Issuu

ISSUE ONE

STAR GAZER

THAT STAR WHO LOOKS AT ME

As I lay on my bed holding the cigarette, the burning red is the only light I can see. I see the only star burning red and far, Remembering the same place everyday, As if you were looking at me From afar and smiling, It said ‘You look pale and have the empty eyes of before, That hollow feeling, that thrust. That never ending quest to find peace in your heart. What are you searching for? I am sorry I cannot take you to the stars or the moon or the fairy place I can just look at you as you burn like that cigarette you’re holding.’

INDUMONI BURAGOHAIN 43

COMETGAZING: THE COMET X STARGAZER WORDS: EMMY HALLAHAN & CORA O’GORMAN

I was reached out to by first year graphic design & illustration student Cora O’Gorman about comparing this student magazine to student magazines of the past. Immediately, I was very interested, and was happy to share some of the submissions with her to be illustrated. The first thing that struck me was that despite the hundred odd years between these students and our magazine, they’d also chosen an astrological themed name. They were The Comet, and we are stargazer. Granted, we’re all lower case because we’re hip and cool like that, but the odds of people choosing similar names across time really makes you feel a connection.

CORA: I went to the artefacts room in the library, and we were looking at all of their graphic designs, and I found this old zine called The Comet. It was made in like 1910-1913, and it was made by students, and it was so detailed - these extra things they were doing for fun.

I got way more submissions that I was expecting, my tutor emailed the head of creative writing, and a bunch of people emailed me back - and it was so hard to choose from because I only had to pick two to illustrate!

ARTWORK BY CORA O’GORMAN 45

THE MADNESS OF BEING Oh these eyes, these ever internal eyes. Eating me from the inside, burrowing

into my flesh, they’re singing to me “grant us eyes, grants us eyes” calling to me. I can’t resist it, I won't resist it, I refuse to be taken away from them. They burn, oh god do they burn, corrupting me, healing me, hurting me. “Sing to me!” Pieter screamed. I should be dead, how am I not dead? He wondered, snapping back into reality. Pieter floating ever still beneath the deep dark depths of the sea, his ever motionless body remained dormant as he pondered to himself. The other voice inside his head keeps creeping in, constantly racing thoughts from two sides of the spectrum start an internal struggle with each other, like an old married couple bickering at one another, one longing for the pain to end and the other wishing it further on him. The softer toned voice ever soothing his pain while the piercing other telling him the crux of his dire situation. The deep sea diver’s explorative nature has gotten the better of him, his pass time to “get away” from life has only led to his downfall, he was warned, told not to go deeper and yet here we are. He’s fucked now y’know, he’s never getting out of this, his mum, dad, daughter, long-distance girlfriend that he “knew he could make it work” with is never gonna see him again or at least the man known as “Pieter” again, they may see his body walking the earth aimlessly, moseying along to the sound of silence but it won't matter, he’s gone mad you see, his life is gone and everything he’s ever loved with it but I don’t know why I’m 46

telling you this, none of it matters in the end, his loved ones will all suﬀer the same fate when the enormous thing staring at him breaches the surface above, the amalgamation of tentacles and protruding wings will cause anyone that catches a mere glimpse at it will go mad, cursed to join the practically undead army of this behemoth they gazed upon. Pieter’s harshest voice in his head began to screech in agony as they begin to understand the circumstance he is in, the voice must’ve gone on for minutes or was it hours screaming for the ever-present Old One to kill him “Fucking kill me…Please!” Pieter pleaded, but the creature remained unaﬀected by his demands to end his torture, it stayed glaring at Pieter’s chest with its six gold and orange swirling eyes fixated on Pieter’s internal eyes. Pieter’s pain satiates the beast in front of him, his newly sweetened blood soothes it, calms it, praises it. Oh, but Pieter’s blood will not be enough no, no it won't do. The Malevolent God will take everyone, everything but before it does, it will savour sweet Pieter’s delectable blood, the same blood that forever binds him to the creature's soon-to-be-acquired nightmarish legion. "Fuck, what did I do to deserve this?" Pieter screamed to himself, but the fact of the matter is that he did not deserve this, no one does. You don’t want to leave this, you need this, we need this. It will calmly soothe us to eternal slumber, we will be just another number but this number will live on forever, sing for it Pieter c’mon, I must sing to it, it’s earned it.

