The Page is Printed 2016 Creative Writing

Competition

Anthology of Commended and Winning Entries

Adult and Under 18 Categories

Entrants were given the task of being as creative as they could in just one A4 page. Entries were accepted in any genre and we received over 100 entries

across both categories including stories, poems, letters, monologues and many more varied styles. All of the entries were judged blind to ensure each

individual piece was given a fair chance. We really enjoyed reading the enormous variety of writing and we’d like to say a big thank you to every

writer who submitted an entry to this year’s competition. Sadly we couldn’t share all of them here, but we do hope you enjoy this selection of commended

and winning entries.

Judging Panels

Adult JudgesClare Donoghue

Full-time published crime fiction author from Taunton

Louise Lappin-CookCo-centre Director at Tacchi-Morris Arts

Centre

Graeme RyanHead of Drama at Heathfield Community School who also writes poetry and scripts

for production

Claire MartinLibrarian at Heathfield Community School

who has a passion for literature

Under 18’s JudgesAll of the judging panel were students from Heathfield Community School who have a passion for reading and were selected based on their keen interest in creative writing. They were helped by Claire Martin who guided them in choosing the three winners.

Lizzie BluntYear 7 student

Sophia HallYear 8 student

Maddie ThomasYear 9 student

Sam BurchYear 10 student

ContentsSome of the names below are the pseudonym under which the entry was submitted

Adult CategoryWords – S. Langley

The Egg – Judith Tremaine DrazinOne Silken Afternoon – Judith Tremaine Drazin

Apart from the Squeal – Zachary Flange (Warning: Contains graphic content)The Diner – Molly Rogers42nd Street – Tom Orchard

The Journey – Tom GardnerHouse of my Dreams – Hetty Hunt

Seascape 1969 - LianaVitruvian Woman – Heather PearsonEat Your Greens – Rowan Patterson

Gone – Rowan PattersonJacob and the Angel – Laura McFall

El Dia De Los Muertos – Anne Wilson

Under 18’s CategoryThe Old Man and the Tree – Kirill Nezhentsev

Gone – Charvi JainWar Games – Pearl Andrews-Horrigan

Shopping List – Johanne GormanFreedom – Katie Pretty

Not Drinking – Phoebe BriceWhy? – Annabella Lemon

Alone – Caitlin HillThe Chrysalis – Adelphi Eden

Words

I rise at 5 quietly leaving the family sleeping. The morning frost is thick on the ground, steam rising from the garden fences in the hazy sunshine.

The colours of the day have not yet decided what intensity to wear.

Into my little car, slow to start but always willing in the end.

Empty streets lead me to the depot.

In my own country I know the quickest routes, the widest roads, low bridges and weight restrictions. Here I depend on the digital maps, I have few words so speak with smiles and thumbs up.

This morning I creep into the City collecting the sealed bar-coded wheelie bins of shredded paper from Westminster offices.

Back to the depot where they are made into bales.

The bales are bound with tight tape, keeping in their secrets. They are heavy from the weight of responsibility of the words they contain; memos, mandates, directives, decrees, statutes, warrants, endorsements, ratifications; shaping the lives of a nation.

Sack truck, ramp, roller door, never to be read again.

Take them away, the ideas and the meaning; turn them into something acceptable, something everyday. Sneak them into people’s homes.

Once out of the City the fields unfold. I think of my grandfather’s farm in the foothills of the Sudetes, the flat planes, wooden villages, smoke form dachas nestled in the forests.

Concentrate! Or you will miss the exit, turning this beast is not easy in these remote lanes where the strips of documents will be reformed.

The villages have calming schemes, like the slaloms on the winter slopes.

Tiny industrial estates with breweries, Indian takeaways, pet food shops, double glazing, indoor play areas, a concrete gym, then finally the waste paper recycling plant. Huge processing pulping, churning, bleaching, flattening; reshaping the words that no longer make sense- did they ever make sense?

Before I leave the recycling plant, I use the toilet.

Who’s words am I flushing away today?

On my way home I stop at a roadside stand “Farm Fresh Eggs” for my family, kept safe in their boxes of jumbled up words.

The Egg

Tea-breaks were scheduled to last for ten minutes but Miss Mildred Tiffin, retired librarian and a stickler for rules, remained sitting defiantly in the only comfortable chair considering, though planning might be a better word; for Miss Tiffin a pillar of the community was planning to steal an egg. The charity shop to which she now devoted her services every Wednesday, received many strange donations, outsized purple corsets, stuffed, moulting birds, a whey making machine, a machine with no visible purpose, but the egg had excited more comment than most.

“Is it real?” asked the youngest volunteer who boasted as many studs as places to put them. “Might be cardboard left over from some pantomime.”

The manager tapped it lightly with a finger nail. “Seems real” she said “but what animal or bird could have laid that?”

“An elephant” the only male volunteer suggested flippantly.

“Elephants are mammals” Miss Tiffin, who was never flippant, snapped. “They give birth to live young. Perhaps an ostrich, though it would be hard for any living creature to expel.” She broke off blushing. She was a prim woman and these were dangerous waters.

The egg remained in the office store room because there was really no shelf large enough in the shop proper and Miss Tiffin was mesmerised. When she touched it, the surface was hot, listening, she heard pecking, though no-one else did. “I am a desiccated old woman” she told the egg. “No family left and only token friends. I need someone or something to love, preferably something glorious; a bird of paradise, a phoenix, perhaps a baby dragon.” The possibilities were endless.

Peck, peck, it was getting louder, time to act but no time for subtlety. Putting on her long brown coat she manoeuvred the egg gently onto her stomach and did up the buttons though it was a tight fit. The shop was crowded, eyes swivelled in her direction and there was some smothered giggling.

“Have you never seen a pregnant woman before?” said the seventy year old Miss Tiffin loudly, brazenly, haughtily. The giggling died away.

“Well snap” said the studded one faintly as the door clanged shut.

