Scrittura Magazine Issue 17 Autumn 2019

Issue number 17 Autumn 2019

Scrittura Magazine © Copyright 2019 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: Melis Anik WEB: www.scritturamagazine.tumblr.com EMAIL: scrittura.magazine@gmail.com TWITTER: @Scrittura_Mag FACEBOOK: scritturamag

In This Issue 07 08 10 15 16 19 21 22 23 28 30

30 Royal Park Avenue Through The Window Kate Rigby August Geraldine Douglas Electric Candle Alfredo Salvatore Arcilesi Bamakoola Yuan Changming Cover Mathew Appleby Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff Anthony McIntyre Do Not Touch my Croaking Cactus in a Pot Peter George Fallen Ed Blundell Home Melissa Timmins Fourteen Niall McGrath Plastic Breath Alfredo Salvatore Arcilesi

34 36 40 41 46 47 52 53 54 56

I’m Not The Moon But Maybe I Will Be Aviva Satz-Kojis The Author And His Characters James Bell Immigration Yuan Changming The Stories Rosie Gilligan It’s Over Richard Bates Tossers’ Corner Neil Henderson My Crow Yuan Changming The Foreign Language Yasemin Balandi We Live in The Cave Amirah Al Wassif Number Plate John-Christopher Johnson

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

Issue 17 launches us into our fifth year – which we can’t quite believe! We never could have imagined when we launched the magazine that this is where we’d be, 17 issues later. It’s an absolute privilege to be able to showcase wonderful work from new writers, across the world, and we hope to be able to continue doing so for many more issues to come.

We have a wide range of interesting and thought-provoking short stories and poems this issue.

It’s not possible to talk about them all, though we wish we could, but here’s a flavour of what you can find inside.

Turn to page 10 for ‘Electric Candle’, an emotional story about loss from the viewpoint of a child.

For a thought-provoking poem about the effects of war, read ‘Fallen’, page 22.

‘Home’, page 23, depicts the sobering side effects of ageing.

For something more light-hearted, try ‘The Author and His Characters’, page 36, an entertaining short story where the lines between fiction and reality become blurred.

Finally, for the fantasy fans, turn to ‘The Stories’, page 41, a futuristic story set in space.

As always, a thank you must go to all of our contributors for sharing your writing with us; if you’d like to submit work for consideration for our Winter issue, the current deadline is October 31st 2019 (Halloween!).

We must also thank Catherine, our hugely talented designer, who never fails to turn Scrittura into the beautiful finished product it is, and Melis, our Social Media and Editorial Assistant, for her efforts in promoting Scrittura and your work to the world.

We hope you enjoy this issue; please continue to let us know your thoughts via email or social media!

Valentina & Yasmin

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30 Royal Park Avenue Through The Window Kate Rigby I see his Mam, bustling, bringing in the pie, gravy, and simultaneous cups of tea.

And for me, in case I come, because I’m from London, a side salad, unsolicited.

I cannot see David there. Poor David, so called since after he was born Mam was in the fever hospital, caring, through glass, for our Kathleen – or one of the others – and gave him scant welcome.

He is instead with me, outside.

I see the Virgin Mary in her many forms, my favourite in a snowstorm collected on pilgrimage to Knock.

No-one notices her, although she blesses vigorously.

Maybe next year we’ll be there and Mam will celebrate at mass, and later with a Yorkshire feast and disregard for all our differences.

And I will see her, bringing in the pie, bustling and full of warmth.

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August

Geraldine Douglas Melting stars, wax into Chinese lanterns shining on beds of lemon grass, slumbering in a ruby dream.

Alyssum’s magnetic force creates carpeted vistas of imagination.

Uncut emeralds dangle from branches as serpents lick winds, luring the Queen to taste fresh wombs of Rose.

A Cuckoo mocks the Summer as lonely Doves watch on.

Shy Primrose, leaves stamped down, runs from straggling roots of a Cedar, her scent wrapped in a shroud of panic.

Pollen sockets flare saffron flames dancing the corn gold as the Moon drops a honeyed eye.

Lilies hiss, lolling in a lazy mist, sprinkled petals fan, like Sun-God fountains of Jasmine.

Nightingales sup lemon liquor, Swallows swerve a new velvet dawn as Woodlarks chirrup a chorus of joy.

Breeze’s musical fragrance… stitches of nature riddle its orbs.

Born of tinctures, tints and crayons, a purple night draws a fantasy portrait through curves of a maze…

No beginning.

No end.

August, a language of her own… …and daylight sings a clever song.

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Electric Candle Alfredo Salvatore Arcilesi Heart pumping faster than her legs, she feared she might kill her mother, feared her father would catch up to her.

‘Cora!’

Oh, no! Daddy’s getting closer, she thought. He’s s’posed to be sleeping.

Ignoring her father’s pursuit, Cora ran past the quiet houses lining the quiet street on this otherwise quiet night. Past the bungalow, home to Mr. King, who had dressed as Santa Claus one Christmas ‘‘cause he’s too busy to do it himself,’ Mr. King had explained. Past Ms. Shelley’s dark, leafy lawn, where she hosted Easter egg hunts ‘‘cause the Easter Bunny’s too busy to hide the eggs himself, so I help out,’ Ms. Shelley had assured. Past Dr. Deaver’s home that doubled as his dental office, where he had presented five-year-old Cora with a dollar to commemorate her first lost tooth, because, well...‘The Tooth Fairy’s too busy.’ Past the houses that remained dark, for their inhabitants had yet to be awakened by–

‘Cora!’ A breath. ‘Stop!’

Blazing through a dead intersection, Cora spared a thought for the archetypes on whose behalf her neighbours claimed to work during their respective seasons. She wondered where they were: Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. Wondered if they saw the X-ray, the way she had. She wondered if they saw the lie. Or–

Her heart stopped.

Her mother died.

Her father caught up to her.

Then a double crash against her small ribcage.

And another.

Another.

Her heart rediscovered its rhythm.

Her mother was still alive.

Her father—in spite of the closing sounds—had yet to catch up to her.

Cora’s heart had forgotten a pair of beats, one per terrible thought:

What if they knew about the lie?

What if they were in on the lie? Them. Mr. King. Ms. Shelley. Dr. Deaver. Daddy. The doctor.

And when she thought she couldn’t lose another beat:

What if Mommy lied to me?

No. Impossible.

Though it was looking that way.

Cora didn’t want to think of her mother in that light.

All the more reason to run.

‘Cora!’

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Too close.

He was quick for someone who was not only old, but had been asleep. They had been watching television; he had allowed her to stay up as late as she wanted, a sort of gift— including all the junk food she could pack into her sugar-and-salt-coated belly—to celebrate her recovery.

Recovery.

The X-ray, she thought. The lie.

The plan had formed during her time in the hospital, then solidified in her bedroom (after the doctor deemed it safe enough for her to return home) into something simple, doable.

Her footsteps were light, quiet—the coughing fits had faded to wheezes—and her father had taken to marathon sleeping in the wake of the loss of their beloved matriarch. The cemetery was only seconds away, past Mr. King’s, Ms. Shelley’s, and Dr. Deaver’s.

Of course, Cora had to be careful, for the last time she snuck out of the house she ended up in the hospital, where the lie had waited to be discovered.

Within her.

Tonight, not seconds but minutes ago, Cora had eased away from her father, uncomfortably sleeping on the other end of the couch. She had tiptoed toward the front door, and after tense moments with the loud lock and creaky hinges, made her escape. The cold air had stabbed her body, trying to get to that special spot into which it had settled three weeks ago, trying to send her back to the hospital. She hadn’t intended to run, though she knew she should hurry; there was no guarantee her father would remain asleep.

Down the front steps.

Down the driveway.

To the right, along the sidewalk that had lead her and her father from house to cemetery every day after their first, ceremonial visit.

‘Cora!’

Daddy’s awake! she had thought. He’s coming!

Breaking into a sprint, the race for the cemetery had begun.

Now, finally, breathlessly turning into the cemetery, Cora kept an eye and ear out for zombies, though she couldn’t be bothered with them at the moment. Or any moment.

Now was her only chance to learn the truth.

‘Cora!’

She knew her mother’s name, but not the letters of which it was comprised. She knew her mother’s headstone, but not in the thick darkness. She recognized the tree against which the headstone seemingly rested, and– Yes! Made out its twisted silhouette, shaped by the streetlamp from beyond the cemetery.

The frozen grass ended. The mound of earth began, a heavy blanket over her mother (if she was there), tucked in by the small yellow excavator that had patiently waited for her, her father, and the few mourners to leave before it could discreetly perform its job.

Cora dove to her knees, and began digging her short fingers into the cold dirt, yanking out pitiful handfuls. The small craters her fists made quickly filled in with seemingly more black soil than there had been. Determined, she thrashed at the dirt.

‘What’re you...’ Quick breaths. ‘Doing...’ More quick breaths. ‘...Cora!?’

She continued the excavation as if her father hadn’t finally caught up to her, as if he

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wasn’t witnessing her apparent breakdown, too stunned to take the final steps to seize her, to stop her from spraying his pants with flung dirt. To stop her from disturbing the ground, his wife, her mother.

Cora dug harder, deeper, numbness creeping throughout her hands.

I gotta know! she told herself.

Ignoring her father, who knelt before her.

I gotta know!

Ignoring her father, who took a face full of dirt.

I GOTTA KNOW!

He didn’t stop her.

‘Cause he knows I know! she thought.

Frozen razors cut hot tracks into her cheeks. She used both anesthetized hands to investigate the conflicting sensation, but succeeded only in lodging clumps of cold, hard dirt into her teary eyes.

Stupid!

She was angry to have shed even one tear in the presence of her father. She continued to dig, furiously, but the dirt stung her eyes. She tried to ignore the annoying pain, but gave in to wiping her eyes, depositing more dirt within them.

Again, she tried to dig…

Again, she wiped her eyes...

Tried to dig...

Wiped her eyes...

Dig...

Wipe...

With a scream of frustration, loud and fearsome enough to scare nearby zombies back into their graves, exhausted and defeated Cora collapsed onto her side, feeling nothing.

Except her heartbeat.

Many heartbeats—pounding her chest, neck, ears, pulsing throughout her tired legs, her unfeeling hands.

Another heartbeat joined her own. Slower. Calmer.

Too tired to reject him, too cold to admit her body needed his warmth, Cora wondered if her embracing father’s own mother or father or someone he loved, someone he trusted, lived in his beating heart. Or if they had lied to him, too.

Perhaps it was the cooing, coupled with the gentle rocking.

Perhaps it was the way her heart began to slow, calm, synchronize with her father’s.

Perhaps it was the pathetic progress she—a mere girl, not a professional excavator—had made, and knew she would never learn the truth, see it for herself.

