Scrittura Magazine Issue 13 Autumn 2018

Issue number 13 Autumn 2018

Scrittura Magazine © Copyright 2018 All Rights Reserved.

Scrittura Magazine is a UK-based online literary magazine, launched in 2015 by three Creative Writing graduates who wanted to provide a platform to showcase new and exciting writing from across the world. Scrittura Magazine is published quarterly, and is free for all. This means that we are unable to offer payment for publication.

Submissions information can be found online at www.scritturamagazine.tumblr.com EDITOR: Valentina Terrinoni EDITOR: Yasmin Rahman DESIGNER / ILLUSTRATOR: Catherine Roe SOCIAL MEDIA ASSISTANT: Jessica Briscoe WEB: www.scritturamagazine.tumblr.com EMAIL: scrittura.magazine@gmail.com TWITTER: @Scrittura_Mag FACEBOOK: scritturamag

In This Issue 06 07 09 10 12 13 14 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 35

The Nightmare Helen Rear Ageing Process John Baverstock Climactic Ed Blundell Choice Afieya Kipp Two Frogs Lynn White Performance Poetry Helen Rear The Lovers Lie Louise O’Connell Silence Anthony Wade Things That Make Me Happy Elizabeth Gibson Mother Earth’s Silent Speech Geraldine Douglas The Mannequin DS Maolalai Dust to Dust Anthony Wade The Poppy Louise O’Connell Off The Plot Ed Blundell Trending Michael G. Casey Sleeplessness Costs Paul Waring

36 38 39 40 42 43 44 46 47 48 49 50 52 53 54

Bees James Bell Heroes Liliana E. Guzmán Two Lines Short of a Sonnet Ed Blundell Beneath French Farms Steve Douglas Voice of an Addict Kudzai Mahwite Unravelling Annie Maclean Truce Liliana E. Guzmán Lepidopterarium Louise O’Connell Show Me The Love Marc Carver Departure Lounge Adrian Marples Brutus Helen Rear We Shall Consider Frederick Pollack At The Art Fair DS Maolalai Seams Setareh Ebrahimi The Forgotten Marc Carver

A Note From The Editors Welcome to the Autumn issue of Scrittura Magazine!

This month we are celebrating our third anniversary – three years, thirteen issues, and hundreds of spectacular short stories, poems and scripts shared. It’s been a wonderful journey so far, and we certainly hope to continue in this great trajectory for many more issues to come!

Issue 13 is another jam-packed one, full of thought-provoking, amusing and thrilling pieces for you to enjoy - starting with the dark and sobering poem ‘The Nightmare’ (pg 6). For something more light-hearted, try ‘Things That Make Me Happy’ (pg 17), or ‘The Mannequin’ (pg 19), a comical self-reflection on vanity. And don’t miss ‘Lepidopterarium’ (pg 46), a beautiful poem about butterflies, life and love.

We also have a wonderful short story about regrets, ‘Choice’ (pg 10), and are delighted to be able to feature a short script this issue too! ‘Trending’ (pg 23) is a thrilling piece centred around an unusual family dynamic, set in in the future. We always love to receive submissions in this genre – so do send us any short plays you have stowed away, or are waiting for an excuse to write!

Finally, this issue’s beautiful cover art is inspired by ‘Two Frogs’ (pg 12) an amusing poem about a young girl’s search for ‘real frogs’, not one of those ‘prince things’.

Of course, a big thank you to all of our contributors and everyone who has submitted work for this issue. If you’re looking to send in a poem, story or script for Issue 14, our current deadline is 31st October 2018.

As always, a humungous thank you goes to our magnificent designer Catherine for another gorgeous issue. And also to Jessica, our social media assistant, for her continued hard work and dedication promoting the magazine; be sure to let her know your thoughts about this issue on Facebook and Twitter!

Valentina & Yasmin

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The Nightmare Helen Rear

from a distance, I see myself barricading the door, limestone shoulders cracking. he forces his way in, throws me to the floor — filthy kisses on my neck, leaving muddy fingerprints clumsy fingers unpicking my stitches — cracking me open like a watermelon. cold hands sifting through my entrails, shifting fragile organs in a pool of cranberry juice. the man’s smile is a fishhook; my screams stick like barbs in the back of my throat. surrender laps at the shoreline; my mind rages, convulsing like a fish, slippery in his grip, while my body, the betrayer, lies lax, nerve endings trailing like loose shoelaces across the floor.

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Ageing Process John Baverstock

Staring into the mirror, It’s like a camera does not lie, Lines now replace smooth skin, As the years have simply passed by, Still feel like a big kid at heart, The older face staring back at me says different, Eyes that used to sparkle, now look tired, Like an old passport photo which long expired, Many would like to hit stop and push rewind, Revisit that youth that’s still present in their mind We grow older, it is a fact of life, Some try to save grace, By opting for the surgical knife, Acceptance of we are what we are, Becomes a hard pill to swallow, Even those who opt for plastic, Finally meet up with tomorrow, The ageing process, Will be what it will be, There’s no secret formula to say, That we will do it gracefully.