One Silken Afternoon

I sent my lover,myTreacheroud lover,intoThe garden on a hotSilken afternoon toCharm the birds down from the trees.And through my window I couldWatch them come.Softly at firstGreen breasted finches,bluebirds,Now a nightingale in songThe still air scarcely parting,Then with beating wings thoseLordly swans and spearingFrom the North an eagle.NowWith claws outstretched,the HarpiesWoman birds, bird women.He is looking frightened now,My treacherous lover.So I will wait a little,Safe behind my window.Before I go to meet himIn the garden, on this hotAnd silken afternoon.

APART FROM THE SQUEAL

On this day, violent death is in the air. A September dawn in 1956: away from his London home and family, it’s the final day of Joe’s three-week Wiltshire stay with his much-loved childless aunty and uncle. A curious yet very ordinary youngster, Joe is just ten, but on this day, this very special day, his life will change forever …

After successfully coaxing away all of Auntie Kate’s misgivings, as the sun rises, Joe eagerly sets off with Uncle Sean to nearby Stroud. An hour later, Joe proudly hitches the full-sized, borrowed overall around himself. He watched closely as the fretful creature raises her pinkish head. She sniffs, smells the blood and waste of her predecessors and screams in terror as she senses her fate. Her bowels open abruptly and urine streams and steams. Kicked and prodded towards the killing-area, her shrieks and piercing squeals – once heard, never forgotten – echo off the drab yellow walls. The stocky stunner-man, soon bestriding the wriggling young sow, curses and grapples as he strives to place the bulky tongs behind her ears. Some scuffling moments, then a thud-bang as the electrodes drive an amp through the pig’s brain; seconds later, she collapses to the floor, quivering and slavering but no longer screeching. Adroitly, the stunner fixes some chains around her back legs and with a heave, hoists the assembly to hook onto the overhanging steel conveyor that loops around the slaughterhouse. Still fitfully trembling, after a casual push from the stunner, the cataleptic upended animal trundles into the killing room. Her past and future? Rendered irrelevant. Her conclusion? Now inevitable.

Fascinated, Joe cautiously follows and stands gazing at the unfolding scene before him. The giant rubber-booted sticker-man seems to disapprove of such juvenile scrutiny as, clutching a short double-edged knife, his reproachful eyes glare past the comatose pig and fix upon the boy’s. He mutters malevolently then, still staring, thrusts in his blade and twists then extracts it before stepping smartly back to escape the crimson torrent cascading from the spouting throat-wound. The blood flushes and splashes along a ten-foot channel in the concave concrete floor and gurgles down a drain-hole into a collecting sump below. For twenty seconds or so the carcase twitches in its death-throes and then, after a rough shove from the sticker, it swings on its chains bizarrely as a conveyor ratchet catches the shackles and jerkily rattles the body to the next process. This is scalding: a raucous, scrubbing and boiling machine that, after drenching and pummelling the cadaver, singes, scrapes and gathers up its bristly hair before propelling it towards the specialists waiting outside. Steam (and now some tears) mist up Joe’s glasses, but riveted, he wipes them and moves on. Shiny steel blades and chopped shimmer in the flickering neon lights as firstly a deft, precise entrails-remover, then a cleaver-wielding, brawny chine-splitter do their work. Officialdom now interrupts the butchery process as a Ministry inspector scrutinises still-warm lungs for signs of porcine tuberculosis while a colleague (Joe’s Uncle Sean) notes down weights and ratios of fat and lean for subsidy purposes. The used-to-be pig is trundled to a bloodstained offal-man who skilfully removes kidneys, heard, liver, spleen, bladder and other diverse innards before separating then tossing the edible and inedible organs into designated bucked. Joined only at the neck, two large meaty flanks now remain; swiftly the head, a limp tongue drooling inches under glasses (yet, to Joe, somehow beseeching) eyes, is rapidly separated and nonchalantly flung into a large cubic container that already holds many gruesome facial likenesses. This small sow, a source of bacon, pies, leather, ham, shaving brushes, chops, pet food, black puddings, pork, sausages, and more – a living animal – has departed. Just meat, groceries and merchandise persist. Aghast, Joe runs for the sunshine outside and throws up his breakfast.

“Everything’s used but the squeal, Joe.” Sean observes as he drives them both home. But, devastated by what he’s seen, Joe fights to smother the nausea that has already consumed him. To reinforce his revulsion, gobbets of gore had sullied his shoes; blood-specks have dried on his own specs; his hankie is pink from when he’d wiped his hands and glasses. Joe, certain that he reeks of blood, urine, excrement and dead or dying pig, manages to stifle a sob. He feels ashamed at having pleaded to visit; Auntie Kate had been so right.

Now I’ve a confession: I am Joe. Sixty years on, a full-colour movie replays in my head during my dark times; pig-shrieks and gurgling lifeblood form the soundtrack. I see the sticker-man’s staring eyes, his knife, the stab, the cataract, Such images dominate my dreams till I wake – shivering, often shouting. I’d touched violent death for the first time. But a lifelong loathing endures – for me, meat, all meat, any meat has been forever eschewed.

The Diner

The diner was sitting in the centre of the restaurant, where he could be seen clearly from every other table. His waistline bore testament to his love of fine dining. He had already sampled several dishes from the menu, none of which had met with his approval and all of which had been despatched back to the kitchen with a gruff complaint (albeit with the plate at least half empty). “Too much salt!”. “Undercooked!” “Over booked!”. “A disgrace, for the prices you charge!”. All around him people were tutting into their napkins and shaking their heads.

After the waitress allocated to his table had returned to the kitchen in tears, the head waiter had stepped in.

“If Sir is not happy with our regular menu, perhaps he would like to try our Special Reserve Dish’, he suggested discreetly. “It’s something we offer only to our most discerning clientele.”

The diner bridled slightly with pride. He could not help but feel flattered. “Well ……what is it?” he asked, affecting disinterest. The waiter smiled, and tapped the side of his nose with a discreet finger. The diner laughed, excited despite himself to collude in the secret. Then in a low voice he asked “Aaah, perhaps I should ask how much…..?” The waiter wrote a figure on his pad, ripped off the sheet and placed it in front of the diner. His eyebrows shot skywards for a split second, then he regained his composure. “That will be no problem! Bring it at once!”.