Pieter’s melodic rhythm in his head began to slow and fade away as his eyes stop dead, witnessing the newfound beauty of the God in front 47

of him slowly begins to drift toward him, making massive ripples breaking the calmness of the water as it eﬀortlessly glides toward him, Pieter’s breath being ever rapidly being stolen from him, in awe of its gross incandescent. The creature stops suddenly as it arrives before the deep-sea diver piercingly looking at Pieter with its brightly coloured eyes before begging to “speak” to him in a manner that shouldn’t be possible to comprehend as it just comes across as gibberish mixed in with clicking and the occasional loud belch but Pieter understands it so clearly that the creature may as well be speaking English to him. “Oh the blood…the sweet blood, it sings to me!” the creature beckoned. “It satiates that itch, fuels me…it is delectable. I need more, I deserve it all.” “Kill me!” Pieter cried for the last time, his intrusive screeching voice in his head longing to take over Pieter, and corrupt his mind, he loves his new God and that voice is trying to steal that love away from him. “Oh, Pieter. Sing to me.” the creature soothingly requests. The lullaby in Pieter’s head is longing for change, the creature gradually raising his arm to touch Pieter, granting his wish gracefully. “Oh, Honourable Pieter, chosen first, you should be honoured to accept my gift as you are the first of billions. I bestow upon you my eternal gratitude as the madness of being takes hold of you.” Pieter’s body begins to twist and turn in every manner possible, turning his former feeble husk into a perfect blend of man and god, his eyes on the inside begin to burst from within turning his once smooth skin into a bumpy mess of jelly-like flesh. His face begins to formulate a 48

seemingly endless amount of tentacles that have painstakingly replaced his mouth, searing the flesh as they begin to sprout from his chin. "Oh, it sings to me!" They both howl creating bubbles underneath their breath. They both begin the rapid ascent to the surface, breaching the water. The enormous creature so unfathomably large creates tidal waves that reach the clouds as it pears just its head through the ripples in the ocean, its wings that follow split the heavens creating an instant night, covering the world in a dark fog. “Arise, my slaves, come forth and present yourself before God!” The creature screeched in its unintelligible dialect. The Magnificent Old One has returned to claim its place as the rightful leader of the cosmos, starting with Earth.

CALLUM CADDELL 49

THE ROCKET

coming oﬀ the motorway at that part by the pub my heart skips a beat and my eyes go round to see big blue signs counting down three

two

one

and we’re home back in the comfort zone until next time

BILLIE DEEN-OWEN 50

COMING UP

On grey days, when the sky doesn’t look like a painting it looks like the roof has been removed and like an upcoming art show, the sky could do with a sign that tells us what's coming up or what’s happening. ‘New installation TBC.’ ‘The sky is being replaced. Please bear with us.’ The sky is always being replaced when we’re on the motorway and when we cross the threshold back into Liverpool the previous installation returns, easing our hearts with relief. Fluﬀy, flossy relief ascends from our shoulders and stretches out and across warm golden skies, clouds streaked with pink, lime and lilac.

BILLIE DEEN-OWEN 51

MUCK Liverpool: 1914. ‘I barely know her!’ I watched Boot noisily cram a fistful of mixed nuts into his fat gob as he spoke. We’d just left The Throstles Nest. Beersoaked we wandered, or rather swayed, on up Scotland Road. It seemed to stretch on forever, one great carpet of rubble and scum snaking through the greatest slum God ever saw fit to create. We stopped up at Paddy’s Market so Ryan could spew about six rounds of beer the rest of us had paid for. ’Am just sayin', the kid can’t be mine!’ Boot wasn’t a bright lad, but he was as pigheaded as they came. He might not have known much but he was convinced of a great deal. ‘You did the crime you do the time,’ Ryan offered. Between noisy heaves, he turned his little rat face to sneer at Boot. Ryan was a weedy little shit, with lank hair and breathe that could stun a horse. ‘Piss off Ry. The fuck is that smell?’ Boot grimaced, clutching his chest and coughing. ‘Funny you mention it, I could do with a piss,’ Ryan said, adjusting his crotch towards Boot and me. He straightened up and wiped the sick off his chin with the back of his sleeve, spotting an entry just off Paddy’s. I watched him go, dragging his busted leg behind him. As he disappeared into the dark, I turned to Boot. I took a pack of fags out and offered him one. ‘Cheers Frank,’ he said. I watched Boot sit himself on an upturned cabbage crate, wheezing as he did, his great fat belly heaving as 52