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Climactic Ed Blundell

Did both the unicorns decide The weathermen had got it wrong, Or did they argue, he and she, Both quoting experts on their view?

Perhaps it was the griffins who Convinced them it could not be right, The centaurs too called it, “fake news”, A rumour spread to panic them.

In any case they didn’t go, Politely telling Noah, “No”.

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Choice Afieya Kipp

There is no more Georgia, and so, you’ve concluded that there is no God, Buddha-bellied, long-bearded or otherwise.

Because, if you’ve come this far only to have things go so bad, then something must truly be awry; out of your hands and into the sky you turned, and nothing.

You think you feel the heat and unevenness of her calloused fingertips on your shoulder blades when you’re drying dishes.

You think you see her, standing behind you, with her moonshaped face when you close the bathroom mirror, but it is not her. You think you taste her summer diet of mangoes and strawberries and tomato soup with croutons when you purposefully make spit in your mouth, holding it there because.

With bodies tanned and long-limbed and stories of absent mothers and absent fathers and no siblings to speak of, you thought to yourselves: we must protect one another; our pain is implied and understood in our marshy brown eyes, in the palms of our hands and in the kisses we give one another in the corners of dark rooms. And, as history puts it, love bloomed.

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But there are flowers to be agreed upon and purchased and shipped with care. There are the linens you must choose, the ones with tiny rosettes stitched all over or the slate grey silk with white trim, because you are good at choosing those kinds of things. There are the candles, short or tall, and the wooden chairs, backs or no backs, and the cake, lemon or coffee crème. And the people. There are always people to be chosen. You were never good at choosing those kinds of things. You must, your mother insists, choose a dress whiter than your grandmother’s dress and wear your hair neatly pinned up, not ‘long like a gypsy’. You must also choose Oak Creek or Stony Falls, never Vanguard Square. Vanguard Square is no place to raise a family. But you love Vanguard Square, because it is the place where you met Georgia, on a night where you chose to follow the music, and drink the third glass of white wine and touch her bloodless cheek to remove a bit of schmutz (you lied), and chose to jump into the cool river, on a whim, and thought her laugh would break open the eggy sky and spill the yolk of your want all over Vanguard Square, and beyond.

There were the trips to the antique store in Georgia’s baby blue truck where you loaded up the back with comic books, duck shaped lamps, a few rag dolls and a faded red barn door. There was the time she took you to the rooftop of an abandoned building in Vanguard Square and asked you which was bigger: your heart or your fear? Georgia. Georgia. Georgia. She showed up one evening when you were alone, which was often, and stole your modesty with a kiss.

When Frank and your mother asked you one afternoon at brunch what you were humming, because you never sang, not until Georgia, you smiled and said, ‘A song I made up. A song called ‘Georgia’’. There was a blissful trip to Black Bear Pond and then the letter. And then two weeks of distance, the engagement, the argument in the garage that left your insides feeling scraped of all vital organs and replaced with tissue paper. Georgia told you she finally knew which was bigger.

But there is a venue to be chosen and invitations to be mailed and RSVP’d too and favors to be tied with tan twine and a veil to be picked out by the oldest member of your family, for good luck. On the day, you hope your tears do not give off the stench of mourning, and that your blood cooperates and rushes to your cheeks when Frank kisses you. You hope your smile looks genuine in the pictures and that your body is relaxed during the first dance, as to not give anything away to the guests about how noir you feel beneath the beads and sequins, the fake eyelashes and jarring pink eyeshadow you know your mother and bridesmaids will beg you to wear.

Until then, you decide to spend the rest of summer accidentally breaking glasses and using your hands to sweep up the shards. You use your blood as lipstick and kiss every surface of the house where you remember Georgia has been; surfaces where you’ve made love, made plans; surfaces where she’s propped her soft hips up on and balanced her weight so that her small breasts stick straight out and whispered come here. You sit outside, on the grass, in the last days of the stifling heat of August and half-listen to Frank’s favorite talk radio station, wondering if it will ever rain.

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Two Frogs Lynn White

I loved the pond near my auntie’s.

Just a short walk from the village.

I could get right up close and peer into the water.

That was how I saw the frogs.

They were not easy to catch but I managed it eventually, one at a time.

I kissed each carefully to make sure they were real frogs, didn’t want one of those prince things.

Then I put them in my shoe and placed my other shoe on top so that they couldn’t jump out.

I walked back barefoot over the rough ground and the village street.

I discovered that my mother and auntie were afraid of frogs.

Perhaps they would have preferred princes.

They didn’t like the barefoot walk either.

My dirty feet would show them up, they said.

My uncle said they were good for the garden and I would not be allowed to take them on the bus when I went home.

So I watched them leapfrog through his garden.

I hoped they’d be happy there.

He told me they were, but I never saw them again.

Performance Poetry

Helen Rear

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baby, I thought you were beautiful before you opened that mouth.

I’d love to step inside and let you lick me into shape.

