Under The Fable, Issue 5 by Under The Fable

Issue 5, May 2016

An interview with Jeffrey M. Thompson Jr

A review of Under The Fable- A year on!

Note from the Editor

Hey readers, hope you have been well?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY UNDER THE FABLE! That’s right, this issue marks a year that we have been running! So within these pages, you will find a review of the past year, considering how each issue has looked and what work has been submitted by the writers. It will also show us how the issue has changed through the hands it was made in and what we had to consider when putting the magazine together. In other news, we have gained some new team members. (Welcome, by the way) Sam has become our new Prose Sub-Editor and has been on the ball with working through her stack of submissions in the office. Kiki has started as our Social Media Manager who has done an amazing job of getting us into new areas and learning the ropes of the old ones. I would also like to say thanks to my amazing team. I know we wouldn’t be here without them: Adam and Bethany - senior editors and some of the weirdest friends I have. Jennie and Sam- the Prose Editors, their excitement is contagious. Ghaz and Gavin - the Poetry Editors have had some very interesting submissions this time round. Kiki - Social Media Manager who has done so much already and I’m sure will continue to be as hard working. Dave- The in-house Illustrater who designed the front cover and the images within this issue, in the short amount of time he was given. We have finally got the tour dates sorted (woo) so just looking for performers. This has been a trying task in itself, but it is all done now and is slowly approaching. So I look forward to seeing you at one of our events. Enjoy the issue! Meg Editor in Chief Under The Fable

Our Team 2

Contents graphic short Black Friday Page 4-6

Dave Crane & Paul Want

Poetry Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17

Matthew Earl Wayne Parsons T.J. Dennett Treasa Nealon Reece Jordan Claire Sexton Peter V. Dugan Keith Davison Tamara Von Werthem Ghazal Cloudhary

Poems from a fractured mind Turd Heaven Darcey is Now The Same age as Lisa Simpson Our Generation Do not speak of love Preparatory School Manners Modern Americana Love is Darkness Poland by night Ambrosia

The Industry Page 18 Thawing the Icicles: A review Page 20 Living the Dream Page 22 A year at Under The Fable

Samantha Connolly Adam Ward Meg Shipham

Short Story Page 24 Page 30 Page 36 Page 44 Page 48 Page 52 Page 56

Maazah M Ali Hayden Robinson Roman James Hoffman Cameron Grace Gareth Davey Lydia Smart Alec Sillifant

Reflection Idolising Rebekah Kara Dead leaves from the Sea of Trees Silent Movie The Birdcage Faery Tail Snow White and The sudden Divorce

Final Words Larryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Poem Page 59

Larry The Cat

Black Friday

Dave Crane & Paul Want

Black Friday

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Poems from a fractured mind

Matthew Earl

Stagnating pools of indecision, blight my every day. silhouettes of phantoms, never go away. Romantic heroes upon white steeds, always out of reach. Primordial demons surround me, on my thoughts they leech. Sanity lies at the horizons edge, warped by broken dreams. In this dark nirvana, nothingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what it seems.

Turd Heaven I used to think turds went to heaven. It started when Dad flushed the goldfish away and the whole family gathered to say their goodbyes to poor Arthur, who lay dead on his side, and Dad said that Arthur was going to heaven.

Ghazal’s Editor Pick.

And so I was forced to redress my idea of what heaven is like – I thought of a sewer, in the clouds, or perhaps a cat litter? – and little turds went there as well as the soldiers and granddads and grannies.

And that set me thinking about the dead soldiers and poor crippled Granddads and deaf-and-blind Grannies: are they all up there still lying and bleeding with halos and deaf aids and surgical stockings? Or do the dead turn into beautiful children – and how will we know them if this is the case? So. I’m older now, but I’ve reached no conclusion: Heaven is either a beautiful playground with plenty to eat or a filthy old ghost town with shit on the streets…

Wayne Parsons

I thought turds were coffins to chicken and cattle and mashed up potatoes and Sunday lunch cabbage. I got very confused; I spoke to a priest. I said: “Do plops get halos for being good dinners?” and “Do they gain wings on nutritional merits?” I had nightmares of dead turds in deep conversation about the old days, before their digestion. Or maybe turds regain their old, former glories – and turn back into tuna fish, swedes and tandooris?

Darcey Is Now The Same Age As Lisa Simpson So you have never learnt to play the sax, nor have you marched outside a power plant; nor seen yourself immortalised in wax, and never do you hide from gruesome aunts. You’ve not felt pity for the boy in the class who didn’t get a card from Cupid’s sack; nor found your sporting aptitude on ice, nor bought your greyhound from the greyhound track. You’ve not turned your back on beef for Beatles, travelled to the White House or Down Under. You’ve no need for guilt when watching Cable; never have you met Winona Ryder. You’ve never watched your father buy a plow, nor have you seen your sister shoot his boss and never do you raise a furrowed brow as Daddy says he’s met the King of Pop.

T.J. Dennett

You’ve never grown a world inside a tooth, though Eden’s still a word you’ll often hear; you’ve never felt the need to seek the truth, nor quote the works of Brontë, Plath or Greer. Never have you fancied Dustin Hoffman, nor pinned your parents love on football games; thought you’re now as old as Lisa Simpson, the two of you will never be the same.

Our Generation They pull us out of rivers. They cut us down from trees. They find us on the seaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shores, when the tide brings us in. They bury us in silence, for whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s there left to say? The tears they cry will be cried again by someone else near the ending of this day.

Treasa Nealon

Do not speak of love Beth’s Editor Pick.

Do not speak of love. They have had that job and have succeeded. Your lover’s cheek is not as fair as theirs were. Nor do her eyes resemble the sun or the sea or God. No. Love’s checked off. Scenery’s a done-deal. Depression’s now charmless. Dystopia? Orwell’s to own. Can you not find the nonexistent? Anyhow, we’re dilly-dallying.

Reece Jordan

Come – write something.

Preparatory School Manners When I worked for a ‘respectable’ institution, with wood panelling and revolving glass doors, I hated the elitism, but was tickled by the remnants of preparatory school manners. ‘Is this yours?’ from the pinstripe and bowler, ‘Thank you ever so much...God bless you my dear...You’re precious, a gem... I’m not really au fait with computers and all that. Could you just do this for me; by letter, not text’. I need to be reminded of where I come from: coal scuttles and alleyways, not hedgerows and posh trees. Sospan Fach, not God Save the Queen. I don’t belong in that world. I live below stairs. I am cotton and not velvet. Pick n mix and cheap cola, not champagne and truffles. I wash in a bath not a ‘barth’. I get by with ‘a lick and a promise’.

Claire Sexton

Modern Americana Gavin’s Editor Pick.

This is the land of freedom of choice: Coke or Pepsi, light beer or dark, less filling, tastes great, Republican or Democrat, horse manure, cow manure, different crap, same smell. America is now a pie divided into eight slices, but there are twelve at the table, and three of them want seconds.

Peter V. Dugan

It’s all a game. George and Martha never had a son. Truth and illusion; it doesn’t make a difference, we still sit in the waiting room expecting delivery. Money is the new Messiah, greed is the national creed, “In G-O-D (gold or dollars) we trust,” but credit cards are accepted. The government of the people has been bought and sold. It’s strictly business, nothing personal. The heart of America stopped beating, the blood clotted, no longer red, now medi-ochre and pumped by the pacemaker of public opinion. And still there are those that believe that the only real American patriots are true blue and white (or least act white), and all the stars in the vast cosmos exist in Hollywood.

Love is Darkness When the eclipse comes I am the wrong side of the sun, too far to stop you bearing arms, too dark to make you see. But then emerging rays make your reflection holography and you say, ‘Don’t mention the weather’, as a rumble rolls inwards – equidistant with the sound of clanging bells, signifying a service of remembrance, my invitation discarded and muddied. So there’s a place where nothing exists, no black holes where I can hide, my cold sweat fingers locked around yours, as you lead me, blindfolded, on trust. Even a full eclipse produces a corona so I will follow you into the dark.

Keith Davison

Poland by night I wake up to the sound of breathing from below us, corridor or kitchen, it chills my spine, my hairs stand up, my heart beats fast and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m too scared to wake you up, sleeping beside me in case he hears you mumble words of waking. How could I explain this in the moments between sleep and terror?

Tamara Von Werthem

Someone is here, standing in the flat, breathing his terrible breath into the pure air that was floating around us and evil trickles into my blood; cold like steel and I get hot, trembling beside your unconscious body; and I can see him coming up the stairs with death on his handsa sawn-off shotgun, glinting blade and the curtains splattered with blood. I can see the headlines tomorrow and I am sick with fear: we are both naked and alone and he will torture us and kill us (because I know he will), I still am full of love for you and I am glad that we are here together now, when I slowly realize that this is not a breathing man, but the snow being moved outside. All is back to normal, you wake up, we switch the light on and I ask you to walk me to the toilet and look into the cupboards, just in case. Then we go back to sleep, your arm around me.

Ambrosia She never looked up from her bowl, while all I could do, was stare. She sniffed the spoon that held the rubies glittering in the ripples of my saliva. Hades laughed and I was torn away; the ghost of a story walking the underworld. They would throw bits of cheese my way and drip warm water from a pipette but I never looked away from the jewels they engulfed. I wanted a taste of that, to which I was denied a club-card. But I had only blood in my veins and desired the food of gods.

