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The man paused on the doorway, inhaling her fumes for the final time. He was leaving her,
and the house knew it. Its blinds blinked at him without a word, but he felt what it felt.
Not quite able to close the door, he stepped out to the edge of the porch and considered the
horizon with darkly shivering eyes. The sky was naked in that moment between predawn and day,
glimmering like fraxinella but without any of the soft aroma. He moved out of range of the
welcome mat and crunched a trail of ovals in the gravel up to the white picket fence, determined
to wait until day. In his pocket a key clinked against a diamond ring.
With the sudden flare of a fuse lighting, thse sun sprang over the hills and strew the sky
ash-red. He lit a cigarette and watched until the entropy of dawn had spread into grey, then
let out a sigh and turned to stare back at the hyperbaric house. She was in there somewhere,
her lashes flickering with the taunting pretence of dreams, her lips parted slightly as if she
needed to breathe, her polished skin enough to convince anyone that she was not the proud owner
of a sickly, scarred soul. His pupils were swollen with the memory of what they had been: a
sternutator to their friends and families, an oven jammed at regulo ten, a hyperactive confusion
of impulse and shame, or more concisely, a cock and stopcock. He had passively smoked her for
four years and now she was rising from his bones.
He threw the first cigarette over his shoulder and drew out the next. He only realised how
cold it was when it has hand spasmed and dropped the lighter, and for a few moments he opened
and closed his fist to jar it back to life. This time the cigarette lit and he strode quickly
back to the porch, the stick smouldering between finger and thumb. He flicked it in through the
open door, his eyes glancing up in time to see the shudder of a blind in the front bedroom.
His blood stung him in every pore, his heart suddenly shrieking horror. His mind unwound
like a clockwork mouse, skittering back in from the blue dawn, resting momently on the kitchen
table where he had sat for hours in the thickening air, spiralling round the gas ring and then
tumbling upstairs to the key he slid into his pocket and the final click of the bedroom lock.
The rush of ignition was barely enough to fill the gap between tick and tock and then the house
flung him into the fence. The blaze seared his face as he lay pinioned on the white pickets, but
he would not have moved had he been able to. The upper blind had slung up and she was there, her
hair dancing and entrancing even as the flames consumed it. But what chilled him was the look
of genuine surprise on her face.
At length he wrenched himself off the fence and threaded his arms through his backpack. The
house whistled goodbye to the tune of a siren and he walked down the street with the fire still
painting its reflection across his eyes.
Natalie Samuel
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Last week, whilst vacuuming Later, I discovered an "I love you" At the weekend Last night, clogging the U-bend of the sink After. Upstairs. "I do" fell from the velvet mound, I arrested it with tweezers This morning, I slid my wounded hand Mute, I extracted a Claire Williamson |
Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers by Clara Molden 
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Street Lights by Lester Hawksby 
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Waking blurred with Something of you lingers here I rise and hate myself in the mirror Annie Bumgarner |
Doubting Moments of the Interstitial Narrator
Stepping across the |
It became clear to me, |
It became clear and |
Stepping across the |
It became abrasive that |
Clear paving stones, |
Our world that is |
Hard stones paving |
Stepping clear across |
Donald Fraser
08.05, September 2nd, 1968
Amidst the throngs of bodies swaying in time with the rhythm of the carriage, just one body
appears to sway slightly more awkwardly. Unaccustomed to standing on a train for so long, it
tenses, attempting to counteract the movements, hands gripping the bar so firmly they begin to
ache. Feet shuffle uncomfortably in shiny, unforgiving shoes; the lowered head avoids eye
contact with his fellow passengers. The effort of keeping still combines with anxiety, causing
sweat to trickle down towards the stiff collar of an unworn starched shirt.
An average O-Level student, mediocre in his A-Level studies and relieved to have passed his
accounting exams, Bernard is finally beginning life. A working man now. Responsible;
independent. Soon teenage awkwardness and self-consciousness will be forgotten; acne and
embarrassing experiences with girls something he can laugh about to his ever-widening circle of
friends. Present anxiety is of course only temporary, a necessary obstacle before getting one’s
first job.
At 08.50 Bernard alights the train. Outside, the ashen sky gives no indication of optimism,
but Bernard smiles to the world, and thinks she is smiling back.
| * | * | * | Back to Top |
08.05, September 2nd, 1998
Amidst the throngs of bodies swaying in time with the rhythm of the carriage, just one body
appears to sway slightly more awkwardly. Anxious to avoid bumping into other passengers, he
grips the bar firmly until his hands begin to ache. Bernard avoids eye contact and small talk,
fiddling instead with the collar of his worn shirt and gazing absently at the blur of the houses
racing past.