I love listening to that lilt. you make love to every word — it makes your poems taste like spun sugar on my tongue, a note as pure as glass. I want to cut myself on your cadence.

I’d like to look inside your brain like peering into a fishbowl, and see your thoughts swimming through the murk. to swirl my fingers through the oil slick and watch them come out coated in gold.

I know it must be a mess in there, but I’m not expecting to set it right.

I only want to watch metaphors gleam like opals on your tongue.

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The Lovers Lie Louise O’Connell

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Duvet tangled lovers limbs, late night messes full of sins, pings, Of messages, stick like strings...

Of pearls, caught, knotting, bed fisted hair, She does not care, To share, Lies trapped and spun.

Discord disharmony, Choir sung, Like an angry buzzing, hornet, distrust stung. # Tar stuck cigarette nicotine air, Looms lashes locked, And lips not share.

Eyes tight, sight shut, Mouth trembles despair, Secrets prized, Spun busy legs, Open thighs, He prisons her with despise. # Phone interrupted, The make love highs.

His love notes Paper thin, Displaced, Wafer in, The hands of fate, Fake, In hands of a mannequin.

# Hungover, hanged Noosed hearts and minds Whose love was delicate, Deceit refined.

She pilfered, His depths, Emotion mined, Hook lined, And sinker, The stinker Kind, Of lie To find Behind Yesterday’s French kissers Knickers Carpet crumpled Negative discharge lined.

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Silence Anthony Wade

In the endless forest with no-one near to hear, the tree falls soundlessly in the night, crashing silently to the ground, to lie quietly, without noise, endlessly still.

When the rapist departed quietly in the night with no-one near to hear, she lay still and cried quietly, without noise, her tears falling silently to the ground but not soundlessly, for she could hear her tears, knew she would hear her tears, endlessly

Things That Make Me Happy

Elizabeth Gibson

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My cat demanding attention by lying across the keyboard when my mother is trying to type, walking by a river at night when all borders between water and path and trees and sky just suddenly go – life smooths out.

Being in France, any bit will do but maybe Avignon with its fairy lights and its random small animals scuttling about, my apartment above the shop Casino, where I would pop in to buy chocolate moelleux and magazines.

My little brother, in all his annoyance at me for taking up the table to work, my cousin, who Likes everything I ever post online, all of the folk musicians who bridge that gap between how the world is and the way it could be.

Seeing bright colours when I don’t expect to, anything with cinnamon in it, or with banana or peanut butter, rhubarb, rhymes and rhythm, words flowing off my tongue, sitting in a cool alleyway with pigeons cooing to the evening.

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Mother Earth’s Silent Speech Geraldine Douglas

Evening unveils a copper threaded sheen, as a stitched fiery-gold mist tiptoes over Honeysuckle clasps.

Moist air struggles to breathe as Freesia scents pulse… in tune with a Blackbird’s heart.

Winds dapple my ivory skin damson, while silver dew caresses my goose bumps.

Laced beams from a milky moon saturate a stream mauve…

Its rippling liquid weaves platinum ribbons.

Red-headed Geraniums twizz their frocks, Foxglove towers pierce a cyan sky Whilst wild birds ravish amethyst droplets.

Giddy gnats dance through celadon Cedars and silver whirls twirl from glassy woods.

Squirrels serenade ginger-haired ladies under a crystal rimmed orb of night, as gossamer threads flurry in glory between Heaven and Earth.

Sprites giggle beside a sweet pear tree.

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The Mannequin DS Moalalai

what’s with it? everyone I talk to I want them to admire me.

I want to somehow make an impression on someone even if I’m just buying a coffee, or worse, a bottle of water.

I try to dress nice when I go out for any reason, even just to get some air or pick up a little breakfast.

I make sure I leave a tip and that I have a little change left after for each homeless guy.

I try to walk with my hands in my pockets in a very cool way whenever I remember. like I’m walking — no, striding — out of a setting sun.

I try especially if someone else in

whatever place I’m in is rude about the coffee or generally unpleasant.

I get an extra thrill then from tipping for bad service or at least breezily saying “hello”. everyone, I hope, falls in love with me or at least thinks to themselves “look at that guy — I bet he’s a moderately successful poet with poems in magazines and a nice guy too to boot and boy, what a jawline”. what a shallow fucker I sometimes am.

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Dust to Dust Anthony Wade

Though safe within the stiff drawer, in the blind darkness of its once clean envelope, the black and white photo still knew the leaching of all the years, took up the colours of slow decay, and is now greyed and paper yellowed.

It is a photo of its time, smaller, curving with age, edges scalloped in the fashion, with a white diagonal crease across a top corner, and on the back in grey pencil the terse message, ‘Mam and all the boys’.

An old woman and five young men stare out, Mother sitting, her sons attentively standing, their blank faces not hostile, just shut tight, unaccustomed to this posing, unsmiling mouths kept tight closed in an age of poor teeth.

Like them it has no speech, its few scribbled words shorn of names, place, date, without meaning, of no significance, just a lost link to a lost time, an old photo of people long dead, waiting to join them.

