scream or run, or stab and hack, or be a perfect sundial, eyes shut tight before she would look back, but nothing she could do would set it right, besides that temporary arc of flight.

Transfixed as though some unseen face may lie resisting its uncovering within the singular black fold.

Concluding that it will not give, she turns, and sets herself to an empty simulation of escape.

In spite of agile feints and twists she knows she will not shake the thing— when, in this wordless bartering, she jumps, and, breathless, finds her feet untied from their stubborn anchor­post.

Jack is a third year Lit student, originally from Manchester. Chiefest among his influences are Tom Waits, Eliza Doolittle and Alan Titchmarsh.

On his 18th birthday, Jack quietly called his idol Stewart Lee a 'smug c***' (a poor joke which the comic did not appreciate) at a book signing and these poems are taken from a collection largely inspired by this episode. ­ 10 ­

Two Scenes Jack Smithies Two Scenes I. The Garden ­ The day’s broad shoulders hold their place for now but this does not deter the garden’s keeper.

Devoted to his solitary craft he finds within it no design or labour.

They say the last to hear his voice died with it— although its apophatic trace remains preserved inside each vivid hue (none who have tried can make distinct the two).

Sitting, he lays down his crutches, looks at his calloused hands and stump.

The low, cool sun an end­stop.

II. Three Dervishes ­ The tellers surviving the telling, they hastened away from scene exasperated and still reeling as though catapulted from a dream Beardless, without sex (unmarried) each avoiding the other’s one eye although, now, their shame is no secret you must talk about it or die

­ 11 ­

Cousin Julia Sydney Peck They had all been raised in Stanley’s coaly air, but my wife and her sister Lina had married into Newbiggin, whereas cousin Julia had married into Darras Hall. Last year she had missed us due to a cold she developed in Athens on her late summer holiday there, once the Greek temperature had fallen to Julia’s required twenty degrees maximum. But she wouldn’t miss us this year. It was late September now and it was time for the visit. Julia was wealthy, with nothing to do but visit all her relatives on an annual cycle. This ritual required us to be next on her schedule of visits. Once a year she felt duty bound to see us and then felt glad to see the back of us, and believe me the feeling was mutual. Cousin Julia and her husband would be coming to tea today with me and Winnifred, and Winnie’s sister Evelina.

Their car purred its way up our short drive and the engine stopped. She waited till her door was opened for her, and stepped out gracefully. It would put the arrival of the Queen of Sheba in the shade, with husband George behind her, carrying a tiny pampered dog and a bottle of wine. Like the gifts brought to pharaoh by the Ethiopeans, I half expected a Nubian dancer with ostrich feathers and a troupe of Moorish acrobats to pour from the Bentley. The car, we were informed, had to be parked out of the salt wind. Antique Bentleys and salt winds don’t go together, you know. Our junk­filled garage was the only shelter against the seaside weather. So the bikes were hurriedly stacked outside and the lawnmower was placed against the brick path so its fuel tank didn’t leak. The Bentley was gingerly inched in and just fitted ­ and the rusting garage doors were gently bumped closed on its rear fender.

It was a dull afternoon, one of those indecisive days in autumn when the weather is salty and unpredictable, like the sea itself, just the very reason we had chosen the house many years before. When Julia arrived the weather threatened to become even duller ­ and so did the conversation.

For this occasion, she brought her little yapping dog ­ a thoroughbred chihuahua. For our big tortoiseshell cat (new since last year) it was hate at first sight, and she eyed the midget dog unblinkingly as though it might turn out to be a substantial snack. To cut a long story short, after a lot of hissing and growling the dog was shut up in the conservatory, whimpering at us through the glass while the cat curled herself back down and stayed on the sofa in the warm living room watching us eating. Her nose twitched ­ she could smell fish a mile away.

Julia had brought an expensive red wine which needed chilling, but our fridge had broken down the previous day so the wine was a disaster...We settled ­ 12 ­

for Winnie’s home­made fish pie and her sister’s apple cocktail. After we’d scoffed the wineless slices of fish pie and followed them up with the homemade apple/plum fruit cocktail from the garden, we relaxed somewhat with our cups of tea while sister Evelina played a few tunes on the piano. Evelina was a capable player by ear but could not read music. In truth it made little difference for our piano had long since succumbed to the salty dampness of our Northumberland coastal habitat. There were no flat notes, but undoubtedly some notes were no longer at top crispness of pitch. In between remarks about the worthlessness of teabag­tea and how at home they only ever drank real leaf­tea made in a hot teapot and allowed to stand and mash for five minutes, my ears could not help hear Julia prattling on about the pleasant but mediocre quality of Lina’s piano recital.

