ISSN (ONLINE) 2631-4770
NITROGEN HOUSE ZINE Visual art, poetry & prose
Thanks to all spooky contributors
This issue features work by: Taysha Tutt, Bridget Scrannage, S. A. Leavesley, Kate Young, Sora, Al Myer, Katerina Neocleous, Susannah Violette, Elly Farrelly, Phil Wood, Kirsty A. Niven, Samuel Best, Kaleb Tutt, Alun Robert & Caitlin MacEwan
CONTENTS The Dead by Phil Wood...................................................................................................3 The Empty by Taysha Tutt ................................................................................................4 A String of Ghosts by Kate Young .................................................................................................5 A Sweet Tooth by Bridget Scrannage ........................................................................................6 Here’s Tae Yeh Mistress Henderson by Alun Robert ...............................................................................................8 A Child’s Verse by Katerina Neocleous................................................................................... 10 Petirrojo by Sora ......................................................................................................... 11 Glenhead by Samuel Best ............................................................................................. 12 Night Mare Visions by S. A. Leavesley........................................................................................ 18 It’s Time to Kill the Jester by Kaleb Tutt ............................................................................................... 19
A New Friend by Caitlin MacEwan .................................................................................... 21 Kali and Her Lover by Susannah Violette ................................................................................... 24 The White Lady by Kirsty A. Niven....................................................................................... 26 Ghost of the Maestro by Elly Farrelly ............................................................................................ 27 Pumpkin Cemetery by Al Myer .................................................................................................. 28
Afterward Contributor Credits ...................................................................................... 29
THE DEAD by Phil Wood
It is that time that comes softly, slowly, like a feral scent into the breeze, the forest wedded white. It is that time of night when the curtain of leaves fall, merge and blur into that mushroom bloom of bliss. It is that time of frosted promises fracture with whispers, it is that time when roots unclothe with waking breath. For when the theatre of silhouettes are seeking warmth, it is that time I have this sense of you.
THE EMPTY by Taysha Tutt
A STRING OF GHOSTS by Kate Young
Night has wrapped its arms around the walls and run its tongue along the lips of the window pane. Night, an empty vessel to be ﬁlled hour by hour, a hot water bottle grown cold and comfortless. I thought that in his death we would ﬁnd peace, that we could bury the skeletons neatly in the closet, their dark secrets shared only with a frantic moth struggling, beating its wings against dry dust. It was clearly a mistake to take the skeleton out, especially as it laid so still at the bottom of the pile; for now there is a whole graveyard tumbling on the ﬂoor moaning to be examined, bone by bone. I could re-arrange them, one by one like ﬁling photographs methodically in albums, but your image refuses to be shut on shelves, dusted down and thumbed through only occasionally. The sun rises, placing its mouth over the window’s pain and inevitably inﬂates life into day once again. I hold a string of ghosts as a child holds a balloon then release them, they ﬂoat up eclipsed by the fading moon.
A SWEET TOOTH by Bridget Scrannage
The doorbell rang for the sixth time that evening. Agatha got up from her chintz armchair and shufﬂed into the hallway. No one appeared to be on the empty doorstep, but soon a small, round-faced boy dressed as a pumpkin bounced out from behind a potted shrub and yelled, ‘Trick or treat!’ Agatha gave a shriek. Her false teeth dropped from her mouth and clattered onto the mat as she grasped for the door frame. The child stared at the teeth in horror and let out a bloodcurdling scream. ‘I’m so sorry. Did he scare you?’ The pumpkin’s mother rushed up the path. ‘I’ll be okay,’ Agatha lisped. ‘Can you pick up my teeth please?’ ‘Oh yes,’ the woman bent to retrieve them. Looking perturbed, she handed the teeth back to Agatha, who immediately put them into her mouth. ‘You don’t want to be eating lots of sweets, or you’ll get like me,’ Agatha addressed the traumatised child, who retreated behind the shrub again. ‘I do apologise,’ his mother said. ‘Look, we’ve just moved into number 33.’ She gestured towards a house a few doors down from Agatha’s. ‘Have you got something I can write my phone number on? If there’s ever anything we can do…’ ‘Thank you, dear. That’s most kind.’ Agatha shufﬂed across to the hall table to fetch a pad and pen. Taking the proffered number, she gave them a handful of toffees, then watched as they trooped off down the path. Agatha closed the door softly and laughed. Did they really think that an overweight kid dressed as a pumpkin would
scare a woman who had survived the Blitz? She added the note to the others in her pink cardigan pocket. Halloween was always a good time to meet the new neighbours. When the winter snow came and she needed someone to get her shopping they wouldnâ€™t think to knock on her door, but now theyâ€™d feel obliged to trudge to the supermarket when she called them.