Perhaps it was the way her father whispered it was okay, all okay.

‘It’s not okay!’ Cora blasted, elbowing his chest. His heart. She didn’t need the ambient streetlamp to illuminate her father’s stunned, hurt expression. ‘I wanna see Mommy!’

In the past couple of weeks, she had come to know what the beginning of her father’s crying sounded like: a hitch in his voice, as if he was trying to prevent a sneeze. She heard it now. But instead of speaking in tears, he spoke in words. ‘I... I know you do. I want to see Mommy, too, but–’

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‘Where is she?’

Silence from his silhouette.

‘Where. Is. She?’ Three numb fists pounding against his chest.

Then it came: the not-quite sneeze, followed by the awkward sobbing. ‘I’m sorry, I...’ He swallowed the rest.

‘You lied to me, Daddy.’ Whatever tears she reserved, her father used. ‘You and Mommy lied to me. ‘Thinking about her mother as a liar had made her feel bad, guilty; saying it aloud made her feel outright criminal.

As she had in the hospital bed, then in her own bed, Cora replayed the lies in her exhausted, perplexed mind:

‘No matter what happens, I’ll always be in your heart’ — her mother’s final words, the night before the surgery.

‘That’s just Mommy giving you hugs and kisses’ — her father, shortly after the funeral, clarifying what Cora took to be a ghost in her bedroom.

Mommy giving me hugs and kisses?

How could that be if she’s s’posed to be in my heart?

Sneaking out of the house after what her father told her.

Standing in the windy backyard, receiving—and trying to return—her mother’s hugs and kisses.

Her father discovering her weather-ravaged body the following morning.

The doctor showing her the X-ray of her chest, where her new-moan-yeah no longer threatened.

‘But Mommy wasn’t there, in the X-ray, ‘Cora said now, the tears brewing again. ‘I looked and looked and I couldn’t see her. ‘A tear betrayed her. She didn’t bother to catch it, not if her father hadn’t seen it. ‘So if Mommy’s not in my heart, and Mommy’s not the wind, giving me hugs and kisses,’ she pointed a dirt-encrusted digit at the pile of disturbed earth, ‘then she’s gotta be in there. She’s gotta.’

What she took for yet another tear landing on her cheek was, in fact, one of her father’s.

‘I saw Mommy in the coughing, and I saw them put the coughing in the ground.’ She pointed at the spot where she was certain her mother was buried in her coffin.

If whimpers were speech, then Cora might have understood what her father was trying to say.

‘Mommy is in there, right?’

She tried to push against her father’s embrace, the only response he could muster.

‘Right?’ Cora managed, before giving in. # In spite of her father’s snug work, Cora still felt the breeze that wasn’t her mother’s hugs and kisses penetrating the thick comforter. He kissed each bathed cheek—one from him, one ‘from’ her mother; they both knew, but never brought up—and left. Tomorrow they would have a talk about Mommy. ‘True talk,’ Daddy had said.

The creaky hallway steps she had once thought belonged to a ghost disappeared into her parent’s bedroom.

Or’s it just Daddy’s bedroom now?

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She didn’t know.

Her parents’—her father’s?—bed squealed, then silenced.

She hated to ruin her father’s careful work, but she needed to know.

Kicking away the comforter, Cora, aware of where the creaks hid among her floor, tiptoed toward the mirror sitting atop the drawer. After minutes of careful study, she saw that her father had lied to her again, in the cemetery: she saw not a single trace of her mother within her features.

‘True talk,’ Daddy had said.

Tomorrow.

Navigating the creak-mines strewn about the floor, Cora returned to bed, turned on her side, and stared at the nightlight her mother had installed. In the shape of a candle, its flame perpetually ablaze, albeit with the help of electricity, the small beacon of comfort had defended Cora from an assortment of bumps in the night. No longer fearing those bumps, she reached for the nightlight, but stopped.

A new fear.

A fear of her own making:

If I turn off the nightlight, how will Mommy know where I am?

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Bamakoola Yuan Changming

While all my fellow humans hope to Enter heaven after they die, I am alone Living in paradise already: An earthly realm I have built myself With the light from Lapland, where the setting sun Shines with the morning glows above golden snow The air from Shangri-la, where the yin And yang are in pure and perfect balance with Each other in every grass, every cloud The water from Waterton Lakes, which Reflect the mountain of trees as clearly As the mountain reflects upon the clear water That’s all my spirit needs, not the fragments Of the meaning about Eden long lost But the whole backyard within my solitary heart

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Cover Matthew Appleby Forget that I am his son. Forget, if you can, your favourite song of his. Forget the spoon with the brown substance that, aged five, I found in my bathroom, and the bags of powder I was not permitted to touch. Try to forget the way that mother stuffed her fist into her mouth, the many nights that he did not come home. Forget the first time that you heard a recording of his, remembering perhaps the figure of approximately three hundred million, the number of individuals on YouTube who also thought the melody personal to them. Put his genius entirely out of your mind. Focus on something inconsequential. Focus, for a while, on me.

You nuts or something? We already put your daddy’s name on all the fliers. This is the manager of the bar at my first gig. As politely as I am able, I am asking him to refer to me by my first name, unknown, rather than my sparkling family name. My father was born a Lutheran, converted through Judaism to Buddhism, dabbling all the while in cults, and though he changed his name on several occasions, this privilege will not be granted to his son. I hold my guitar so closely that I fear the neck will snap. I accept my name as printed on the fliers.

Ovation Adamas – parabolic shape reduces feedback – that, young man, is a fine instrument.

The shop-owner, a woman whose t-shirt and tattoos have faded, listens to an adolescent play his father’s song, commenting, did you – did you write those lyrics yourself? You’re a real poet. And, when I inform her that my dad is a musician, oh, well, I never much listened to the modern radio.

Ebony fretboard and mahogany neck, sandstone finish, American limited super shallow design: £1,899 and ninety-nine pence. Must be a successful man, your dad, the woman’s long fingers worked the till, then snapped shut the clasps of the guitar case. Once home, I stood the guitar against my bed and stared at it. Without strumming, I ran my fingers along the strings and listened. Father, when drinking, spoke with great reverence of the bond between a man and his guitar. Since I was not permitted to enter his room while Father was writing, I used to watch him underneath the door. I was reminded of the time that Mother had eaten undercooked prawns – both struggled to get something from their insides into the world. I played my first chord and waited.

In the local press a review appears, at times grimly perceptive…a promising beginning. I am twenty-one and, using my father’s connections, have recorded an album of my own. It has taken seven years to write a dozen useable songs. Later I would lose my taste for ballads, and while the odd song still appears on radio, it is a long time since I have listened to my album AN ENCHANTING WOMAN. Before the single was released, however, I played it on repeat, headphones in, fearing someone would think me smug. I should have been thrilled with such a review; I was furious. Where was the acclaim for ONLY FOR YOU, a song I performed

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whenever I wanted to impress a date? Where was my place as king of pop? There was only measured praise and the obligatory reference to my father.

Your dad was just the same, Mum interrupted my moping around, he got so wound up about reviews, he used to go to writers’ houses and argue with them. When I told her that we were nothing alike, that our music could not be more different, that she was making the same mistake as the corrupt press, she only said, I love you very much. Our agreement never to speak about Father was, that day, suspended. She told me about his family, how poor he’d been, how lucky I was.

As if he had been cruel to someone else, she spoke about his cruelty. She acknowledged his talent so blankly that it was though she were talking about the colour of his hair. You’ve got something so much better than that, she said. You’ve got yourself a good heart. I told her precisely what I thought of that heart; it was two months before she spoke to me again.

You know I care about you more than anyone, my girlfriend is sitting beside me, the light from a bad film flickering in her eyes, but I really think that we should talk about – about – the word that she cannot say is future. Now aged thirty-seven, it is a word of unique dread. She puts her arm around my neck and presses her mouth, still smelling of dinner, into my shoulder.

She and I met at a benefit concert organised by Father’s trustees. I was hired to perform for a crowd of three hundred people, the largest audience of my career. In the afterglow of Father’s songs, I decided to do something for which I was not hired. I sung something of my own. That was the moment that many people discovered how much they needed a drink. The volume of conversation rose so high that I had to signal to the sound technician. After my performance, she told me, that first one was great, wasn’t it? But I wasn’t so crazy about the second. Other members of the audience are less kind. Later I will hear two trustees asking whether the gene for talent skips a generation.

It isn’t – it isn’t not true, is it? Four years and a dozen jobs have passed, but still we are watching a terrible film. It’s not like you ever made any money out of singing. I mean, if you’re honest with yourself, you’re not a great songwriter. I called my father’s trustees and, provided I only performed covers, I was permitted a role as ambassador to my father’s work. It felt like snapping the neck of my first guitar; soon, though, I was performing at benefit concerts throughout the country. Hundreds listened to me sing and I came to love my father’s songs.

I loved how those songs spoke to others, no matter what they whispered about myself. And when my son asked to hear what his grandfather had written, I brought out the Ovation Adamas and his mother sang the harmonies.

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Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff Anthony McIntyre 'Don’t sweat the small stuff,' my doctor had said, 'take up a hobby or even running, lose a bit of weight, you’re fifty-six, loosen-up.'

I already had a hobby: creative writing, but that had made me fat.

Too many biscuits at the end of every page and hours spent dreaming the days away looking for inspiration that was always two steps ahead. I hoped one day to see my name in print.

So, I took up running; first to the chippy and then onto the bakery.

No, I’m joking, that’s me loosening up.

I started small, like the acorn and then with miles in my legs I grew stronger like a mighty oak. I use the tree description because that’s what we writers do. Think a little differently. I’ll explain; my legs were like tree trunks, my arms, spindly branches and the leaves; well they were my designer labels flapping in the wind. I had always imagined I could run for miles, across towns, cities, continents and deserts.

I entered a fun run, paid my entrance fee, and was determined to finish. On the day of the race I turned up in my running kit. My headphones hung around my neck like a doctor’s stethoscope, ready to inspire me on with my favourite tunes.

I met some real characters, one was dressed with a fridge on their back to make a point about world starvation. Another runner was dressed as a plastic bottle, the logo on their back read, ‘say no to single-use.’ I wondered if they’d run before. There was one dressed as a chicken, the other an egg. I thought this’ll be interesting. A group, a running club, arrived in a coach that puffed out diesel fumes. Imprinted on their vests was an image of the earth surrounded by the words, ‘heed the warning, global warming.’ I thought that was poetic.

I set off with a good stride, through the field, over the motorway bridge, past the waste disposal centre, left at the lights for the biscuit factory and then the final stretch. A spectator held a sign urging me to run faster as the zombies were coming; everybody knows the walking dead can’t run or even climb stairs for that matter.

For 1 hour, 10 minutes and 3 seconds I sweated the big stuff for 10k.