he coughed noisily and hacked a glob of phlegm onto the ground. He jammed the fag into his mouth. I lit it, being careful not to set alight the strands of wispy beard hair that grew in patches on his round face. We waited in silence for a while, far in the distance I saw the lights of the overhead railway. It snaked across seven miles of proud English docklands, from Hornsby to the Herculaneum. I thought about its passengers, and how they must look down on these slums with pity. Watching the lights of the pubs and brothels wink at them from below before dimming to nothing as they raced on to their next stop. Across the way loomed Richmond Row, threepence a night to be lumped in a dirty little shack with upwards of ten other unfortunate bastards. One of the doors opened, a large man with a nasty-looking mutt on a chain held the door wide for the girl. She shrugged on her motheaten coat as she appeared, the door slamming behind her. ‘State of ‘er!’ I heard Boot saying. ‘She’s definitely one of the High Rip lads’ girls.’ Boot’s suspicions were confirmed as we watched the whore turn up the road to Sebastopol, the heart of a cruel operation which led unfortunate foreign sailors into debt and an itchy cock and balls. Or worse, to an empty purse and skull beaten in by a belt buckle. I watched Boot struggle to his feet and thought about catching the fat fuck if he fell but decided better of it. ‘Where’s that shit-heel got himself to now?’ he asked, referring to Ryan. I thought about listening for the sound of piss on entry cobbles but thought better of that too, who knows how many beggars and drunken sailors are pissing up against some wall out there in the dark? I thought. ‘C’mon,’ Boot declared, wandering deeper into Paddy’s and up towards the entry. 53

‘There it is again!’ Boot had stopped suddenly, his head tilted like some confused animal, his piggy nose wrinkled upwards. He was right, there was a foul stench about the place like festering mud and stagnant water. ‘Must be the mains pipe!’ Boot decided, convinced he had cracked the case of the death stench at Paddy’s Market. As we turned into the entry the smell only worsened. It burned at the hairs in our nostrils and ran down the back of our throats. It tasted coppery and stank of old rotted moss. The light within was nonexistent, what little was cast from across the courtyard illuminated only a few inches in front of our faces. I watched Boot scrunch up his face even more, as though it might help in some way, and he called into the shadows. ‘Ry! Stop fucking around!’ There was silence for a while until at last there came a long sorrowful groan. ‘Alright, Ry! Not funny!’ I began to wonder if old Boot was losing his edge, his face had gone slack, his eyes bulged. Then there came another groan, long and rumbling, like some wounded animal. I left Boot to piss himself, moving further into the darkness, hoping my good eye might yet adjust. The smell grew fouler and the darkness thicker. I felt my foot sink into something wet, as though it was being swallowed by the night itself. Stuck there, trying to drag my foot from whatever it had sunk itself into, I had time to listen. There were the groans again, like the poor bastards begging on Brownlow Hill, full of despair. But there was something else, a sound like the pig guts my old man would slop down the drains behind the butchers, moving closer and closer. 54

Before the sound and stench could bring up my dinner, I heaved my foot upwards but to no success. The noises grew wetter and closer, I felt flies buzzing around my face, I tried to swat them away but quickly gave up. I could just about hear Boot yelling behind me, and I summoned another yank. Yet nothing, each one seemed to sink my leg further into the muck. I started to lose my nerve, my stomach churning, my eyes watering, whatever this thing was, it was getting closer. The buzz of the flies, the wet slopping, the mournful moaning, they subdued any cries Boot could make. I tried yanking one more time, gripping my leg with both hands I hurled myself toward the opening of the entry. Finally, I felt some shift in the filth, and with it, I lost my balance, tipping arse over elbow onto the ground. Like an idiot, I put my hand out flat to push myself up and felt it swallowed up by cold, wet, mud. I retched as something hard in the mud brushed my hand. Then a new sensation came over me, a feeling like hot breath on my face. It was putrid but somehow familiar, the smell of rotting veg and stagnant water persisted from the soup I laid in. But the breath was old hat. Somewhere in the distance, the carriages of the overhead railway rattled along the tracks, its headlamps beamed over the entry, illuminating the face of death before me. Ryan’s head stared at me, it’s sockets empty, its jaw slack, floating free of its neck and body, embedded in a protrusion of mud jutting out from the festering mound, lick an outstretched tentacle with a death mask on its tip. The thing was massive, like a great heaping pile of dung. It slopped along the ground, a limbless, hungry mass, hurling its weight forward to 55

get around. The bones of animals and people it had swallowed jutted out of it in all directions, each in a varied state of decay. And so, I joined them. It jammed a tendril of muck into my open mouth and filled my gut with festering shit until it burst. Then it slopped forward and swallowed what remained. I watched Boot join us too, his bad heart and fat gut made him easy pickings for the mound. This is our life. We are muck.

