These Pages Sing: Winter 2025

THESE PAGES SING WELSH LITERARY MAGAZINE Angela Arnold. Carl Griffin. Caroline Renkes. Cheryl Beer. Elizabeth Lockwood. Ines Benelghazi. Jack Rendell. Jude Brigley. Leigh Manley. Lloyd Edwards. Mike Everley. Nick Pallot. Ryan O'Neill. Aneeta Sundararaj. Lindsay Comer. Jamie Harper Harrison. Ian Forth.

Cori Smith-Pimlott

WINTER 2025 | ISSUE 02

THESEPAGESSING.CO.UK

Table of Contents.

POETRY

Angela Arnold Climbing the Past Dark Carl Griffin A Welsh Churchyard Caroline Renkes Honour Killing National Trust National Betrayal Cheryl Beer Rising Lark Elizabeth Lockwood Due Date

Ines Benelghazi Ceffyl Dŵr Jack Rendell Nightly Undisturbed Dryads’ Prayer Jude Brigley Safe The Scrumpledina Leigh Manley Momentum Golden Boy Lloyd Edwards The Vanishing Mind Mike Everley Gravity Restoration Nick Pallot ANAMNESIS Ryan O'Neill our year / ny resolution

978-1-300-60215-6 Imprint: Lulu.com

SHORT FICTION

Aneeta Sundararaj Son Of Lindsay Comer (Dis)Enchantment.

Perry Wyatt Editor Kornelia Urbaniak Cover Designer

Jamie Harper Harrison Lamplight Ian Forth Dickie de Veer’s Last Serenade Mrs Clocker’s Lament Cori Smith-Pimlott King of the Dead

CLIMBING THE PAST ANGELA ARNOLD

That head-on slope, nibbled to green, slippy. OK. That particular gorse scrub, though, as if it could still be nevergrown, a barrier unthickened? Could still be the scratchy funnel, breakthrough point, to otherwhere?

Ankle twist then would be a sure-as-hell break today. But here’s the giddy downward now, strewn with sharp glints, every step still negotiated by the same explorer, identical sun striking the lone Silverwashed Fritillary, basking for a whole tweny-year day. There now as I power past the turn, do the whole trudge of What Was for a fast four miles. Until nan’s garden intrudes with its lesser set of butterflies, newly marshalled grass.

ANGELA ARNOLD IS A WRITER, POET, ARTIST, A CREATIVE GARDENER AND AN ENVIRONMENTAL CAMPAIGNER. HER POEMS HAVE APPEARED IN PRINT MAGAZINES, ANTHOLOGIES AND ONLINE, BOTH IN THE UK AND ELSEWHERE. FIRST COLLECTION IN BETWEEN: ‘INNER LANDSCAPES’ AND RELATIONSHIPS (STAIRWELL BOOKS, 2023). SHE LIVES IN NORTH WALES.

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DARK ANGELA ARNOLD It's not enough, this beside-me-sitting, all cosy and sofaish and sharing. Take, you say.

But I need what you don't get: dark, darker.

It's disorienting, this no-overlap, all barbed with misunderstanding. Go on, you say.

But I can't compromise on darkness.

It's no small thing, this under-ripe chocolate choice you insist on: milk, you say, why not?

But I can't imagine life together at less than 70%.

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A WELSH CHURCHYARD CARL GRIFFIN In the absence of your body, mine never moves and is never still; my gossamer bones are pulled to this churchyard intermediary.

We can’t lament what is dead without raising our glass to life, without carving a falling leaf’s trajectory. A Welsh churchyard, it always brings you to mind, your smile the blade of grass sticking to the epitaph, your kiss the creak in the gate. You attend each time I run to church.

Since the escape of your soul, mine’s a pew minus a hymnal, secret passage minus a torch.

Help a tired grump to stand, flare a dream into the fog.

Give it something else to dig, this old spade I call my hands.

Carl Griffin is from South Wales. His first poetry collection, Throat of Hawthorn, was published

by Indigo Dreams Publishing in 2019. His booklength poem, Arrival at Elsewhere, written for charity with the help of one hundred poets, was published by Against the Grain Press in 2020.

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HONOUR KILLING CAROLINE RENKES She believes the words of her people, even when they speak a foreign language in the lawmaker’s homes, or when it travels, eagerly buzzing, through the static of her mother’s television. A tongue older than pen and paper but cannot keep up with the twisted slang of today.

A plot was offered to her people, and they were asked to graciously shovel the grave of their neighbour’s.

In the Gorsedd, at the top of the park, a spirit once told her the lessons of her ancestors.

The wisdom of a hundred years exchanged for a short whisper or a shy bite of the meal her mother made her mother. Laid to rest in the original plot of her people.

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National Trust CAROLINE RENKES

A trip down Oystermouth road, from Swansea town to Mumbles, horseshoe shaped bay stealing glances to a sea that sparkles in a hot sun making its treasure known, inhaling low clouds in the autumn greyness in a way that makes one long for the short dark days. At low tide each ripple in the sand a space for a pool of reflection – orange lights like a warm beacon back to land. The mercurial days of Singleton Park where fog that whispers through branches leaves suddenly blue skies and rich green foliage.

Ghosts of greetings and pleasantries whisper through streets’ narrow passages tripping over uneven ground.

Loose pathing stones remnants of a past not forgotten.

The hearts of Swansea’s people laying bare on the streets, willing to be lapped up by neighbours at every passing.

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NATIONAL BETRAYAL CAROLINE RENKES A trip down Oystermouth road, from Mumbles to Swansea town, entry site inflammation as the salty wind from the bay bites the veins like battery acid.

The heart of Wales annexed and deprived of air, protected only by thin skin stretched over cracked ribs, seeing the world through red eyes and constricted pupils. A city who decompresses by decomposing the very blood that runs through its veins.

Honeycomb bridge turned bitter and flashing lights dulled a façade, drawing the visitor’s eye to shapes of hypnotism, obscuring a city built on foundations laid by those who care not for those who live upon them.

Laid by those who would drain the sea of all its life for one treasure.

Swansea’s perishing people laying bare on the streets, tripped over as gazes point towards the horseshoe shaped bay.

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Rising Lark CHERYL BEER The lark sang sweet with every morning One song cascading to the next Her heart a melody, unveiling with every stranding of her nest The sun shone bright for merry tune The rain wept tears, wet, and full The men and women, child & children Wondered at the lark’s sweet call But then, one dark and desperate morning Her voice had left her overnight Without the tune, without the melody Her wings fell short, could not take flight She lain upon the forest, weeping Held by soil, cloaked with leaves Breathing in the moss & bluebells Bathing in the trickling streams Soon she felt great Mother singing Beating in her heart and soul Did not notice ears a-ringing Knowing love within the whole Dear Gaia filled her veins with hoping Listening now, in other ways Pulse that beats beneath the bark Brimming rivers fill her days Rustling gentle, dancing leaves Seagulls call across the waves The roll of oceans, salt & seeded The soulful call of human praise Now she flies, but not so high Deep inside she hears the call Though the highs are met with lows She’s learnt now, how to fall And in that falling, she has risen Not as phoenix, but as bird Though her voice is but a whisper Inside, she knows the lark is heard

Since her hearing loss, Cheryl Beer has unearthed a new career in ecomusicology & conservation filmmaking, interested in the relationships between music, sound & nature, but before this, she was a singer/songwriter, composing music & penning lyrics. Her lyrics were taken from little notebooks scattered around her home, filled with her poetic ramblings, and even though she no longer writes songs, poetry has become a way of consolidating her relationship with nature as it deepens and grows. Rising lark, is her first poetry submittance to a publication. It has embedded within it the story of her hearing loss and how nature heals her. She hoping it inspires others to recognise the importance of the natural world to our wellbeing.

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Due Date ELIZABETH LOCKWOOD

Pretending that we walked along wooded paths, pausing to hear messages carried on the wings of blackbirds and robins Brushing my fingertips along all the evergreen growth, feeling the smooth and the rough, breathing deeply and talking to you in rhyme Draining from explaining, exhausted from holding on to future thoughts, unable to face the overwhelming light of outdoors any longer Sitting glued to the sofa, praying desperately, mindlessly staring, or driving, listening to the radio but only hearing the same song Focusing on the flames in the fireplace, sure that an image would appear, watching the wind take the ash away, hoping it would also take the fear Watching the sun setting over the sea and town, the colour disappearing to blackness, spending time holding your imaginary hand Writing your name on each star as they emerged through the kitchen window, marking a cross on my forehead with coal dust Drowning my hands in the washing up bowl, while the water spilled over the sides, flooding the whole house

Elizabeth Lockwood is a writer interested in the duality of life. Of how happiness and sadness coexist and how grief informs and changes our realities. She has written three collections of poetry, studied English Literature for seven years, is a mother of five, and lives by the sea in Carmarthenshire

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Ceffyl Dŵr ℧ INES BENELGHAZI

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INES BENELGHAZI IS A YOUNG BRITISH-MOROCCAN WRITER WHO IS CURRENTLY A STUDENT AT CARDIFF METROPOLITAN UNIVERSITY. SHE IS CONCERNED WITH SOCIAL AND ECONOMICAL JUSTICE, PARTICULARLY AROUND BRITAIN AND THE ARAB WORLD. SHE ENJOYS DABBLING IN WITCHCRAFT, MAKING ECO-FRIENDLY CRAFTS AND CREATING POEMS ABOUT WOMEN WHO SEE THEMSELVES IN EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING.

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Nightly Undisturbed JACK RENDELL

Goodnight, sweet friend. The sun has set the merryblossoms in the soil.

The embered sunsets in the grate will warm you as you flopside snore, so do not bark, for it is late.

I’ll meet the sandman at the gate.

At witchlock time when foul things stir and dare to prowl about the lands the monarch waves his dreamtide mace and strokes the boundaries with his hands.

Don’t bark, my friend, for it is late.

The Flump King’s come to ward the gate.

When twilight creeps across the plains between the flumpwoods and the gorge, spirits form-twist, sure as fate with thirst for hearts like mine or yours.

Don’t bark, my friend, for it is late.

The fiends are foiled at the gate.

When midnight packs its bags and leaves, and memermoths decamp the moon, I know the swishsoft sounds they make remind us both of nightrobe croons.

Don’t bark, my friend, for it is late.

It’s not a Dark Doon at the gate.

Before the dawn, at flipside dusk when oojies don’t yet snuffle-yawn, stir slow as dreams evaporate because you’ll yet see many dawns.

Don’t bark, my friend, for it is late.

It’s not the reaper at the gate.

Well, not today at any rate.

Jack Rendell is a poet and fantasy writer raised in Mid Wales. His poetry explores imagined topographies and fantasy concepts through the lens of nonsense verse and is inspired by Welsh and other mythologies. His writing has appeared in Electric Reads, Wandrian MA Anthology and Cheval 12. Jack works in a primary school near Aberystwyth where he lives with his wife Alice and their menagerie of animals.

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Safe JUDE BRIGLEY I was saved by the woman on the store’s checkout, reminiscing about my dead mother, by the old man who waited and held the gate as I limped up the path.

I was saved by reading ‘Persuasion’ after walking on the Cobb without incident. Also, by the woman on YouTube who slipped on the diving board, setting me laughing as she emerged from the water, her hair in shock. They say no one is coming to save you, but salvation is waiting in the wink of the moon, a fossil in limestone, muttering of trees on windy days. The crows on the roof track my tardy progress, in tamping harsh rain, that incites the rising of a new day.

Jude Brigley is welsh. She has been a teacher, an editor and a performance poet. She is now writing more for the page and tends to write about her town, its history and her memories.

Her poems have been widely published in magazines such as 'Door=Jar', 'Gyrosope', 'Blue Nib' and 'Scissortail.'

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THE SCRUMPLEDINA JUDE BRIGLEY i.m. Dorothy Watts 1902-1981 My grandmother keeps a jar of sweets by her chair. And on Thursdays, after school, I meet her at the market, carry her goods home.

As a treat she buys my stash of cherry lips or parma violets. Futile to resist the sherbet fountains and liquorice sticks, lemon bonbons and lightly dusted Turkish delight, jargonelle pear drops and striped Everton mints in jars and boxes. Beside her chair, behind glass the faces of the sweets push up to have a view, while in boxes, like rows of cinema goers couched in cushioned luxury, chocolate confectionary waits for my grandmother's sweet tooth to suck the sugar from the day.