A week later, my name was printed in the local paper. I’d come in at position fifty-six, ironic really. Incidentally, there was no mention of the chicken or the egg.

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Do Not Touch my Croaking Cactus in a Pot Peter George Create, imagine, discern, and describe, if you can, A pedal bike left abandoned, An ambulance sounding the alarm, a helicopter taking off.

Stay with the surgeon for as long as you like.

Consider the world of touch and trust and definition.

And stay with the surgeon's definition of my skull, An object to be mended and allowed to keep the brains, The smelling and blinking in conscious endeavour, Before the mass descends into sleep that overcomes the mind.

We must look at my cactus, but not just yet.

The surgeon has delivered me from the problem with my brain, The impact on my skull.

And with our help and dedication and working knowledge Touch and trust and definition will improve the world, Our creating, imagining, discerning, and describing, you and I, The world in a nut of asphyxiation, The world gigantic in a lie, an illusion, and overcome with fire, A problem for the mind that rides the bony cast.

Get me out of bed.

Tell me how the coma lasted for so long.

A cactus or a carrot may appear upon the ward, Croaking like a bullfrog or screaming like a cat.

Touch my cactus if you dare.

Well we may distinguish, Jack and Jill, Between carnage and the sweetest touch, The cactus beating bloodily with the strangest heart of God.

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Fallen Ed Blundell Bleak tears she wept for happy days She’d watched him playing, tousle haired, Her little soldier, in the tree, Bravely slaying the enemy, Charges across the summer lawn, Winning the day in time for tea.

Remembering how proud her heart When watching him depart that day, Quick marching through the crowded town, Bound for adventure far away.

Now she sees with solemn, sad steps, Dress uniforms and polished boots, The guard of honour bear him down, Brought home, back from a foreign land.

Candles burning, black cortege cars, Flowers thrown from a silent crowd.

Still proud of him but wondering why It had to be her boy to die.

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Home Melissa Timmins The light creeped through the crack in the curtains, casting a thin beam across the room. Sylvia could feel the summer heat radiating through. The patch of carpet beneath the window felt warm where it had bathed in the sun. Sylvia didn’t mind; it reminded her of the beach, walking on the hot sand, her feet sinking through the grains. She pulled open the curtains, draping each one carefully before stepping back for a clearer view, adjusting each accordingly for the sake of symmetry. Martin always laughed at her precision. Sometimes he would deliberately pull one further over than the other, just to see if she would notice.

‘Oh, you!’ she would say when she inevitably did. ‘What are you like?’

She couldn’t be annoyed with Martin though. She would try, but before long a smile would appear and Martin would chuckle.

‘I’m sorry, I must have been distracted by your beauty, my dear,’ he would reply, wrapping his arms around Sylvia with the wide grin she couldn’t resist. Not that she would want to.

Sylvia sat down at her dresser and picked up a small bottle of perfume. L’Aimant.

Martin knew it was her favourite. She sprayed it on her left wrist and then carefully rubbed it on the other in a delicate circular motion. She brought her hand up to her face and smiled as the familiar flowery aroma reached her nose; the scent diffusing through the air, slowly swirling its way around the room. She put the bottle down and glanced at a photograph just behind. Sylvia pulled it forwards, smiling lovingly back at her little family. She and Martin sat on a red and white checked blanket in the centre of the garden, with their three beaming children laughing and playing nearby.

Suzie was their eldest. She was tall and blonde, just like her mother when she was a girl.

Suzie had always been clever, with an unwavering determination. By the time she was seven, she had decided she would be a doctor, wrapping bandages around her teddy bear’s limbs and mending their invisible ailments. Other people were surprised by the medical terminology she used with confidence from such a young age, but not Sylvia.

‘Once I’ve graduated from medical school, I’ll be doing that,’ Suzie would proudly state, watching every hospital drama she could. ‘One day, I’ll be a consultant,’ she continued, the image imprinted in her mind. Sylvia never doubted that she would be.

Darren was next. There were two years between him and Suzie, but you wouldn’t have known it looking at the two of them together. He could easily convince a stranger he was older than he was, and he wouldn’t say anything to deter from that assumption either. He was mischievous, like his father. Even in the photograph, the similarities between the two of them were uncanny. Darren had the same thick brown hair and a grin identical to Martin’s, which of course meant that he could get away with anything too.

‘This is your fault; he’s got your cheek,’ Sylvia would comment to her husband after asking their son for the umpteenth time not to climb the trees.

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‘Cheek? I think you mean charm, dear,’ he would reply with the smirk that was his guaranteed ‘get out of jail free card’.

He was right though. Everyone loved Darren, despite the mischief he attracted. Even his teachers spoke well of him.

‘He likes to play the joker when he should be working, but he’s a nice boy – kind and always helpful. He’s the first with his hand up when I ask for volunteers to hand out the books,’ Miss Taylor told them at parent’s evening. Sylvia was always proud of him, but she came away from that meeting beaming; eager to squeeze him tight in her arms, regardless of his objections that he was ‘too old for that.’

Sarah stood giggling beside Darren in the photograph as he pulled a funny face. Her once neat pony tail had become loose from wearing her bicycle helmet, and she was sporting what looked like a yogurt stain on her, then favourite, pink t-shirt. She was their baby, and Sylvia would have been happy to keep her that way. She recalled the first day she left Sarah at school, sobbing to Martin that ‘she looked far too small to go full-time already.’

‘She’ll be fine!’ he soothed. ‘She’ll have a great time; she’ll come away saying she can’t wait to go back, just like the other two.’

She reluctantly had to admit he was right. Sarah was shy but made friends easily. She was the type of child that other parents would praise in conversation on the playground.

‘Your Sarah is lovely, such a polite little girl. Not like mine,’ one of the other mums would say, gesturing her head in the direction of two siblings arguing a metre or so away.

‘Mine never stop!’

The final member of the family lay sprawled on the grass, basking in the sunshine. Toby was a chocolate Labrador with big brown eyes and paws like paper weights. They adopted him from a local shelter as a pup. He grew up with the kids. Sarah followed him everywhere, but he never minded. He was as soft and sweet as marshmallows. He adored her as much as she adored him.

Sylvia gently pushed the photograph back in place on the dresser, and picked up another few without frames, from a neat pile. She flicked through them, chuckling, replaying the moments in her mind like old movie scenes. Darren holding up a school football trophy; Suzie and Sarah on the dancefloor in the family boathouse on holiday; Martin posing beside an old Rolls Royce with a similar expression to that of a child on Christmas Day, finding the toy they had described in a letter to Father Christmas weeks before.

Sylvia paused on a picture of herself, sitting at a table with an unconvincing smile. A baby Darren sat on her lap. She stared into her own emerald eyes; empty and hurt despite the smiles around her. It was taken during a difficult spell. Martin was working, as he always was at that time. He had just been promoted. ‘It will be better for us all,’ he promised. ‘We’ll have more money coming in; we can book that holiday abroad we’ve talked about for who knows how long.’

It was true, money wasn’t an issue. That summer, they visited Barcelona for the first time and bought a new car. They started looking at bigger houses in the neighbouring town.

‘The schools are great, and there’s so much green! Not like here – concrete everywhere you look,’ he had said, browsing the real estate in the local newspaper. ‘This could be great for us.’

It wasn’t. They didn’t move in the end. They had more money but hardly saw one another. Sylvia felt lonely and overwhelmed. She tried to carry on, but each day demanded

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more energy than she could muster. When Martin was at home, they hardly spoke, like two acquaintances living in a shared house.

‘What’s the point of all this if we aren’t happy? It’s no good doing it all for our family if we’re not actually a family anymore,’ Sylvia finally cried.

Martin quit eventually. As much as he hated to admit it, the long, greedy hours had taken their toll on him as well. He changed career paths altogether; used some of their savings to escape the office and retrain as a teacher. Things got better. Never perfect; there were always struggles, but for the most part, they were happy.

Sylvia opened the dresser drawer to drop the photograph inside, out the way, but spotted another tucked away in the corner. She pulled it out. It looked much more recent than the others; the paper had a glossier shine. Sylvia stared suspiciously at a woman with shoulder length brown hair, dressed in dark jeans and a pale blue blouse. Her fingers were interlocked around a child on her knee. Sylvia could see a wedding band on her left ring finger.

‘Well I don’t know who that is. Who has put that in there?’ Sylvia asked aloud, shaking her head. ‘Well it obviously doesn’t belong here. I’ll have to ask Martin; maybe he’ll know. He’ll be back with Toby anytime now,’ she mumbled, standing up slowly and pushing the stall back underneath the dresser, leaving the photograph on top.

She picked up a pair of slippers on the floor a few feet away and carried them around to a chair at the side of the bed. She put them down and lifted a grey cardigan draped over the seat.

‘I don’t recognise this one. What’s it doing there?’

Sylvia examined the empty pockets and the pearlescent buttons, testing each between her finger and her thumb. A couple were loose.

‘It must be Suzie’s school cardy,’ she replied in response to her own question, putting her hand to her forehead self-deprecatingly. ‘I bet she hasn’t realised she’s left it here! I better resew those buttons for her before they come off altogether. She’s always twiddling them, she is.’

Sylvia draped the cardigan back over the chair and placed her hands on her hips. She twisted around, scanning the shelves on the far wall, shaking her head.

‘Where did I leave that sewing kit?’ she whispered, returning to the bedside unit and opening the drawers one by one. She went through them all, then frantically started over.

‘Where is it? It’s always here! Someone’s taken it!’

Sylvia moved from the unit, leaving the drawers open and their contents precariously placed on the floor. She stepped over an unread book and an empty reading glasses case and made her way to the door.

‘The kitchen – of course! I had to sew up that hole in Darren’s coat last week. That’s where it will be…what am I like?’ She announced, her volume increasing.

Sylvia left the room, now a little out of breath. She rubbed her chest with her palm and held on to the wall for support as she started down the corridor. Muffled chatter echoed through the empty space.

‘The children must be home. They’ll be wanting their tea, no doubt…’

She walked tentatively alongside the magnolia walls, adorned with framed art prints of floral scenes and sea-side views. Sylvia didn’t notice them. The knot in her chest pulled tighter, but her eyes remained fixated on the kitchen door a few feet away. A female voice became

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clearer. Sylvia stopped.

‘That doesn’t sound like my Suzie or my Sarah…’

She edged near enough to peer around the door. Two women stood at the sink, one with a tea towel in hand.

‘Who are you? What are you doing in my kitchen?’ Sylvia exclaimed, clutching her chest.

‘Good morning, Sylvia. It’s okay,’ one of the women began calmly, placing the tea towel down on the worktop.

‘No… no, it’s not okay! What are you doing here? How did you get in? This is my home!’ Sylvia shouted, her brow tightening and her hand trembling.

