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FICTION, POETRY AND JOURNALISM BY YOUNG WRITERS

FIVE YEARS OF CUCKOO PRESS

SPECIAL EDITION

WE ARE YOUNG. WE LOVE TO WRITE. WE ARE Y O U N G WRITERS.

WELCOME

WELCOME TO CUCKOO PRESS LIZZIE NIXON, SENIOR PROGRAMME MANAGER

CONTENTS

In 2018, to allow for new and exciting programmes to flourish, New Writing North said a sad goodbye to Cuckoo and an excited hello to our new Young Writers brand.

04 Poetry 08 Short Fiction 18 Serialised Fiction 36 Non-Fiction 41 Cuckoo Review

Over the years Cuckoo has provided a range of opportunities for young people: to meet likeminded peers; to develop their writing; to have new experiences; to review incredible events; to share their work with an audience; to perform; to feel that they belong to something. Cuckoo Press in particular has given young writers the opportunity to have their poetry, prose, non-fiction and journalism published, to see their names online and in print next to writing to be proud of. In this special commemorative edition of Cuckoo Press we are revisiting the inventive and inspiring work from our young writers over the last five years. Weâ€™ve compiled a selection of the best writing by young people from the North of England to give you a taste of the work weâ€™ve had the pleasure of editing. Looking ahead, New Writing North Young Writers will carry the spirit of Cuckoo with us as we adapt and grow. We promise to keep seeking out young writers and championing talent wherever we find it.

14 www.newwritingnorth.com www.nwnyoungwriters.com

Published by New Writing North 3 Ellison Terrace, Ellison Place, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE1 8ST Cuckoo illustrations by Velcrobelly. Graphics, design and editing by Rachel Collinge. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or part without permission from the publishers. The opinions expressed in Cuckoo Press belong to the individual writers and do not necessarily reflect the views of New Writing North or their staff.

We want to say a huge thank you to the contributors to Cuckoo Press over the last five years. It has been a privilege to reread your funny, insightful, sharp, brilliant work in the process of compiling this edition. We look forward to working with you and many many new young writers over the years to come.

POETRY From haikus to ballads, spoken word to rap, catch-up on the best of our convention breaking poetry.

POETRY

MOON CAKE BY CATHY GUO | ISSUE 4 My mother had beautiful hands. Poised with a brush and a palette of colour, she showed me the movement of landscape and its words: da hai, for the sea she never saw in childhood, sha mo, for the desert sand of Lanzhou in her mouth, cao ping, for the great plains in which hundreds of Tibetan girls sang with skirts made from jasmine petals and rain that was on the verge of hail.

GALEMBO BY TIA RITZ | ISSUE 7 Galembo restores order in her dance. She carries a mask to masquerade all else. Sacred, her dress travels light around her body a centrepiece. Her mask is a prop to maintain and restore ancient African history. A diaspora of movement, an embedding of religious ritual, she is lost in her own entertainment. She is in search of nothing but the desire to parade and escape. Galembo stops her spirit dance only to the voice of her children who argue over a toy cell phone. The parade transforms into poverty. Illusion returns to reality. Galembo removes her mask and reminds them to be humble.

My mother had beautiful hands. She coiled them around the moon cakes when our lunar calendar turned, holding mine gently as she traced the outline of a sky. Moon cakes are a symbol, a cure for loneliness, for homesick. We see the same moon here and there, we have the same moon inside us. I was then too young to understand tradition or void. My mother had beautiful hands. Time would not be as merciless. My mother slowly developed an ache from long hours at the fabric factory, and the year I turned twelve she began to wear gloves. My mother had beautiful hands. With them she hid the outline of a crescendo, quiet breakage like a stone wrapped secretly in silk. The chasm between us was one of mistranslation. Moon cake, moon cake. How the constellation inside me trembles even now, remembering.

POETRY

THE WOLF WHO CAME TO THE DOOR BY LEWIS BROWN | ISSUE 7 Once upon a time there was a widow who lived in a house on a street on a hill. She was largely content and she didn’t complain excepting the tenancy bill.

And so he did, and they talked, and had tea and the like, they had wonderful times set in store but one night when the sky was accursedly dry regardless he came to her door.

She was largely content and she didn’t complain she still had her job and her home and her health. She kept a tight ship and a garden of sorts for the benefit of none but herself.

He knocked once, and then twice, quite soberly, and then a third time more in haste. When she opened the door she was taken aback at the bite marks newly marring his face.

But once of an evening when the sky opened up and the rain on the roof made a din a wolf knocked on her door with a dripping-wet paw and asked if he couldn’t come in.

His hair and his coat were both matted with blood: his wounds weeping, open and raw. She didn’t ask why, and he didn’t say, she just bandaged his cuts and his paws.

He wiped off his paws and took off his coat, so he wouldn’t get mud on the floor. He was oh so civil and very refined: the wolf who came to the door.

They spoke not a word on that dry summer’s night, which slipped on into a dry summer’s day, when she realised she’d miss him if he never came back so she nervously asked him to stay.

She offered him tea, which he graciously drank which was no mean feat without thumbs. Then he curled up by the fire and she in a chair and they talked about where they were from,

At first he was silent, then he limped to her side and whispered some words in her ear. She listened, and thought, and at length understood nodding, and blinking back tears.

about where they were going, and where they had been. She asked if he knew a tiger she’d met. He thought for a moment and then shook his head saying it’s not the sort of thing he’d forget.

The woman’s husband wasn’t the first of her losses and her dear friend the wolf not the last, but the woman in that house on that street on that hill is a woman at peace with the past.

When she awoke in the chair he had let himself out. She got up and got on with her day, but hoped he’d come back the next time it rained. They were friends in a strange kind of way.

POETRY

VOLTA

TIME

BY RHIANNON SHAW | ISSUE 6

BY BETH JELLICOE | ISSUE 2

It was an accident, when I first felt power, The tingling fence in the farmer’s field at Kippford.

I feel let down by the existence of 24/7 time when I was small, time took breaks, had catnaps while I daydreamed; at school I couldn’t match up the hands so until I was thirteen, time was stretchy, infinite and irregular as fractal crystals and even remembering, I want to wind backwards, undiscover how to decipher the clock face. Disappear smaller and smaller back into my soul’s relativity when a book, a feeling, a moment was infinite

We all stood near, the sun like marmalade, The cows nudging the clods of clay earth, And all the while its hum chilled the air. We stared and dared each other, One finger, One hand, Two hands, The guttural gags as the grey wire stung And trembled from the strain of eight young arms. Eyeing each other with cruel delight, As we collapsed one by one by one. Until I stood alone, bracing, jaw aching, As if, like a sweet poison, the power Had a claim in me, that no-one else knew, And triumph felt like pain and pride, shaken.

POWER BY BETH ALLISON | ISSUE 6 Power Beyond compare The greatest power of all: To change; to live; free from regret – For that I’d sell my soul. 06

POETRY

WARNING: 10% BY HANNAH NAVON | ISSUE 4 We’ve become robots. In constant motion, Always calculating, Running on A battery, that is about to die out.

A PORTRAIT BY TERESA CHOE | ISSUE 6 Cheap newspaper coupons and smiling Walmart stickers. A man with a deep, hooded voice that resonates with gravity, who wears polyester sweatpants, who over seasons the soup, who never gives me lunch money. He is odourless, intangible; his hands crawl inside my spine. His soap is white, static, scentless. He opens my mother’s mail, forges her signatures on the bills, but uses his name for discounts and rebates. He never goes out, he owns the biggest room, the one with the bathroom next to it. He broke the keyboard, the washing machine, and the vacuum. He watches cheap pornography—I look through his stuff. His teeth are rows of shackled, dingy houses, crooked and spineless. They hold raucous parties during twilight, full of harlots and papery smoke. “Still,” my mother tells me, “I bought this house. It’s under my name.” Socks with holes in them and crusty, chapped lips. I don’t know what he lives for. I don’t know why he’s here.

SHORT FICTION

SHORT FICTION Small but perfectly formed fiction.

SHORT FICTION

MILK MEMORIES BY KAI WILLIAMS | ISSUE 13 I remember Trinidad in grooved ridges deep inside my mind. The place - the twisting name of it - grinds its heels into the ground of me. I remember terrain, steep and wildly green mountain tops, the death of the mangoes on the grass of our unkempt backyard, the warnings to stay away from strange men, the warnings not to play with my shadow for fear of night-terrors, the warnings not to eat starfruit straight off the earth, the warnings not to get lost. I remember, most of all, what I cannot possibly remember, but have been reminded of so many times I store it where I store my memories: my mother drinking milk on the patio, overlooking the mountain, while I was still bundled inside her body. My mother drinking milk so that I would come out light. But I did not come out light. In fact, I emerged dipped in a deeper hue than even my mother, when she was born, which was already a scornful brown. I cried healthily and loudly in the hospital and my mother, who loved fiercely, looked down at me and murmured “at least she’s strong,” then pressed a thumb to the curve of my face and added, “but so dark.” She blamed my father for this, something she repeated throughout our brief years in Trinidad’s perpetual summer; then, after we moved, through our long period of unheated, closet-sized apartments in Queens, in and out through my whole adolescence. You got that colour from your daddy, I did not give you that skin. As a child in Queens I watched my mother nanny white children, and drank milk in fervid, futile hopes that the damage could be undone. The smoothness of the milk pooled inside me the same way the tight feelings did, knowing that she had pretty, fair girls whose hair she wouldn’t have to brush that roughly. The hardest one to look at wasn’t even a white girl, but a little bougie child named Grace who lived in a brownstone and had sweet skin, brown with cream, about as light-skinned as a black child could get (and this was no Caribbean girl either, but bonafide AfricanAmerican, from one of those established Harlem families). She was realistic, a more attainable colour than those of my mother’s white charges: the colour I might have been had all the dairy my pregnant mother suckled worked. I detested Grace. The kids at my school didn’t understand me or my blackness or my thirst for milk. “Why do you drink that so much?” my best friend in fifth grade asked. This was Flushing, Chinatown’s grittier, open-legged little sister, and most of the Taiwanese kids around me were thin, fair. My best friend was lactose-intolerant. Once in a while she was allowed to have a chocolate milkshake (so long as she took a probiotic first) her favourite thing in the wide world - and when she offered me some I would say mum