HERE’S TAE YEH MISTRESS HENDERSON by Alun Robert
When sun dips doon oer Campsie Fells o Neolithic chambers an Iron Age fort whar crooked fairies creep passed Earl’s Seat day efter day an noo it’s Halloween as wee bats glide doon on circular swoops an kelpies salivate fur this is their nicht, auld wiﬁe Henderson peers oer her bi-focals tackin time frae granpa - gaes him a grin. Noo is the moment fur tae rise frae her sofa tae ﬁll yon enamel bath wi ice cald water. Chops up ripe coxes frae aff village trees. Suspends binder twine a across her scullery. Loops nooses tae dangle feet aff stane ﬂairs ready fur coxes smeared wi double-thick treacle. Lays oot tatty scones wi strained rasp jam an tumblers o scoosh - Vimto an Irn-Bru. Ready, waitin fur Goths wi ﬂuorescent skeletons, teuchter winged wizards an deadly warlocks, those wi painted faces an them wha not like lambs in a bothie then in they traipse yon peely-wally guisers - loons an quines wi sparklers on mitts bocht frae the Co-op as catherine wheels spin, ﬁre crackers thump an rockets cast an echo oer Campsie Fells. Fur
oors o ďŹ ckle frolic played oot in her hoose. Lachter an merriment wi trick or treat frae scary wee fouk scofďŹ ng the brine wi indelible memories tae pass tae their ain. Then on the dot o ten yon racket stops. Wynds noo packed wi fouks gan hame. Crescent oerheed castin shadows frae dark. Mistress Henderson sighs - anither year gone. Dedicated to the kind hearted elderly ladies of Scotland who opened their doors to (dis)guisers at Halloween
A CHILD’S VERSE by Katerina Neocleous
Remember how we once befriended you as you stretched out a baby’s eager hand; how we consoled you in your solitude and gave you sweeter refuge than those living can - your heart unfurling like a woodland fern in our calm company. We shared our lullabies till you could lift life’s bloodied wine glass, then you left. Patiently we wait for you here, in the park and graveyard - where dawn impounds us.
PETIRROJO 11 by Sora
GLENHEAD by Samuel Best
The old farmhouse sat in the crux of a glen deep in the lowlands, watched on either side by two great bramble-covered hills. To the north sat Bentudor, and to the south, Dungarry. The night was clear and bright and still, and the farmhouse slept well in the comfort of the valley. It was a large three-storey building made from grey stone quarried nearby and built by men long since dead. As you approached on the long, rough gravel track from the east, the house had its back to you – a quirk often remarked upon by visitors – and it wasn’t until you had passed over the cattle grid and turned in the driveway, that you met the front. To the north of the house was a long, thin garden which fell gently downhill to meet the wide burn running through the glen. The garden was well-kept and carefully tended near the house but grew more wild as it fell closer to the burn. There grew bushes with sharp thorns and jagged thistles, and Emma, who at this point in the night was beginning to stir from her sleep, had been warned many times by her grandmother to avoid that place. Emma’s grandmother was a powerhouse of a woman, idolised by the young girl, and well-liked in the nearby town. She was something of a local historian, and her strong will combined with her love of folklore had led her to many years of detailed research on her community. Emma had that very night spent the evening listening to her grandmother regale her with stories of the Rerrick Poltergiest – said to have haunted a farm just a few miles down the road – and the cannibals who would lure travellers across acrid mudﬂats before carving ﬁllets from their drowned bodies. It was not the fault of
nightmares which woke Emma, though. Instead, it was a low call blowing through the glen on the wind. Emma fancied that she had been aware of it even as she slept, so soft was the cry, but that it had been insistent and troubling enough that it had eventually brought her back to waking. Emma was a girl imbued with a strong sense of right and wrong and a deep love of animals. Her grandmother had nurtured this whenever Emma returned to the farmhouse from boarding school, by encouraging her to take up small jobs at other, still-working farmhouses nearby. As Emma rose from her bedsheets, it was these memories of which she thought. She believed the cry to be an animal – something