We Are Here : Hillingdon Literary Festival 2019 Anthology

We Are Here

We Are Here Hillingdon Literary Festival 2019 Community Creative Writing Anthology Edited by Ada Kalu and Sebastian Jenner

Championing the diverse voices of the London Borough of Hillingdon

Published in 2019 by Hillingdon Literary Festival Brunel University London Kingston Lane Uxbridge Middlesex UB8 3PH United Kingdom www.HillingdonLiteraryFestival.com Š All rights reserved The Copyright of each contribution rests with the individual artist and authors and no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the individual artist or author.

BRITISH LIBRARY CATALOGUING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA A full record of this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-9085494-5-7 Printed and bound in the UK by Minuteman Press Uxbridge

Contents Welcome – Professor William Leahy

1

Foreword – Professor Philip Tew

3

Introduction – Ada Kalu

4

Vivien Brown Posted

7

Selma Carvalho There Where the Trees Are

9

Lynda Anderson Grounded

16

Macauley Foster Coming Up

18

Katherine Armstrong The Girl in the Wall

21

Kasparas Pakalnis The Short Life of Sal Adams

30

Iris Mauricio myself, the leverage

37

Angela Narayn I Can Feel the Wind on My Skin

40

Chloe Perrin Beneath the Willow Tree

43

Sarah Alqaood Who Shot the Narrator?

49

Philip Marriner Room 7

51

Connor Michie Unto this earthly domain

62

John Donegan The Suburban Spectrum Analysis

64

Sithulisiwe A Wabatagore City of Old

66

Daiana Lungu We Are Here

73

Hannah Ward The Grief Symphony

79

Joanne Wythe Mother

81

Dominic Matthews Metro

83

Kasey Smith Stand Still

84

Adele Franklin What about heaven?

86

Keith Sterrow Canny Granny

91

Eric Arnett I Like A Sarnie

96

Jodie Portugal The Prisoner in Cell Block Five

98

Anil Mitra A professional immigrant; reality of my working life

112

Maleeha Mansur Liberated Women

115

Max Hallam HYLĂ„TĂ„

117

Grace Quansah Put the Black Back

121

Madeline Vallins Where She Falls

124

Welcome Professor Bill Leahy Vice Provost for Students, Staff and Civic Engagement Brunel University London At Brunel University London, we are committed to promoting young and emerging talent and to playing an active part in the local community – so I am delighted that this creative writing competition, We Are Here, is a key part of the fifth Hillingdon Literary Festival. You can see from the entries contained in this anthology that there is no shortage of writing talent in Hillingdon.

I understand our aim in launching the competition was to provide a platform for the diverse voices here at Brunel and across the Borough – and as you can see from what follows, we have certainly achieved this!

Getting published is always a challenge for new writers and any help they can receive along the way is very welcome. I hope those included in the volume – and especially the overall winner – are very proud of their achievements.

We are – as indeed the Hillingdon Literary Festival itself shows – determined to be of and for our local community; working to build strong, mutually beneficial partnerships, but we also

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want to help our students and those we support in Hillingdon achieve and value excellence.

The competition and anthology would not have been possible without, on the one hand, the hard work of our judges and editors – Claire Lynch, Philip Tew, Seb Jenner and Ada Kalu – and on the other, our sponsors: the London Borough of Hillingdon and Heathrow Airport.

Good luck to all those whose work is contained in this volume. We look forward to reading more of your work in the near future.

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Foreword Professor Philip Tew Director, Hillingdon Literary Festival and the Brunel Centre for Contemporary Writing A creative writing anthology has become a firm feature of the annual Hillingdon Literary Festival (HiLF), hosted by Brunel University London and organised by the Brunel Centre for Contemporary Writing (BCCW) in collaboration with the London Borough of Hillingdon. Those producing this current volume are delighted to draw from both parts of the community of Hillingdon that were traditionally referred to as ’town’ and ‘gown’ (in other words, to be more contemporary, the local community and that of Brunel University which is embedded in that larger community).

Much as HiLF does, this anthology seeks to foster an ongoing tradition of collaboration between town and gown through the medium of literature, approached both as consumers (readers) and producers (writers) that are the key elements and lifeblood of any such festival. The BCCW aspires to act as a bridge between these two sectors, and inspire and foster a creative presence in Hillingdon that can thrive all year round.

We hope ever more people will contribute creatively in future and also attend HiLF6 in 2020. So in such a democratic spirit of literary self-expression and appreciation for all, please read and enjoy the poetry and prose contained in this year’s publication.

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Introduction Ada Kalu Festival Administrator and Co-Editor You don’t have to go far for talent, it’s all right here in the Borough – so apparent at each Hillingdon Literary Festival. Hence why we continue to organise a community creative writing competition and associated anthology each year, seeking to champion the talent in our area.

Hillingdon is often overlooked in the grandeur and magnetic pull to central London. This year’s anthology We Are Here tackles that, it is a reminder that Hillingdon is a vibrant creative hub. Our anthology also seeks to inspire and motivate our community to continue creating, and to start even if you don’t think you have anything to say. More than ever, we need make our voices heard.

The entries this year were incredible, read with pleasure and awe. Our only regret is that we do not have the space to publish more. Thank you for your submissions, it’s been an honour to champion such amazing work.

This collection is made freely available to the community, distributed at the Festival, to all

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seventeen terrific Hillingdon libraries, and online for ebook download. We trust you’ll enjoy reading the proud and brilliant voices of our community.

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POSTED

By Vivien Brown A backlog of almost 50 million letters is being cleared today after postal workers accepted a deal to end their industrial action. It is estimated it could take up to two weeks to deliver all held-up mail. (May 2001) At numbers two and six and eight the letters pile up in the hall: the junk mail and postcards and bills (mostly late), where for weeks they did not come at all.

But a tear rolls down the wrinkled cheeks of the woman at number four.

It’s the first time she’s heard from her grandson in weeks, bringing hope that was not there before.

He’s been posted overseas, far away, but his photo stands proud in its frame.

She talks to it, kisses the glass every day.

It’s a help, but it’s just not the same.

She has trouble with the telephone; her hearing’s not good any more.

And the worldwide web is an alien zone she would never dare try to explore.

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The postman’s a lifeline, helping her cope with her loneliness, making life better.

Though he knows her name from the envelope, still, to him, it was only a letter.

He’s a backlog to clear, he’s fast on his feet.

Her movements are painful, unsound.

When she reaches the door, he’s moved on down the street.

She waves… but he doesn’t look round.

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There Where the Trees Are

By Selma Carvalho There on the hem of London, the Metropolitan line comes to a stop and a 30-minute drive towards Heathrow Airport takes you home. There, the smokeless chimneys of brick-brown buildings look Dickensian and the Bangla Butcher Boys feed Fagin’s famished. There the night is as still as the fluorescent streetlamps that light it and a melon moon hovers above shiftless leaves wilting brown.

When on autumn’s early arrival, the day blooms in a pool of pale light, dog walkers in track pants trundle past pavements overgrown with fruiting brambles flashing red berries. Tangles and thicket cling to fluted wooden fences. Restless commuters with backpacks check bus schedules on cell phones. Squalls of shrieking children return to primary school and Head Teacher Bates, bespectacled and overwhelmed, welcomes them in, clanging the gates shut behind them. Humanity of every hue swells and swirls amidst the new builds built in anticipation of the Crossrail.

Arabic mixes with Armenian, and Polish and Punjabi linger like strains of sung psalms.

There, she opens her oven and thinks it rather small and grimy, and no, a head wouldn’t fit into that.

But she’s being silly because it’s electric and what good would it do for a head to fit into it? Through her -9-

window she can see horses tethered in the open field fenced in by the library, a barn conversion, bereft of sheaves but for the books that line its bespoke shelves.

On the other side, the asphalt leaches into the field, barrel-bellied cement mixers line the approach and wisps of wood dust ghost above iron pillars plunged into the earth. Yellow hard-hats in high-visibility vests yell out instructions for this and that. There the horses are occasionally called on to lead a Travellers’ hearse down the narrow streets trotting alongside mourners carrying pink flowered wreaths.

Di comes to meet her in the afternoon and together they walk past Mattie’s Salon, the air singed with the smell of peroxide. Next to it is The Six Bells serving beer to stragglers from the St. Michael’s charity drive.

They sit on the garden bench and order roast chicken and cider. Di’s had a hard time of it of late. Two years ago, she started talking to people on TV. ‘Life’s a roll of lotteries,’ Di says, looking at her plate, her young face awash with pimples. ‘I didn’t win the genetic lottery.’

‘You look fine to me,’ she tells Di, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘Derrick’s left me,’ Di informs her.

‘He’ll be back.’

‘I don’t know about him. He wears eyeliner.’

‘Then you don’t want him back. A girl simply can’t share her eyeliner.’

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They laugh. They can say these things to each other. They’ve been friends since primary. They leave The Six Bells just as the secondary school students in blue blazers swarm the bus stop, pounding the red bus’s rump with angry adolescent fists; their testosterone-fuelled tirades missile at the bus driver who yells at them to pipe down or else.

There where the last of the summer geraniums hang in hives from lamp posts, past the police station and the Tesco Metro which used to be the Fox & Hounds, spikey-haired boys spin bikes in the park and young children play watched over by their mums and dads. There is the cherub with her Indian mum and English dad, with hair of spun gold and skin of milktea white, romping in the sandbox and sliding down slides.

‘They say the ghosts of unborn children hover in the air where little kids play.’ Di says mournfully, watching the elm trees fidget their leaves with fright.

‘You’re talking nonsense, Di.’ Unborn children don’t turn into ghosts; they’re clayclumps of blood spearing down thighs; they’re whooshing amniotic water washing feet. They’re the anguished look on a young A&E doctor, telling you, ‘you’ll be lucky next time – luckier’.

‘I’m sorry Di. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that it still hurts. A lot.’

Di nods. She grabs Di’s hand. ‘I need to do something.’

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‘What is it?’ Di asks, saucer-eyed.

‘You’ll see.’

They walk up the wooden bridge steeply arched over the muddy canal, lined with yellow limestone houses whose balconied windows overlook coffee shops, florists and parked Ford Fiestas. She buzzes the intercom to flat no. 1 and pretends to be the Amazon delivery lady. Then they run up the carpeted stairwell and stop breathless at flat no 22.

‘We’re going in.’

‘How?’ ‘I still have this,’ she slips her hand in her pocket and pulls out a key. She turns it in the lock and pushes open the door.

‘I can’t be here,’ Di protests, ‘if they find out, I’ll be sectioned again. This sort of reckless behaviour got me in trouble last year.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t be long,’ she says, her heart pounding, her hands clammy, her legs wobbly.

The flat is exactly as she remembered it; the living room littered with unwashed clothes and half-drunk coffee mugs. She walks to the kitchen, opens the fridge and pulls out a Miller Lite from the top shelf. She takes a few quick sips and feels sick to the stomach. She walks back to the living room, tosses aside shirts left on the sofa and motions to Di to sit. She switches on the TV. ‘Are they talking to you Di?’ - 12 -

‘No, of course not,’ Di replies indignantly.

‘And even if they were, that’s alright,’ she says squeezing Di’s hand, ‘you’re my best ma’e.’

She switches off the TV and starts walking towards the bedroom. Di follows her. The bed is swept up in piles of pillows and stale sheets. Tom was never tidy at the best of times and he was worse when he’d had someone over for the night. She smells Tom on the sheets. The way he smelt after they’d made love. She drops to her knees.

‘Oh please don’t do this.’ Di begs, ‘Whatever you’re planning on doing, don’t do it. Let’s just leave before Tom gets back. Before he calls the police.’

‘I’ll only be a minute.’

She looks under the bed. There where Tom’s ship-like shoes are berthed with tangled laces of black, there where idle dust motes lie, is the blue box he keeps hidden from everyone. She pulls it out from under the bed and opens it.

‘Found it,’ she says, looking into the box.

‘What is it?’

‘The Ben Okri book I gave him last Christmas.’

She sits cross-legged on the carpet and begins reading from Songs of Enchantment: ‘We didn’t see the seven mountains ahead of us. We didn’t see how they were always ahead, always calling us, always reminding us that there were more things to be done …’

‘We’ve got to go. I can’t be here,’ Di pleads.

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‘Okay but I’m taking this with me.’

They leave the bedroom and close the door behind them. They run down the stairwell and into the dark.

In the park, someone has started a bonfire for paperwinged fairies; blonde ones and dark-haired ones; tear-streaked ones and sleepy ones; some with their hands wound tightly around their dads’ necks; others standing bravely by themselves, all intently staring into the flames; a childhood pyro-fascination which never really fades. They spot Zofia, the receptionist from Dr Channa’s surgery, standing amidst the crowd, and Father Thomas of St. Catherine’s Church holding a red missal. Miss Yannic, the primary school music teacher has started to sing What the World needs now is Love, sweet Love. The crowd courses through the chorus, singing full-throated, rocking back and forth, so that no one is left in doubt of their fine moral timbre. Bespectacled Mr Bates, an owlet amongst the doves and the fairies, is holding up the day’s newspaper headlines which read: ‘Refugees Flee War Torn Areas’. Was that Tom holding a candle? No, it wasn’t. The crowd surges and shifts, and eventually flows up into the lighted street, and back into the safe, warm homes of Hillingdon.

‘I need to get home,’ Di wails, pulling at her arm, ‘I can’t really stay out this late. Mam will be calling to check on me.’

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‘Check on you? This is the 21st century Di. Doesn’t she call your cell phone?’

Di looks crestfallen. ‘No, she calls the landline.

She’s Mam. She needs to know I’m home. When you start talking to people on the TV, nobody trusts you.

Not even your Mam.’ ‘Okay,’ she says, ‘we’ll go home soon. I just want to do one more thing.’

They walk now in sombre silence past the shedding oak and soaring poplars, past the wooden railing wound up in weeds, leaves crunching underfoot, until they reach the weeping willow.

‘What are we doing here?’ asks Di, her arms wrapped around herself.

‘You’ll see.’

She kneels to the ground and starts to claw the raw earth with her bare hands until an indentation big enough to fit a rabbit appears. She places the Ben Okri book in the crater and begins to cover it up with the freshly dug mud.

‘Why?’ ‘Perennials my dear Di, perennials. The roots survive the winter and re-sprout in spring.’