Ghazal Cloudhary

Thawing the Icicles: A REVIEW Review of Thirteen Years of Dust by Jeffrey M Thompson Jr This review is written by Samantha Connolly Flawed protagonists and half-botched cases are a crime thriller staple. We love them or loathe them but we read them, and we can’t stop reading them. And Thompson’s Thirteen Years of Dust does not disappoint. Fragile yet strong, kind yet sarcastic, Duke Bradley, Thompson’s own flawed protagonist, is likeable. He’s also reminiscent – in some ways – of Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch, due to his strong ethics and brushes with authority.

A book review

‘It was 4.30 am on a butt-cold Wednesday morning in November. Akron, Ohio.’ I think I fell in love with Duke from here onwards, really. From the very start of this book you are walking in Duke’s shoes, and I love it when a writer can make them fit. Not that these shoes are particularly comfortable, certainly not at first. But they become familiar, and you become attached. Duke talks you through the story. You get to know all that’s going on, all that needs solving; you know the score, the bad guys, what’s up with the good guys, but you feel like you were so busy chatting you don’t remember actually getting all this detail. As you read on, it very quickly becomes clear that Duke’s suffering from the loss of his work and his reputation due to his personal struggles. His partial acceptance back into his old world, therefore, together with a respectful flirtation with romance, are things you come to want for Duke, as you find yourself held by this man with his firm morals and gentle heart. A defeated ex-FBI Detective who, after a seriously gone wrong investigation, and the nightmare of Bay Springs, Mississippi, can’t stop the reel of pain that plays in his head. Duke’s lost everything. Determined to fight his miserable financial and personal circumstances, he finds a way to claw back some semblance of his life – and some cash in the process – despite the temptation and corruption all around him. And he wants to solve a case that needs true closure. Shriya, his partner, is a big help, and their slow blossoming mutual affection is beautifully narrated. Shriya’s understanding of this troubled man draws you further into his world and you’ll marvel at Thompson’s ability to convey this depth of feeling as you reach for your (now cold) tea. 18

Thompson’s skill in being able to transport you right to the heart of the action, and to communicate emotion through the details, for the duration of this book, is pretty outstanding. Through such small detail and description, Thompson has you wearing Duke’s Old Spice, choosing the tunes on the jukebox. You can feel the cold or wet in your bones as Duke does, you can almost breathe in Ohio itself. Thirteen Years of Dust tackles some very moving subjects, human trafficking and addiction. Whilst feeling a whole world of pain, Duke is forced to face a huge moral dilemma when he takes a life. His relationship with Shriya deepens at this point, too, however. She knows him, understands the internal battle he faces and the temptation of his addiction under pressure. Thompson’s examination of addiction can at times dominate the text, with the discussion surrounding Duke’s alcoholism often a little heavy. Despite this, Thompson still manages to strike a good balance.

A book review

Overall, this book reminds you what it is to be human and lose sight of your direction. It re-confirms what we see around us every day, people hurting – themselves and others, but also human kindness and love. Take this with you on your daily commute – just don’t miss your stop!

Living the dream:

An Interview with Jeffrey M. Thompson Jr

An interview with a poet

By Adam Ward There seems to be a tsunami of literature leaving the GenZ Publishing store cupboard at the moment. New authors and poets are finding their way to bookshelves all over the world. The latest addition to the library is author Jeffrey M. Thompson Jr (Or Uncle Bob as affectionately called by one of his contemporaries), his debut novel Thirteen Years of Dust hit the bookshops on the 27th of May. Under The Fable spared no expense in arranging an interview face to face with the Philippines resident. Yes, that is right, they lent me a webcam. The biggest surprise was to learn that Thompson was “extremely excited” about seeing his book published. Throughout the conversation he was as relaxed as a sloth in a hammock. It was like having a chat with an old friend. But yes, he was excited. “Extremely excited. Something I have been working on for twenty years, getting published. I have been saying “I want to be a writer”. My first book, I gave it my all.” Thompson reflected over the writing process for Thirteen Years of Dust. “I was surprised how easy it is to write a book when you put the effort in. The book started out as a 6,000 word short story, but when I hit 12,000 I thought of making it a novella, made 70,000 words and I had a book. I saw GenZ were looking for mystery stories so I sent it across.” Uncle Bob is a passionate fan of mysteries. “For Christmas as a kid I got a big book of Sherlock Holmes. Read it front to back. I love Agatha Christie and T.V. tough guys like Columbo. Thirteen Years of Dust is inspired by film noir, and Raymond Chandler. I wondered if that style could fly today.” Did any of these characters inform his protagonist Duke Bradley? Or did he draw his inspiration from other sources. “Duke Bradley comes from me, he is an alcoholic and I am an alcoholic. I am proud to say this as I am sober today. A lot of Duke’s thought processes are my thought processes.” But what about the rest of his cast? “Some are people I’ve known. One character is my Mum, Maryann Chandler. I often take names from Authors, like Jack Webb, the creator of Dragnet.” Thompson admitted at this point that he still listens to the old Dragnet radio shows when trying to sleep. “The character Shriya, her looks and mannerisms come from a very special Nepali friend of mine, but the fact she is Indian with a British accent came from the TV show Royal Pains.” Thirteen Years of Dust is the first in a series, so those who have bought the book have come at the start of a very special journey. “I’m working on the second now, the first is more about backstory. The second will focus more on the case. I will keep writing even if people stop reading, Duke and Shriya are a part of me. I have planned 108 Duke Mysteries at two a year!” But wait, that will take Uncle Bob until he is nearly 100 years old. Under The Fable had a burning question, the biggest question we have ever seriously asked a writer. Are you immortal? 20

An interview with a poet

“No” he said quite seriously, “I plan on living ‘til 110 so have a little retirement.” We at Under The Fable certainly hope that his private health care plan is good. But moving swiftly on, we started to chat about how he felt getting published. “I sent it, then forgot about it. A couple of weeks later, I get this email, I wondered who it was. I saw the first line “after carefully reviewing your work, we at GenZ have determined…” so I opened it up, thinking that it was my latest rejection. But I read it over and over.” The journey has been an interesting one for Thompson, almost like he journeyed to a different world. “I find this refreshing to be able to talk with other authors, and other like minds. Self-Publishing you are just trying to write, but you aren’t on the level where you can talk with like minds. With GenZ there is talent that has potential, and are driven. We are in our own little world, it is great camaraderie. We aren’t in competition, we need to support each other. I find that with GenZ, it is very uplifting.” Thompson also mused over what he has learned from the publishing process. “I have learned a lot about editing since being published, and the process is slower than I thought it would be.” Thompson had been chatting to me for nearly an hour by this point, and as he was at work (a computer shop in the Philippines where he gets to write his novels), it was a shame to have to end the interview. But, before I took my flight back to the UK I had to find out what advice he would give any budding writers. “If you want to be a writer, you got to read. Read a lot, read a newspaper, everything, because you will learn something. And keep the pen moving, it doesn’t just happen, there is no magical formula, you just got to write. If you are interested in finding Uncle Bob on social media platforms, he has a facebook page: www.facebook.com/JMTjrmysteries and he has very own website www.jeffreymthompsonjr.simplesite. com to keep up to date with this wonderful author, and downright cool guy.

A year at Under The Fable

- Meg Shipham It is time to crack out the party poppers, play pass the parcel, send in a clown, a bouncy castle, a juggler. We have even bought a cake. Why? Because today marks the first birthday of Under The Fable. Hip hip – hooray. Let’s skip to the part of the event where we are all drunk, sitting around reminiscing about the journey we have taken together. The friends we made, the issues we have released, the live events we have put on. Oh it has been a journey and a half, and after a year, I can only say. I love it. Under The Fable is the best idea anyone ever had. It started off, as all good journeys do, with beer. Gareth Davey (the first editor in chief) and Adam Ward (the second) were sat at a live poetry event when they first conceived the idea. In my mind it was one of those “hold your beer” moments. Starting a magazine was Gareth’s suggestion, the name “Under The Fable” was Adam’s. So looking at the first ever issue, Gareth’s front cover was the iconic black and white typewriter image. To us it presented the beautiful statement: “We are writers.” Larry the cat, our mascot, created by Ashleigh Morris (the social media manager at the time) wrote his first poem, printed inside the covers. Gareth also gave us the personalised effect of including the editors picks, showing that they have as much input as Gareth. Adam had put together a strong editing team for this seventy-two page issue, and Gareth brought me in as photographer. Take a look at our first issue, the good quality work that appeared there started the ball rolling and kept the team psyched for our second issue. In between the first and second issue, Adam and Ashleigh put together a poetry tour, visiting five cities across the United Kingdom, a review of which features in our second issue. Another typewriter front cover, which we came to view as Gareth’s signature. It was unfortunate that during the tour, Gareth announced that he would be stepping down as Editor in Chief for the third issue, the second being his last. The second issue was to be very different. Gareth decided that he no longer wanted black and white, and opted for a nice natural green colour. In keeping with the first issue however, there was an author interview and a review of a new book.

With another impressive 82 pages Gareth showed us where we need to be within the writing community.

I had a lot to live up to. I struggled with the cover page, but decided to keep it to the writer’s way- notebook and pen. I still kept some of the trails my predecessors made, the ‘what’s inside’ on the front and the more detailed content page. However I am a photographer at heart, so made it more visually appealing by moving the writers name to the side of the page and making all the fonts within the page different which allowed me to develop my own style of lay outing on this issue. I loved the graphic novel included in the issue before so asked for another, adding some adverts and introduced the poetry tour for this year. This issue had a clean design core, but allowed me to use my stickman idea (each editor had a different colour) where they were running around making a mess. I hoped this showed the playful nature we have as a team and as a magazine. Now with Under The Fable in it’s first year, and with me still at the helm. I look forward to another year. Our ‘Verse Case Scenario’ tour is reaching more places across the UK, and the work is still piling up. If you have been with us from the start, grab a glass of champagne. If you are new to Under The Fable, then make yourself at home. Things are about to get wild.