He sat back with a satisfied smirk, his lips glistening slightly with grease. He lifted one buttock and released a small puff of gas, belched softly, then settled back to await his surprise, his fingers clasped across his bulging stomach.

Back in the kitchen the head waiter and head chef were in conference, their heads nearly touching. The chef nodded and smiled. He went to the cold store and returned bearing a fish. It measured perhaps two feet from nose to tail. Its scales gleamed deep rich blue and silver. He took his time to prepare it. He handled it with loving care, letting his fingers caress its smooth flanks. Finally he stood back. The fish lay in state on a vast platter, garnished all around, magnificent. The chef leaned down close to it, and seemed almost to whisper an endearment.

“Service!” he shouted. The head waiter swept up the platter and bore it aloft into the restaurant. All eyes turned to see. The diner sat up, letting his chest fill with air in sweet anticipation. At last! A dish worthy of a gourmet like him! The platter was placed in front of him. He gasped in pleasure. It was a masterpiece! He raised his knife and fork ready to plunge them into the glorious blue skin.

In a split second the fish launched itself towards his face, sank its fishy teeth hard into his nose, then fell back perfectly into place. The diner, too shocked to scream, felt the pain in his face then more pain, overwhelming, surging through his stomach and across his chest. He clutched at his heart and felt his breath fading. He toppled slowly sideways and lay slumped, lifeless, on the floor.

People leapt up from their tables in horror and clustered around.

The waiter stepped over the fallen body and reached for the platter. The fish winked.

42nd Street

The Beetle crushers clicked and tapped their clogs across the village square. Folk Festival Day was warm and muggy -shirtsleeves and pushchairs, painting dogs, the smell of burnt onions, fresh pizza and spit-roast Dexter beef, wafting from West Street and the courtyard of The Brewers Arms.

A fiddler bowed a single note and the crowd, squatting on lines of straw bales, stilled to a murmur. Two guitars mirrored the note. A bearded mandolin player fine-tuned his strings as eight rainbow-colours dancers slid fresh flower-stems into hats of yellow straw.

Leaning on his stick, the old man shuffled towards the one remaining bale, helping his frail companion ease slowly down. It wasn’t comfy, the bale, but at least it was a seat.

‘Hope I can get up again’, she said.

‘I’ll give y’a push.’

‘Tuh, you could’t push a fly, these days.’

He looks at his gnarled hands. No, he thought, these days the fly would win.

‘Keep still’, she said. ‘They’re goin’ to start.’

The pair of them watched as bright skirts swishes to the music, and felt the first beat as eight clogs rose and hovered above the ground, pausing for muscle-tearing moments before dropping to the tarmac with a single click. Eight more beats and eight more again, the rhythm quickening to the trill and ching of mandolin and guitars, and the fiddle spinning tight circles of sound which the tapping dancers chased and caught.

‘You’re tapping your stick’, she whispered, pointing. He was following the beat, hadn’t noticed.

‘Well, you’re tapping your foot. I saw you.’

‘Tuh, tapping the good one’, she said, rubbing at the bandage on the other.

Skirts swirled and spun as the dance grew faster, his well-work stick and her one good foot involuntarily tapping, tapping to the circles of sound, to the rhythm of clogs, tapping the two of them back, tapping their memories back, back to 1934 in Yeovil, to The Gaumont on Stars Lane, where hey ‘stepped out’ together for the very first time, his arm around her warm young shoulders in the back row of the celluloid palace, watching Dick Powell’s dancers in 42nd Street, and she asking him, ‘who’s best, Ginger Rogers or Ruby Keeler?’ And him saying, ‘You are.’

As one, the dancers climbed into the air on invisible strings, landing and spinning, eight clogs tapping and heeling, tapping and heeling, before the music flicked to a sudden stop – click! – and eight pointed toes slow-slow-slowly rose, knee-high, the audience riding with them, breath held, tensing, waiting, for one final rhythmic clack! Then eight toes falling in teasing-lingering-unison till they touched the ground with the tiniest of clicks, and the smiling dancers bowed.

Whoops and whistles rattled the windows of the homes and shops surrounding the swuare as applause swelled and fell, its last echoes fading into silence somewhere between Provender Delicatessen and The Pharmacy.

Then the crowd dispersed and the tapping dancers were gone, pitched the two companions out of their cinema seats, out of The Gaumont, spinning them back from 1934 to a new century, all the way back to an old straw bale in the emptying village square.

‘I wish I could dace like that,’ she sighed.

‘You are’, he said, his stick pointing at her one good foot, still tapping.

The Journey

It is a totally new experience for us both. We are about to walk where we have never walked before. We often hold hands as we walk together but today our grips are tighter than normal as we seek to offer and to receive mutual comfort and support for the journey ahead.

The corridors are like a maze. The high walls are covered with dark brown tiles. Windows are noticeable only by their absence. The very building itself, due to be demolished in the near future seems to whisper death and decay. A strange stillness envelops us even though there are people passing by. Some walk with a confident step, clutching files in their hands, others holding a stethoscope around their necks. They belong here. We do not. Others walk with a more hesitant step with looks of apprehension or even fear upon their faces. For us as for many others today is to be the day when a known past and an unknown future are about to meet.

A small sign on the wall tells us we have reached our temporary destination. We walk into the room, sign in and sit down in one of the few seats still available. We look at each other and smile but we both know that the smile is a mere mask. Around us are people of all ages and probably, if we knew their stories, of all backgrounds and experiences. There is the customary pile of outdated magazines. Our minds are preoccupied with more important matters than fading celebrities, latest fashions or easy to prepare meals. Faded adverts hang from the wall, advertising self-help groups or fundraising activities. On a shelf to our left a couple of deathly white model heads covered with scarfs look down at us. One look is all we need to ensure that we avert their gaze.

