Moving Finger - Issue 3 - Brunel University

Moving
1
Finger
3
AN ANTHOLOGY OF
CREATIVE WRITING
by first-year students of Brunel
University
Summer 2000
Edited by David Fulton

Copyright for the anthology: Brunel University.
Copyright for individual items remains with the author.
Brunel University
Uxbridge Campus
Gaskell Building
Uxbridge
Middlesex
UB8 3PH
Tel: 01895 274000
Fax: 01895 232806
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The moving finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on.
‘The Rubaiyat of Omar Kayyam,’
translated by Edward FitzGerald (1859)
3

PREFACE
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
(W.H.Davies, ‘Leisure’)
Not the finest pair of couplets ever written (though they were included in W.B. Yeats’
Oxford Book of Modern Verse 1892-1935), but they do express what I have been doing
with these anthologised samples over the past year: staring at them as long as sheep and
cows, yet with a little more critical intelligence, I hope. The resulting familiarity has bred
not the proverbial contempt, but a much deeper respect for this first-year work. When
marking students’ creative writing at the end of each module, the teacher simply does not
have the time to be cow-like or indeed sheepish, so I have welcomed the opportunity to
scrutinise these pieces in Davies’ leisurely way and, as a result, have been heartened by
the solid merit of so many of them.
This anthology does not pretend to be representative. The principle of selection was
evaluative: I simply chose what I thought was the strongest writing. Any mistakes of
sensibility in including weak work or excluding good are therefore entirely mine. A few
of the texts had to be edited down for reasons of space or in order to release their clogged
powers. Some titles were added where necessary and one long poem was converted into
what I felt was its truer form: autobiographical prose. Apart from these changes, the
students’ work appears as it was submitted to Rose Atfield, Paula Burnett and me.
It could be argued, however, that this collection is representative by default in that it
has examples from the three major forms – poetry, prose and drama - and from nearly all
the genres and sub-genres attempted as part of the course, and indeed the chosen material
is divided up according to these criteria. As in all such categorisation, the boundaries
between type and type are shifting and somewhat arbitrary: for example, certain of the
descriptive pieces strain towards narrative, while some of the narratives look fondly back
to description. Moreover, I have on occasions increased the arbitrariness by placing a text
from a particular genre in groupings of a wholly different genre. The reason for this
tended to be an attempt to preserve thematic continuity or introduce vigorous thematic
juxtaposition. Thus I inserted a monologue into the section ‘Plays without Words’
because it carried on the motif of school bullying. (I should perhaps add that there is
meant to be a loose structure within many generic segments. Generally, the logic is
temporal – the section will, for instance, start with childhood and end with death – but
sometimes there is a non-progressive arrangement – a series of sub-genres are placed one
after the other.
Reading through the pieces, I am particularly struck by a dominant tone of debunking
humour or a dirtily realistic starkness. There is very little of the romantic or the epiphanic.
When there is an attempt to transform the everyday imaginatively, the writing often
inclines towards the gothic mode of horror. Protest at social conditions enters quite
frequently, but one encounters surprisingly little direct political comment. Certain
tendencies of mood, however, do not prevent these works from having considerable
vigour and variety. I hope you enjoy reading this anthology as much as I have enjoyed
editing it.
David Fulton
Uxbridge Campus.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank Rose Atfield and Paula Burnett for all their help in pre-selecting
samples and guidance on the protocol of editing and printing. I would also like to thank
Gao Min for sharing the sometimes-laborious task of editing: in this, as in many other
projects, she has proved a sine qua non.
5
DF

CONTENTS
PROSE
1. Description (Objects, People, Places, Events, Processes)
Daniel Ross-Blundell The Ball 15
Darren Bluman Bouncy Ball Boy 15
Nicholas Gant Sarah 16
James Griffiths Frances 16
Adam Lavis For Faisal 17
Loic Thoem The Person 17
Richard Wilson Italian Blob 18
Alan Ismail King Huge 18
Sarah Wolstencroft This Man Is an Island 19
Tracey Lebow Nan 19
Lucie Perkins Ninny 19
Jenni Steele The 207 19
Phil Rothwell Old Man Walking 20
Michael Napier Midnight 20
Lucie Perkins The Tube 21
Laura Summers Farewell 21
Anosua Mitra My Room 22
Tracey Lebow Such Sweet Sorrow 22
Linda Hodgkinson The Cottage 22
Christy Lefteri The House 23
Rosemary Braunton Past and Present 23
Cassandra Phillp Recurring Day 24
Anna Sanczuk The Top Floor 24
Linda Hodgkinson The Passage 24
Siobhan McCarthy Portrait of a Place 25
Ann Bradbury Alex in My Garden 25
Natalie Selmes The Quiet Man 26
Kathryn Daniels First Sighting 26
Edward Brazier Club 27
Zenam Khan Socialite Party Hostess 27
Elijah Mariam Carnival, Carnival 27
Daniel Baker The Last Minute of an Exam (a) 28
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Anosua Mitra (b) 28
Sabrina Beck (c) 28
Jeanne-Marie Marcham (d) 29
Sundip Cheema (e) 29
Rebecca Green The Beach 29
Lindsey Mitchell The Day Expired 30
Margaret Wakeling The Shakes 30
Gavin McInerney Kathmandu Snapshot 30
Karen Rasmussen Geneva ’45 31
Josh Summers Chance Would Be a Fine Thing 31
Joseph Budd My Country 32
Josh Summers Nature’s Way 33
2. Autobiographical Prose
Chris Doveton Rescued Fragments 34
Chris Doveton A Place 35
Nicholas Gant Growing Up 36
Daniel Baker Family Seasons 37
J.R. Lineen Fiddling through Life 38
Clare Hayhurst Confession 39
Lucie Perkins Thursday 8 March 40
Jeanne-Marie Marcham Wandering 40
Nicholas Renton Shots of Old Leigh 41
Cassandra Phillp Panky 41
Clare Woods A Day in the Life 42
Samina Hussein Wake Up 42
Michelle Webb Dream 43
Androulla Savva The Yellow Deceiver 43
Alan Ismail Waking to Nightmare 44
Frohar Poya Nightmare 44
3. Genre Writing (Fairy Tales Revamped and Other Modes)
Zenam Khan Fairytale Endings (Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella) 45
Lisa Butler Ginger Cinders 46
Matthew Hogg Little Blood Red Riding Hood 47
Rachel Prior Charming! 49
Sarah Wolstencroft New Queen Spins a Yarn 50
Christy Lefteri Snow White 50
James Griffiths Fairy Tale 51
Claire Parsons The Alternative Rapunzel Story 52
Loic Thoem I Am the Narrator 53
Shazia Choglay When He Comes 55
Anna Sanczuk and Jessica Goode The Thrill of Bare Flesh 55
Antony Nichola The Green Knight’s Grave 56
Cassandra Phillp Zenith 56
James Robertson Horror 57
7