A year at Under The Fable

Adam stepped up as Editor in Chief, and changed the front cover and layout. Also under Adam, we started to review writing apps and other software. Adding his own personal touch, he included images of the team via the writer’s picks, and handwritten titles of the works. Within his new layout, Adam also introduced a graphic novel, which hadn’t been seen in an issue before. Adam would have undeniably loved to stayed on as Editor in Chief, but things were happening elsewhere. Adam and Bethany, and eventually myself, formed Lost & Found media, and have taken two other projects on alongside Under The Fable. Adam had to step down as editor in chief, and is working on launching rock website Dis-Kored, whilst Bethany McTrustery is in charge of the wonder My Student Style. I happily stepped up to run Under The Fable.

Reflections

Maazah M Ali

Samantha’s Editor Pick.

The phone rings several times while Madeline combs her grey locks, looking in the mirror at her reflection. She wonders how it was that she went from thirty-five to sixty-five. When did the years slip by? She looks at her body in the mirror, tries to lift her sagging breasts and hide the wrinkled stretch marks on her stomach. When did I grow old? And how did I never realise it. I thought I would be prepared. I thought I would know exactly when I became old. But one morning, I woke up with stiff joints that hurt in all weathers; whoever said joints only hurt when it rained clearly did not know what they were talking about. She looks past the brilliant light of the hot June sun streaming through her window and into her past. It seems only days ago she was walking around the park with Tom. She sees Tom proposing to her over a family dinner; everyone bursts into applause, though they already knew they would get married one day. They had been friends since childhood and were crazy about each other. Over the years she had taught English Literature in Kilburn where she lived. Harry had helped her. He would take Year 9 and 10 while she took sixth form. Together they would pore over books for hours, trying to find a way to make them interesting to teach. She’d grown fond of him as they sat lamenting their students’ poor knowledge, laughing over their mistakes. She’d gone to drop off some books at Harry’s place and ended up staying the night. Knowing that he still had feelings for her, Harry had left for America a couple of months after marrying Elaine. Madeline had never once thought about him after that. It was only recently she’d heard that Elaine had left Harry years ago. Madeline wonders how he is, and why she would think about him now. I am growing old. My memories are fading. I want to remember what my life was like, before I forget. Tom taught her how to drive. She’d always forgotten to release the clutch and the brake together, causing the car to stop with a forward jerk. They’d laughed at her numerous failed attempts. Of course within two years she was driving better than him. She’d always been competitive. She loved Tom. He drove her mad sometimes, granted.

Maazah M Ali

She liked it when they argued because he was nicer to her afterwards, buying flowers, letting her keep the remote an extra half hour, just so she could finish EastEnders or Emmerdale. She knew that while she felt a bit guilty teasing him, she looked forward to being pampered afterwards. In nearly forty years of marriage, he hadn’t realized this and so continued to get snappish at the slightest provocation. That is until his stroke, nearly five years ago. She looks in the mirror again, hoping it will show her one or two less wrinkles and grey hairs than it did five minutes ago. The mirror declines. Sighing, she puts on dark brown lipstick. She figures she’s too old to use red lipstick again. A smile plays on her lips. She is not sad she’s ageing, but wishes she’d had more time to prepare for it. There was so much more she wanted to do before getting old. She’s meeting old school friends in a few hours. She wonders whether she’ll be self-conscious among them. She hasn’t seen them for thirty years after all. You think you’ll have all the time in the world once your children grow up, but you really don’t. She picks up her bag and heads for the door. Before leaving, Madeline adjusts Tom’s pillows, makes him more comfortable. He’s grumpy with the nurses as they try to feed him, but when Madeline enters he calms down. She strokes her husband’s hair and gives special instructions to the assistant nurses. She remembers to take her cell phone. She had asked Betty to teach her how to use it last time she visited, but she’d forgotten. Betty is always running around after her three kids so who can blame her? Madeline thinks, smiling. She loves her grandchildren but they need to be told ‘no’ occasionally. She repeats the instructions and searches for her keys, which she finally finds in the kitchen, though she can’t think when she left them there. She keeps her hand on the doorknob an instant, wonders if she’s forgotten anything, then walks outside. It’s warm but a cool breeze is blowing. She gets inside her little Yaris with a dent near the side bumper. I always meant to get it fixed but I forgot, she muses. She’s been forgetting a lot lately. Stress, I suppose. She shrugs. She drives carefully. Madeline reaches the restaurant a little early. Despite all she had to think of before leaving the house, she’s still early. I can never be late; the habit’s drilled into her by her father.

Maazah M Ali

She powders her nose and her mind drifts to when Tom would read with little Betty before her bedtime, even when he came home late. She thinks of the summer Betty was seven; they spent weeks in picnics and parties and travelling across the country, Tom cracking jokes in the car to make Betty laugh. She smiles. Betty loved his jokes, even though she knew most by heart. She now repeats them to him, every day, which makes him smile. Madeline doesn’t have long to wait before her friends arrive. She can’t help but notice that they don’t look old. Am I the only one who has grown old? She sips her drink, listens to them talk fondly of their grandchildren, less fondly of their children. Though she smiles politely, part of her keeps thinking that she must get back. Tom will miss me if I stay too long. She barely registers the taste of the chicken and mushroom linguini on her plate and rushes through her cocktail. Before the dessert menu is passed around, she apologizes and takes her leave, mumbling some excuse, too proud to explain to her friends that Tom was paralysed from the neck down due to the stroke that followed a heart attack five years ago. Her hands are a little cold and slippery as she grips the steering wheel and nearly meets with an oncoming bus. Stay calm, she tells herself. Finally she is home; Tom is sleeping. She sits by his bedside. Feels annoyance at having to leave the restaurant early, she could have stayed for dessert. But how did she know Tom would sleep today? He would normally make a fuss with dinner and afterwards would want her to sit by his bedside until he fell asleep. No more reunions, she thinks. My friends look younger than me, only I seem to have aged. No more meeting people my age. She looks at Tom again as he sleeps. The phone rings and he stirs; she runs to pick it up before he should wake. ‘Hello?’ ‘Hello, Mum? Is that you? I’ve been trying to reach you for ages.’ Betty’s voice sounds chirpy but there is an anxious note in there. ‘I was worried when I couldn’t reach you, where were you?’ ‘I met with some old friends.’ ‘But Mum, you left dad alone?’ Why don’t you come here and lend a hand? Madeline doesn’t say it, but her tired mind thinks it. Betty continues talking.

Maazah M Ali

‘You know Carol, our neighbour? She’s leaving Bill; they’ve been married nearly twenty years! Imagine that! Dan always said he knew their marriage wouldn’t last.’ Talking with her daughter always makes Madeline irritable. ‘Did you call for something?’ There’s an edge in her voice, which her daughter would recognise, were she more perceptive. ‘Yes. The family photos - where are they?’ ‘I sent them to you. They must be in the grey carton. Underneath all the stuff you packed. Why did you need three dozen dresses from London?’ ‘I told you.’ Betty speaks in a slow, patient voice. ‘I have no time for myself with the kids and their school, and they run into all sorts of scrapes when they’re home. Allison poured my favourite perfume on the carpet when I was on the phone to Dan half an hour ago.’ ‘Yes, yes.’ ‘Well? I still can’t find them. Mum are you absolutely sure you sent them? You might have forgotten?’ ‘For God’s sake stop treating me like a child! You can’t find them because you’re so unorganised and the children create mess and hide things!’ Madeline slams the receiver down. She wants to cry; she wants to say that she is tired, that she’s been tired for quite some time. She loves her husband but it’s hard taking care of him. She wants rest too. She wants someone looking after her for a change. She goes into her room and sees a little grey box near the cupboard. It is full of old family photos. Right at the back, scrawled in her neat handwriting, is Harry’s number and address, copied from the postcard he sent two years ago. She takes the number and picks up the phone. She puts it down without dialling it. She looks out of her window. The early evening breeze cools her cheeks. She sits down. A bus passes and children with navy grey uniforms pile out, skip cheerfully with their friends to their homes. A little further down the street, older boys play football in the park. Two women stand in the street gossiping. In their neighbour’s garden, three little girls play hopscotch. One of the nurses comes to the door.

Maazah M Ali

‘Your husband’ she says, though Madeline has to lean forward to hear her properly. She should get her hearing aid fixed the next time she goes out, she thinks. She rushes to him. Tom has woken up and is whining. She helps the nurses as they turn him, change his wet sheets, and clean him. She sits beside him when they leave the room. He calms down and looks at her. She cuddles into him and he makes a noise, tries to formulate some words; only hollow sounds issue from his lips. ‘Yes. Yes’ she says, clinging to him. Somehow she understands his jumbled words and thoughts better than her own. ‘Yes. Yes’ she whispers again.