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“no thank you” real quick like she had liquified evil itself and handed it to me. Chocolate milk, my mother had explained to me, was supposed to have the opposite effect as whole milk, and I believed my hands would shake and seize up with wickedness if I sunk any darker than I already was. I refused chocolate for so long. And now I think about this - a little grown, stretched with some experience, much lengthier in height. I think about it while I lie here on the bed, which is damp from us, under the half-lidded light, with a cigarette rubbed between my fingers. From my place on the bed, I watch out the window where New Orleans explodes underneath. New Orleans, as brilliantly painted as Trinidad, with just a slight change in colour scheme and architecture, New Orleans which parallels the Island, with Mardi Gras just across the waters from Carnival, New Orleans which sustains itself on superstition (just today we ducked into a store selling bewitchments for two dollars a piece, heavy with enough superstition to generate electricity for days upon days), New Orleans which digs its heel into its blackness, roots itself in blackness and celebrates those roots. Here I’ve found my love, my love, and my Love, who leans against the window. He looks out at the wide city and then to me, his wide woman. The first time he saw me without my clothes he ran his fingers along the length of my skin and told me it was perfection. You are like stone they cut to make swimming pools for crazy rich people—so-dark-it’s-almost-blue stone—that makes you not sure what’s actually coloured, the water or the stone its poured into. You are what real, unafraid beauty looks like; if I touched your beauty it would not even flinch. It would look me in the eyes. You are flawless. Nowadays I crave chocolate, bitter, unabashed chocolate. I want cocoa powder, plain coffee, caramelised banana with burned skin. Nowadays I love my father’s skin. Love has altered my palette and I crave the taste of darkness— unmarred by milk.

“

And now I think about this - a little grown, stretched with some experience, much lengthier in height

”

SHORT FICTION

THAT WAS WHERE THE OLD MAN LIVED BY HANNAH WILKIN | ISSUE 13

“

There was someone trying to get in

”

Elias Winston Dodder-Smith stretched out of his nest with a raspy breath, his scrawny arms brushing against the surfaces of his many beloved treasures. It was as if his hoard was an extension of his own body. The articles and artefacts, collected by a lifetime of searching, were extra limbs and organs. All needed. All vital. He lay back against the punctured chest of his favourite grand piano and took in his surroundings. He was absolutely at peace with the darkness. Pulling his hand up in front of his face, he examined it carefully. Gnarled bones and bulging veins writhed under the skin as he forced it to form a fist. The yellowed nails could barely scrunch into his palm. He was older than he’d realised. Letting his head loll back, he collapsed into a space of tangled bed sheets and mismatched curtains. He knew exactly where each item was. Nothing took him by surprise. If he had had to explain the specific order or the logic behind the placing of his objects, he would have found it impossible. It was something he just knew how to do. The same as walking or breathing. He was never in any danger of having to explain to anyone, however; Elias lived alone. He stared up towards a beam where he had balanced a number of particularly pleasant green bottles. That was a nursery rhyme. A song. He was certain of it. The thought of one of the bottles slipping off the ledge and breaking its neck on the fall down, shattering into shards of green glass that would rain down on him, flickered across his mind, and then left. What would happen? Who would know? Such scenes flitted through Elias’ mind daily. The thought of the cabinet propped up against the empty fireplace overbalancing and falling on him, knocking him dead. Or of wading through the bundles of fabric, only to be sucked down into the dusty recess, and choked and strangled and smothered by the cloth he loved. It didn’t scare him. It didn’t make him feel morbid. It just occurred to him, now and again. The thought of what would happen if. That was how he spent his days in his hideout. Thinking and imagining. Imagining things with his Things. All day, and possibly through the night, (who knew what time of day it really was down there in the dark), he would sit, or lie and look at his things. He would move to different spots and examine in the deepest detail every nook, corner and crevice, in the same way he examined his own hand. Taking in each detail. Wondering and pondering. Imagining the objects interacting with one another. Recounting their lives before they came down here. Holding and touching and stroking them. They were his world. The glorious mahogany grandfather clock chimed the hours. He embraced the sound, letting it sing through his head, forgetting its purpose. He crawled forwards on his knees, the bone-breaking cold of the floor occasionally submerged by patches of rug. His fingers danced across the edge of a splitting cardboard box, like a spider dodging its way around a bathtub. He dived in. Inside the box, rolls of crisp film crackled, whispering their stories to him one by one. As his hand dug deeper he touched photographs. Big black and white ones. Smaller colourful shots: polaroids and sepia all

SHORT FICTION

intermingling, all revealing a better, more real world. He pulled out a selection of his favourites and let his eyes feast on better days. Then he moved on to the next box. It was packed with jars. He polished their glass before removing their lids, one by one. The first jar he lifted to his nose contained the smell of shoe polish and new bootlaces. His mind filled up with memories of his first job, in the storeroom of a shoe shop. He remembered the boxes filled with tissue paper, all the shoes lined up in satisfying pairs, each partner mirroring the other perfectly. The laughter and swearing of the other store assistants. The perfume of the girl behind the counter. He inhaled a lungful. Next was the gritty scent of a childhood holiday at Scarborough beach. Salt and something indescribable worked their way up into his head and poured over him in a crashing wave. Last of all came the smell of his mother’s homemade potato pie. Elias breathed in a great steaming slice of it. A sound outside stopped him mid breath. There was someone trying to get in. Elias snapped to his feet. He sprinted around the room, tearing things from the walls, scooping objects into his arms and up on his back, filling his pockets. Sheet music of the songs he loved. The wheels of his best ever bike. Paper bags filled with conkers and sweets you couldn’t buy anymore. A pocket watch. The Christmas tree from his grandparents house. Shells. Toy cars. He sobbed as he struggled to cling to them all. What if someone was coming to take them away? What if they wanted him to look away from his things, into the world outside? He tried to push the thought away, groaning as he attempted to lift the table from the café he had always met a certain young girl at. He scrambled to the dresser, thrusting plates and cups on to the table in a hap hazard pile, praying that none of them would topple down and smash. Then he stopped. His ears strained, searching for the sound of a voice or footsteps. They’d gone. Elias gasped with relief and hugged his things closer, tears building up behind his closed eyelids. “And he’s been like this for how long now?” “Years. It’s built up gradually. At first I thought he was just reminiscing. But now…” Worry spreads across the Old Woman’s cheeks as she stares out of the window. The Doctor looks away; it’s easier than asking how she feels. “Does he talk about anything other than the past?” She shakes her head and a tear trickles down a wrinkle like a rivulet. She brushes it away. “That’s where he lives now. All the time. In the past. He just sits in his chair all day, sucking away at his memories.” “Chronic Nostalgia. He’s living in the past and his body is fading away in the present. I’m afraid there’s no cure.” The man in the chair is shriveled and grey. His skin hangs on his body like old dishcloth on a washing line. He stares up at the Old Woman and the Doctor from pinholes eyes that are consumed by the past.

He cannot see them.

SHORT FICTION

WOMEN, LET’S NEVER GO BACK BY DAKOTA PAGGETT | ISSUE 4 The morning air was humid, and Samara’s brown hair stuck to her skin as she ran through the thick trees. Someone was after her, and even though she was a strong runner, they had kept pace on her flanks for a good half hour. Her breath was coming in ragged puffs, her muscles ached with resistance to her every move, but still she ran. If the men behind her were guards, she would be murdered or sold off to whatever man would take her; if the men were thieves, she would be found empty-handed, beaten, and disposed of. Keeping this in the forefront of her mind, she willed her feet and legs to push harder against the moist soil. Trees seemed to whip past her, and she was scraped numerous times by thorn bushes, and slapped in the face by low branches. Her body was filthy from a collected amount of mud over time and no clothes to protect her skin. Her dark eyes skimmed the trees around her. To a normal villager, everything might look the same, but not to Samara; she knew these woods. As she pushed forward she strained to listen to the footfalls behind her. There were two, maybe three men not far from her heels. They were fast, but struggling in the dense forest. Samara made a quick decision and cut sideways through the trees. Not far north there would be a wide stream, and if she were lucky she would be able to out-swim the armed men. She had built up enough strength this last year in the forest to make the distance, and it might be one scenario where her smaller size would come in handy. Already she had gained a better lead due to her quick thinking and her knowledge of her surroundings. The woods had been her home for just over a year now, ever since her father had died in her home village. Samara’s mother had been an older woman, left a widow in her husband’s house. It was a luxury given only to someone her age. Samara, however, knew what would happen if she stayed. She would be betrothed to a man twice her age, expected to mother children she didn’t want, and stand silently behind someone she wouldn’t ever love. This was the way for all women in the village. They wore long clothing to hide their bodies so as not to tempt prying eyes; they never uttered a word in public, especially in the presence of a male, and they were expected to be perfectly content doing their husband’s bidding. Samara had watched her mother live this life. Samara herself had dressed in the long garbs young girls wore. She hadn’t been allowed to play sports outside with the boys, or walk in public without her father present. She had helped her mother prepare meals and clean, beat rugs and knit robes, until the blisters on her hands bled. She had worked every day without the acknowledgement that she was working, without the salary of her own voice.

So she left.