Awkward and self-conscious, Bernard never succeeded in mixing socially. The few friends he
made in college have long since married and moved away or simply lost touch. And the accountancy
firm with whom he works, Price & Sons, is small and rather old-fashioned: his colleagues are
acquaintances, not friends. Bernard has never married, and although he misses a woman’s company,
particularly since his mother moved into a nursing home, it never occurs to him that he should
do something about it. If God had meant him to marry, then He would have sent him a wife, surely?
A man who resists change, it was all too easy for Bernard to become swept away by the constant,
reassuring tide of routine. Train to work every morning, lunch at one thirty, train home in the
evening. Dinner reading the paper, then an hour of TV – he likes westerns in particular - before
bed. Visits his mother on Saturdays and goes to church on Sundays. Reassuring routine steadily
eroding days, then weeks and eventually the years of Bernard’s life.
A grey, colourless sky indicating the premature arrival of winter abruptly gives way to the
impenetrable black of a tunnel. Still jerking against the train’s motion, Bernard glances up,
perhaps suddenly curious to see properly the people he travels with every day. Men in suits
with briefcases, gesticulating with a frenzy into their mobile phones, full of self-importance;
others talking gravely about the price of shares; or about the weather and how winter seems to
come earlier each year. Elderly women gossip, and somewhere a baby starts wailing. Career women
and businessmen mingle with a mutual respect. Grey suits, shirts and long overcoats unite these
people, like a uniform; they all belong. Opposite, however, Bernard is inexplicably drawn to the
crouching frame of a man in his fifties or sixties. Unlike his compatriots, this man seems small
and insignificant, in awe perhaps of the buzzing efficiency of his fellow passengers. Aware of
his incongruity in this scene, the man attempts in vain to hide among the others by donning the
same uniform – but he is not the same…
With a start Bernard sees the man disappear as the tunnel comes to an end and daylight floods
the carriage once more. So overwhelmed by the realisation of seeing himself from the outside for
the first time, Bernard feels a sense of panic, fear almost. Is this what he has become? A
frightened animal, cowering behind the shadow of these mercenary predators with their briefcases
and phones?
The atmosphere seems to close in: the carriage fills to bursting point and all around him
Bernard can feel the urgency of time-keeping, the importance of money. Stocks and shares and
investments and pensions. More phones bleep and ring, their high pitched tunes seeping into his
very brain and interrupting trivial chit-chat and highly intellectual debates alike. Bodies
around him squeeze and pack ever tighter against him, elbows poke him, feet trample on him.
Coughing and laughing and arguing and breathing and screeching of the train and ridiculous tunes
and babies wailing stocks shares funds trusts pensions equities investments merging into one
thumping inescapable noise. The smell of sweat and leather and cold metal make Bernard feel
nauseous and he has a terrifying sense of being trapped in a prison of grey coats and deafening
noise.
For once - the first time in his life? - Bernard acts on instinct. Pushing his way violently
through the heaving crowds and cutting through conversations, Bernard sees only the end of the
carriage and doesn’t care who is in his way. A man shoves him back angrily, but Bernard barely
feels this and single-mindedly continues his struggle for air. Next carriage - more commuters,
more suits and efficiency and routine. Two more carriages.
Suddenly Bernard can breathe again. The silence stuns him for a moment; then slowly he looks
around. At the far end, two girls are chatting in a relaxed manner; a curly-haired woman quietly
hums to her baby; an old man dozes by the window. An overwhelming sense of calmness and content
greet Bernard and he lets out his breath at last. The relative emptiness of this carriage makes
it seem huge; its windows are opened and a vigorous breeze fills the train. Realising he is
shaking, Bernard sits by the window to regain his composure. Suddenly remembering he has left
his briefcase in the other carriage, he begins to move; then the feeling of being cramped in that
prison again glues him to his seat. Closing his eyes, he decides to wait until the train has
emptied. In thirty years of work, Bernard has only been late three times; he decides to allow a
fourth. Feeling the warm sun on his face, his heartbeat begins to slow again, and memories of
the morning’s ride gently recede. The rhythm of the train becomes less threatening, its sounds
reassuring in their consistency; and it softly rocks its passengers in the same way as the
curly-haired woman is cradling her child.
Opening his eyes once more, Bernard realises he is now alone in the carriage. The sun is
higher in the sky, and outside the industrial landscape has given way to farms and open countryside.
Turning around, however, Bernard sees a young girl. Her red-brown hair frames a round face
with deep green eyes. Aged anything between fourteen and twenty-four, her simple youth and
energy seem to startle the older man. He stares. Only after several seconds does he feel
embarrassed and try to break the calm silence. He mutters, ‘lovely morning…’, but his fellow
passenger makes no reply. Unlike Bernard, she seems in no hurry to make polite conversation.