Images from the last Poetry Tour

Idolising Rebekah Kara

Hayden Robinson

Jennie’s ‘What do you mean that’s how she wants to do it?’ Editor Pick. Christian Howard shouted. He had been shouting for

what felt like hours at Madame Adeline. Elle McDahl sighed. She was getting sick of hearing his voice. She slumped back in the chair, trying to ignore the tingling pain in her right fingertips. The doctors had told her that this was ‘phantom pain’. A pain for something that isn’t there anymore. The lightbulbs from the mirror’s frame were bright, making some of the glitter that Elle was wearing sparkle. Her face was covered with foundation that matched her pale skin and white eyeliner was coated on to accentuate the green in her eyes, hoping to gain everyone’s attention. She was wearing a strapless golden cocktail dress and a pair of silver high heel shoes, which made her six feet tall instead of her usual five foot ten. They sparkled just as much as her glittery makeup. In her long blonde hair she wore a small red gardenia. Elle had put all of this on half-an-hour ago, and she flourished in the feeling that she had become a real Rebekah Kara – a goddess in human form. Rebekah was a young brunette model, she was tall and slim with an electronic prosthetic arm that was specially designed for her. Elle imagined that would have cost a fortune. As she thought about the model, Elle pulled out her phone and clicked onto Instagram to find Rebekah’s page. The thing that Elle liked about many of them was that Rebekah was acting silly to make her fans smile and laugh. One video that made Elle feel great was when Rebekah was using an app called Dubsmash where she was seemingly getting her makeup done, but she was lip-synching to the beginning of a song before smacking her face in a plate of fish and sushi. Seeing this always made Elle smile, and that was why she stayed up all night watching videos of her idol strutting down every catwalk around the globe. Rebekah Kara had no fear in showing who she truly was. The fact Rebekah was in the audience tonight both excited Elle yet also frightened her. Her mind was spinning – whatwillshethink whatwillshethink. ‘We have some important industry people out there tonight,’ Christian’s voice whispered outside the door. ‘How are they going to feel about that?’ ‘Who cares what they will think of it?’ Adeline’s firm voice replied.

Hayden Robinson

‘But they haven’t seen her without it,’ Christian shouted. ‘Hell, she has worn it in every shoot that we have seen her in.’ ‘Well, now she doesn’t wish to.’ ‘Madame Adeline, you can’t be serious.’ ‘I have never been more serious in my life, Monsieur Howard.’ ‘They’ll see her as a freak.’ ‘Who? A bunch of internet trolls?’ ‘The professionals.’ Christian was the casting manager for the fashion show and had been looking for models around the time Adeline signed Elle to the agency. AlaMode is one of the most famous and respected modelling agencies in the world. Christian mostly went for models who were over six foot tall and either had stupidly skinny bodies or had six packs that looked like bottles had been surgically placed in their stomachs. It wasn’t so much the looks of the models that annoyed Elle, but rather Christian’s insistence not to add people like her to the line-up. Adeline, on the other hand, knew how passionate Elle was. She was a middle aged woman with long black hair, and she was one of the world’s most prominent figures in the fashion industry and the founder of AlaMode. She’d turned away many respected models for Elle, she saw something in her. Something unique, something pure, something human. Just then, Elle’s older sister Naomi walked into the mirror, standing behind Elle. She was a small woman, with shoulder-length red hair and a round face. She wore a black vest, skirt and leggings, with a red cardigan and pink Converse shoes. Naomi’s most striking feature was her smile; it showed her kind nature and that, even on her worst days, she was happy to see you. ‘What are you doing here?’ Elle asked, clutching her big sister tightly. ‘I left the Eiffel Tower early,’ Naomi answered. ‘Thought I’d come by and see you.’ ‘You really didn’t have to. I can look after myself.’ ‘I know.’ Naomi let go of Elle. ‘Are you excited for tonight?’ ‘Nervous.’ Elle replied, taking hold of Naomi’s arm with her left hand. ‘You’ll be amazing. You always are.’ Elle smiled, but wondered how amazing things

would go tonight. With people like Christian, it may not be so. People like him never seemed to care for the bad luck Elle has had to face, the complications she endured ever since that night happened.

Hayden Robinson

* A few years ago Elle had signed to AlaMode on her sixteenth birthday and a week later, she was living her dream on the first photoshoot she ever did. It was a difficult day, but Elle never complained, even when she was late going to lunch or felt a bit tired when having to wait for things to be set up. It was her big chance and she had no thought of wasting it. It was seven in the evening when she finished, and as it was in the middle of winter, it was extremely cold and damn near impossible to see when it was snowing. The roads were icy and there were warnings all over the news in Crewe. Elle still insisted on walking alone, having always liked walks at night. They always calmed her down after a stressful day and at night there were many beautiful sights to see on the way home. On her walk that night Elle saw a couple of Christmas trees by a local supermarket and about a hundred Christmas lights were dangling from the branches of both, illuminating the path and road. Elle was so enraptured by the sight that she didn’t notice a woman running towards her, pushing her away from the car that skidded off the road. The last thing Elle could remember was the pain when the car wheel rolled over her right arm. The pain tingled in her fingers once more. * ‘You have come a long way over the last few years, love,’ Naomi said kindly. Elle looked over at her sister who was now sitting in the chair next to her. ‘And you know that we’re all proud of you.’ ‘Yeah,’ Elle said. ‘But it doesn’t prevent the fact that…’ Elle trailed off and looked down. The tingling pain wasn’t as bad as it used to be. Sometimes she would be screaming in the hospital bed because it was too much. ‘That I wish I could have stopped it happening.’ Naomi slowly leaned forward and put her hand on Elle’s left forearm. She then began to gently stroke it. Elle felt like crying. She could feel the tears forming but she held them back. It’s not the time to do that. Just then, Madame Adeline walked over. 32

* Elle wasn’t entirely sure, but as she walked down to the backstage area with Adeline, she caught Christian looking at her and it wasn’t friendly in any way. This worried her, but Elle kept herself civil as always as she stepped into the line to the stage. ‘You’ll do fine,’ Adeline said. ‘Stand straight and let the confidence shine.’ Adeline turned away and Elle immediately did as she said and stood up as straight as a flag pole. The fashion show had already begun and she could hear the cheers behind the silk white curtains. She could feel the stares from behind her and the whispering of some of the other models. Elle tried to pay no attention. She was used to the ignorance by now. ‘Hey!’ Elle cranked her head back and saw a tall model with an unbuttoned shirt behind her. It was Brad, one of the most handsome male models at the event. Elle gasped seeing him.

Hayden Robinson

‘Monsieur Howard,’ she began, ‘has accepted for your request.’ Elle grinned. ‘I guess he was pretty reluctant?’ ‘Oh yes dear,’ Adeline chuckled. ‘But he cares more for the good-looking ones than the talented ones.’ Elle gave a mocking gasp. ‘You trying to say something, Madame?’ ‘Oh no, not at all.’ She and Elle laughed. Then Adeline leaned down to Elle’s level and said: ‘You are beautiful, my dear. Not just in looks, but in here.’ She pointed to Elle’s heart. ‘I-I-’ Elle struggled. She was having a difficult time holding back the tears now. ‘I guess you don’t get many like me, do you?’ ‘People like you are common,’ Adeline explained. ‘More than some in the industry would care to admit.’ Elle nodded, reluctantly agreeing. ‘With people like you around,’ Naomi said. ‘Maybe one day, they will admit it.’ Elle grinned widely, now finding it harder than ever not to cry. When they were finished, a man in a black shirt and trousers ran over and said ‘Elle, two minutes.’ With these words, Elle adjusted herself and stood up. Then she removed the prosthetic and walked with Adeline. ‘Good luck.’ Naomi called to her.

Hayden Robinson

‘Rebekah Kara is out there tonight,’ Brad whispered. ‘It makes things a lot more nerve-wracking, doesn’t it?’ Elle nodded, trying to keep her eyes away from his body. ‘Yeah it does,’ Elle whispered back. ‘Hopefully, she’ll notice one of us.’ ‘Oh, she’ll notice you alright.’ Brad said with a smile. At first, Elle was tempted to frown and turn away, but Brad was quick to say: ‘No, no, I don’t mean like that! I meant that-’ Elle blocked out Brad’s voice and looked away. She’d heard idiotic things like this so many times before and knew how it would end before it had begun. Brad went silent. It suddenly occurred to Elle that perhaps he didn’t mean it in the way she thought he did. Perhaps he was complimenting her and her mind told her to take offence immediately. She’d talk to him later after the show. After all, some people don’t always realise what their words sound like until after the fact. Just then, an announcement was made. ‘Coming next to the stage: Miss Elle McDahl.’ A few claps and cheers sounded through the curtains. Elle breathed in deeply, let out a sigh and walked out onto the stage. The flashing lights blinded her. Elle couldn’t see anyone’s face as she strutted forward, her hips swaying left and right. Her body was shaking and her blood was like ice as she walked. Elle stopped at the edge of the runway and put her left hand on her hip, fluttering her eyelids and giving the most confident smile she could. Inside, she was telling herself not to show the audience how incredibly scared she was. As Elle walked back, she caught a glimpse of someone, a smile directed at her with kindness and pride. Elle’s heart leaped as she realised who it was. As she walked offstage, Elle smiled to herself. Rebekah smiled at me.