My sister­in­law was a fan of popular songs based on movie musicals such as West Side Story and Oklahoma and could render them in a foot tapping way which the typical listener could hardly resist. Julia was not typical. “My son Gerald, you know, is in the West End music conservatory. He is quite excellent ­ top of his class you know, specializing in Mozart or Beethoven or some such thing... he’s in line for first place in the orchestra,” she confided to my wife.

“Oh, I imagine it’s beautiful when he plays for you at home? Probably plays non­stop?” Winnie said “Oh dear me, no,” there was unmistakable disdain in her voice, “we never see him playing at home ­ although we have a first class pianoforte (said with affected Italiano pronunciation)... He’s much too busy to play for me at home... constant rehearsals you know.”

She droned on and on while Lina’s tinkling tunes spilled happily over the warm carpet. Oh What A Beautiful Morning was easily and seamlessly followed

by Yellow Submarine. Julia half­heartedly sipped her tea and rather noisily placed the cup on the saucer, and then noisily placed the saucer on the wooden table. She was losing patience with the piano. She posed her wrist high in front of her face and slowly looked at her watch with one eybrow raised. Then she scanned over her dress and blouse, brushed a few imaginary crumbs off the material, and gazed around the room, pausing to half­smile at the chihuahua dozing sullenly behind the glass conservatory door.

Eventually, as we knew all along she would, Julia suggested, “Well, anyone for a rubber of bridge?” And as an afterthought she added, “Oh hahaha ...,” she laughed falsely, “but I suppose you Winnie won’t be too happy to lose again, oh dear, oh lord, haha... Still it’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it?” she lied entirely unconvincingly. “George, you’ll play of course,” and pharaoh’s Ethiopean nodded automatically.

Evelina stopped playing right in the middle of If I loved You, just where the lyrics hypothesized “off you would go in the mists of day.” Winnie raised one hand and stuttered, “Oh, n – no, Julia, please ­ it would be no fun for you...... ­ 13 ­

we’re not in your league you know.” She wanted to let Julia think again, and perhaps drop the idea of bridge.

Julia misunderstood of course and thought it was simply because my wife was afraid of losing, as she regularly did, and so she insisted with her false laugh again. “Oh, never mind about leagues and so on, you’ll enjoy it,” meaning of course that she would enjoy it.

When Julia played bridge Winnie and Lina never liked her competitive and supercilious ways. Julia had always been better at bridge with her superior method of bidding. Actually, the two sisters had always liked bridge but not in any competitive way. Indeed, over the past two years they had been going frequently to the weekly parish bridge tournament and had even had some lessons. They played regularly at home in the evenings and invariably dragged me in as their third, using a blind dummy. We all three enjoyed it. We only had one deck of cards and it was much the worse for wear. It was one of those decks where it had become possible to identify the king of spades and other cards from their dog ears. Julia of course knew nothing of our dog ears.

So with Julia bullying and talking non­stop, they launched into playing, and through superior bidding, the first game went predictably to Julia and George; but gradually the score turned in favor of the home team and they took the rubber thanks in part to the finesse in spades based on a certain dog­eared card observed in George’s hand. First one rubber, then a second, until Julia’s gush of enthusiasm drained away down the plughole of defeat. I sipped my tea and enjoyed with secret pleasure the irony while the game was being won by Winnie and her Lina, who were clearly no longer in the same league as Julia.

All through the dealing and score­keeping Julia chatted about her superior ways and friends, and about how her daughter was now up at Oxford. We offered the parallel information that our son was now an established local fishermen with his own boat and a good trade in Newbiggin. He spent practically all day every day out in his boat. To this the only comment she could contrive was, “My dear Winnifred, is it entirely safe for him to be in out there all day in stormy weather, in such a small boat, for a few fish?” I threw in a few words when she paused for breath... "Actually, there’s very little danger because my son knows our local waters and the local weather perfectly and he enjoys the sea enormously.” Without a glance at me she humphed with a raised eyebrow and turned to the cards.

After an hour or so of bridge, Julia stretched in an affected manner and suggested a stroll along the beach before they went home.