Phil Rothwell Apocalypse 57
Richard Wilson Inner Workings 58
Rosemary Braunton Gateway to Heaven 59
Rosemary Braunton Futile Suicide 60
Zozan Masum Clad in Black 61
Gavin McInerney Filthy 62
Laura Summers Silence 63
David Ryan Too Late the Understanding 63
4. Short Stories
POETRY
Zenam Khan The Chain 65
Michael Napier Boxed Lock 65
Kathleen Ham Stubbs Hill 66
Kathleen Ham Angie 67
James Griffiths Burton 68
Gavin McInerney First Drink 69
Clare Woods Saturday Night, Sunday Morning 71
Daniel Ross-Blundell The Dilemma 73
Mark Frayne-Johnson Dinner for Two 74
Richard Jamieson A Sexy Surprise 76
Joseph Budd Hidden Depths 77
Gavin McInerney Old Flame 80
Alex Buckley Nauseous 83
1. Symmetrical Forms I (Couplets, Triolets, Quattrains….)
Ann Bartelous Thank You, Kit Marlowe (a) 88
Delia Williams (b) 88
Chris Doveton (c) 88
Matthew Hogg (d) 89
Alan Ismail (e) 90
David Ryan Face Value 90
Natalie Selmes and Paul-Anthony Kershaw Trainpain 90
Chris Doveton Clever Trevor 91
Lindsey Mitchell Environmental Blues 91
Delia Williams Bodies Beautiful 91
Sabrina Beck Snakeman 92
Chris Doveton God Save Her 92
Richard Laslett Head Butt the Bottle 93
Joseph Budd Tu Pah, Tu Pah 93
Phil Rothwell Given Time 94
Daniella Byamukama Greetings to You All 94
Sameena Imam I Like Your Shoes 95
Chris Doveton Inertia 95
8

James Peacock Colour Blind 96
Jenni Webb Tell Me 96
Michelle Webb Rain 96
Anna-Louise Maloney Recipe 97
Wendy Rashed Smile 97
Scott O’Donnell Depression 97
Maderlin Bidmead Nothingness 98
Anna-Louise Maloney Shaved Roof 98
Richard Laslett Lucifer Sam 99
Samina Hussein Underworld 99
2. Symmetrical Forms II: Sonnets, Villanelles
Gavin McInerney Writing a Sonnet 100
Emily McFadden Chepstow Hall 100
Stewart Vasey All I Want 101
Rajaen Patel India 101
Rupalee V.Ghia Roadside Flower-seller 101
Clare Woods Evening Song 102
Lindsey Mitchell Love? 102
Paul-Anthony Kershaw Just Before I Go 103
Karen Rasmussen 1977-92 103
Mark Pendergast Bloody Neighbours 104
Richard Wilson Pursuit 104
3. Symmetrical Forms III: Humorous Verse
Rosanna Giarrraputo Limerick (a) 106
Chris Doveton (b) 106
Chris Doveton (c) 106
Chris Doveton (d) 106
Chris Doveton (e) 107
Chris Doveton (f) 107
Alix White and Hana Sutch (g) 107
4. Freed Verse (Irregularly Rhymed Verse with No Fixed Metrical
Pattern)
Alan Ismail A Life 108
Neisha Kausmally Morning Breakfast 108
Lauren Simmons Failed Verse 109
Lauren Simmons Unseasonal 109
Androulla Savva Curriculum Vitae 109
Michael Napier Mind Mining 109
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Michael Napier Down 110
Michael Napier The Sum of It 110
Ann Bradbury Loosening Chain 111
Neil Edwards Big Issue 111
Edward Simpson The Garden Party 112
Anna Sanczuk To Be Or.... 113
Siboniso Nkatazo Eulogy for Grandfather Timothy 113
5. Free Verse
Michael Napier Definition 114
Siobhan McCarthy Art 114
Michael Napier Heavy 115
Lucie Perkins Goa 115
Ann Bradbury Snowdrift 116
Ann Bradbury Potholes 116
Siobhan McCarthy Ardishaig 116
Laura Summers Child 117
Karen Rasmussen Grey Day 117
Clare Hayhurst Sub 118
Jenni Webb Girls’ Night Out 118
Shazia Choglay Behind the Veil 119
Sian Dockray Home Safe Alone 119
Alan Ismail Find Anthony 120
Anna Sanczuk Rites of Passage 120
Caroline Lee Massage 121
Thomas Kent Belonging 121
Anna Sanczuk A Helpful Friend 122
Rosemary Braunton The End 122
6. Syllabics: Haiku, A Cinquain, Monosyllabics
Daniel Baker Haiku (a) 123
Paul-Anthony Kershaw (b) 123
Rosemary Braunton (c) 123
Ben Coleman (d) 123
Ben Coleman (e) 123
Alan Chang (f) 124
Nadia Colyer (g) 124
Kelly-Ann Davies (h) 124
Jenni Webb (i) 124
Maderlin Bidmead (j) 124
Satiyesh Manoharaja (k) 124
Jeanne-Marie Marcham (l) 125
Lucie Perkins (m) 125
John Fortune (n) 125
Jeanne-Marie Marcham (o) 125
Christy Lefteri (p) 125
Linda Hodgkinson (q) 126
Shazia Choglay (r) 126
10