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The Poppy Louise O’Connell

The poppy petals Paint the crisp, Tall, slow baked, Once was, green grass, Reminiscent red.

Translucent petals, Fray and flay, On the light easy, Bluesy breeze As the butterflies, And honey bees Chase the buttercups.

Meadow patchwork, Carpark edging, Crawling with warrior ants And dog deposits, Embrace the charisma Of the veteran flower, Delicate and forlorn Of stories, Dementia retrograding, Being blown in the wind Until the last petal Drops.

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Off The Plot Ed Blundell

What if you went right off the rails, Lost it completely, did daft things, Walked to the shops without your shoes, Sang in the library, farted too, Pissed on your neighbours’ neat cut lawn, Dropped your pants in a Tesco aisle, Posted Fuck on your Facebook page, Scrawled lewd graffiti on a wall?

What if you did and if you dared, What if nobody even cared?

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Trending Michael G. Casey

Characters: MA and DA, late forties or early fifties, Dort accents. MA pronounces ‘DARA’ as ‘Dawra’, and ‘DA’ as ‘Daw’.

DARA, their son, nineteen, neutral accent, walks with a limp.

CEAD, twin son, nineteen, speaks like parents though with a London overlay.

All wear futuristic dress or accessories and carry tiny palm-pilot computers.

Both sons can be played by the same actor.

Interior, living quarters, large window gives a view of the sea. Modern cacophonous classical music is playing. MA and DARA are sitting at a breakfast table.

MA Dara, have you seen your Da this morning?

DARA No. Why would I know where he is?

MA Your eyes work all right…Don’t they? Ah, here he is at last with breakfast.

DA enters carrying a tray. He serves small glasses of compote. He sits. They sip from the glasses.

DARA (Rubs his stomach) Not bad for once. This concoction almost hits the spot.

MA This compote is delicious...Halibut flavour with a hint of cinnamon. Dara, you could thank Da for making breakfast.

DA Ah, it’s all right, Ma. He’s a…teenager. We were all like that once.

DARA I don’t think so…Am I supposed to be grateful for something? Am I?

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Awkward silence. Beat. DA looks around, stands, goes to window, returns.

DA Cold as a witch’s tit out there, and the sea is getting up.

DARA That’s something else they got wrong. Global warming me arse.

MA I wonder what time Cead will arrive.

DARA I won’t lose any sleep if he doesn’t get here at all!

DA Ah now, Dara…your…twin…brother.

DARA Oh yeah? Anyway, what does he want after all this time? He’s always on the make…I bet he wants something. I can sense it.

MA Dara! Don’t speak about Cead like that!

DA It’s kind of…understandable though…

DA clears the table. Then he taps his palm-pilot and stares at the tiny screen.

DA Cead is on the hydroplane and is making good time.

MA Great…Any word yet from his doctor?

DA No…nothing yet on his website.

DARA Doctor? What doctor? What’s going on…?

MA Dara, I hope you’ll make an effort to be civil when Cead gets here. Do it for Momma.

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DARA lights up a joint.

MA Dara how could you? Put that spliff out immediately! Are you trying to…devalue yourself?

MA grabs the joint and extinguishes it.

DARA Well, I can’t compete with Cead…the Golden Boy…But I know the score. Remember that. I know the score!

DA Steady on, Son. This is…the world we live in.

DARA Yeah, and it was your generation that let it happen.

MA I wish you wouldn’t talk to your Da like that. Why can’t we all make the best of it?

DARA gets up, walks with a limp to an easy chair where he flops down.

DA Is the pain still bad?

DARA What do you think?

MA I’m going to the Hydro-Port to meet Cead.

MA checks her computer, puts on a coat and exits.

DARA Make sure to carry his bags…

MA (Off) We’ll hire a robot.

DARA (More quietly) I never get away, not even to England. I often look at the ships and Hydro-planes on the horizon, but I know I’m not going anywhere. Not with this tag.

He raises his trouser-leg to reveal an electronic tag on his ankle.

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DA I know it’s been tough on you…Let me see the wound…

While DA is walking towards him, DARA lifts up his shirt and surreptitiously removes a pistol from the front of his waist-band and replaces it to the rear. DA, who has not seen the pistol, examines the wound.

DA The stitches are nearly absorbed. Healing is well under way…

DARA Yeah, but for how long? What’s the point?

DA Dara, you know my view. It should never have happened. But there was that European law and then the Church got in on the act…

DARA I know you mean well, Da. But none of that helps me.

DA pats him on the shoulder.

DA Go up to bed and have a lie down. Here, have a couple of these babies.

DA hands him two pills.

DA They’ll help you chill…Don’t tell Ma…I’ll call you later.

DA links him out and returns. He tidies a bit and checks his palm-pilot.

DA No news from the doctor yet…That’s something…

He hears a key in the door. MA and CEAD enter. CEAD looks exactly like DARA but is better dressed and has long hair. He moves with some difficulty but in a different way to DARA. MA Look who’s here! The wanderer returns…

DA embraces CEAD. DA Cead…Great to see…Long time, long time…

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CEAD Hi Da! You and Ma are looking fabuloso. This place really suits you. You should have moved out here years ago from the city.