“George and I do three miles every day, you know. Keep fit ­ that’s our motto. Do you some good too, Winnie.” She suggested a couple of miles in the bracing sea air along the sands.

Risking another raised eyebrow, I chirped up with “Well, I should tell you my son said it was going to rain this afternoon ­ we get these sudden sea mists on ­ 14 ­

the coast here in late September and he’s pretty sure it’s gonna rain. I think I’ll stay in and have some more scones.”

The eyebrow was not raised and instead it was the dismissive blinking of eyelids followed by the far­off gaze out through the window. She spoke slowly and pronounced each word as if it were an elocution test, “George of course worked for years with the BBC meteorological service.”

The Ethiopean recognized his cue to speak, “It’s certainly not going to rain – just look at that blue sky. A walk is a fine idea, Julia ­ let the little dog have a run after being cooped up in the conservatory...”

We buttered up some more scones and Winnie made a fresh pot of tea, and the three of us watched the two figures and the tiny dog disappear in the distance down the sunny beach. Oh, the mist didn’t show for about half an hour, until they had walked out of sight about three miles away fom the house. But then it poured down all the way back. The dog of course enjoyed swimming and getting soaked in the sea and rolling in the sand too.

They got back drenched and we urged them to have some hot tea. But they decided to return home immediately to have a bath and dry off. Opening the garage door for the Bentley, George found the car covered in a layer of pieces of moss. The salt­corroded leaky garage roof had allowed the moss from the gutters to be washed in over the windshield and roof of the car. George pulled a face and swiped it all off as best he could, and then Julia sank with a sigh into the white leather seat as they all piled in to the car ­ and the dog all wet and sandy shook himself well on the leather seats . The cat stood up, looking at him smugly from the warm living room window, then stretched her back in an arch and sat down again, curling her tail luxuriously around her feet.

“Oh dear, Winnifred, I’m sure I don’t know how you survive with this cold place and this primitive existence. Such a lack of comfort and convenience is such a chore. You should have come and lived next to us in Darras Hall years ago you know,” she intoned with complete belief in what she was saying.

Then she added without reflection, “I think I’m developing another of those late summer colds again.”

Julia sniffled a little and brushed some sand from the seat as the engine started. Closing the door, she gave a perfunctory air­kiss to Winnie, glanced at me with an accusing look, and smiled an official smile that is appropriate on such important visits and occasions, and was whisked away back to civilization in Darras Hall.

Sydney is a schoolteacher of thirty years' practice, keen writer of poetry and stories, entered and won online competitions for poetry, enthusiastic amateur folk musician and singer. ­ 15 ­

Put the kettle on Isobel Davies

Quickly quickly, fix me fix me, let me write you a list of my brokenness, a to­do list for the handyman, a fix this and clear that and hurry up because there’s so much to get done today.

Can’t you see the mess? Don’t you see these piles of clutter, of broken and forgotten and misused, this dirt, ceiling fallen in, lying on the floor in heaps?

But you walk in, calm, you don’t even stumble over the mess, You put your toolbox down Put the kettle on Sit at the kitchen table.

I don’t need the list, you say Slow down, sit down, rest a minute. Let’s talk.

Let me show you my pace.

So we sit.

Sometimes, you pick something up from the floor and lay it on the table between us. It clears a small space on the ground; I’d forgotten what that floor looks like. You look at what you’ve picked up, look at me: What’s this? Does it hurt?

And I squirm: how dare you lay out my rubbish in front of me? I asked you to come and clean up, not confront me with my own mess, poke at sore wounds, shame me with my shame.

But your eyes are gentle, your voice kind.

So I give up the story to you. I lay it out, lay it bare. And it hurts to face it, to bring it up from the depth of me ­ but you listen and hold my hand while I cry, and when I’m done, you clear the table. I don’t know what you do, where you put it, but it’s gone.

The room’s a little brighter, the air a little cleaner.

You put the kettle on again.

­ 16 ­

Another cup of tea, rest, laughter. Conversation better than your average handyman.

And sometimes, when I’ve been distracted by the conversation, I look around the room again and it’s sparkling a bit more; there’s more space on the floor, more clutter gone and I didn’t even notice you doing it.

You’re the strangest worker I know, My house is falling down and I call you for help, and you sit at my table and look at me, talk to me, listen to me, and hours later (or days, weeks, months) I see that the strength of the house has returned. Rebuilt from the inside. Floor space to walk around without fear of what I might step on, not afraid of what I might disturb. Claiming this place back from the mess.