large, like a bull, perhaps – in distress. Emma lighted a candle and took it over to the window. Like many dotted around the house, it sat in a small brass dish, and Emma balanced this on the dresser as she pulled the curtain aside. The ﬁelds were still, the road empty. Emma looked as far left and right as she could, catching just the feet of Bentudor and Dungarry in the moonlight, but there was no movement at all. Emma considered going back to bed, thinking perhaps she had perceived the sound wrongly in her sleep, but as she picked up the candle she heard the call once more. She turned back to the window and lifted the catch. The frame was stiff and heavy, close to being painted shut, but Emma managed to raise it an inch or two, allowing the cold autumn air to seep into the room. She crouched, her ear level with the gap in the window, and listened. Convinced more than ever that there was an animal in need of help, Emma pulled on her boots and wrapped her dressing gown over her nightdress. She walked quickly and softly to her bedroom door and tried the handle. It opened with a stiff, grating motion, and Emma tiptoed out onto the top ﬂoor landing. The farmhouse always looked so different in candlelight, Emma had often thought, and this
night it was no different. By day, it had a wholesome, warm charm which mirrored the personality of her grandmother; but by night the house seemed to lurk with something unsettling, as if everything in it were displaced by a fraction of an inch, just enough to upset one’s natural memory of the place. Emma stepped along the landing, her eyes ﬁxed on her grandmother’s door. Although she knew very well the trouble in which she would ﬁnd herself upon waking her grandmother, Emma weighed this against the morality of leaving an animal in clear distress. She decided her grandmother would at the very least understand the reasoning behind her rule-breaking, and would potentially soften her punishment with a degree of sympathy. Her grandmother’s door fell more and more into the candlelight as Emma grew closer, and when she stopped outside she listened for a moment. There had been nights, long ago now, when Emma had snuck out to explore the farmhouse – usually after a long stretch at her school and upon returning ﬁnding the property only like a distantly familiar face – and had found herself listening at this very door to her grandmother singing gently to herself, or listening to the gramophone. This night, however, the entire farmhouse was still, and Emma could hear nothing more than the faint cry coming from outside across the ﬁelds. Emma raised her hand and knocked gently. She waited, but heard no reply. ‘Grandmother?’ she called, her voice breaking from a whisper halfway through the word. Still she was met with silence, and so Emma went to try the door handle. This, she knew, was another action likely to lead her into trouble. Her grandmother was as strict about leaving one’s room beyond bedtime as she was about entering a closed room without permission – most speciﬁcally, entering her bedroom without permission. Emma had made that mistake only once, the ﬁrst summer
she spent at Glenhead, and had run into her grandmother’s room just before bedtime to ﬁnd the old woman pouring a large measure of spirits from a crystal decanter. She hadn’t been able to sit down without wincing for days thereafter. Emma hesitated, the sting of the memory still fresh enough, before determinedly turning the handle and pushing the door open. Inside, her grandmother’s bedroom was austere – a contrast to some of the other rooms in the house; the study, and kitchen, for example. Directly in front of Emma sat a small bed, neatly made with a single pillow at the head, and to the left a small chest of drawers and a dressing table. Upon the dressing table was a single wooden box and a bone hairclip. Emma moved to the bed and held the candle closer. The bed had not been slept in. She wondered the time, guessing that it must be well into those secret hours after midnight in which she had been told warlocks and devils walk. Emma felt a knot of worry tighten in her stomach. ‘Grandmother?’ she called again, but there was no reply. Emma walked to the window and held open the curtains. Her grandmother’s bedroom, facing north, had a wider view of the garden and beyond, the foot of Bentudor. The far stretch of the garden was perhaps the one place in the glen impenetrable by moonlight. The branches grew too wildly there, knitting together to form a kind of foliage grotto near the streaming burn. Emma found that her eyes were drawn to the shadowy place, and opened her grandmother’s window to get a better impression. The animal call sounded louder as Emma lifted the catch, and once more Emma crouched to fall level with the opening in the window. A slight breeze blew up and Emma smelled the cold scent of fresh, night-time air. It brought with it the troubling cry, and Emma’s eyes were still unable to pick out the very end of the garden with any detail. It seemed to her, though, that this was where the sound was originating from. The cry
was louder in this room than in her own, and even her child’s logic dictated that as this was the only part of the glen she was unable to see, it must be home to the source of the noise. Emma decided to step out into the night and investigate further. She walked downstairs, no longer putting such effort into being stealthy since her grandmother was absent, and when she reached the ground ﬂoor she skirted the house, checking occasionally lest her grandmother be found in some other room, before unlocking the back door. Emma drew her dressing gown tighter around herself before moving along the garden path, shielding the candle ﬂame from the breeze with her hand. The moonlight was holding strong, which helped her pick her way through the rose bushes, the rhododendrons, the honeysuckle. She felt the ground begin to slope downwards as she moved into her grandmother’s small vegetable garden – the furthest point she was allowed to tread in the entire grounds of the house. Still the breeze brought with it the terrible lowing sound, and Emma became more emboldened as she grew closer to the bottom of the garden. The sound was clearly issuing from the darkness there and she tried to imagine what she would do once she arrived. Her grandmother was nowhere to be found, she realised, which meant she would be alone in dealing with whatever it was down at the burn. When she had worked the farms during previous summers there had always been someone around to ask for help if required. She had brought John to the birthing ewe, and told Daniel about the break in the fence down at the Hass riverbank. Emma suddenly felt very much like a young girl; an immaturity she had not been conscious of to this degree before. The worlds of children and adults began to feel incredibly different to her then, as her imagination took hold and created fanciful scenarios of exactly what she would ﬁnd at the bottom of the garden.
The single thing she had not expected to ﬁnd, however, was what she did, ultimately. A tiny part of her had even imagined that she would ﬁnd her grandmother bellowing down there in the shadows, but that was not the case. Instead, Emma had found her grandmother standing knee-deep in the freezing burn, her nightdress washing around her legs like seaweed, as silent as Dungarry. Emma had placed her candle on a large stone jutting out from the bank, and reached for her grandmother’s hand. The distance was too great, and ultimately Emma was forced to walk a few steps into the water in order to reach her. The leather of her boots did nothing to stop the water from touching her skin and Emma had led out a little cry when the cold ﬁrst bit. Her voice was like a glass breaking compared to the silence around them, and it was only then that her grandmother seemed to acknowledge her presence. Emma followed her grandmother’s gaze and looked at her own hand, clasped tightly around the old woman’s. She started as she saw an oily slick of blood staining the skin. Emma felt her stomach turn, much as it had when John had asked her to stay and help with the lambing. She remembered his forearms shining greasy with viscera and began to feel incredibly faint. The darkness around the two of them seemed to swell then, and as it did the lowing started up again. Emma’s grandmother turned them both to face the source, her face still blank and dazed as a soldier’s, one wizened, crimson ﬁnger stretching out to point. The cry was deep and loud and sorrowful, and sang through the glen in harmony with Emma’s own high scream, the two sounds twining closely until the young girl fainted mutely in the darkness.