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Dead Leaves from the Sea of Trees In a Station of the Metro by Ezra Pound

Roman James Hoffman

The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough. The train pulled into the station and the doors opened. The orderly queue made by habit by the Japanese commuters split into two, allowing the people out of the train. When it came time to board, however, the former order was banished and a childish crush announced itself. Toshihiko sighed and tried to comport himself with some dignity, but his resistance was futile against the weight of the blind-mannered crowd; soon he found himself struggling along with the masses. The doors closed and the train disappeared into the tunnel, swaying slightly as it made its way through the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s profuse fistulas. Every now and then, though, it would sway a little too much, causing people to press into each other. This resulted in Toshihikoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face skirting dangerously close to the reeking, stained armpit of the salaryman he stood next to. Despite this intrusion, he considered himself lucky; it was only this train that was usually crowded, and he invariably got a seat on the first and third trains of his commute. The second part of his journey had only a handful of stops, compared to the forty minutes of the other two. So, keeping this in mind to ameliorate his mood, he put his headphones in and listened to the ambient house track to distract himself from the pungent stench of coffee and sweat emanating from the salaryman. Since his return to Japan from the UK three months previously, Toshihiko had struggled to re-adjust. Of course he had enjoyed easy access to his beloved soup-noodles, had been lucky enough to get a job in a marine insurance company a month after arriving, and enjoyed re-uniting with family and friends in time for his twenty-seventh birthday. The absence of the freedom he had felt during his year in London though, a city as radically multicultural and forward-thinking as Tokyo is radically homogenous and constrained by tradition, distressed him. He closed his eyes and let the music brings memories back; from early days spent sight-seeing and feeling insecure about his English, to the latter part of his stay when he was more confident and made new friends each time he went out of a night. After about ten minutes the train pulled into the 36

* Toshihiko woke suddenly as the train doors closed at the station. He jerked forward, looked through the window to see which station he was at. He relaxed when he saw he had only fallen asleep for a moment and sank back into his chair. He rubbed his tired eyes, took out an energy drink, and peered around the carriage; others were also looking tired and sleep-deprived, presumably nursing hangovers of similar provenance. Across from him was an attractive office lady in her mid-twenties, with perfectly straight long black hair, and nice legs.

Roman James Hoffman

station where he would disembark. It was a busy change station and the flow of people on the platforms and throughout the station was merciless. Toshihiko braced himself for the onslaught as the train pulled to a stop. The doors opened and people spilled out onto the platform and through the various exits. Toshihiko went with the ebb and flow of the crowd, which predictably crammed at certain exits before pulsing through and assuming an even flow again. He was soon at his next platform, just one more train ride from his workplace in the centre of Tokyo. As expected, he was able to find a seat on the train and collapsed into it, exhausted. He rubbed his eyes, fatigue from a slight hangover presenting itself. He’d gone out the night before for after-work drinks with colleagues. Despite not sharing their blinkered views of the world, he’d felt compelled to go, and to stay until the boss, Mr. Yamaguchi, decided to leave, as Japanese custom states. Sadly this meant he left too late to catch his last train and so got a taxi home. During the taxi ride his mind had spiralled and he had despaired over the lack of freedom he was resigning himself to. ‘What do you mean you have to stay?’ Josh had shouted over the pumping music in the bar. ‘It’s Japanese culture, you have to do what the boss says. Always’ Toshihiko replied. ‘That’s insane.’ Josh had been Toshihiko’s English teacher for the two months after he arrived, and since concluding his course, the two had remained friends. ‘I know. Japanese people think so too…but it’s Japanese culture. So…’

Roman James Hoffman

She would have looked sophisticated if she hadn’t fallen asleep in such a way to permit Toshihiko a clear view up her short skirt. He had never questioned the habit of the Japanese to sleep during their commute; before his time in London he had assumed it was the most natural thing in the world. The scarcity of commuter sleeping in London had been a culture-shock when he first took the tube. ‘Culture shock? Really?’ Josh had said, struggling to understand how something so trivial could have had such an effect on Toshihiko. ‘It’s hard to explain’ Toshihiko had replied, ‘of course you expect things like weather and food to be different, but there are so many things here which we don’t do in Japan. It’s made me realise that I can live life a different way. There are so many rules in Japan… you don’t know how stressful it is.’ Josh had looked at Toshihiko, whose face had taken a melancholy shade, with fondness. The fond look was soon replaced with the beaming smile Toshihiko remembered from when he started studying English; it always made him forget his worries. ‘You’re so cute when you’re sad’ Josh had laughed, leaning in and kissing Toshihiko on the lips. Toshihiko had recoiled. ‘What? You mean…?’ Josh had asked, confused. ‘No no…not that, it’s just’ he had looked around the bar, ‘…in Japan it’s rare for couples, even men and women, to kiss in public…especially not two men.’ ‘Toshi, look at me’ Josh had held his hands in a gesture of reassurance; ‘you’re not in Japan now.’ Toshihiko had looked into Josh’s eyes for a moment; two clear blue pools which had always seemed so enticing. Suddenly Josh’s words were an epiphany. He’d gripped Josh’s hands tight, closed his eyes, and leaned in. * Toshihiko arrived at his office and systemically gave the due formal salutations to each of his colleagues as he made his way to his desk. He sat down, booted up his computer, turned off his mp3 player, and plucked the earphones out of his ears; he was prepared for the barrage of dull tasks he was about to spend twelve hours doing. A few hours into the day, the area manager, a short temperamental man in his sixties – who was so shrivelled in his face and posture that he had the appearance of a mole – came up to Toshihiko’s desk. 38

* The day was a bright, clear spring day. Toshihiko enjoyed the sun on his face and decided to take his lunch to Tokyo station which, despite being one of the busiest stations in Japan, had a nice pedestrianized square opposite which was peaceful to sit in. He sat down and felt the warmth of the concrete bench warm the underside of his legs; he smiled, popped in his headphones again, and looked around. The cherry blossoms, such a distinctive feature of spring in Japan in their abundance, were in blossom. They cast what would otherwise be a busy city-scene with an aesthetic hue that struck Toshihiko as profoundly peaceful. He peered over the road towards the station. Even though it wasn’t rush hour, there was a constant throng of people. They were forcing their way around the construction work being 39

Roman James Hoffman

‘Yamada’ he barked, addressing Toshihiko by his family name, as is the Japanese custom, ‘have you finished the presentation for later today?’ ‘Yes, Suzuki san. Everything is ready; the slideshow, the hand-outs, everything. Do you want to have a look?’ ‘It’s not necessary. The meeting starts at half past two.’ ‘Yes sir. I’m going to mentally prepare now, it’s my lunch break.’ ‘Lunch break?’ Mr. Suzuki was so startled that he took a step back. ‘You’re a young man, can’t you just eat at your desk? What if I need you to perform some task?’ ‘I…I…I understand’ Toshihiko said, bowing his head in deference. ‘It’s just that it’s a nice day and I thought that a break in the fresh air before the meeting would be an effective way to prepare.’ Mr. Suzuki grunted. ‘Does Yamaguchi san permit this?’ ‘Yes sir.’ ‘Okay. Well, have a break if you think it’ll mean a good presentation. This is an important deal. We need this client to make the target for the year. You understand that, don’t you?’ ‘Yes, Suzuki san. Thank you for understanding.’ Toshihiko stood and bowed. Mr. Suzuki grunted again, ‘Yamaguchi san mentioned to me that you had spent time abroad. I fear you may have become too westernised. Remember, you’re Japanese, and you are in Japan now!’ Mr. Suzuki turned on his heels and marched back to his office.

undertaken on the impressive European style façade of the station. From a distance, he watched. Every now and then he saw an elegant woman weave through the crowd, the face of a handsome man appear and then disappear, a child wandering lost before the reproachful mother would grab their hand. Toshihiko smiled and looked again at the cherry blossoms.

Roman James Hoffman

* ‘Toshi…I’ll never forget you.’ Josh had wept into Toshihiko’s shoulder as they stood hugging outside the terminal. An elderly couple walking past had looked curiously at the two men embracing. ‘Me too Josh. You have no idea how important you have been for me. You’ve helped me have the courage to be me!’ The two men had ended their embrace, stood back from each other, and shared a mournful look in silence. They both knew the other felt the same. ‘Go on. You can go home’ Toshihiko had said, finding the strength to smile. ‘It’ll be too much to think of you watching me leaving.’ Tears streaming down his face, Josh had nodded. * His MP3 player switched from one album to another, bringing Toshihiko to. He looked around the square nervously, but it was big enough that no-one was in close proximity to him, so he was able to wipe the tears from his face without shame or embarrassment. Just then, his melancholy state was interrupted by the shrill sound of his mobile phone. He looked at the display, saw that it was Mr. Yamaguchi, and realised he was late for the meeting. Hurriedly he stood, sending his boxed lunch flying across the floor. Simultaneously, he retrieved his coat, business case, answered the phone, and began to run to the office. ‘Yamada! Where are you? The meeting started five minutes ago!’ Mr. Yamaguchi yelled using the most formal register of Japanese. ‘My most profound apologies Yamaguchi san’ Toshihiko blabbered brokenly through gasps for breath, using the most humble Japanese register. ‘I was…there was a…so sorry…’ ‘Stop stuttering, you idiot! Where are you? When can you get back to the office?’ ‘I am mortified…I’m just running now…I’ll be 40

there in five minutes.’ ‘Five more minutes? This is incredible! Okay, get back here as fast as you can. I’ll decide on your punishment later.’ ‘Yes Yamaguchi san.’ The phone went dead. *

* The train pulled into the station and the doors opened. The orderly queue made by habit by the Japanese commuters split into two, allowing the people out of the train. When it came time to board, however, the former order was banished and a childish crush announced itself. Toshihiko sighed and tried to comport himself with some dignity, but his resistance was futile against the weight of the blind-mannered crowd; soon he found himself struggling along with the masses. The doors closed and the train disappeared into the tunnel, 41

Roman James Hoffman

Toshihiko stood in front of Mr. Yamaguchi’s desk, head bowed, as both Mr. Yamaguchi and Mr. Suzuki took turns reprimanding him with a lack of respect to their tone. ‘What did I tell you, Yamada?’ Mr. Suzuki’s face was red; he quivered with rage. ‘You know how important it was that we got this account! And now, owing to your inexcusable behaviour, we will not make our target for the year. Now, I will have to apologise to the CEO, and if you think I shout, you should count yourself lucky you don’t have to stand before him! But rest assured, while I will apologise and take responsibility - like a true Japanese - it is clear where the fault lies!’ Mr. Suzuki sat down, visibly weakened from his commitment to his tirade. Mr. Yamaguchi cleared his throat. ‘Yamada,’ his voice was coarse from shouting yet now became measured and composed. ‘I don’t know what kind of things were permitted when you were in the UK, but you are in Japan now. Remember that. Now get out and finish your tasks.’ Toshihiko made a deep bow and skulked back to his desk through the forest of silence and judgment that were now the desks of his colleagues. He worked until 10pm that night, the same as his colleagues, and when Mr. Suzuki suggested post-work drinks, he agreed. Fortunately, he was lucky that evening, as the boss was happy to leave before the last train.