She edged into the kitchen, holding onto the worktop behind her for support, watching their every move.

‘Sylvia, we’re not intruders. Do you know where you are?’ The second woman asked gently, occasionally glancing up at a red button on the wall in the corner.

‘My husband will be home any minute, I warn you!’

‘No Sylvia, we’re – ’ ‘I mean it! I don’t know what you are doing here…but…’ Sylvia shouted over the women. She winced, clutching her chest tighter.

‘Sylvia, please, it’s okay…we’re a bit concerned about your angina though…’ the first woman tried, this time moving forward with an arm outstretched.

‘No! Don’t you touch me! I’m fine, you don’t know what you’re talking about…This is MY HOME!’ Sylvia shouted, hitting the worktop with her free hand.

The women fell silent as Sylvia broke down in tears. The nearest stepped forward again, wanting to put her arm around her, though knowing better than to embrace her just yet.

‘It’s okay, Sylvia. You’re okay. It’s me, Jane. Do you remember? And this is Lucy. Do you remember her? You always say she makes your tea just how you like it,’ Jane asked with a reassuring smile, turning to point to the woman behind her.

‘One sugar, lots of milk, but the tea bag has to be left for at least two and half minutes,’ Lucy added, careful not to move too suddenly.

‘But…I don’t understand. Where’s Martin? I want Martin!’ Sylvia searched the room, her eyes darting between the two faces in front of her, neither of which she recognised.

A dark-haired man wearing a tabard, similar to that of Jane and Lucy’s, appeared just outside the kitchen. He signalled to Lucy that he would call a doctor. She nodded as Sylvia wiped her eyes with her dressing gown sleeve.

‘How about Lucy makes you a nice cuppa and we let the doctor check all is okay. How about that? Does that sound okay, my love?’ Jane soothed, finally able to place her arm around her shoulder.

Sylvia stared into Jane’s eyes, like a frightened child who had lost sight of their parents in a busy crowd. She took Jane’s free hand, her thin fingers still trembling. Sylvia placed her teacup down on the table beside her favourite armchair in the day room. The Sound of Music filled the large communal space.

The other residents watched, transfixed as Julie Andrews began to sing. Sylvia tapped her foot to the music, gazing out the window at the daffodils coming into bloom.

‘You okay, Sylvia? How was the tea?’ Lucy asked, crouching down beside the chair.

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‘Oh, I’m fine, thank you, Lucy dear. The tea was perfect; just how I like it.’

‘Oh good! Tell you what; how about I make you another cuppa before I head off?’

‘Please. Thank you, dear,’ Sylvia replied with a smile before turning back to the window.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ Lucy remarked, following Sylvia’s gaze to the daffodils outside.

‘My mum’s favourite!’

‘Mine too. Martin liked to surprise me with them. Always did, right up until he passed.

A real charmer, was my Martin. He used to come in with them behind his back. “For you, my dear,” he would say, and then twirl me around the kitchen. I would say, “What are you like?

I’ve not got time for dancing now.” Then he would come back with, “Well I can’t help it; I’ve missed you, my dear.”

Sylvia looked down at her wedding ring. She twisted it round, watching as the light bounced off the gold band. ‘How I would love to dance with my Martin again.’

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Fourteen Niall McGrath

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When I was fourteen my father showed me a neat trick: scatter cinders and ashes from the hearth on the path to the dog’s pen and in the dog’s pen, so in wintertime it won’t be so mucky.

When he was fourteen in Jerusalem Tom Hurwitz was in the control room as his father directed tv coverage of Eichmann’s trial: Yehuda Bacon recounting how he’d been made to scatter the cinders and ashes from the furnaces on the path to the gas chambers to stop them being slippy in winter, the path he watched his father take in Auschwitz, when he was fourteen.

Eichmann’s ashes were scattered in the Mediterranean fourteen hours after his execution.

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Plastic Breath Alfredo Salvatore Arcilesi After seven days of intolerable confinement, Izzy decided that this foggy afternoon was the right time to free herself. And, if she could manage, Clara.

She had been testing her crippled body since the morning darkness, inundating her extremities with signals to flex, and, with any hard-earned luck, move. Her weak arms appeared up to the task; she guessed her weight to be just shy of one-hundred pounds. Her legs, however, remained stubborn, anchoring her to the bed. For all the training she had subscribed to these counterparts, none was more rigorous, more vital than her breathing regimen.

Izzy’s relationship with oxygen had always been of a toxic nature. A university athlete who had relied upon her immaculate lungs for victory, it had been an unreliable ankle that decided ten metres from an important finish line was the time to snap, end her career, sink her into the depths of depression, and enrol her in a new, lifelong sport: smoking. Three packs a day, four when she was feeling particularly good (or bad), for fifty years.

And now the ghosts of cigarettes past were preventing her, in spite of her cooperative arms, from liberating herself, and, more importantly, Clara.

Izzy exhaled a laboured breath, painfully inhaled another. She should have been accustomed to it by now, but the air filtering throughout her sanctuary still tasted as artificial as it smelled. She felt the rather stale intake race through her mouth and nostrils, hoping to reach the pair of black bags that kept her going for no real purpose.

Save for Clara.

The clean dose of oxygen reached her ashen lungs, then exited her mouth and nose in another laboured exhalation. Izzy imagined the polluted molecules warning the new wave of respiration about what corruption lay within her.

She looked to her right, locked eyes with the never-blinking Clara, and, with a look that said ‘Don’t you dare move now’—she couldn’t risk precious breaths on her roommate’s deaf ears—began the arduous journey.

Izzy watched as she willed her right arm across the centimetres that felt like kilometres of bed. The feeble limb made pitiful progress before stopping entirely so she may regain what energy she could.

A surge of anger propelled her arm against the plastic sheet dividing her and Clara. Her hand slid down the thick material until it landed in the crevice between the sheet and edge of the bed. Using this newfound leverage, Izzy began pulling her weight with her right arm, while pushing against the mattress with her left. The juicy idea of giving up had crossed her mind, just as it had when her former severely fit self, besieged by physical and psychological cramps, had desired to slow her run to a crawl at the three-thousand-metre mark. Her conditioned lungs had burned then. Now they were volcanic.

But the agony and certain death would be worth it. Not only for herself, but Clara, who

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had never felt a pang in her endless life.

Izzy now found herself at a ninety-degree angle: the top half of her body sprawled laterally across the bed; the bottom half remained affixed to where it had been since she embarked upon this suicide mission of sorts. After a quick mental team huddle with her barelyworking parts, she used her right hand to push against the plastic sheet. The damn thing was like a wall of concrete. Her reluctant body threatened to pull the plug on the whole operation, but a little bit of that wholesome anger, and a lot of thinking about what would happen to Clara if she failed, helped free the bottom of the plastic sheet from between the mattresses. Izzy exhaled so deeply, the fog outside of her only window found its way to her eyes.

One breath.

Her vision slowly...

Two breaths. ...slowly...

Three breaths. ...returned.

She felt her old nemesis oxygen assisting her rushing blood to restore her vision. But she knew better; death had brushed past her.

Move it, she urged herself.

Izzy hadn’t intended to escape by falling on her head, but as she shimmied herself closer...closer…closer, then over...over...over the edge of the bed, it seemed the only way. Her head free of the plastic sheet, the faint aroma of cooking bombarded her olfactory. She couldn’t help but sacrifice a valuable breath to take in the recipe she had shared with her daughter long ago. You’re using too much garlic powder, she thought, the seasoning burning her sinuses. But that was Isabelle: too much or too little of everything.

Her shoulders hanging over the edge of the bed, thinned blood rushing to her head, Izzy wondered—not for the first time—what Isabelle would think when the time came to trudge upstairs, check on her dying mother, and find her however she ended up. Hopefully, with Clara in my arms, she thought.

She wondered if her daughter would even care.

The pair of Izzys had lived a life of few kisses and plenty of bites. Izzy had made the cliche attempts to live via her namesake (Isabelle’s ankles were still intact, after all). Her daughter had indeed run; not on the track, but away from home, turning the typical one-off act of rebellion into a quarterly sport. When she was home, Isabelle would blame Izzy for all of her life’s unwanted biographic details: the casting out of her father, the selfish act of naming her after herself (never mind the tradition), the reason for her isolating unattractiveness, the asthma and other varieties of respiratory ailments courtesy of her chain-smoking. That her only child had decided to punish her by never marrying, never having children, was not lost on Izzy. Still, when Izzy had become too ill to breathe on her own, it was Isabelle who rushed her to the hospital; and it was Isabelle who brought her home, tucked her into bed, and made sure the oxygen tent kept her alive.

But after seven days of intolerable confinement, seven days of embarrassing baths and changes, seven days of no words exchanged save for begrudged greetings and farewells, Izzy had decided that this foggy afternoon was the right time to free herself. And, if she could manage, Clara.

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Beloved Clara.

She could no longer see her only friend, but knew she was right where she had left her.

I’m coming, she thought, hoping the suffocating air out here wouldn’t render her a liar.

Like in the old days, when slower competitors somehow cruised past her, good oldfashioned anger fuelled her cause, and she writhed her dangling body further over the edge of the bed like a fish out of water. A fish that wants out of her damn bowl! she goaded herself, and grew angrier at her handicap. The fingertips on her right hand touched something cold, hard.

It took her a moment to realize she had touched the floor. Her left hand, still pushing against the bunched-up comforter, worked alone to send her over the rest of the way.

In the space of seconds, Izzy saw the ceiling, then her abdomen, then her legs, the latter two crashing down on her. Within the same seconds, she had felt emptiness beneath her, then the same cold, hard floor forcing itself into her neck and spine. Precious breaths were knocked out of her, and the fog returned, this time most certainly accompanied by death.

It took her a few moments to realize that death smelled an awful lot like garlic. A few more moments, and Izzy understood she hadn’t died...and that her daughter wouldn’t have heard a thing if she had. She remained alone. On the floor. Alive. For now.

Alive enough to save Clara.

Slowly, surely, Izzy wriggled away from the bed until her dumb legs hit the floor. Still, her daughter remained downstairs, oblivious, or willfully so. But in case obliviousness turned to awareness, Izzy needed to move as quickly as her lame body would allow at this late stage in the race. Last one-hundred metres, she implored.

Since sitting herself up was impossible, she needed to figure out how to get Clara to come down to her level. Could’ve just grabbed her, and brought her into the tent, she scolded herself, save yourself this stupidity. But she knew it wouldn’t have been fair to Clara, to have her lifelong companion go from breathing one brand of plastic air to another. No. She wanted Clara’s first breath to be one-hundred-percent, certifiable oxygen... even if it was tinged with garlic.

Izzy flexed the fingers on her left hand, expecting to feel a break, akin to that long-ago ankle, that would prevent her from crossing this finish line. Everything felt in working order.