‘But why Ben Okri?’

‘Because Di, you and I still have mountains to climb and dreams to dream.’

She slips her arm around Di and together they walk back home.

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Grounded

By Lynda Anderson This is where I grew, From sapling to maturity, swaying through the years, splintering off the dead wood, shedding fair-weather leaves, bending through the stormy heaviness of tears.

This is where I stand, sheltering and shading, majestic in my prime, this is where I recollect and recreate and represent and meditate and muse upon the passage of the time.

It won't be long before I fall.

My roots go deep, I feel the same, sturdy, sappy and strong, but someone will come to cut me down right here where I used to belong.

Seasons speed past quickly now and everything round me seems wrong.

Yet here I am, with twisted twigs and quaint oldfashioned ways, remembering the passing of gentle sepia days.

I don't tell you how to live, or who to love, or what to do, in the path of litter-strewn torrents of change, here I am.

I live here too.

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By Jacqueline Chesta

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Coming Up

By Macauley Foster You fashioned me from gossamer and sequin-studded silk My cigaretted femme fatale with special k and milk Mascara running, faggy music, Mac cosmetics, six-inch heels Morning glory, acid pancakes, another week of missing meals I swiped right then you swiped too, you got me high then I touched you You asked me if I’d smoked before, I’d had a spliff or two for sure You rolled a joint, you passed it quick, I spent an hour being sick I woke up dizzy in your bed, I just remembered giving head Lip sync battles in the lounge, Lidl branded coffee grounds Nicotine on your tongue, wrap my fingers round your gun Sisal two-step, triple As, you think they’ve noticed that we’re gays?

David Bowie in the dark, drinking absinthe in the park

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You’re scared of tablets, I hate knives, every day feeling alive The candle that burns twice as bright, burns the house down in the night Put your fingers round my throat, I’ll call you daddy while I choke You’re scared of spiders, mind is keen, my curly-headed libertine You weave me dreams with purple thread on anaesthetic looms Silver starbursts in my eyes, you’re like living life on shrooms Post traumatic fight or flight, you taught me how to rest Dissociation everywhere, I’m in my head a guest I’ve spent eight months coming up, my chaos-spilleth-over cup I want to hold you in my arms, lightly scarred from self-harm You’re my new Achilles’ Heel, I’m in your arms, I want to kneel I kiss you deep, I wanna fuck, this comedown’s gonna fucking suck We tried a three way, he touched your cock, - 19 -

I threw him out, I turned the lock Look in my eyes, I’m on MD, collared, chained, but feeling free I’m coming up beyond belief, you stole my heart, you cosmic thief You’re my snuffle snuggle boy, turn me into your love toy The sun comes up as we come down, our makeup’s run, we look like clowns Cigarettes, vanilla Coke, zero sugar, life’s a joke I’ll try a sluggish magic trick, this ketamine has got a kick I love you more than you know, I beg you babe, don’t let go.

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The Girl in the Wall

By Katherine Armstrong It was a Sunday in October when Heather met the little girl who lived under the windowsill.

She had woken up in the afternoon. Her body, too afraid to expose itself, was stuck, sweaty, between the bedsheets. Someone had opened the curtains while she slept, but Heather wasn’t used to such bright light. So, she’d closed them again, cursing under her breath and wondering why some words existed if they weren’t allowed to be said. It was probably her mum who’d let the light in. Idiot. Later, she would laugh at herself for being so pointlessly angry. It was easy to blame these things on her age and her ‘time of the month’ instead of looking in the mirror and having to notice her bluetinged skin, or the hair that came out in clumps when brushed.

It was comfortably silent. The cars on the main road droned on and on and the washing machine grumbled. Her sister, Anna, was at Hannah’s house and her mother was at Sainsbury’s and her father had an ‘important’ meeting. But who knows what they were really doing? She knew her father wasn’t sticking to his diet. Three biscuits were missing from the tin; how many other lies could have been committed?

Heather peeled her sticky skin from the sheets and decided to finally open the curtains and face the day.

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She brushed off the fine coating of dead skin cells, moth limbs and crumbs from the windowsill.

As the washing machine came to a stop, a sudden, unusual breathy sound emanated from somewhere in the bedroom. It could have been the draught, she thought, or the radiator making strange noises again, but didn’t it sound like a yawn? Heather dragged her finger underneath the windowsill, perhaps to revel in its dirtiness. She felt a bump. Then, holding her back and moving with the speed of a woman five times her age, she stooped down. Underneath the windowsill, she found a door.

The door was white, hard to spot against the paint of her bedroom walls, and the door handle was the long-missing wheel of her sister’s Polly Pocket convertible car, also painted white. Heather didn’t open the door straight away. She was reminded of a story she’d read when she was younger: Pandora’s Box. What if all the evils of the world were contained inside the walls of her suburban, semi-detached, bogstandard house? She decided she didn’t care; the world was evil enough now and adding a little more wouldn’t change much. Her face scrunched up like wastepaper as she strained her eyes looking into the dimly lit hollow.

There was a bed in the room: a matchbox with a torn-off piece of tea towel for a duvet. Heather noticed a button from her favourite dress with the cherry - 22 -

blossom print, being used as a table, propped up by pencil lead. Every amenity could be found in this minuscule abode: ice chips to keep pieces of salami and stilton cheese fresh, one of those tiny eyebrow combs for a hairbrush (Heather could see brown hairs caught in its teeth), even a plastic doll-house bath with a tap, which somehow looked to be connected to the house’s water pipes. Suddenly another door at the back of the room opened, and in walked a girl who looked of primary school age. She was about the size of a fifty pence coin.

The little girl yawned for a second time and brushed back a mass of knotted hair that had fallen in front of her face. She looked neither frightened nor startled, at seeing a glistening eye larger than her whole body in the doorway.

‘That’s my button,’ Heather whispered. ‘It belongs to a dress; a special dress I bought on holiday.’

The girl walked up to the doorway and Heather moved back and smoothed out her squinted face.

The little human creature was named Erica, a loquacious but obviously gifted eleven-year-old.

Heather forgot about the aching of her bent back as she listened, mouth agape as she talked incessantly about her school and her hobbies, and a recent flood that had destroyed her previous home when a rat had urinated in the water system. Heather was entirely in awe at this peculiar, small person, and let her keep the button.

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After all, it must be hard to find a suitable table when you’re only two centimetres tall.

During the weeks that followed, Heather’s mother had no need to open the curtains; Heather did that.

She woke up before her alarm and sometimes even before her parents. She would sit in the living room, sipping her tea slowly, waiting to surprise them. But, best of all, Erica came to school with her. Anywhere Heather went, Erica followed. She stood on top of a pen lid and a bit of pencil eraser in Heather’s pocket and peered out whenever no-one else was looking.

The journey to school was a short one. It had once seemed long and tedious, but Heather felt as though it was new again. The dew on the grass glittered and reflected all the colours of the oak and sycamore trees with their specks of pink blossom. The gum-covered, mismatched pavement was a patchwork of every happy memory shared by people who’d walked the same street. Each ant and spider had its story and the barking dogs whose owners had left them in the front yard no longer made Heather jump; she stopped to pet their shiny fur.

At school, Erica would whisper to Heather. The older boy with the blonde hair is looking at you. The girl with the banana-shaped birthmark doesn’t hate you, she’s just shy. They would make sure to get a seat at the back of the classroom, away from the other students. They talked about everything; from the extra sliver of grey - 24 -

on the teacher’s scalp, to what would happen if someone came into the classroom with a gun and sprayed each wall with shades of scarlet and crimson, mixing with the ink of posters on the walls. But it was a maths lesson, not an art lesson. Heather giggled.

May was a month of meetings; an abundance of talks with teachers about late homework and poorly done essays. Heather had written a single word in an exam before she gave up and threw her head in her hands. After all, what did school matter when she had discovered a scientific miracle in her bedroom wall?

On another walk to school, rain pummelled down like tiny, sparkling bullets. It hit Heather’s bare skin harder than the drizzles of previous days and left her hands dry and red. May wasn’t supposed to be this cold. It was like her own personal bubble of frost was following her around.

Heather’s pocket was empty. No one stood on top of the pen lid in her pocket.

Erica had said she needed to go away for a while. An emergency. Heather had forgotten how to be without her and so she decided not to be at all.

One evening, after Heather’s parents had tried to understand why yet another teacher was ‘worried’ about Heather (she had fallen asleep in class again), Erica was waiting for her on the windowsill. She jumped up and down to get Heather’s attention. But Heather wasn’t excited to see her. She dragged herself - 25 -

over to the window; eyes dull and glazed over like a frosted car window in winter.

‘Why did you go? Why did you have to leave? I needed you.’ Her voice grew louder, and her quivering lips stood still. A tear rested on the tip of her nose. She spoke hurriedly as if her mouth had been full of words, about to burst. ‘I’m completely lost. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t studied at all. I can’t even stay awake. My parents are so disappointed. I’m so tired.’

It seems like you don’t have much of a future, she thought she heard Erica say, as the girl, so small she could be squashed under a shoe, headed back behind the inner door of her little house.

A few minutes later, Erica strolled back in and seated herself in the doorway, her legs hanging over the edge. She told Heather that she knew what to do and that she was always very good at giving advice.

Heather listened for hours. The puddles of salty water on her face built up and gushed down like miniature waterfalls, over and over again. She didn’t brush away her tears. Nothing mattered now; she had found a way out.

It was strange, Heather thought, how something (or someone) so small could be so significant. Erica was like the pea under the tower of mattresses the princess slept on; Heather couldn’t help but feel her presence.

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They talked deep into the evening, until her mother, father and sister were asleep. The sound of rushing water was muffled by their snores.

Heather got into the bath at four am. The entirety of her skin was already wrinkling as if it was clinging on desperately for its life. She looked at the clock again.

Five am. Her father would be awake in an hour. But then again, maybe she’d read the time wrong, it had seemed quite blurred. Years ago, she would bathe nearly every day, and there were so many bath products she’d use like bubble bath that turned the water a bright blue. This time the water was a deep red. One opening she’d said, and everything would be fine. One dark act for a bright future.

Heather used up the last of her energy to turn towards the door and called out into the dark.

‘Erica…is this it? Erica?’

No one answered. *** It was a Sunday and the white-walled bedroom was submerged in pale, morning light. The thick curtains, already pushed aside, strained against the gust from the open window. The room wasn’t cold, it was fresh.

Someone had made the bed well: sheets tucked in tightly and creases smoothed out.

‘Erica! Breakfast’s ready!’

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The girl, wearing a school blazer, brushed her hair with her fingers and bounced softly towards the window. She took a deep breath of the cool air and ran a finger under the windowsill. Nothing but dust.

Downstairs, at the dining table, her mum, dad and sister were passing each other jars of jam, butter, and slices of toast.

‘I've decided to pull my socks up.’ Erica takes the empty seat. She’s holding back a grin.

Her mum laughs.

‘Really?’

Erica stops buttering her toast and frowns. ‘Don't laugh. I'm serious. I've already made a timetable so I can make myself study every day.’

‘OK. I’m sorry.’ Her mum swallows. ‘Things have been difficult, Erica, but we are so proud of you.’

‘Not everyone can get through this kind of setback like you have.’ Her dad placed his hand on Erica’s arm, then picked up his knife. ‘Can you pass me the butter, Hannah?’

Erica reached into her pocket and felt the eraser and the pen lid and right into the fluff-covered seam. She smiled.

‘I know. I'm proud of her too.’

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By Richard Wilde

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The Short Life of Sal Adams

By Kasparas Pakalnis As Sal Adams reached for the alarm clock announcing 8:00 AM he found himself a snail drowning in a pool of his own warm mucus. The vibrations going through his slivery body made him shiver in the dark. The same warm darkness under which he so comfortably fell asleep last night, his head tucked in-between his wife’s thighs.

After making herself a straight black coffee in the kitchen Anastasia Adams walked back into her bedroom and slipped out of her thin kimono. She did so every Saturday when Sal went off on his usual weekend-long business trips. Setting down her mug by the vanity mirror, Anastasia admired herself naked.

The plum shape or her breasts, the infantile smoothness of her legs — a body that she herself loved so much for all its fragrant scents, and the erogenous delicacy that her husband never appreciated. ‘That fucking pig’, she said as loud as she could knowing that the room was empty, ‘he left it again’. Anastasia’s eyes settled on the bundle of unmade sheets protruding her reflection. Tightening her kimono around her belly she opened the large windows of the 5th floor apartment and aired-out her husband’s sweat-drenched sheets.

One-by-one Sal stretched his tentacles to a blinding but cold Spring morning. Coming to his senses he found himself laying on his side in the patch of grass in front of his apartment building. He steadied

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himself in his new body and soon found the exhilarating freedom of morning dew sending pleasant vibrations across his shelled body. At first Sal found it difficult to move on his single foot. No matter how hard he stretched his neck he could barely get any closer to the delicious and water-rich blades of grass ahead. Feeling that his eyes might pop-out if he tensed any harder, he retreated into his shell — resting his head against his liver.

Having finished her coffee Anastasia dressed for the day. The thermostat was set to a sauna-like 29 degrees because Anastasia wanted to wear her yellow summer dress.

Sal woke up around noon to the twitching of his dried mouth. Peaking outside, he felt the noon sun above his head. I need to find water, he thought. He tried to stretch himself out again, to move at least an inch, but he was beached. Just at that moment his bowels started vibrating towards his anus. A pleasant warmth surged through his digestive tract and he excreted a stream of silver mucus that spread across his outstretched underside. The hard soil became an ice ring. He could now move at ease, float almost, without straining his muscles. As he got closer to a rich blade of grass, Sal realised that he had underestimated its scale in proportion to himself. Standing erect in front of his tentacles the blade was 3 times his height.

But as the drought started making its way down his throat and into his lungs deep inside his shell, he urged himself on. Sal slivered along onto a stem of a mowed dandelion and raised his mouth up to the

- 31 -

droplet dangling from the blade that was now within reach.

Anastasia gnawed the thick carpet with her feet.

She tried calling her husband multiple times to check up on him - if he landed, was the flight bumpy, did he fuck the short-skirted stewardess? Now she could hear her deep breaths harmonizing with the jolting beeps of the landline in her ear — moments later plans for the evening were made. Satisfied with her performance she put her feet up on the couch letting her hair sweep across the floor. Above her head the clock promised her enough time. Anastasia slipped out of her sweaty dress, threw it on the floor like dead skin and ran a bath.