Geoffrey Harrison (s) 126
Alexandra Laws (t) 126
Alexandra Laws (u) 126
Jenny Steele (v) 126
Christy Lefteri Snow Tears 127
Hannah Bernstein Choking Sorrow 127
Kate Foley Bitter Biter 127
7. Alphabetical Poems, Acrostics, Alliterative Verse
Lindsey Mitchell The Alphabetical Year 128
Author Unknown Alphabetical Adjectives 129
Natalie Selmes Alphabetical Representations 129
Joanne Moruzzi The A-Z of Student Life 130
Ann Bradbury Flaky 131
Corrina O’Rourke The Old Devil 131
Zenam Khan Alarm 131
Corrina O’Rourke The Storm 131
Wendy Phillips Soak’s Night Out 132
Laura Pitcher Silently 132
Delia Williams Snake 132
Josh Summers The Killer Comes 133
Jessica Goode Sunstruck 133
Michelle Webb England! England! 133
Anosua Mitra Beldam Blue 134
8. Concrete Verse
Clare Hayhurst A Long Short Poem 135
David Ryan Just Watch 136
Lauren Simmons Faith? 136
Kelly-Ann Davis Raindrop 137
Samina Hussein Tornado 137
Ann Bradbury Useless Plea 138
Hana Sutch Evolve Love 138
Jessica Goode The S in Sadness 139
Zozan Masum Noose Poem 140
Thomas Kent Teletext (i) 141
Aamer Khan Teletext (ii) 141
Thomas Fenwick Lighthouse 142
Daniel Baker Moving In 142
Sian Dockray Beer Quest 143
Mark Ellis Snowboard Freedom 143
Siobhan McCarthy ‘Whole’ 144
Paul-Anthony Kershaw ‘Burn Me’ 144
11

DRAMA
1. Stage Plays:
(a) Plays without Words
Chris Lane The Outsider 147
Laura Summers The Outsider 148
Louisa Davies Can’t They See Me? 149
Rachel Prior The Meeting 149
Satiyesh Manoharaja Intravenous 150
(b) Monologues
Chris Doveton Dr Faustus 152
Sarah Harvey Jenine 152
Tim Holmes Strine Monologue 153
Hannah Bernstein Piece of an Accent 153
Alexandra Laws Best Man 153
Zozan Masum Where’s Jojo? 154
Kelly-Ann Davis On the Road to Success 154
Rosemary Braunton Michelle 155
Josh Summers One Sunny Day 156
Clare Hayhurst Assessment 156
Tracey Lebow Endings? 157
Caroline Lee Alone Again 158
Nicholas Gant Don’t You Dare 158
Siboniso Nkatazo Bells Were Ringing 159
Mark Pendergast One Last Job 159
Kathryn Daniels Alwite 160
Ann Bradbury Calling the Samaritans 160
Androulla Savva A Girl’s Favourite Pastime 161
Joanne Moruzzi Friendships 161
(c) Duologes, Trilogues
Chris Doveton Dialogue for Two Opposing Voices 163
Alix White What about the Mash? 164
Alan Ismail Two Seamen 164
Neisha Kausmally One-Way Conversation 165
Matthew Hogg Eternity with a Dash of Sea Breeze 166
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Jasvir Janda The Revelation 168
Christy Lefteri Class ‘A’ 169
2. Radio Plays
Edward Simpson Intercourse 171
David Ryan Backward Love 172
Lucie Perkins A Case of Cross Purposes 173
Gavin McInerney Affairs of the Heart 176
3. Screenplays
Michael Napier Matricide 179
Natalie Selmes Anonymous 180
Kathryn Daniels Turned Out Nice Again 182
Rupalee V.Ghia, Arranging Marriage 183
Neil Edwards Contingency 192
Sian Dockray and Paul-Anthony Kershaw Chemical Narcolepsy 194
Joao Ferrier Vampire Feast of the Middle-Class Living Dead 194
MULTI-GENERIC THEME: COMMUNICATIONS
Nathalie Cox This Is a Recorded Message 199
Tom Fenwick Waiting to Hold 200
Nicholas Gant Just Putting You Through 200
Laura Summers, Brynley Gibson, Hannah Bernstein Mall Practice 200
Nadia Colyer White Noise 201
Satiyesh Manoharaja TV Sonnet 201
Michael Ward-Horner God Bless Hollywood: Fourteen Truths I’ve
Learnt from American Movies 202
Michael Ward-Horner Six Simple Rules for Dating My Daughter 202
Hana Sutch Netcronyms @ Cyber Café 203
Author Unknown In Case of Plagiarism 204
13