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MOMENTUM LEIGH MANLEY

It begins at low tide as opposing sides of the same coin, silver glints twinkling a glow of artificial moon-flood, challenging probability’s persuasion for head or heart. A sweep of expectation hurtles a wall of sound, waves roaring emotion. Wind wets a whistle. And it’s off, it’s going, not knowing in this moment’s shift what will seem obvious to punters as they stare into the bottom of their glass a few hours from now.

It feels its way slowly - among late arrivals, restless diehards, neutral observers warming their souls to foreign flames enemies long strived to extinguish. It feels, it feels, it feels. Searching in the shallows of art and science borders, rarely sure of timekeeping or whose side it is on. Until, in its own fickle image, it ups the ante with turnover tackles to steal wind from ribsails, turn south dials of self-fulfilling prophecies. And then, as language of defiance gives way to throbbing sparks, it really gets going, sets in motion chain reactions, transmits electricity in sharp tastes pooling in the froth of tireless spittle. Fizzing bones, flick-tingling skin. It embraces mercurial, glitters endeavour, makes heroes of valour.

Senses align as occultations, velocity’s formula propelling forward today’s matter, displacing centuries of doubt with a grab for intuition, a concession time has sprung. And it’s almost tipping the tilt when glides a final surge: climactic shadow sequences and a question of nerve for hometown hoodwinkers who hold no memory of experiments they’ve conducted in rough and tumble, the weight of emotion necessary for the pendulum to swing back against the grain.

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Golden Boy LEIGH MANLEY Virtuoso from another season: he’d glide green as razors skim thighs; effortless, nonchalant, poetry in motion; glistening in the slick swell of styling-wax, Saint-Tropez smoothing his touch of je ne sais quoi, not a spike out of place among rough and tumble. His silk hands brought the razzle-dazzle, as did a siege gun boot and bones forged of iron.

Brethren often misunderstood his artistry, his ability to step from the shadow of his easel, slow the scene to sunbathe mode, brush off criticism with a sweep back to the pallet to paint himself lazy for the adulation of day-trippers basking in the afterglows of hits, tricks, winning kicks.

Forget bronze complexions, silver boots: he was something else, our golden boy.

If only for a moment.

Leigh Manley is a working-class poet and creative facilitator from the Llynfi Valley, now living in Cardiff. He writes for both adults and children and is passionate about championing working-class narratives and perspectives. As someone who turned to poetry following ill-health, his writing also explores themes of recovery, rediscovery, and ableism. His poems for adults have featured with Poetry Wales, Ink Sweat and Tears, Red Poets, The Seventh Quarry, and various anthologies. He is especially proud to see his poems featured within two anthologies of firsts in Wales: ‘Yer Ower Voices,’ an anthology of poems in dialect from Cymru, and ‘Beyond/Tu Hwnt,’ an anthology of writing from deaf and disabled people in Wales. His poems for children have featured with The Dirigible Balloon and Northern Gravy. Thanks to support from Literature Wales, Leigh has recently established a new writing squad in Maesteg for children in Year 7 and 8.

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The Vanishing Mind LLOYD EDWARDS

On the longest day Not knowing when it begins or ends Faces merge into each other The entangled vanishing mind

It's what brought you here It's what keeps you here The cruelty that is; the ever fading Vanishing mind

Here we are Here we sit As the daylight fades to grey As the memories fade away But there is still your smile Despite the vanishing mind.

Lloyd Edwards is a member of Elysium writing group in Swansea. His works include traditional and experimental poetry and short fictional stories.

His main interests are nature, and the psychological nature of the human condition.

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MIKE EVERLEY

Mike Everley was born in the mining valleys of South Wales and now lives in Swansea. He has had fiction and poetry published in the Anglo Welsh Review, New Welsh Review, Poetry Wales, Outposts, Cardiff Poet, Undiscovered Poet, Entheoscope, Poetry News (Poetry Society), Lothlorien Online Poetry Journal and 5-7-5 Haiku Online Journal etc.

One of his poems was recently published in Acumen and he will have poetry in this year's issues of Red Poet and The Seventh Quarry. He has also had articles published in general, specialist and literary magazines and journals. He regularly reads at Open Mic events in South Wales. He was a member of both the NUJ and the Society of Authors before retirement. He has tutored on courses run by the London School of Journalism, RRC and Writers' News.

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Restoration MIKE EVERLEY Taking the Stanley Knife to the old chair it feels strange not to cut skin to feel blood ooze from the wound.

But that was then. This is now.

The foam padding retains your shape.

Slashing frenzied into it till the wooden frame is free of every vestige of where you sat.

Even the flowery fabric lying discarded at my feet retains your smell.

Binning it and returning to the task with metal gun in hand stapling new foam, devoid of shape, then brass tacks hammered in to hold the bold embroided material in place.

Standing back surveying my work.

A new chair lacking memories stands in the same old space waiting to be filled.

But locked inside my mind the past remains beyond the knife or gun.

Less easy to reach.

Almost beyond repair.

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ANAMNESIS NICK PALLOT

Moving here, I’d hoped, would halt the drift, my identity be fixed and final as its abode, transitional no longer, the ultimate resolution, not another indeterminate episode, my new grand-daughter nearby, beyond only the Atlantic, a conscious termination of the road.

In morning sunlight, from my new home high above The Bristol Channel, I’m amazed how clear the Devon coastline looks, close enough, you’d think, to glide across to, so glazed, so smooth seems the water as glass or ice, so clear too those seaside family holidays, the hermit crabs, the limpets in the rock pools that receding tides cut off at Woolacombe, the blennies, mottled, all bone and gristle, more splinters of rock than fish, a whole ecology safely marooned, fortuitously landlocked, the very forces that might have submerged it leaving it immune to their unruly fluctuations. For us children the ridge of giant pebbles at Westward Ho formed a groyne against the future. There, light as the seeds of valerian and sea kale breezes blow waywardly about the shoreline, we took root, each at a surf-board table in a towel-upholstered hollow scooped from the stones. In baggy draw-string trunks, when the sun appeared, we tested the waves as tentatively as I recall cars crossed the ford near the farm we stayed at, baptised into a new reality, axles and hub-caps cleansed by pure water of old accretions, as we were, glistening from the sea.

The immediacy of scenes so distant astonishes me, as if all those haphazard intervening years I drifted through, as fondly as a seed imagining any suspicion of a crevice, a cavity, might cohere into a habitat, have ebbed away, almost consciously it feels, delivering me at last washed up near the coastline of my childhood, as if a memory of the future, implanted early, invisible as a spore, had shaped my life’s trajectory, its destination, as a child’s burbling rehearses the coastline, the contours of a language, the unique sound-world it will inhabit, fundamental to meaning, mapped already at its core.

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Nick Pallot, a retired teacher, has recently moved to Swansea from Kent to be near his family who work here.

OUR YEAR / NY RESOLUTION RYAN O'NEILL

Ryan O’Neill is a writer from Cork, Ireland and based in Cardiff, Wales. He enjoys writing short fiction and poetry and his work has featured in Ink, Sweat and Tears. You can find him on both Instagram - roneill9414 - and X - @Roneill1994.

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Son Of

Aneeta Sundararaj Content Warning: The authentic dialogue in this story, which is based on personal accounts about a man’s loss of self-worth and self-respect, contains swearing and may cause offence.

By the time I retrieved the documents from the A3-sized brown envelope, my lawyer, with her burgundy-coloured fingernails, was already back in her seat at the Bar Table on the other side of a low, shellac-painted wooden barricade. The topmost one was the reason we were all gathered at High Court 6 (Family Division), Court Complex, Jalan Duta, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Dated 24 September 2024, my full name – Manickaselva s/o Ambattan – was listed as the Petitioner for this Divorce. s/o.

Son of.

Two letters with an oblique inserted in between allowing anyone at all to instantly identify my race (Indian) and religion (non-Muslim). According to Tamil custom, I had no family name – my surname was my father’s name.

What would Appa, my father, have thought of all this?

After all, I had started this. I was to blaNo. I couldn’t and wouldn’t go down that road.

I hadn’t expected this. Married and possibly childless, yes. But never divorced. Still, this morning, for the first time in a long while, I’d found something good in the reflection from the bathroom mirror. Staring at the eyes that were similar to my mother’s, Appa’s bulbous nose and thick, coarse hair, I had smiled.

Court clerks exchanged files; lawyers of all shape, genders and ethnicities converged to exchange documents, negotiate deals and/or prepare for their cases; a policeman rubbed his eyes so as to remain awake. I wondered if Appa had the same sense of apprehension the day he went to court some thirty-odd years ago. *** At 6.39 a.m. on 14 February 1993, Ambattan s/o Cinnasamy tugged the collar of his crisp white cotton shirt, arranging it across his shoulders. With one hand, he ran a plastic comb over his hair. With the other, he smoothed down errant curls.

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“Your hair not only makes you look good,” he said to a boy watching him as intently as only an impressionable teenage son in awe of his father can. “It is like a map of your feelings. If it’s white, you’re stressed. If healthy, it’s smooth and shiny. If break-” “Come. Breakfast,” my mother interrupted us.

Appa put down his comb and said, “Let’s eat.”

Some twenty minutes later, with bellies full of homemade idly, sambhar and chutney, we hopped onto his motorcycle and headed for the sundry shop at the entrance of Harvard Estate on the outskirts of town. Formerly a rubber plantation, the South American fungus had long destroyed the trees resulting in the land being sold in 1979, the year of my birth. Now, my father headed a group of former rubber tappers keen to get what they believed was their due. The land mass of Harvard Estate spanned ten hectares and was once home to one hundred families. When it was sold, seemingly in haste, the transfer papers recorded one registered owner.

Workers like Appa were neither notified of the sale, nor compensated; they were merely issued eviction notices.

For a long while, this didn’t matter because, by virtue of the new owner’s grace and at my mother’s insistence, we still visited the estate every month, especially the Hindu temple. My mother believed that her prayers were always answered when she worshipped this deity, in this temple, and in this estate. Appa, ambling along under a canopy of expansive foliage, told me stories of opening paths through dense vegetation, the difference between edible from non-edible fruits, how to find potable water and how to avoid predatory cobras lurking in the undergrowth.

With the passage of time, the new owner, wanting to move overseas to be closer to his children, was desirous of divesting himself of all encumbrances including ownership of Harvard Estate. His intention to subdivide the land into hundred different lots was subverted by bureaucracy. In accordance with piecemeal government policy, the local council deemed that Appa and his former colleagues, by virtue of being Indian and Hindu, were ‘not sons of the soil’ and couldn’t own land in their country of birth. My father and the former workers of Harvard Estate decided to hold a protest.

It happened in mere seconds. The tractors careened onto the land and headed straight for Appa and his friends. He moved of the way when the front of the claw was six inches away from him, fell to his side, breaking the impact of the fall by landing on his outstretched hands. At that moment, a policeman brought his baton down on my father’s left leg. The abstract of a police report filed later to support a subsequently unsuccessful claim for damages stated that Appa’s suffered from a gash on his forehead and his hands were lacerated. The latter seemed inconsequential at a glance, but proved to be a turning point in my family.

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“Why did this have to happen? What are we going to do now?” My father’s lament to my mother a few nights later filtered through the thin walls into my room. I imagined them lying next to each other with my father, holding up his bandaged fingers. Unlikely to ever be nimble, he was probably wondering how to continue providing for us. His thriving barber’s shop had allowed him to pay off the loan for our single-storey, semi-detached home in Taman Syed Mokhtar in Alor Setar. But there was nothing to tide us over the proverbial rainy days. I fell asleep to the sounds of my parents’ soft weeping.

Many years later, when I was interviewed by a newspaper about how I started in the men’s grooming industry, I said the following: “When I was fourteen, my father decided to recruit me. Every day, after school, while other boys played football or went for tuition classes, I spent time in my father’s barber’s shop. It a small wooden building, next to the famous Yasmeen Pokok Ceri restaurant. Many of our customers would order their nasi biriyani bungkus and, while waiting, come to our shop for a cut or shave. In the beginning, I only swept the floor and cleaned the brushes with boiling water. Slowly-slowly, I learnt from him. Followed his style. Like this funny thing I must do with the scissors – snip, snip, snip three times before I actually cut the hair. If I don’t do this, I don’t know why, I cannot cut the hair.”