Hand shaped like a spider, the fingers crawled along the floor until they found the nightstand’s feet. They climbed past the bottom drawer, then the middle, then She stopped, having reached as high as she could go. She looked at the progress her hand had made, and was angered and disappointed to see the tips of her fingers so close to the top. So close to Clara.

No longer able to uphold itself, her arm fell to the floor for her daughter not to hear.

Her shallow, disparate breathing became shallower, more disparate. The retinal fog grew thicker. And she was certain the last time she would see Clara was in the memories she had very limited time to relive:

Sneaking into her late mother’s bedroom—this very same bedroom—to sneak a peek at Clara, high on her shelf.

Receiving Clara on the eve of her mother’s passing—in this very same bedroom—on the condition that she pass Clara on to her daughter, should she have one, when her own end was near.

Asking Isabelle to take Clara off the shelf, and sit her on the nightstand; the plan to

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release Clara had been confirmed, all the more so by her daughter’s routine sneer and remark: ‘Ugly thing.’ Even had Isabelle loved Clara as much as she had, Izzy felt it her duty to finally free her.

Come on, you useless cigarette-holder. Last fifty metres.

Her nicotine-stained spider-hand rediscovered the nightstand’s feet, and, once more, began its ascent.

Past the bottom drawer.

Forty metres.

Past the middle drawer.

Thirty metres.

Past the bottom of the top drawer.

Twenty metres.

Finding the top drawer’s knob...

Ten metres.

...where it hung...

Come on.

...unwilling to move.

COME ON!

Her hand sprang back, the drawer with it.

Sliding.

Sliding.

Sliding.

Until the heavy piece abruptly stopped, having reached its limit. The nightstand leaned slightly forward, and Izzy glimpsed her legacy as the dead meat filling of a floor-and-nightstand sandwich. But the nightstand had other plans; before it settled back into place, it made sure to shake free the tall, glossy box.

The impact was painful, a sharp corner hitting her perfectly in the eye, but nothing compared to the torture her lungs were putting her through. Instead of fog, there was rain.

Izzy blinked the burning tears away, bringing not the nightstand into focus, but a face.

And what a beautiful face it was. Skin made of meringue. A faint smile on pink lips barely formed. Rosy cheeks forever pinched into dimples. Black eyebrows arching over a pair of unblinking bejewelled eyes. Had they seen Izzy? All the Izzy’s? From Grandma Izzy to this sorry-excuse-for-an-Izzy?

They stared at each other for some time, Izzy refusing to blink, like her little friend, lest she slip into death during one of those slivers of blackness. The smell of garlic was fading. She couldn’t tell if her daughter was altering the recipe in some way, or if her senses were gradually shutting down.

Last ten metres, she thought. Perhaps her final thought.

Izzy used the left hand that made this final reunion possible to locate the pristine cardboard flap above Clara’s head. Not with anger, but love, Izzy tore open the lid that had sealed the doll in her prison for three generations, and watched as Clara took in her first-ever breath of fresh air.

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I’m Not The Moon But Maybe I Will Be Aviva Satz-Kojis

What you say, you believe, and what you believe, you become.

I am ready for this change.

I will say it again, louder this time.

I am ready for this change.

I think I am. Maybe I am.

But when I tell you maybe it means no.

When I tell you goodbyes are easy, it means it hurts to remember, so I’d rather not.

Please don’t say you love me.

You either don’t or you shouldn’t.

Or maybe you do.

Sometimes maybe is as good an answer as any. and sometimes when the world is too fleeting I open my window and invite the moon in.

She’s always there. Constant.

Every night the moon comes back for me.

She tells me that it’s not the end, it never has been.

And I tell her goodnight.

But even she, strong and beautiful, is forced to change. To wax and wane.

I too am waxing and waning.

The difference is, she is not scared of change.

I am scared of this one and I’ll be scared of the next, and maybe someday I’ll stop being scared, and maybe this time maybe means yes.

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The Author and his Characters James Bell 'Pleased to meet you at last. My name is Otto von Smit.'

This tall, grey-haired man sits down beside me and holds out a hand to be shaken. We shake. His words have a precise pronunciation. English is clearly not his mother tongue; the slight accent is probably German.

'You said meet you at last. What does that mean?' I ask.

'It is correct to say?' he asks.

'Yes, though it sounds like you have wanted to meet me for a long time.'

'This is so. You are The Author,' says Otto with emphasis on the last two words.

'Yes, that’s right. Please call me James though.'

I want to put Otto at his ease but succeed only in making him look shocked. He has a slim cardboard folder he lays on the table for a moment.

He goes on: 'I have a short questionnaire for you. Perhaps I will catch up with you later.'

Then, just as quickly as he has sat down he rises, lifts his folder and leaves.

We are in a conference centre in one of what seems its larger rooms, part stepped and curved like a lecture theatre or place for Classical Greek and Roman drama to be performed.

I am unclear why I should be here. I am booked into an airport hotel after my plane lands and I clear customs, here for a lecture tour, business and pleasure. The conference centre is empty apart from me now Otto has abruptly gone goodness knows where.

A PowerPoint presentation is already set up, a first slide projected on a huge screen.

It says The Author and his Characters. Apparently it is me who will be giving the talk. This is unprecedented; I’ve never done anything like this before.

As there is nobody else around I decide to leave this conference come lecture theatre.

I’ve clearly arrived early and no doubt will need to come back at some point to give my lecture.

As I push one half of the swing door somebody pushes from the other side on the other half.

We meet in the middle, neither in nor out of the door.

'Oh! Hello! It’s you,' says the woman, mid-thirties, long dark hair, a little on the plump side and very pretty. 'I’m Lauren Delahain. I really hope I can become one of your characters.'

'One of my characters?'

'Yes. Do you think I’ll make it into a story?'

'Well, you already have as far as I can see.'

She looked delighted at my words.

'I was just going out for a coffee and a bit of a walk around. Would you care to join me?'

'Yes, that would be lovely. We could discuss ideas on how the story should progress.'

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We exit onto the enormous concourse outside. Above is a huge atrium that reaches so far into the sky it could be the sky itself. I am sure I can see small clouds. We can look down too at lower levels, equally distant, where people, ant like, mill about. It is relatively quiet where Lauren Delahain and I stand and wonder what to do next.

'There’s a nice little place just over here,' says Lauren, directing us to the left with a wide sweep of her hand.

She guides me to the place. It’s a pastiche of a traditional French café, with a waiter who wears a white apron and has a tray under one arm and a napkin draped over the other, ready to be of service. The tables and chairs outside are all free so we sit at one.

The waiter sails across. 'Bonjour, M’sieur dame. Qu’ce que vous voulez?'

'Deux café, s’il vous plait,' says Lauren without hesitation.

The waiter sails off again satisfied.

'Gosh, I’ve never done that before,' says Lauren.

'What, ordered coffee?'

'No. I’ve never ordered it in French before. I don’t speak French. It must be part of my new character. Thank you James.' Then she gives me French kind of pecks on both cheeks. 'I’ve always wanted to live in France. Such a romantic country!'

The waiter appears tray elevated on his left upturned palm. It has two small cups on saucers, sachets of sugar and small wrapped biscuits on each saucer. It is swung around with style. He sways on the approach to the table and fusses on arrival.

'How will it end?' she asks.

'I truly couldn’t say,' I reply quite honestly. After all it is her who wants to be a character in a new story.

'I hope it has a happy ending,' says Lauren. She unwraps her small biscuit and puts it in her mouth. I hear the munching. She smiles a sycophantic smile of adoration.

'Oh! It’s actually you.' The voice comes from behind me. It’s male. The owner comes into view and sits down. Another sycophantic smile. I begin to feel I suffer from double vision.

'Sorry to butt into your little tête a tête. I just had to stop and say how much I enjoy your work. My name’s Julian Goodnight.'

'And so it should be. This lady is Lauren Delahain. She’s become a character in a story I’m about to write.'

'Gosh! How marvellous!'

'It’s set in France,' says Lauren.

'Wonderful!' says Julian, clearly a man who enjoys superlatives. 'Where about in France?'

'Summertime in Brittany with its pleasant maritime climate,' I say, beginning to like this exchange and wondering if I should order wine or something stronger as an aperitif. The others are all happy to have a Kir each to get deeper into the story.

'I suppose I’m in the story now,' says Julian.

'I guess you are,' I hear myself say.

'You are both my lovers and this is showdown time,' Lauren says as I sip my Kir. 'Tell us more, Lauren,' I say.

'We’ve all been having torrid sex for years and I am worn out physically and emotionally. I must make a choice.'

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'Is it wise to start at such a climactic point?' asks Julian, without irony. 'I mean all we could do now is start to chuck tables around and punch each other.'

'And slap me and I like it. Takes us into Fifty Shades territory, doesn’t it?' adds Lauren.

'I’m sorry, as the Author, I’ll have to veto the story going off in that direction,' I say.

'Oh, that’s disappointing,' says Lauren, 'you’ve done sex and violence so successfully in the past. I mean, the story’s set in France so we could include a crime of passion. I’d have to kill one of you of course.'

'Well I’m the Author,' I say, just a tad indignant at the direction this is taking. 'Do you really want to kill off the Author?'

Lauren really did stop and think for a moment and became quite thoughtful. 'Conan Doyle got rid of Sherlock Holmes and brought him back to life again.'

'By public demand,' I say, now worried about what comes next.

'Yeah, of course. We’re all in a story now so it would be easy to bring you back to life.'

Lauren says this as she draws a small golden revolver from a coat pocket.

'Though you do need the Author to write this into the story,' I say congratulating myself on some nimble thinking.

'True, true,' she says reflectively.

The waiter has retreated inside the door of the café. Julian is frozen to the spot mouth open as if catching flies.

'Perhaps we should get back to the conference centre,' he says, otherwise still frozen.

'It’s just about time for your lecture.'

Lauren, I think reluctantly, puts away the revolver to a general sigh of relief. This included the general ambience, for she could after all have plugged a hole in the atrium glass, if her short range weapon’s bullet could reach that far. Luckily the vast concourse is empty, any people too far away to notice this small incident. The waiter has reappeared.

As we enter the lecture theatre I see that it is pretty full. Julian and Lauren are allowed in as they look like my entourage. Otto is at the front holding his folder. He leaps from his seat and shakes my hand warmly, a true fan. The audience are impressed as he says a few inaudible words as loud applause starts up. Otto sits back down again, satisfied, face beaming. The applause continues as I mount the podium.

Must be a professional outfit, the microphone is on and adjusted to my stance, water in a jug with a glass upended over it like a lid.

'Good afternoon to you all. It is my great pleasure to be with you this afternoon...' First rule of public speaking, get them used to your voice hence this and several more platitudes are made.