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She had also known how to clean a home, but she was left with no home to clean. Now she found herself with nothing more than her own body, which she had been taught was useless unless she were bearing children or scrubbing floors. It was a struggle to stay alive, but once she got the hang of it, she found herself capable of much more than she would have ever believed. The stream was just two strides ahead and Samara wasted no time diving head first into the cool water. The temperature actually felt good against her sun-beaten skin, but she couldn’t relish it for long, as she heard a splash behind her. She hadn’t learned to swim until just months ago, but she found that she was quite good at it. Her legs kicked hard against the water and her arms propelled her forward as she kept her head up. Her body was tired, and it seemed like miles to reach the other side, but she had to keep going. She wouldn’t go back to the way things were. She liked going without those long robes that made her too hot during summer weather, finding her own food and shelter, and singing out in the open. She found that her voice was a beautiful thing, and she was not ready to lose it after only just making the gain. Samara kicked her right foot hard against the water and felt something solid and firm underneath her - rocks. She stood and tried jogging through the stream now that it only came up to her bellybutton, but just as she was getting confident in her lead, her foot slipped and twisted. A sickening pain shot up Samara’s left leg and she was momentarily immobilised. She cried out in pain and turned to look at the distance her followers had gained. To her surprise only one man had jumped into the water after her; two more were standing anxiously on the other side, apparently unable to swim. The relief was short-lived, however, as she realised how quickly the man was gaining on her. She spun around, going flat and kicking with one foot. It was a short distance to the shore on the other side. The man would catch up to her by then, but she would fight him with everything she had left in her. She was not going back. Samara reached the moist soil along the bank and pulled herself up with her sore arms. She pushed herself upright, covering herself in filth once again, and hobbled on her good leg. She knew she couldn’t run with a fractured ankle. Her only choice was to wait for her attacker. She spun around just in time to see the man climbing out of the water. He was dressed in the garb of her people, and armed with a hilted knife only carried by the guards. Samara was relieved to see the knife. She would fight him until he had no choice but to kill her. She would die here, free. The man looked her over. He was tan, maybe ten years her senior, and with at least forty pounds leverage. This fight wouldn’t last long. Samara wiped her dark hair out of her eyes, smudging mud on her face. She knew how she looked to him: thin, naked, and savage. She also knew that he could see that she wasn’t surrendering. The man’s hands went up, and Samara immediately fisted her palms to strike him. To her surprise he reached for the knife and pulled it out. Samara stuck her chin out, head held high, and waited for the blow. She wanted to live, but she would rather die than be enslaved in the eyes of men. She watched the shining head of the knife come forward and looked her adversary in the eye. Astonishingly the man smirked and dropped his eyes to the knife. He turned it around so that the

“

She found that her voice was a beautiful thing

”

SHORT FICTION

He looked into her dark eyes and a familiar expression came across his face. “You are brave, like my own mother was.” Samara was stunned nearly speechless. It had been a long time since she’d spoken to someone, and never had it been a man who was not her father. “Was?” she managed to say in the language that now seemed so foreign to her. He smiled half-heartedly, eyes saddened. “She was beaten to death when the guards came to recruit me as a child. She was never scared to die.” He paused. “She was a fighter, like you.” There was a moment of silence and understanding between them, and then Samara watched him swim back to his men. She watched as they scolded him and heard the man reply that she would never survive with a broken ankle anyway. Later, after much dispute, they disappeared back through the woods. Samara was never going back, and so she walked forward.

Binge-read our favourite serialised fiction.

SERIALISED FICTION

THE BOY AND THE STORM BY LEWIS BROWN | ISSUES 7 - 11

I. A Brief and Tiny Hole in the World

“

But most of all, he loved the smell of thunder

”

In the town below the castle, the people were afraid of storms. The moment they sensed one coming they would flee into their homes, hiding from the wind that plucked at their windows and doors with greedy, searching fingers. They feared for their livestock, their crops, even their houses – but Sascha wasn’t afraid. He loved it, all of it: the wind, the black sky that boiled above the tower, even the rain that drove its pitiless bolts into the ground like icy arrow shafts. But most of all, he loved the smell of thunder. It arrived before the clouds did, before the wind began to pick up, even before the storm-chaser began its shrill whistling. At first it was distant, nothing but a faint tang on the breeze which no one else seemed to notice. Then it would grow, charging the air as the trees began to quiver, as if in anticipation or fear – he could never be quite sure which. It grew until the sky darkened, becoming stronger and strong until even the townspeople could sense it. Sometimes he would miss the first strike, too busy drinking in the electrifying scent, only realising when the deep-throated thunder rumbled in his ears. Then he would imagine what it would be like to be at the heart of the storm, lightning crackling down his spine and to the ends of his fingertips. He once asked his father if a person could catch lightning in their hands, and his father replied that if they tried, they would die. Somehow, Sascha never quite believed him. Sascha’s father was an imposing man, the tallest person Sascha knew. The maids often told him how alike they looked – the same broad shoulders, the same thick brown hair and eyebrows – although they never said that where Sascha’s father could hear it. His father once told him about thunderstorms, about how the energy built up in the sky until it shot down to earth in a powerful arc, tearing a brief and tiny hole in the world. He showed Sascha the storm-chaser, spindly and strange in its big glass case at the back of the schoolroom. “What does it do?” he asked as he sat on the desk, swinging his legs back and forward. “It chases storms, of course.” There wasn’t any reprimand in the voice, so Sascha continued. “How?” “Well, you wait until it starts whistling, take it outside and throw it into the air. Then it flies off into the heart of the storm.” “And what does it do when it gets there?” “It gathers energy and brings it down to us. People used to use it to power machines. The electricity collects in that little cage at the bottom, see?” Sascha looked. At the bottom of the device, below the rotary propeller and between its tripod legs, there was indeed a small cage, unusually shaped and with

SERIALISED FICTION

lots of sides like the funny dice the old village men used in their games. He tried to picture it full of lightning, sparks pressing against the tiny bars. In his head they made a noise like chirping birds. “But what does it run on?” Sascha’s father smiled, and clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Good question. It’s powered by clockwork. This is a very early model though. Later ones actually ran on tiny amounts of electricity, and instead of collecting it, they gathered an even purer form of energy.” Sascha tried to imagine something purer than lightning. He couldn’t. “What’s that?” “Not the subject of today’s lesson, I’m afraid. We are learning about obsolete technology – clockwork, steam and electricity, all eclipsed by today’s far greater energy needs.” Sascha thought for a moment. “Can I learn about clockwork?” There was a long pause. “No, Sascha. Clockwork is a thing of the past, and it does not do to dwell upon the past. Progress is everything.” Sascha almost flinched, and looked at his feet, a little scared of the coldness in his father’s voice. But still he ventured another question. “So why do you keep it?” There was a long pause, during which Sascha looked up and saw his father staring out of the window. “Because sometimes we dwell on the past despite ourselves.” Then, after a much shorter pause, his father said: “I’m tired of teaching you now. The remainder of today’s lessons will be taken by your tutors.” Sascha nodded as his father left the room. “Yes, father.” Later that night, he crept into the schoolroom to get a closer look at the stormchaser. The case was always locked, so he couldn’t remove it – otherwise he would have smuggled the device out into the courtyard to send it whizzing into the sky each time the smell of thunder was thick in the air – but he could still get a good look at it. His father was right – it was clockwork, just like the little devices Cloudia showed him, although it was nowhere near as beautiful. He noticed something inscribed just above the cage. The initials AF, which didn’t match those of anyone he knew.

II. A Head Full of Stories

“

Sascha tried to imagine something purer than lightning. He couldn’t.

”

If thunder was Sascha’s favourite smell, his least favourite was ink. The regular black ink was okay, but his tutors often made him use much worse kinds. Each was made from bitter metals and pungent herbs that grew in the surrounding forests, which often made them blue, purple or even green. They stank so badly it made Sascha retch each time he dipped his quill into the inkpot. The worst ink by far was the red ink.

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The red ink was made from pine gall and iron salts, making it run thick and dark, and it smelt like blood. Fortunately, he wasn’t allowed to use it. It was his father’s personal ink, used for signing contracts and other legal documents. He only knew about it because he had helped Mr Rothschild to make it once, during one of his alchemy lessons. He hadn’t enjoyed that one. Apart from the ink, Mr Rothschild was Sascha’s favourite tutor by far. He had short, greying hair and wore a tiny pair of bronze spectacles that didn’t so much cover his eyes as lodge just beneath them, flashing whenever they caught the sunlight. His clothes were the same as the other tutors’ – almost as expensive as his father’s but older and shabbier. He was currently standing by the window, watching the storm clouds gather on the horizon. Sascha had felt it brewing hours ago, although he knew that this one wouldn’t pass over the castle. Still, it would come close, and it was more than enough to make him restless and inattentive, to necessitate the throwing of a heavy sheet over the storm-chaser’s glass case to muffle its whistling. Sascha sighed, and then looked up. He jumped slightly. Without making any noise, Mr Rothschild had turned and was fixing Sascha with a curious look and a raised eyebrow. ‘Hmm?’ the tutor enquired, wordlessly. ‘Geography is dull,’ offered Sascha by way of explanation. Mr Rothschild taught him geography, biology and alchemy. Geography was by far the least interesting. Still, the tutor’s eyes had started gleaming. ‘Dull, you say?’ He swept over to the huge map of that covered half of the wall on one side of the schoolroom, picking up the long, thin pointer from beneath it. ‘That sounds like a challenge. Name any place in the Empire and I will tell you why it is absolutely fascinating.’ Sascha didn’t hesitate. ‘Wittenberg.’ ‘Very well,’ began Mr Rothschild, pointing to a dot close to the centre of the map and assuming the manner of a circus ringmaster. ‘Glorious Wittenberg, city of progress, crucible of innovation, home to the greatest university in all the Empire! There the many wonders of alchemy can be seen on every street corner, airships fill the sky and everyone is happy.’ Sascha smiled, admiring the performance. There were

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times when he wondered if his tutor hadn’t once been an actor. Mr Rothschild grinned. ‘Another.’ Sascha thought for a moment. ‘Himmelstadt.’ ‘Ah, Himmelstadt, the birthplace of romance.’ Mr Rothschild placed his hands over his chest and sighed like a starstruck lover. ‘There the third Empress set eyes on her beloved consort for the very first time. From then onwards they were always together, walking the beautiful streets and dancing to the music of the great dance halls. That is, until he was killed by mandrake poison in his soup. The whole Empire wore black for a year. Another!’ ‘Schwarzwald,’ laughed Sascha. Mr Rothschild breathed in sharply through his teeth, and then lowered his spectacles, fixing his pupil with an ominous gaze. ‘Never go to Schwarzwald. Schwarzwald is a bad place, a thick black forest bristling with monsters, where demons prowl even in the day and the people are strange and backward. I’ve heard it’s inhabited by ghosts, giant worms and water creatures even more fearful than the Rhinemaidens. I’ve even heard it said that in the deepest, darkest part of the forest, there is a town where the people are cursed with clockwork flesh, and instead of beating their hearts go tick tock, tick tock.’ Sascha’s eyes widened. He loved hearing about monsters, curses and all the other things that had no place in his other tutors’ lessons. Mr Rothschild told him about homunculi, little wax men brought to life through magic; doppelgangers, omens of death which took on the appearance of living people; and nosferatu, bat-like monsters which drained their victims of blood. Sometimes these stories led to impatient questions, most often ‘how does alchemy work?’ or ‘when can I learn proper alchemy, at Wittenburg?’ But Mr Rothschild would always gently dismiss them, with answers such as ‘I’m afraid you’re not ready for that yet,’ or, more rarely, ‘when your father thinks it is time.’ Mr Rothschild didn’t just tell wonderful tales, however, as much as Sascha wished he would; he taught him mundane things too. ‘This is the River Elbe,’ began Mr Rothschild, sadly getting back to business now. ‘We covered it a little last week. What are the biggest towns along the Elbe, Sascha?’ ‘Wittenberg, Hamburg and Dresden,’ he intoned.