PROSE
14

1. DESCRIPTION (OBJECTS, PEOPLE, PLACES, EVENTS,
PROCESSES)
THE BALL
The small boy would squeal with delight and always give chase as soon as the hairy hand
released it. He’d cautiously approach the grapefruit-sized globe, then suddenly swing a
bare foot in its direction. This would be followed by a bemused expression at the ball’s
failure to meet the target. Stumbling in pursuit was a great pleasure, only marginally
surpassed by squeezing the ball with all his might. The escaping air prompted squeals of
joy. The stripes and spots of brilliant colour would come alive, subject to his every whim.
He’d often place the ball in his lap, spinning it and gazing at the swirls of blue, red,
yellow and green. It was his own rainbow to be revealed to the select few.
Daniel Ross-Blundell
BOUNCY BALL BOY
Boy bounced ball. The ball bounced. Bouncing’s what Tiggers do best. Tigger. The
trigger was pulled; the bullet flew through the air, piercing his skull. Skully, Mulder and
Skully, X-Files. X-factor, factor twelve hotter, factor six hotter still, factor two burnt.
Burnt to a cinder as the car formed a giant fireball. Ball, bouncy ball. The boy bounced
his ball. Boy, man, woman, Adam and Eve. Tony and Steve. Steve froze in terror as his
one and only….Only you, only me, knowing you, knowing me. ‘AH HA, AH HA,’ the
detective exclaimed as the culprit pleaded guilty. Guilty on all counts, sent down. Going
down, relegation, despair. Sinking, floating. Floating softly and swiftly like a lily pad on
life’s ocean. Ocean colour scene, scene of colour, red blue. I’m blue. I’m a blue man. I’m
Darren Bluman. I’m a boy. I have a ball. I bounce a ball. I lose my ball. The ball rolls
away. The boy no longer bounces ball.
Darren Bluman
15

SARAH
Sarah lay back on her bed, taking the deep breaths of a swimmer who has just resurfaced
from the ocean. Her own blood dripped off her arm onto the blue carpet, making islands
of claret. For a few blissful moments the world was good again, all the frustrations and
anger of Sarah’s life seemingly escaping through the gaping wound. On this sunny
Sunday afternoon, while her dad was pottering away in the garden, while her mum was
cooking a roast in the kitchen and her little sister was watching Mary Poppins in the
lounge, Sarah lay in her room, carving ‘HATE’ into her right forearm with a razorblade
found in the bathroom. She had continued the carving by underlining the word again and
again, tearing away at her own flesh, but now she was finished, satisfied with her work.
Sarah closed her eyes and began to dream. Only freaks and weirdoes cut themselves –
apparently.
Nicholas Gant
FRANCES
Sitting at her desk, Frances allowed her head to flop forward. A clumsy golden
waterfall cascaded down in front and her face, clear but unfocused, was splashed
drunkenly in the shiny white surface. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and
considered the advantages of going insane.
The biggest attraction dementia currently held was the possibility it might allow her to
escape from the armpit of a lesson she was currently stifled by and the crime-againstimagination
room it was taking place in. Even with her breath held and eyes shut, she
couldn’t totally blank it out. A constant droning noise kept her anchored in reality. She
experimented with letting the sound wash over her and was a little surprised to discover it
wasn’t, in fact, just one noise, but three separate entities, each contributing something
slightly different.
The biggest culprit was, understandably, the near-invisible man standing towards the
front of the class. So nondescript she couldn’t even remember his name or the first thing
about his face after almost a year’s tuition, the figure needed to remind the world he
existed by constantly emitting white noise. If she concentrated hard, she could just about
believe it was comprised of words from the English language, but it took a lot of effort
and the impression was gone again almost immediately.
Combined with this was the sound that upset Frances the most. Harsh and insistent, the
electric lights buzzed and crackled above her. She simply could not understand this.
Outside it was a wonderful living morning, bitingly cold, but with the sun sweeping
across the dew-frosted grass and concrete in a way that made them sparkle.
Despite this, the expansive window, which occupied almost the entire wall, possibly the
only redeeming feature of the place, was shuttered so that only the smallest chinks
allowed shards of natural light through.
The final player in the obscene trio was the most provoking: the distant whine of an
aeroplane - yet another reminder of life passing her by outside. She felt she would have
gladly swapped her situation with any one of its passengers at that time.
Her head was spinning now. She felt dizzy and sick. Panic set in. Then the answer
dawned. She let her breath out with an explosive, gasping noise and opened her eyes. The
monotone stopped, and a muttering and scraping replaced it as the other students turned
in their chairs to see just what the hell Frances was up to this time.
‘Is there a problem, Frances?’ came the tired question.
16