DA (Scrutinising him) You look a little tired, Cead…Rough crossing?

CEAD Not really. The hydro-plane does it in an hour nowadays…How is Dara?

DA Ah, he could be better I suppose…

CEAD Oh, yes, the…operation…But he’s recovering right? He is recovering?

MA Oh, he’s fine, Cead. They do good work in the hospital…

Don’t worry about Dara. He’ll bounce back…Now, how about something to eat? Da got some nice mackerel-flavoured compote at the market…

CEAD That sounds great, Ma. But later, OK? I need to sort out a few things and have a shower…

MA Of course, darling. Whatever you want to do. This is your home.

DA Are you back for a holiday…or…did the doctor…?

MA Not now, Da! Get his bags and bring them upstairs to the front-bedroom.

MA accompanies them to the exit, rushes back, sits and switches on her palm-pilot. DA is carrying the bags.

He and CEAD exit. CEAD walks slowly and appears stooped.

MA Freshen up, Cead! And get some rest.

MA studies her palm-pilot with growing concern.

DA enters, studying his palm-pilot.

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DA There’s…something…being uploaded…

Beat MA Oh God in Heaven! It’s worse than I thought…

She takes a pill.

DA That message from his doctor. I can’t believe it…I thought Cead didn’t look well…But this…? I didn’t think an infection could cause…

MA How do you think I feel? Jesus mercy…

DARA enters, stands.

DARA Cead wants something, doesn’t he? Oh, Christ, I can tell from your faces. I gave a kidney last month. What does Cead want? An eye? A lung, maybe? A soul? Oh, no, I nearly forgot…Clones don’t have souls…

Beat

DARA What is it?

DA Sit down, Son.

DARA limps to a chair and sits.

DARA What? What is it?

DA Cead has a rare form of Cardiac Infarction. His doctor is concerned…

DARA jumps to his feet.

DARA Cardiac…Heart? Heart? Are you mad? Have you lost it completely?

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MA He must have a transplant.

DARA That’s crazy! Do you know what you’re saying?

MA You have to be the donor, Dara. The tissue matches. That’s not a concern…You needn’t worry about that…

DARA That’s not what I’m worried about…This is my heart…Mine…

DARA thumps his chest.

MA Aren’t we being just a little…possessive…Dara?

DARA We’re not…but I bloody well am…You got that right!

MA Trust me. There won’t be a problem of rejection…

DARA I don’t give a shit about that. I’m rejecting him…Tell him to fuck off!

MA Dara! You know I don’t like that language…

DARA Oh, you don’t like that language?

MA No, I don’t. I’m your Momma…Look, you know how the system works…You don’t own your heart…

DARA Oh, I don’t, do I not? Funny, that…It feels part of me…

MA It’s common property, Dara. You know that…Don’t give Momma a hard time…

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DARA Just because Cead came out of your womb and I didn’t. Is that my fault? Is it? Clones are human too. We have rights…

MA Not according to the Constitution. There would have to be a referendum.

DARA Clones are not allowed vote!

MA Do you really have to shout at Momma?

DARA And the Church says we’ve no souls. We have no legal protections…Da, what do you say?

DA The…cards are stacked, Son. At the beginning the scientists didn’t think clones would have awareness…It was thought they’d be something like…well…sheep…

DARA Sheep? Fucking sheep?

MA Dara! I’m surprised at you! You’re Momma’s second favourite…

DA It was a mistake…but there it is. The last clone who refused…was brought to hospital …and they harvested him by force…

DARA That’s murder!

DA But the law doesn’t agree…And the government is exporting organs all over the world…We all have to pay off the bank debts of thirty years ago…I can’t see a way out, Son…I just can’t…

DA bows his head.

DARA Harvest the bloody bankers! They’re the ones who fucked up…Pull out their giblets…

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MA You can’t get blood out of a stone, Dara. It’s not on…

DA I’m sorry, Son. DARA Why don’t you donate your organs?

DA Too old, Son. My organs aren’t the best…I’m told the liver is like a Swiss cheese.

DARA That’s your last word?

DA remains silent.

MA We have to make the best of it…

Beat, canny appraisal of Dara.

MA Actually…come to think of it…your Da could do with a new liver…and I could use a kidney.

DARA Wha-a-t? You want me to…? You’d like to empty me out, is that it?

Whip out everything that’s going? This is a great family…I’m the gift that keeps on giving.

MA We know it’s not easy, Dara. Momma knows that…but be reasonable.

DARA Aw, fuck this!

He draws the gun and waves it around.

MA Where did…? What the hell…?

DA Shooting us won’t solve anything, Son.

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DARA I can shoot Cead.

DA No, you can’t. You’re made from his DNA. I know you. You won’t be able to do it.

Give me the gun…

DARA I’ve a better idea.

DARA points the gun to his own head.