What I didn’t tell the reporter was that for two years after Appa’s accident, and a much-reduced income, there were days when we ate nothing but rice and soya sauce. The money saved paid for my school books and tuition classes because he wanted me to get the kind of higher education he couldn’t. Most of all, I saw the light go out in my father’s eyes and watched him limp from customer to customer. Often, he’d say, “We shouldn’t have fought.” Having justice denied merely because of his race and religion ate into his soul. I told no one of all this, not even Hema. ***

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I looked around the auditorium of University Kebangsaan in Kuala Lumpur. The only seat available was one in the third row, right in the middle – the worst possible seat. I wished I could tell what the lecture had been about. The awareness of the lecturer’s eyes boring into my back as a result of my tardiness, made me keep my head lowered for the rest of this introduction to a degree in Bachelor of Business Administration. An hour later, when the auditorium was devoid of students and lecturer, I walked out into the bright sunshine only to bump into a girl who introduced herself as ‘Hema’.

“Are you okay?” It wasn’t the words she said. It wasn’t her hand on mine. It wasn’t her smile. It was her voice. There was concern in it. So unaccustomed was I to such a show of emotion that I was instantly drawn to it.

As was the case with every romance, we proceeded along a well-plotted route from ‘get to know each other,’ ‘study together,’ and ‘dating’ to ‘meeting the parents’ and ‘getting engaged.’ All these within the space of four years, and as university students.

“We will build our business from scratch,” she said.

“We will have the best brand for men’s hair care and grooming services,” she said.

“Together, we will never fail. We are a team,” she said.

It was as though my dreams had become her dreams.

Nevertheless… *** Was twenty-four the right age at which to get married?

This was precisely the question I asked myself as I watched my bride, decked out in a bridal red sari shimmering with hundreds of sequins, walking towards me. Even as she took the final three steps to reach the makeshift kalyana mandap, a noughtpoint-one percent of me wondered if my apprehension was normal. No one, it seemed, in the run up to our wedding, had noticed how quiet I had become with conversations lasting no more than three sentences.

Okay. I will take you to the temple.

Come. Let’s go to the market.

Dinner? Not hungry.

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A university friend who now worked as an F&B Manager had helped me out with this whole wedding thing. He’d spoken to his boss, who’d spoken to his boss, who’d spoken to the big boss to give me ‘a good deal.’ It was the only way we’d been able to afford both a Hindu wedding and the ensuing reception at a 5-Star hotel in the city.

Appa and my mother, standing to one side, smiled their approval at my modern and city-born bride, and were poised to throw uncooked rice (the Tamil version of confetti). When the priest handed me the thali, I took it with due reverence and, with much fanfare, tied it around my bride’s neck marking our union. Returning Hema’s rictus grin with a wide smile, I pondered the orderliness of my past and the complete uncertainty of my future. *** In those early days of setting up our up our flagship salon in Bangsar, where I catered to cutting hair, shaving and grooming our clients, Hema dealt with the marketing and branding. She would stand by the main door and hand out A5-sized booklets. “Marketing materials,” she called them. I was stunned by the amount of research she’d done when I read the Introduction she’d written: ‘Here at SuperSalons, we believe that our hair is an extension of our being. It is the conduit that connects us to the universe and our soul. Therefore, our highly trained stylists won’t only style your hair. The hair care rituals we recommend and practice are tailored and personalised to suit your needs. Our stylists will engage with you and will become the keepers of your trust in the care we provide.’

In the following pages, she would list our ever-expanding range of products from imported aftershave balms and shaving cream bowls to brushes and custom-made razors. With all her effort, SuperSalons was turning a profit in less than a year. Firmly on the proverbial ladder of success, we paid off the business loan in the next two years and she began to prepare a business plan for, in her words, “global domination.” ***

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One day, some five years into our marriage, she flung open the door to my study in the condominium unit we bought above our salon.

“Guess what?” She held her iPhone, a new status-conscious acquisition.

I jerked my chin forward, as if to say, “What?”

“I’ve been chosen. My friend, you know, Shobi? Financial planner? She is the one who nominated me.”

“For?” “I am going to be the next Vice President of Fortune Wheels.” Within two years of setting up our business, Hema had become a staunch member of this organisation that supported women entrepreneurs.

I leapt out of my chair to hug her, mighty proud of my wife. She more than deserved this for she was one of the most methodical and organised women I’d ever met. She didn’t fling her arms around my neck, but put her palms up, as though to push me away. Surprised, I backed away from her and watched her leave the room, uncertain of what had changed between us. While life seemingly carried on as normal, no longer did we do things we used to do, like make eye contact. *** “Eh? What’s this?” I pulled an Order Sheet from our manager’s hands on a seemingly non-descript day in 2008. Actually, I’d eavesdropped on their conversation and sort-of-knew what they were discussing. “Why you order this shampoo? Different from our normal one.”

“I decided.” Hema’s tone was dismissive, as though she was well-aware that I’d stood outside the office door for a full minute before walking in. “You don’t get involved.” She pushed a lock of her newly coloured brown-verging-on-blond hair behind her left ear.

“Hema.” I kept my tone steady. “I am the one who has to use it with our clients. You should have asked me about this.”

“Ask you?” She sniggered. “No need. I know what will happen. You will order the most expensive one. Like last time. All wasted only.”

I heard our employee hold his breath, probably wondering how to properly respond. I bit my lip, exhaled and handed the Order Sheet back to him. For the rest of the day, I busied myself with my clients – cutting hair, shaving and listening to their stories – all the while hoping that I’d successfully camouflaged my shame at being publicly belittled for a time when a client’s hair turned blue because I was foolishly bamboozled when a supplier claimed that ‘a new hair dye made from genuine henna extract imported from the US and worth RM10,000.00 was the best in the market.’ ***

29

“What?” I’d seen Hema snigger when looking at my reflection. I had been shaving when Hema walked into our bathroom with two newly renovated vanity suites.

Where were all the ‘hello darling,’ ‘sweetie-pie,’ and ‘babe,’ of when we were first married? It was the morning after we’d submitted the business plan and proposal for the second branch of SuperSalons to the bank.

“Nothing.”

I put the razor down, turned to her and said, “What is it? What is the problem now?”

She sighed, too, the kind a housewife gives when she’s bored with tedium. “Well…

You really want to know?”

“Ya.” “Look at you. I mean, you now have to bend to shave.”

I frowned. “What?”

“See.” She pinched my waist. “Fatty bom-bom.”

“Oh…” I sucked in my stomach, reached for the bath towel and threw it across my torso. I prayed I appeared nonchalant while hiding my shame.

“You look so old. Like fifty years old.”

I picked up the razor and continued to shave.

‘I’m only thirty-five, for fuck’s sake,’ I wanted to shout. Instead, I swallowed both my hurt and plans for a romantic dinner over the weekend. When I walked into our bedroom five minutes later, I accepted Hema’s gift of a gym membership, instead. *** Legs, hip-width apart.

Bend at the hips.

Knees bent.

Lift barbell.

Place barbell onto shoulders.

Inhale. Squat.

Exhale. Rise.

Grunt.

Repeat.

The meditative rhythm of this exercise forced me to block the destructive and divergent thoughts clogging my mind. And, whenever I grunted, it was as though I was expelling a build-up of angst and sheer frustration.

This couldn’t be because of …

Well…

The other matter.

No. No. No. I must not think of … it … her. Grunt.

But… Bullshit!

30

I dropped the weight to the floor.

“Hey!” The only other gym member during this ungodly hour before the sun rose completely shouted, startled by my sudden action.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, also apologetic for I was now swearing more than ever. I picked up my towel, wiped the sweat off my brow and walked to the lockers. With sports bag flung over my shoulders, I walked to the parking lot and got into my car. Once the engine was running, so as not to think, I switched on the radio and listened to the newscaster report about a dreaded virus that had the potential of ravaging the world. It had been given a name: Covid-19. I turned into Starbucks, parked the car, walked into the airconditioned building and broke the most basic rule of a postworkout rule – I ordered a breakfast full of carbs and a hazelnut coffee. Once I was settled in one corner of the café, I opened up my laptop and started typing. It was the only way I could think of to tell my side of the story.

Starbucks, Petaling Jaya 18 February 2020 My Shobi. My Darling.

It was but one afternoon. So much changed and nothing changed. There will be no order to what I write now for I need my thoughts to flow.

The nature of our meeting is known to all. Sure, it was unusual, and was as a result of your friendship with Hema. That’s how I saw you – Hema’s friend. It never occurred to me that you would become mine. I wish I could say that when I bent down to help you in Bukit Gasing, I felt an instant spark and it was when I began to open up to the possibilities between us. I felt nothing of the sort. I was helping a woman in distress and it would have been as though I were helping my mother or sister. Actually, I was more fascinated by the texture of your hair. I wondered if you fit the profile of people coily hair.

You are vibrant, no doubt. You’ve proven to me, at the very least, that there’s no predictable pattern to your behaviour. I know you’re your freedom is more important to you than anything else and you’re very good at carving your own path.

Still…

31

When the suggestion was made that we consult you for financial advice, I thought nothing of it. I mean, all the meetings were at our salon. Not once did we go to your office. Until that fateful day. I often wonder if anything would have happened between us if I, and not Hema, as usual, brought our files to you.

“Shall we have coffee?” Your question was so sudden I was taken aback. I couldn’t say a word and merely nodded. It became worse when you asked if I wanted milk and sugar. It took all of me to hold up two fingers. That was the best I could do.

You smiled, My Shobi. At me. No woman had ever smiled at me in that way before.

Not even Hema.

I am not sure what prompted you to say, “We should perhaps…”

If my shock wasn’t apparent when I first walked into your office to find how cosy it was, it must have been after you pressed a button and the doors slid open.

“This is a SOHO, darling!” I heard the laughter in your words. “Small Office Home Office. Home always has a bedroom nearby, no?”

“Oh…” Like an automaton, I let you take my hand and lead me to the room. I wanted to ask if you were going to seduce me. I wanted to know if there were things I should be careful of. I wanted to know how to hold you. I wanted to…

Instead, we sat down and you stroked my hand. I assumed that this was all we were going to do until I became aware of the deliberateness of your actions.

With your middle finger you pressed firmly down the back of my hand, then stroked upwards. Never had such a simple act been more seductive or pleasing.

Your sigh when your palm touched my chest. Your smile as you ran your fingers through my hair. The curve of your spine into my body. You wanted me. I didn’t recognise this need for I’d never experienced a woman wanting me before; at least not in the way you wanted – no, needed – me. I sensed it.

I should have said ‘what now?’

But no words came out. Instead, we stared at each other. Then…

How do I write the words?

Should I? I must, if only to process my thoughts. Let me try…

The setting, as I said, had already startled me. It wasn’t that it was shabby.

32

In fact, quite the opposite. It was luxurious. With central and silent airconditioning, there was none of the usual relief of removing my clothes because of the sticky feeling on the skin from our tropical heat. The sheets weren’t rough, but soft to the touch. There was even the scent of jasmine on one of the pillows.

The scene seemed to be set for seduction.

Your assumption that I shivered because I was cold was mistaken. I was, instead, in awe that this first for me was proving to be everything that I had never experienced. I could read your thoughts in every movement you made. Were you doing what I want? Should you be more daring? Or less daring? Would I be disgusted if you suggested … or disappointed? How would you compare with my past lovers? At that one, I had to laugh at the use of the plural. In the next moment, we switched to intense. Zips became unstuck, bra unclasped, nakedness was welcomed.

Subjectivity took over at that moment. I no longer thought of you. I no longer thought of what you thought either. I was all me. When we ‘merged’ (I can’t think of a better word), it was as though, having been separated all our lives, I had come home. I remember nothing more after that except a sense of surety and familiarity. I understood the meaning of making love and not merely being allowed to have sex. I wanted to weep from the emotions coursing through my body. I did try to explain it to you when we later lay on damp sheets. But it all came out wrong and twisted.

“The first time was never like this for me.”

“You mean you say this to all the women?”

“I feel so…”

“What?”

I wanted to say ‘alive’. Instead, in those moments when I hesitated, all the thoughts that we may have done something wrong crept into my mind. I was married.

This was meant to be a business meeting. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was only supposed to make love with Hema. My wife. Anything else and it was supposed to be ‘just sex’.

No. No. NO! I turned my back to you then. And away from what I truly felt.

No. Still feel.

At the time, I didn’t know, though, how to reconcile all this. So, I did the only thing I’ve ever known. I blocked my emotions and focused, instead, on work.

“Come,” I said while rising to my feet. “Let’s get back to work.” I didn’t dare look at you, but I could once again sense your thoughts: He’s walking away from me? After this? What did I do wrong?

How I wanted to reach out and tell you that everything with you, and about you, was perfect. It was me. I am in the wrong. Not you. I walked out into the office area and made a bee line for the kitchenette. I busied myself trying to make a drink. Coffee. Tea. Something.

33

You came up behind me a moment later, fully dressed.

“Stop.” There was much kindness in your voice. “You go sit down. Look over the papers. I’ll do this.”