A few hours passed by before Sal was stirred by new vibrations in his shell. It felt as if all his glands were submerged in pins-and-needles, but pleasant.

This new sensation was an urge. It gave him a rush of blind and unconditional confidence to the brain. He raised himself to his lubricated foot and started moving through the tall grass faster than he was before. It was at this moment Sal Adams discovered that he had a new, heightened sense of scent that was previously overwhelmed, his guess was, by the dyingof-thirst. The miniature jungle of fresh blades, mowed dandelions, and poisoned weeds swelled and contracted as he slivered forwards. The rush, it seemed to him, continued in his own body as he rushed towards an unknown climax — the whole of his shell pulsated as new veins grew with blood. He stopped and opened his eyes one-by-one. In-between his

- 32 -

tentacles hung a lumping penis dripping semen down a wormhole.

‘Fuck!’, Anastasia expelled as she cut herself in the bath. The drop of blood in the water momentarily spoiled her mood. But again, she contained her disdain with imperfection and continued shaving.

A dog galloped by and kicked Sal to the edge of the grass patch. He woke up with a sore back and decided that it'd be best to just walk it off. After a slouch of about half an hour he reached the miniature rose bushes surrounding the patch. The seedlings were opening, towering over the cut grass. Half a year ago Sal carried them back from the gardening shop in his pocket. But now he couldn’t believe how big they’d grown when just last night, while he smoked in the balcony, they seemed so small. This afternoon he had to navigate the needle trenches to reach the front door.

They messed it up again’, Anastasia spoke into the phone, ‘Linda will have to go’. Having embalmed herself in oils and lotions she sat in front of the mirror examining the roots of her hair. The ones at the back were still black, but the ones at the front were showing silver. It made her frown. Anastasia didn’t like silver because it made her look too much like her mother in that small picture on the living room coffee table — old. She didn’t like looking at the growing cracks of the small oak frame. She put the picture face-down on the glass surface and went into her wardrobe — never like her mother.

A fever dream made him sweat. The sweat-glands excreting moistness softened the cuts from the spikes.

With pain the thicket of budding life grew larger as Sal - 33 -

slithered through it. The pain was great. Dismantling his already invalid senses, the dark green stinger caught his tail and sent vibrations down his body. Sal didn’t stop. He was saddled by the fever and moved onwards tearing his tail of — damp grey flesh hung on the stem. His blood was still red when he touched concrete.

Setting the table was always a ritual to Anastasia.

She liked playing house. Anastasia was her own prize doll and she was already in costume when she started lighting the tall, white candles. Her colour for the night was blue because she thought that it was complemented by the whiteness of everything else.

The white tablecloth that she set, the two white dinner plates, and the empty white vase in the middle of the big table. She shook out the last match and knocked over one of the candles. The hot wax dripped down the cloth — it was ruined. Anastasia picked up the broken candle. She let the wax drip from her palm down to her legs, where it hardened. The hard white on her bare feet ruined her nails — the hot wax dripped down the cloth.

The revolving front door of the apartment building made Sal nauseous. He crawled up to it not noticing his tails’ absence. He tried squeezing himself through the rubber seals, but his shell was in the way. He tried again. The seals didn’t give, but just as he was about to get through, his shell gave. He finally felt the pain — a shard scraped against his liver — he dropped the effort. The blood was clogging up around the grey flesh of his torn tail. Sal couldn’t move as fast as he did before. He couldn’t attempt another push through the - 34 -

seals. In the reflection of the glass he could see the sunset. The gold dropping below the thicket of roses, below the grass patch —leaving his eyesight. But it felt warm now, his lower body. Another reflection grew larger. Tall and black it kept getting closer, threatening. Sal couldn’t move his head to see what it was. But the revolving door swivelled and pushed Sal into the lobby.

Anastasia sat in front of the door waiting. Her dress covered her knees. Again, she found herself burying her feet into the thick carpet. Sinking into a trance of comfort she knew that this was her house.

Her corridor, her dining room, her bed — it was her door to open when it rang. And she’d open it to anyone she wanted to because she was the queen of her castle.

He felt the kicks that threw him into the elevator.

A hand then reached for him. Sal found himself in the warmth of darkness again. The hand reached for the fifth floor. A familiar ding woke Sal. A door shut somewhere behind. His dark chamber rocked back and forth; they were walking somewhere. He was being taken somewhere, but he couldn’t move. And then everything fell. It didn’t hurt. He extended his tentacles one-by-one. To the touch the abyss was silk, and it sent vibrations down his body, an aching will that moved him on and out — his foot rested on the thick carpet in his bedroom. His tired eyes adjusted to the light — Anastasia stepped out of her dress. She was standing naked above Sal. Looking from under the coffee table Sal could only see his wife’s legs. He couldn’t make out the thrusting - 35 -

shadow. Anastasia’s gapping mouth and cascading thighs sent jerks throughout his wounds. He had an involuntary erection that couldn’t be contained. Lying on his side he couldn’t look away.

Anastasia sat on the divan in front the mirror. She ran her hand down the reflection. Her messy hair, smeared lips. She looked at her broken nails and bits of skin stuck underneath them — she smiled. She picked up the towel that was flung over the coffee table and wiped herself of sweat and semen.

Behind the glass of the coffee table Sal could see Anastasia’s mother looking down at him. And then their eyes met. Anastasia screamed at the sight of her husband — a battered snail. She dropped the towel on him — the warm darkness of her thighs was familiar — she wrapped him in it and opened the window — in free fall he couldn’t say anything, snails don’t say things. Anastasia missed the grass patch. Sal Adams found himself a snail drowning in mucus.

- 36 -

myself, the leverage

By Iris Mauricio i think sometimes i’m trying to say something, sometimes trying to whisper it, sometimes wondering where we’re going, what we’re doing, when you’re inevitably going to end this just because you could, because i feel like you should, because you can always get enough from someone else, elsewhere, take what you need without the anxiety of feeling like a burden, like you’re taking more than can be given. you don’t deserve this. you deserve more than this, deserve more than days and days of my body turning away, days and days of dissections, discussions, the crisis of my little heart always choosing to turn over and die rather than believe you’re satisfied with what we have, that if i let you press too hard, we won’t shatter like glass. i think i’m trying to say something, but i don’t know how. can’t figure myself out. can’t cross off the litany of sins i’m committing by not committing. can’t be absolved in a way - 37 -

that would feel like justice. i can’t help what i am, can’t help the broken zipper of my mouth, the caution tape around my arms, my legs, the circumference of my neck, the heaviness of the back of my head against the pillow, as i pretend to sleep when you want me. i’m so sorry you love me, that you want to love me more, that i want to love you without feeling like i’m holding my own body hostage, ready to kill it the moment i give in and let you sink yourself into my skin, burrow deep. i know i’d do anything to rip you out of me.

- 38 -

By Jacqueline Chesta

- 39 -

I Can Feel the Wind on My Skin

By Angela Narayn On the bed, the pillows banked high, duvet cover dirty, lurching over sides, blood on sheet.

The needles in piles, tips exposed. spoons blackened, burnt foil, you have been cooking.

I can almost taste it on my tongue.

Macdee vouchers for 1.99, Big Mac and Quarter pounders. an old train ticket, a photo of you and child, a lifetime ago.

Under the debris, poking out, submerged, drowning, some of your books.

Marx, well thumbed, passages underlined, notes in margins, David Harvey, soiled, spread eagled, face down.

Coke cans cut midway, disposable lighters, every colour from Poundland.

Scraps of clear plastic, like fragile skin, shedding.

Everything capsizing, colliding, off balance, off kilter, churning, The paper: letters, bills, your sketches, blue computer paper I bought by mistake.

Your list of to do’s: Get up early, eat healthily, go to gym. Recovery is a state of mind.

Change is possible. Start with yourself.

Respect oneself. Take responsibility. Keep room tidy.

- 40 -

The writing is bold with fleshy dots on the i’s, strident crossings of the t’s and exclamations marks like precocious children demanding attention.

Between detox and rehab we went to the flat, you cleared the veranda of bird’s nests.

You crushed the eggs in your palm, the mosaic of shell in your hand, the albumen smeared over fingers.

The inchoate life extinguished; the scream of pigeons in our ears.

Clothes swimming in a tide of confusion, clean with dirty, Jean and tee shirt protesting, socks on the march, stiff and stale, trainers, soles gaping, Tie knotted, like a noose, for plumping up veins, I feel a ragged breath, it snags on inhalation: the offering up of body, no holds barred, unequivocal, piecemeal.

Your tongue, worn with lies, grooved with betrayal, the shock of it on my skin.

The slip and the slide of it along the walls, rolling across the ceiling, where dust hangs, fragile lacework, silent lines of despair, fluttering.

I see you on a Cornish beach, with your net and buckets, your flesh over the rocks, the flush of it, the soft unformed features in watery light, as you caught the swirl of something.

- 41 -

The flash of shell and pincers, the triumph and the shape of it on your mouth, your seaweed hand full of it, your green eyes gold, time suspended on the end of your line.

Your skin grey, like spoilt snow and eyes, dark stones, sinking.

The rupture points on your skin, the veins refusing, the skin ulcerating.

The surplus flesh gone, The rib cage exposed, the spaces in between, the smooth, the edges, muscles wasting, like a pale moon waning.

Feet swollen, limping along Palace Pier, disappearing.

You told me, in rehab, bursting sun tanned from the trees, I can feel the wind on my skin.

I mouth your words. I am your echo. The curtain curls in the breeze.

The words flower on my tongue.

- 42 -

Beneath the Willow Tree

By Chloe Perrin I know she’s still there.

It’s why I’m on the floor, knees curled to my chest, back twisted into a corner of the room. I push my back harder against the wall, letting the dull pain dig into my spine. If I can do this, if I can ground myself in reality, she’ll go away. This is what I tell myself, and I ignore the fact that it isn’t true. ‘…if you’d only come to me, I’ll wait beneath the willow tree.’

She’s been there, waiting, for hours now. I slowly unfurl myself, stretching my tight leg muscles as I try to stand up. I’ve been curled up here so long I need to grab the windowsill for support. I don’t know why I’m looking again, I don’t know why I do this to myself. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to know she’s there.

From my dorm window, you can see the swell of the River Pinn. On days like today, dipping into Autumn, the banks seem more mud that water. The river runs harder as the days grow darker – at least, that’s how it seems to me. There are trees too, trees that dot our campus but run wild around our river, trees that drop helicopters when the breeze is too

- 43 -

strong. And outside my window, right on the bank, a willow tree.

I can only see her feet. She’s hidden behind the drapes of the willow branches, but she’s there, it’s no trick of the shadow. A quiet cold is gripping the campus, but she’s barefoot. Even from the second floor of my building I can see that her toes are blue, mottled in the silt that swirls around her feet.

‘I can tell you’re watching me, I’ll wait beneath the willow tree.’

I snap my hands to my ears. This is how I know she’s a girl. Because she talks to me. Even from way up here with the windows shut, I can hear her. It’s like a breeze takes her voice and carries it specifically to me, and I can’t stand it, can’t bear that voice inside my ears. It’s sickly, rough – there’s a mucus underlying every word. She keeps asking me to join her.

I don’t want to.

My hands are clasped over my ears but I’m still watching her because she moved. Her feet are twitching, as though she’s shifting her weight. The curtain of willow branches shiver and part as a set of fingers no more than bones move like a spider emerging from a crack in the wall to make a gap.

I push my hands harder against my head until all I hear is the rush of blood. She can see me. Only one eye - 44 -

is visible behind the rags of her hair, but the rest of her face looks hungry, drained. That one eye looks straight up into mine. My own fills with tears. I shake my head and swallow a sob.

I turn back to my room and slide down against the wall. I’m back in my ball, palms dragging down my face. I don’t want to see this, I don’t want to know this is happening, I don’t know who she is or why she’s looking at me.

‘If you’d only look, you’ll see Trapped beneath the willow tree.’

The words are as though she’s in the room with me, those thick, sickening words. She coughs, a ragged cough that I feel on my cheek, and my insides lurch.

‘Will you come and look at me, Underneath the willow tree?’

No, no I don’t want to. I don’t want to look; I close my eyes because I don’t want to see.

My room grows suddenly cold. Not the cold of a window left open, not an outside kind of cold. It’s hard to understand, hard to put my finger on it. I place my palms on the floor – it’s smooth. Linoleum smooth.

But my room is carpeted.

- 45 -

Without opening my eyes, I lift my head. The insides of my eyelids go pink against whatever bright light they are trying to shut out. I can’t smell the must of my carpet anymore, or the faint scent of sweat from my bed. I smell chemicals, I smell rubber and talc, I smell things I recognise but cannot name. A tightness squeezes my stomach, gently at first then tighter as it travels up my chest, into my throat…

I open my eyes. I’m back in my room.

‘Now, will you please look at me?

I’m here, beneath the willow tree.’

I stand up slowly and turn around. I wipe the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand and look down at the girl. She is no longer beneath the branches of the tree, but in front of them. I see her completely now, her emaciated frame, her simple white dress stained with debris from the River Pinn. No. It’s not a dress. It’s a hospital gown.

I remember. I remember the ghost stories we tell each other in the kitchen after the pipes make a noise, or when something falls without anyone having touched it. I remember that this part of Brunel was built on the site of a quarantine hospital. I think of the lonely lives. I think of the lonely deaths.

- 46 -

I look down at the girl, and I can see in her one visible eye that she understands that I know now, that I see her. She steps back beneath the branches of the willow tree.

I go my door, ready to follow her.

- 47 -

By Richard Wilde

- 48 -

Who Shot the Narrator?

By Sarah Alqaood The Unseen Beings Have begun to unearth Declaring their birth Certificates, proliferating Expressing the dearth of their untold experiences Grievances, lives, joys, Beginning with mistreatment But moving on to unfold the untold Who we are, where we’re from.

A perspective alteration, A change of spectacles on the spectacle you’ve known and help create And come to trust.

This is us.

We who are not one, Not some, But many.

We know where you’re from Who you are, what you’ve done.

But perspective is sentiment, Negligent. Neglecting every other.