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“

instead of beating their hearts go tick tock, tick tock

”

‘Exactly. And how long is the Elbe?’ Sascha answered again, doing his best to conceal his boredom. It wasn’t Mr Rothschild’s fault. It was just that geography could never compare to biology, and neither could compare to alchemy. In alchemy, Mr Rothschild would teach him the mixing of salves, the making of candle-wax, and the interpreting of dreams. None of these things were ‘proper alchemy’ in Sascha’s estimation. None of them helped him understand where the power of alchemy came from. But he still enjoyed them and always did his best in the hope of pleasing Mr Rothschild and his father. He succeeded often in the first, for Mr Rothschild’s reports of him were always glowing. His other tutors would scold him: ‘disappointing,’ or ‘poor,’ or perhaps even ‘a step backwards, I’m afraid’. They said he had a head full of stories and was always asking pointless, irrelevant questions. But when he turned to Mr Rothschild, the tutor would always exclaim, ‘excellent! I couldn’t ask for a better pupil,’ and then his father would nod, although he did not smile. It was only occasionally that Sascha’s father would take a lesson, like when Sascha had been shown the storm-chaser. Normally he remained locked in his study, or in the tower, and they would see nothing of each other, apart from the occasional review of his lessons. But even that was only when his father wasn’t away, and he was away often. So Sascha ate alone, read alone, spent most of his time alone. That was why he always looked forward to Mr Rothschild’s lessons, even geography, and why he would creep down into the village at every chance he got.

III. Cloudia In the village below the castle, the people dressed differently. This made sense to Sascha, because they were different. Different in almost every way - from the tutors and servants who inhabited the west wing of the castle, from the Panzermen stationed in the barracks, and most of all, different from Sascha and his father. But not beneath us, he would repeat to himself, later, trying to convince himself that he had always believed that to be true. Not beneath us. Just different. Although when he remembered how the thatched roofs of their houses were huddled so far below his bedroom, it was hard to be certain that he hadn’t sometimes looked down on them. They looked so tiny, after all, from the windows of the castle, although when he went down into the town and passed them in the narrow streets, Sascha sometimes felt uneasy. It wasn’t so much the way the people looked, although some of the men had gaunt, unshaven faces which frightened him a little. It was more the way they changed when they saw him, their gazes shifting into the middle distance as any conversation died away. He had learned to ignore it, but every time he came to see Cloudia he would catch the eye of someone, sometimes by mistake, sometimes as a kind of test, and they would always shut him out, which made him wish he didn’t look so much like his father. At the top of the longest, busiest street (Sascha didn’t know its name), there was a church. The church. It didn’t have a name, as far as he was aware, and he only had

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to look at it to be certain that it didn’t need one. The tall wooden steeple was the oldest, most vulnerable-looking building in the village, but it never showed signs of damage after a storm - whether by tender care or an act of God, Sascha never knew. It was there that he felt the least welcome, although he knew that if he tried to enter, no one would stop him. But still when he approached it, he could sense the averted gazes moving, becoming angry prickles on the back of his neck. For a while the church had been a mystery to him – he couldn’t understand why the villagers resented him there more than anywhere else. He had even gone so far as to sneak down from the castle one Sunday morning while father was away, even though he was certain to be missed, in order to overhear a service, crouched beneath one of the rickety church windows. He had half expected to hear something frightening or dangerous, like unorthodoxy or anti-progress propaganda, not that he would have recognised either. But what he heard was no different from the prayers and services he sat through every week in the castle’s gloomy chapel. After that he lost interest. It was just another way in which the people in the village were different, like the fact that they didn’t have alchemical timekeepers, or even clocks – they just guessed based on the height of the sun. The coldness of the villagers only bothered him when he let it, and some of them minded him less, like the old men, and the younger children not at all. And then there was Cloudia, and her parents, and her grandfather, who made enduring the other villagers’ hostility worthwhile. “Oi, sourpuss!” He looked up, startled. It’s was Cloudia’s mother, sticking her head out of the upstairs window of their rickety house. “Brighten up. Cloudia’s got something to show you.” Sascha was about to reply, but she had already withdrawn and closed the window. He could hear her clattering around inside, which probably meant she was getting the big metal bathtub ready. Sascha slipped into the tiny kitchen, and found Cloudia waiting there. “Hi,” he said. “Look.” She said, simply, moving towards him and opening her hands. Inside them was a tiny clockwork ladybird, with metal wings pierced with glass dots. “Granda hasn’t painted it yet,” she explained, “but it’s nice, isn’t it?” Sascha nodded. “Does it fly?” They were both whispering, not because there was any real risk of being caught with it, but more out of excitement. “Kind of.” She set about turning the delicate little key at the back of the device. It wound for a few seconds, then began to click impatiently, so she cast it gently into the air with both palms, and it hovered above them, wings working away so hard to keep it there that they were almost invisible.

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“

I was thinking about my mother

”

keep it there that they were almost invisible. Sascha’s eyes went round with amazement, even though he had seen the toys that Cloudia’s grandfather made fly before. Somehow there was much more magic in their brief and feeble flight than in any of the things his father’s lessons promised him. Then its whirring stopped, and Cloudia caught it deftly just as her mother came down the stairs behind her. “I hope you told your friend to get that frown off his face,” she chided, mocksternly. “Your father’s got a headache, your grandfather’s in one of his moods, and I won’t be outnumbered by grumpy men in my own home.” “It’s okay, I showed him Granda’s ladybird.” Her mother sighed. Clearly the clockwork magic was lost on her, or perhaps just no longer exciting after a long day looking after ‘men that can’t look after themselves, and pigs that do at least try’, as she put it. “If your grandfather ever made practical things in his workshop anymore instead of toys just – not that I don’t admire them, Cloudia – we might be able to sell some of it. Clocks maybe.” Sascha knew she was talking about the black market, and pretended not to listen. “Couldn’t you sell some of the toy insects?” Sascha asked, wondering. “No, he insists that they’re all for Cloudia. Threw a blue fit last time I suggested it. I don’t know how he still has the materials for them. Lord knows we won’t be able to afford any more once they run out.” Cloudia, looked up at her mother, smiling. “Done venting, Ma?” “Yes dear, you know it does me good.” She patted her daughter absentmindedly on the head and swept away to fetch a bucket. “Did you like the ladybird?” Cloudia asked him, and he grinned. “Yeah, I think it’s my favourite now. Apart from the dragonfly.” She grinned back, and brushed her hair aside almost unconsciously. The clockwork insect was there, pinned just above her right ear as always, although it was usually hidden beneath her straight brown hair to keep it from jealous or disapproving eyes. It was much the same as the ladybird, although it had been painted – tarnished blue, with streaks of green along its thin, frail-looking wings. “What was it you were annoyed about?” she asked him, pulling on a thin woollen coat. “Nothing,” he replied. The coat was in preparation for today’s adventure, except they probably wouldn’t go far from the village today. Sascha sensed they were both more in the mood for just talking. Cloudia was good at that – mostly she would listen, and Sascha would talk, but while he always said a lot more, somehow her words seemed to mean more, although Sascha wasn’t sure what it was that gave him that impression. “I was thinking about my mother.” It was Cloudia’s mother that had set it off, not that it was her fault. She was always so kind to him, and it made him wonder if maybe his father would be kinder if his mother was still around. He cast a nervous glance in her direction as they picked their way across a stream. He was a little anxious to hear her reply, because she was the only one who he could

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ever mention his mother to. Everyone in the castle was forbidden to talk about her, even Mr Rothschild. She was looking down at her feet, long fringe obscuring her face, a sure sign that she was thinking. “Do you remember her?” she asked, eventually. They had reached the woods by that point, and the tall trunks obscured them from the sight of the village. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Silence fell again, as he scoured his memories. “A little bit. I don’t remember her name, or what she looked like, but I think she used to tilt her head when she smiled.” That was it. That was all he could remember, and even that might be a figment of his imagination, and not a real memory at all. He scowled, but Cloudia was ignoring him again, once again vanished behind her fringe. “Like you, then,” she said, eventually. “What?” He stopped now, and she did too, both of them stood in the shadow of a large pine tree. “You do that, all the time. Tilt your head when you’re smiling. Maybe you don’t notice it.” He considered it for a moment. She was right, it was something he did. The thought comforted him a little. So he wasn’t just like his father. He didn’t think about it too long, though, because Cloudia’s next question came quickly, and they had started walking again. “Why isn’t anyone allowed to talk about her?” “I don’t know. I think Father just doesn’t like it. Maybe he misses her too much. I don’t know.” He shook his head, unhappily. But again, he wasn’t given time to brood, because Cloudia asked her final question. “Did she die?” He looked up, and met her eyes staring back at him. They were pale blue, just like ice, although they were never cold. “I think so. I don’t know.” Cloudia didn’t have anything to say about that, and neither did he.