Then I begin properly: 'Most writers would agree that at some time their characters will take over the story and take it down unexpectedly and unintended pathways. This must be expected and is in the very nature of storytelling. Words, sentence structure are all part of the work that you do. Remember, I say work, because that is what it is, like a builder builds a house to an architect’s design. The analogy here breaks down a little if the builder allows his workers to make their own variations on the design or different materials are used other than those specified. At some stage the house could fall down and have to be began again. A writer should allow some flexibility in the way a builder truly cannot without consultation. He/she is pretty much on his/her own the majority of the time, often with a deadline to meet while it is

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necessary to give your all.

'Of course the variations made on building a house could result in a fine piece of art such as when master builders oversaw a single project, much like an author and a story. The secret for an author is to still maintain control of their characters while allowing some latitude.

However, if an author fears being overpowered by characters it is beter to say goodbye to. So, I say goodbye now to Otto Von Smit. He was sitting at the front corner seat, but as you can see he is now gone. Lauren Delahain, the woman with a gun, was sitting somewhere in the middle here and has gone, as has young Julian Goodnight, a pleasant sort of chap but I couldn’t see how he would develop as a character. He was sitting here in the front row.

'None were beginning to gel as characters and any story they could be in could not develop, therefore it was necessary to let them go.'

With a few more summing up words I will then finish. I still think it’s a good idea, an original idea to basically to give the talk as if it is a story where I meet some characters who really do enter the hall with me. I just need to get three actors to play the parts and slip out quietly as I speak and before I reach that point, the empty seats evidence that they had really been there.

Here at my desk it all seems like it could be a lot of fun. The next step is to convince the organisers and have some more people involved; there’d have to be time built in for at least a couple of rehearsals.

As always when I am deep in thought at my desk I swivel about in my operator’s chair and chew the end of a pen or a pencil. I happen to look out the French windows and see a woman standing on the street just beyond the garden. She is looking directly at me. She looks like how I had imagined Lauren Delahain. From the left I see a grey haired man draw up beside this woman. He is holding a folder of papers that he begins to wave in my direction, looking a little anxious, as if he really wants to speak with me. Then a younger man comes in from the right looking a bit lost. He looks towards the French windows and clearly sees me. He looks for all the world like Julian Goodnight and the older man the spitting image of Otto Von Smit. Together they climb over my small hedge that borders the road. Lauren draws her small golden revolver from her coat pocket. Otto looks angry as he waves his papers. Julian advances with a strange rictus of a smile. I find these developments deeply disturbing.

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Immigration Yuan Changming

To escape from the tyrannical logic Of your mother tongue You wandered, wandering Through earth’s length and breadth Subjecting your old self to another syntax A whole set of grammatical rules Strangely new to your lips and tips To expand the map of your mind Far beyond your home and haven Yet in the meantime it becomes colonized By all the puzzling paradoxes Of this chosen language, for example: Quicksand can be very slow Boxing rings are in fact square And a guinea pig is neither a pig Nor is it from Guinea Like you or me

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The Stories Rosie Gilligan Of all The Stories, Jana liked Emmerdale Farm best. When she was little she was fascinated by its blues skies, shifting clouds and endless vistas of fields, hedges and trees. Sam, her father, told her the names of the animals, explaining how they ate the grass that grew in the fields, and were eventually killed for food.

‘What does it say on the screen, Jana?’ Sam taught her to read, using the words at the beginning and the end of The Stories. In time shapes became letters she recognised, then words, and soon she forgot there was a time when she didn’t understand them.

‘What’s the white stuff falling on the ground, Sam?’ she asked him one day. She was about six years old and watching the flakes swirl around Jack and Pat Sugden as they stood in the farmyard, arguing about something.

‘It’s snow,’ he said. ‘If it’s cold on Earth the rain turns to snow and people make snowmen. They roll it into balls and dress them in clothes.’

‘Why do they do that?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’ For the hundredth time he added he wished they hadn’t had to leave everything behind, even the data libraries, when the colony left Cygnus. He had nothing to use for teaching his daughter, except what he could remember from his own schooling, plus The Stories.

As Jana got older she became fascinated by the people in Emmerdale Farm. They were a close community but they often fell out and could be nasty to one another. ‘Can’t you see what’s happening?’ she’d shout at the screen, noticing the betrayals, deceptions and lies. Why could she see it all, but not they?

Emmerdale Farm was Jana’s second family, and she thought it more interesting than her own. On Prospect II the community couldn’t afford to be cruel to one another; they had to work together to survive. Life was too hard, too precarious for that.

‘Sam,’ she said one day, when she was about twelve years old and an Emmerdale Farm Story was ending, ‘when we get to Earth, I want to meet the people there and live on that farm.’

Sam waved his hand to freeze the screen. ‘I’m sorry, but those people must have died over three hundred years ago, Jana.’

She felt a lump in her throat. ‘But they are my friends. How do you know?’

‘Look at the letters on the screen. See what it says.’

‘MCMLXXXVIII,’ Jana read. She gave her father a puzzled look.

‘That’s the year it happened: 1988. It’s in Roman numerals. I’ll teach you to read them.’

Jana was the youngest person on Prospect II. She was two years old when the thirty-strong community had scrambled on board from the shuttle, following the earthquake that had

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destroyed the settlement. Their hasty departure from Cygnus had descended into chaos and not everyone made it on board. Her mother, Faith, found herself on the wrong side of the airlock, leaving Sam, the ship’s Deputy Commander, to raise their daughter alone.

The nearest person in age to Jana was Dylan, five years her senior. The only children on board, they got on reasonably well. Dylan’s favourite Stories were called Porridge, but no-one could explain the title. Jana tolerated Porridge; with only one screen in the social area, Story Time had to be shared fairly.

More than on Emmerdale Farm, Porridge presented Jana with situations and settings she didn’t understand. ‘Where are Norman Stanley Fletcher and Lennie Godber, and what are they doing in that place?’ Jana asked Sam.

‘I think they’ve done something people don’t like, so they have to go and live in a place called a prison,’ he said.

‘But what have they done?’

‘I don’t know but just like here, there are rules. When we get to Earth I suppose we’ll have to learn what we should and shouldn’t do.’

Prison seemed palatial, compared to the living spaces on Prospect II. How Jana wished she had a room she shared with only one other person. Eight slept in her dorm, stacked above one another in a tall column, with her bunk somewhere in the middle.

‘Who are those people – the ones laughing?’ she asked Dylan one day as they sat sideby-side watching Porridge.

He shrugged, not taking his eyes from the screen. ‘Dunno, can’t see them but they seem to be there,’ he said.

‘What are they laughing about?’

‘Something funny has happened, I suppose.’ He frowned irritably at her interruption.

The laughing people, as Jana called them, provided a puzzling addition to many of The Stories. Few in her community joined in with the laughter, except when someone fell over, broke something or got liquid or some other mess spilled over their clothes. She mentioned this to her father.

Sam wasn’t sure about the laughing people either. ‘Our ancestors who travelled to Cygnus must have taken The Stories with them because they reminded them of home. They left them on the ship when they got into the shuttle, and three hundred years later we watch them, though I don’t think we really understand them.’

‘This was made in 1974,’ Jana said to Dylan one day as another Porridge ended.

He turned to her. ‘How d’you know?’

She explained about Roman numerals. Dylan was impressed but wasn’t sufficiently interested to let her teach him how to read them.

Jana continued to watch Emmerdale Farm. One day, without warning, it turned into Emmerdale and became a village. She missed the Farm. There were fewer outdoor scenes of fields and animals, of big skies and wind moving the trees and clouds. The people wore smarter clothes and moved house and partners more frequently. They schemed more and were sometimes downright wicked. Kim, a pretty young girl, appeared one day as Frank Tate’s secretary. Kim had an affair with Frank, married him, and later married his son, Chris, in the

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end revealing herself to be a less than nice person. Jana was disappointed with Kim but felt compelled to watch to find out what happened next.

In all, Emmerdale was becoming increasingly complicated. There was intrigue, murder and terrible disasters – fires, bombs, car crashes, even a plane crash.

As if life mirrored The Stories, Prospect II experienced its own dramas. It passed through an asteroid belt and the daily routine of monitoring the ship’s outer skin failed to protect it from particles of rock that ripped through the shell. One of the cultivation zones was destroyed, killing five people working inside. For weeks the ship was in danger, the community crammed into one tiny module whilst the Petra, the Commander, and Sam fought to re-stabilise it and organise repairs.

Then, when Jana was eighteen, a sickness swept through the community that Takumi, the medic, was unable to diagnose or cure. He suggested that living in conditions of weightlessness weakened not only a person’s bones but also their immune systems, leaving people susceptible to disease. Ten, mostly younger members, died.

Sam was amongst them. Distraught, Jana immersed herself in Emmerdale, watching them back-to-back and finding new villains to replace Kim, who eventually disappeared in a helicopter. She wished her father could have had a village funeral with a coffin, a line of mourners and a church service, instead of the undignified recycling system on board that turned bodies into compost to fertilise the next generation of crops in the remaining cultivation zone.

Petra was a wisp of a woman with a quiet voice and grey hair. After Sam’s death she lived and worked alone in the Command Centre, and she was rarely seen. One day, when Jana and Dylan were watching Dad’s Army, she appeared in the communal area.

‘Would you two like to spend some time in the Command Centre?’ she said to them.

‘Ooh, yes!’ Jana was more than happy to escape the depressive atmosphere that had descended over the ship. She and Dylan followed Petra.

The Command Centre was normally out of bounds and Jana was surprised how small it was. There were four screens, a desk and two chairs on one wall, and two bunk beds on the other. Jana bit her lip, wondering in which of the two beds her father had slept.

‘Sit here and let me show you some controls,’ Petra said.

She spoke a command and one of the screens changed from grey to black. Jana peered into the blackness, trying to find something to focus on.

‘That’s the view outside,’ Petra said.

‘But it’s just…black.’ Sam had attempted to describe what there was outside the ship but Jana saw nothing except empty space in all directions. The impression of an endless night disturbed her. Even night scenes in Emmerdale contained clouds and stars.

Petra spoke another command and two more screens lit up. The views on these were more interesting: coloured circles and bars, some moving, changing in size and shape, some dancing up and down.

‘This is how I monitor everything, heat, light, oxygen, warning systems,’ she said, and she proceeded to explain the significance of each chart, dial and graph. Jana asked questions, Dylan stared at the screens. His expression was blank, as if he was watching one of The Stories.

There was much more that Jana wanted to see but Petra flopped back and exhaled.

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‘Lesson over for today. I’ve work to do. Come back tomorrow and we’ll continue.’

Jana went to her bunk but was unable to sleep. As soon as she’d eaten breakfast the following day she made her way to the Command Centre and knocked on the door.