ELLIOT PREECE 56

CHESTERFIELD

I grew up with that poorly kept secret cigarette perfume so it’s fitting how I now wear it too it’s my signature scent, only nine-twenty-five from Sainsbury’s and 3 hours 40 minutes of your life buy it now if you don’t have much to lose

(Author’s note: the spaces between sentences are to emulate the action of smoking while speaking, like breath pauses, or in this case, cigarette drags.)

CALLUM CARRIE 57

LITTLE ACT OF TERRORISM The whole situation was ridiculous. Comical! Absurd. He sat on the uncomfortable brown bench, iris close to eyebrows with how far his eyes had rolled in disbelief. It wasn’t like he was at fault in this situation, and yet the walls that surrounded him told a diﬀerent story. Some silly mindfulness poster sat crooked on the wall. I mean, what even is ‘Political Terrorism’ anyway? He was certain that the phrase was something they had made up to remove him from integrating with the general public. The continuous ticking from the clock on the plain white wall was a mockery, a metaphor for the seconds he wasted sitting in this inhumane container he was subjected to. Lesser men had committed worse oﬀences without the torture of this white room, it must be due to his overwhelming presence, he thought. Maybe this story requires context. It was not six hours earlier, a person stood in the centre of a well-decorated room, a bed beside them and a mysterious sheet of paper in their hands. It was a boy, no more than seven years old, and the paper was covered top to toe in illegible scribbles of a madman. “Oi! Peter, you’re gunna be late if you keep pissing about upstairs.” Of course his ‘Father’ would drag him away from his important planing, he thought. Peter would not be late for the trip, the boy had planned 58

this to the second. He grabbed his black backpack and scurried out of the room, scrunching the paper in his small pocket and snickering to himself. He flung himself into the car with such force, his Dad was surprised the seat cushions didn’t suﬀer damages. Footsteps behind him alerted Peter to the presence of another, it was his brother. Tyler stood tall, eyebrow raised at the suspicious behaviour his younger brother displayed. As he began to reach out to the bag the child was so desperately clutching, the car door slammed onto his arm, and closed fully when he yelped and jumped back in surprise. Their father seemed to take no notice of the situation, and exited the driveway before the saboteur could intercept. Nothing could ruin his plans, not even his nosy brother. Peter then unhappily endured the remaining drive and past the coach ride with his classmates towards the Houses of Parliament. It was their ‘end of year trip’, but Peter thought a trip to Pizza Hut might have been more entertaining. The bubbling irritation under his skin at the wasted opportunity had bloomed his amazing, genius plan The large group jumped oﬀ the coach with an immense amount of unnecessary noise, Peter blended with the centre of the group to avoid his teacher’s prying eyes. Toby was somewhere nearby, his accomplice. Toby was the only other person to be blessed with the plans, Peter thought it would be more successful if he had a mathematical brain on the mission. Looking around and finally locking eyes with the shining green ones of his friend, Peter gave a subtle thumbs up in that direction before following the class into the large building. 59

The start of the tour was painfully boring, he didn’t even get to witness Boris Johnson and his beautiful straw-like hair in person. Peter knew Boris Johnson from TikTok, and from when Dad yelled at the TV last year when they used old socks for toilet roll. The latter half, however? Well, it was simply perfect. Toby had raised his hand to go to the bathroom, he removed one adult from the ever-watching eyes and gave Peter time to reach into his backpack. Toby was directed to bring half a ton of toilet paper; he would block the toilets in the building whilst the younger had time to retrieve the items from his bag. Flawless, in theory. What two seven-year-old minds failed to plan for, was the aftermath. The consequence of their actions. And so when Peter brought out the matches and two long fireworks from his bag and removed himself from the crowded area to a corner and lit the explosives, he revelled in the glory. Sparks danced across the ceiling, covering his eyesight and painting the walls in a beautiful array of colours. He had accomplished what Guy Fawkes had failed, it was art. Both young and old shrieks could be heard from afar, and the child’s evil grin was lit up in his master plan. Lit up until he was forcibly dragged out of the building that is. It all led up to this point, sitting in the pastoral oﬃce of his school. The police had come and gone a while ago, calling Peter a child whilst also lecturing him about safety and warnings, it was all jargon really. White walls and screaming fathers, only a small part of what 60

Peter would remember about today, nobody could take away the glory of his little act of terrorism, whatever that might have been. Maybe he would put it in his bio.