“

they were pale blue, just like ice, although they were never cold

”

IV. They Will Want to Know Sneaking out of the castle wasn’t easy. The servants would scold him if they caught him sneaking out, and the Panzermen would return him to the castle if they found him the village. There were never any consequences, though, beyond being stuck inside that afternoon, bored witless, so over time Sascha had mastered the art of avoiding them. It was that or go mad with boredom – how else was he supposed to amuse himself when he had no one to talk to, and all the interesting books were barred to him? Probably he was meant to draw, or play music, or read poetry, things which some tutor or other had once told him were the proper pursuits of a young gentleman. But he had never had any aptitude for any of those things, so he abandoned them and spent as much of his free time as possible in the village with Cloudia. That afternoon, however, as he tried to creep back to his room, he found the courtyard buzzing with activity. Butlers and maids were everywhere, crossing backwards and forwards between the kitchens, the storeroom and the dining room. Boxes of food were being unloaded from an enormous cart, and everything was being cleaned. This was all being presided over by Eva, the head housekeeper, a 26

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“

You are heir to everything that is mine, Sascha

”

woman who had all of the briskness and practicality of Cloudia’s mother, but without the smile or the sense of humour. Sascha tried to avoid being spotted, but to no avail – she marched over and grabbed him by the ear. ‘There you are! I’ve turned the castle upside down looking for you. Your father’s back from Wittenberg, and he’s throwing a party this evening.’ Sascha blinked in disbelief. ‘What?’ His father never threw parties. Sascha couldn’t remember the last time he’d invited anyone to the castle. ‘You heard me, a party. Some very important people are coming, and you have to be in a reasonable state of cleanliness for once. Come on, you are to have a bath, and then you have to try on the new suit your father has bought you.’ She motioned, and two servants appeared to drag him away. Bewildered, Sascha was aggressively cleaned, scrubbed, brushed and generally humiliated before being forced into a suit that was both expensive and horrible. It was purple, made of Himmelstadt silk and several sizes too small - probably because his father hadn’t bought him clothes for a very long time. The suit made him feel both uncomfortable and ridiculous, but his protests were ignored and he was ushered into his father’s study, head spinning. Sascha’s father didn’t turn to face him as he entered the room. He was looking down through the window at the road that led to the castle. By this time night had fallen, but the road was ablaze with the fire of torches and heavy metal braziers which lined it in pairs, and by their light Sascha could see at least half a dozen carriages coming up to the gates. He could see two Panzermen stationed there, armed with ceremonial rifles and their helmets reflecting the torchlight, each briefly inspecting the occupants of each carriage as it passed. Sascha was so absorbed in the spectacle that he almost jumped when his father spoke. ‘Do you know who these people are, Sascha, and why they are here?’ Sascha shook his head. He could have made a guess, but his father wouldn’t have appreciated it. He was probably about to find out anyway. ‘They are very important people. Noblemen. Esteemed alchemists. Men and women of influence. Even a few relatives and representatives of the Emperor. They are here by my invitation, but against my will.’ Sascha’s eyes widened. He had never known his father’s will to be anything other than impervious steel. ‘If it was my choice, none of them would be here, but I must do what is expected of me. Do you understand?’ Sascha nodded silently, wondering precisely what it was that was expected of his father, and who was doing the expecting. ‘It would not surprise me in the slightest if many of the guests are here with one purpose and one purpose alone – in the hopes of gaining information. They will want to know about my politics, they will want to know about my studies,’ his father turned, fixing Sascha with a steady gaze, ‘and most of all, they will want to know about you.’ Sascha’s stomach lurched sideways. Suddenly he felt ill. ‘You are heir to everything that is mine, Sascha. My castle, my position in the

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Empire and in the University of Wittenberg, and when you are ready to understand it, my research. This makes you very important. In the eyes of some people, it makes you even more important than me.’ ‘W-why?’ he stuttered, dimly aware that it was the first word he had spoken since entering the room, and that to his father it would seem a rather stupid one. Indeed, his father’s response was impatient. ‘Why? Because you are little more than a child, and children are easily manipulated. There will be people here this evening who will ask you dangerous questions, or try to use you against me. Tell them nothing, and do not let them influence you. Have I made myself clear?’ ‘Father, what…’ ‘HAVE I MADE MYSELF CLEAR?’ The outburst was sudden, and it was that which terrified Sascha. Normally he could read his father’s moods, tell when he was getting angry, but this had come from nowhere. ‘Y-yes, father.’ He noticed that his father’s hands were shaking, another tick he had never seen before, although when he next spoke his voice was as steady as ever. ‘Good. You are dismissed. Join the party downstairs, and make a good impression. Do not let me down.’ ‘Yes, father.’ And with that Sascha left the room, and his father returned to glowering out of the window, down at the carriages below. There were times when Sascha hated his father, but at that moment he didn’t. At that moment, he was afraid of him, and his world, which was filled with important, dangerous people.

V. No Pleasure at All Instead of taking the back staircase, as he normally would, Sascha was instead met outside his father’s study by a butler, who escorted him along the well-furnished passage which led to the top of the main stairs. As they approached the door, he began to hear sounds from the other side – music, and people talking. The butler held it open for him, and he stepped out onto the landing, at the top of the stair. The room below was packed with people – men in suits with slicked-back hair, women in long, thin dresses bedecked with jewellery. Some of them were smoking, something Sascha had never seen before, and all of them were holding drinks and talking very loudly. And then there was the sheer number of them – Sascha didn’t think he’d ever seen so many people together in one place. There must have been over a hundred. Sascha was so stunned by the spectacle before him that he took a little while to 28

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notice that the butler who had shown him in was still at his shoulder, and had just coughed politely, as if to attract attention. He wondered what for. Then, as a hush descended on the room and the heads of the guests began to turn, he realised too late what the butler was about to say: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, Master Sascha Faustus.’ In that instant, the hush became absolute silence, and Sascha felt every gaze come to rest on him, as the room waited for him to speak. But suddenly Sascha couldn’t even move, let alone address a room full of important, dangerous people. He felt like he was made of ice, except that the ice was melting, or maybe those were beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. ‘Tell them nothing’, his father had said, but also ‘make a good impression’. How was he supposed to do both? After what felt like an eternity, he spoke. ‘Good evening.’ It wasn’t much, but it was enough to break the spell. The babble of conversation returned, and as the focus of attention left him Sascha found he could breathe again. But many of the people were still watching him out of the corners of their eyes, or casting quick looks over their half-empty glasses as they talked and smiled and laughed. Although he was unfrozen, the sick feeling that had troubled him in his father’s office had returned, and was worsening with every minute. ‘So, you must be John’s boy.’ Sascha jumped. He turned, coming face to face with a tall, gaunt woman with a very pale face. She wore a thin black dress that clung to her bony hips, and had something white and furry draped across her shoulders. Sascha nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but the woman got there first. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m sure,’ she said stiffly, her expression indicating no pleasure at all. ‘I am Baroness Redgrave, an acquaintance of your father’s.’ ‘It’s nice to meet you too,’ Sascha managed, extending a hand which the Baroness ignored. She seemed to be assessing him, looking Sascha up and down in a way which was very disconcerting. He made a feeble stab at conversation. ‘I suppose you must have travelled-’ ‘You must excuse me,’ she interrupted, ‘I require a drink. I’m sure I will have the delight of conversing with you at the dinner table.’ And with that, she turned away, leaving Sascha feeling even more ill and heartily dreading the meal. He looked around. No one seemed to be about to talk to him. Was that a good thing? Or was he expected to talk to people all evening? If so he would have to pick someone at random, because he didn’t recognise a single face. Sascha scanned the crowd, trying to spot someone who looked amiable and becoming increasingly

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conscious of the fact that he was standing around doing nothing and people would surely notice. In the end he went for a nervous-looking fat man who was standing in the corner with a glass of champagne. ‘Good evening,’ he said uncertainly. The man jumped slightly, as if he had fervently been hoping he wouldn’t have to speak to anyone. Sascha could sympathise. ‘Oh! Good evening, young man. You’re young master Faustus, am I right?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Ah, very nice to make your acquaintance. I am Baron Redgrave. You spoke to my wife just now.’ Sascha tried not to let his eyes widen as he shook the Baron’s slightly sweaty hand, unable to imagine a more unlikely couple. The Baron was quite a short man, and on closer inspection he wasn’t as overweight as Sascha had thought – he simply bore it badly, standing in such a way that stretched his shirt and made his gut stick out. He was easier to talk to, however. Sascha managed to engage him in several minutes of stilted, uncomfortable conversation before another guest arrived. It was a woman, younger than Baroness Redgrave and wearing a scarlet flower in her hair, who quietly introduced herself and began to talk to the Baron. After that Sascha was able to stop talking and listen, which was an enormous relief. From that point onwards he managed to drift from group to group, always staying with at least one person he had already been introduced to and never having to say very much at all. There was also music, which was a small blessing, and no dancing, which was a large one. By the time his father made an entrance and the guests settled down around the dinner table, Sascha was feeling almost calm. Unfortunately, his place was opposite the Redgraves, and the Baroness began crossexamining him almost from the moment they sat down. ‘Do you study hard?’ she asked. Sascha considered this question. It seemed innocent, if blunt, and he couldn’t think of a way to avoid it without appearing rude or lazy, so he answered. ‘Yes. My tutors are very strict.’ He thought this would please her. She seemed the type to be impressed by strict teaching. But the barrage of questions showed no sign of ceasing. ‘Then he doesn’t teach you himself ?’ ‘He does sometimes.’ ‘Ah, he gives you special lessons, does he? Does he teach you alchemy?’ Sascha realised the conversation had very quickly moved into a dangerous area. He was beginning to understand his father’s warning now, although he still wasn’t sure why the Baroness was so interested in him. ‘Yes,’ he said simply, unable to think of a way to lie or change the subject. ‘I see,’ the Baroness nodded. With this she seemed to lapse into thought, and Sascha settled back into eating his soup, which was rather rich. However, the reprieve didn’t last long – as soon as the Baroness had cleared her bowl she launched into another round of interrogation. ‘How much have you learned then? What has he taught you?’ Sascha blinked, bewildered. These were almost certainly dangerous questions, the

“

You’re young Master Faustus, am I right?