I look at you, exhale, feel myself relax, uncoil, not so tightly wound now.

Thank you for coming when I called you.

Stay a while ­ I’ll put the kettle on.

Issy is a third year French and Philosophy student, currently on her year abroad interning for a church in Normandy. She is spending her time working, knitting, exploring the countryside, drinking hot chocolate, and trying to find English tea. She has always wanted to write but never found herself inspired until this year; now she has discovered that it's basically a fancy extension of journaling, except you show it to people afterwards.

­ 17 ­

Etruscan Danielle Silverman Milord I am never remaining the same For as many times as I am uncovered I am buried ten times more For I have loved someone who loved someone Who biked to the fields with actual fireflies while their burned wings shared a kiss Under stars and under wheat and under bicycle grease gears and purple basket on the handlebars And under a thunderstorm that soaked the tower of Pisa Which reflected something greater within me That leaned the other way And under the eyes of Amsterdam Who only saw in orange and three princesses eternally minted on coins And under the Arno that flooded And under the notions of Italian love And under guilt and the burden of love And under the big dipper which drenched them in boiling starlight And under the celestial hand which poured while looking the other way And under Saint Peter who is truly under the church And under the whole of Tuscany Buried beneath the heads of rotating sunflowers Who bow their heads in prayer throughout the early light And into the wine which you drank And gave to drink So that love could be more tolerable Your existence reduced to the Madonnas in museums, the places for wandering eyes, so You cannot feel shame for the last drops Of oil Of wine Of the naked beauty of woman Or god

足 18 足

Photo by Ram Gupta Danielle is most commonly seen as the pink足haired archaeology first year, but she is also an amateur writer who gets most of her inspiration from her travels and the people she encounters. She has a collection of over a hundred thimbles from over 25 countries. She always carries around a copy of Howl, selected poems by Alan Ker, and a current journal. She sings opera in the shower (quite well apparently) and enjoys watching the white moths dance around the lamp outside my house, collecting the lint from the dryer, and secretly listening to the trains at night. 足 19 足

The Party Tom Bennett “I think Marianne’s becoming a problem.”

“A problem kind enough to invite you tonight.”

Rory’s comment, in any other context, would have been a fair response. But he was missing the point.

“Yeah, and that’s the problem – she invited me.”

Our hostess stood in the kitchen, entertaining other guests.

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.” Rory said, looking slightly puzzled. He often acts confused to draw out a criticism that he already knows is coming.

“Tonight, for example,” I said, pausing to consider the best way of phrasing things. ‘When you think about it, this party, it’s just another way for us to validate Marianne.”

I allowed Rory a moment to think it through for himself.

“Look at her now. She’s talking, obviously, but not to anyone in particular.

There are maybe five other people in there with her, but she never looks directly at them. And she does that for the same reason a stripper won’t pay too much attention to one bloke in the crowd. She needs you to be engaged, in a way, but not involved ­ do you know what I mean?”

Rory’s face appeared to collapse in confusion.

With a sympathetic chuckle, I continued to explain.

“The words don’t actually matter, as long as everyone is listening. I could probably tell you what’s she saying. Something about refurbishing the downstairs bathroom, or the weather in France this August; perhaps, she’s even treating everyone to a narrative of little Cassie’s recent GCSE exams.”

By this point, Rory had lost interest in my views on the matter. His eyes roamed the living room lazily. When he finally gathered the strength to get up, he asked if I wanted another drink. Naturally, I ignored him, to repay the favour. He could clearly see the half­full glass of gin and tonic in my hand. My gaze drifted back to the kitchen. Suddenly fuelled by intrigue, I heaved myself up and staggered over. I was far drunker than I initially thought. The booze had been gathering in me like rainwater in a blocked gutter.

As I drew closer, the self­indulgent tones grew louder. “It’s odd, really, you’d think it would be hotter in Calais at this time of year, but they’re saying it’s only 20, 25 on a good day.”

I noticed John ­ neighbour, former museum curator and general non­entity ­ ­ 20 ­

looking on with great intent.

“You all right, John?” I asked.

He looked at me sternly, his greying brow furrowed theatrically. “Mm, all right.”