DA No! MA Don’t do it. Don’t! Give the gun to Momma…We’re very fond of you, Son… DARA Oh yeah? I’m worth more alive than dead! Isn’t that what it’s all about?

MA Don’t be selfish Dara. Think of others for a change. You used to be such a good boy.

DARA Wait now…If I shoot myself, the harvesters could still get here in time…The organs would be usable…I’ve got a better idea.

DARA drops the gun on the table, rushes to the window. DA tries to catch him but is too late. DARA jumps out the window.

DA Oh God! He jumped…!

MA rushes to the window, looks out and down.

MA He’s really done it now. Fell on the damn railings. Guts everywhere. Nothing left for anyone.

DA The poor lad. He never had a chance.

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MA He aimed for those railings, the spikey ones. He did it out of spite…The selfish little brat. Of course he smoked and drank for years to damage his organs…to devalue himself…Still, I wonder if there’s anything worth saving…

CEAD enters.

CEAD I heard something. What’s up?

MA Look out the window.

CEAD Aaah shit! I knew he’d bottle it. My new heart is gone now. The bastard. What a Goddamn waste. I’m done for. What’re we going to do now?

DA I don’t know…I just don’t know…

MA But, that is a good question…What…are…we…going to do…now…?

All stand and stare at the gun on the table. They look at each other.

MA You won’t live without a heart, Cead…That’s a shame. Of course it is…A real shame…You’re Momma’s favourite…But your other organs are OK. You never even smoked…You looked after yourself, didn’t you?

MA looks cannily at the other two and then at the gun on the table. The others do likewise. She advances slowly towards the gun, pretending to look elsewhere. The others do much the same.

MA Waste not want not…

MA lunges for the gun; so do the others.

CEAD No way! Get off!

CEAD manages to grab the gun.

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MA Think of the family for a change! Be a good boy! Hand it over to Momma.

They all wrestle and jostle for the gun. At one point CEAD holds it aloft. They all reach up for it.

CEAD Aaaggh! My heart…!

DA Drop the gun, Cead!

CEAD No! No! Get away. My own parents…! I’m not the clone! I’m not the clone!

MA It’s for the best, Son. You’re done for anyway. Give me the gun, darling…

They all continue to fight strenuously and noisily for the gun with much improvisation. They pull and shove each other.

DA Hand it over, Son! MA You…used to be…a good boy…a little dote…Give Momma…the gun…Give Momma the gun…!

All three turn their backs to the audience. MA and CEAD are both holding the gun aloft. DA is trying unsuccessfully to grab it. The tableau is suddenly frozen. Lights down. At the same moment the gun goes off.

No one knows who, if anyone, is shot.

End.

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Sleeplessness Costs Paul Waring Some can’t switch off — wide awake as the world shuffles random sequence of scenes into chaos of dreams.

Night minds burning light behind closed eyes, forced to watch carousel of thoughts illuminate blank screens of sleep.

Soundtrack of twists and turns ticks into next-day dread.

Another invoice — accumulated interest on a debt not owed.

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Bees

James Bell bees collecting like a Jain you tread carefully through clover try not to interrupt the industry of amber, tan, black and yellow the larger you have known for years and the others smaller who do not look beelike on first sight none notice until the last moment comes and merely move to another flower rather than lose the momentum of taking pollen lick instead of suck — a less erotic connotation suggests simple passion and not a lust demands they approach with a frenzy haste and shortness of time defies levelling by one foot or another as they continue to collect, collect

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bee dance performed in complete hive darkness with the prelude of a taste and smell as a temptation for new treasure she beats out her tune from the abdomen shakes, a real swinger with an ardour moves along the wax comb to tell true distance how to get there without looking first — bearings are in relationship to the sun four minutes and a degree off the vertical all good dances need to be repeated keep the audience rapt on where to find what for all is an ultimate desire the dancer gains her following in what might seem abandon yet is precise control

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Heroes

Liliana E. Guzmán Grey skies and great skies right above the darkened plain The plain that illuminates my distance from the sun The pointed edges of a star and the outline of God’s nose is all I can see The only dreams I can dream are the feelings I fear All I can share is what I’ve stolen, and all I can steal is what has been shared When the stars bend down to look at us — their opinion of us is one to be embarrassed of With this enlightened life of belief and journey… my senses have been taken elsewhere

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Two Lines Short of a Sonnet Ed Blundell

I read the memos on my screen And tip tap type a terse reply.

Tense at my desk I dare to dream Beyond the drudgery of work.

Word sounds that sing inside my head, Sound words that shine like round, wet stones To throw at office window panes.

I dream that I wax high and fly Like Icarus towards the sun, Soaring above the boring world, Then sigh and write another note, Afraid that I might melt my wings.

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Beneath French Farms Steve Douglas

Beneath French farms stiff oaks under blankets, grey unfold, reclaimed by old Madame, staring, cold.

Bold, bare veins sway in Winter’s blow, slicing through heads, snare falling snow, flaked layers rest on wilt leaded crops.

Grown where mown hearts ceased to beat, bloodied Summer blooms now shoot above stilled feet, beneath French farms.