What we now refer to as ‘People of Colour’.

But which people? What colour?

A self-proclaimed name that negates to address The lazy issue of naming.

- 49 -

Based on this age-old narration of the white and the other.

I’d rather see a celebration of culture.

The beginning of an age expressed not through one.

Where none are dismissed.

The narration had changed now, We all came to assist.

- 50 -

Room 7

By Philip Marriner June 14th was the hottest day of 2018 by a considerable distance. Getting out of bed was a struggle due to the humidity alone without having to deal with the sweat fest that was the Piccadilly Line into Central London.

As always seemed to be the case, life conspired against me. I'm the type of person who finds the printer will break at the exact moment an essay is due to be handed in; who has a parcel delivered right after waiting in all day and finally giving in and going to the bathroom. I have also managed to work in the only place in the country where the air conditioning breaks down when it gets too hot.

For half of my adult life, I’ve worked as a nurse in a hospital specialising in long term care for patients.

The building is slowly but steadily falling apart. Every passing year brings new issues and it’s regularly rumoured that we will be shut down for hygiene or financial reasons. Somehow, however, this place keeps spluttering along; a battered Robin Reliant not quite ready to give in the ghost.

On that day, I arrived drenched; smelling like a slab of cheddar long abandoned at the back of the fridge and was greeted by a wave of what could only be described as a Satanic breeze. The drab yellowed white paint on the walls might have started melting by - 51 -

the end of the day if this carried on. I walked past a team of engineers dutifully hacking away at the AC circuit board and exchanged a knowing look with the receptionist. I swiftly passed Stefan, managing - for once – to avoid his early morning mid-corridor small talk. There were, at least, some advantages of forgetting to pack extra deodorant.

After changing, I made my way to the central nurse station where Nadine was already looking annoyed. There were almost 12 more hours of the shift left and she had already had enough.

‘Nice day for it,’ I said. Looking around, I noticed an array of fans on the main desk helplessly fighting against the heat. ‘Are you sure that they haven’t accidentally turned on the heating?’

‘Good morning to you as well,’ she said, busying herself with some clipboards. She moved towards me, sniffing loudly. ‘You’re going to scare the patients,’ she said, retching in an exaggerated fashion.

‘Are they complaining about the heat?’

‘As much as usual.’

How Nadine had not been disciplined for her comments about the patients was beyond me, but there was an element of truth in what she was saying.

Most of the patients in our regular ward were either in comas or unable to communicate beyond a few hand gestures.

- 52 -

‘Do a check on 7, please,’ she said without looking up at me.

‘If I must.’ I replied.

We often got to know our patients well; not because they spoke to us, mind. We would hear stories about their golden years from relatives who grew up with them; hikes in the Andes, a near-miss at professional football when they were 17, their first dance with the person they married. There were also the mementos that people left on their bedside tables.

Mary in room 4 had a framed photograph of every dog that she had ever owned, whilst the elderly man – Robin - in room 11 had a photo of his wedding back in Jamaica in 1954 right behind a set of cufflinks that he wore to each of his daughter’s weddings. They were reminders of better days or at the very least a good topic of discussion to break the uneasy silences when family members visited. For us, it helped to piece together little bits of their lives and gave us something to say to them whilst we attended to them.

Then there was the man in room 7. The records at the end of his bed named him Henry Travers. Unlike the other patients, Nadine and I just called him Number 7. Number 7 was unusually small and frail, with swallowed cheeks. His face was always scrunched tight, his thin lips pressed together as if he was in the middle of a terrible dream. He was in a coma and whilst the doctors said that he might make a - 53 -

recovery we, initially at least, thought otherwise.

When Number 7 was brought in for the first time he was not accompanied by anyone. Nobody came and visited him afterward and his bedside remained empty. He wouldn’t have given us cause for any great further discussion if it wasn’t for Stefan.

A few weeks beforehand, before the heatwave, Nadine and I had joined a work party in the nearby pub, the Old Falcon, at the end of our shift. Everyone was already worse for wear; the head surgeon had been sent home in disgrace for dancing on the table, and Ellie Wright had taken a swing at the bouncer for daring to walk in her direction. I was just starting to enjoy myself when I felt two taps on my left shoulder.

I turned around and there he was.

As intolerable as Stefan was at work, he somehow managed to find new extremes when he had managed to put away a few Lemonade and Whiskeys (never trust a man who mixes these drinks, my mother once told me).

‘It’s you,’ he said, with a beaming smile. I attempted the most banal response that I could manage, but it seemed to only provoke him further.

‘You’ll be delighted that I have spoken to you tonight,’ he said.

‘I’ll reserve the right not to comment, Stefan.

Now, if you’ll excuse-‘

- 54 -

He broke me off. ‘That new guy, who’s moved into your ward. You know; the old short guy, Henry Travers.’

‘Yes?’ ‘I heard a few of the admin staff and doctors talking about him earlier. I didn’t hear everything, of course, but I thought you might like to know about him.’ I involuntarily must have shown a small degree of interest.

‘Buy me a drink first. Make it a double.’ I went to the bar and apologetically ordered a single Lemonade and Whiskey, making it clear to the bemused lady behind the bar that the drink was not for me.

‘So, what’s the deal with Number 7?’ I asked Stefan, as he sipped his drink noisily. This was his cue to move in closer. I resisted the urge to back away.

‘He’s a bit of a curio, it’s fair to say. You know Noor in admissions? The one with the nose?’

‘Yes, Stefan.’ I tried to ignore him miming a giant Pinocchio nose with his hands right next to my face.

‘Well, I only caught a bit of what she was saying to Amanda, but it seems that this guy has done something really, really bad. They didn’t know what it was, but it was so bad that he changed his name.’

I remembered this conversation as I opened the door to room 7 on that sweltering day last June.

Number 7 had moved again. When you work with coma patients for as long as I have, you get used to - 55 -

strange things happening. Sometimes they make a little noise, sometimes they fidget. Never in all my years as a nurse had I seen a coma patient move of their own accord into the foetal position, let alone do it every day for two weeks. Number 7’s arms were wrapped so tightly around the rest of his body that it looked like he would never let go. His face looked like it was braced for a punch in the eye although he did not move. Beads of sweat were pouring down his cheek – if it was hot outside, then it was positively oven-like in room 7. He was as close to the side of the bed, facing as much of the doorway as he could without falling out.

I looked around to see why it was so hot; the small window was open as far as it could go. There was nothing in the corner on the far side of the bed opposite where Number 7 was facing, except for the visitor’s chair that had remained empty since he’d arrived.

‘Mr. Travers?’ I said. There was no reply. I turned around and opened the door. ‘Nadine!’ I halfwhispered. ‘He’s doing it again.’ She looked to the floor briefly and reluctantly made her way silently towards me. I looked back at Number 7. His eyes were wide open, staring directly ahead of him. I initially thought that he was dead, as they were transfixed on the wall he was facing, but then I noticed that he was shaking. It was gentle at first, but as Nadine walked - 56 -

through the doorway, he began to shake so violently that the pillow behind his head fell on the floor.

Nadine grabbed him as quickly as she could, instructing me to sedate him. Just before I did so, his eyes moved; he was now focused on me. He blinked several times, seemingly in total panic. His lips started to move as if he was trying to say something, but he could only drool. After what seemed like an age, the drugs took effect and we moved him onto his back. As he breathed heavily, it looked as if he was having a deep, terrible, dream. Nadine and I returned to the nurse station and we called for the doctor. It would be a long wait, we were told.

‘Make sure that you’re nearby until the Doctor gets here,’ she told me.

‘I only wish that there was a family member – hell, anyone - that would come and see him,’ I replied as I waved a nearby clipboard as fast as I could in the direction of my face to cool down. We got on with the rest of our duties, but as I finished giving a bed wash to Mary in room 4, I heard a bang followed by a loud alarm. I ran outside and followed the sound of the noise. Nadine had beat me to it; she was already in Room 7. It was even hotter inside than it was earlier.

‘Quickly, help me!’ she said. ‘I told you to stay nearby.’ Number 7 was on the floor. He had somehow fallen out of bed and now lay spread on the floor, shaking violently. His fingers had curled as if they had - 57 -

been scratching at the walls. Every single one of his fingernails had splintered. He was murmuring frantically, tears running down his sunken cheeks onto the floor.

‘Mr. Travers, can you feel any pain?’ Nadine asked.

He looked at her and stopped moving. The tears stopped as well, alongside the murmuring. He looked at Nadine and blinked.

‘Why do these people keep visiting me?’ he said.

Nadine looked at me, surprised.

‘Nobody’s visited you,’ she replied. ‘Except for the nurses and the doctors.’

‘They’re here right now. In the corner.’ I looked up from the prone man on the floor and cast my eyes around the room. I stared at the visitor’s chair in the far corner of the room. There was nobody there. When I looked down again, Number 7’s eyes were shut. He seemed to have re-entered his deep sleep. Fortunately, a doctor came quickly, and she made sure to check him over thoroughly. Number 7 had, at least, managed to avoid any further serious injury.

A few minutes after she left, I caught up with Nadine on her way back from her lunch break.

‘Nobody has visited him when we weren’t on shifts, have they?’ I asked.

‘No.’ She shook her head and glanced into room 7.

‘There was one thing that I couldn’t get out of my - 58 -

mind when he was talking. He seemed lucid. Aware of everything, just for one split second. But his eyes‌ he seemed so scared.’ By early evening I had put aside what happened with Number 7, mainly because we had a deluge of visitors, most of whom were (quite-rightly) complaining about the lack of air conditioning, and the number of bed baths we were having to do to keep the patients cool. Whenever I popped in, he was still laying on his back, silently sleeping, though it was hard to say if he was resting. A small bruise had appeared on his forehead after his earlier fall, but otherwise, he seemed to be remarkably lucky. It was just before 6 PM when the alarm in room 7 went off again. I was right next door this time and it was only my professional duty that made me move. As I opened the door, a blast of boiling air from inside was released, making me block my eyes from the heat. To my mind, it must have been at least 45 degrees in the room.

Recovering slightly, I entered. I instantly regretted doing so. Number 7 had rolled himself into a ball on the edge of the bed facing me. He was whimpering.

Sweat had drenched his hospital robe so much that it attached itself to him. He slowly looked up to me, imploringly. It required all his strength to open his mouth, but after a few seconds, he managed to do so.

- 59 -

He then whispered something so quietly that I could barely hear it over the sound of the alarm.

‘Don’t let them take me.’

As soon as the words left his lips, his head fell back to the pillow with a thump. I didn’t even have enough time to turn off the first alarm before the familiar drone of the ECG flatline monitor started. As I worked on #7, I knew that it wouldn’t make a jot of difference. He was gone, but the expression on his face had not. His fixed blind stare, looking like it was about to break into a scream, burnt itself into my memory more than anything else than I have ever experienced.

A few minutes later, just after the doctor had certified the death and the body had been taken away, I looked at the corner of the room, where the visitor chair was. There was nobody there, of course, but I will say until my dying day that at the very moment that I did so, I felt the first breeze of the entire day come through the little window in room 7.

I have often wondered since, whether anyone attended his funeral. I suspect that nobody did. I’m not the kind of person (and neither, really is Nadine) who tends to believe in the supernatural. I would be lying if I didn’t keep thinking about the look of terror on his face and his final words. It kept me awake that night and for many nights to come.

- 60 -

By Jacqueline Chesta

- 61 -

Unto this earthly domain

By Connor Michie How does one know when the time comes around?

To the sound of a bullet train with fire in its wake.

When spires and spiders share the land.

When fire crosses continent by continent, To conquer all on which we defend.

The call of death stinks and wreaks, Like a lake of soggy bacon juice in the fridge.

Centre me and all will be fine, As though divine hatred does act in these parts.

For I do not see thee upon but the leaf of a tree, And it does call me like a wolf howling into the night.

Come, and I will show you what the world, What the world is like and then cannot be.

It churns and turn the stomach, Like a washing machine.

Like a washing shamine.

It sticks and makes us sick, And sits and spits, And sits and skits, With pits and fits, Until the aurora finds us, - 62 -

And tells us to go home.

I do not know when it shall call me again, But I wonder, my friend, if that shall speak.

For the temper of this wind does not change.

The weather in this winter does not challenge.

And I fear that it may stay this way.

Until the summer comes, And the spine shivers, To a new sound, And spits as we breathe a new tune, Unto this earthly domain.

Despite.

- 63 -

The Suburban Spectrum Analysis

By John Donegan No gaping holes, fills, voids, traps, Watermarks, thoughts, drills, None of these, but a crow, ascending above the red moon, Are we not free, not alone, not one but two, Shivas’ tooth, claims your desire, We live on the edge, so far from your city, Your dreams, the fast lane, the pollutions, The wrecked frames, the plastic diamonds, Twisted catacombs, we are at the edge, No mortal replay, no second chance, Our urban destiny, we are singular, certain, Ambitious, pious, a refrain, Not desperate from uncertainty, But cautious into unfamiliarity, A distain, to harbour the facts, A brief jolly, A day out, When it rained by the sea, And this air, grabbed my lungs, I splutter and cough, And out comes a great frog, My new friend, my best friend is me, Suburbia, My Suburbia.

- 64 -

By Richard Wilde

- 65 -

City of Old

By Sithulisiwe A. Wabatagore To say that the place had always been as it now stood would have been an untruth. Things had not always been so full of less colour, so brimming with emptiness. Mako stood in the centre of the square, hands at her waist, awed by the silent coming and going of time. Seven years ago, she had stood in the exact same spot watching lovers as they walked past, arm in arm, still caught in the spring of their affections, unaffected yet by the chill of winter.

Where had all the trees gone? She scratched her head ruffling her tight, black coils. On her way to the corner of the square, where the large willow tree had sat contentedly swaying with the wind, she caught sight of a statue of two children running after each other.

Funny how I never noticed it. Its gleaming bronze veneer brought colour amidst the dreary. She let her fingers slip against its smoothness. Uxbridge. It reminded her of that place, that place so far away where she had left little bits of herself.