WILL ANDERTON 61

FUCKING NEIGHBOURS Those fucking neighbours who stomp around and around like baby elephants playing, I’m definitely not jealous. Those fucking neighbours who regardless of time bang doors and bang each other, I'm definitely not jealous. Those fucking neighbours who live for the weekend even on Tuesdays, I'm definitely not jealous. Those fucking neighbours who moved into the bigger flat before I got the chance with an upstairs and a downstairs and a balconette, I’m so jealous.

BILLIE DEEN-OWEN 62

NAKED ‘It won’t bite, I promise,’ Charlie said with a laugh. He was laid back on the bed, staring down at me in a way that made his chin morph into his neck. ‘How would you know?’ I couldn’t hide the way my nose scrunched up at the thought. ‘I’ve touched it plenty of times before, that’s how I know,’ ‘It’s just so... bald?’ ‘Yeah, well some of them are bald!’ He scoﬀed. Pressing my lips into a thin line, I fixed my gaze on it. Up until this point, I’d been looking anywhere but at that... thing. It was staring back at me -- an ugly, wrinkly, vile thing. It was so pink, I was sure it must be in pain. ‘It hurts my feelings that you’re so afraid of him, you know?’ Charlie said with a pout, fluttering his eyelashes at me. I flipped him the bird, but I couldn’t look away from it. The way it rested against his belly, occasionally twitching, sent a shudder down my spine. It was revolting. I didn’t understand how he could stand to have it anywhere near him, let alone touching him all the time. My lunch tried to make a reappearance. The silence was stretching thinner and thinner. My eyes never left it. In fact, I swear to God it winked at me. Smug little thing. ‘Fine!’ I said, much louder than was strictly necessary. It seemed to stiﬀen when I spoke — in fact, I’m surprised I didn’t frighten it.

I rested my hand against it, closing my eyes against the incoming bodily recoil. Hold on, actually, it was quite soft. It was warm under my fingertips and started to vibrate with pleasure. ‘See, Teddy, we’re all friends here,’ Charlie said to it. ‘That’s such a stupid fucking name for a hairless cat,’

DAVID NICHOLSON 64

BIRDS OF A FEATHER The little tin man hobbles down the dimly lit street. His stained silver shell creaks with each step, weathered cowboy boots clicking against the ground, open coat swaying behind him in the wind. He lifts his arm straight up into the air, letting it fall on top of his head, holding down the riskily-worn hat. There’s a little square screen on the front of his head displaying an unimpressed expression complete with a rigid straight line, the two dots slowly shrink in unison as if the man is tired. Rounding a tight corner, the tin man is shrouded in the red light coming from an overhead sign. He shakes his metal skull at it and continues up the path. Thick smog hangs overhead, obscuring the tops of the tower blocks and absorbing all sunlight from above. The tarmac streets are lined with ramshackle stalls, shops, restaurants, and homes; each one with its own trash can infesting the walkway below. These bins are empty of course, no new waste has been produced for well over a century, but the locals still like to keep them around out of sentimentality. If they could smell, the lapse in cleaning would be apparent, but luckily they cannot. Evidence of this coats the concrete surface of every structure. What once was pearly white and grey has metamorphosed into a blur of browns and blacks that collect in large clusters of grime. An opalescent blue feather blows out of an eighth-storey window, spiralling down onto the ground in front of him and sticking onto the bottom of his boot. With a gravelly grunt, he shakes his leg to unstick the feather, but it won’t budge. He bends down, joints squeaking and clasps the feather between his shovel-like hands. Its uniformity was 65