”

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“

These were almost certainly dangerous questions, the kind his father had told him not to answer

”

kind his father had told him not to answer. But how could he avoid it? Already Baroness Redgrave was staring at him, and he was sure she wasn’t the only one listening. Eventually, he rallied vagueness to his defence. ‘We’ve been doing theory recently.’ He was quite proud of this answer. To his mind it was quite impressive, and yet revealed nothing. But the Baroness’ next line of questioning was even worse. ‘What kind of theory? Have you studied equivalent exchange, or the works of Agrippa?’ ‘I…’ Luckily, Baroness Redgrave seemed incapable of waiting for an answer before coming up with a new question she would rather ask instead. ‘And anyway, has he taught you nothing practical?’ Sascha was baffled now. He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant. ‘Practical?’ ‘Yes boy, practical. Like the workings of the alchemical engine, for instance. Or summoning? Surely he must have taught you the laws of the undine by now? I was under the impression that all alchemists were able to call forth some form of water creature by the age of twelve. It’s practically an initiation for young alchemists like yourself.’ But Sascha had no idea what she was taking about. Most of the terms she was using now he had never heard before, not once in either his lessons or any of the books had been given to study. He tried to think of a way to hide his incomprehension, knowing that his father wouldn’t want him to appear ignorant. But you are ignorant, an angry little voice whispered, as if close to his ear, and whose fault is that? He looked up to the head of his table to where his father was sitting. He hasn’t taught you anything about real alchemy. He thinks you aren’t ready. This only paralysed him more. The realisation changed things; something would have to be done. But right now he couldn’t think what to say. It was then that Mr Rothschild came to his rescue. ‘Good evening, Sascha. I apologise for my lateness.’ The tutor clapped him on the shoulder and settled into the empty seat at his left. ‘I was held up by some tedious paperwork, and it appears I have quite missed the starter.’ Sascha was a little taken aback by his arrival. He would have thought Mr Rothschild completely out of place at such a stiff, formal occasion, but Mr Rothschild looked quite at ease in a light grey suit that wasn’t even patched at the elbows. ‘That’s okay,’ Sascha mumbled. ‘It wasn’t very nice.’ In other circumstances, Mr Rothschild’s arrival might have allowed him to relax a little. As it was his mind was too busy reeling to settle on even the most comfortable of topics. However, Mr Rothschild’s safe and gentle banter (which was probably every bit as calculated as it appeared to be casual) did allow him to lapse into sullen silence, giving only basic responses such as ‘yes’ or ‘no’ every now and then. The entire rest of the evening passed this way, with Mr Rothschild steering him through a blur of introductions and inane conversation which Sascha barely noticed. A part of him wanted to talk to Mr Rothschild about what had just happened and the thoughts racing through his head, but he knew there was no way he could share them. Not here, and not with a man that worked for his father. At

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At the earliest point at which it was acceptable to retire he did, by which time he had formulated the beginnings of a plan.

VI. The Nyx The day after the party, Sascha stole one of his father’s books. His aim was to learn about these water creatures – ‘undine’, the Baroness had called them – and summon one. If what she had said was true, to do so was how young alchemists proved themselves. His father had once told him alchemy was his birthright. He was being denied it now because had not proved himself. It was as simple as that. So he found the book in his father’s study – ‘Undine and the Fundamental Art of Summoning’ - exactly what he needed, and took it for himself. He didn’t much care if his father eventually noticed – he was going to find out sooner or later. That was the point. When he opened the book later in his bedroom he was frustrated, however. The information itself was sparse, obscured behind abstract theories that Sascha was unable to understand, or else strange jargon like ‘thaumaturgy’ and ‘vital essence’. What was worse, parts of the book was missing. It took him a long time to find what he was looking for: ‘The Nyx,’ it read, ‘is a water-spirit, one which generally takes on the form of a horse with a mane of seaweed. Easily summoned, they can be drawn from almost any body of water with the appropriate bait.’ Sascha would have smiled, but he was too full of grim determination. This was perfect – he could even use the seaweed as proof that he’d done it. There would be no need to make sure his father was there to see it. ‘They possess uncanny abilities and are moderately dangerous if provoked, but so long as the alchemist does not harm them and takes the necessary precautions, interaction is safe. Fire can be used to drive them away in case of aggression.’ Even better – he wouldn’t need any more than a torch to protect himself. What followed was a list of ingredients, all of which were surprisingly mundane. Some of the herbs were rare, but there was everything in the store cupboard. The only ingredient that gave him pause was a small amount of human blood. There was something underscoring this entry in the list, but the text was written in very small and crabby handwriting, and Sascha couldn’t understand it. Still, Sascha was sure he could endure a little pain to prove his worth, and he did – although he did have to stifle a small cry when he cut himself with the knife, in order to collect the few drops of scarlet fluid in a tiny vial. The preparation took a few days. The next hardest part was stealing a raw steak from the pantry, which had to be reasonably fresh – the rest was simple when he applied himself, and he found it heartening that he could achieve so much now that he had a concrete goal to work towards. In fact, he was filled with the kind of energy he normally felt only at the height of a storm, and it was almost better now that he had somewhere to direct it. During this time he only went down to the village once, to talk to Cloudia. He was confident that his plan would be worth his father’s rage and the potential risks, even if there were a lot of elements involved he didn’t understand. But still, he

“

he could endure a little pain to prove his worth

”

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“

For a long time, nothing happened

”

needed Cloudia’s opinion. It didn’t take long to explain, but by the time he was done she had shifted from her normal cheeriness into one of her quiet, pensive moods. ‘Are you sure that it’s safe?’ was her first question, and as usual it caught him slightly off-guard. ‘Yes. You can drive it back into the water with fire. I have a torch.’ ‘I don’t know if this is a good idea,’ she said after a while. Sascha frowned. ‘But what else am I supposed to do?’ For once, her next answer frustrated him, even though it was a long time in the making: ‘I don’t know.’ It wasn’t long before he changed the subject, and started telling her about the party. It was only on the way back to the castle that he realised how unhappy she had seemed. Once the preparations were over, what Sascha had was a piece of raw meat, carefully laced with a mixture of herbs and his own blood, a burning torch stolen from the cellar, and the ‘Undine and the Fundamental Art of Summoning’. He took all three down to the side of the great lake, driving the torch into the loose pebbles by the edge of the water, and began. He followed the instructions to the letter, even those he didn’t fully understand, laying down the meat by the side of the lake, and reciting out loud the words that were written in the book. For a long time nothing happened. Sascha stood on the shore, standing close to the torch for warmth, and watching the surface of the water. Occasionally he would cast his gaze up to the castle, which was visible above the trees and beyond the shore to his left. He hoped he was too far away to be seen. Still the water was agonisingly still, but for the ripples made by the breeze. Sascha didn’t know what he had been expecting – perhaps a bright light, or a shadow passing across the sun. Anything would do, anything but nothing. Then it happened: without any warning, without any sign of something moving beneath the surface, a great white shape erupted from the water. The Nyx. Sure enough, it resembled a horse, but it was nothing like any horse Sascha had ever seen before. Its mane was not actually made of seaweed, but was the same pure white colour as its coat, although seaweed did hang from its flanks and across its face. The Nyx was spectacular, larger than any creature Sascha had ever seen. He admired the horse as it strode forward through the water, making its way towards Sascha’s offering. As it put its head down to examine the meat, it glanced briefly towards him with milky white eyes. Then it began to eat, presenting the back of its seaweed-coated neck to him. He watched it tearing away strips of flesh from the steak, and for a moment felt faintly disgusted. A tiny doubt surfaced, somewhere at the back of his mind. Was something wrong here? Maybe he ought to get away. Then he remembered his purpose. If he couldn’t prove himself now, he never would. So he took the torch in one hand, and reached out to grab a piece of seaweed. He did so tentatively, but the Nyx ignored him. He took a strand of the slimy plant, and put it away inside his cloak, shuddering a little at how disguising it was to touch. As he did so, his hand brushed against the creature’s ivory coat, the one in which he had made the cut, and he looked back up at the Nyx.

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It was staring it him. Eyes that were previously focused only on the meat now looked up at him and held his gaze. And what eyes they were. The beauty of the creature struck him again, and he stood admiring it for a while, oblivious to the freezing water lapping around his feet. The Nyx really was a fine creature. It occurred to him what a fine thing it would be to ride it. At this, his misgivings returned, even stronger now, but for some reason it was even easier to quash them this time. Despite its size, despite the slipperiness of the rocks beneath the water and the slimy surface of its coat, it was surprisingly easy to climb onto the horse’s back, letting the torch fall into the water with a sizzling splash. In less than a moment he had made himself comfortable, and from his new position its mane seemed even more magnificent. And he was its rider. He could ride it into the castle! Think what his father would say. He wondered how he would command it where to go. It had already finished eating. Then, as if sensing his thoughts, the Nyx raised its head, and began to move. Sascha attempted to guide it towards the shore, but the creature turned to face the lake instead. It began to push out into the water, into the deeper part of the lake. It was only as the water began to rise around up his legs once more that the spell was broken. He began to scream. It was a mercy that the horse was quick. That saved him the creeping terror of icy water enveloping him, although he still had time to appreciate the Nyx. Its appearance seemed to have changed, now that he was helpless. Before it had seemed powerful and healthy, now he realised that it was thin, painfully, distastefully thin. He could see its whole ribcage, as well as the joints in its legs, both barely concealed by skin that now looked an unhealthy green tinge and could barely stretch across the its bones.

“

the spell was broken. He began to scream

”

Those were his last few seconds of conscious panic before he was plunged beneath the surface, and the all-consuming chill drained everything from his mind. It was so cold that he felt nothing, and everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The Nyx began to toss and turn beneath him, thrashing so wildly that the water began to turn white and Sascha was flung from its back. He hit the bottom of the lake, coming almost gently to rest. That was before something that must have been a hoof struck him once in the chest, then again and again, each time with a muffled, sickening crunch.