Mako sat herself next to the smaller of the bronze children. A whole town disappear just like that. It just didn’t add up. She scanned the square again hoping to catch even a pigeon in escape. She had been here before. She was certain of it. Even Ray had been surprised that she had bothered to come here again to - 66 -

report on this place at the back of beyond which seemed even in its prime to have lived untouched by the happenings of the world around it. Urgh, what do I write? Mako thought, rubbing her temples. Mr. E was expecting a ‘world class report’. Something to blow the minds of the magazine’s readers. Something to prove that she was still worth her weight in gold. What did that even mean? Urgh! There is still more to be done, she thought as she walked by the disappeared willow tree, making as if to avoid its branches.

She looked to her left where the apartment building still sat, only now its balconies were stripped naked of the mismatched socks, fraying undergarments hanging out to dry that had reminded her so much of home. Just then a breeze touched her nape. She closed her eyes attempting to summon the sighing of leaves in motion, the accordion man’s lone music and found that she could not. Something flapped around before landing against the skin on her left leg. Café Alive. What a strange name, she thought, picking up the flyer.

She’d go there. She had to start searching somewhere but the tap-tap of Ray’s shoes paused her in her tracks. Perhaps they had found something worth reporting. ‘Nothing boss…we found nothing in that direction,’ he said as he pointed northwards. ‘It’s like the whole population was vaporised or something.’

- 67 -

‘Yeah, but it makes no sense that no one is covering this incident. I mean, I expected to find at least a truck load full of reporters,’ Mako retorted. Ray stood, arms folded across his slender chest, looking the part of a patient mother watching her small child grapple with some adult concept.

‘That’s the point exactly Mako! Nobody cares.

Didn’t we all tell you this before we headed out here?’

Ray’s voice echoed. Mako turned towards the path between the apartment buildings. There was still more to explore. ‘You’ll find us at the hotel,’ Ray said. Of all the three-member crew, Ray was the most outspoken and therefore the one to deliver any reports to Mako.

Chris and June hung in the back unless Ray was off sick in which case June stepped in with her shoes that never seemed to quite figure out whether they were sneakers or moccasins.

Who knew abandoned buildings could be so peaceful, Mako thought. No sooner than she had let the thought formulate that she regretted it. Suddenly it was tugging at her heart, carrying her to the unwelcome peacefulness of her apartment back in London. Julian had left. He had removed himself completely which meant even the cats had left and his paintings. That is except the one with the girl without eyes which still hung above their bed, reminding her of his leaving. She would call when she got back. In case he didn’t get her note.

- 68 -

I’m awfully sorry Julian, for the way things have been. If you give us a chance, I will do my best. I will show up more for you. I love you. Mako For a writer, Mako felt that she did the worst job with words of importance, words of love that she failed to express. She wondered whether Julian had been to the apartment. Whether he had seen her note.

Perhaps he had left the painting at the apartment on purpose, she thought. Something that could explain his sudden presence when he did decide to show up.

She hoped that was the case.

Café Alive didn’t live up to its expectations. No coffee and bereft couches with sagging cushions. That the sign itself was fading was a mild irritation. It would have made quite a story to walk into Café Alive and find a bunch of people waiting to be discovered by her, a pioneer reporter. Outside the café, she removed her shoes. The streets were spotless, and heat had begun gathering inside her khaki pants and her closed shoes. And besides, the disappearance of the clucking of her soles was welcome. She removed her pants as well, smiling at how self-conscious she felt to undress out in the open emptiness. She looked up the line of little cafes and shops along both sides of the alley.

Perhaps it was best to go down a different alleyway and discover another street.

That was how she came to find the big building with a large dark window. Inside, everything was - 69 -

clean, too clean in fact. Mako’s nose recognised a faint waft of pineapple and something. Her steps were swallowed by the thick padding of the heavy, plush carpet as she made her way into the depth of the building, peering through empty rooms. All carpeted and unfurnished. Then she was in a small room with golden wooden floors which is where she found a staircase that led to the basement. Her eyes swept the room again. Nothing. No one but she could make out faint music drifting from below. Maybe, just maybe it’s like when you miss someone so much you begin to imagine them there. To hear their voice. Maybe that’s what’s happening, Mako thought. At the bottom of the stairs, she pushed the heavy door open.

Once inside, she turned the lights on. The bartender was midway between the counter’s cocktail of bright, liquor bottles and long mahogany pub table.

Men with arched backs and creased skin sat facing the door, others facing the bartender and still others facing the short line of women in frilly, ruffled, magenta and purple dresses - one leg each suspended mid-air, leaving pink and black pantalettes in full view. Mako walked into the midst of the suspended scene, in awe of the brilliance of colour. Whoever had done these wax figures was an excellent artist, she thought as she touched the closest man’s chest. He sat perched on a stool, his black satin shirt undone three buttons down.

- 70 -

Such accuracy was uncanny, she thought as she plucked a greying hair on his chest.

Suddenly a deep howl threw her hands off the man’s chest. His breathing was raspy. She jumped back, her stomach beating. ‘Darn it, man! You sell out!’ the bartender shouted. Everything spontaneously came alive. Music burst out and the women with varying degrees of greying hair continued their cancan. A few whistles were thrown into the air. Pints of beer slammed on the bar counter top. The colour of it all stung her eyes now accustomed to the non-life on the streets. Her eyes blinked fast as they registered the bodies that now moved everywhere around her, bumping into her, an ‘excuse me dear’ offering by some of the slow shuffling feet.

‘She’s not wearing pants!’ one man shouted.

Silence. All eyes on her. She ran out the door, up the stairs and onto the alleyway. She ran towards the direction of the hotel. Her lungs needed air she realised as she panted heavily outside another shop in the middle of silence. How could she let that man rattle her? Weren’t there women in the bar who had been dancing the can-can in colourful, frilly pantalets? She was foolish to run, she realised. This was her story!

Dear Young lady, We have survived through it all. First the diaspora of the young and then their disappearance. We - 71 -

awoke one day to find ourselves alone. Each one of us as if our city had never birthed children. They left. They never write or come. So, we say they are lost. But we remain. We are here. And that is all there is. Leave us in peace. Please.

Kindly, Old Man whose chest hair you plucked.

And that was how Mako found herself jobless and on a flight back to England. Then tubbing to Uxbridge.

To Julian. The person she was always elusive with.

Always disappearing to yet another assignment. And when there, hidden within her inner cocoon. That person who was now retired from chasing after her.

And she was always refusing to allow in. Until now.

City of Old.

- 72 -

We Are Here

By Daiana Lungu ‘They sent us here in 2019. They told us it was the whole West London they were clearing from homeless people. One day, they sent a car—a black truck, only one person inside, the driver. A tall man wearing sandals—that’s how I knew he wasn’t from this part of the world—got out the car and started looking around for something. I felt fear, for the first time, like something clutching my gut. I didn’t know why.’

‘When he saw you, did he approach you?’

‘Yes. Good day, he said, I’m here to send you on a holiday, sir. How would you like that? I’m used to being mocked, so I didn’t think much of it. I was tired and I had a nasty cut on one of my legs. I think it was getting infected, the bandage was soiled, you see? It’d been a rough night…poured down in torrents.’

‘How did he convince you?’

‘I guess he didn’t, but what was it that a man like me had to lose? He just offered me something I couldn’t say no to: hope. I wanted to believe him, you know, my leg was so sore, I was afraid the doctors would cut it off. They never bother with people like us.

And it’s hard enough to be homeless with your body in one piece, I didn’t want any more trouble.’

‘And then?’

- 73 -

‘Then, I remember nothing, total blank, silence, some strange, soul shattering silence—until we got to this dark, muddy place. It smelt of fresh cement in the air, I was so hungry that even that insidious smell gave me a pang of pain in my stomach. I could see other people cramped in there, leaning against the wall.

They told us to wait until we’d be taken somewhere for examination. I didn’t know if they were talking about a hospital, I didn’t know.’

‘Did you panic?’

‘No. I kept looking at the walls, the walls were so chipped, it looked as if they were about to fall. I couldn’t stop staring at those walls, so white and cracked and cold. It was then I saw her, this girl, she looked only 18-19. She had a baby in her arms and the baby was crying and she had no milk to breastfeed him. I felt so, so sorry for her. I didn’t have time to think of myself.’

‘Do you know where they took her?’

‘No. They told us men and women had to be separated for examination. They took her baby away from her—he was a boy. It’s such a shame, he’ll grow up an orphan.’

Silence. The subtle smell of candle smoke. Regret, unspoken.

‘Thank you, sir, that’s all for today. Make sure to get some rest for tomorrow.’

Silence. Fear.

- 74 -

‘Do you believe me?’

‘I—Sir, I can’t lie, the whole thing sounds bizarre.

But only because it gives us all the chills. Between you and me, I’ve always felt…you know…you watch movies and, you can’t imagine how much darker it can really get.’

‘I think, mad as they were, they were trying to do something good. They gave us a home and educated us but they also completely erased us. Sent us to a place where we’ll never think of ourselves as real.’

Silence. Silence. Silence.

‘Alright, good day, madam!’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, sir!’

A slight breeze, the slam of a door, silence.

‘Neeext!’

A slight screech. The smell of lavender on a hot summer day.

‘Name?’

‘Mark Holloway.’

‘Is this your birth name or what they call you?’

‘What they call me, ma’am. Nobody remembers their birth name.’

‘Do you remember if you had any children?’

‘Yes, two—two boys.’

‘Do you miss them?’

‘I just regret they never got to see me as the man I am today. I would be a better father.’

‘Do you remember how they took you?’

- 75 -

‘Yes, I saw a tall man coming out of a black car. A big car, like a truck. I remember the smell of lavender in the air. Lavender and hot concrete. This man, he was educated. He told me I’d been selected for an exciting trial; he said my life was going to change. He had dark eyes, so dark that I thought I would be sucked into a black hole. I stood up and followed him.’

‘Did you trust him?’

‘I trusted nobody and—nobody trusted me. There was this girl working at Tesco’s, she was the only one I trusted, she’d always buy me chocolate. One day, I asked her why. She said I looked happy when I was nibbling on my chocolate and that made her happy. I think she’s been looking for me since I disappeared.’

‘Do you know why they sent you here and not to a different time?’

‘No, they didn’t tell us, and we didn’t ask. The why’s are seldom satisfying. I don’t think it mattered to them, they just wanted to get rid of us, erase us from their time completely. Of course, we’re all accomplished men now in their present. Accomplished and old.’

‘Do you think your families know?’

‘No, I think that’s why they chose us—no papers, no identity and nobody to look for us. I don’t even think I’d recognise my children.’

The smell of fresh coffee. A moment of pause.

- 76 -

‘Sir, I want you to know that I am so, so sorry this happened to you. So sorry.’

Silence, dense like sour milk. The sound of a tear hitting a sunburned cheek.

‘Don’t worry, ma’am, at least they chose the years of rock ’n roll for us.’

Laughter.

The slam of a door.

Smell of fresh concrete in the air.

- 77 -

By Jacqueline Chesta

- 78 -

The Grief Symphony

By Hannah Ward White noise begins.

Begins with the empty black bedroom with a broken light switch; begging to be brought back to life.

The voices of warm amber comfort echo through the window, The concrete curtains remain shut.

Days in days.

Sweeping them away, as quick as the ebony of the bespoke and handcrafted bed for the unborn newborn.

The gift-wrapped wooden spoons with violet and green ribbon says ‘We’re thinking of you’ She realises these thoughts are fake.

A wooden spoon is not a husband.

Not a child.

Imitating the emerald gardens we used to walk together.

The first winter warm morning breaking. Breaking through the mildew.

Robins catch a glimpse of the golden goodness of how she used to be.

Memories of him and her and them raise her out of bed. Forcing her to face life again.

- 79 -

The crisp aroma of lavender and honey treats she holds for herself.

Wishing they had his larger fingers to be held in.

No silver linings come this fast. The speckled clouds whisper they’re comforting words.

No angels this time.

Only the translucent tears that still sit behind the eyes, unseen but at a moment's remembrance, always as heavy as the first sob of the lost and gone.

They’re life once making us lighter, seeing new colours.

We feed our memories of them; with the light of life after them.

The symphony of grief floods our eyes with the heat of colours, and the heat of us.

As loud as your bittersweet little smiles, or the belly laughs of your grandad’s old jokes; We are here. Just keep listening.

We are here. Holding your hand.

We are here. Here we are.

- 80 -

Mother

By Joanne Wythe We are here at the school gate to bring you your lunch Too scared to show our face because of the bruise from that punch From when he came home drunk late that night And we tried not to fight…

We are here behind curtains listening out for the door Or waiting for the sound of post fall to the floor But no-one is coming we are still alone They cut off the phone…

We are here when you missed the last bus home at night When your boyfriend dumped you and we held you so tight The tears on your face feeling wet to the touch We loved you so much…

It was only after you left that we cried Every message you sent filled our heart with pride We were there when you sounded distant and - 81 -

alone We were waiting at home…

We are scent in the garden from flowers that bloom We are smiling from photos that hang in each room We are memories like melodies that cascade from above Our warmth still envelops you in a blanket of Love…

We are here…

- 82 -

Metro

By Dominic Matthews I sat on the metropolitan line, Stationary at Hillingdon station.

Besides me was a forgotten newspaper, Filling the seat like an old man.

How far had he travelled To cross the space between Zones? Had he needed to escape The artificial buzz of electric Billboards and the people Who swarmed around them?

Did he willingly surrender himself to the slow Life found in the darkened silence Of a town on Monday night?

Like all the averted eyes, I left him alone, knowing he was doomed to parrot Stories from his own personal Groundhog Day. The voice of God Muffled through overhead speakers: The next station is Uxbridge, Final stop on the line.

High-pitched beeping Filled the endless carriage before the doors Closed, taking us to our destination.

- 83 -

Stand Still

By Kasey Smith I’m forced to pause for a moment at red lights And see again, for the first time, these common sites.

These cold, defeated streets; home To fluorescent bulbs that wash the life out Of ageless faces painted with stationary expressions.

Time washed photographs clinging To the cold steel poles of council street lights.

Their eyes, buried in a wreath of wilted petals, Stare out across these roads, unable to cross over.

Children, partners, parents, passengers and pedestrians.

All seem to turn a blind eye To those memorialised upon temporary shrines.

So they feel nothing.

Distant and disaffected By the pace in which life passes them by.

Can’t afford to feel something.

So, pay it no mind While you’re stuck in your routine.

Then the lights turn green.