Roman James Hoffman

swaying slightly as it made its way through the city’s profuse fistulas. Every now and then, though, it would sway a little too much, causing people to press into each other. This resulted in Toshihiko’s face skirting dangerously close to the reeking, stained armpit of the salaryman he stood next to. He tried to take his mind off the olfactory intrusion with music, but after a minute or so, took his headphones out. He wasn’t in the mood for music. After about ten minutes the train pulled into the station where he would disembark. It was a busy change station and the flow of people on the platforms and throughout the station was merciless. Toshihiko braced himself for the onslaught as the train pulled to a stop. The doors opened and people spilled out onto the platform and through the various exits. Toshihiko rushed through the ebb and flow of the crowd, avoiding the predictable cramming at certain exits, and soon he was at his next platform. Standing at the mouth of the tunnel, he heard the train rumbling in the darkness. He judged that within seconds it would come bursting out. Toshihiko vaulted over the anti-suicide barrier, leapt in front of the train and, despite the train’s piercing screech of protest, he was gone. * ‘Another one?’ Mr. Suzuki grunted, taking another of the slips of paper that the network provide when trains are delayed. ‘Sorry Mr. Suzuki.’ Tomoko, a mature, intelligent-looking woman in her fifties said, bowing, ‘I think someone committed suicide on the Yamanote line.’ Mr. Suzuki grunted again. ‘It’s okay, you’re not the only one to be late today. A couple of others just got in before you. Who else is missing? Yamada! I guess he’s been held up too. For his sake I hope it’s for the same reason.’

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Cameron Grace

Silent Movie It captured everything. Every bead of sweat, his contorted cum-face, the big finish. The moment he fired his gloopy nut butter all over my chest and neck. It was beautiful. And sick. I rewind the video, and start ripping it to DVD. Now just to decide what to do with my masterpiece. I could just show Mum – and wouldn’t that stir up a whole world of shit? I’d sit in the living room shaking and crying, show her my fresh collection of bruises, lip trembling as I stutter through my sobs. ‘I just wanted him to stop, Mum,’ or ‘it’s been going on for months.’ The bitch will probably blow her All Bran over her new cream carpet. Serve her fucking right. There’s no doubt as to whether or not she’ll believe me. The video shows me fighting back – turning to the camera grimacing in agony. The camera never lies. Fair enough the camera wasn’t running for the three months I had been planning this. The seduction, the extra makeup, teases and innuendos. Daniel didn’t stand a fucking chance. All it took was a little lace, and to gild my throat with Mum’s Bleu de Chanel. After that we were riding bareback in the hot realm of Our-Little-Secret. Tuesday nights, Mum goes to her tennis club. Daniel and I stay back home, in my room, playing our own ball games. In some ways I can see why Mum stays with him. He might be a wanker, but he packs quite a lunchbox. I could just play the video to Daniel. There wouldn’t be any need for pretense. No theatrical sobbing, no melodrama. I could sit back, watch the fucking colour drain from his face and smile as he squirmed. I could threaten him. Could get him to do anything I wanted. Tell him to leave. Remind him that I can show Mum the video. Show her exactly what he has been doing to her precious, impressionable, fourteen year old daughter. I’d ask him how he ever thought he could replace my father anyway. Only Daniel and I will ever know that I had begged him to hit me. That I wanted it rough. That I wanted asphyxiation. That I wanted him to bite, to scratch, swear and gouge. The camera caught him licking his lips when he ripped my nightie from me. It captured his intense glare when I fought back. The microphone was turned off. The camera didn’t hear me beg for it, and remember – the camera never lies.

Cameron Grace

I hear the door slam before the DVD had finished burning. Mum’s home. I put my headphones in and close my eyes. When Mum comes upstairs, she will assume that I have fallen asleep to music again. She’ll leave my room without seeing the massive tear in my nightie. The teeth marks on my shoulder. I don’t need her to see them yet. I pull the duvet right up to my throat. I pretend I am asleep. I could show the video to Dad. It would make him cry – make him angry. But I could play the fragile little girl. His lost little princess. I could squeeze out a few tears for good effect. It might persuade him to use his hands for something other than tipping a tumbler of whisky down his neck. He might beat Daniel within a thread of his life. He might kill him. Dad may just call the police and have Daniel arrested. Have Daniel’s face splattered across all the tabloids. Paedophile Step-Dad Arrested. Abused Teen Speaks Out. Child Sex Monster Caught. Dad might sue for custody. I might be able to go back home. Mum left Dad for Daniel six months ago, leaving him with nothing but a splitting sofa and a bottle of Famous Grouse. She even took the fridge because Daniel’s wasn’t “big enough to hold food for a family.” Family. She used that word in front of Dad, then pushed me towards a car bulging with suitcases. Dad didn’t have a say in any of it. Not when Mum was lying to him about playing tennis matches. Not when she was sucking Daniel off in the back of his Volkswagen. Not when she was fucking him in a seedy bed and breakfast. My bedroom door must have opened. I feel a slight draught, notice the subtle change of light through my eyelids. My phone blasts ‘End of Heartache’ into my ears at full volume. Mum will hear the tinny drums and hissing guitars the second she steps into my room. After a moment or two, I feel Mum’s cold lips on my cheek. Her hand brushing hair from my face. She’s too close. Panic. What if she sees the marks Daniel left on me? What if she sees the torn seam of my nightie? What if – Her retreating footsteps vibrate through my headboard. My room darkens when she closes my door again.

I wait a minute before opening my eyes and scooting down the bed to my laptop. The DVD burn is complete. I could just upload it to the internet and see who finds the video first. I’ll decide tomorrow.

Cameron Grace

***** Rookie Error #1: Next time forge a fucking note. Every time I am brought to the headmasters office, everything is exactly the same. His black coffee mug sits in the exact same place in his desk, his bookshelf organized alphabetically by author. He even leaves three pens – one black, one red, one green – lined up at the bottom right hand corner of an open A4 pad. The page is always empty. The colours in the same order. The only difference is, this time he isn’t sitting behind his desk, peering at me through his circular glasses. He has vacated the room for us. For Mum, two police officers, and me. Of course today, of all days, Mum has forgone her daily makeup ritual. Because Rimmel and Maybelline get in the way of an Oscar winning performance. She sits the opposite side of the headmaster’s desk from me. A Bambi-eyed policewoman petting her hand and cooing that this isn’t her fault – how could she have known? Of course the police officers are only “here to help”. The headmaster has joined the gaggle of teachers outside the door, all stretching their necks to have a look at me. To get their view of the spectacle. All because I didn’t think to forge a note. It’s all a bit complicated. We had P.E. this morning. I hadn’t even considered that. There was this collective gasp when I took my top off to get changed, then everything happened like the locker room was put on fast forward. My classmates shrieked and oh-my-god-ed in comic unison. I turned to see a group of girls with lockjaw. Emma, the fat emo, ran into the hallway screaming as though she’d just shit out a hedgehog. I thought, for a stupid second, about saying I had fallen down the stairs. Because carpeted steps could have gouged my back. Because the banister could have left teeth marks on my skin. I should have forged a note. The policewoman next to me holds my hand. Asks a lot of questions. But the funny thing is, I don’t want to answer. I mean, wouldn’t this be the perfect moment to talk about the DVD? Right now would be the best time to let my lips wobble, to let tears stream down my cheeks. But I don’t. I can’t. There was no plan for this. 46

Cameron Grace

Because I was going to show Mum, or Daniel, or Dad. Because I was going to upload it to the internet. Because I should have forged a fucking note. Miss Earnshaw was the first to hear Emma’s howling. She barreled into the locker room, her first instinct to deal with whoever was bullying the emo kid still screeching like she had her tits caught in a bear trap. The room was spinning with questions. What happened? Did my Dad do it? Was I raped? Miss Earnshaw pushed through the crowd of girls. For a few seconds she joined the lockjaw club. She sent the girls to the gym, let me put my blouse back on, and marched me to the headmaster’s office. Calls were made. Conversations were had. Mum was excused from work. The police were on their way. Rookie Error #1. I sit here, just off centre stage, where Mum hiccups and chokes into a hanky. Her pet policewoman still making the same noises you would use to soothe a baby. I sit at the other side of the desk, where the headmaster sits. I rearrange his pens. The other police officer is squeezing my hand, and staring at me the way a passerby would stare at the aftermath of a car crash. She wants to know a lot of things. Where did I get these marks? Who gave them to me? It’s OK. Nobody will hurt me now. I have no answer. Nothing to say. Mum is sniffing, rubbing her pathetic puffy eyes, doing everything she can to avoid looking at me. I wonder for a minute if she recognises the marks on my body. If she had ever had the same mark on her own skin. I wonder if she ever begged Daniel to hit her. If she liked it rough. If she liked asphyxiation. If she took one look at me and just knew where I had got the marks. I fight the urge to smile. ‘Is Daniel coming?’ I speak for the first time. Mum looks up, her eyebrows knitting together, brow wrinkling like corrugated aluminium. She shakes her head, and releases another cartoon sob. She knows. She fucking knows. I’m sure of it. The policewomen start talking again. They want me to go to the hospital, to take a few tests, and to know whether or not I was raped. Nothing to worry about. Why the fuck didn’t I forge a note?