‘No, no, nothing,’ she blurted out. ’Just a…um…little…mmn in my throat….’
‘Right now, as I was saying….’
And the suddenly comforting gibberish started again. Red-faced and still breathing
heavily, Frances again bowed her head to let hair cover her embarrassment. Then she
heard a whisper at her elbow from the boy sitting next to her.
‘Psst….Hey, Frances.’
She glanced quickly to her side. A pair of blue eyes, set in a sculpted face, met her
look. She blushed.
‘You know what? You’re weird.’
James Griffiths
FOR FAISAL
The smell of the place instantly made me feel uneasy, not that it was unpleasant, but
rather that I associated it with pain, emotional as well as physical. Corridors, freshly
disinfected, gleamed under sterile lights. Bright pictures covered the walls - not bright
enough, though, to change the hanging mood I could not only feel, but see on the faces of
the people around me, a sense of uncertainty and fear. No one was here because they
wanted to be: friends were ill, brothers were hurt, parents were dying. Hospitals always
filled me with a sense of dread and that smell only augmented it. Just the gentle whirr of
the machines could be heard. Wires and tubes connected man to machine. He lay there,
silent like a baby. I could not think of anything to say, so I just stood quietly. I never
realised it would change him so much. None of us did. Even the doctors couldn’t predict
how his brain would react, or if it would ever recover. Technology ensured his body
would survive, but what of his personality, his dreams, his memories? At the time I just
remember being grateful he was alive and while the fact he was in a coma did unsettle
me, I was optimistic for his recovery. I think now, looking back, it helped me realise how
senseless life can sometimes be and the importance of cherishing people and things close
to you. So I stood there in that hospital ward, silently praising the life of Faisal.
Adam Lavis
THE PERSON
A tall, elongated figure. The face is set into the neck, both chinless and jawless. Indeed
the only indication of where the face ends and jaw begins is the sight of a protruding
jugular. On its surface clings a sparse moustache, which stays on only through great
persistence. A paranoid nature means the figure not only answers to his name, Jules, but
to any number of other names. Say anything offensive around Jules and you’ll soon gain
his attention. He’s usually accompanied by fumes of fermented apples. He walks with a
purposeful, yet slightly undulating gait and his large ocular cavities emit a gaze that
seems to look three feet beyond its focus, giving anyone within it the disconcerting
impression of transparency.
Loic Thoem
17

ITALIAN BLOB
Marvin Shaw lived in London near the Thames. He’d never had anyone he could call a
friend, but he was happy enough to live in his own little world. Existing on a diet of pasta
and pizza, he refused to speak in any language other than Italian, even though he’d never
visited the country. A couple of years back he tried to grow his hair to give himself what
he thought was a sexy Italian look, but due to his receding hairline, this was sadly
impossible. Usually dressed in black trousers and a loose white T-shirt, he sometimes
donned a flashy red jacket to give himself what he believed to be a bit of continental flair.
In reality, he looked like Jasper Carrott.
He had no job and didn’t take the dole, choosing instead to spend his days and nights
behind drawn curtains, except when he went down to the local Italian restaurant and, of
course, the day he took his yearly gondola ride up the Thames. Despite this, he had a topof-the-range
Ferrari and his house was enormous. There was much speculation over
Marvin’s mysterious benefactor: a rich parent with more money than sense; the Mafia; or
maybe - God forbid! – a lover?
Then, one summer, he vanished without trace. His house stood empty, his Ferrari
remained in the garage – though this wasn’t unusual in itself for Marvin never used it –
and all his belongings were left behind. The Thames was searched in an attempt to find
his body, but no luck. After a couple of weeks’ scouring, the police duly forgot about
Marvin and turned their minds to weightier matters. The mystery of his vast wealth was
never solved. Some believed he’d gone on permanent vacation to Italy where he could
feel more at home; others, with a more romantic – and delusional – view of the world,
reckoned he’d found a lover and moved away to spend his life with her. The majority,
however, couldn’t give a toss where Marvin had gone and simply carried on with their
lives.
Richard Wilson
KING HUGE
His name was King Huge and he was a hulking beast of a man. He had the type of
neck you could tie a belt around and shoulders that could carry the world. When he
walked, his muscular arms resembled two swaying tree trunks and his legs were as thick
as Nelson’s Column. He could hold children in the palms of his hands and balance cars
on his head. King Huge was huge.
His forehead jutted out abnormally, creating a dark shadow round his eyes. Below
these dark rings was a beautifully straight nose, which could have been sculpted by
Michelangelo himself. King’s nose was his joy and pride. It added a touch of class to his
otherwise thuggish face. The thick, healthy lips rarely parted. King didn’t need to talk.
His size said everything.
Alan Ismail
18