For the next ten minutes, I tried hard to focus on the paper work. I couldn’t remember a word I read then. I can’t remember a word of it now. But I do remember this next bit in minute detail.

You walked over to the tiny table for two. You put a plate in front of me. In that short space of time, you understood my need and made a simple meal of toast with scrambled eggs.

No one will ever know that when I left your SOHO, I sat in the car park for what seemed like hours. And I wept. For my feelings. For the joy I felt in your arms. For the wrong I’d done my wife. Most of all, I wept because for the first time in my life, I knew that I wanted something more than what I have. I knew I wanted love and that wanting all but kills me each day.

That’s it, My Shobi. My Darling.

No. My Love.

Your Selva I left Starbucks that day with this letter in my laptop. As I took that first step back into the real world, I knew that ghosting her from now on would hurt Shobi no end. It would hurt me even more. *** The memory of few hours with My Shobi stayed with me, sometimes bright as a spark and sharp as dust in the eye. When the pain became unbearable, I picked up my favourite pair of scissors, opened and closed them three times. If they closed all the way, I’d tighten the screws to make sure the tension was correct so that I could control them when I trimmed hair. Whenever she called after eight, I never answered her call. When she called me during office hours though, I wanted so much to say, ‘Hello My Shobi’.

34

The best I could do was ‘Hi,’ then pretend there was static and end the call. There were times, though, when I simply couldn’t avoid speaking with her, especially when we discussed business matters, like the Movement Control Order being implemented which was catastrophic for the business. All the money we’d pooled together to open a new salon went down the drain. I always kept our conversations professional even though I wanted nothing more than to eliminate, altogether, the chasm between us.

It was impossible for me to admit, even unto myself, that the dream I thought we’d created when I first met Hema, had disappeared into the reality of a hopeless marriage. Sometimes, in the dim light of closing time, now that most of my loyal clientele had found alternatives, I would sit in one of my chairs and let my mind wander. I loved these moments when I didn’t need to censure my thoughts.

I imagined My Shobi’s whispers: Touch me. Hold me. Kiss me…

And I would reply: ‘We should build a life together. You and me. There must be more than this.’

Precisely what ‘this’ was, I still hadn’t a clue. *** When I entered the flat the day the Movement Control Order was lifted on 1 November 2021, Hema was still awake and in the kitchen. If I had to put words to it, I’d say that there was relief in the air. After all, we’d survived by keeping our flagship salon and letting the rest go. With this possible reboot of our business, it was a time to celebrate. I’d avoided Shobi for more than a year now. I’d avoided my wife. This was my chance. It had been so long…

I didn’t give her time to protest. Instead, I grabbed her hand and turned to pull her towards our bedroom. The metal spatula fell onto the kitchen countertop.

Having not felt our bodies in such a long while, two hearts beat, not in unison, but one faster than the other. I couldn’t figure out whose heartbeat belonged to whom. I refocused, trying to make our rhythms match. I refocused, trying to make our rhythms match. When she spoke – “Hurry up,” – the only person I wanted to be with in that moment was My Shobi.

I rolled off her and lay on my back. While my heart rate gradually slowed down, she turned her back to me, disappointment oozing from every pore of her being. She snorted derisively, which was her way of blaming me; she was saying that not only had I failed as a businessman, I was now a complete failure as a man. ***

35

‘You are not responsible for someone else’s bad behaviour. Not your wife’s or anyone else’s. You are responsible for your own behaviour.’

It was the mantra I recited daily from the last night Hema and I were ever intimate some three years ago, now. Whenever said the words aloud in front of the bathroom mirror, my shoulders became that much straighter; I lifted my chin that bit higher; and, I inhaled deeply.

When the courtroom door opened, signalling the arrival of the judge, I glanced at the Petition resting on my lap. Hema had asked for and been granted all my worldly possessions – she was the sole owner of SuperSalons.

Certainly, I was still ‘Son Of Ambattan’. Perhaps, it would be more accurate if I were ‘Poor Orphan Of Ambattan’ or ‘Ex-Husband Of Hema’.

“Are parties in agreement?” The judge’s voice boomed throughout the court.

I turned to My Shobi smiling wide and bright.

I could be ‘Happy Partner Of My Shobi’ no?

I smiled back.

It was time to live my best life, divorced or not.

Aneeta Sundararaj is the recipient of the Trisha Ashley Award in 2022 and the 2022 H.E. Bates Short Story Prize. She was longlisted for the Bristol Short Story Prize in 2023 and nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2024. The stories for these prizes / nominations are included in Aneeta's latest collection of short stories, 'Tapestry of the Mind and Other Stories' (Penguin Random House SEA, June 2024). To date, she’s worked multiple book projects and has contributed articles and stories to a national newspaper, magazines, ezines and journals. Her most recent and bestselling novel, The Age of Smiling Secrets was shortlisted for the Anugerah Buku 2020 organised by the National Library of Malaysia. Throughout, Aneeta continued to pursue her academic interests and, in 2021, successfully completed a doctoral thesis entitled ‘Management of Prosperity Among Artistes in Malaysia’. To know more, please visit http://www.aneetasundararaj.com. She occasionally tweets at @httags.

36

(Dis)Enchantment.

LINDSAY COMER

I want to tell you my tale.

A tale of true love so pure and sweet, it’ll rot your teeth just from listening to it.

A tale of love so…enchanting.

There’s none of that fairy tale nonsense, this is real, every last word, especially the last words, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

It started like every quiet Monday morning. With my bucket and brush, I was scrubbing the weekend muck away from the front of my parents’ bakery. A typical winter morning, the sky was grey, the bare trees of the park opposite, a stark contrast against it.

The sort of day that promised rain. Part of me wished the rain would have come sooner, so I could have gotten out of scrubbing duty. I’m glad my wish didn’t come true, I would never have been enchanted by her otherwise.

I heard a horse clopping up the main street and turn into our cobblestone lined side street, unusual for this hour as no homes had been built here yet and it was too early for our usual customers. The Tailors next door was still shut and the Greengrocers hadn’t returned from the market. A clearly cared for horse whinnied as the driver pulled on the reins and stopped on the other side of the street, it was pulling a dark Brougham carriage. It was a similar carriage to the one Tad took to deliver the bread, but it was in much better condition than ours. The driver hopped down and opened the carriage door, ensuring the step was secure.

I saw her gloved hand first, white lace with ruffled trim around her wrist. It was so elegant and dainty, I wondered what it would feel like to hold. Then she stepped out, ducking her head so her perfectly arranged golden curls wouldn’t be damaged. The dress stood out against the dark carriage, bright as the summer sky, the shiny fabric showing me my new favourite shade of blue. Once out of the carriage she smoothed her dress, fluffing out the bottom layers and large petticoats, careful not to show an ankle. I pretended not to look, a lady always needs a moment to make herself presentable after travelling by carriage. I looked back, an older lady who was clearly her chaperone, had climbed out of the carriage behind her. As they walked towards me, the nosegay around the chaperone’s wrist caused the scent of lavender to mingle with that of the fresh bread from our bakery. With steps as delicate as a dancer she walked towards me, her chaperone stopping her before they reached the water I had covered our side of the street in.

‘Good morning, Ma’am.’ I said greeting her.

37

‘Good morning.’ Her voice was beautiful. Two short words but they felt like a comforting cwtch. I looked around, the street was quiet and Mam was still busy in the bakery. This was my chance to hear more of her delightful voice.

‘Are you visiting the town?’

‘No. My family has just moved into the Manor house, do you know it?’ She sounded unsure of herself, a strange quality in a lady of her stature. The chaperone started fidgeting, like she was uncomfortable with the exchange, but I didn’t mind, I just wanted my lady to keep talking to me.

Of course I knew the place, everyone did. It used to be the home of the wealthiest family in the town, until they’d moved across the border. I’d heard rumours that the new family had a daughter, but this was the first time I’d seen her.

‘Yes. Tad used to deliver bread there each morning.’

‘Oh, it was your bread in the welcome basket. Mother said it was the best she’d ever had.’ She turned to her chaperone. ‘Can we take some back with us? Mother’s ailments have kept her bed bound since we moved in, I’m sure it would make her feel better.’

Her chaperone smiled and nodded, clearly eager for the interaction to end.

‘Yes, my Lady would like that. We can arrange for the maids to come tomorrow for more.’

‘If you have time to spare, Mam will be putting a fresh batch in now. It’ll still be warm when you get home. Of course, there’s some already baked if you can’t wait.’

‘Thank you. I have a private appointment with the Tailor, we will visit your bakery once the fittings are over.’

‘Lovely. I have other chores to do, so if I’m not around Mam will make sure everything’s sorted for you.’ I hoped I would be around, it wasn’t wrong to talk to such a beautiful lady if she was a customer. I had been practicing my small talk to impress a lady like her. She gave a small wave and headed to the Tailor’s store, her dress swished as she walked, creating a beautiful bell-shaped silhouette. The curtains in the front window of the Tailors store were still drawn but the front door opened as they approached. After watching her petticoats disappear behind the closing door, I turned to their driver.

‘We have stables behind the bakery. Would you like some hay or water for the horse?’

‘No, it’s fine thank you.’

‘I know how long the ladies can take, so if you need anything for the horse or yourself, our bakery is open.’

‘Thank you.’

With that, I threw out the remaining water in my bucket, grabbed the brush and went into our bakery, the shelves were full of freshly baked goods. Mam was at the counter, plain apron covered in flour and her hair tied up in a haphazard bun. She was placing cooled loaves and buns in to wicker baskets to join the others on the shelves.

38

I’d never expected to meet someone so beautiful outside the bakery. Ladies like her like to keep their affections close to their heart, but I could see from her little smile, that beautiful blush that her love for me is blossoming as beautifully as my own.

‘Mam! I think I’m in love!’ I declared as the door shut behind me. ‘She’s just moved into that fancy manor house. Oh, she’s beautiful.’

‘Oh, not again cariad, remember last time?’ There was unneeded concern in her voice, as if she’d forgotten what it had been like to be so enchanted by a new love.

‘You and Tad told me to follow my heart.’

Mam sighed, ‘Just be careful dear, not everyone is as understanding of your…quirks, as we are.’

‘But she’s perfect, and she’s from the big city. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’

‘I’m sure she seems perfect now, but her family is too wealthy for us to pay off if things go wrong again when you try to follow your heart. You’re twenty-five, you need to be thinking about settling down, with someone appropriate to who you are.’

‘Nothing went wrong last time. I was perfectly polite, just like I will be this time.’

‘Have you finished your chores?’

‘No.’ ‘Then off you go!’

As I passed Mam, I grabbed a fresh bread roll, slipping it into my pocket, and made my way to the back door of the bakery.

‘And stop dragging that dirty bucket through the shop!’ Mam yelled after me.

I didn’t care what Mam said, I was enchanted by her. All I could think about was her.

How her hair was the same shade as the hay we fed the horses, how her gloves matched the lace doilies we presented our fancier items on. I’m sure I am on her mind as much as she is on mine, it’s rare for two souls to be so perfectly matched. I knew before the year was out we would be married, none of my previous loves have been so enchanting.

I hadn’t seen her again since our first beautiful meeting but the lavender Mam had started to hang by the doors made me think my lady and her chaperone had returned for more bread. I always managed to miss their maids, Mam keeping me occupied with chores in the stable or storeroom, anywhere that wasn’t the bakery shop. I longed for the day we could speak again, I had been saving my pennies to make a wonderful start to our courtship, I just needed her to say that glorious word.

39

The day finally came, it was Monday and her horse and carriage clopped up the street again. I missed her arrival, if I let the buns burn Mam would take my pay and I needed all of my pennies to court a wonderful lady like her. With the buns out and barely singed I ran out of the door, wiping my flour covered hands on my apron as I tried to make myself presentable. I caught her leaving the Tailors, tissue wrapped parcels in her arms, her chaperone was by the side of her once again, a look of disapproval crossed her face when she saw me.

‘Good morning, Ma’am, you look lovely today.’ I greeted my lady with my best smile and it made her blush.

‘Go-good morning.’

I took a deep breath, knowing this might be my only chance. ‘I was hoping, I mean wondering.’ I paused, tugging on my apron and trying to remember what I’d practiced.

‘Afternoon tea, it’s new, I wanted to try, they say it tastes best in the company of a beautiful lady…’ I trailed off, it had all come out in a jumble, her chaperones glare had made me nervous. I was disappointed, I wanted to show her I could speak as beautifully as she did.

My lady laughed, a heartbreakingly tinkling sound. My heart stuttered, of course she would laugh, it was a stupid idea, but then, she smiled.