Gareth Davey

The Birdcage When the doorbell rang, I was sitting in the bare room on a wooden chair; the chair seemed to sink into the thick piled peach carpet that, having just taken off my socks off, I was proceeding to push my toes into as the ringing began. The bell hissed, like a territorial cat. It was probably the Jehovahs, or a suited gentleman wanting to sell me window insurance. Or worse – Ray from number eight with his turtle-neck sweater and the paintbrush tucked purposefully behind his ear. Like it made him a half decent painter, instead of an old man in too-tight tops that threw a million shades of green and blue on his canvas and claimed it to be art. I stayed in my seat and dug my toes deeper into the carpet, thinking about how very different it was to the hard, cold floor I’d been used to for six and a half years. I left the room ten minutes later, giving into the primal urge of hunger that growled in my stomach. I stepped out through the door and engaged the bolt, smiling at the sound, the finality of it all, the clunk... the last full-stop on a three hundred page manuscript. There was nothing on the doormat when I entered the hallway, except Welcome woven in yellow stitching on the bristles. A salesman would have posted something through the letterbox – a pleading letter, or perhaps a suicide note. My stomach growled again. It was lunchtime, and I had yet to consume breakfast. I found that, once I was out, I had strange longings for tasteless meals of grey sludge, the sort that could have only been silt removed from puddles. It was hard to reproduce, but I was working on a solution. Now, however, although the kitchen was my desired destination, I recalled the shrill ringing of the bell, which led me to pull the front door open. I had been expecting to see Ray, his easel fully assembled and his face pulled into what could only be the look of a ‘true artist’ (lip bitten, eyes narrowed as he stares at the bin-bag-on-a-canvas he’s spent four hours making). Instead, I saw before me a dome of metal wiring, high as my knee caps, sitting there on the doorstep stuffed with newspaper. A birdcage. ‘Ah.’ *** The birdcage sat on the floor of the living room. A Russian gymnast had once told me this room was like ‘heaven within walls,’ but the cream carpet was now more a shade of latte and the curtains hung like rags.

Gareth Davey

I walked around the cage, looked at the freshly painted metal bars, the little padlock that kept the door fastened. I would bet the previous tenants of this cage didn’t have to deal with pompous artists and Jehovah Witnesses at their door. There are few things I like less than a surprise; uninvited visitors, any ball related sports, spheres. I don’t like organised or disorganised crime, despite a minor dabbling in both. I’d rather be bitten by a million mosquitos than attend the opening night of an art exhibition; likewise, I’d rather take in an opera with a naked Russian gymnast than consume any films starring Hugh Grant. And I don’t like lemon meringue pie. Or custard. So there I sat, beside the cage, my legs crossed as I fiddled with a stray piece of newspaper. It then unravelled like a snail from a shell, until it was free from the confines of the birdcage and I was presented with an image I recognised, and a newspaper article. University Lecturer Jailed For Theft. Beside the headline, a handsome man with a crooked nose and a well-controlled comb-over smiled back at me. I had looked a lot sharper before my toiletries were restricted to a flimsy soap bar and a toothbrush. I nodded as I spoke; ‘of course’ I said, ‘I was wondering when you’d crop up again.’ I pulled out another piece of newspaper. This one had a brief description of the event that had taken place twelve years prior. It was my fifth job and I had suffered a case of what we call in the industry, complacency. I had left the rubber gloves at home, having used them that afternoon to unclog my cistern, and had dusted the surfaces of the store with my fingerprints. The police had rung the doorbell on a wet Sunday morning, and I had been led in handcuffs to their Vauxhall Astra, the cuffs cold on my wrists. Could the cage have been from one of the stores I’d robbed? I had assumed that each store was managed by a fingerless monkey, such was the ease of the break-ins, and that this birdcage phenomenon was the work of someone with at least an ounce of intelligence - which ruled out everyone who owned the Jewellers who I had robbed. They had been easier to infiltrate than a young girl’s dolls house. I was thinking about this as I pulled a further strip of paper from the birdcage. There was an image of a sixty-something man, half-rimmed glasses balanced on his mushroom nose, printed on this one.

Gareth Davey

The text beneath read Kenneth Brown, much loved Father and Husband. Died 10th January 2007. Two years after I had been found guilty. Kenneth had changed his home address to six feet beneath the earth. His face was vaguely familiar. Not an acquaintance – I had very few of them (including the naked Russian who joined me at the opera) - and not one of those had been to see me since I was let out early for, as they put it, ‘good behaviour.’ Good behaviour in a prison cell meant not murdering anyone or starting any fights. I was a good prisoner. Beneath the obituary, in black marker, eleven numbers were scrawled. A phone number, I assumed. Placing the paper on the floor, I went over to the set of drawers and retrieved my Nokia 6120, together with the charger. I plugged the charger into the wall and connected them. The phone buzzed on the wooden surface; the screen flashed on. After letting it bumble into life (and, in the phone’s defence, it had been asleep for well over six years), I typed in the numbers written on the newspaper and pressed green. A woman answered on the third ring. ‘Hello. Speaking?’ She sounded young, maybe in her twenties. ‘Hello, hi. My name is Adrian Trudle, can I ask who I’m talking to?’ There was a long pause. ‘Hello?’ When she spoke, her voice held a bitterness, like a sting of aftershave on freshly shaven skin. ‘Either this is some sick practical joke, or it’s something even more vile, but you better hang up this phone right fucking now or I’ll call the police – I will ring the fucking police.’ ‘You don’t under-‘ ‘Oh I fucking well understand. You animal, you – you creature. You’re the reason he – you killed him. That fucking robbery, that – you did it. Your fucking robbery. You stole his fucking life. You killed my –’ ‘Now that’s an over-reaction, young lady. There is no correla-’ ‘You vile fuck. Don’t you dare – don’t you ever fucking ring again.’ My tongue stuck inside my mouth, disabling my speech. My arm was shaking, the phone moving against the cold skin beneath my ear. She paused, as if reloading a rifle. ‘Don’t ever ring this number again. You killed my Dad you vile, vile man.’ A flat heart monitor sound rang through the speaker. She’d hung up. 50

The phone thudded against the skirting board. ***

Ray was standing on his driveway, the hair of his paintbrush paused on the canvas, as he listened to Adrian’s sobs that spilled through the open living-room window. The Convict – that’s what the Greens at number nine had called him, when they’d laid down the deposit for Ray’s latest piece. They didn’t trust him, they said. The tar-like paint smeared across the canvas in a curve. He stepped back, grinned and clapped his hands together, drowning out the sounds of Adrian’s abandoned-puppy wails. His masterpiece was nearly complete. The wet edges of the painted birdcage shone in the sunlight.

Gareth Davey

Lydia Smart

Faery Tail The dampness of everything here was like a terrible weight to her. She had no understanding of dampness, but here the wetness underfoot seemed to pull at her and the air was heavy with moisture. Cold bit at her ears and nose and made her fingers numb. Despair tore at her. If this was truly the place where she belonged, where she had been taken from all those years ago, then she really must be the revolting monster they had said she was; tainted by this syrupy coldness that must be in her blood. She had not one single memory of living in a place like this. Her thirty odd years had been full of the land of her captors – the frightful tyrants that had become her family and for whom her devotion knew no bounds. She pulled her aching bones from her mossy bed and began to walk again. Her third day here and still she had found nothing from the earth that she could eat without it making her sick. Even the water from the streams tasted foul. She had tried to talk to some people last evening but they had been startled by her, for she had come across them in a field quite late into the night, and so they had beaten her badly before she could flee. So now she would avoid people and their dwellings; she would walk and hope to find something to eat and maybe an answer would present itself to her. The ground was boggy and hard to move through but held fewer people than the roads. She had, of course, been told stories about this place when she was younger. She had been born from two monstrous beasts that would wrap her in cloth and put her in a drawer. Stories of this grotesque place were used as punishment, a warning – if she didn’t stop growing she would be thrown back from whence she came – if her soft, round body became longer and developed, their love would dissolve and she would be exiled. It was the cruelest of sentences; this world and its decaying nature and its oppressive weather did not even know of the faery world anymore. Sobs choked her as she trudged across the flat land, the harsh wind picking up pace as it buffeted the scarce trees, licking the tears straight from her ducts and stealing the sound from her mouth. A dwelling was nearby and she would have somewhere to hide for a while. ***

*** She was not yet so old that she couldn’t remember what it felt like to be the favoured one, to be looked upon with smiles and touched with love, but now that memory was so diluted by time that it took all her strength to recall. Grief opened her mouth but no wail came. Despair shook her body and her hands clawed at her revolting skin; everything is lost.