THIS MAN IS AN ISLAND
I lounge, an island. A stormy sea of bodies surrounds me. The smell of spilt beer and
cigarettes invades my hazy mind as I clutch a long-emptied glass, warming in my hand.
I’m vaguely aware of a monochrome barman, attempting to remove it. Chairs shriek on
wooden floors as drinkers are forced from the warmth of the pub, vying with the majority
in the cacophony of good-byes.
Sarah Wolstencroft
NAN
Nan sits at the dinner table quietly. Every now and then a slight inclination of her head
belies the fact that, once again, she’s forgotten to put in her hearing aid. Her short, silvery
hair, permed and without a trace of the blue-rinses she so vehemently despises, stirs
slightly as someone moves past her. All at once the smell of pressed face powder, which
she insists on applying to any visible shine on her nose before
leaving home, and Boots’ Oil-of-Evening Primrose cream, wafts gently past me and I
breathe in her scent. When I take her hand affectionately and kiss her cheek, I briefly
touch her wedding ring, never removed since 1948 and the day of her marriage to
granddad, run my hands over the loose-fitting thin band of gold, moving the large,
diamond solitaire ring back and forth as I did when I was a child. She tells me for the
thousandth time how it will be mine someday. I tell her for the thousandth time I’d rather
have her.
Tracey Lebow
NINNY
Creaking, heaving, bustling in a domestic domain, fussing round simmering pans,
bacon filling the air and wafting in trails behind her, lingering and persistent like a child
in a shopping mall. Past excursions hang from doors – M & S, Fenwick’s, John Lewis…
the insistence of thermal vests and comfy shoes.
The Axeminster lawn stretches taut. A rosy-cheeked armchair heaped, crossword-
puzzled. Sherry at one and not before. The cosy routine I adore. Ruddy cheeks. No one
speaks. The grey wisps of hair, set in a vintage style, hide a faint smile.
Lucie Perkins
THE 207
Freezing-cold afternoon. Light drawing in. She sat there, an old lady waiting for the
207, portraying image of regulation, order. Her life is stern, quietly harsh. Many
expectations, more disagreement than agreement, more frowning than smiling. Sitting
there, Marks and Spencer’s carrier bag – meal for one, dish of cat food, expensive, but
19

quality. Perched there, wearing pink coat, clutching black handbag, passing judgement on
life, on lives. Beige, plastic-rimmed glasses, magnified small blue eyes. Her view on the
world, looking into them, deeper. Frown cut by exacting eyebrows, expression sharp,
condemning. Pale complexion, interrupting faint freckles, whisker-embedded chin, an old
lady. Bus pulls up. Balancing herself, allows people onboard, steps on, sits down. Bus
pulls away.
Jenny Steele
OLD MAN WALKING
Once a river, now stream-like, he meanders and chatters softly. Far from spring, his
autumn approaches by the day, but what is time to someone whose only clock is the dial
of the Cenotaph’s shadow in the dusky summer sun? Now he shuffles and whispers as the
wind does through the trees, the grass and his hair, wiry on the head, his frame bent as the
trees around him. The birds he passes pause as he goes by. It could be a silence of fear,
but the glorious reprieve he receives as the path carries him away suggests otherwise; the
birds, it appears, know something we don’t.
His face is gnarled, but satisfied. He is slow moving, yet balanced, the only hint of
danger coming from the solid circle of gold, sitting on the fourth finger of his left hand.
Time’s not as forgiving with precious metal as it was with passion and the gold is now
dull, tarnished, only serving to cheapen memory. The sole means by which it is held on is
the arthritic swelling of a knuckle, a constant testimony to pain.
She used to say his eyes were like the sea. Now they are the colour of puddles.
Through blurry vision he removes a neatly stitched hankie from his pocket and, ignoring
the tears, the man, half-river, half-relic, begins to polish the gold. As the lustre returns,
the last rays of sun catch the ring and a speck of sunlight dances across his face.
Phil Rothwell
MIDNIGHT
His black hair reflects the sulphurous lamplight as it bounces with his strides; its
centre part gives him wings that stroke the air at a leisurely pace like an albatross at high
altitude. His brown eyes shine with the white and red of Clapham High Street’s traffic as
the day’s litter blows past his feet on the autumnal breeze with the smell of kebabs, car
fumes and Kentucky Fried Chicken. The tube station casts a solid white cone of light over
the High Street’s kerb, spreading wider across the central divide to dissipate only feet
from the other side. A blast of warm air hits him at the tube’s entrance, blocking out the
traffic’s final roar. The horns become muffled and die to be replaced by the dull hum of a
machine that drags a blue-overalled cleaner behind it. The smell of detergent burns his
nostrils as the buffer - cleaner in tow – buzzes around him at the ticket machine.
He can see himself in a piece of black cardboard behind Perspex where there should be
poster. His navy-blue duffel coat and tan multi-pocketed trousers give him that workingclass
‘something’, he thinks, as he takes his ticket and change before heading to the
barrier. His ticket is pulled from him as he places it in the barrier’s slot. Dust flies up into
the air as the gates jerk open and the ticket jack-in-the-boxes out the other side. The
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sound of the buffer and its sanitised stench are replaced by a louder mechanical rumble
and dusty air as the escalator’s vibration shakes him gently in its descent. It’s a fifty-yard
slide, moving down a neon-lit throat. The light glints off posters under Perspex every foot
so brightly he can’t see the images behind. The escalator rail jerks beneath his hand, the
palm of which is dark with grime by the time he steps over the crisp packets and drink
cans that mark the slide’s end.
The smell of stale air and dust not allowed to settle reaches him as the station’s
ventilation exhales and inhales like lungs, drawing air through the throat. The platform is
deserted apart from a couple of cleaners as they walk lazily about after more litter, using
long-arm grabbers so as not to have to touch. Occasionally one or other breaks into a run
to catch a bit of newspaper or crisp packet, blown along by a draught.
Everywhere he looks is dirty. A thick grey dust seems to cover everything. Even the
mice that scurry around the rails in search for food are grey from the station’s ingrained
filth. Litter begins to fly around the platform as the air from the tube line is pushed
forward by the oncoming last train.
‘Shower before bed,’ he tells himself as the train doors open to let him on.
Michael Napier
THE TUBE
Minding the gap, I am transported, suburb-to-suburb, familiar trip on a train of thought.
Synthetic atoms akin to the G.M. food in my stomach. Carriages tilting and undulating,
steadied by the linear path. Terraced abodes, outgrown bikes, trees, a church, a school -
impressionistic meander through a whole community. Acrid and metallic, the gum taking
various form, splitting and fusing like atoms, once crisp and fresh, now a tiered
configuration like my slumped torso. Presented in neat rows, a facial pick’n’mix,
vacuum-packed in a tube.
Lucie Perkins
FAREWELL
So this is it then. A sea of bodies crashes past regardless. We stand as breathing
statues, staring, retaining every moment, every memory of each other, every line in our
faces transferred to memory and saved for later. The train hisses behind us. You smile
and turn. My heart rocks in my chest.
‘Don’t go, not yet,’ I scream silently.
You turn back and I am reassured. The clock ticks away. We both know you must
leave. Soon enough the digital halo on the board beckons you. Planting a tender kiss on
my lips, you turn and leave. As your body is enveloped in the crowds, I search for a dash
of your hair, a snatch of your coat. I can still smell you, your after-shave dancing in my
21