Oh, it was a wonderful moment, she asked me to try again, that she would help me out. She told me that her answer would be yes. I stared at her, my mind replaying the shape of her beautiful lips as she spoke the most glorious syllable. A lady agreeing to go out with someone like me.

‘Please, my lady. Would you and your delightful chaperone join me and my aunt for afternoon tea this coming Wednesday?’

She nodded, a delicate movement that caused her perfectly arranged golden curls to bounce, ever so slightly. I took a piece of paper from my pocket and with shaking hands, I gave it to her chaperone. I had laboured over each stroke, ensuring the letters were legible.

‘Here is the address, the table will be under my aunt’s name.’

I watched as the driver helped them into the carriage, such grace, such elegance, a truly beautiful lady.

I spent the rest of the day in a daze, Mam yelling when I burnt the third batch of buns in a row, but I didn’t care. My love, my enchantress, she had said yes!

Wednesday came and I took my time getting ready. I had timed it so I had bathed the night before, adding fresh rosemary with the discarded lemons to make sure I smelt as beautifully as she did. I put on my nicest outfit, it may have been a bit much for a simple afternoon tea, but first impressions were everything when courting such a lovely lady.

40

I told my Mam I was treating my aunt so she had no problem letting me take the day off.

My aunt’s friend, the one she lived with, was away visiting family and my aunt was looking forward to trying afternoon tea. I’m sure Mam was taking it as sign my infatuation was wearing off, I had barely mentioned my beautiful lady, afraid something would go wrong before our courtship had started. Mam always worried about me and the problems I’ve had with beautiful ladies in the past, she didn’t need to know the truth.

The afternoon tea was delightful, but not as delightful as her. She seemed surprised that my aunt stayed, but I know the rules, I’m not a degenerate. I know a lady would feel more comfortable if we both had a chaperone. I won’t share what we talked about, when you’re in love every word your beloved speaks feels so precious and beautiful. I’m hoarding them close to me so I’ll never forget the enchanting first step of our courtship.

I wooed her for the perfect amount of time, not too short, not too long. Although it felt like a giddy second, like we’d taken a breath in and by the breath out we went from courting to betrothed.

I had it all planned out, with our chaperones we went to the park opposite the bakery, our favourite spot. It was as if she knew it was going to be a special day, along with her usual lacy gloves, she was wearing the most beautiful dress. A new style, I had seen it in the Tailors when I went to pick up an order for my aunt. The dress was cream, and decorated with shimmering green beetle beads in the shape of leaves, the front was flatter than her usual bell-shaped dresses. I could almost make out the shape of her legs, the missing fabric was gathered at her lower back, the Tailor shop girls had called it a “bustle”, I’m not sure what that means, but the dress made my love look even more enchanting.

We followed the winding path to the pond at the centre of the park, where we fed the ducks, with stale bread from the bakery. I squeaked when a duck tried to take a nibble of me instead of the bread. She laughed and it sounded so free and happy. With the ducks fed we continued our walk, the trees displaying their finest spring blossoms. I waited until we reached her favourite flowers, the dahlias, a beautiful burgundy and white display.

She was positioned so they perfectly framed her beauty. I took her gloved hand, it felt so dainty and I got down on one knee, ready to utter those magic words all women dream of hearing.

‘I love you. Would you do me the honour of becoming mine and spending eternity together?’

I said it without a pause, speaking it confidently like it was the most natural thing in the world. She would never need to know I had practiced it for hours and hours, my nerves always getting the better of me and muddling my speech. She replied once again with that glorious word.

41

She smiled and teared up, letting me slowly slide off her glove, I was gentle so I wouldn’t break the lace, revealing the soft, blemish free hand underneath. I had chosen a gold crossover ring, drawn to the two small jewels, one for each of us, set in the centre.

The jeweller had used some fancy French phrase to describe the style of ring, but I wasn’t listening, it was shiny and just as beautiful as my love, I slipped it on to her special engagement ring finger. I knew my ring could never live up to her family heirlooms but she treasured it just as much. With her chaperones approval we shared our first kiss, just a peck on her blushing cheek but it was enough to make my heart soar.

My tale of love and enchantment is nearing its end, don't worry, I won’t keep you much longer.

We married within the month. Like our Queen Victoria she chose a white dress. She glowed as beautifully as the full moon as she walked down the aisle. Then our families broke bread together, mingling as if nothing separated us. Her beautiful smile never left her face as we spun and twirled the night away until we twirled right into bed.

I took care unlacing her dress, an heirloom in the making for our future children. Our first time together, well, you should never talk about a lady like that. The years pass quickly when you’re so happy and in love. We celebrated our first anniversary as a family of three, after welcoming a beautiful little girl. A handsome boy would follow by our second anniversary and we would live happily ever after.

Alas, that is not what happened.

It was all a dream.

An enchantment.

She never spoke that glorious word. She refused my afternoon tea invitation with a laugh and a look of disgust, like I was a freak for asking such a thing. She hurried away with her chaperone, as her laughter pierced my shattering heart. Her chaperone must have said something, I’m sure it was her parents who sent an old woman to my home. My parents had always been so understanding of my quirks, they wouldn’t have done this. They can’t have done this. Rows of pins, needles and knives were stuck around me as I lay in bed. The old woman undertook my disenchantment but for them it wasn’t enough. It didn’t work.

I had done nothing wrong but still I was dragged, sobbing, out of our home. A shabby horse, a cart with bars for windows behind it was waiting for me. Tad watched without a word, only present to make sure I left. Mam gave me a cwtch, her tears soaking my shoulder.

42

‘I’m sorry cariad, this is for your own good.’

‘But I’ve done nothing wrong!’

It didn’t matter. I was pushed into the cart.

‘Mam! Tad! Help me! This is a mistake!’ I screamed through tears, holding onto the bars as the driver flicked the reins and started in the direction of the lunatic asylum.

‘We love you cariad!’ Mam yelled as the cart rounded the corner and I lost sight of them.

I still see the life I could have had with her. I don’t want to be here.

Sat on this concrete slab of a bed.

All alone.

With only my voice for company.

I need to be out there, convincing her to love me.

Convincing my family that there’s nothing wrong with me, but they’ll never let me leave.

For a woman will never be allowed to love another woman.

Lindsay holds an MA in Creative Writing and is based in South Wales. Her short stories, flash fiction and poetry has been published internationally in lit mags and journals including: Gwyllion Magazine, Wishbone Words, The Unwritten, The Daily Drunk Mag, The Viridian Door, Litmora Literary Magazine, Scarlet Dragonfly Journal, The Dirigible Balloon, The Hooghly Review, Periwinkle Pelican and The Maudlin House. Her short stories also feature in anthologies including Laughs in Space (Slab Press) and Grimm Retold (Speculation Publications.) You can find her on Twitter- Lindsay_Writes3 or her website https://lindsaycomerwriter.wordpress.com/

43

Lamplight JAMIE HARPER HARRISON The coal dust gets everywhere.

Everywhere.

It mixes with your sweat and becomes sticky as tar. I can feel it itching in the corners of my eyes as I finish my shift and take the cage back up to the top. I can feel it coating my teeth. When I come in through the door, Mam always makes the same joke.

‘I can barely see you with that black on your face,’ she says and she kisses the air in front of me so I don’t get soot on her face. In the tub I scrub until my skin is baby pink and the water is grey, but I’ll still find it under my nails or in my ears.

Mam says I should be one of the girls, the way I spend all that time in the bath.

‘You’ll be borrowing my stockings next,’ she says.

It’s winter. Still over a month until Christmas. Its only my second winter since I left school and started working. I hated last winter and I’m not sure I like this one very much either. It’s the dark. I get dressed in the dark, walk to the pit in the dark, work in the dark, walk home in the dark.

The only time I see day is lunchtime, and even then the sky is dull and grey. There I sit in the canteen with my flask of tea and a potato or onion that I buried in a bed of hot ashes when I arrived that morning, baked until it is soft and steaming. ~ I arrive for work and I see a line of lamps in the dark. In the blackness the swaying lights are like those in the fairy stories that Mam told me when I was little. Stories like the one about the old man sent to sleep by fairy lights on a mountain road. He was carried off to the fairies’ underground kingdom and given a gift of riches. In the light, the riches turned to cockle shells.

The grim faces of the men are like masks. I copy their scowls, round my shoulders, spit.

It’s too cold for talking. Up and down the line I can hear spittle-flecked coughs. I stamp my feet on the frosty ground and rub my shoulders with my hands to keep myself warm.

I squeeze into the cage amongst the other men.

It goes down.

Down.

Into the deep dark.

I go ahead of the pickers into the tunnels and put up the pit props. They are nothing more than big timbers meant to hold up the tunnel roof. I place a lamp on the floor for extra light.

44

It casts gloomy shadows against the tunnel wall. As I drag and lift and hammer the props into place, I’m reminded of stories of goings on amongst the trees in dark forests. The boys at school used to tell stories about meeting girls there, or finding bodies half-buried, or people going missing.

I’m moving my lamp further along the tunnel when I think I see a glimpse of a white sheet in the light, behind one of the props. It shouldn’t be there. I go to look, but I’m stopped by a blood-chilling cry.

I run back up the tunnel in time to see someone, his hand caught in the winder that spirits coal to the surface. As the giant wheel on the surface turns and pulls the hoist, he is lifted into the air so fast. Then gravity takes him. His hand probably breaks as it comes away from the machine, and he drops. ‘Mam,’ he cries. ‘Mam.’ The dull smack of flesh on stone echoes. Everyone stops.

I didn’t know the man who died. But he had friends and a brother working there.

They were given the rest of the shift off.

‘For compassion.’

I carry on, but work is slow. When I have my baked potato for lunch it tastes like ashes. I must have left it buried for too long. I go home to Mam in the dark and tell her what happened.

‘There now, bach,’ she says.

Mam makes sausages with carrots, peas and gravy for tea. We sit together and she lights a fag while I tune the wireless. We eat in her smoke and she laughs herself raw listening to the variety show.

Dad used to make us sit in silence when we ate. ‘Old git,’ Mam said after he died. I don’t think she likes the quiet very much.

The wireless will play until God Save the Queen starts. By the second line she’s already out of her seat and turning it off for bed. ~ The following day I take my lamp and bring it with me into the dark again.

There’s a tunnel that has no more coal to give. I’m to go in and take out the props. I pry them out and return them ready to use in another tunnel. A couple of them will be no use again and they go to the furnace. I feel like a mouse pulling thorns out of a giant’s foot.

45

Here under the earth, we are goblins. Devils. Stoop-backed, we crawl through the muck, picking rough stone tunnels in the earth. All the time there is the sound of metal hitting rock. The coarse voices of the men boom and echo and die. We toil until we almost turn into earth ourselves.

Then when it’s dark, we are pried out of the ground and sent home. ‘It’s an honest living,’ says Mam. I think we’re godforsaken.

A white sheet flutters in the lamplight. A sheet covering a body is hidden behind the props. There’s a wet choking noise coming from under it.

‘Firedamp,’ someone cries out. Flammable gas.

There’s a rushing noise from the tunnels behind me. I’m close enough to see the flash of light and feel the hot air.

‘Maa… maa…’

A man twists on the ground. The skin on his face and hands looks like melted wax.

There is a stink of scorched hair. I find that I am retching.

That day I am sent home early due to shock. I walk home in the cold, grey light. Mam sobs when she hears.

‘His poor family,’ she says.

She gives me some brandy from the cupboard and cooks beef and onions for tea. ~ The foreman talks about negligence and responsibility.

‘How can there be two accidents in as many days?’ he says.

I don’t pay much attention. I take my lamp, walk to the cage and bring it down with me into the dark. I lift. I heave. I drag. I hammer. Repeat. The sound echoes in the tunnel like a sad dragon’s song. The light of my lamp makes my shadow look monstrous. I go to get another prop and, as I turn and see the cluster of timbers from ceiling to floor, washed of their colour by the light and dark, I am reminded of nails hammered into a coffin lid.

I hear that choking, then sobbing. It sounds like a woman’s sobs. It’s the white sheet again, draped over a person. Her shoulders shake, her head is bowed, knees drawn up to her chest.

I reach. There is a deafening crack and the tunnel falls towards me.

‘Mam?’ I say.

Jamie Harper Harrison is a Welsh writer who is fascinated by the fantastic and the uncanny. She has previously written comedy sketches and plays, and recently completed a Masters in Creative Writing. She lives in Swansea with her family and two cats, where she is working on a debut novel.