My wife’s name is called, for the first of countless times. She disappears into a small room where a blood sample is taken before she returns to sit beside me. We smile reassuringly by uneasily. It is over half an hour before we hear her name announced again. It is a different room this time with different personnel. The consultant stands and welcomes us with a warm smile. I am thinking that he must have welcomed hundreds in the past with that seat, watching, waiting and wondering. The Consultant presses buttons on his computer and then, with a humanity and care which seems to erase all other patients from his memory, he takes my wide’s hand in his.

‘I have your results here’, he begins. ‘I’m sorry to say that you have myeloma, cancer of the bone marrow. It is incurable but treatable.’ We say nothing. What can we say? ‘ I have some patients whom I have been treating for 11 years’, he adds in the silence. It is meant to be comforting but it isn’t. Some patients are not all patients. At this point in time we have no way of knowing whether my wife is to be part of the some with possibly eleven years before her or part of the others with a shorter, unknown life ahead. We exchange loving looks and I put my arm around her as we leave the room. Within minutes we are in the car. I turn the key are drive off. The journey has begun.

House of my Dreams

I lived there so I know it existed, but there’s no trace anymore of the graceful house with its overgrown garden and its own stretch of beach. Go there now and you’ll find Coconut Course, an expensive resort where wealthy, oiled and overweight tourists sunbathe on decks and splash in tiled pools. They call for daiquiris and rum punches that arrive decorated with paper parasols and fruit slices, and the steel drum and calypso music never stops playing from loudspeakers dotted through the trees.

There was a sugar merchant’s house once, white-painted with green shutters. The rooms were elegant and cool, with high ceilings and wooden floors. But it was already becoming shabby and looking out of place among the new developments along the south coast of the island when I lived there in the seventies.

A hammock hung on the balcony. I’d swing lazily, gazing through palm fronds to the sea below the house. The horizon was an inky line and the deep sea an indigo band. Closer to the shore, on the reef, water broke gently and within the reef was a calm lake of startling turquoise-blue where shoals of tiny silver fish darted.

In the hottest part of the day, I’d walk through the garden past oleander and bougainvillea bushes and see humming birds hovering over hibiscus flowers of sugary-pale petals with scarlet throats. Pushing aside the creaking, wooden gate, I’d descend a flight of steps into the deep shade cast by huge, glossy leaves of a breadfruit tree, with fruit the size of footballs hanging over my head. Then I was out onto a glaring white sandy beach, as hot as an over and empty, except for a few crazy tourists lying baking. I’d wade through deep, dry sand that burned by feet and into a sea as warm as bath water and as clear as sparling crystal.

This was the house I remember so well. This was the balcony where I got married. We removed the hammock for the day and decorated everything with flowers from the garden. This was the beach where our wedding photos were taken and our friends wore flowers in their hair, and some removed their finery and ran into the sea when it got too hot.

I loved there so I know it existed. But there’s no trace anymore of the house, or the garden, or the happy young people, or the marriage. It exists now only in my dreams.

Seascape 1969

Our final exams are in May, so term for us end early. Still tired and tense we drive to Gwbert-on-Sea to a group of caravans hidden in the dunes at the head of the beach. Sand and sea spread glittering before us and beyond the rocky headland Cardigan Island’s rugged face dominates the bay. We shed our wristwatches, turn the caravan clock to the wall, and slow away the radio.

wind whistling the grass

whisking silver sand seawards

wrinkling the shallows

by the glimmering shoreline

sighs into star bewitched dark

The pressure recedes. On the third day we set out to explore the headland. The grass is starred with daisies, and craggy cracks foam with pink sea thrift, humming with bees. Way below in sea slashed fissures, herring gulls wheel on taut wings about the spray, then soar upwards on the rising air and hang above us screaming raucously. We walk and scramble to the furthest point and sit on a rock to each our picnic, looking over the waves to the gull crowned island. And miraculously there appears below us a trio of sleek coated seals perching upright in the water, flippers outspread in surprise as they grin up at us. We stare open mouthed at their bright faces, stupidly startles to see them where they belong. At last, windswept and salt crusted we turn back.

smooth shimmering arcs

dolphins in the silky blue

each a smiling eye

a round rolled fin tipped back

an oceanic carousel

We stand transfixed to watch the display until they dive and leap and splash and then skim seawards, on and on until they become distant waves. And then we ramble silently, scrabbling down the tumbled rocks on to the low tide sand and pad wearily across the wetness to the fishermen just come ashore.

for a wood smoked feast

two shillings for two mackerel

cross legged gazing west

while mirrored in the gleaming sand

sunset floods the sea with gold

Vitruvian Woman

Then there is the friend who liked me better when I was smaller.

She’d prefer me tightly wrapped; fears on the inside pulsing between my muscles, pressing against my skin, tangling every thought with thorny, fast-growing, skinny green branches of confusion. She’d like me back where hope was a precipice and risk was a game people like us don’t play.

When she told me not to change anymore she struck a long and perfect fracture into the bone of our bond but the ends held. I’d better not expand. I’d better not get better. She thinks water is best contained and wet. She’s not a fan of steam; steam rises and dances and swirls, catches the light and floats away.

I want to show her there’s a way to sit on the play-park merry-go-round so you can go really fast and not be thrown off. I want to tell her about how you can watch the world and not feel sick or dizzy or ashamed but she wouldn’t understand; I’m already too many madnesses for her to herd. If she can just get me to sit down, to contract my imagination and stay within the triangular realm of death, taxes and well worn phrases she’ll have traction. I’m spinning away and her plan is to pull me back with a million tiny harpoons made from what she calls love and care and I call fear.

In every conversation she guides me to the times that were hard. We sit there for a moment and each give the other space to reflect, thinking we’re the facilitator to the other’s escape from pain. She takes me back to a wardrobe of clothes that don’t fit anymore. It would be simpler if we had the same tastes but she likes retro detail and logos and I want my labels on the inside now, beside the laundry care symbols, where they belong.