I thought about trying to explain things to him, and decided that a direct approach was best. So, without any of the usual pre­amble, I leaned back against the granite table and launched a barely audible rant. “I can’t believe you can stand here and listen to this, to be honest. I’ve been in here for less than a minute and already feel like sticking my head in the Nutribullet Blender. You know she’s not even talking to you, don’t you, John? The drivel coming out of her mouth, it’s so hollow – there’s nothing to it. She may as well be in an empty room upstairs with a few dolls propped up around her.”

He avoided looking at me, but I was fairly certain I could see his ears twitching slightly.. As I turned to Marianne, I quickly realised she was about to change topics; a brief hush fell upon the room as she collected her thoughts.

“Jack, I didn’t even know you were here.”

It was over. I had reached the end of the tunnel and there was only more darkness. Before I even had a chance to reply, she began. “You said you couldn’t make it, and here you are. I suppose that’s Jack Stones for you; he says one thing and does another. I’m sure Cassie is beginning to do the same actually; just the other week, on the way back from her school disco­“ It was perfect. Rather than expose me in front of everyone, she simply prattled on. What a cruel punishment. While Marianne continued doing what came so naturally to her, I turned my attention to coming up with an interruption. It had always seemed so easy in my head, but I was lost. Her words suffocated mine.

“And that’s always been a strength of hers, you see. She bounces back from these things so well. Her teachers have told me that it’s very rare to see Cassie in a sullen mood for more than five minutes.”

OK, we’re still on Cassie.

“Marianne,” I murmured, briefly taken aback at how unfamiliar my voice sounded. She, too, flinched slightly, affording me some time to strike. I knew I had to be swift; an opportunity like this probably wouldn’t come again.

“As fascinating as Cassie’s life is, I can’t help but feel that no one really wants to hear all of it. Surely, even you’re getting tired of the same stories about your wonderful existence. Everyone in the village has already smiled politely, and complimented you on what a great job you’ve done with the back garden, which, as you often remind us, was a warzone when you arrived. I think it’s time you gave it a rest.”

Rory caught my eye with a look of shock. I couldn’t recall seeing him when I first came in; he had probably been there the whole time. Marianne had a similar look on her face, as did everyone else. I tried to stumble out, with the vague hope ­ 21 ­

that people would think drink was to blame, rather than months of resentment.

Before I had a chance to reflect, Rory appeared by my side, and guided me through various rooms, away from the buzz of gossip already building. The shocked expression on his face had turned to one of wary concern. “What was that about, mate? Have you had more to drink?” he asked tentatively.

“Weren’t you listening to me before? Someone had to tell her. I thought I handled it pretty well,” I said, barely concealing the nervous excitement in my voice.

Rory changed tone as he began criticising me, though I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. As he swung open the French doors, I just about caught his advice to breathe in the ‘sobering country air’.

I looked around. To Marianne’s credit, the garden really was very pleasant.

Tom is a second­year English student at Durham. Although he has longed to write for some time, and, indeed, harbours ambitions of pursuing it when he graduates, he has only begun writing seriously this year.

­ 22 ­

Cold Kenny Bhatia It’s cold here.

The temperatures dip Slowly, every day.

The Sun goes down A minute earlier tomorrow.

The frost spreads Through the room, to my flesh, Into my bones.

The heaters aren’t enough.

The blanket: so cold Like the uncomfortable conversations With long­lost friends.

The hot mugs of soup With the acquaintances here Are hardly warm.

They are nothing Like those hearty hugs, The truthful pecks On the tear­stained cheek, From mom In those sunny afternoons.

It’s a distant Sun That does not rise here.

And still, they say That winter is yet to come.

Kenny Bhatia is a first year undergraduate at Durham University studying English Literature. She is from India and is slowly absorbing the social and cultural differences of UK. She started writing poetry fairly recently but has always been passionate about the power of expression that poetry possesses. She really admires Margaret Atwood, Emily Bronte and John Donne as poets. Apart from poetry, she is also passionate about drama and singing and believes them to form a crucial part of her identity. ­ 23 ­

Ladybower James Kearney I guess it was nothing special.

We'd scribbled our way through the dales, inking our route on the map in black (now faded) and finally reached her.

The cars go quick, you observed as we stood together by a lane, gazing between road, hill and water.

I stepped away. Balancing our camera on the car roof, I ran back, crouched, nudged then held you.

Immortalised by a sudden, dazzling flash, we turned round and faced the lake then drove on, preparing to splinter.