46

Dickie de Veer’s Last Serenade IAN FORTH

There was a sly note to Dickie. His fantasy had seemed impulsive and spontaneous at the time, the kind of thing an anguished lover might come up with after drinking a few beers on a hot summer night. I don’t want to get lost in the finer points, but looking back, I wonder if he’d another plan when he spotted me busking by the cathedral.

It was twilight after a sticky afternoon. I was playing my usual set - jazz and blues covers - in a side street where the stone walls provided shade. I prefer to perform in quiet spots. I see now that I was getting tired of playing the same songs, and it probably showed. I wasn’t feeling a sense of achievement at the end of the day. I wouldn’t have said there was a higher purpose in being a street musician, just a practical one. A bad day meant no money, and no money meant no food and nowhere to sleep. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t indolent or casual about my set - I rehearsed and practised every day but I wasn’t expecting passers-by to stop and really listen.

A trickle of tourists was browsing the shops. Dickie, in his mid-forties, was leaning in front of a shop window closely watching me. He was conspicuous in a crumpled blazer, baggy jeans and a pair of scuffed espadrilles, his forearm in a plaster cast. On the street, you learn to be cautious: I speak to no-one, and no-one speaks to me. He approached as I was putting away the loose change.

‘Apologies for my appearance. I’ve been dishevelled by the hands of love,’ he laughed. He introduced himself as Dickie de Veer, a professional singer. As I said, I’m wary of people, so I surprised myself when I asked if he wanted to go for a beer. It wasn’t that I felt sorry for him: I wanted some company. At first, he seemed hesitant, but then changed his mind.

‘How about the café by the market? It’s an unpretentious place.’

As I said, there was a strategic side to Dickie.

When we reached the bar, the light had faded, and the streets were deserted.

Discarded fruit boxes littered the entrance to the market and there was a fishy smell. We were alone apart from two workers playing cards, reluctant to go home. The beer was ice cold.

‘I loved your version of Saudade. I felt it matched the languor and sadness of the evening. Lyrical embellishments too. You’re talented,’ he said.

I wasn’t sure whether he was getting carried away or just flattering me for some reason.

47

‘Thank you. I appreciate that. I’ve been working hard on the song.’

While raising his glass, Dickie stared up at the dancing moths: ‘Well, here’s to my last night. There’s nothing left for me. I’m moving on tomorrow, catching the dawn ferry.’

I sensed Dickie was a great talker, so I leaned back in my chair and listened: ‘I came out here in May. The plan was to play the hotels - nothing fancy, just the rundown joints in need of a facelift along the coast. I have a wide repertoire - Sinatra, Cold Play, Cliff, Amy. I’m versatile. I’d corresponded with this local agent - Jesus or ‘hay-zoos’ as he calls himself - who said he could organise regular gigs, plus transport and accommodation.’

Dickie paused to rub his grubby plaster cast. His eyes were worn-out, watery.

‘Jesus squeezes six of us into a small apartment. There was a Cuban salsa band, a stand-up from the Isle of Wight, and Stacey, ’Stacey on Sax.’ That’s her stage name. It was a wasps’ nest, messiah complexes left, right and centre. The comedian hated the heat and bombed on his first night. The Cubans were a camp, melancholy bunch. But I fell for Stacey. I couldn’t help myself. She looks like a model - tall, blonde with strabismic blue eyes and freckles to make you melt. She has this berserk energy when she plays. It’s like a son et lumière show in your brain: fireworks, rockets, shooting stars, the works,’ he whistled through pursed lips, ‘It was her first tour abroad, so I took her under my wing.’

‘So why are you leaving? The season isn't over.’

‘I’ve got no choice. It’s time to head home.’

‘Where’s ‘home?’

He pretended not to have heard but swirled the beer round the bottom of his glass as if divining his fate.

‘It’s always the same story with women. They blow small things out of proportion.

She said I was possessive. ’ As Dickie spoke, I saw his face darken. His jaw line and high cheekbones gave him the look of a faded 1950’s film star, someone out of date, out of time, almost a fictional rather than a real appearance.

I wanted to move away from the subject of relationships as I’d had my share of disappointments. That summer, I’d met Anna, someone I liked. She was busking solo.

We had similar musical tastes, so we rehearsed some songs together before playing a few outside terraces. She was less technical, less suppressed than me in her style. I thought we melded well. I provided structure while she improvised. But then the balance started to wobble, and we argued about timing or what key to play in. We argued about mundane stuff too. I sensed her pulling away from me. She told me to be more adventurous, less rigid. I exasperated her so I tried harder to be interesting and unusual.

One morning she just picked up her guitar case and walked off without looking over her shoulder. Most of my relationships are like that: mirages, illusions with no substance that leave me wondering what went wrong.

48

Dickie interrupted my thoughts: ‘Why the long face? Oh, go on then. One more won’t hurt.’

When I came back from the bar, he resumed his story.

‘Of course, I should’ve seen the signs from the beginning. Jesus turned out to be a real piece of work. The minivan supposed to take us to gigs was clapped out. Stacey had no trouble getting a lift, but me and the Cuban boys weren’t so lucky. Jesus did bugger all publicity or social media. The hotels were desolate, and half-empty. To save money, he even doubled up as our sound guy but hadn’t a clue what he was doing. He kept changing the running order, asking me to sing matinees for mums and kids. There’s only so many times I can sing ‘The neck bone’s connected to the head bone’ . The venues cancelled at short notice. We weren’t paid. Desperate stuff.’

He closed his eyes.

‘One day, Jesus said that to cover the rent for the apartment, he wanted me to do some ‘small duties.’ To begin with it was things like carrying equipment on stage, doing sound checks, roadie stuff. Look, I’m capable of mucking in. I started in the music business sourcing gear for the Manic Street Preachers. I’m not proud. Next thing, he tells me a hotel manager needs someone to greet arrivals and to carry their luggage. I stared him in the face and said: “So, listen Jesus. I trained three years at the Royal Welsh College of Music. I’m a respected singer-songwriter. I’ve toured with musical royalty. I’m no hotel porter. I’m no lackey to Kevin and Ursula on a sweat-stained sun lounger.” I’m not a violent man, but I’d had it.’

He looked down at his cast as if it were a foreign object, before leaning in closer: ‘I know for sure that Jesus is pursuing Stacey. He’s had his fish-eyes on her from the start. He’d planned all those ‘small duties’, telling me to clear tables, do the washing up, compere the bingo, just to humiliate me, to push me over the edge, so he could get rid of me and move in.’

By this time, the workers had left, and the bartender was gesturing that he wanted to close up. Dickie had been talking non-stop and I thought his story was taking a paranoid turn. I felt restless and uneasy.

‘Look, I’m tired. I’d better be making a move,’ I said.

He looked downcast. As I prepared to leave, he blurted out: ‘Hang on. Stacey still needs me. I know for sure that he’s confiscated her passport. I have to rescue her, to get her back. ’ ‘You want me to help? To do what?’

‘We’ll perform a duo. Her flat is just round the corner. I know the perfect song : Les Feuilles Mortes. She’ll love it. Do you know it?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Grab your guitar case.’

49

‘Shouldn’t we rehearse?’

‘You’ve been rehearsing all your life. It’s the key of G minor. Standard ‘2-1-5’ chord progression. Just chuck in a few 7ths and 9ths. Work your magic.’

It was a cheesy, crazy idea, but deep down, I admired Dickie’s resolve to play the unabashed lover and take risks. In an alternative universe, it was a role I wished I was able to play.

After walking through back streets under a black and moonless sky, we found ourselves in a shabby holiday complex of identical two-story buildings. We walked past a dimly lit reception area where a security guard and his cat were sleeping, and stopped by a swimming pool, it’s water a Martian-orange colour from the glow of the streetlights.

Far off, there was the sound of snoring and a reveller throwing up. Stacey’s flat was shuttered and in darkness.

‘Let’s just check we’re in tune,’ Dickie began to hum softly. His eyes now gleamed with purpose. I get nervous enough playing on the street but in that eerie silence, I felt exposed, panicky. I worried that angry voices would tell us to clear off. Dickie brushed the shoulders of his blazer, straightened his back, and looked up at the balcony.

‘Okay, here goes.’

His voice wasn’t swooney at all; it was gravelly and much deeper than I’d expected. He didn’t articulate the words with definition but murmured them softly. He hadn’t lied: he was a professional.

I wish I could say the same about my accompaniment. Although we were playing a slow ballad, my timing was terrible: I stumbled, sometimes playing a chord too late, sometimes playing the wrong chord. There were several call and response parts that I fluffed. The truth was that I was out of my depth.

We had started the second verse when I heard a loud cursing: a woman’s voice with a marked London accent. The lights in the apartment came to life, followed by the sound of sliding windows being tugged open and a further string of expletives. I hesitated, but Dickie gestured with his good arm to continue playing.

Stacey appeared, running her hands through her long hair. She was naked and reeling as if half-asleep or inebriated. Dickie’s description was accurate: she was like a Nordic goddess, but an angry and red-faced one. She lurched forward and peered over the balcony. Dickie looked up with an expression of worship: ‘I see your lips, the summer kisses. The sunburned hand I used to hold.’

She leant even further over the balcony, reaching down as if to violently crush him: ‘Since you went away the days grow long,’ his eyes were moist.

‘Bugger off, Dickie,’ she hissed.

50

Her torso was now at a right angle to the balcony. I saw her toppling, falling, hitting her head on the concrete. I saw her lying face down in the pool unmoving. I saw the water filling up with blood. I saw Dickie standing over her floating body breathing something about a ‘winter’s song.’ I saw myself running away. I lost concentration.

Stacey flashed a final look of contempt at us, turned round and stepped back inside the apartment. Dickie looked up at the empty balcony: ‘Stace?’

We waited, my heart racing. No-one stirred, and except for the distant snoring, the night was silent again.

Later, as we walked the empty streets, a chill breeze blew in from the sea. The summer was sliding away. Somewhere, leaves really were ‘turning red and dying.’ Dickie was lost in his thoughts.

‘Do you need a place for the night?’ I asked.

He turned and stared at me solemnly: ‘Thank you for the offer, but I think I’ll head to the harbour. The ferry leaves early in the morning. Not long to wait.’

‘I’m really sorry.’

He paused as if reflecting on the night’s events: ‘Nothing to apologise for. You gave it your best shot.’

That was the last time I saw Dickie de Veer. I’ll never forget the way he sang from the heart. Of course, I knew I didn’t have the whole story about Dickie and Stacey’s relationship. I knew that he had kept important things back from me, but as he walked away, I experienced a twinge of guilt. Much later, I googled his name, but found no matches, no internet presence whatsoever.

Ian writes short stories, several of which have been published in journals and e-zines and have received affirmative reviews.

In a previous life, he was a university lecturer in Linguistics which allowed him to indulge his interest in language. He cycles and has written ‘Canal Conversations: Cycling on the Canal Des Deux Mers’ - NOT a guide book! Ian lives in Wales.

51

Mrs Clocker’s Lament IAN FORTH

All the children had experienced nocturnal sweating and nightmares about drowning in a thick black sea. A stream of parents telephoned the school in the morning.

‘Valerie refuses to come out from under her bed. What the hell?’ Mrs Tuck was on edge. ‘She keeps mumbling something about “the slurry, the slurry”.’

Mrs Samways rang to say that her Margaret had had a severe asthma attack and would be recuperating at home. Mr Bolt said he’d locked Christopher up in his bedroom, while Mrs Barton claimed her husband had tried to strangle her with his National Trust lanyard while she slept. Mr Samways had run up and down the street shouting ‘Gas attack!’ A contagion had spread through the village.

Mrs Clocker, head teacher at the primary school, responded fiercely to the accusations about her behaviour. She had done no wrong. When questioned by a selfsatisfied official from Her Majesty’s Inspectorate sent to investigate the incident, she replied, ‘I told them a story. In a way they’d remember. Something with a punch.’

‘Something with a punch? An interesting choice of words, Mrs Clocker. But words have consequences. You have possibly scarred these children for the rest of their lives with your story.’

Mrs Clocker responded bluntly, ‘Chance would be a fine thing. They’ll forget all about it soon enough.’ *** Having a school photo taken back then was a big deal. The children with their mop heads are carefully lined up in front of the flint and brick wall of the school building. They are orchestrated according to height and happiness, smilers in the centre, sulkers on the margins. In the photo, Mrs Clocker’s shadow hovers across the playground, a silhouette showing bow legs and a large head.

The children smile shyly in the sunshine. In the front row, small boys sit cross-legged in shorts and sandals. As the shutter clicks, Maurice ‘ants-in-his-pants’ Tuckfield’s legs spring out of control and he topples to one side.