In the same bloody mud...lost last March, March scared witless, wilting privates, shell-shocked, soiled and scarred.

Bayonets, keen as mustard smog, up to dank knees in putrid bogs, silhouetted phantoms, the eternal guard.

‘Fall out!’

Ruby lipped Mademoiselles wait to bathe the privates’ soiled privates...

Not today...

Today the RSM’s bark booms orders through the fog — ‘Fall in!’

Must go again...the whistle peeps and again and again to gain that yard...

No captain to lead, his voice-box withered, charred... by bomb shard lead.

He fell dead on steep clay, last sneering words...

‘Tosh to the Bosch!’

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Now moulded in the same bloody mud they lost that March.

Still, mithered men, stand to, en guarde... old wounds scratched by the plough of Jean Claude.

Unearthed pocket book, leather crinkled, worm worn, sepia snapped sweetheart, faded and torn.

No Spring Somme sun or skylark’s song can drown whispering English tongues, swollen, blistered lips, green-gassed gills, of fathers, husbands, brothers, beaus and sons, who lie stiff...where they fell, shoulder to shoulder, still talking over the village cemetery bell, still talking of squeezes and teases, from lasses with cleavage, still talking of warm welcome arms, cold pints, beef barms... of the day of returning from beneath French farms.

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Voice of an Addict Kudzai Mahwite

I promise, I mean it.

This temporal state be no want of mine Never meant to fall out of line Who would want to ruin their prime?

It was just a taste of that deathly brew I swear, I’d have stopped if only I knew: A moment in time left only to rue, From which this cancerous urge grew.

Do spare the hurtful judgement Aren’t we all subject to perpetual amendment?

The least I need is abandonment, In this, my quest for refurbishment.

My craving now is naught but support; Better yet an unconditional rapport It is what for days I’ve senselessly sought As it is the therapy for my rot.

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Unravelling Annie Maclean

When my jumpers became too wide and worn, my mother sat to unravel each stitch into new possibilities.

Now I am ninety, nothing need matter.

My jumpers hold holes like cobwebs, like shawls.

I am lying beneath my chrysalis wings, stretching out to become unwound; awaiting the moment I shall glide into flight, knowing my freedom and feeling my lightness.

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Truce Liliana E. Guzmán Espero que encuentres tu paz en este mundo

Que tus pies te lleven a donde necesitas estar, y que el amor que sientas sea uno que no te haga daño

Espero que no tengas miedo a dormir, y que sepas que no has fallado hoy Espero que te enamores, pero te mantienes enfocado

Que leas para matar el tiempo, y que ya no llores Porque llorando sólo te sana por hoy, pero leyendo te ayudará para una mejor mañana

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I hope you find your peace in this world

May your feet take you where you need to be, and may the love you feel be one that will not hurt you

I hope that you are not afraid to fall asleep, and that you know you have not failed today I hope that you fall in love, yet that you remain focused

That you read to kill time, and that you no longer cry For crying only heals you for today, but reading will help you for a better tomorrow

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Lepidopterarium Louise O’Connell

She left the... lepidopterarium door open, released all the butterflies, of excitement she held.

They melted, Wax lyrical, Flying too closely To the sun.

Their coloured wings Bled undone.

It happens to pretty things — When you love them too closely, Too cagedly, They unbe.

See, their beauty, Is their freely, Floating cloaking, Artwork wings, That stitch undone, By controlling things.

Butterflies don’t last forever, Lifespan chokes them, short of breath, And zest, Left bereft — Melting drips, Of love unsaid, And disrespected.

If loved truly, Love would be unspooling, Unruly, Existing still...

Choosingly To be homed Securely, In the lepidopterarium.

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Show Me The Love Marc Carver

In the morning I watched a film about a boy who was led to the love of his life by the number 11.

In the shop it was 11 dollars 11 as he went out the clock said 11:11.

He boarded the bus, again number 11 got off and there she was.

I got on my train about an hour or so later looked at the time as it pulled out of the station.

11:11 it said so I had a good look around the train but no there was no love for me.

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Departure Lounge Adrian Marples He stands in line like everyone else, except he is different.

He can tell from their faces and the way they move that sacrifices have been made: years of slumming it in caravans on the south coast, luxuries cut from weekly shops, those occasional Friday night dinners the stuff of memory. Children taken out of school a few weeks early, just to help ease the wallet. Teachers promised gifts and educational scrapbooks.

He stands in line as dads fiddle with enormous cameras, purchased for the occasion, for those moments in the years to come when their children will regale future spouses and offspring about their holiday of a lifetime in the Caribbean. And for those moments which may come sooner, such as on Christmas morning when kids look at their pile of presents and struggle to hide their disappointment.

To inattentive eyes, too busy staring and pointing at the 747 or re-checking dates on passports, the man on his own will look no different to them in his khaki shorts, sunhat, Lacoste polo neck and Ray-Bans; older for sure but not elderly, just a rich single guy heading off, like them, for a few weeks of sunshine.

Except he isn’t like them.