- 84 -

By Richard Wilde

- 85 -

What about heaven?

By Adele Franklin ‘It all depends how you look at it.’ Ed said.

‘What are you talking about this time?’ responded Bill.

‘The hole, it depends how you look at it. I mean from up here it is a hole in the road – but from down there – it is a hole in the sky.’

‘Can you get holes in the sky?’ asked Bill, who despite his long working relationship with Ed was easily sucked into these philosophical questions. Ed was, as always warming to his theme.

‘If we had a hole in our sky, would we be able to see into heaven? I might be able to spot my mum and dad having a dance. Maybe a choir of heavenly angels having a cup of tea or polishing the pearly gates. Or maybe there is no heaven and the hole will just be a big black space that goes on and on and on.’

‘Much like you do,’ interjected Bill, who by this time was more focussed on things earthly rather than heavenly. ‘Come on, it’s a hole in the road – just a common or garden hole, and we are here to fix it before someone else ruins a tyre and makes another complaint to the Council,’ and with that he stomped off back to the van to collect some tools and a bucket of hot tar, leaving Ed standing looking up into the sky.

- 86 -

‘You are right,’ said a voice which seemed to be coming from down near his feet. Ed shifted his gaze from the firmament to the ground. ‘It is a hole in the sky our sky. There is quite a to-do about it down here.

Me, well I’m not so bothered, I rather like the change of view. But folk are more conservative down here, they like things to stay the same. They like a sky to stay a sky and not become hole.’ Standing at the top of a ladder poking out of the hole was a woman in a business suit with a clipboard tucked underneath her arm. Ed blinked a couple of times and then rubbed his eyes; she was still there.

‘I said you’re right about the hole in the sky, are you here to fix it? The Council normally sends people to fix the holes, would that be you?’

‘Yes’ said Ed who having been asked a direct question found it much easier to respond.

‘I’m Katherine Dawns, Sky Inspector and you are?’

‘Ed Banks, Highways Maintenance’ and he put out his hand to help Katherine off the ladder.

‘Will this take long Mr. Banks? I have a long list of Sky Holes to deal with this morning and you are only the second one on my list.’

Ed looked up the road to where he and Bill had parked the van but there was no sign of either, for the second time in so many minutes he blinked a couple of times and rubbed his eyes. Katherine sighed and looked slightly annoyed. Then she put her clip board down on - 87 -

the curb and sat down next to it. Ed sank down next to her.

There was a bit of an uneasy silence. Ed felt like he should apologise, but he was not at all sure that she was even there, so apologising seemed stupid, but as the silence lengthened and it became obvious that one of them had to say something to fill the awkwardness he mumbled “Sure Bill won’t be long now.”

Katherine looked at him, she was still looking cross.

There was a frown on her face and her lips were looking thin and pursed.

‘This is a travesty, a very poor excuse. We have come to expect more from Council employees,’ she now looked very fierce indeed, then she threw back her head and laughed and laughed until Ed found it impossible not to join in, although he had no idea at all what he was laughing about.

‘I love these days’ said Katherine when she could eventually speak again. ‘I love my job, I get to climb the Sky Holes and spend some time in Up-World, that is what we call this place. I come from Down-World,’ she pointed rather un-necessarily towards the ladder.

‘It is a very different place down there. It is very lovely. Let me show you some pictures.’ Katherine took her mobile from her pocket and started flipping through screens, she seemed to be looking for something.

- 88 -

‘Here are some shots that might interest you, these were taken a few years ago, but they will give you an idea of life in Down-World,’ and with that she passed the phone to Ed. It was his parents. The photograph was of his parents, they were dancing cheek to cheek and they looked happy, and well young, they looked young and happy. He moved to the next photo and the next and next. Uncle Ted and Aunt Ruby, Grandma and Grandpa Banks, cousins Cyril, Arthur, Edward, Tilly, Margaret and Florence. He had never seen these pictures before. Confused and a little bit scared he handed the phone back to Katherine and asked her how she had photographs of his family.

‘I know them of course,’ she said and then seeing the scepticism on Ed’s face continued ‘Where do you think we go when you put us into the ground? You bury us in Down-World and so that is where we stay.

Not in those nasty boxes – no we soon get up and about again, when Myrtle and Albert, your mum and dad arrived they soon settled in. Moved into the same street as the rest of your family. Oh, they love their dancing. Go to dances all the time, most days in fact.

That is what is good about Down-World, you get to do all the things that you really enjoy and don’t have to do anything you don’t. Mind you there are still people queuing up to do VAT and Income Tax returns, still if filling in forms is your ‘thing’ why not?’

- 89 -

‘What about heaven?’ said Ed, pointing up at the sky. ‘I always thought they were up there, not down there.’

‘Don’t know about up there,’ said Katherine, pointing towards the clouds ‘To us, that is just part of Up-World. Up-World and Down-World is all there is.

We all start in Up-World and then when you get boxed up you move to Down-World. Is that your mate Bill coming back?’ Ed looked along the street to see Bill carrying a bucket of steaming tar and pushing a roller, when he looked back at the hole, he was just in time to see the top of the ladder disappearing.

‘New method is it?’ said Bill rather grumpily. ‘You sit on the curb and stare at the hole and it fills itself?

You can do the next one yourself while I sit and do nothing.’ And then he poured the bucket of steaming tar into the hole and fixed the sky in Down-World.

- 90 -

Canny Granny

By Keith Sterrow Years ago, so said my aunt, She’d lived next door to Carrie Grant – ‘Canny Granny’, locals called her, had a widespread ardent following For her storytelling forte in assuaging children’s hollering.

You’d have thought the sprightly Canny Granny (she enjoyed that soubriquet) Would have been, given her talent, making large reserves of hay, But no! Her needs were modest. Still, to keep her spirits live, She did ask if parents with a car would take her for a drive.

Yes, Granny thrived on ‘nicelongdrives’, and usual lifts home after, When back-seat storytelling jaunts resounded with much laughter.

Meantime, her legendary hearing-aid protruding from one ear, Linked by white flex to a plastic box pocketed at her rear,

- 91 -

A talking-point of intrigue among all her clientele.

That plain white box, half-hidden, showed no logo, knob or wheel Giving any hint of function to Carrie’s outré appliance, Seeming, while inert, to stare out in contemptuous defiance.

One sunny Mayday trip, the countryside never greener Then as viewed by Carrie, with young clients, from their parents’ old Cortina.

Janie (mum) driving, Arthur (dad) ‘co-pilot’, Granny, Just behind, befriending the two kids, Tina and Mannie.

Carrie asked: ‘Kids, what topics do you fancy the most?’

Tina’s thoughts: ‘Cycling! Royals!’ Mannie’s: ‘Sci-fi or Ghost!’

For’ard, Arthur chuckled, turned, gave Gran a knowing look.

‘Well, good luck with that, young Carrie, with those kids all at odds …’

Carrie mused: ‘Take a far planet … Biker Queen …

Spook …

We’ve the bones of stories there I think might befit the Gods!’

- 92 -

Janie’s faithful old Cortina, devouring the miles.

Not for these kids ‘Are we there yet?’ – instead, many smiles, Carrie’s sci-fi/ drama improvisation Left both adults and youngsters replete with elation, Mentally, all aloft, soaring like the birds.

You’d enjoy on hearing fully all her captivating words, But my limit’s just 500, so Carrie’s oration Sadly, must be withheld for another occasion.

Dusk: ‘We are here!’ Back they were at their semi, Art inside with kids, they both drowsy and dreamy, While Carrie, with Janie, stayed put in the car, Janie shortly to drop her off home, not too far.

Carrie, ear-plug, flex, box all revealed in plain sight.

Said ‘Janie, I’m about to make your day – and possibly your night!’

Janie’s delight apparent now her itch would be scratched.

Carrie said, ‘I won’t fall to bits with no deaf-aid attached.

‘But many, many years ago, I once was in a fix.

A bogus dad had driven me out into the sticks, Leaving me, by stealth, without my purse,

- 93 -

Stranded, empty-handed … but it could’ve been much worse.

‘Since then, my added plastic box ensemble has helped me stay a staunch survivor.’

Then she opened it for Janie. No transistor. But, inside, she saw two tenners and a fiver.

With a warm glow, Janie turned the key to drive her hoary dear friend home.

‘With Carrie near,’ she thought, ‘for story time, we’ll not have far to roam.’

- 94 -

By Richard Wilde

- 95 -

I Like A Sarnie

By Eric Arnett Here we are again Rustle bustle within the chimney breast soot covers the open grate Lord Magpie hops on purple carpet the nest and hearth of the home dusts and ruffles feathers eyes us in turn- all beady- what’s our fate?

Good morning Mr Magpie one for sorrow leering at my salad sarnie no apple balsamic or mayo to offer arrogant waddle exit through open patio doors.

Beak chocked with sourdough and lettuce not a backward glance or a salute farewell perches arrogantly on smoke stack.

A glutton for punishment? a glutton for sarnies.

Will you not come back? temptation with smoked salmon and cream cheese peanut butter and marmite Club sarnies overflowing with chicken a hipster birdie munching mashed avocado on rye toast minute steak baguettes dripping with onions drop down our chimney anytime I promise the nosh will change.

- 96 -

By Jacqueline Chesta

- 97 -

The Prisoner in Cell Block Five

By Jodie Portugal Approaching the room, it was only now I had a moment to look over the file I had been given a few minutes earlier, Arjen had decided to dump it in my lap, so he could go home early.

For a moment, I just entertained the thought of passing it back to her husband, which was my right and letting him make the final decision. However, he was staying out of it, as was typical of a humiliated Government Dignitary. The door made no sound, when I entered the room, though this was meant to be our Superior Suite. The screwed-down tables and chairs didn’t reflect this, and neither did the light green decor, said to be calming, and no one thought that was true.

She was seated, in the middle of the room, there were no restraints on her arms and legs, not as if she could do much in her ‘condition’. To my dismay she had tried; long brown hair swept into simple ponytail, white jumper and sensible trousers. I wasn’t fooled, she had done it in a pathetic bid to look innocent and homely, all the while drawing attention to her shame.

Well at least she knew the protocol, that was something as she made her way to stand and immediately thrust her hand out to me. I glanced down, with the nails all bitten down to the quick, and raised my eyebrow at her. Did she imagine I would - 98 -

allow my skin contact hers? Once I would have taken it gladly, now she was reduced to nothing, and it would be better for her to remember that. Looking down, she realised her mistake and retracted her hand while she obeyed my motion to sit. Sliding into the seat opposite her, I activated the recording and gave the same interview speech I had made over a thousand times.

‘Please state your name for the records’. There was a slight echo caused by my voice on the metal surfaces which I never appreciated.

‘Zoe Schmutz’ came the reply, and I noticed her vulnerability, beneath her blue eyes, a natural reaction under the circumstances.

‘Please state the crimes against the State which have brought you here today?’

She paused for a moment before declaring in a shaky voice. ‘I committed adultery’ it was a direct comment and true, which caused me to lean back in my and exhale slowly, just to let myself prepare the more damning statement.

‘Zoe, it does something in your favour that you pleaded guilty. The reason for this meeting is to understand the reason why.’

To that, she gave me the meek reply, ‘I still love my husband.’

Oh, and there it was, something I was expecting. Some cases were quick, but this bitch was going to lead me - 99 -

on a merry dance of self-pity, then so be it. I had nowhere else to go, which caused me to begin my usual spiel.

‘You are whore born Zoe, tell me about that.’ It was always good to get some contextual information jus to remind them of who they truly were. I must admit I got a jolt of pleasure watching her discomfort, as she took a breath and began to regale me with her life story.

‘I was born in Kensington, to a mother who was a maid to a Member of Parliament, she died during childbirth having me.’

‘Your mother was his mistress?’ not that it was uncommon, it was. Mistresses even lowborn had a small degree of societal acceptance.

‘No, he raped her’, the moment she said it she knew it was the wrong answer, which caused her cheeks too flush while my hands crashed to the table.

‘Raped? You forget your place and your rank.’

Yelling was unprofessional, but I couldn’t help myself.

‘By taking her into his home, he legally owned her as property. She wasn’t raped, she submitted. Your mother knew her place, so you can destroy any illusions. Pure birth can be raped, but the whore born, you are no better than cattle.’ Inwardly I cursed myself, by showing my hand so early. But this, this was the moment I hated about these interviews, the moment they forgot themselves and gave themselves - 100 -

illusions of grandeur. Settling back down, I managed to compose myself. ‘So, your mother dies giving birth to you and the Minister, who incidentally has requested that we expunge his name from all records, decides to keep you.’

‘I think he felt bad,’ came her reply, Zoe was now looking at the ground, and speaking in that pathetic soft voice, if I hadn’t had heard it all before, I would have felt sympathy, but I wasn’t fooled.

‘He didn’t feel bad, he was obligated. No doubt hoping that his bloodline would quash your mother's influence, especially with her death,’ I reminded Zoe, to which she responded: ‘He made me feel like Cinderella.’

Her speech was almost ... childish, no doubt casting herself back to happier times. But Cinderella, really?

That said, from the records her father had treated her as equal or could have been described as so, she had an education with her half-siblings, dined at the table unless company was present, and her presence was undesirable.

‘But then you found a love match?’ I was surprised when I had read this, love matches were not uncommon. My wife and I were a love match, according to it was a penance for my existence.

‘Yes, then I met my husband. I loved him from the start.’ Zoe’s voice was getting brighter, clearly remembering herself in her wedding dress, looking all - 101 -

pretty, standing in the House of Our Lady, her poor father paying a princely sum for it all, and I was determined to bring her back to earth.

‘Tell me about your vows. Tell me the words you said on the day of your wedding, tell me of the promise you made in our most sacred house.’

Her voice was hesitant, but she had to proceed. ‘I stand here today, as one born of whore flesh, I stand here today humble and meek. I stand here today to publicly acknowledge my tainted bloodline and beg forgiveness of all the pure born for invading this sacred space. I openly confess my low status and inferiority in this union. The man you see before me is not my equal. He is my Lord and Master, and I submit to his every word and whim.’

Her voice faltered at the end, causing me to realise that this was rehearsed, no doubt one of the released had coached her at what to say No emotion, no meaning. She trivialised her marriage, the same way she did her existence. I wasn’t impressed and let my face show it. However, looking over her file, it was impressive. ‘Three children in three years. You seemed to have done well completing your wifely duties.’