Petra opened it and glanced both ways. ‘No Dylan?’

‘I think he’s still in bed,’ Jana said, giving an apologetic shrug.

‘No matter. He’s had his chance. You’ll do. Come in and let’s get to work. First we’ll go through everything we did yesterday.’

They sat in front of the screens. Jana was pleased at how much she’d remembered from the previous session. She was invited to return the following day, and every day after that.

‘Tell me what that one says, and can you remember what it means, Jana?’ Petra would point to the screens and Jana would look, describe and explain. Every day, her understanding grew about the running of the ship. It was more exciting than anything she’d ever experienced and Emmerdale was forgotten.

A few days later, Jana asked Petra about the fourth screen, the one she’d never seen working.

Petra turned to her. ‘I’ll show you, but you must promise never to talk about what you see to anyone.’

‘Of course.’ Jana couldn’t think of anyone she’d tell, now Sam was dead. She hadn’t spoken to Dylan for weeks.

‘Story,’ Petra said.

The screen lit up and Jana watched. A spaceship was travelling across a star-filled sky.

There was music and a voice that said, ‘Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise...’

‘Starship Enterprise?’ Jana said. She watched, entranced, at the unfolding Story of a ship very different from their own. Its smartly-dressed crew worked in a shiny command centre.

Some of them were looking through a window onto the stars beyond. They sat in front of impressive banks of screens and equipment, and when they moved they walked easily across the floor.

‘They’re walking,’ Jana gasped and turned to Petra.

Petra gave her a sad smile.

Later, alien creatures invaded the ship and threatened to take it over, action only thwarted by the skill of Captain Kirk and a man with strange ears and eyebrows called Mr Spock, plus other crew members. Jana watched to the end then tore her eyes from the screen towards Petra.

‘Perhaps you can see how dangerous it would be for the others to watch this, and realise how different our life is from theirs?’ Petra said.

‘But where is this…Enterprise? Is it still out there? Can we reach it? Then we’d be safe, wouldn’t we?’

‘It’s pure fantasy, Jana, a twentieth century vision of space travel. They’ve got gravity, they move through space as if time didn’t exist, they consort with aliens. Like the other Stories, it isn’t true. It was a dream sold to our ancestors.’

Petra sat back and pressed her lips together. Jana had noticed how the Commander’s chair increasingly appeared to wrap itself around her body. ‘I’m going to tell you some things, but again I don’t want you to repeat them, understand?

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‘NASA and ESA sent Prospect II to Cygnus to colonise it. It was an experiment that was supposed to lead to the establishment of more colonies on other planets. After we arrived things happened on Earth, bad things, and there were few other missions. Then we had all our problems, and when we told Earth we’d decided to abandon Cygnus it took them by surprise – as if they’d almost forgotten about us. Now I never speak to the same person more than once, and I’m not sure who they are, or even if they represent the space agencies.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘There are space stations that might help us,’ Petra said brightly, ‘where what’s left of us could live. I sometimes pick up signals, though I have to tell you our communications system was damaged when we hit the asteroids. Sam and I decided the community shouldn’t know about it.’

Jana felt cold inside but summoned the courage to voice the question she’d wanted to ask Petra for a long time. ‘Will we ever get to Earth?’

‘Look at us, Jana,’ Petra held out her stick-thin arms then pointed to Jana. ‘You, me – all of us – our bones are so thin we’d never stand, even if we did. The gravity’s too strong. We’d be disabled, helpless. We’ve been fooling ourselves.’

Jana felt a chill in her stomach but she sat upright and looked squarely at Petra. ‘So we’ll never land on Earth.’

‘Perhaps one day, but not in my lifetime.’ Petra bent forward and placed her bony, wrinkled hand over the girl’s. ‘Jana, you may have already guessed but I’m not well and I’m losing my sight. I need you to see for me.’

The news didn’t come as a surprise. From the start Petra had asked Jana to read and describe what was on the screens.

‘One day, you’ll be Commander. Your father taught you well.’

Jana realised then that Sam had been preparing her for the role, but at the same time that he’d wanted to protect her from the truth as long as possible.

Jana moved into the Command Centre and began sleeping in the bunk her father had occupied.

One morning, Petra failed to rise. Jana sat in the Commander’s chair and spoke to the screens.

A daunting task lay ahead, if she and the community were ever to see Earth’s blue skies and shifting clouds.

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It’s Over Richard Bates

The mothers on mobiles in their four by fours WhatsApp? What’s up?

Collect offspring on a summer afternoon From the shiny academy school in the suburb.

A father cossetted in his open top Soaks up the sun, shirt unbuttoned, mind closed Thinking of his golf club engagement.

Parked on pavements, over driveways, ignoring the lines, The gossips mingle to exchange the shop prices, the encounters, the holidays The spiders of mumsnet …

Back seat babies cry in the heat, Labradors pant, tongues out of windows.

Children run from school through the babble.

These parents of summer in their sway and their dress Precisely define that woman And her husband in the van.

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Tosser’s Corner Neil K. Henderson Living in the country was supposed to be great for writing, and to be fair, most of the time it was. Springtime could be pretty distracting, though – what with all the cows mooing and the dogs barking and the sheep whingeing and the ubiquitous birds tweetering all over the place.

And the aeroplanes, it must be said, did seem to fly somewhat lower over the rooftops here, whatever the time of year. You had to kid yourself that it was some more natural sound, like thunder or a distant landslide, so that it didn’t seem so out of place. (Not that it did seem out of place to the locals.) But at least there wasn’t that constant din of heavy traffic you got in the city. That’s why the sound of motorbikes had attracted Cosmo’s attention so quickly this morning. That and the fact that it seemed to be coming along the road below the farm. Most traffic turned off at the roundabout before coming up this far. He wasn’t sure why, but all of a sudden he had a lump in his throat. He closed down his work file, and went out to the top field – just, he told himself, to satisfy his mind that nothing was amiss.

Cosmo Wallingford hadn’t known what hit him when the lawyer’s letter told him he’d been left the Fittledan farm to himself. It was like a dream come true – but like all unexpected realisations, the truth wasn’t quite what his pipe-dreams promised. Well, one man’s pipedreams were the next guy’s reefer schemes, back where he’d come from. All those sessions in Tossers’ Corner – smoking that stuff and popping other stuff and drinking the usual stuff and thinking shit and talking crap and hearing crud-bubbles of emptiness all around him – had fed his fantasies with all kinds of wild ideas. But the one idea that seemed fixed – that had kept recurring time and again – was that he would someday own a place in the country with some land, where he could retreat from the harshness of reality and ‘do his own thing’, whatever that might turn out to be. Paint, maybe...or write. And he knew the name of this place, of course – because it was the name of the place where he already retreated from the harshness of reality: Tossers’ Corner.

It was sad, he had thought at the time, that the Fittledan side of the family had died out at last – but maybe it wouldn’t be in vain. This legacy could be a helping hand from beyond the grave, enabling him to finally get his act together and live some kind of useful life without compromising his freedom. Needless to say, he never said anything of such old-fashioned wholesome – even spiritual – sentiment out loud in Tossers’ Corner. The cynical students, worldly-wise dole scroungers and apathetic misfits who frequented that dingy corner of the local college bar would never have tolerated that. If he’d claimed to have been abducted by aliens on his way home one night, or suddenly decided to devote his life to the worship of artichokes, no-one would have batted an eyelid. The more outrageously fantastic the claim, the more acceptable it was in Tossers’ Corner. Just don’t come out with any of that ‘God Squad’ crap, or your credibility was zilch. And you had to have the elusive ‘Street Cred’ to give some spurious dignity to the total waste of human potential Tossers’ Corner embodied...

The bikes were definitely heading up to the farm. Four of them. They had turned off the main road and started up the stony trail towards the farmhouse. Cosmo felt the lump in

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his throat descend into the pit of his stomach. When he had re-named the farm after the scene of his misspent youth, he had done so partly to remind him of what he had escaped from, and partly as a sardonic comment on his reversed circumstances – both spiritual and material.

Now, however, it was looking like he had tempted fate. The old Tossers’ Corner was coming back to haunt him.

The rider in front was going to have to dismount to open the gate at the bottom field, so Cosmo walked on down to meet him. He knew who it was long before he got close enough for recognition; before he had even identified the barrel chest inside the leathers, the bushy beard, the logo on the helmet with the naked banshee astride the giant skull. He must have realised as soon as he first set eyes on the little convoy who it would be. It would have to be the nightmare scenario incarnate. The last person he would want to pay a call on him out here in the wilds. Sure, there were worse people than Pumper McGutchie in the boring nuisance stakes. Pumper could never be said to be boring. But when it came to dangerous...Well...The leg-breaking stories might just have been idle talk. The unexpected disappearances of rival dealers might have been coincidental. But that way he had of staring you in the eye without blinking; of unashamedly calling you a liar, or demanding a free drink, or telling you to shut your mouth, was undoubtedly frightening. And it wasn’t just Cosmo who felt it. Everyone had said the same. All the bullshit stopped when Pumper McGutchie’s name was mentioned.

He was the one person it was OK to admit you were scared of. And it was important to warn the uninitiated of the danger. If anyone in Tossers’ Corner was going to an early death, it was supposed to be self-inflicted. Street credibility didn’t include holding up flyovers.

It must have been fate rather than intention, because Pumper clearly didn’t know who Cosmo was at first. He seemed to think he was just another farmer. Cosmo had time to take in the three riders behind, impatiently revving their engines while the head honcho did the business. It was as he expected – the usual crew: Skillet, long and lean, with a droopy moustache and a worrying sneer; Chompie, with the fat gut and the greasy T-shirt which should have said 'Who ate all the pies?' (and maybe did, once); and Bevan Metaldome, inscrutable in his steel and leather armour, with his mirrored visor permanently down. They went everywhere together. After all, nobody else wanted their company.

'Any chance o’ campin’ in yer –' The bad penny dropped in Pumper’s brain. 'Fuck me, it’s Cosmo Wallingford! Jeezus Christ! We thought ye were dead!'

'Hey, Cosmo!' yelled Chompie.

'Nice place ye’ve got here,' added Skillet.

Bevan Metaldome kept his own counsel.

'Hi,' said Cosmo. (What else could he say?) 'Long time no see.'

'Is this your place, then?' Pumper seemed to have mellowed slightly in his old age. After all, it was seven years since the Tossers’ Corner days. Cosmo noticed how the biker was having difficulty making eye contact. Maybe something had happened to undermine that steady glare. It probably wasn’t something Cosmo wanted to know. And it had to be said that Cosmo himself had gained a degree of self-confidence since cutting loose from the shackles of the past.

'Yeah. It’s in my family.'

'Is it true you’ve chucked the bevvy?'