Bernard turns away again, bewildered by the confidence and serenity of the stranger. Staring
out at the countryside whizzing past, he can still feel the young girl’s eyes watching him, but
remains facing forward.
A moment later, a small hand is holding his and pulling him quickly to his feet. With
astonishment, Bernard looks up to see the red-haired girl before him. Standing beside her, he
sees that she is much smaller than himself, yet for some reason, she commands instant respect
from Bernard. She seems so much wiser, and her smile is not one of youthful innocence but of
mystery. Compelled to follow her, Bernard finds himself walking behind the girl, as if under a
spell. Walking faster and faster; now running, Bernard’s heart beating faster and faster. Hand
in hand they run from one carriage to the next, seats and doors and passengers and luggage
passing them by – but Bernard only sees the copper-coloured hair floating ahead of him.
And now Bernard finds himself at the open door of the train, hedges and fields flying past at
such speed that they become no more than blotches of colour. The wind is so strong he can barely
breathe, and his laughter is immediately swallowed up into the air. For several minutes they
stand holding each other, so close to the edge of the step, yet unafraid.
Around them the countryside is changing. Soon the land becomes mountainous, and they reach a
bridge, the land below falling into a deep ravine far below. Gone are the farms, the English
fields, no sign of civilisation at all…this is the landscape of westerns. The girl turns to him
and smiles, and although her mouth does not appear to open, one word comes distinctly to Bernard
through the rushing sound of the wind: jump. Jump? All Bernard can see is the incredible
distance, the huge space out there. Jumping would surely be dangerous…but lush, green vegetation
and blue sky beckon, fresh air envelops him.
Thinking logically, as he has done for some fifty years, Bernard dismisses his ridiculous
fantasies and turns to go inside again. And the stifling, sticky smell of life on that train,
of life in the accountant’s firm, of routine and monotony answers him like an abrupt slap on the
face. The smell of suits and trivial talk, pushing and hurrying and urgently trying to make
more money sickens him.
I can never go back, thinks Bernard. And he never does.
Anna Patton
Male Face by Hannah Slade
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With black thoughts David Wilkins |
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Horrific scenes witnessed this evening. Faces once handsome, bodies swathed with Anindo Hazra |
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What a picture they'd make,
Three soldiers at peace,
Playing silhouettes with a purple sky,
As the stars chased the sun out.
No photos though.
Later they would visit,
To drink sweet tea form my dirty steel mug
and smoke cigarettes in the dark,
The tips all fireflied,
Glowing
in the desert night.
In turn we sat with them,
Awkwardly watching
in black and white,
A comedy,
Mercifully,
About the military - of all things,
Switching hot fingers
on the scalding glass,
And blowing the steam away,
Sipping and smiling sweet,
Until we could leave.
I'll never forget,
When they played a trick
from the shadows,
Poking a Kalashnikov at my friend.
My face so pale,
It shamed the moon,
Which hid that night
in the skies' black pocket.
But afterwards we laughed,
With sweet tea and Kalashnikovs to hand,
Watching,
I offered the last of the cigarettes,
Waiting,
For the sun to invade.
Dafydd Bread.
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Repetition (Repeating from Graham Greene’s 'Heart of the Matter') The rains were over and the earth steamed. Timber stabbed in the steaming craters of bomblast, It’s a simple case of repetition: It was as if the world was quiet again, Sara Nesbitt |
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1. Introductory Rhetoric.
The boulevards are ripe with rumour:
the assassin, the archfiend –
expression of an instinct,
indistinct dismantler of humanity,
the man whose own sinews do not become him,
he of pumice skin and suit backwards,
he of threats made and delivered,
whose fibres constitute manifest uncertainty
for all, of all, in all,
who struts egregious but invisible,
who incites irreasonable discord, wearing ties of polyester,
who plies the distended hairs of his own beard in his fingernails –
he has struck again!.......
2. Methodology, Philosophy &c.
He makes the crime into a clandestine rite –
with himself as pataphysical high priest,
his victim as ceremonial sacrifice.
The chase too is always ritual,
ending invariably with his pursuant
achieving some sort of redemption
through flat failure.
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In his choice of techniques |
Real words he says |
3. The Art of Failed Murder.
The late M. Jarry had been wearing
finely-constellated black country brogues,
pinstripe (pool blue baize, bespoke,
with net pockets for odd pogues),
matching flamingo-feathered fedora,
and a blouse of lilac, wistfully, a silver artichoke
capping his ashplant – all doused in a particular
admixture of noxious elements, no doubt
the reason for his slovenly necrosis.
There were flecks and flaccid fragments
of Jarry all over town. He had, they'd say, gotten about.