NIGHT MARE VISIONS
by S. A. Leavesley
IT’S TIME TO KILL THE JESTER by Kaleb Tutt
The acrobatic jokester hides himself beneath the creaky ﬂoorboards of your childhood home Copper bells rattle Hanging on the tips of his Rainbow felt hat He made you familiar with the Quiet terrors of Corporeal shadows Dear mother, dear Father, please Believe me, he’s right There, laughing, giggling but They never believe. Delusions, dreams, It’s just all in your head, kid Fingers poking through Termite holes Tickling your soles As you walk through the Valley of the shadow of Unrelenting evil
Keep your scared eyes Open, sharpen the kitchen knives Slice off mocking ﬁngers, let them ﬂop around the ﬂoorboards, writhe around in Hot red blood The jester’s time is over now
A NEW FRIEND by Caitlin MacEwan
Agnes was a normal child, give or take. She liked school enough, but liked playtime more. She loved every holiday, with Christmas just outranking Halloween. She wasn’t afraid of the dark but she still kept her nightlight on after her nightly fairy-tale. If she’d been good during the day she was allowed to play outside after dinner with her friends. Most nights her family watched TV, but some nights they played board-games (though certain ones were banned - Monopoly, Snap, Frustration). She always took the long way back from school. Her mother didn’t ﬁnish work until four, which left her with some time to meander; she got to explore and poke things with sticks and she always tried to feed the ducks her leftovers from lunch. As winter came closer the walk home got a little darker. Not totally dark, because then she’d have to take a lift with Susy from down the road, and she didn’t like Susy. She’s sure it started over who won the 100m at the ﬁrst school sports day (Agnes) but she wasn’t sure how it had lasted the three years since. It had been two weeks since Agnes’ second favourite holiday, and she was wearing a coat, gloves and a hat to protect her as the autumn chill ﬁnally set in. She headed to the duck pond with determination when she saw a strange movement from the corner of her eye. The path was normally pretty empty. Her shortcut went behind the council houses with high-fences and all she usually saw was the occasional cat (which she could never win over). Agnes didn’t know what to do… She wasn’t doing anything wrong, but sometimes adults had different ideas about that and she didn’t
want to get yelled at. She just wanted to make it to the ducks. Her walk slowed to a stop. She had to at least have a peek. She leant forward, looking curiously into the small group of trees and bushes where the movement was. ‘Hello?’ Agnes saw the movement again, and felt a small thrill. It looked kind of big... maybe like a wolf or a bear. ‘It’s okay. I’m very friendly,’ she assured, stepping closer. Another movement, and then the creature moved out from behind the trees, just in front of her. It became very clear to Agnes that it was not an animal of any kind. It was as tall as her mother, at least, and it didn’t entirely have a shape. It looked as if black liquid was rolling off it, but it didn’t have a puddle so it must have been able to soak it back up somehow. The outline was constantly changing as the blackness pulsed, almost like it was made of waves. It had eyes that were a denser black than the rest, and those eyes seemed to consider Agnes in return. Now Agnes was in a pickle. She knew how to talk to adults (please, thank you), and what to say to teachers (miss, sir), but what did you say to monsters? She didn’t think her mother would have a rule about it, but she was only ﬁve stars away from getting her new doll (with hair that changed colour in water) and being rude could lose you 15 sometimes. What if being rude to this monster was the same deal? Could you even be ‘rude’ to a monster? Maybe she shouldn’t chance it... Agnes ﬁdgeted, looking over the monster and twisting her mouth. She took a step back, then another. The monster didn’t move exactly, but it tilted and kind of rolled towards Agnes to follow her. Then, suddenly, the monster had company. It was the same type, only bigger, reaching up to the tree branches. She saw it move, fold over a bit, and look down at her with the same dense eyes as the
smaller monster. Agnes relaxed. She didn’t know what was rude to an adult monster, but the smaller one was clearly a kid like her and kids didn’t have rules, as long as you didn’t throw things or make someone cry. ‘I’m Agnes,’ she stepped closer again and the smaller monster tilted towards her a bit, the black-sea of its body moving a little quicker, ‘Can you speak?’ She thought she saw it tilt its head. ‘Maybe not. It’s okay. I’m friends with Dominic and he can’t talk at all. We have to learn sign language – the whole class! Do you know sign language?’ Agnes demonstrated a bit, and then gasped with delight as the small monster in front of her grew arms, just to copy her movements! ‘Great! Good job. That’s just saying ‘good morning’, I can teach you more…’ Agnes trailed off when the big monster reached out some of its darkness, tugging the small monster away. Well, look at that - all parents were the same! ‘Well, uh – nice to meet you. I guess you have to go but maybe we can play again later? I can teach you more signs. Wait! Take this.’ She reached into her bag to get out her laminated sign-language sheet, with all the basic signs on it. She offered it over and the kid monster took it. Its arms disappeared into its body, and when they reappeared they were empty. ‘Keep it safe,’ Agnes said, waving goodbye. The small monster repeated the movement and Agnes grinned. Both monsters shifted their strange bodies and then they both turned off into the shadows of the trees. She made sure they were deﬁnitely gone before she started back on the path to the duck pond happily. She felt conﬁdent that she wouldn’t get in trouble for talking to a kid – you’re meant to be friendly and teach each other stuff. Especially if the kid is a bit weird. If anything, it might earn her a star!