My disappointments are her proof and relief. When I tell her I tried something and failed she’s the first by my side to say ‘I told you so’, disguised as an arm across my shoulders. The more I say I’m enjoying the ride the tighter she fastens my seatbelt. When I stopped trying to convince her of my honesty the world grew again but our common ground disappeared.

Hallmark cards, conversations at funerals and fridge-magnet philosophy are her weaponry cabinet to lean on and call truth. She has sentences designed to remind me I’m lucky. At the end of each day I’m meant to return to laments about family, tradition, loyalty and sacrifice and pretend I wouldn’t swap them for all that I have now.

Sometimes the anger flashes in her eyes and reveals the devil in conditioning. Crimson and black rage threatens an explosion of things that could be said and not unsaid. Who do I think I am? Who am I to disprove the depth of the hard-won groove of misery and martyrdom? Who am I to think that the higher power might be all of us and not one of us? Who am I, anymore?

She reminds me often that we all end up in the ground, one day. I want her to hear herself and listen. If we all end up in the ground then why not get the air in your hair now? I want to sing her the blues, watch her get drunk on spiced rum and move like silk in a soft midnight breeze.

But she’s the friend who likes me better when I’m smaller.

Eat your greens

It had been a very, very long day. Paula wanted to go straight to bed, but instead she mechanically prepared dinner. There had been food at the wake: little sandwiches, sausages and cake. That’s what people expect, Ben had told her, but her mother had never eaten in the middle of the afternoon, and neither did Paula. He had offered to buy her dinner this evening, but what would people have thought?

She placed her plate on the tray she’d prepared with a non-slip mat, knife, fork and a heavy-bottomed glass of cold water. It was late and she needed the company of the television. Also, setting just one tray was easier than setting one place at the dining table and it allowed the use of the cheaper cutlery instead of the fussy silverware.

She settled on the cream overstuffed chair, straightening the cloths on the arms, and turned on the television. Force of habit kept her tuned to a programme about Queen Victoria’s children, despite the fact that she’d seen it before. Her mother had not liked to explore many channels: too many of them offered programmes she considered unsavoury. Paula began to eat carefully, peas first, then carrots. Her mother had always insisted on vegetables being eaten first.

Victoria’s children, it seemed, were never out of their mother’s gaze. Their whole lives were affected by their mother’s opinion of them; her will, her hopes or her dislike. Not many survived to enjoy freedom, to be the generation in control.

The thought stuck Paula like a hammer. She felt a wave of nausea. She had survived. She looked at her fork, stacked with three rounds of carrot. Eat your vegetables. Eat them first. Her eyes pricked as the carrot reached her mouth. She hadn’t expected to cry now. Eat them first or there won’t be any meat. Tears spilled over and, suddenly, she was a girl again. The carrot in her mouth no longer firm but over-boiled. The texture disgusting, too soft, slush breaking on her tongue. No Meat. No desert. No toys. No books. The throbbing in Paula’s ears drowned the sound of the television. Eat your greens. Sprouts now. The taste strong, so strong. Hideous. Chew, chew, fight the gagging. Get them down. Fight the tears. I can’t, I can’t!

And once, just once, the sprouts came back out. Green phlegm retched and coughed on the floral plate, eyes wide in horror, cheeks burning with shame as tears rush to dilute the mess and then SLAP! Stinging pain and one cheek burns hotter. A flight upstairs. A banishment. No meat, no desert, no play.

Paula put the tray down on the floor. She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and turned off the television. She waited for her heart to calm, for her ragged breathing to slow. She didn’t want dinner, she wanted to sleep. If she left the food there and the pans in the kitchen no-one would know.

Before going upstairs, she found the notepad beside the telephone and wrote herself a brief list. Ring estate agents; Ring Ben. Then she crossed out the second and picked up the phone. His voice was surprised but warm. Her voice shook a little as she took the first step into her new life.

“Do you remember talking about a weekend away?”

Gone

My first breath My first loss

You are there You

One of two faces

Two of four arms My first grief

To welcome me You

Are

My first steps Not

You are there There

To laugh with me

You

My first fall My first job

You are there are

To comfort me My first house

not

My first words My first child

You listen there

My first school You are not there

You wave And yet

My first bike My first thought There

You let go My first love you

Always are

NO!

Jacob and The AngelA poem by Laura McFall(Inspired by Epstein’s carving of “Jacob and the Angel”-owned by The Tate.)

They have read in a brochure, that I am “high art”-cultural nourishment to the people-.

They’ve been told I am Jacob and this is my angel.-We’re an episode from a book in the bible-.

They think I wrestled my assailant all night-and that I happily held up the battle-.

They believe I was blessed in the morning-for not abandoning the struggle-

They have heard that I proclaimed-I have seen God’s face and my life is preserved-

But they have not been told the right story.

I am a shrunken figure malleted down. My impotence on display.

Bound to this towering monsterGripped in his custody

I am not soft, fine grained or pretty.But twisted into purgatory.

My hero status sucked out, denied,Edited by history

I was chipped at by an artist with tools that hurt me, A chisel that gauged me, a blade that removed me.

If I was not made of stone, nor exhibited here in a galleryIf I were a man on the street, they would just walk over me.

El Dia De Los Muertes

Early light bleeds upward from the line of the horizon in hues of blue and gold. Earth’s skyscape appears

erratically stapled to its landscape by tall, silhouetted stalks rising from the sharp spears of peyote agaves.

A village sits like a mirage in a sea of rocky outcrops where geckos hide, snakes slide, and at

night, under a million stars, distilled cactus juice fuels the inhabitant’s tequila flavoured dreams.

A dirt roadway, cast with sharp black shadows, leads between uneven limestone walls washed in

pastel pinks, blues and ochres, flaking and bleached like bones in the sun. Keen daylight crosses wrought

iron balconies with their pots of yuccas. It seeps in slivers between faded shutters, their paint peeled back

like scorched skin. It stretches to touch the hardwood beds within; some with their still slumbering

occupants.