only slightly warped from the fall. So, the little tin man sticks it through his drab hat and sets oﬀ once again. After traipsing through dimly lit alleyways, he stops in front of an old diner. A slurred country song is blasting out from a makeshift jukebox in the corner, its tin can speakers rattling with each drum kick. Swinging open the door, he steps inside, almost hitting a small child playing on the other side. They babble some nonsense at each other, the tin man shaking his hands and jumping back in apology, the child shaking her little rusty fist in his direction before an older woman comes over, smacks the child on the back of the head and drags her away to the other side of the diner. Finally closing the door behind him with a little kick of a boot, the man sighs and lets his shoulders slump forward before taking a seat at the breakfast bar. He gently places his newly decorated hat on the stool next to him and smiles at the young woman hurrying past with a plate of “waﬄes”, her apron splattered with oil. Squinting at the board, the tin man cocks his head as he drums his fingers against the countertop, each string of obscure characters is accompanied by an image of miscellaneous items in a bowl. The young waitress scoots over with a smile, her screen glowing pink, and takes his order. Swinging his feet in time to the music of a bygone era, his previously gloomy screen shifts to project a green hue on the counter, the tiny, tired dots now accompanied by a faint smile. After a few minutes, the waitress returns with a deep bowl of oily gunk and places it gently in front of the tin man without spilling a drop. He nods. She smiles and turns to enter the kitchen. 66

Suddenly, a shrill clang from the entryway causes everyone to whip around. A hunched-over figure casts a looming shadow across the diner, the tip of the shadow reaching the tin man’s feet. He stops swaying. The figure looks up, her bright red face illuminating the entire room as she scans over everyone calculatedly. The little girl backs into the corner of the room, holding her own hand and turning her face to the ground, only peeking up to monitor the angry woman’s movement. In a feeble attempt to calm the woman down, the perky waitress strides towards her and gestures towards the seat next to the man. Her scowling eyes land on the stool occupied by his battered hat. Awkwardly, the man swivels it revealing the cushion. The red screen deepens, her eyes maddeningly wide as she charges toward the bar. He recoils away from her and squeezes his eyes shut. But no attacks come. Not a single punch or slap. He can’t feel or hear anything. Confused, the man slowly opens his eyes and looks back at the stool. A soft blue glow is now radiating from the woman - she’s cradling his feather in her arms, her unbending metal frame squeaking with the strain of this position. All eyes are on this spectacle, even the little girl has opened both eyes to watch in wonder. The waitress loiters behind her, peering over her shoulder and tilting her head like a confused puppy. Clang. The feather is snatched in an instant and pierced back through the fabric of the tin man’s hat. Red. He has to stretch his arms as far as they can go to keep it out of her reach. She throws his breakfast over him and shrieks. He stops, stunned, and looks at the hat in his hands. They’re both frowning at each other looking blue.

A fiery tinge covers the cityscape, the sun is rising, but nobody knows it. The frazzled pair make it back to that block of flats, the woman gesturing to the one open window on the eighth floor and then back at the feather. Holding onto the hat atop his head, the man points to the ground and waves his boot to simulate wind. They rattle on for some time, both making exaggerated movements at the other and stomping their feet defiantly. The argument fizzles out with neither agreeing to give up the feather. So, the small tin woman opens the door to the building and holds out her hand. He sheepishly follows her through the entrance where a surpassingly pristine corridor lies before them. A much taller man is scrubbing the tiled floor on his knees; an old boiler suit adorns his frame. The cleaner looks up at them, both with gritty soles, and shakes his head. With a weak smile, the woman holds up her hands as if to surrender and drags her companion up the staircase before the cleaner can stop them, their feet crunching against the polished floor. Once in her flat, the two sit in the makeshift living room decorated with pan lids and receipts for discontinued items. They’re perched on the window seat, feet interlocked and staring down at the street below. An empty vase is balanced on the windowsill, and each whip of the wind begins to fill it with dust. The man goes blue and caresses the vase, almost sending it flying out of the window with his clunky movements. Humming an apology he watches her barricade it in place. Shakily, he plucks the feather out of his hat and drops it into its home. They beam at each other, pink in the face, and coo over the way it gleams under the light. She gives him a sharp nod and pats his hand. His 68