nostrils, but as the train hisses, the smoke all-too-quickly disperses the scent. A bang of
the doors, a scream of the whistle and you are gone, yet still I stand like a statue among
the moving crowds, only this time alone.
Laura Summers
MY ROOM
Pumpkin brushstrokes that cover the wall clash starkly with foggy pink, twilight
curtains. The thick, rind-like texture of the gourdish walls is cold like melon skin. A
lingering air of peach pot-pourri meets the chemical fragrance of ‘Sunflowers’ left earlier.
In gusty weather wind ululates behind the heavy curtains. Shadows on the artex-stippled
ceiling create miniscule icing-sugar mountains and valleys with connecting passages,
spelling incomprehensible words.
Anosua Mitra
SUCH SWEET SORROW
The crackling fire warms and calms us. Its flames lap hungrily at the fuel. Its brilliant
yellow dances gaily on the walls of the old stone cottage, giving the impression the room
is in perpetual motion. The smell of tomatoes, onions and meat, simmering gently on the
stove, reaches us and we breathe the mouth-watering odours. There’s a faint aroma of
burning wood from the roaring fireplace, which mingles with the clean scent of the
cottage.
In the half-light Jamie’s face looks distorted and eerie, as shadows pay on his features.
He smiles and takes my hand, caressing it gently while losing his eyes in mine. The
bubbling of boiling water disturbs us from our reverie and we move to the kitchen to
check our dinner.
The rough grainy texture of the meat contrasts perfectly with the soft slippery feel of
the pasta ribbons. The taste of roasted peppers and tomatoes lingers on my tongue as I
take a sip of cool bubbly wine and enjoy its sweet, yet mildly acidic taste. I feel warm and
comfortable as he draws me to him. I breathe in his clean fresh smell and listen to the
rhythmic thud of his heart, yet the mood is finally sad for we know that tonight will be
our last, so our happiness at being here is mingled with regret.
Now sitting alone in my cold stark flat with its grey walls and dusty floors, I think of
the last words he whispered softly in my ear on parting, ‘I’ll miss you.’
Tracey Lebow
THE COTTAGE
It was a hot room. The fire burned brightly, throwing its warm glow on the polished
dresser. Lavender and bees wax permeated the air. Sitting snugly over the hearth, a
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whistling kettle sang its cheerful tune. The regular rhythm of the ticking clock, standing
steadfastly in the corner, gave the assurance all was well.
A brightly coloured, curled rag rug, probably homemade, lay in front of the hearth, its
corners frayed and worn. The faded, chintz-covered armchair with its sagging seat sat
invitingly by the fireside. Lace curtains billowed gently with the draught from the illfitting
window frame.
Outside snowflakes fell silently, the distant hills already covered in a thick white layer
- icing-topped Christmas cakes!
Linda Hodgkinson
THE HOUSE
The movement of shadows was the first thing I noticed as I entered the house: the
bright vibrant shadow of a boy running from kitchen to living room, smiling as gold
ribbons of sunlight, seeping through the curtains, touched his face; the warm shadow of a
woman silently observing the boy, holding another child tenderly in her arms; shadows of
unfamiliar faces, moving rapidly in and out of sight in strokes of movement. I could see
these shadows best when I closed my eyes, but if I opened them, they would still be there,
lingering in the air like thick smoke, rising from a dying fire, motionless and grey.
Christy Lefteri
PAST AND PRESENT
The bedroom slept, the air in a coma. Pressing, close, cloying, sickly-sweet, it stifled
any movement. Through the window the elusive moonlight pushed its way into the silent
room, caressing the sleeping figures, an echo of the evening, leisurely revealing the sleeptwisted
sheets, the cream carpet, warm and welcoming, and cold shiny copies of Vogue,
Marie-Claire, What Car? Halting, the moonlight listens for signs of life: rhythmic
breathing interrupted only by the muttering of the dreamer and the snuffling of the
afflicted. In the air the animal smell of sweat was juxtaposed with the sultry smell of sex
and the chemical odour of a pack of three, opened and scattered across the velvety floor.
Slowly, the moonlight retracts from this warm, cocoon-like place. Drawing back towards
the window, it throws a fleeting glance at the crumpled blouse on the floor, flung out in a
parody of ecstasy; it gives a brief nod to a single sock, dangling precariously from the
back of a chair.
A sudden noise causes its complete withdrawal, the water pipes trembling and