But he survived, piecemeal. He took to eating
airplane food, meat arranged by cut, thereby completing
the dissevered partitions of his own flesh.
In his fridge was found gelignite, glistening,
disguised as aspic, and nitroglycerine
as virgin olive oil. But he wouldn't touch the stove,
and he always cut around the jelly for the meat.
Plasticine rimming the front door was given
to local playgroups –
citywide explosions
thundered and sundered,
shards of lego and abaci were driven
through innumerable windows,
but Jarry remained Jarry
all the while.
Of course, our fantomastic assassin-hero
is not quite snookered, not just yet.
Anthony Chad Norris
My Bike was stolen on the weekend. I came downstairs bright and early as usual
for my morning ride and some bastard had nicked it. Just the blue chain snickering
on the crazy paving if I ever get my hands on whoever
hands wind-whipped tarmac cracking knuckles oh how I miss my
So I went down the nick, they said if I didn’t have a frame number chances are I
wouldn’t see it again. Filled in some form, then I passed the shed where they keep the
bikes they’ve found. Hundreds of them all lined up chained up rusting in the sunlight
glinting like coppers
bloody coppers never bother should’ve kept her number you never know she might turn
up on a street corner somewhere in
You know what the worst of it is? It had one of those little computers on it that says
how fast you’re going. I always wanted one and I had it and they’ve taken that too. I
never should have left it with her
bitch I should have chained her up she’s cleaned me inside out you could see your face
in my guts
But I can’t be bitter. The bloke what’s got it, he’ll soon discover that the brakes don’t
work and the wheels squeak when you turn the pedals and you look like a freak on it and you have to wear a
crash hat so no one can recognise you
no I don’t miss her not at all but I really really wish that someone hadn’t stolen my bike
So I took a wrench and I went and smashed up her new Porsche.
Natalie Samuel
Cogs by Charlotte Murray
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I don’t think I’ll ever remember what Paddington Station was like I do not think of you there, waiting, I do not think of you this morning, Anne Ismay |
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Imagine a magic time to phone you a faint voice Your green room And face in the pink mirror Our meetings Gabriel Jeffrey |
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Once we drove through wide open sky
Spaces of nowhere
Framed by highway, wreathed in wheat
We felt our hunger rise into the red of need
Stopped to fuel, feed our bodies at
A roadside shrine-sacred to truck drivers
Motorists, caffeine junkies.
Inside the game machines beeped and bothered
Me, while you like a child threw in a quick
Quarter, or two-
We wandered the aisles in quest
Of refreshment until we happened upon
A novelty:
Gas station guest book thrown open wide
Lists of names down grease-blotched pages
Laughing we seized the lidless pen and
Wrote then
One above the other
Our symbols of self.
In dusk we pulled away
Left the light to dim behind
Us-vanish, fade-we went on to night.
Sometimes I think of that paint peeling place
Rows of stale food flowing down
Slightly warped dust-dirtied shelves
Disinterested staff reading trash-
A largish book all smeared with years
And two names keeping company.
Annie Bumgarner
She makes me shudder
my little flower
Her beauty’s eyes peep out from behind
perfume
unlike the rest
the only pain she can ever feel is not warning anything
I will say to myself ‘I hate the grovelling desire
the noble feelings - horse-armies raiding through-
should be my aim’
but I will sacrifice what’s long-term and most important
for the sky-lift when she holds me in her arms
a bosom climbed beyond the limits
against me
my heart shouting ‘you’re in a movie!’
‘but don’t be late’
go back to bed, and there you want the rest
what’s remained of you
that crying time when you think ‘I’m not that and don’t
want to be praised’
for it will have been no more than a ‘glorious’ fuck
spitting words
if only this stranger could be refreshed in fever lights
with your weakness
no-one would have to know
‘cuddle this pale creatures’
and still she will, with the ease of a parent, selfless,
lift you up and teach you
not to cry not to hate
a half-greed which, if not taken, is an opportunity lost
upon the soft cool duvet her body will flutter like a
flower aware
will encourage you into the
sleep of easy worlds
Gabriel Jeffrey
Mum knelt on the mat, scrubbed my back
while I winced in the foam canoe.
Dad thumped on the locked door
as if stoning a landed salmon.
Cracked the looking-glass damp side
into five fractions of ceiling.
Mum's temper plunged my neck to knees
beyond flexibility
made a mermaid of me.
Agony.
We listened as he packed and left.
Mum's reflection wept in a triangle on the floor.
I stagnated
topless water feature.
For days my body curved dolphin-like
fin of pain ripped down my legs, eyes bulged like plugs.
Dad returned.
Offering a mirror, tougher than the last.
My spine found the geometry to straighten
helped him fix
all our trembling bodies
back up against the bathroom door
Claire Williamson