KALI AND HER LOVER by Susannah Violette
you liken it to the cutting of a throat itâ€™s more like slicing a vein, (she said) releasing all that suffering, (she said) said Kali to the man in her bed (he said), take off my arms like the limbs of a gnat take off my spindly legs even my nipples, my groin and loins before taking my precious head but your head! (she said) your head! such knowledge and emotion such worship Oh! such devotion! in the church of my bed, I will eat your head and throw its bone to the ocean - oh! you will never feel so alive, (she said) as in the moment you die, (she said) spunk, shit and pee surrender to me, bow get on your knees!
great Kali brandished a blade in her powerful hand, it was an old pirate’s cutlass (one she had left gutless) and he knelt, bowed his head, prayed his begging now quiet, he played her game, (he knew) what he found in surrender, (he knew) was a thrill, so tender his heart, pounding loud, aﬂame she chopped of his head with an almighty THWACK! took it off at the root, cut the tendons strapped it to her body, a gruesome oddity drank his blood and sucked his brains he found, at her murderous hand, great Kali lead him to new land ﬁlled with light each moment, delight as his life poured away, like sand...
THE WHITE LADY by Kirsty A. Niven
In the hushed tones of childhood friends, I heard tell of her, the white woman. Passing under her bridge, they whispered of spectral sightings and nocturnal screams. Years later, all superstitions suspended, belief dropped in the arrogance of age; I see a smoky silhouette hovering above, overlooking the grave spattered hill. Her moon face orbits, cold and cratered; her black-hole mouth gapes and inhales every drop of warmth in the air surrounding. The pull of her puckered lips, inescapable. Her frosty gaze pierces right through me; naked and invisible to her all at once. She re-enacts her ďŹ nal scene, bowing as she plummets to the death she longs for.
GHOST OF THE MAESTRO by Elly Farrelly
I sometimes wonder which kind you would be: not the ﬂaccid ﬂapping sheet with painted eyes nor the headless knight who wanders endlessly through solitary castle walls. I think of you more as the graveyard type with tangled hair and clumps of earth clinging to your unironed shroud leading them all a merry Danse Macabre. Bringing the rattling bones in right on cue beating time as the banshees rise their voices joined as one in a hellish howling crescendo. Because that’s what you’ve always done. And it wouldn’t be like you to let a little thing like Death get in your way.