Complimenting her seemed to provide a sense of accomplishment.

‘Two sons and a daughter, he insisted we start straight away…I agreed.’

- 102 -

And there it was again, the arrogance, it was all the same with these women, thinking of themselves as victims. However, I let her continue her statement about her marriage.

‘He was never an abusive husband. He cared for us dearly.’

‘But then you had an affair, why did you abandon all feeling for your children, knowing of the repercussions.’

‘I didn’t think I would be caught’ came her soft reply, the typical response of those given too much free will. The airs and graces above their stations, causing them to think too much, want and expect too much. And there was the truth.

‘Yet at no point, did you feel a shred of shame at your indecent act? You do realise if you had confessed, you would have received only a light sentence, possibly only a public flogging and three years' imprisonment. Something which should be more attractive than being here today.’ Zoe already looked guilty as we all knew she was. However, that didn’t change the reason.

‘I still love him,’ she managed to state, which for some reason managed to irate me even more.

‘Who? Your lover or your husband?’ There it was, the armour piercing words, while she had the good grace to blush and look away. Fear or embarrassment, the outcome was the same after all. Yet, I had to - 103 -

continue, to rid her of her pathetic masquerade, and I changed my voice to a softer pattern, let her think I was her best friend or some shit like that. ‘You know, you could have kept him ignorant, pretend the child of filth within you was your husbands, illegal as it is.

Why didn’t you?’

‘I wanted to.’

The moment the words escaped her mouth, I could practically feel my own eyes lighting with triumph.

‘Are you telling me, your plan was for your husband to raise the bastard and keep him ignorant of your transgression. Did you seriously think he wouldn’t find out?’

‘I was hoping he wouldn’t, I know I did it, and I am sorry. I never meant for it to go as far as it did. I never meant to get pregnant.’

Even with contraception so readily available, I didn’t buy it for a second. ‘Then why didn’t you destroy the bastard the moment of its quickening?’

‘I’m against abortion.’ Zoe clearly had this pathetic delusion of the moral high ground while she was spreading her legs for a man who was not her husband.

‘I screwed everything up, didn’t I?’ came her question in a hushed tone, she was broken and defeated. All moment of bravado had left, leaving the pregnant woman before me, just a hollow shell.

Finally, her body matched her biological state, but then - 104 -

again, I could afford a little kindness since it was meaningless.

‘Yes, Zoe, you did. You screwed everything up.

You’ve no one to blame for this, but yourself.’

“What will happen to Jacob?” I wasn’t sure if this was a distraction tactic or not. Most of them never even asked this question about their lovers. Though she didn’t deserve the answer, then again, she never would be able to ask anyone else.

‘He was charged with adultery and hanged two days ago.’ I said simply, waiting for the reaction to reach Zoe’s face, which didn’t while I continued. ‘His head was removed and settled on a spike on the Tower of London, as tradition dictates.’ I deliberately left out the part where he was pissing himself, screaming that Zoe was a temptress and he was, and this was my favourite, ‘Unable to contain himself’. Until the bitter end, so much true love.

‘So, he’s dead,’ she replied in a flat tone, causing my eyes to roll.

‘Well, that’s typically what happens when you commit a crime.’

Zoe nodded, or what I took for a nod, but before could continue, she suddenly asked. ‘But what will happen to my children?’

The simple question surprised me, up to this point she was wallowing in her own misery and sin she seemed to have forgotten they even existed. Leaning - 105 -

forward, trying to suppress the hatred that crept into my voice. I didn’t have to give her any information.

The fact I was doing so, meant I was uncharacteristically kind. Not that it mattered. ‘Thanks to your crimes, all your children have been declared illegitimate, per the rules of the State. The younger two, your son and daughter.’ There was no way on earth I was referring to them by their names, ‘have been placed into Armed Service. The eldest, however, now that is more beneficial. His hand has been promised to a Senator, the union taking place around the time of his voice becoming falsetto.’

Zoe’s reaction was expected, in truth, I was expecting it to be some tears of protests. However, she was expecting this fate, though sympathy would never come from me since all she could say was, ‘He'll be so young.’

Signing all I could say in response was ‘That’s all the best they could ever do. Your husband is to be remarried; his new wife chosen by the State. Their children will be his heirs.’

I deliberately kept my voice as neutral as possible while she took a breath, accepting her children’s fate, the same way she needed to accept her own; however, I gave her a moment. This was the past I never enjoyed doing, no matter how many times. But it had to be done. ‘Zoe, the charges against you are severe. You committed adultery, forgot the sphere where you were - 106 -

born into, and attempted to deceive your husband and the State. Pleading guilty doesn’t absolve you or the unborn child of your sins. Do you understand?’. Once again, the voice was akin to a schoolteacher, all prim and proper. Sometimes the simplest tactic worked.

‘I understand’, perhaps it was because I mentioned her unborn son since she immediately began to stroke her stomach. The first time she had done that since our meeting had begun, which allowed me to take a breath, ‘Zoe, we know that you committed adultery, we know all of this. However, throughout your hearing and initial imprisonment, you never answered the one question we required, which has led to his meeting.

Zoe, we need to know why.’ I expected silence, and I got it. Perhaps Zoe was questioning the real reason in mind. She knew she couldn’t lie to me, she couldn’t even lie to herself, though I was feeling bloody impatient so asked again, that one word which carried so much meaning. After all this, after my interrogation, which hadn’t even taken that long and to which I was speaking in a tone which was kinder in comparison to my usual preference. All I needed was a statement which I received a minute later, in the softest voice humanly possible.

‘I was bored.’

I said nothing, just let the words digest for both of us.

Three words which had decided her fate. In truth, it - 107 -

was the normal replay. ‘So, you confess your sins were out of, and from your words ‘boredom’, freely admitting that you openly betrayed your marriage thought no fault of your husband’.

Zoe just nodded, but the blood had drained from her face, while I stood up, the only sound was that accursed metal chair scraping across the ground.

This was the part of my job I never enjoyed, however with the laws governed by the State, it had to be done. Tugging down on my tunic, I cleared my throat and delivered my duty.

‘Zoe Schmutz, you are charged with adultery and high treason against the State. You have committed the most shameful act, of which you have confessed and sentenced will be passed immediately.’ Almost on instinct, Zoe looked down and begin to stoke that accursed stomach of hers, yet she didn’t look up. She had no desire to see my face in the same way I didn’t wish to see her own.

‘The State has found you guilty, and your sentence has been passed. Everything today has been but a formality. You will be taken from this place and be immediately put to death. You will be taken to an open arena, where your death will be witnessed by an audience of your peers. A noose will be placed around your neck, and you will be hung from the rope until death.’

- 108 -

She knew of this, she knew how her life would end, yet she wasn’t finished. ‘And what about my baby?’ which caused me to sigh inwardly. Bloody typical, she was pleading her belly, trying to bargain with her bastard’s life with her own. Did she think I hadn’t seen it all before? But I had to keep it simple, a matter of fact and remember I was a professional.

‘Your child will share your fate.’ An unborn child condemned to death by its mother’s actions. Signed, sealed, delivered. There was no avoidance. At this point, she could react in two ways. Throwing herself to the ground, pleading for her life and clemency, if she even knew the meaning of the word. Or acceptance.

She chose the latter. Head bowed hands cradling around that stomach, the very life being sucked out of her in advance and thank God for that. Getting back to my feet, I straightened up. From this point, it was simple. Zoe would be taken to the Centre for the Condemned, her head shaved, her body placed in white indicting her redemption in the next life. Then Zoe and her bastard would die. At this point, I expected something, just to draw a line under this whole exchange, but instead nothing. My business concluded, I rose from my seat, stepped back from the table and turned towards the door.

‘Thank you.’

The voice was small, yet there was an air of dignity about it, I never expected. Turning around, - 109 -

Zoe’s head still bowed. Tears continued to slip down her face and drip onto her white top. She never once looked up. ‘Thank you for your kindness,’ in the voice now I could hear it, genuine regret for her actions. It was a long time coming, yet finally, she understood. I could have said something, given her some reassurance, but I couldn’t, she had made this noose, and now she would hang from it. With the sentence delivered, I crossed the threshold. That was it, it was over. Without looking back, I just walked away as I heard the door slam shut behind me, and I banished all thought of the whore in cell block five.

- 110 -

By Richard Wilde

- 111 -

A Professional Immigrant; Reality of my Working Life

By Anil Mitra Every day I rise and go to work at seven There I have a cuppa and then see Ben. He talks to me with a deeper note Which sounds to me high and remote.

He voices with this world’s racial beat Very painful but, to him, it is so sweet I complain and scornfully he says To Jimmy but he turns it to praise.

The breath of mine stops for a while I feel so sick. How very vile.

Then, I think, maybe I fight But this thought gives me many a sleepless night And this man, he rides me hard I feel his curse as a haunted card.

I am criticised on everything that matters Making me feel as important as muck in the gutters.

Whilst I am suffering with so much stress, I continue to smile and go to work in smart dress.

I am burned with dread I am dried and dead When I came to this country, I had head full of hair It is this worry which has made me despair.

I think back to my country where sky is blue Sun is always out – what an imaginary view.

This man wears a mask, that grins with lies.

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It hides my truth and shades my eyes.

Is this the debt I pay to human guile?

With torn and bleeding heart, I still smile.

He fools the superiors with flirts and lies Whilst inflicting me with disciplinaries riddled with dirt and flies With my head held high, my heart is proud of the job I perform, I know that my honest contest may encourage them to reform.

I shake my head in sadness and pain While they continue to look at me with disdain.

And hard and fast they ride The leader throws my file aside.

Despite the lies, my Bully Boss continues to stand tall it doesn’t take much for him to make me feel small.

With years of dedication, my career has grown The passion I have remains unknown.

Having opportunities equal and with respect treated, I can only hope, this scene will never be repeated.

For a promotion, I know I didn’t stand a chance However, I stand tall and resist an ugly dance Try very hard to put on a brave face, I’m told to go back home – yes, they try to put me in my place.

Is it a crime to have different colour skin?

A subject rejected; these words end up in the bin.

- 113 -

I pray for a change for good with such views not remaining the same Not even sure from where such opinions came.

I return to my dwelling, feeling drained and low Yet with my beloved family, I know this is the right place to go.

Back at home, my work becomes a distant memory, just for one night I focus on sleep‌it’s all gone briefly.

Actually, I feel alright

- 114 -

Liberated Women

By Maleeha Mansur We Are Here Our voices not of degradation, inferiority or suppression, Our voices not of #MeToo, nor of the suffrages too, Our voices of freedom, education and service to the Nation, We Are Here At peace with oneself, at peace with society, Bestowed not with inferiority, but true equality, Taking pride in raising the standards of our future generations, We Are Here Who are these men in suits attempting to grant us our rights?

We were liberated centuries ago, 14 to be precise, When God Himself bestowed us with our needs and rights, We Are Here In love with our hijab, unlocking the doors to a spiritual revolution, Adherent to our faith, devoted as the Almighty's creation, Not bending to materialism and superficial modern trends, We Are Here - 115 -

Liberated by Muhammadpbuh the Noble Prophet of Islam, The one who established our rights not seen before education, inheritance, divorce, Sadly, a distant dream for our sisters in the West for centuries to come, We Are Here Leading one another to progress and develop, Shining stars, leaving a spiritual trail for others to follow, Preachers of Love for All, Hatred for None, this is who we are We are Ahmadi Muslim Women, in Hillingdon, where are you? Bonjour!

- 116 -

HYLÄTÄ

By Max Hallam The lights of Tallinn’s Old Town twinkle seventy miles across the Gulf of Finland, four hundred thousand strong. And here I stand on the other side of the ocean, on the outskirts of Hanko on the southern coast. I should have liked to visit Tallinn someday.

It's as dark a night as this place ever gets. Who needs the soft glow of starlight when you could have the harsh chemical glare of sodium street lamps to lull you to sleep? A sea breeze caresses my bare skin. Sand underfoot, salt on the wind. I often come out here at night. Just me and the ocean.

Tonight, is different though. Tonight, I cradle a bundle of mottled, iridescent grey leather. Tonight, I hold my skin.

Selkies. That’s what they call us. From Finland to Faroe to Orkney. Seal people. Women who shed their skins to bathe in the moonlight, trapped by lusting men who steal our ‘coats’. A metaphor for the ancient fear of women with agency.

It's a beautiful story, like all good tragedies. But even tragedies are sanitised, loose ends tied up in pretty bows. Real life is messy. Happy endings aren’t mandated. You can’t be sure you’ll get an ending at all.

I begged Hilja to lock up my skin somewhere I would never find it. Behind the plasterboard, under a cellar flagstone, buried so deep in the garden no hyperactive puppy could dig it up. She knows I come out here every evening. She doesn’t mind. She knows that I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my - 117 -

natural lifespan, which dwarfs her sum of years as a birch tree dwarfs a dandelion, beside her. But I was born in sealskin. I swam the Gulf of Finland before the Suomenlahti had a name. My kind can stay as far inland as we like, but we'll always have one foot in the sea. Hilja knows the seal-folk have… gravity. The moon shapes the tides, plants seek the sun, and we are drawn to the sea. Like moths to the flame, seal calves to their mothers. A lullaby just beyond earshot, calling us home. But I have another home now, on dry land, on two legs.

It was folded with the blankets, of all things, left there in a moment of carelessness. I think she’d taken to holding it when I was away, pressing her face into its warm thick oil-smell of me. It’s as if she fears a part of me is still underwater, so she clings tight to what little she can touch in my absence.

But once I saw it, breath quickened, alveoli clenched tight. One touch and six years of love washed away in that old biological drive, the tide, the need to swim dive glide through the sapphire depthsI find the water lapping at my toes. I was doomed the moment I walked out of the sea. Poor Hilja. I should’ve known. Ours is a fate etched into etymology.

Hilja. Her name, her grandmother’s, inherited among family lines.

Hylje. Finnish for seal. Passed down through ProtoFinic, Ugric, Uralic.

Hylätä. To refuse, reject, abandon.

A curse carved into lexical stone, brought to life with the breath of a song that sings in my ears without - 118 -

end. Hylätä, hylätä, abandon her, come home, tule kotiin, come home to your real family.