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Then, all of a sudden, the assault was over. The creature was gone, and Sascha could see sunlight somewhere above him. It was far away, however. Too far away. The water had already sucked out all of his strength and the last of his breath. But there was something else. A single, bright flash filled his vision. It flooded his eyesockets, and instead of searing them with hot, white pain it left his vision clear even through the water. And although the light faded, some of its brightness remained. The lake was filled with light, not one but many. Dozens of tiny flames hung beneath the surface of the water, impossible and blue. Sascha was transfixed. If he had been able to, he would have reached out to one, but in fact he didnâ€™t need to. They were descending, inching nearer, and he fancied he could hear them whispering.

They stayed with him, as he slept.

Opinion pieces from young writers.

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ALL IS NOT WELL BY LUKE DAVIS | ISSUE 8

As I turn the final page of Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows, the words ‘all was well’ mark a dark new chapter in the history of this planet. For the first time in ten years, readers could no longer revel in the admittedly flawed but still enjoyable novels, while JK Rowling presumably noticed her river of money had slowly begun to vanish. I, however, was left amazed. Amazed at just what people saw in these books and at why it seemed a crime to suggest that anything at all was wrong with these books. Are Potter fans (or ‘Potterheads’, as I believe they call themselves) right to praise these stories the way they do, or is this just another set of incoherent words on paper? The very basic outline for this series of books is that they are set in a world of magic and sorcery. Just reading the blurb of the first book (‘HARRY POTTER IS A WIZARD!’ in capital letters) makes me envisage Rowling clearly being over-excited, seeing this as the perfect excuse to write books which make no sense whatsoever, explaining everything with the simple reasoning of ‘but it’s magic’. I know it is magic but, if nothing can possibly be believed in the book, how is the reader supposed to relate to anything that happens? From the many times I have seen the films and read the books, I have not once wished I could live in the wizarding world, simply because there’s no logic there. And I’m not talking about the Doctor Who logic ignorance where literally nothing going on makes any sort of sense – it’s not quite that bad, but it’s not far off. Only in Harry Potter, for example, could Dumbledore – the one man keeping hundreds of children safe from inevitable death – not only ask his close friend and colleague to kill him, putting all those students in perilous danger, but also appoint him as his successor, despite his connection with the Death Eaters. I hope I’m missing something here because this old man is, without a doubt, the most irresponsible headmaster I have ever heard of. When schools are in danger of being taken over by terrorists, and members of staff can’t do anything about it or even send the children home, there is something very wrong and I honestly worry for those people who await their letter on their eleventh birthdays. I’ll admit that the devastated Hogwarts is a distressing image, but throughout all seven books, we are led to believe that Hogwarts is a safe haven, where nothing could possibly go wrong. Then suddenly we’re given this dark, corrupt place of ‘education’ controlled by Death Eaters and filled with dark magic. As for dark magic - well, I cannot see that anyone felt the need to celebrate the fall of Voldemort in any way apart from the Death Eaters, who must have seen it as extra publicity for his rise again a few years later. The whole point of Voldemort being defeated is made entirely irrelevant when, apart from one year when Harry instead receives a visit from a mass murderer, Voldemort returns every year. And how does Voldemort return? By using information he obtained in the Hogwarts library, of course. Hermione has often visited this area of the library, sometimes with Harry and Ron, without any permission from any teacher. Without these books Tom Riddle would never have learnt about horcruxes, would never have become Voldemort, and they’d never have had to defeat Quirrell. I’m all for the saving of libraries, but no one seems to accept that those in Slytherin, although admittedly not generally the type to spend their time in the library, do still exist and can easily

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learn about any dark magic they wish to know about. If there were any magical OFSTED equivalent, Hogwarts would have been long since shut down. It is a school beyond irresponsible, to the point where there are instruction manuals for making yourself look like anyone else (provided you have a single hair of theirs) and they haven’t removed them or put them out of children’s reach. Besides, even if they’re not for the students’ use, why exactly are they in a school where the library is primarily for the students? Whoever thought up the idea of the school having a restricted section (which is never used in any lessons) indirectly caused the deaths of all the wizards and Muggles killed by Voldemort and the Death Eaters. But none of this compares to the revelation of ‘You’re a wizard, Harry’. If ever there was an iconic literary moment for this generation, this would be it. Hagrid bursts through the door, breaking the brilliant news that Harry Potter has been accepted into the glorious world that is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. However, the logic behind this acceptance into the wizarding world is very flawed indeed. While the ‘send a letter and hope they respond’ technique didn’t quite work, their plan of sending a half-giant to break down the door of people who have never actually met him, announcing he is going to take Harry away for the next seven years of his life to learn magic rather than having a proper education, is equally ridiculous. Maybe I’m not ‘reading between the lines’ enough here but, as far as I can see, the only real jobs in the wizarding world are working in a shop, being a teacher, or working for the Ministry of Magic. Two of those options have already been taken over by dark magic before, and someone like Hermione isn’t exactly going to jump at the chance of working in a textbook shop. If by any chance you have not read these books, spare yourself from the pain and effort of having to turn every page, knowing every time you do a mess of words will appear, each sentence bringing new suffering to your eyes. If you are determined to read something you will regret for the rest of your existence on this planet, go and read Twilight or The Hunger Games.

But, believe me, this isn’t worth it – half of the characters couldn’t manage to stay until the end, and neither will you.

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GENERATION SELFIE BY KANAK KAPUR | ISSUE 12

Cigarette smoke mixed with a rich perfume lace my crumpled shirt and I’ve never felt more like white trash. I have to wear a string bikini top because bras would mess up my new tattoo. Want to hear a joke? I didn’t have anything less than an A+ on my latest report card. This bikini top has made me realize that my physicality in no way mirrors my intellectual ability. However, I still have accusations of being the “stupid, creative-type” echoing through my dusty room this purple dawn. My mother doesn’t even care that I’ve been taken advantage of or am plagued with an existential crisis every three days– she cares that the black ink on my skin has permanently stained the family name. Whatever will her other rich friends say when they hear that Tanya’s daughter permanently ruined herself. (Note: I say herself and not her skin because let’s face it, my skin is a completely accurate representation of my persona.) She inspires many elongated sighs. My throat burns, and I know it’ll last a few hours no matter how much tea I swallow. Cigarettes never suited me anyway– I just needed something to hold when the silence got too loud. Plus, all the pretty girls I saw looked an unforgettable shade of elegant when they lowered the white stick from their lips—I guess it was another step towards being one of them. I really irritate myself on nights like tonight. This whole “survival of the fittest” attitude I see in myself is going to serve as a catalyst to my moving to goddamn Kangbashi. We’re always so determined to have the last word or be the stronger character that we overlook how weak a person this relentless competitive spirit makes us. The true survivor will always be the one who worked in harmony and filled his neighbor’s bowl before his own. However, the last line of that sentence is conditioned to make us cringe – so you might as well throw up your hands while my words are still only dotted with cliché ideologies rather than overflowing with them, because I guarantee you’ll be too busy pulling your hair out over the next few paragraphs. I’m supposed to move literally to the opposite end of the world in a week’s time and through every bruising grip and tear, that inevitable flight waiting for me in August has served as my unconditional cushion. “I’m going to leave this all behind,” I’d say. A New Beginning awaits. But I’m not leaving my mind behind; wherever you go, there you are. His tight grip and that math test I failed are forever imprinted in my memory. I’ll still relive those moments when I’m a dirty shade of orange or can’t figure out how to use my calculator; the only difference would be the moon I’m under. It’s the same script in a new setting– and if that isn’t the most unsatisfying thing you’ve heard then I don’t know what is. Wherever you go, there your stained memories are. The predicament, however, is that I am unable to identify the loophole to direct myself back into a life of childish fun and pure motives. The only time I ever do feel that light again is when I talk to Adam. He has this non-exclusive openness about him; he’ll tell you about his mother’s new recipes and his cat’s indigestion all in one breath. The great thing about him is that he doesn’t hold back; he will cry, scream and giggle uncontrollably, and without reservation before he reaches the full stop. When someone bares their soul to you, no matter who they are or what their grades are, somehow everything they say makes sense. The act of relation itself is so beautiful that it

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leaves no room for judgment. Instead, all it leaves are the aching bodies of two beings, desperately gnawing at their respective worlds, trying to find something worthwhile – something to help them grow into the number of candles on their birthday cake. These walls that we build around ourselves are in no way beautiful; they’re exactly what they sound like– a destructive barrier. What’s really stunning today is vulnerability; the ability to go en pointe after a dozen fractures. That’s real strength. Not the cold exterior with black nail polish we claim to mirror our souls. We’re not that washed up yet; we can’t be. Yet, as much as we don’t speak of it, we are. We don’t tell our secrets anymore and we don’t kiss with our eyes closed until we’re sure the other person’s hands aren’t going to venture from our waists. We’re scared and at the same time, we’re consciously doing to others what was done to us. Every grade and kiss is a competition. We, Generation Selfie, are so afraid of feeling anything other than comfortable or sleepy that we’ve begun to turn every interaction into a protection mechanism. We’ve replaced hands with alcohol to protect our hearts and conversations with texts to protect our intellectual property. We are the adults of the emotional world and our parents, the adults of the physical world. They pay debts and protect us from men in the street while we protect ourselves from the hurt that breeds between iMessages and classroom small talk. We forbid our eyes from falling upon smiles we know we would fall in love with, yet we are also the criminals for purposefully aiming those brilliant smiles at the cute boy in History class. We’re a contradiction that we not only despise, but also encourage. We need to keep jumping rocks in the moonlight and using the word “virginity.” We need to empty our minds out by letting our words into the hands of another; we need to lie naked and afraid again. This reign of apathy can never be a victory lap unless it’s ruthlessly broken by a bruising kiss or goodbye.

As Adam would say, “Screw you and your reservations. Let’s dance.”