PUMPKIN CEMETERY by Al Myer
AFTERWARD Contributor Credits S.A. Leavesley is a journalist, photographer, ﬁction writer and poet. She’s addicted to creativity and fascinated by life, especially the beauty of things that other people may ﬁnd strange. Her mind is quietest when she’s observing. She recently startedLitWorld2 combining photos with short poems and ﬂash ﬁction. Samuel Best’s short ﬁction has been published in magazines in Britain, North America, and Scandinavia. His début novel ‘Shop Front’ has been described as ‘A howl and a sigh from Generation Austerity’ and he founded literary magazine Octavius. You can ﬁnd more of his writing at samuelbest.weebly.com. Phil Wood was born in Wales. He works in a statistics ofﬁce, enjoys playing with numbers and words. His writing can be found in various publications, including: London Grip, The Lampeter Review, Three Drops From A Cauldron. Kirsty A. Niven is from Dundee, Scotland where she lives with her husband and cats. Her poetry has appeared in a number of places including Artiﬁcial Womb, The Dawntreader, Dundee Writes, Cicada Magazine and Laldy. You can ﬁnd more of her work on: https://wutheringmites.wordpress.com/
Kaleb Tutt is an author from south Louisiana. He was raised with wolves, ran a wolf sanctuary with his family, and occasionally writes about them. His dream is to be a narrative designer. Find him and more of his work on Twitter @KalebT96. Elly Farrelly lives in Glasgow and works in education. Her poems have been published in journals including The Glasgow Review of Books, Message in a bottle and Atrium and have been included in three anthologies. As well as writing poetry she is also a songwriter and performing musician. www.ellyfarrelly.co.uk Susannah Violette lives in the endless forests of Germany with her husband and two daughters. Nature is the blood of her work. The animals both within us and outside of us fascinate her and her poems become liminal spaces where the edges of these worlds blur. Sora is a spanish witch and illustrator. Sun in Pisces, moon in Libra, ascendant in Scorpio. Currently ďŹ nishing her studies on Image Making at Newcastle. She loves mixing traditional art with digital techniques, always in company of her cat-shaped, mischievous associate. You can ďŹ nd more of her work online at the following sites: https://www.instagram.com/soransuz/, https://soransuz.tumblr. com, https://atnight.site.
Katerina Neocleous has been published in various poetry journals, most recently in Obsessed With Pipework, and Algebra Of Owls. For more of her work, please visit visionsfromhell.wordpress. com. During the summer of 2018, poetry by Alun Robert has won third place in the RNIB’s Writing Competition, received Commendation in the Federation of Writers Scotland Vernal Equinox Poetry Competition, been published in The Curlew by Wild Wood Press and displayed in Nine Muses Poetry and The Ekphrastic Review websites. Having recently concluded his studies in Graphic Design, Al Myer is now heading to Newcastle to specialise in Branding while he keeps working on his true personal passion, photography. He’s always had an attraction towards it, but it wasn’t until he acquired his ﬁrst camera that he was driven by a need to explore and capture his own vision of the world. He tries to give a studied composition and visual appeal to anything that he places in front of his lens. And alongside his camera, music is his true companion when exploiting his creativity, from David Bowie, Billy Joel and Gregory Porter to Queen and others. Caitlin MacEwan is 25, lives in the Highlands of Scotland and has been writing for over 15 years. She writes short-ﬁction, poetry and is currently working on a few longer projects. You can ﬁnd her on twitter @snufﬂur or on Flickr @grufﬂump.
Kate Young has been passionate about poetry since childhood. She lives with her husband in Kent and having recently retired from infant teaching she has returned to writing. She had some success with poems published in magazines when she was active in Strood poetry group and now enjoys meeting members from The Poetry Society at her local Stanza group. She is currently working on a new collection of poems and editing previous work. Alongside poetry, Kate enjoys art, dance and playing the guitar and her growing collection of ukuleles! Bridget Scrannage lives near Bath with her husband. She’s founder of an online writing community with more than 140 members worldwide. Her work’s been published in print and online by Christopher Fielden, Didcot Writers and others. https://bridgetscrannage.wordpress.com/ Taysha Tutt is a photographer from South Louisiana. She grew up wanting to capture moments in time and found photography to be a passion which allowed her to do exactly that. Her Twitter and Instagram handle is @Taysha94. She has a Facebook page titled Taysha’s Photography.
We can now be found at nitrogenhouse.com Nitrogen House Zine, Special Issue: Halloween Edited, designed & cover image by: Rachael Tierney
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The first special issue of Nitrogen House. The theme of 'Halloween' collects 15 pieces (4 images, 3 stories, 8 poems) into a small issue whi...
Published on Oct 30, 2018
The first special issue of Nitrogen House. The theme of 'Halloween' collects 15 pieces (4 images, 3 stories, 8 poems) into a small issue whi...