Just look at his shoes: perfectly polished black brogues with enormous soles that could kill a kitten with one misplaced step. And the briefcase– no space for towels surely, safely packed just in case the hotel charges extra. Perhaps he has an apartment. One of those expats. That’s the kind of person they are rubbing shoulders with in the departure lounge.

‘Last call for flight XM779 to…’

Families leap up. A man in his forties elbows a young child out of the way and then berates the parents for a lack of manners. A woman frantically searches for her passport which lies under a seat just in front of the man who patiently waits in the line. Babies begin to wail, like burglar alarms after a power cut. A couple of families with identical suitcases block the aisle as they try to work out whose is whose. A bashful husband holds up some female undergarments and receives a clip round the ear for his trouble. The young lady friend of a much older man is telling him that there are no toilets until the plane, that he should not have drunk so much in the airport. The older man’s hand tightens on the woman’s wrist, causing the man waiting patiently in line to take a firmer grip of his briefcase. He fingers the security code.

He stands and waits in line as people squabble and fight. Some will carry their grievances through the two weeks and beyond. The older man will buy his young lady friend a bracelet to cover the bruise.

People have now forgotten the man standing patiently in line, in his khaki shorts, sunhat, Lacoste polo neck and Ray-Bans, watching the madness unfold. He could be one of them, except he is different.

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you murdered him a thousand times in the senate of your imaginings. traced the knife across his collarbones, carved your name into his chest. you named yourself the instrument of his destruction: Brutus, a hurricane. you knelt by Caesar’s side, loyal ’til the end, watching his blood drench the steps. pressed your hand against his ruined heart, then to your lips, for one last fleeting taste of your betrayal.

Brutus

Helen Rear

how deeply you despised him — you, the blade between his ribs.

you were so disappointed to find no trace of stardust in his veins. in the wake of all his hubris, he tasted just like everybody else. the visionary, fixation of a thousand bloody daydreams, crumpled at your feet.

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We Shall Consider Frederick Pollack

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What remains of him is the intensity with which, when she returns from work, she pets the big and soulful dog he didn’t want, and gazes at familiar prints, plants, books, pillows, throws, their order more pertinent than neatness.

He had wanted to sweep them all away, like the calls she, while efficiently cooking, makes and returns. That was his formula, amongst the other ultimately simple formulas men have been.

Some nights he returns, though she, in ethnic fashions she would never wear, all braid and bees, is the main attraction.

He’s there, disturbing, yet as a shadow necessary. Guards, attendants? In savage finery, not touching, lead them through a low-res jungle.

Stars hoot, birds sparkle. Troglodytes along her path (she vaguely associates them with the Christian Right) snuffle her hem, get kicked back. She attempts demureness, sacredness, hauteur, unsure if they’re successful. By a fire, the Wise and Old ones, gender unclear, set her a math problem; she suspects the x is loneliness. Later she half-recalls earthshaking things they got her to say about love, though still resentful they first tried to ask him, famously tongue-tied … She remembers they were crowded, she and he, towards the fire and were the fire and the light, in one sense or another.

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At The Art Fair DS Maolalai

I move between stalls with my shoes on the grass, looking at pictures; mostly pop-art in graffiti style or abstract, a lot of pin-up girl posters; all body types represented. it’s a preoccupation in painting now, but I don’t show much interest.

I like my impressionism more, colours fading to colours like the world without its glasses on, and paintings of landscapes especially, boat scenes, India and historical drama.

all around people are talking to artists.

“You think if I bring my kid out here his paintings will sell as well as yours?”

“How much will the value increase when you’re dead? I’m looking for an investment, aha haha.” artists must get tired of this by the time they blow their first painting dry but nobody seems to notice.

I pick up a thin city landscape a metre high done in reds, a painting of a beach scene in Spain and some size three brushes.

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Seams

Setareh Ebrahimi

You’re pretty and beautiful, croissant belly button on a lazy Sunday in the living room.

Daytime naps.

Whatever I was about to say got lost for the tug of sleep that pulled me into its just, uniform blackness like a current.

He likes it when a woman behaves outlandishly, in competition with herself, becoming one characteristic.

At night we speculate on possible past transgressions, turning them this way and that in the illuminating darkness.

Reassure him that he’s good, that he’s gold.

Darling, the pieces won’t seam together, for example sleeping with the shirt but rejecting the flesh, or constant correspondence, then silence, then repetition.

I panic that we’ll never be free of each other, that one day soon we’ll be free of each other.

I don’t want to be a kept woman in an accidental carry on harem of previous lovers that act like the unseen writing team behind a hit show, a smile on my mouth alone, trying to crack the sharpest joke.

Mostly I blame myself, imagine myself picking out the brainstem and spinal cord as if they were shelled prawns to examine the diseased genealogy in confirmation.

Sometimes for variety I blame you, have stamina to tear and clutch whatever happiness available in this world.

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The Forgotten Marc Carver

I wonder when I will get to a time when I write a poem but can’t remember whether I have written it before You know I could even have written this one before if you see it feel free to let me know.

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