Miles apart now, I still hold our photo: this cheap, laminated scrap of paper made magical by the thought of you laughing and doing the same thing too.

James Kearney is a first year English Literature and History student at St. John's College. He was inspired to write after reading his English teacher's published poetry collection, 'In the Dangerous Cloakroom' (Kathryn Daszkiewicz), which encouraged him to think about different, perhaps more unconventional, styles of writing. He is also particularly fond of Seamus Heaney's work and, more recently, that of Sheenagh Pugh and Owen Sheers. He was particularly impressed by the power of the BBC dramatisation of Simon Armitage's 'Black Roses: The Killing of Sophie Lancaster'. Other than writing, James is enthusiastic about the promotion of libraries, and enjoys walking and playing tennis! 足 24 足

An Angel of the Galaxy Ellie Ng It was the only question she ever spent time thinking about. There was a freedom in the idea that compelled her­ the thought that challenging gravity could rewrite everything we thought we knew.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to fly?

On her seventh birthday she made a wish, scattered the deepest cravings of her heart over the flame of the candles and shared her secret.

Sleep didn’t come that night and her body ached ached ached. The midnight hour swelled and receded and with the passing of the last midnight second, there was a burn in her back and, suddenly, a shifting of muscle and the dissolving of bones — her shoulder blades parted like sliding doors. Wings.

White, soft and smelling of home they were born from her back. As she stood, barefoot, on the cold floor, her dark hair unruly and spectacular, her small form childish but beautiful she was an angel. Glowing with iridescent light she felt warm for the first time in all the time she could remember. Out she flew from the window, leaving behind her dull room and stiff bed and the beeping noises that never let her sleep. She swam on the currents of the wind and followed the trail of moonlight, as bright as the notes of promise and safety in the beating of her wings. She left the Earth and followed the scent of the sun, bowing to the golden king and diving though his burning core. She watched the planets circle each other, being intimate in the only way they could be. She ran along Saturn’s rings and he smiled. She lit the supernovas with matchsticks and watched as they exploded, a star dying the way it should, with colour and light and brilliance.

Away and away she drifted from sound and sense until she floated, an angel of the galaxy with her wings spread out and her heart an open door to keep the whole world safe.

Her parents found her the next morning, cold and unmoving in the hospital bed­ the beeping noises joining together in one flat tone. She watched them cry and lit a star and hoped that somehow, someday they would begin to feel warm again.

Ellie Ng is a first year English Literature student. She was born and grew up in Hong Kong, so studying at Durham has proved startlingly different from anything she is used to, but it has been a real adventure so far (one that she is quite happy to continue experiencing). ­ 25 ­

Tea Ellen Orange The hiss of the heat steadily builds. The pressure begins to mount. It gets louder. More violent. It's bubbling, shaking until... Click. The noise falls and calm fills the room once again, flooding into me like water into the mug. Tea bag, water, milk, sugar. Today was a sugar day.

As banal as it is, making tea was highly relaxing for me. Almost therapeutic. All the pent up energy, the pressure the tension, subsides with that one click of a boiled kettle. It's as if pouring the water releases all of that emotion.

I breathe in the steam and nurse the hot mug, momentarily enjoying the catharsis.

My love of a good cuppa goes back a long time, to being about seven years old. My Nanna would make me tea all the time, and I would sit by the fire nursing my mug, blissfully oblivious in my youth. Then, a little older, I learnt to make it for her too. I loved the responsibility and it became tied to good memories. Tea become my answer to everything. It would cure my travel sickness on long journeys, it would motivate me when work, it would warm me up on cold afternoons and it would set me up for the day every morning.

I wrap my fingers around the warm china of the mug and nestle into the corner of our plush, burgundy sofa, tucking my feet beneath me for warmth. Tea is a fix all; stressed or upset the first thing to do is put the kettle on.

Then I remember that as I grew old enough to have known better, the family fights, often resulting in tears and more, being remedied and forgotten simply by putting the kettle on. As I nursed my current mug, these memories sift back to the surface. They feel like a long time ago, in a far­away place.

Sometimes they feel real, like if I open my eyes I would be back in that dim, artificially lit, claustrophobic sitting room, my eyes unable to stream any more tears, my head pounding and spinning. But today they feel intangible, abstract like a half­remembered dream or something I read in a novel. Sometimes I indulge myself, separating the blur of memories, searching for that one point, the trigger.