'That’s right.'

'How long?'

'Seven years – since I’ve been here.'

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'I don’t believe you!' The old Pumper McGutchie flashed out for an instant, but disappeared just as quickly. 'You’re looking better now, anyway. You used tae look like a dead man walking.'

'I was.'

'Is it all right if we camp here for a few days... jist for old time’s sake? Don’t worry - we’ll keep ourselves tae ourselves.'

'I suppose so.' Again, what else could he say? After all, he was alone here. It was better to keep up the pretence of friendliness. 'If you need water, there’s a tap at the side of the house.'

'Nah, it’s okay. We saw a burn down there. We can use that. Don’t want tae disturb the great author.'

'So you didn’t really think I was dead?'

'Jist took me a bit tae remember. I suppose you are still at the writing?'

'Yeah.'

'Fair enough.'

This was definitely a new Pumper McGutchie. Cosmo still stung from the time Pumper had spat in his face when he’d been showing someone an article he’d had printed in a student rag. You never forget that kind of thing. But now...could that be respect in the biker’s tone?

Was it possible that he had changed? People do change, after all. Cosmo could hardly be unique in that.

He decided to risk it. 'By the way...'

'Yeah?'

'Clear up all your rubbish before you move on, will you?'

'Eh...sure. No problem, big man.' * * *

When spring came round again, the engine sound was less of a shock. If the past year was anything to go by, the road below Tossers’ Corner was now fair game to all and sundry of the motorbike fraternity. Their traditional route must have been changed in some way, or else a better road had been built that took them past here. This time it was just the three bikes.

Obviously more production-line than the mighty warhorses of before. This would be the safebut-dull brigade. But were they going to head up this way...? Yes, no doubt about it. Cosmo lifted his spade and trudged back to the farmhouse, his wellies sticking in the wet earth.

By the time he’d returned, the first of the riders had already let the others through the bottom gate and was turning to close it behind them. Greeny Mullendew. He might have known. Closely followed by Jayson Grayson and Laurie Whipperstein. These were Tossers of the first degree. Not in the Pumper McGutchie league at all. Three skinny wimps in trendy bike gear, trying to live out some pathetic fantasy of ‘The Road’. Just the same sad gits as always. Not dangerous, but very, very tiresome. They were going to have to go.

'Cosmo? Is that you?'

Hell’s teeth! Greeny had recognised him. The angry farmer routine would have to be modified now. They had to get the message good and proper - otherwise, they might bring God knows who up next time...

'What do you want?'

'Yeah, pleased to see you too!' Greeny took off his helmet and stood there grinning

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sheepishly. In fact, Cosmo reckoned if he got any more sheepish, he’d have to run the gauntlet past the Farmers’ Union on the way back.

'Get on with it. I haven’t got all day.'

'Still off the booze, then?' piped up Jayson.

'Yeah.'

'And the hash?'

'Yes. All that stuff.'

'Are you still writing?' Laurie Whipperstein had unlidded himself. Still a fresh-faced kid beneath the helmet. Growing up would never be an option for him.

'Only when I get peace.'

'What’s the gun for?' put in Jayson. 'Think we might be rustlers?'

Cosmo hefted Uncle Fittledan’s ‘special’ shotgun, but said nothing. He wasn’t sure if they’d notice it was a pump-action automatic. Probably not, but he didn’t want to advertise it too much anyway. Tossers they may be – but these kids could talk, if nothing else.

'Cosmo –' Greeny sounded suddenly businesslike. 'We were going to ask if we could camp in that – in your – field. But we didn’t know it was you that lived here. But since it is you... any chance of putting us up in the house for a few days? A warm roof and a bit of grub would come in handy.'

'Sorry. I never have visitors staying.'

'If it’s the booze that’s bothering you...' Whipper’s hand rested unconsciously on a bulging saddlebag, '...we’ll only drink in our own room.'

That was the last straw.

'I said NO!' Cosmo waved the shotgun in a great arc, sweeping round to include each of the intruders in turn, before aiming back at the new bare earth up the slope behind him. 'If you arseholes don’t fuck off NOW, I’m going to put you in with what’s left of the last lot!'

An outbreak of squawked protest ensued, but when the gun went off there was a mad scramble into saddles, and off they roared without looking back. * * *

It was only when Pumper McGutchie’s name began cropping up in the same context as the three wimps that questions started being asked. These questions inevitably found themselves including Tossers’ Corner in their subject matter. Eventually they found themselves being asked at Cosmo Wallingford’s front door - by a couple of big policeman who had come up in a van.

'We’re investigating the disappearance of four men who we have reason to believe passed through this area over a year ago. We also believe you have a firearm on the premises, sir. Would it be possible to see the licence?'

Naturally, everything was in order. As far as gun licences went, Cosmo was officially a farmer. And he had a more ‘official’ type of shotgun to match the licence. It was only as the firearm cop was leaving that Cosmo realised his colleague had stayed outside. He seemed to be intrigued by the dug-over patch in the top field. It still stood out among the rest, despite the new crop of weeds coming up.

'Left it a bit late for sowing, haven’t you?'

Just his luck. Cosmo had to get landed with a green-fingered copper.

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'You’ll have to give that lot another digging before you plant anything now. Perhaps we could be of assistance in that department, sir.'

It was McGutchie and his pals all over again. Cosmo could insist they get a warrant, but what was the point? Why antagonise them?

'If you like.'

'Thank you, sir. We’ll have someone up today. Meanwhile, we’d like you to come to the station to sign a consent form and answer one or two questions.'

Of course, they didn’t find anything. Just the rubbish from McGutchie’s campsite. There was probably the odd roach or two down there, but that didn’t seem the kind of thing they were looking for. Besides, it would have meant sifting through piles of mud-covered bean tins, dirty mags, fag packets, beer cans and empty bottles. All the ‘dead men’ you could wish for. But even then, they couldn’t get the roots out.

That was the problem – and maybe it had been the basic problem from the outset. Even in Tossers’ Corner with the aid of chemical layer removers, Cosmo hadn’t been able to get the roots out. The roots of his bones. The roots of his lineage. The roots of old Fittledan. The poisonous roots of his past. There was more to long-forgotten states than old tin cans, empty bottles, crumpled magazines and butts. But the roots were always somewhere out of reach.

Buried just that bit too deep to fully grasp and pull toward the light. Somewhere deeper than the scratched-surface strata. Below this farm, beyond Tossers’ Corner and his dreaming youth.

Down, down, beneath the slime of slippery selves, against a bed of solid rock. If he ever hit that sticking place, he’d know if he’d arrived at truth.

And he’d make damn sure it was suitably reinterred when the inquest was complete. * * *

It must have been another year before Pumper passed that way again. Just him and Bevan Metaldome – Chompie and Skillet having fallen foul of the Swedes. They looked around for Cosmo, but there were no signs of life anywhere. Even the name was missing from the top gate. It seemed OK to camp out as usual. After all, Cosmo hadn’t complained the last time.

And, good as gold, when it came the time to leave, they made a move to dispose of their litter.

Cosmo must have expected them back some time, because he’d left a dirty great hole in the upper field, with the excavated earth lying in heaps around the edge, ready to be filled back in. He’d even left a handy spade for the job. The old sign saying Tossers’ Corner was stuck on a post at the side. There was something etched in felt-tip now, underneath the name. Bevan Metaldome gave Pumper a nudge, silently directing him to the addendum. Pumper went over to look. His bad leg was playing him up today, and he occasionally made a pained grimace as he limped across the field. Old bikers never die, it’s said; they only gather dust. He peered down at the sign and grunted. ''Tossers’ Corner’...Writers, eh? What are they on?'

Bevan shrugged his metal dome noncommittally. ''Mining rights negotiable. Irony supplied’...?'

The barrel-chested biker gave a half-hearted laugh as he began dropping bags of garbage into the pit.

'Christ, I’m trying tae dump this shit. I don’t need any o’ his!'

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My Crow Yuan Changming

As a popular Chinese saying goes Crows everywhere are equally black But this one in the backyard of my heart Is as white as a summer cloud I have fed him with fog and frost Until his feathers, his flesh His calls and even his spirit All turn into white like winter washed My crow’s wings will never melt Even when flying close to the sun

Scrittura Magazine

The Foreign Language Yasemin Balandi Stale furnace.

Drizzling close to my skin; a silver sheath.

I had no word for drizzling of course Not in English nor in my mother tongue.

Come to think of it.

A girl of sixteen; my future unfurnished.

Uncertain!

I boarded on the London train: Armed with ten broken sentences.

In English.

Five of them useless: Niggling me like in-growing toenails!

Who should I say, “where do you live?� In English!

In foreign tongue!

Not to my family! The only people I knew in this country.

I had to make friends quick!

So that I could speak!

The foreign tongue.

So I did!

Now the foreign tongue is my mother tongue!

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We Still Live in the Cave!

Amirah Al Wassif we live in the cave, me, my people and some funny creatures appear on the TV screen my family doesn’t have any screens, but our neighbors have one they saw these creatures through it, they laugh every night, they laugh every breaking news when we hearing their laughter, we laugh too as polite followers who don’t want to make their leaders disappointed we live in the cave, nursing our mother nature milk, perfectly like a greedy newborn we have no idea If we love our cave or not? we have no food, no water but, our neighbors have. we hear the movement of their mouth every day, every night we absorb their voices while watering their body and then, we feel like “we did it, we ate, we drunk, also we had our shower.” we live in the cave, watching the shadows of ourselves here and there and if you ask me “did you ever feel bored?”

I will automatically answer you I have no idea but, if my neighbors felt bored before my answer would be “yes” because as you know I and my people are their followers. we live in the cave,

Scrittura Magazine

trying to figure out our way throughout our neighbor’s eye they talk to us behind the ancient walls every year every year, they come and stop close our cave and order us to shut up our mouths cause that isn’t fit the modern civilization age we are so polite followers to our leaders so, we did it, we shut up we live in the cave, with no clothes, we all here are naked as the day that we are born but, that isn’t matter because our neighbors have clothes they have many and they promised us that they will donate to us it is a grand prize for me and my people, isn’t? we live in the cave with no information keeping our blinders on our eyes trying our best to catch what the new from our neighbors station and they still laugh every night, every breaking news we also laugh too and when they laugh louder, we follow our leaders and when they laugh louder, we follow our neighbors but finally, after while of laughing, we started to cry

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Number Plate John-Christopher Johnson This is my new personalized number plate. It cost me two thousand pounds. I won’t tell you what the registration means as I want people to gaze at my uniqueness, my superiority over other road users. A metal obelisk towering above the nose to bumper or free flowing traffic by which I hope to be worshipped.

Night time often means failure for me as then my message to the world is partially obscured or even vanishes. I’ll leave you guessing. It might take forever.

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