In the back row, Graham Shrive, Kevin Voss, Richard Hawkins, aided by milk crates, are as tall as giants. In front of them, girls wearing short-sleeved dresses stand with hands laced together under their tummies, a palette of faded yellows, blues, and creams. To the left is a glimpse of leafy trees and elderberry flowers peeking over a privet hedge.

Like a flickering light, more names come into focus. The dark-haired girl with bushy eyebrows, skinny arms, and a look of resentment is Joy Loving. Standing proud in a buttoned blue blouse and knee-length skirt is Pauline Sprake, Mrs. Clocker’s star pupil.

Next to her, ‘Mags’ Samways, red-cheeked and plump, and behind her, Chris Bolt, whose passion was shooting rabbits.

‘I won’t let the creatures suffer,’ he used to say.

Next to Mags is June Barton, the prettiest girl in the class who everyone had a crush on, particularly Mags Samways.

52

Throughout the hot summer after the end-of-year photo was taken, the children of the village played football among the midges by the river until sunset. They played hide and seek in the churchyard, or they headed over the Peacock Bridge, throwing their bicycles down by the river to paddle among the minnows. Occasionally a breakaway group ventured over to Samways’ turkey farm and tumbled on the hay bales.

One day Mags Samways ran home wailing and upset. Someone – it was difficult to say who – had called her ‘a big fatty lard-arse’. It wasn’t the first time the children had made fun of her plumpness, but June Barton had always stuck up for her. This time, June laughed along hysterically with the others. Mags never forgave her.

Mrs Clocker had been the head teacher at the village primary school for seven years and was nearing the end of her career. The village, surrounded by rich fields and farms, was a world away from the Welsh mining town of her childhood with its misty-cold slag heaps, blackened faces, and thin, bony children. Despite her position, she was seen as an outsider by the locals. She lived alone. There was tittle-tattle as to whether she was divorced, a widow, or single. No one knew for sure.

The parents were nicey-nice and respectful to her face, yet she knew they spoke about her behind her back. However, Mrs Clocker took pleasure working with the children. She enjoyed their clumsy mannerisms, their silly jokes, and the warmth of their grubby hands when they danced in a circle. On sunny afternoons, she invited her favourites to her garden and handed out lemonade and cake, sending some on errands to the village shop. She knew that Malcolm Tuck and Richard Hawkins snuck up to her bedroom to root around among her private items, but she didn’t mind. She had nothing to hide.

She extended her heart’s kindness to the children in spite of the narrow prejudices of their parents. Yet after they left school, the children, now teenagers, blanked her in the street, walking past giggling, pretending that she – she who had comforted them after they’d soiled themselves – didn’t exist. She was treated as someone who emitted a rotten stink, someone of no relevance. What was the point in toiling to shape their young minds? Would they remember or value anything she had shown them? How quickly would they forget their shrieks of delight at the sight of creepy-crawlies in fallen tree trunks; the itchy coarseness and musty smell of the hessian sacks on Sports Day; the pulse-racing excitement of her quizzes; the mystery of the wobbly letter box she made for them at Christmas? Soon they would erase her name from their memories.

53

Mrs Clocker considered that the government of the day had been invaded by alien life forms. Instead of allowing her to use her own considerable judgement and experience, the Ministry now expected her to teach the children to read without knowing the alphabet. It was enough that they make sounds like parrots. It was all crackers. It had imposed a newfangled reading scheme. Yesterday afternoon, she had read some drivel from the scheme as part of story time.

‘The children played and played until Mother called them to see the big birthday cake…’

On this bombshell, Maurice Tuckfield, who suffered from toilet anxiety, started squirming. Only Pauline looked up at Mrs Clocker with adoring eyes.

She continued, ‘… with white icing and red roses.’

Trust the English to sneak in flag-waving bloody nationalism into the curriculum, she thought.

‘I had World Cup Willie on my birthday cake,’ Malcom Tuck, mummy’s boy and school show-off, shouted out. ‘“Now Bob was five and Billy was five.” So, who knows how many candles there were on the cake?’

Blank eyes stared back. She told herself not to blame the children; Billy and Bob were non-entities, their story unambitious rubbish. She should know as she came from a family of real storytellers. Stories were in her Welsh blood. As a child, her mother had told her tales that caused her to hide in a cupboard under the stairs: the man who roamed the village with a corpse candle, the tale of the little bird who sang without a head. Yes, real stories, they were. Deflated by Billy and Bob’s mediocrity, Mrs Clocker ordered the children to put their chairs on their desks, get their coats on and go home. As she walked back to her house, she wished she had the courage to scream and sob, but instead she maintained her usual mask of decorum.

Then to make life more miserable, every year she had to accommodate the freshfaced, enthusiastic trainees from the teacher training college. From her small office she could hear the children’s glee at painting maps of pioneer trails, making toilet roll wagons, or learning the Navajo words for ‘tree’, ‘mother’, ‘horse’ with their new young teacher.

Half of them don’t know how to spell those words in English, she thought. She tried to maintain a calm smile when the children, bouncing and up and down with excitement, asked, ‘When is Miss Lane coming back? We really like Miss Lane. Miss Lane is such fun.’

54

Mrs Clocker didn’t feel like fun and secretly hoped that Miss Lane got bitten by snakes on the Oregan Trail.

In the evenings she’d sit in her cottage watching her beloved Bruce Forsyth, a popular entertainer of the time with a slim waistline, pointy chin and rhetorical catch phrase. He was Mrs Clocker’s secret husband. Evenings were a time when she could let her mask drop and cuddle up close to her demons, a time when she imagined stories that would show the children the real meaning of awe.

That night the heavens opened and she slept fitfully. The river that flooded the graveyard every three years became swollen and rust-coloured. One hundred and fifty miles away, near her birthplace in the Welsh Valleys, biblical rain poured down the streets, lapping at the doorsteps. The earth started to move and slide. *** The school windows had misted up and steam rose from damp socks and jerseys.

Sleepy faces were in shadow.

‘Today is a dark day. Who knows why?’ Mrs Clocker began.

The children sensed that story time was going to be different today.

‘Picture little children, just like you, sitting at their desks in the morning. Close your eyes and listen carefully. Can you hear the clinking of the milk bottles? Let’s all say “Hello, Mr Milkman.”’

The younger children were relieved and repeated the greeting enthusiastically.

If there was a milkman in the story, Billy and Bob would surely make an appearance soon. The older children yawned.

‘The children are in their mackintoshes and coats because it is cold in the classroom.

Shivery cold. What do we do when we feel cold? We rub our arms up and down, don’t we? Their classroom is dark – just like ours - and their teacher, Mr Jones, is putting up a long division sum on the blackboard.’

‘Why is it so cold and dark, Miss?’ Chris Bolt piped up.

‘It’s cold because … looming high up above the village is a mountain, a monster of a mountain, and it’s as black as coal. It blocks the sun. The village is always in shadow.

There were workmen on top of the mountain and they saw something. What do you think they saw?’

‘Was it a deer, Miss? I know, I know … a snow leopard?’

‘No, there are no animals. There is nothing for them to eat, no plants or grass. It is made of coal, rock, and earth, and when it rains, the mountain bulges and moves. What the workmen saw was a deep, gaping hole. One of the workmen was very brave. He looked down into the hole.

“There’s something moving down there. It’s alive,” he said. Now, children, what he didn’t say was that when staring into the depths, he saw what looked like a colossal mouth with rotting teeth.’

55

Mrs Clocker’s story was taking a sinister turn. The younger children started to whimper. Where were Billy and Bob? Where was Mother? Where was the birthday cake with the sparkling candles?

‘The thing started to rise up from the crater, slowly at first, then getting faster and faster. A huge black torrent of slurry.’

‘What is “slurry”, Miss?’

‘Good question, Pauline. Slurry is dirty rainwater – like the bath water when you haven’t washed for a week – all mixed up with dirt and dust into a thick syrup with jagged rocks bobbing up and down.’

She had their attention now.

‘The sea of slurry erupted and turned into a wave that slid down the mountain. It got angrier and angrier.’

The whimpering became louder. Mrs Clocker stopped. Her gaze moved around the room with its high-beamed ceilings. She scanned the children’s drawings of tadpoles and frogs displayed on the wall, the music table with the xylophone, recorders, and coconut clip-clops, the colourful wooden building blocks, the shelves of Ladybird books.

Everything was familiar but blurred, out of focus.

‘In the school at the bottom of the mountain, the children were taking out their pencils to start their lesson. There was one little boy with big sticky-out ears. Can you guess what his name was? No? His name was Harry. Harry was very worried because he hadn’t brought his pencil that morning. But Harry stopped worrying about his pencil when he heard the roaring, deafening sound hurtling down the mountain. The windows of the classroom started shaking, so what did Harry do? That’s right. He rolled himself up into a tight ball and hid under his desk.’

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The whimpering became a steady moaning, but Mrs Clocker couldn’t stop.

‘The black wave swept away all the houses in its path and headed straight for the school.’

‘What happened to little Harry, Miss?’

‘Didn’t the children see the big wave, Miss? Why didn’t they run away?’

Mrs Clocker leant forward, thrusting her face in front of the children. As she spoke, droplets of spittle flew into the air and melded with the condensation in the room.

Graham Shrive, nearest to Mrs Clocker, felt a slight sprinkling of moisture on his cheek.

‘They couldn’t run. Frozen like statues, they were. There was no time. The wave was moving at an ungodly speed, and then for a second it held its foul breath before bursting through the windows. The noise was worse than the worst thunderstorm as the glass cracked, the walls exploded, the wood split. Everyone and everything was turned upside down and downside up and spun this way and that by the slurry. The school was buried … buried, it was. By the slurry.’

‘And little Harry?’ someone asked.

It was Mrs Clocker’s turn to stare blankly.

Silence. Maurice Tuckfield sat in a puddle of pee. Joy Loving was biting the flesh of her fingers. Pauline squeezed Valerie’s hand tightly. Tears pat-patted onto the stone floor.

The moaning turned into a caterwauling that rose and fell as the children tried to draw breath. Mrs Clocker, as if coming out of a trance, regained her composure.

‘Let’s say a prayer for the children, shall we? Remember, each of you will be little Harry’s eyes and ears now. His forever companion.’ *** After Mrs Clocker retired, she returned to Wales. The primary school building had been converted into private accommodation. The village was empty now, except when the 4x4’s arrive for the weekends. When Mrs Clocker passed away to the sound of the waves and the chimes of the ice-cream van in Ogmore-by-Sea, there were two photos next to her bed: one of Bruce Forsyth, and the other a framed school photo, its colours faded, of a group of children standing and smiling shyly in front of a brick and flint building.

Today, those in the photo – those who still draw breath – when waking up with stiff bones on a certain day in late autumn always feel a tinge of anxiety, as if a ghost is tapping them lightly on the shoulder, reminding them of the time, shivery and yawning far back on that October day, Mrs Crocker asked them to keep in their hearts something important.

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King of the Dead CORI SMITH-PIMLOTT

It was a Thursday evening in December. The village pub was dimly lit, except for the twinkle of fairy lights, scattered rays enveloped in swirling cigarette smoke. Some with broken bulbs, their festoons stapled to beams of varnished oak, casualties of the season —a Grotto for people who like ale, their red noses and pinched cheeks a dead giveaway.

Eryl Jones sat nearest to the fireplace, removed his fingerless gloves and convinced himself of the economic benefits of choosing to go to the pub instead of home for the night. No one to go home to, he thought.

All grown up, his siblings had flown the nest in quick succession, not sharing the appreciation Eryl had for Village life. His sister Edie had settled in Swansea and had a family of her own. He was invited for Christmas lunch over the phone the previous week.

Edie asked him in an obligated tone that spoke for itself, the eleven miles between them a chasm.

Truth be told, at that exact moment, he was thinking of his father. Twenty years had really flown. Realising his Embassy had burned down to a stub, he tapped it on the ashtray absentmindedly, watching the cherry drop onto the amber glass and collapse to ashes. * Arawn Jones had a booming voice that reverberated with the conviction of a much taller man. Broad and sturdy as a brick wall with a head of thick black hair, peppered with grey, he was ever the professional Welshman. Eryl’s father had been a joiner. The rest of the village would’ve argued that he was ‘the best joiner for twenty miles’, and they did so often that he etched it on the side of his Escort van.