Perhaps I'm over­romanticising, allowing myself to delve into a cliché.

Life is not based around one single event. It is a sequence, a continuation. 'Now' is not simply the product of one moment, one instance when life changed. It is a result of all that has come before it, and all that could become of it. The opportunities, hopes and possibilities for the future are just as defining as the 'what­ifs' and actualities of the past. I'll never be accused of looking back with a ­ 26 ­

rose­tinted view, but the future, well that bathes in the glow of a summer sun, or the flicker of a log fire in winter. I is difficult to romanticise or idealise a life that has been lived, in all of its mundane reality, hurt and disappointment.

Tomorrow, however, now that holds an infinite number of possibilities.

Well not quite tomorrow, as I know tomorrow will be the same as today, mostly. But one of those tomorrows. Everyone dreams of something. For some it is change, escapism, adventure and excitement, to break out of the monotony of everyday. For others it is a goal, a climax, perhaps long desired success. And for others it is the simple monotony of a comfortable life. I'm not going to lie, I'm greedy, I wanted all of these things. But all I had right now was the cold, empty house, and my hot mug of tea, steaming. I couldn't decide if the silence was peaceful or eerie. I couldn't decide what to do. Making tea was supposed to help me think. But now it was made, the momentary pause was over, and life was moving again. The old­fashioned clock in the hall, inherited from my Nanna, struck the hour. He would be home soon, what would I tell him?

Photo by Jenny Avdoi A book lover from Newcastle­upon­Tyne, Ellen came to Durham to do her BA in English Studies and three years later she is still studying, this time for an MA in Twentieth and Twenty­First Century Literature. She is a member of Trevelyan College, where she is MCR Social Secretary, and she works in a local bar and restaurant. She has written for various blogs, student publications, online magazines and even a local lifestyle magazine, however she is just starting off with writing fiction. She is very creative and loves reading, seeing plays, photography – and her newest venture is learning to knit! ­ 27 ­

Eggs Hana Kapetanovic The smell of eggs frying told him it was Sunday morning. Arthur shuffled into the kitchen and kissed me on the cheek before sitting down at the table. He read his book and I continued cooking.

“Arthur, do you ever think about the eggs?”

He lowered the newspaper to look at me. I turned around to face him.

“Not really,” he replied.

“It sounds stupid doesn’t it? It’s just that... I had a thought.”

“Go on,” he said, disappearing behind the newspaper as I turned back to the stove.

“Well, I just think it’s sad how these eggs could have become living, breathing chickens but instead they’re lying dead in my frying pan. It’s sad, isn’t it?”

“They’re unfertilised.”

“What?”

“The eggs are unfertilised so they can’t become chickens.”

“Oh.” I paused. “Well they still could have been fertilized but they weren’t, because of us. I wonder how mother hens feel about that. It’d be like having a miscarriage every day of your life. Imagine.”

“I guess it’s lucky that you won’t have to experience that then.”

“Yes. Because we don’t want children.”

“Exactly.”

“Yes.” I turned off the stove and moved over to the chopping board.

“So that’s decided then? No children ever?”

“Leila, we’ve talked about this.”

“Yes, I know, sorry. Sorry.”

I chopped into the silence while he watched me carefully.

“It’s just that sometimes my mother will call me and she might as well have saved me the small talk and just imitated the ticking sounds of my biological clock. Sometimes I see these annoying mothers and their children…”

“We can’t afford a child.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t lost your job.”

We both thought about this.

“Sorry. That was unfair.”

“It’s fine.” ­ 28 ­

“I just can’t get the thought out of my mind. What’s wrong with me? But I know. We can’t have a child.”

The cutting stopped.

“I love you,” I whispered.

Nothing.

I resumed chopping, faster now.

“History professor at a university, £70,000 per annum,” he muttered.

“What?”

“There’s a job going as a history professor in London, good pay.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Come on, I’ve always loved history. And London.”

“Sweetie,” I lingered on the word, almost sickening myself, “Our life is wonderful the way it is now, don’t you think? Besides, London is so far.”

“I know.”

“You’re saying you want to get away?”

He had stood up, as if to answer my question.

“No… of course not. My life is here.”

The way his mouth moved was no longer convincing. I handed him a plate of food.

“The eggs are cold,” he remarked.

They were.