In the cool limestone interior of the little whitewashed church, shafts of sunshine slant through the

window grilles onto rustic pews and a roughly hewn baptismal font.

In the little graveyard, the early light picks out elaborate floral tributes and hushed and huddled

figures; headstones bearing small, oval photographs from which the deceased, immortalised and sealed in

their mounts, smile serenely in shades of sepia.

Flimsy brown skeletons of past bouquets are no more than bundles of kindling dried in the hot

sun.

The Day of the Dead and the long watch of the night is over. As early light spreads, weary

revellers find their way home. Behind them, scattered between the gravestones, lie remnants of food and

sugar skulls. Mementoes adorn the graves and the rays of the sun glint off discarded bottles.

A few bereaved remain; the weathered faces of the elderly, the painted faces of the young; those

still craving the company of revenants.

The Old Man and the Tree

He walked across the silent, beautiful beach, cool water licking at his feet, enveloping them in a cloak of pearly white froth.

The gulls screeched loudly across the gently rippling surface of the azure sea. Disturbed only by the occasional boulder, peaking its head tentatively above the waves, which still lapped placidly onto the aurulent beach.

A single tree stood on that beach, its russet trunk was firm, unyielding to the persistent waves, that lashed at it, remorselessly. Its roots, obscured by the sea. That tree, alone surveyed the paradise no human eye had ever witnessed. It had glimpsed no man except the one who sat below it, basking in the shade the graceful branches, adorned with floral beauty, provided.

The youth got up, looked at the cliffs which obscured this land and sighed. Then, with one gentle movement, he dropped some seeds onto the sand, then walked away, made nothing by the haze of sunlight on the beach, the first to ever experience its beauty, its elegance, its grace.

Six decades past, and, for the beach, nothing had changed. It saw no wars, nor witnessed anything but water and the cliffs.

A man appeared, his beard grey, his skin was leathery with age. He walked alone, leaning heavily upon his staff. Yet on his face he wore a ghost of a smile, a memory of happier times.

The sun was bright in the cloudless, serene sky, the sand was scorching under foot, and so the man approached the trees, which now perched, in their hundreds, everywhere upon that placid beach. And, as he stepped into their gentle shade, he thought they rustled, although there was no wind, thought their branches did, but by a millimetre twitch. Greeting him, as if he was a long forgotten friend.

A single tree caught his sunken eye, its trunk now ancient, and the grizzled branches were, no more festooned with leaves. The old man smiled, a single tear rolled down his withered face, and dropped, into the never ending sea.

Gone

As soon as I awake, breathless amidst the cold, damp sheets, I can hear the sound of blood churning in my brain, and I can feel the obscurity in the air. Something is not right. The atmosphere feels uncanny and tight, and there is an unaccountable chill. I know, at once, that this is not normal. My pulse quickens. I am waiting, oblivious to why. I allow myself to retreat from the clingy sheets and slowly and steadily walk down the stairs. The house is still; completely immersed in the crisp, early morning tranquility. Quietly, so as to not disturb the perfection of the cold, beautiful morning. I go into the lounge. The air is eerily chilly, as if to warn me, but I pay no attention. Goosebumps tremble on the nape of my neck. My lip quivers slightly and my whole body is sick with unease. And then, I see it. I see her. My heart drops like a stone. The world crashes down on me. She lies in front of me, hair strewn askew with a cold, muted look in her eyes. The deep iris no longer sparkles with life, but is now soulless and lifeless. Hesitantly, I outstretch my hand and stroke her face, though I am trembling with fear. My hand falters in the air, locked in an icy brace of terror. As I come in contact with her skin, my heart fills with cold dread. The flesh is ice cold, and dead to the touch. And she isn’t breathing.

War Games

This is not just a gameA way for the lads and lasses down on the council estatesTo be granted their 15 seconds of fameWhen the news flashes their faces:“Dead.”A dozen today.

This is not just a gameThis is lives on the lineWhere they sign and swear their oathsWhere politicians rubber stamp those bills then head home for dinnerWhat’s for tea Mr Blair?Did no one ever tell you that in war there is no winner

How can we call ourselves the victorWhen 456 of our own lie six feet under?No body for no coffinThey didn’t all come home.Their ashes already returned to the Afghan dust(How many more will it take until we let the tanks rust?)

In the heat of that ‘exotic’ sun –“See the world,” they were told -Another child loses his fatherOne more mother her sonBecause our boys, like bombs, drop one by one.

This is not just a gameThere are no second chancesOnly hurried commands and exchanged glances Between men who know that there’s no pause buttonBut one misplaced step makes time stand stillMaybe we’re all born to die but now they shoot to kill

Is this just a game to the ones who can’t sleepBecause they were trained to be strongAnd now have PTSD?Somehow they survived out there, they’re aliveBut what kind of life are they living?Between the therapists the state fails to provideAnd the botched rehousing to welcome them home

So if you want to call this just a gameTell that to the ‘players’ Who lost their legs infiltrating enemy lairsAnd if this is just a gameThen you are the controllersSo good luck telling them why it all went wrongAs they have to listen to the Last Post againThey’re sick of that sorrowful songSick to deathSick of death

It wasn’t just a game to them

Tomatoes

Broccoli Cauliflower BananasDog food

Chain + (large) collarBlender

BLENDER

Chicken (spatchcock)

BalloonsPastry

Brocc

Well, I’m a vegetarian -_-

Problem??

You’re cooking people, “Stannibal”.

I’ll get it.

Butcher meat reminder 4 me

Knives (meat cleaver + serrated)

Making you a birthday pie… you never try my cooking…

Why do you need pastry (expensive??)

Soup (Tomato, Mushroom, Potato and leek)

Potassium HydroxideI’m not buying this

again

Cattapillar Cattipillar

Short or puff?

Pastry Filo.

EW

: pTofu x4

Awww

V. important

BLENDER!

We have a blender. Explain???