eyes close over with a smile. They sit there for the rest of the day chattering about their feather, with their legs still woven together. Their boots were left at the door. A tinny clock rings out. Both wake with a fright - and then get another at the sight of each other. Soft chuckling warms the room after the alarm has finished. They struggle to get up oﬀ the seat, crumbling into a tangled mess on the floor. A little oof escapes the man. Their legs are freed - after some bickering. The woman bounces up onto her feet and bounds into the kitchen. She boils the kettle and paces sluggishly until the squealing has finished, admiring her many mismatched cups and saucers in the one cupboard under the sink. Stepping side to side to line up the stream of water, she slowly fills two browning mugs with hot water and drops a ping pong ball in each one. Satisfied she carries them back into the living room. He looks up at her from the ground, sprawled out awkwardly and rubbing his face to shield the red emanating from it. The woman giggles and places the drinks on the table. She takes his hand in hers, a perfect fit, and lifts him to his feet. His body screeches and shudders on the way up. Unable to control herself, she cackles and sticks her arms out to mimic him. He turns a pale yellow and plops down onto the sofa. Eventually, a shrill clap ends the awkward silence, followed by the low whirring of a CD on its platter. A soft symphony circles around the two of them, warm mugs clasped between cold metal scoops, and their eyes form smooth lines. The tin man reaches out and touches the woman’s face, his steel clinks against her glass. Taken aback she pokes his 69

screen. Another clink. They blush, smiling coyly at one another, and then look away. Both find their eyes wandering back to the feather in its shrine. Its pearly veins shimmer fearlessly in spite of the sooty backdrop of the world outside. The pair find themselves back at the diner. Upon entering they are greeted with hushed muttering and averted gazes, and the little girl uses the front door to shield herself from them. That same waitress meanders towards them, the flicker of a grimace on her screen. She motions to them to sit at the breakfast bar for the second day in a row, this time they do without protest. The old stools squeak under their weight. The woman teeters atop the rickety metal and the man places his arm in the space behind her, she finds her balance and looks up at the board in bewilderment. He points to the perplexing bowl he ordered the day before and gives a thumbs-up. Unconvinced, the woman smiles and shakes her head. She orders “waﬄes” and brightens with childlike wonder when the concoction is placed before her. He of course orders his bowl of oily soup. The waitress side-eyes them before retreating to the kitchen. But the pair are too busy babbling away over their meals to notice, they’re miming the events of the day before and laughing at each other. The other customers relax and go back to their own breakfasts. The man gets up and selects a new song on the jukebox, another mellow country song. He poses in his cowboy boots, pretends to tip his cap, and saunters back over to his seat. The woman covers her mouth to hide her grin. Her stick eyebrows raise when she sees the hand reaching 70

out towards her, the dancing cowboy beckoning her to join him. Slightly flushed, she politely declines but is already being pried from her seat. Clunkily, he spins her around using both hands, and she clomps around in a circle on the checkerboard tiles. Face to face for the first time, they squirm under each other's gaze. She threads her arms around his neck, knocking the hat oﬀ his head, and looks out the window. He cradles her as they sway together. The closest they’ve ever been to another being, yet impossibly far away from one another. She relaxes and rests her head on his shoulder, scratching the surface ever so slightly. A deep glow of pink radiates oﬀ them, dancing at its core and oblivious to the dumbfounded stares of those around them. They sway as one unit, completely out of sync with the song but perfectly in sync with each other. He cups his hand behind her head and strokes her makebelieve hair. She closes her eyes and nuzzles into him. The soft breeze outside carries a pure white feather in through the window. The little girl picks it up and smiles.

ABIGAIL ELIAS 71

WRITERS. WILL ANDERTON. InDUMONI BURAGOHAIN.

CALLUM CADDELL. CALLUM CARRIE. ELLIS DAVID. BILLIE DEEN-OWEN.

ABIGAIL ELIAS. ALICE GARDNER. EMMY HALLAHAN. RORY LUCK. DAVID NICHOLSON. ELLIOT PREECE. 72

THANK YOUS. Thank you to Sarah Maclennan, Caroline Smailes, and the LJMU Creative Writing team. My gorgeous sexy committee - Alice Gardner, David Nicholson, Callum Caddell & Ellis David. Thank you so much for always showing up, and for letting me rant about font choices multiple times a day. I owe you all a pint. Also, thank you to Beth Bennett, for listening to me bitch about this every day since around October. It means a lot. JMSU for funding the printing of this zine, and AllPrint Services for printing it for us.

All the contributors: Will Anderton, Indumoni Buragohain, Callum Caddell, Callum Carrie, Ellis David, Billie Deen-Owen, Abigail Elias, Alice Gardner, Rory Luck, David Nicholson, Elliot Preece. You’re all incredibly talented, and you’re going to go very far. And thank you to Cora O’Gorman, for not only being very willing to have a chat, but also designing our fantastic logo!