Hana studies Arabic and Politics, but has always used writing as an escape. As a child, she wrote mainly prose, but writes more peotry now. At 11, she attempted to write a novel in a Victorian writing voice, which was, of course, terrible. Hopefully she has progressed since then, and has had work published in various anthologies (often online recently) and has won minor places in some minor competitions.

­ 29 ­

Tea Grains and Babes Hana Kapetanovic INTERVIEWER (To camera) We're here interviewing the employees of a small seed farm in West Yorkshire for a little segment we like to call 'Grains and Babes'.

(Turnstoemployees,allmenexceptone,theyalllooklike they've literally just come from milking a cow. Perhaps they have) (Addressed to the only woman) So, what does feminism mean in the grain business?

Me?

WOMAN

(Looks around and sees all men) Oh. Well, as a woman, I think the seeds are doing well this year. I mean, we had the odds stacked against us ­ they all said it was going to be a wheat year ­ They?

INTERVIEWER

WOMAN The wheat men.

INTERVIEWER So it’s quite a male­dominated business?

WOMAN You could say that. But my dad always said: women are like seeds. And seeds can’t sow other seeds.

INTERVIEWER What about you?

WOMAN Some seeds can. But, like, those that don’t like shopping and stuff.

INTERVIEWER So what do you think when you hear the word ‘feminism’?

­ 30 ­

WOMAN Well, as both a woman and a HUMAN BEING who once shat herself whilst milking a cow…

(Murmurs of agreement/approval from other farmers) INTERVIEWER Is that meant to be relatable ­ WOMAN … I think we can ALL agree that although feminism is complicated, that whether you've excreted whilst milking a cow or not, it comes down to one simple thing.

INTERVIEWER Right, exactly, it comes down to one thing ­ WOMAN It’s all about the quality of the soil.

INTERVIEWER Like a metaphorical…?

WOMAN That is all I have to say on the matter, thank you.

(Pause) INTERVIEWER Anyone else?

MAN 1 As a HUMAN BEING who has also shat himself while milking a cow – (gives female farmer a comforting look as if to say 'we've all been there') – I agree.

MAN 2 As a BRITISH MAN who has PROUDLY shat himself whilst milking a cow…

(Cheers erupt from fellow farmers) INTERVIEWER (Looking worriedly around) Is this place sanitary…?

MAN 2 … I think that there are enough women in the biz – that's short for business.

But really, feminism isn't just about the grain business – Yes, I ­

INTERVIEWER

­ 31 ­

MAN 2 It's about all of us. It's about the British nation. It's about schools overrun by immigrants.

(Interviewer was nodding up until now) It's about how spicy my toothpaste is in the morning, because of Sharia law.

(Cheers erupt again) INTERVIEWER We'll probably have to end it here.

(To woman) Any last words for women in the grain business?

WOMAN TODAY, as a woman, I blew on my soup and yet... It was still too hot.

Thanks Obama.

INTERVIEWER Okay... Thank you all very much. Now back to Oliver with the weather.

足 32 足

If you'd like to get involved with the next issue, read our submission guidelines and send us some work on the theme of 'change' by Friday 26th February.

We'd also be delighted to read your entries to our annual competition, judged by Helen Mort and Debbie Taylor. We are accepting poetry, flash fiction and short fiction, with more guidelines on our website. There will be cash prizes (£50 for first place in each category) and other prizes to be announced for second and third place.

Enter before Sunday 24th January.

Debbie Taylor will be judging the short fiction and flash fiction entries. Debbie founded the women’s writing magazine Mslexia in 1999 and is now its Editorial Director. She was trained originally as a psychologist, but has earned her living as a writer for the last 30 years. Her nonfiction books include My Children My Gold, a travelogue about single mothers in seven countries, and Women: A World Report. She has also researched and written documentary films about women in the Third World. Her fiction is equally widely travelled, and she has published four novels set in locations as varied as Zimbabwe, 18th century Morocco, Crete (where she does most of her creative work these days) and – much closer to home – North Shields.

Helen Mort will be judging the poetry section. Helen was born in Sheffield. Her first collection Division Street was shortlisted for the Costa Prize and the T.S. Eliot Prize and, in 2014, won the Fenton Aldeburgh Prize. She is the Douglas Caster Cultural Fellow at The University of Leeds and has a PhD from The University of Sheffield.

fromthelighthousemag.com ­ 33 ­

from the lighthouse