Blender

Chain + (large) collar

Dog food (Pedigree Vital Adult)

Bananas

SHOPPING LIST (DONT FORGET!!!!)

Tomatoes

CauliflowI hate Broccoli!!

STOP WRITING ON THE LIST STAN!!

??? noYes!! for your birthday!!

Forgot! Could you rent the Hannibal movie and Sweeney

Freedom

Her breath pants in front of her as she runs through the snow. Shivers rack her body. She looks over her shoulder and sees that he has nearly caught up with her. He is so close she can see the light glinting off his knife. A hunting knife. Used for gutting animals.

That’s what she is, an animal.

The blood is still dripping off the tips of her frozen fingers. His brother’s blood. It wasn’t her choice to do it. She couldn’t do anything else to free herself of them and the tattooed number on her right wrist: 2. She’d been forced to kill and lie, and cheat and steal.

Now that she is finally free of them, she realises what she has given up: the love of Callum, the friendship and life of his brother and the chance to be able to gain what she had always wanted: true freedom.

Even before, she wasn’t free; she was tied to her father, a slave in her own home. He was the one who forced her to join them, to make something of herself.

She trips over the root of a tree, hidden underneath the snow. Her hands carve a path through it, reminding her of her first task set by the Vendetta Triad.

Callum had watched her in her first task, his brother Deacon stood dutifully next to him. Deacon had smiled sympathetically at her while Callum had kept his eyes locked with hers just before she had to mutilate the hand of a little girl, for stealing The Boss’ gold watch to pay for food for her little brother.

She had been with them for five years, watching and learning how to enforce the justice of the Vendetta Triad, but they had never actually asked her, until now. Callum had been a part of them for years before she was forced to join, he had spent years executing the opposition and now she had joined this life, willing or unwilling.

Twelve years she had spent earning her freedom from them and gaining it, little by little with all the looks and kisses Callum and she shared, and the joyous, carefree laughter shared with her best friend, Deacon. She had murdered her best friend for the chance at freedom that the VTs were not now going to grant her. They had promised her freedom in exchange for Deacon’s heart.

She feels Callum’s hand on her shoulder. This is the end of her, she thinks as he flips her over to look into her eyes.

“Callum…!” She screeches, the cold snow biting into her blood-stained jeans. She can no longer see love in his eyes, just hatred. For her, for what she has done. There is no forgiveness in his eyes, what she has done cannot be forgiven. Her “I love you” turns into a scream as Callum plunges the serrated knife into her heart, exactly the same way she had killed his brother.

In that moment, she knows she is finally free. Perhaps that is why she killed Callum’s brother. She knows that as she rips the knife out of her heart, and her blood stains the snow red, that Callum can see the relief and the forgiveness for what he has done in her eyes. And, perhaps one day he can forgive her for what she has done.

Not Drinking

Not drinking is You rehydrate the shrivelling shred ofHarder when you aren't here. Happiness left in my life. 10:30 pm and my mind is For that I am grateful. Clouded. A deep fog has For that:Set over me, and I feel I love you.Grey. I can't even ask how you are. Sleep eludes me everywhere, As the lurid light Invades through the Fog of my curtains Into my room, And my bed:The site of my Unholy baptism,Drowning in my duvet, and Memories of youAre hardly suitable forSleep.

The blank canvas of my wall Acts as a projector, And our memories start to play out like aFilm. But when I turn, smiling, to ask if you remember, you're gone.You were never watching in the first place,I was watching alone. And suddenly I slip, and Sink again under the rushing tides ofMy bedding, and let myselfFloat away Serene, unperturbed.

Not drinking is Harder without you. Waking up isHarder when you aren't here. You always hated it when I said I had No reason to get out of bed in the morning Except you.You got so defensive; you still do. The truth is I leave my bed to see the day,But I don't really get up. A part of meStays in bed, waiting for a New tide to wash it, clean it, Dehydrated as it is. You are my ocean. In you I could swim at the deepest Points, and not have a Qualm about drowning. You are safe.

Why?

Why, oh why do we fight?And kill, and slaughter, and burn.

Murder or massacre, execute, choke,Why, oh why do we fight?

Why, oh why can’t we fly?Soar above mountains and trees.

Float through the clouds, bobbing on thebreeze

Why, oh why can’t we fly?

I wish, of I wish that the world could behealed!

That no one would fight or be cruel.No one would cry, we’d be able to fly!

Oh I wish that the world could be healed.

AloneI am alone.I’m stuck in a never ending darkness and unlike what I thought there’s no beacon of light that comes to save my soul or a sudden revelation that causes a piercing haze of light to take over.Instead there’s nothing but black.There hasn’t been a time when there was any light and if there was it was certainly irrelevant enough for me to forget it. Yet, I do like to imagine a light and she would lie next to me and radiate hope and comfort. Although all my visions of her are fresh and youthful, her looks change every time. And for that brief moment in time I would have it but my world is a mess. A shit show.Ha! I thought I could leave. Why would I want to? Everything I need is here. My body is living – my brittle, splintered, feeble bones are holding shape aren’t they? Twisted lines entwining up and through, over and around my diseased, throbbing heart. Out of rhythm; no grace, no beauty unlike the light. Nothing beautiful about it. Flesh is rotten; decomposing like an undead being. Eyes are barely included in my form, only gripping by a few bleeding threads. Their homes are two raw hollowed caverns that emit heavy black – no hope shall ever shine in my orbs. It’s funny he thinks it could.PulsingPulsingPulse.Through my tired body I can see my beating heart. Its melody is indifferent but one of a kind. The short lived company from the daughters of the light has comforted me while I’m alone in the obscurity. While my soul appreciates my body and cares for its differences my mind sees “the venom and shit for what it is”.*beat*A noise? But how come? Nothing comes to this empty pit.*beat*It can’t be. I won’t believe it. Nothing comes here, I’m alone. I’ve always been alone. Tricks are being played by my sinful mind. Living in a game of chess and I am the queen surrounded by mu opposition’s soldiers.My enemy’s soldiers. My enemy … my mind.*BEAT*Deadening sound penetrates my ears and travels to my brain. The noise is so new and sudden to my body that it weakens me. There’s a heavy need to collapse onto the ground and shrill into a cluster of brittle bone and carrion.*Piercing static and a flash of light*My mind is empty and my thoughts are gone…“Sir, now after going through vigorous testing we can now conclude that you’ve been having vivid hallucinations for the past 16 years. However, we’ve put you on a new type of strong-“Strong? What do they mean? Where am I? Hands aren’t bone and flesh hasn’t decayed. I don’t understand. They couldn’t have been hallucinations. He says I’m ill and have been for any years. I know my body has been ill – dying – but not my mind, that has stayed sane. I’ve gone through darkness and the gift of the visions that my mind gave me were my only light.