She’ll think I left her. I wish I could run to the house and embrace her, lie that perhaps one day I could return. But I feel the sea in me with every pulse of a heartbeat, flooding my veins with saltwater. The moment the waves close over my head will be the last I know of her. I will wake the next morning weeping, but tears pass away to nothing in the ocean, and I will not remember why I am crying. But I suppose the legends had one thing right: Her final memory of me will be heartbreak.

- 119 -

By Jacqueline Chesta

- 120 -

Put the Black Back

By Grace Quansah We are here, Who? Why don’t you know?

I mean you and me We represent a homogeneity Of culture that really bites, Together, In solidarity, We can unite Under the banner of diversity.

Is that right?

So, just to be clear, The ‘we’ at best Is supposed to suggest That Black History, Is synonymous with inclusivity?

Consequently, According to this rationale One month is, For some Councils More than sufficient, To mark the achievements Of African/Caribbean, Asian And even British ethnicities.

- 121 -

Absolutely.

You see, From this position, Some believe That to ‘root out discrimination’ We need integration To create a social cohesion And opportunities For all diverse communities.

In other words, Blackness must be colourless, An absent presence Which is forever presently absent.

Does this make perfect sense?

Are you kidding?

Quite the contrary, This is complete nonsense!

Since 2007, The year we observed Abolition Some have tried to erase Black History In certain localities But, in reality, No amount of censorship, Can erase our heritage And deny African voices, - 122 -

From expressing, Distinctive cultural choices, Which are rooted in solid ground, Terra firma, we’re safe and sound.

Why scrap the black?

Just put it back, Because We are indeed here On our own terms, A lesson to learn.

No need to query, “how?”

Simply reinstate me, him, her, them, all RIGHT NOW!

- 123 -

Where She Falls

By Madeline Vallins My Mother breathes, stands, falls, and through the dull clouds of winter breath she recalls her life on the cliff between four morbid walls.

With the wind licking at her skin like cold fire she calls out, ‘this is my only desire!’

Up above, back on the cliff’s edge father stayed, his hair and eyes as black as berries, he prayed, ‘let the rocks not tear her frame nor the sea wash her away and with this needle I will stitch her up and here she will stay’ But I’m glad to say, that the bottom of the ocean is where my mother lay.

- 124 -

By Jacqueline Chesta

- 125 -

Contributors Vivien Brown Vivien Brown writes commercial women’s fiction, including 150 published magazine stories and two successful novels, with a third in the pipeline, all with domestic, romantic or dramatic themes. She has also written many articles on working and reading with young children, following her role as library outreach worker in Hillingdon’s children’s centres. Vivien is a fellow of the Society of Women Writers and Journalists, a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and treasurer of local group Phrase Writers. She lives in Uxbridge with her husband and cats, loves TV quizzes and cryptic crosswords and is a proud grandmother of two.

Selma Carvalho Selma is the author of 3 non-fiction books documenting the Goan presence in colonial British East Africa. Between 2011-2014, she led the Oral Histories of British-Goans Project archived at the British Library, Kings Cross. Her fiction has been published by Litro, Lighthouse, and Kingston University Press, among others. She has received a nod from 32 literary competitions, including Fish and Bath, notably a shortlist finalist for the London Short Story - 127 -

Prize 2017, runner-up for the Dinesh Allirajah Prize 2017 and the Dorset Fiction Award 2018, and winner of the Leicester Writes Prize 2018. Her collection of short stories was longlisted for the prestigious SI Leeds Literary Prize 2018, and her novella was shortlisted by the Mslexia Novella Competition 2018.

Lynda Anderson A lifelong resident of Hillingdon, Lynda has witnessed a lot of changes over recent years. She hopes her poem, Grounded, might be a voice for many in her generation who feel a bit bamboozled by the speed of those changes and the insistence that we must throw away all our long-held beliefs and attitudes to keep in step with the zeitgeist. Lynda politely asserts her freedom to think for herself and was inspired by some beautiful trees on a stretch of land surrounded by busy roads.

Macauley Raymond Foster Ray is an MA student at Brunel University who’s been writing for fun since before he realised it was a job. A keen magician, in his spare time he enjoys thinking of pretentious words for illusionist and aspires to perform at Covent Garden. When not writing, performing or waiting for Doors of Stone, Ray enjoys playing Dungeons and Dragons as an excuse to do - 128 -

stupid voices, escaping from responsibilities inside fat fantasy novels, pretending he can draw, juggling, cultivating an out of hand fountain pen collection and referring to himself in the third person.

Katherine Armstrong Katherine Armstrong is a BA Creative Writing graduate of Brunel University who has lived and worked in Uxbridge throughout her degree. Her writing often explores themes of mental illness, sexuality and our relationship with technology. She is also a fan of the fantastical and the surreal. Katherine is an aspiring screenwriter now pursuing an MA Screenwriting course in September.

Kasparas Pakalnis A recent Brunel graduate in BA English and Creative Writing, Kasparas is studying for an MA Creative Writing. Having lived in multiple countries, he attended international schools most for the most part of his formative education. Most of his literary inspirations and influences came during the two years spent living in St. Petersburg. In English classes he fell in love with American travel and expatriate prose, most notably Jack Kerouac and Ernest Hemingway.

From there onwards Kasparas decided to further - 129 -

pursue his literary career in London, studying at Brunel.

Iris Hontiveros Mauricio Having moved from the Philippines, Iris is pursuing a Masters in Creative Writing at Brunel University.

While not particularly devout herself, most of her writing bears strong influences of her Roman Catholic upbringing, along with themes of history, mythology, pop culture and the arts—things from which she draws much inspiration. When she isn’t busy wrestling her muses and challenging her creativity, Iris can be found living a sedentary life similar to that of a feline’s: eating, limited socializing, succumbing to bouts of lethargy when caught in warm patches of sunlight, and binge-watching shows and films.

Angela Narayn A resident of the borough for most her life, Angela’s connection with Brunel began in attending social events in her youth and furthered by two of her children studying at Brunel. With an ongoing interest in writing, she claims to be both overwhelmed and curious by the writing process and that she might have something valid and unique to say.

- 130 -

Chloe Perrin A North Walian writer who’s been living in Uxbridge for about a year now, Chloe came to Brunel as a mature student to study Creative Writing. Most of what she’s written in the past has been plays; her job for a while as an artistic contributor for her hometown’s youth musical theatre. What she loves to write most are novels and short stories, especially ones about things we don’t like to talk about.

Sarah Alqaood A third year Theatre student at Brunel University, Sarah was born and raised in Kuwait. This will be her fifth year living in London with the hopes of one day becoming a theatre director addressing the issues and history of her region and its people. Through her work, she hopes to expose people of this city to another narrative, perhaps one previously unknown to them. Her interests lie not only in theatre but politics and culture, and how theatre can help to shape them.

Philip Marriner Philip Marriner is a secondary school teacher in Hillingdon. His first Young Adult novel, Littledale, was published last year and is available on Amazon.

- 131 -

Connor Michie After years of pursuit as a hobby, Connor Michie recently graduated from Brunel University with a degree in Film and Television Studies that has focused his aim at forging a career in writing, as well as a drive to see as much of the world as possible.

John Donegan Originally from Putney, John lives in Eastcote and is a singer/songwriter. He has written over 300 songs and performed more than 1000 shows over the years – one of which being the first Hillingdon Literary Festival.

He is currently writing an autobiography with the hope of turning it in to a musical. His current great interest is Bob Dylan, 1965-66.

Sithulisiwe A. Wabatagore Sithulisiwe is currently studying towards an MA in Creative Writing at Brunel University. She graduates in December 2019. She enjoys being in nature and attempts to capture its essence in her ‘somewhat amateurish’, abstract paintings. She loves to express herself through different mediums of writing and aspires to write stories that reach out and connect with others.

- 132 -

Daiana Lungu Daiana graduated from Brunel three years ago. Since then, she’s been working, writing, acting, drinking lots of coffee and experiencing life with its ups and downs.

Daiana believes creativity is vital to all human beings and writes because it feels good to put her feelings on paper. As a reader, she enjoys absurdist prose and chaotic worlds that have their own structure. As a writer, she is continuing to develop her style.

Hannah Louise Ward As a budding psychologist, Hannah tends to forget her time and go months without writing, but she has recently picked the pen she wants to use. Spending more time looking up than down at the textbooks, she is ready to start dreaming of being a writer again, searching for the reader to believe in her. For what good is a dreamer without a believer? Hannah focuses a lot of her poetry on her little life experiences, particularly through the colours she senses around her.

Joanne Wythe A musician and music teacher with two wonderful children, Joanne has lived in West Drayton for over 30 years and has taught in Hillingdon amongst other boroughs. She also plays double bass in various - 133 -

orchestras. She loves working with primary school children on a daily basis, getting them to sing; play; compose music; and move to music with abandon.

Occasionally she has a little bit of time to be creative – her featured piece is the result: her thoughts on the role of women as mothers. Not always appreciated or even noticed but always there.

Dominic Matthews Originally from Gloucestershire, Dominic studied Creative Writing at Brunel University as an undergraduate. With a passion for poetry, comedy and screenwriting, Dominic continues his education as a postgrad at Brunel. When he is not trying to make people laugh with his off-kilter sense of humour, you can find him slumped in bed “researching” Netflix’s programming. Dominic has been previously published in the 2018 Brunel horror, sci-fi and fantasy anthology Wizards, Werewolves and Weird Machines.

Kasey Smith Kasey Smith uses his experience of living in Hayes to write a combination of bleak and introspective poetry that focuses on the impact that one's environment can have on the individual. Smith’s life and work is influenced by his experiences of growing up working - 134 -

class in a small, forgotten town on the outskirts of London. He has spent the entire twenty-five years of his life living in Hayes, trying to understand the complicated and nuanced relationship he shares with his birthplace.

Adele Franklin Adele is a 59-year-old retired Chartered Librarian, a resident of Hillingdon since 1991. She spent her professional life working with young people trying to foster in them a love of literature and provide for them a safe space where they could flourish and grow.

Reading and writing have always been a huge part of her life and having given up work, she joined The Hillingdon U3A Creative Writing Group – which she now runs. She describes her style as quirky and runs the gamut from autobiographical pieces, to science fiction, humour to plays to murderous tales!

Keith Sterrow A mature (senior citizen) student attending, since 2011, leisure activity Arts classes at Hillingdon’s Brunel University, Keith also enjoys the numerous concerts one can attend there. While the courses he’s taken, Creative Writing and Guitar, reflect two key interests of his – music and writing – Keith is also a lifelong - 135 -

hobbyist in sketching and painting. As an omnivorous reader, he gravitates to prose, rarely to poetry. But, when it comes to writing, poetry’s constraints of structure and length, imposing useful discipline, tend to attract him and, with luck, can assist in producing something worth reading, especially where a deadline applies.

Eric Arnett Eric is a second year English Literature and Creative Writing student at Brunel University.

Jodie Portugal Portugal was born in Hayes, and has lived most of her life in the Borough. At the age of fifteen, she was told she was too “working class for University”, and if she wanted to travel, she should get a job at Thomas Cook!

Ignoring that advice, she now has a BA in English Literature, an MA in Creative Writing, two books on Amazon, is a published poet and solo travels as much as she can.

Anil Mitra At 83 years old, Anil believes he has lived life to the full with many roads of happiness and many - 136 -

challenges. A retired Civil Engineer, born and raised in Calcutta, India, he has been married for 45 years. He is a father and doting grandfather using writing as a means of expression, sharing experiences and emotions. He is active at the gym, with a passion for charity work and volunteering on committees. Having read his poetry at the Councillor’s annual poem competition & having compiled a couple of anthologies, he has stated his excitement to share more of his work.

Maleeha Mansur Maleeha is a junior doctor, a mother, wife of an Imam and life devotee of the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community. Born and bred in Surrey, she gained her BA Hons from Cambridge University, and MBBS from Imperial College London. Whilst at university, Maleeha had the honour to serve as President of the Ahmadiyya Muslim Womens' Student Association and have recently been appointed President of a local branch of the Ahmadiyya Muslim Women's Association.

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Max Hallam Max was born and lives in the London Borough of Hillingdon. He previously studied for a BA at Brunel University London and is now studying his MA, also at Brunel.

Grace Quansah A Former university lecturer, British Museum facilitator, award-winning storyteller, writer, editor, TalentEd tutor/Save Ealing Libraries campaigner and Ealing Labour Party Committee member. In 2008, Grace founded the Writing, Acting and Publishing Project for Youngsters (WAPPY). It develops the writing, artwork and performance skills of young people (4–18 years), with opportunities for performance, exhibition and publication. It also provides volunteering and training opportunities. In 2011, she co-edited WAPPY’s anthology, The Soul of a Child, with Maureen Roberts, and in 2015 co-edited, Mame Nwia-Amah, by Esther Ackah. In December 2018, she edited WAPPY’s Arts Council-funded anthology (Krik Krak) Wonderful World of WAPPY.

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Madeline Vallins Madeline was brought up on a small island at the bottom of Kent called the Isle of Sheppey. As inviting as that sounds, a portion of it belongs to marshlands, which gives those who populate it the nickname ‘swampeys’. There is one bus that leaves the island, one train, and two bridges, both not very safe to cross by foot. She describes her imagination as her saving grace from the vicious boredom she often encountered.

She spent a lot of time wandering the beach, climbing cliffs and sitting in fields looking for fresh perspectives. She writes poetry as much as she does prose, and is greatly inspired by gothic works of literature, and anything that keeps her up at night.

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Illustrators Jacqueline Chesta In 2006 Jacqueline started drawing sketches of people on the Metro and the RER in Paris. In May 2010 a selection of 36 sketches was published under the title: La Ligne B. Since 2013, still sketching on the metro, she has now been drawing people everywhere in cities.

That started another series entitled Cities’soul, oil paintings with collages, mixing art, poetry and literature. Jacqueline often attends the Hillingdon Literary Festivals, sketching numerous sessions and revelling in the atmosphere. www.JacquelineChesta.com

Richard Wilde Richard enjoys the exacting nature of pencil work and the looseness and expressiveness of oil paints. Though he has gained a reputation as a portrait artist, he enjoys working from all aspects of life. www.hillingdonartists.co.uk

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By Richard Wilde

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