He put food on the table by doing so, never having to stray too far for a job. Arawn rarely left Gower if he didn’t need to. He would proudly declare, unprompted, how he could count the number of times he’d been to Swansea on one and a half hands. The eldest of three, Arawn had followed his father before him, though only in profession. With two sisters, Arawn was the man of the house, who became the man of the village. * Eryl brushed calloused fingertips over the engraving on his father's cigarette case before flipping it open, thinking of every time he’d seen Arawn do the same. Earlier that day, Eryl had pottered around, read his paper with his toast, and did a crossword with tea. It got to Midday before he realised Edie wasn’t going to call. He pulled the cord out of the wall, committing to not knowing if she had tried.

Maybe she’d forgotten the day, more important things to think about. More people.

He deftly placed another Embassy between his lips, cracked and cold, and one behind his ear. A band was setting up in the corner as he hunched over to rifle in his shirt for a light.

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The pub was rousing with chatter. Seven O’Clock already. While searching, he was reminded of the contents of his jacket pocket. A dog-eared page, the colour of an old book, poked out of the top, mocking him. He pushed it back down. A figure passed him, took the cigarette from behind his ear, and sat on a stubby stool opposite. Eryl looked up to find Jarvo grinning at him, all wrinkled dimples, the glow of the fire through his mousy hair a halo. Jarvo lit Eryl’s cigarette with a tinny click, sliding a pint across the table toward him. Eryl nodded gratefully, warmed by the gesture, and smiled.

“Cheers, Er!” “Yeah, Cheers.”

Jarvo looked Eryl up and down. His gaze lingered on Eryl’s boots, noticing the muddy clumps that formed around the heel and toe.

“Now, where’ve you been?” Jarvo inquired, curious.

Eryl began to tell him. * Eryl climbed the stairs of the old farmhouse, the house he was born in and would die in.

Swatting the macabre thought like a determined fly, he carried on toward the door at the end of the landing—his father's room. He stepped inside. The skirtings were lined with dust. He usually didn’t like to spend too much time here, but he wanted to immerse himself, to quell the thoughts of his sister’s silence forming a lump in his chest. When he sat down, a faint smell of pipe tobacco and old spice wafted up from the divan. He didn’t dare breathe it in, in case it was the last remnants. In the far corner, next to his mother's old dressing table, was a stack of boxes piled high to the ceiling. Eryl selected the one labelled ‘Misc,’ set it on the floor and stared into its contents, the cigarette case glinting back at him. He picked it up, wiping and blowing at the film of dust around it. He dropped it clumsily with a thud that made him jump. It cracked open face up to reveal a piece of paper. His father's unmistakable scrawl dotted on a map, an X marked confidently in the top left corner.

When Eryl first woke up the orchard, he was eight. A man of tradition, his father led the procession of the Mari Lwyd to the corn mill each year, ensuring a good harvest for the village and beyond. Arawn shared this responsibility with four others; that year was his turn. Eryl would watch from the window as his father left the house at dawn with a flask of tea and a shovel, taking long strides through back fields freckled with sheep shit. He’d return a couple of hours later, twinkly-eyed from the resurrection, kissing Eryl's mother while she made breakfast before sitting at the table with his children and unlacing his workboots.

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He’d tell them stories of the Mabinogi and Arthurs stone, the radio low, punctuating the air with a soft crackle. That day, he told them how he unearthed Mari Lwyd up from under her Ash tree. She was getting ready right now, animating slowly, practising her songs. He suggested the children practice theirs. Eryl sat enchanted, his stomach a pit of magic. Edie responded with far less enthusiasm. She grew up to be afraid of horses. * Jarvo leaned forward, resting on his elbows at their table, listening to Eryl recall the events of his afternoon and the reason for his mucky boots. His friend listened to him, sceptical and bemused.

“So you got to the field, and it just…wasn’t there?”

“No,” Eryl said, folding the map and putting it away.

“And you’re sure you didn’t dig in the wrong place, Er?” Eryl sighed. “There was an indent in the soil.”

Jarvo blinked, unconvinced and probed Eryl further. “An indent?” Eryl surveyed the pub for a moment, feeling suddenly exposed. Indigo skies peeked through the bullseye glass in a smattering of lantern light. He searched the faces around the tables for any sign of knowing or an explanation, but all he got were friendly nods. He nodded to their neighbours and lit another cigarette, lowering his voice before answering his friend.

“An empty space in the shape of a horse's skull. She’s gone.”

They both leaned back on their stools and quietly contemplated what this meant or if it meant anything at all. Unable to come up with a reason or challenge, Jarvo broke the uneasy silence between them the only way he knew how. “Another pint, I reckon?”

“Please,” Eryl replied solemnly, his mouth dry.

“Something stronger?”

“Whiskey, too.”

“Right you are then.”

Jarvo straightened up and saluted before sauntering to the bar. Shakily, Eryl sparked another cigarette, the pit of magic stirring in his gut. The band played on, and for the first time that evening, Eryl listened.

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* Drunk and ambivalent, Eryl and Jarvo stumbled up the mound. The pub had kicked out just after midnight, long after the last orders bell. Eryl had pleaded with Debbie, the landlady, for one more drink.

Eryl had never been one to make a fuss or want for anything, so she’d obliged. Eryl was too intoxicated to question whether or not this kindness was pity. That little nagging voice had wandered far away.

Jarvo had offered to host once they’d been expelled into the night with the promise of rum and an unopened pack of cigarettes.

“Libations for Arawn!’ He’d joked merrily, swinging the paraffin lamp Debbie had given them, a scrutiny of their ability to get home in the dark. Ambling through the village, they felt like the only men alive. All of the lights in the scattered homes out.

Jarvo pushed open his front door clumsily, opening his arms and attempting to look welcoming. Jarvo’s cottage consisted of only three rooms.An open plan kitchen with a modest lounge, his bedroom, and a WC separated by a cold stone hallway. He gestured for Eryl to remove his boots whilst he removed his own, the wall steadying him as he did.

The brown shag carpet of the lounge hugged Eryl’s feet as he ensconced himself in one of two winged back chairs as Jarvo fetched glasses for their rum and kindling to stoke the fire. The cottage was shabby but not unpleasantly so and smelled of Jarvo and his work. Wet concrete and clay. Jarvo sat down, lazily prodding at the embers before passing Eryl a rum, brown and neat.

A cacophony of bells.

Eryl looked to Jarvo, inebriated and laughing to himself, poised to cheers. He hadn’t heard them. Eryl wondered if he were going mad or if he was just pissed as a rat and needed to go to bed. Nothing a good nights sleep wouldn’t fix. He stared into the gold of the rum, cinnamon teasing his nostrils and decided this would be his last drink of the night.

The bells jingled again, discordant and closer, accompanied by a tap tap tap at the front door. Eryl glanced at the clock on a wood-panelled wall, it was twenty to one.

He rose abruptly to his feet, dizzy with drink and floated into the hall to answer it.

Grabbing a lamp, he pushed open the door cautiously, taking a step back to let it swing outwards. And there she was. The Mari Lwyd loomed over Eryl, shrouded in a white sheet stained with time and dirt. A pair of black work boots poked out from underneath.

Eryl tried opening his mouth to speak, but he only managed to breathe.

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Tatty ribbons of red and green adorned with bells swept her skull. The bulbous glass of her eyes, a bony orbit, shone expectantly. Behind her, the infinite dark. He couldn’t make out a thing. It was just them. Her jaw snapped, incisors smiling a warped smile as she began to sing.

Our Mare is very pretty, let her come and play Her hair is full of ribbons At Christmas tide!

Eryl felt a chill from his crown to his feet at the ethereal tone of the pale horse before him.

And those boots. Entranced, he didn’t notice Jarvo stagger into the hall behind him, bottle of rum in hand. He laughed a booming shitfaced laugh at the visitor, slapping Eryl on the back, bringing him back to the present.

“Who’s that under there then?!” Jarvis bellowed to her.

“Helo Mari, Syt ywt ti bach? — bloody brilliant, mun!” The Mari Lwyd didn’t answer Jarvo, and repeated her pwnco once more. Jarvo clapped, entertained.

Eryl was mute, his heart hammering, eyes fixed on those boots. Boots he hadn’t thought of in over twenty years. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly. When he opened them again, his eyes glazed over with tears. He smiled through elated sobs, tasting salt and tobacco on his lips. Jarvo glanced from the visitor to see his friend, dewy faced and rushed to his side. The Mari appeared to watch them grinning from ear to ear. Jarvo placed both his hands on Eryl’s shoulders, shaking him gently. His breath smelled of cloves and lager.

“Eryl…Er… Are you in there pal?” Eryl stood, his stance welcoming and gestured for his friend to stand aside.

“Let her in.”

Cori Smith-Pimlott is a Writer based in Swansea, originally from Pembrokeshire. A communications manager by day, Cori is studying part-time for an MA in Creative Writing at Swansea University. She likes to explore grief, relationships, character, and place through horror and the uncanny in liminal spaces. She particularly loves an unreliable narrator paired with the horror of the mundane and is perpetually working on a short story collection

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WANT TO READ MORE FROM OUR WORDSMITHS? Angela Arnold In|Between (Stairwell Books, 2023) Carl Griffin.

Throat of Hawthorn (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2019) Arrival at Elsewhere (Against the Grain Press, 2020) Caroline Renkes She is new to the world of publication but is deeply interested in writing about Wales, politics, the human experience, and anything that might fit under the term 'existentialism'.

Mike Everley "Swallows" on page 33 of Volume 111 of Acumen (January, 2025).

"Coconuts" on the Cranked Anvil microfiction website.

"Winter Windfalls" in the Winter Solstice section on the Green Ink Poetry website.

Nick Pallot Nick Pallot, a retired teacher, has recently moved to Swansea from Kent to be near his family who work here.

Ryan O'Neill

Cheryl Beer Ryan O’Neill is a writer from Cork, Ireland and based in Since her hearing loss, Cheryl Beer has unearthed a new Cardiff, Wales. He enjoys writing short fiction and career in ecomusicology & conservation filmmaking, poetry and his work has featured in Ink, Sweat and interested in the relationships between music, sound & Tears. You can find him on both Instagram nature.

roneill9414 - and X - @Roneill1994.

Elizabeth Lockwood Waves of Stardust (Turquoise Quill Press, 2022) Rain and Leaves (Turquoise Quill Press, 2024) Ghosts of the Water (Turquoise Quill Press, 2025)

Aneeta Sundararaj ‘Tapestry of the Mind and Other Stories’ (Penguin Random House SEA, 2024) & ‘The Age of Smiling Secrets’ (Sundararaj, 2018)

Ines Benelghazi She is concerned with social and economical justice, particularly around Britain and the Arab world. She enjoys Lindsay Comer dabbling in witchcraft, making eco-friendly crafts and Her short stories, flash fiction and poetry has been creating poems about women who see themselves in published internationally in lit mags and journals everyone and everything. including: Gwyllion Magazine, Wishbone Words, The Jack Rendell His writing has appeared in Electric Reads, Wandrian MA Anthology and Cheval 12.

Jude Brigley Her poems have been widely published in magazines such as 'Door=Jar', 'Gyrosope', 'Blue Nib' and 'Scissortail.'

Leigh Manley His poems for adults have been featured with Poetry Wales, Ink Sweat and Tears, Red Poets, and various anthologies.

Lloyd Edwards Lloyd Edwards is a member of Elysium writing group in Swansea. His works include traditional and experimental poetry and short fictional stories.

His main interests are nature, and the psychological nature of the human condition.

Unwritten, and The Daily Drunk Mag to name a few.

Explore out the rest of her work on her website. https://lindsaycomerwriter.wordpress.com/ Jamie Harper Harrison Jamie Harper Harrison is a Welsh writer who is fascinated by the fantastic and the uncanny. She has previously written comedy sketches and plays, and she is working on a debut novel.

Ian Forth Short fiction in Scintillating Stories, Yorick Radio Productions, Syncopation Literary Journal, Akpata Magazine, Literally Stories, Lit eZine and The Mocking Owl Roost. Short story collection ' Hazlitt and the Mobility Scooter'' submitted for publication (2025).

Cori Smith-Pimlott She has previously written music reviews for the online zine We Are Cult and is a fiction editor for Divinations Magazine, a horror literary magazine released quarterly.

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Perry Wyatt Three books published thus far with the most recent being The Burning Tower (2024, Cambria Press).

Her poetry has been published internationally.

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Kornelia Uzbaniak Illustrations can be found at @paltry.dust on Instagram. She is also present on TikTok and Threads.

Kornelia is open for commissions and collaborations.

Submissions for our Spring 2025 Issue Open in March 2025

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These Pages Sing acknowledges the financial support of the Books Council of Wales and Creative Wales

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