Forgetting something?You pathetic being, you thought your ‘medicine’ could get rid of me, you’re nothing without me! I am your mind and you can’t just drop me – outcast me like I’m not a part of you! I’ve given you so much; including your only light. And you repay with ungratefulness.The rotten flesh and bent brittle bones that your body once was I still am. Whispering the dark thoughts into your mind so you don’t know what started as your own. Just like this, it’s not real. Just another one of my thoughts that you think is reality. There are no hallucinations instead just my thoughts. None of this has been real. Except the darkness. Except me.

“Trial 274. Serial murder and mutilation case. The defendant is charges with the murder and mutilation of 37 females between the ages of 15 and 26, also charged with the disappearance of 14 more females. The defendant has been medically assessed and diagnosed with a severe case of schizophrenia. In result the defendant has be hanged by the neck until death. Case closed.”

The Chrysalis

Trains. I can hear the faint sound of trains clattering against the tracks and the silence of cease-fire. The entire city seems to be painted with rust and age, everything derelict and dying. Sometimes you can hear the moan of houses and bus stations collapsing. Not today. The sky is grey, like the rest of the city. When I lived outside, I used to travel, capturing the Sahara Desert and Niagara Falls. Yellow sand, blue water.

I look for the butterfly engraved into the wall. It has to be here. I think back to the streets I earlier wandered. Right at the river, left towards the station, another left then right again, always follow the butterflies. That's what the Chrysalis say. The butterflies are their way of directing us. Without them, there is no way of finding anything. I head back to the railway tracks, the cool metal rubbing against the bare skin through the hole in my shoe. The railway leads to the market; at least from there I can find my way.

The smell of fresh bread hits me as I turn into the courtyard, filled with stalls in among gravestones. Large men stand behind counters, food stacked against knives. Any other weapons are a rarity; stolen by the Opposition. I debate which stall will be safest, counting the coins in the velvet pouch tied to the inside of my skirt. Four, only four? I approach the nearest stall. "One loaf of bread," I say."That'll be six coins," he snarls."Three," I persist, knowing it's unreasonable; I can't afford to give up all my money."Six," he repeats.I stare at him. Six is cheap here, "Four.""Four will cost you you're pretty face," he shouts over the sharpening of his knife."I'll make up the rest in blood.""Done," he says, a smirk growing on his face. He reaches for a cup, placing it just above my eyebrow. The knife wavers and then hits my skin, unleashing a trickle of blood. Snatching the loaf of bread, I place only three coins on the stall and run.

When I reach alleyway marked with the butterfly I trace along the cut, it’s deeper than usual. I place my fingers into the pouch, feeling the grooves in the single coin. Blood rolls off my chin and stains my shirt. I can't leave it exposed, not with the sanitation here. Any sort of plaster would cost double the bread, an impossible negotiation… Plasters can only be found at the Black Market. There, they're not as generous.

I recall the way to the Black Market anyway, moving quickly. Ever since the Government isolated the city, you can never be too cautious. They closed the borders for a reason. I can feel the blood clotting on my forehead, absorbing the dirt and dust from the alleyways. If I didn't hurry I would need antiseptic as well. My bill for the Black Market was slowly mounting up.

My pace quickens. I have to make it before dusk, for my safety. I thought I could feel the buildings closing in on me. Hurrying down the streets, I began to lose concentration. I follow the twist of the street as if I was pre-programmed. Hitting a brick wall, I rebound onto the floor. I look up to see a hand and realise I didn’t hit a wall at all. A man. He is young, maybe a few years older than me. His skin is tanned, a scar running along right cheek. His hair, the colour of the dying leaves, ruffles with the breeze drifting down the alley. I focus on his hand, unsure whether or not to take it. Politeness is alien to me now. I grab it. He pulls me up. I refuse to look in his eyes."Thank you." I pick up the loaf of bread. He smiles and then notices the cut. He runs his fingers over it. I could slap him."What happened?" he says.I hold up the bread and he nods in understanding. His eyes remain on the cut as if he is analysing it. Putting his hands in his jacket pocket, he brings out anti-septic and butterfly stitches. "How?" I ask. He doesn't reply but cleans and seals the wound. "Who are you?" "Callum." I raise my eyebrow in attempt to get a more specific answer. "I work for the Chrysalis.” The Chrysalis. The myth I lived on, an organisation formed in attempt to fight their way out… But to think they are real, even with living proof. It’s impossible. They're a fairytale here."Vanessa." I offer, to make us even. A name is valuable; with every one known another must be given. I often choose not to know people. Callum looks down at his feet, kicking them in the dirt. I can tell he doesn't make acquaintances on a regular basis. I always imagined the Chrysalis would have contacts... Clearly not. "I can't pay you." I say, enclosing my left hand around the knife hidden behind the belt of my skirt, preparing myself for the worst. He's innocent, he doesn't intend to kill me, but his generosity is suspicious. That's the whole point of this city; innocent people have to die for the greater good. His response defines whether or not he becomes one of the many 'sacrifices' I have made, for my survival. He moves fast, catching me somewhat off-guard. Gripping the knife in my hand, I let go, not in surrender, but something else, alliance, perhaps. He is like me, deceiving. People assume that people like us are the vulnerable and then, we strike.