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LIVE REVIEW:   BELLE AND SEBASTIAN @ SAGE GATESHEAD APRIL 3, 2018 BY MEGAN THOMPSON

It was my first time ever visiting Sage Gateshead, and I couldn’t think of a more fitting act to perform in this beautiful, iconic venue than Belle and Sebastian. Their indie pop style mixed with a bit of folk rock and chamber pop suited this classy and vivacious building wonderfully. Every single lyric echoed magically around the room, and it was intimate enough so that everybody had a brilliant view and could join in with the audience participation, which included being invited up on stage to join them in singing their hit song The Boy with the Arab Strap; a definite highlight of the evening! I honestly felt like I was part of the band themselves, because their relationship with the audience was so genuine and down to earth. In between songs, some of the band’s eight members chatted along to the audience, making jokes about their travels and expressing their interests in their current cities, which only made the audience feel even more connected with this Glaswegian band, led by the fantastically talented Stuart Murdoch. Support act and wonderfully talented American singer and guitarist Julien Baker preceded the show and his subtle tones and potent lyrics really set the scene for the night ahead! Following the release of Belle and Sebastian’s latest album How to Solve Our Human Problems, the Scottish musicians proved that their palette is broader than ever and is continuously expanding, with the psychedelic, electro beats of Sweet Dew

Lee contrasting with the more stripped back, mysterious flows of Poor Boy. They also still beautifully acknowledged their earlier days, paying homage to their roots with energy-fuelled and nostalgic performances of older hits such as She’s Losing It and Expectations from their debut album Tigermilk (1996). A slideshow showing snaps of the band exploring Newcastle and Gateshead on their current tour gave me such a feeling of warmth and sincerity, with Murdoch’s nod to the statue of Sir Bobby Robson, which stands outside St James Park, leading us into a their melancholic love ballad Piazza, New York Catcher. This song tells the tale of two young lovers exploring their own little dream world ”the sun upon the roof in winter will draw you out like a flower / I’ll meet you at the statue in an hour”. Other vibrant hits from the band’s sixth studio album Dear Catastrophe Waitress (2003) included I’m A Cuckoo and Stay Loose, which both had the audience on their feet dancing and singing along! The mix of both old and new songs, which are all exceptionally unique and distinctive in their own way, provided a lovely balance between sentimentalism, abandoned youth, growth and maturity. The band finished their refreshingly optimistic and poignantly nostalgic set with an encore of songs suggested by the audience, which included There’s Too Much Love and I Want the World to Stop. All in all, this was one of the most memorable and enjoyable concerts I have ever been to! I genuinely felt like I was part of this band’s magical journey and have never felt more at home at a music venue before. The full audience were encouraged to let loose and sing and dance as though we were in our own living rooms, and you could see everybody felt like a teenager again as they basked in a vibrant and bubbling atmosphere, feeling completely free and unrestricted. I would definitely recommend this strikingly talented and unique band to anybody, because whether you have heard of them or not, you will have a night filled with complete enjoyment, pleasure and freedom! 42

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A RANT ABOUT FORTNITE APRIL 9, 2018 BY MORGAN SEED

Image Credit: Epic Games

There’s this new online game named Fortnite that’s been going around lately, which brands itself as a sort of multiplayer, last-man-standing, go-on-solo, brave-thewilderness sort of thing. I rarely pull myself out of the comfort zone of violently blasting zombies to chunks until there’s no longer a piece big enough to shoot, so in retrospect I’m going to put my eventual suffering down to peer pressure from my friends. The nagging became simply too much and so I gritted my teeth, downloaded the application and finally got around to playing the thing. Guess what? They’re not my friends anymore. Far from being a test of the player’s survival skills in a land where every other sentient being wants them dead, Fortnite relies much more heavily on the premise that he who finds the biggest shotgun within the first thirty seconds basically wins, even if they then spend the rest of the match making daisy chains outside. The premise sounds good on paper – you being one of a hundred nameless jingoist types being parachuted onto an island where apparently every resident there thought a double barrelled shotgun and health potion made a good decoration for the mantelpiece – but from that point on the game just sort of shrugs its shoulders and goes “Well, that’s my job done. Play nice, kiddies!”, thus leaving me armed only with a pickaxe and a high probability of 43

my brains getting sniper rifled into the sixth dimension. Thus the trend continued. But after my first twenty matches (my mean survival time being roughly thirty seconds) I felt a pressing urge to turn to the developer and say “Are we not going to get a tutorial or anything? I get that there’s plenty of self-satisfied YouTube stars who do videos on this thing, jumping in front of a camera more often than they actually play the game, but it would be mighty nice if you could get your head out of your forthcoming update schedule and perhaps spare us newcomers a fair chance?” “Fine,” you can practically sense the sullen reply, “See those trees over there? Chop those things down for wood and use that wood to build barricades, thus increasing your chances of survival. Happy now?” That’s about as in-depth things really get for Fortnite, beyond “push analogue sticks to move” and “use gun on man”. I’m sure the online guides could regale me with tactics and exploits if I wanted to achieve a suicidal level of boredom, but from my eyes, this has long since become one of those Five Nights at Freddie’s debacles – a game to be reacted to rather than played in ’hilarious’ online skits and creepy corners of art sites. Because you obviously can’t entertain an enclosure full of gorillas without investing in a pimped-out banana truck.

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COMEDY REVIEW:   ED BYRNE @ TYNE THEATRE & OPERA HOUSE APRIL 4, 2018 BY OLIVIA GARDNER This Irish comedian mainly known for his appearances on Mock The Week and his adventures with friend and fellow comedian Dara O’Briain has rolled out a smashing sell out tour. Well, I say sell out, however there were four empty seats in the front row which Ed Byrne addressed straight away sending the audience into hysterics as soon as he appeared. Ed Byrne’s tour, named Spoiler Alert, addresses many of the aspects in his life which he seems to just vent out on the stage. The main focus stemming from the idea that we are as a nation ’spoilt’. Being someone who comes from a working class background and having done fairly well for himself, Ed compares the childhood and upbringing he had in the 1970s with the one he is giving his children, Cosmo and Magnus (the names admittedly getting a few chuckles which weren’t necessarily intended). His idea of ‘fun’ being sitting outside of the pub while his dad went in for a pint compared to his children‘s, who have a giant trampoline in their garden which they see as almost compulsory, and going on expensive trips to Lapland which Ed ended up being more excited about than the kids. Ed is clearly not shy when talking about his now middle-class lifestyle and for the majority of his set just ridiculed the whole idea of it. At one point even admitting he was raising two posh kids who, if he was a kid again, he would have hated. Slightly harsh maybe, however accurate. Ed then goes on to talk about his thoughts on buying an Aga… a demonstration in itself the middle-aged middle-class society Ed has stumbled into. The way he delivers his material makes the show come across very real and authentic as it’s not too perfect. With his slight word mix ups the show doesn’t look too rehearsed but more natural which in turn, makes the audience feel more relaxed. A joke was made about the absence of a support act for this particular show as Ed claimed he was sacked for eating all of the snacks at previous venues. Although this was followed up by a hearty laugh from the audience, it meant Ed was on stage for the whole show and could have easily lead to the audience getting bored (after all it is hard to listen to

someone talk on stage for two hours). However Ed’s ability to tell stories and intertwine them together and around each other is seamless and he’s able to keep the attention of the audience for the whole time he is on stage. He even managed to start on a topic in part one, going off on a tangent, then continuing it in the second half before going off on another tangent. His gift of being ‘a talker’ definitely comes in handy in his stand up! After seeing this with my dad, we both agreed that we thought the show would be cruder than it was and was surprisingly more suitable for slightly younger audiences. This is not necessarily a negative but actually opens up the comedic scene to the younger generations to enjoy. Ed also touched on some political material like the unavoidable Donald Trump. ‘Touched’ being the key word here, as I feel that comedy can become slightly tedious with the overuse of it. Nevertheless, Ed managed it perfectly and took a different perspective to Donald Trump’s humour with reference to the sign language used to describe him. As you can imagine it wasn’t positive. As always, whether it be on the TV or in stand up, Ed Byrne makes people laugh and this run is no different. With his skilful story-telling and down to earth humour, you’re in for a laugh from start to finish. The atmosphere inside the theatre was great and I look forward to see him next time he comes to Newcastle as he even admitted it’s one on his favourite venues to fill!

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BOOK REVIEW:   AN APPLE A DAY: A MEMOIR OF LOVE AND RECOVERY FROM ANOREXIA BY EMMA WOOLF BY HANNAH MORPETH | ISSUE 6

“Nothing in life is wasted; everything is experience.” Emma Woolf ’s autobiography An Apple a Day provides a stark insight into the whirlwind life of an anorexia-sufferer: a worthwhile read for the naive, knowledgeable or fellow fighter. A lot can be learnt about anorexia from the book as Woolf bravely discloses her innermost feelings to the world, in a bid to raise awareness and help others to understand the complexities of anorexia. A beautifully-written read about living with anorexia which sends out a message of hope to fellow sufferers and with any luck dares them to also take a brave step towards recovery. Woolf is an Oxford graduate, accomplished journalist and avid traveller. The anorexia is an aside. Despite this debilitating illness Woolf has found success in telling her story to the world: a particularly brave venture which started with the publication of her column in The Times which soon became a huge hit with writers sending in messages of support, thanks and admiration of her courage. Speaking up about mental health is not an easy thing to do, even within this so-called equal, non-discriminative society we supposedly live in nowadays; the unknown is still off-putting to most. No-one would think twice about someone speaking up about the difficulties involved in physical health recovery but mental health recovery has a dark 45

stigmatised cloud milling over it; it is still somewhat a tabooed conversation which tends to get the “oh my God” reaction out of everyone. Thus making Woolf ’s work even more significant in raising awareness and most importantly understanding of anorexia. Covering the origins of her anorexia right up to her current stage in recovery with painful honesty, Woolf shows anorexia not to be glamorous, nor a statement made solely by the fashion industry. Affecting around 1.6 million people in the UK, eating disorders do not discriminate on age, gender race or social class they can concern any one of us. For the uninformed, Woolf explains how complex the illness is. For many people, anorexia is just understood to be food related; a person suffering from anorexia just doesn’t eat properly, thus resulting in the one dimensional advice of “just eat” when in reality the “not eating” is just the surface. An Apple a Day covers every aspect of the disorder: the thought processes involved, the lack of control and most importantly the guilt which is attached to the illness. Furthermore, it highlights just how much of a person’s life it takes over, affecting careers, social lives and familial and intimate relationships.

By openly talking about her fight towards recovery and the path that lead her there, Emma Woolf is hopefully inspiring a nation of anorexia sufferers who are teetering on the edge to take the leap of faith towards recovery.