Lydia Smart

The people seemed to live in one house and the animals in another; as people and animals don’t communicate here she stayed with the horses. They didn’t seem to mind when she shared their food though the woman struggled to swallow even one mouthful. It was there, upon a hay bale while inspecting the cuts on her feet, that the full weight of her circumstance and sorrow hit her. Her body had betrayed her. A slow sabotage of everything she loved. They had given her a charmed life in a place of light and magic and their only condition was that she would remain beautiful and plump and full of the spirit of youth. She had willed it with every fiber in her but with every passing year she had become less able to suppress the changes within and without. She’d fought against what she could, played and danced when their eyes looked upon her, but when alone a dark seed grew within her; she was not in control of her body or mind. In time, the dancing had become an absurd charade and the faeries would laugh at her lumbering teenage body. She could not hide her sexuality; she’d became foul and hairy, new angles growing from within her body that made her unlovable to her cherished abductors. That dark seed flourished and sadness propagated itself inside her, tearing at her very life force. Days that had been full of joy, without future or past, just beautiful bubbling moments, had soon fallen to the cold hard stares of disgust and her crushing shame. They’d brought new, blessed babies in from the cold world and she was not allowed to be near them for fear that she would infect them with her abhorrent adulthood. So, she’d hidden herself away, and that dark sadness within was nurtured until it was all she knew.

Lydia Smart

Then she felt something touch her leg. A fat, brown, mottled feline stared blankly at her with round yellow eyes. It kept its muddy paw on her leg. Those blank eyes knew nothing of desolation or hopelessness; that muddy paw held such clarity and lightness, it asked nothing and gave little, a simple communication of acknowledgement. The woman wiped the snot from her face with the back of her arm and stared back. The brown blob blinked slowly and began sniffing her thoroughly; the yellow eyes widened in response to the smells it encountered and it’s thick whiskers tickled. The woman tried to run her hand over the animal but it ducked out of the way, continued its inspection of her and her garments. The woman watched and waited. For a moment she wondered - if she wrung its neck could she eat it? The cat climbed her legs and purposefully bumped its head onto her chin. The woman scratched the cat’s chin and a mutual understanding came to each creature. The chubby cat trotted, tail up, out of the barn, smoothing the frame as it went and glancing back at the girl. She followed her new yellow-eyed companion out and away from the farm. The cat trotted ahead, flirting with her tail; the woman, believing the cat to have a higher purpose for her, followed behind. Maybe the faeries had seen her anguish and sent her a guide. The woman paid no heed to the direction she was taking, but focused only on the cat. She did, however, notice when the path turned from mud to stone to sand, and, when she finally looked up she found she was on a flat, wet, empty beach; the edge of the land. The cat had stopped. She picked it up and let it scramble to her shoulder. Walking closer to the water that foamed at the sand’s edge, she wondered, was this it? Was this the guidance that her portly escort was giving her? “Thank you, cat” she murmured, as she took her first steps into the tide. The cat, alarmed by their proximity to the sea, leapt from her shoulder with such force that the woman toppled into the water. She looked back, on her hands and knees, to see the cat sprinting off into the dunes. She began to crawl into the sea, the stabbing cold surf pounding her face. Then, after a moment of disorientation, she realised she was being hauled from the water. Soon, she found herself lying on top of someone on the sand. Was she now to be imprisoned in this hell as well?

“I know Norfolk’s depressing in the winter but it’s not worth this, is it?” The woman sat, panting for breath, face to face with another, older woman whose face was ravaged and sagging from the passing of time. The ravaged woman pulled off her enormous jumper and popped it over the younger woman’s head without permission. It was itchy and rough but warm and the older woman busied the younger up onto her feet, rubbing the coarse wool over the skin on her upper arms to warm her up. The wind whipped sand into their faces as the two women regarded one another. One whimpered, broken spirited, whilst the other, the older, looked on, her sanity mended by time, though they shared the same past. Stolen children, thrust back into the harsh world centuries later, for the ultimate sin of growing up. The older woman had recognised the clothes worn by the younger – fabrics spun without labour and woven from magic, also as thin as a cobweb and not practical for November in East Anglia. “You miss them terribly don’t you, my sweet?” the older woman asked kindly. The whimpering woman nodded. “Aye, I know that pain. Come on in. I’m up here.” The two women walked back up the beach to the farmhouse past the dunes. “You’ve never even drunk tea, my sweet, there’s plenty to look forward to.”

Lydia Smart

Snow White and the Sudden Divorce

Alec Sillifant

‘Hi ho.’ ‘What did you just call me?’ said Snow White, a Meg’s Preslian curl to her lip. Editor Pick. ‘Nothing,’ said Bashful, ‘I was just singing. You know, our theme tune.’ ‘I hate that stupid song,’ said Snow. ‘Someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning,’ said Happy, a chirp in his voice. Snow picked up an ornament and hurled it into the hearth where it exploded into porcelain shrapnel. Sleepy yawned. ‘Mum gave us that as a wedding present.’ ‘I’ve always hated it,’ said Snow, ‘in fact I hate anything to do with your bloody mother.’ ‘Oh dear,’ said Doc, ‘is it that time again? Should we call you Snow Red for the next few days?’ ‘No it bleedin’ isn’t that time,’ said Snow, as she bent a silver cake slice, ‘I’m sick to the death of all you little bastards. Every last one of you.’ ‘A-choo,’ said Sneezy. ‘Even me?’ ‘Especially you,’ said Snow, as she threw a toasting fork to ‘thunk’ into a beam. ‘What is it today, dwarfilitus…anti-vertigo?’ ‘That’s very hurtful,’ said Sneezy, ‘I have a delicate constitution; you shouldn’t make fun of me.’ ‘Screw you,’ said Snow, ‘and that goes for the other six of you too. I’ve had enough of being laughed at because of you.’ ‘Oh, it’s this old chestnut,’ said Grumpy. ‘Not for much longer,’ said Snow, as she opened the back door of the cottage, ‘today everything is going to change. Starting with the seven of you.’ She slammed the door and stomped down the path that ran through the garden, stepping on a singing Bluebird for good measure. ‘Whoa, she’s really pissed this time,’ said Happy, ‘I think she’s going to do for us.’ Sleepy stretched. ‘She’ll be alright in a minute.’ Bashful looked out of the cottage window. ‘She’s coming out of the shed,’ he said, ‘and she’s carrying a lot of sharp looking stuff.’ ‘I think Happy’s right,’ said Doc, ‘we’re going to have to go with Plan A.’ ‘‘A’ for apple?’ asked Dopey. ‘That’s right,’ said Doc, ‘well done. Is it still where we hid it, Happy?’

Alec Sillifant

Happy gave a melodic rap on the oak sideboard and a secret compartment sprang open. He reached in and pulled out a shiny, red apple. ‘Yup, still here, and as fresh as the day the old hag try to feed it to Snow.’ ‘How are we going to give it to her?’ said Grumpy. ‘She’s hardly in the mood for a fruit salad.’ ‘She’ll eat it,’ said Happy, ‘you know how OCD she is about her five-a-day.’ ‘Let’s hope she’s only had four today,’ said Bashful, ‘because she’s coming –’ ‘Right,’ said Snow, bursting into the cottage and hurling an armful of hand tools onto the large dining table, ‘here’s how it’s going to be. I want a divorce and I want you…all of you…out by sunset, or it gets nasty.’ ‘Is Nasty coming?’ said Dopey, ‘I haven’t seen him in ages.’ ‘Snow, we should talk about this,’ said Doc. Snow picked up a single hand scythe taking a practise swing. ‘Nope, no talking. You leave or I sort it out another way. I’m right on the edge and if I hear one more word from any of you, I’ll…’ ‘Darling –’ began Doc. The scythe hooked into his neck and severed his windpipe. Happy dropped the apple. It rolled to a stop with a gentle thump against the table leg. ‘You were warned,’ said Snow. She ditched the scythe, sticky with blood, and picked up a long handled hoe. ‘Grumpy, you know how you love to vent your spleen…let’s make it easier for you.’ She drove the hoe deep and fished around until a steaming, slightly damaged, spleen lay on the floorboards. ‘Dopey. Dopey, Dopey, Dopey…’ she lifted and tested the weight of a lump hammer, ‘…if anyone won’t miss their brain…’ A few smashing blows later and Dopey’s head looked like a savaged boiled egg after breakfast. Bashful’s buttocks were removed, with a blunt trowel, and nailed to the front door for all the world to see. Sleepy’s eyes were plucked, rather brutally with a corkscrew, and then, forever open and wide awake, turned to face the clock. Sneezy’s nose was liberated with shears and placed upside down in a glass; the hope being the bastard would drown in his own snot for all eternity. Finally Happy. Happy’s fate was to be separated from what it was he was always playing with that made him so damned happy in the first place.

Alec Sillifant

He also had his right hand severed and both appendages were placed in close proximity to each other in the bath…but not quite close enough so they were touching. Snow White, covered in blood from head to foot, panted with exertion but she was, at last, free. She smiled as a Bluebird with a broken wing stumbled onto the windowsill. ‘What the fuck happened here?’ said the Bluebird. Snow sighed. ‘Take my advice, never marry a prince with multiple personality disorder, it’ll drive you mental.’ The Bluebird nodded. ‘Oh look,’ said Snow cheerfully, ‘an apple…’

Larry’s Poem. Larry Look at them, sweet chicken fillets in goose feather wraps; their movements set alight my senses, like the opening of a tuna can. Up…down, up…down. Swish…swish… So I jump. I land soft enough, like an autumn leaf on pudding soft mud. Up…down, up…down. Claws out, dig in… Oww! Meeeeoooooww! I was never very good at the patience thing.

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