shuddering as they continuously function. One figure stirs, mumbling to the fantasies in
its head and then snuggles back down into the womb of the bed.
Hours later the sleepy sun roved over the bed, just as the brassy crude noise of the
alarm wrenched apart the warm air. One figure remained completely still, lying on her
back, sleeping like a corpse. The other swung his feet from the comfortable confines of
the bed onto the chilly sticky remains of last night’s wine. The glass bottles shifted under
his feet like the undulating motions of his belly. Kicking them away, he padded
menacingly to the window, staring outside at the marital garden.
It stared back at him: the roses stiff and formal like the way he’d felt on his wedding
day; the lilies pale and wan, the way she’d looked when he told her the truth; the grass
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green and luscious, a comfortable bed for him to lie in. Shaking his head, the images and
thoughts blurring behind his eyes, he continued out of the room, not once looking at the
other figure huddled under the safe duvet.
Rosemary Braunton
RECURRING DAY
A sudden expansion of light illuminates the room, drawing it to its full height. The air
tastes as fresh and rich as ice cream. The shade sways with lazy indecision, then
plummets exaggeratedly into a cool grey existence. Outside warm petals flow in the clear
stream of the breeze, brushing seductively against leaves like a lover, memorising every
touch.
I sit alone bathing in the sauna of warm light, absorbing the rays which race over my
shivering skin, nerves pricking with life. The wind takes a desperate gasp and snatches
the sunlight. I race breathlessly around the breathless room, chasing the shrinking
shadows. Slashes of dying sunlight slide down the rotating walls, collapsing into
neutrality. Outside the blood-red blooms mutate to a moonlight glow, shimmering with
colourless shadows into a nocturnal creature.
I breathe with exaggerated sound. My eyes glitter in the moonlight. I settle and rest
for the recurring day.
Cassandra Phillp
THE TOP FLOOR
Climbing the circles up and up gives you motion sickness. Stairs visited by many feet,
the clomp of hooves on worn plastic. There’s a climbing frame of boxes and bags, a
wheel, a trolley, a Hoover, standing like the carefully-placed contents of a skip, those
unloved goods – not so good anymore – kept, but resented for size or shape.
The white of the walls, smeared and misty, scarred with lines and strokes from
careless moments. Behind the rubble a view of a thousand flapping leaves, begging for
attention, momentarily resting and then embarking on their static journey again.
A door, ajar with a broken lock, clings despairingly. An unstable sofa with the mark of
an iron on its arm like a burnt patch of grass, neglected and dry. The tiled coffee table,
adorned with brown circles. A mantelpiece of memories, stored and displayed. A photo, a
scrap of before, creased and wrinkled, crushed and reduced, the men’s faces so youthful.
The bed dips like a hammock and announces active guests with a gong of a spring,
playing the visible fibres of that mattress like a muted guitar. I eat cake.
Anna Sanczuk
THE PASSAGE
Slowly I pulled the grey string through the letterbox, my clammy hand grasping tightly
the key that dangled on the end as if half-expectantly.
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‘Best to get it over with,’ I muttered to myself.
The key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Familiar smells of boiled
cabbage and carbolic disinfectant assailed my nostrils. Softly, my sweating palms closed
the door behind me, my eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness of the long narrow
passage. I made my silent way past the first closed door. Further down the hall the glass
panel of the door came into view. Through the pane the dull red flickering flames of a
dying fire formed eerie shadows that licked the wall. A sick feeling spread from the pit of
my stomach up to the throat, burning. As a second door came into view. I realised it was
ajar. I couldn’t look. My heart was pounding. Feeling faint and with a renewed sense of
urgency, my hand reached out and as I tightly gripped the old brown banister rail, I heard
the door creak open. There was a sudden movement.
‘Oh no, God, please don’t let it happen!’
Linda Hodgkinson
PORTRAIT OF A PLACE
Grease splatters cover the blue encrusted walls, the floor an overused ashtray. Stained
grimy dishes clutter the metallic sink. Plastic chairs creak as you sit at the graffitoed
table, a mishmash of forgotten names. Constant noise bellows from the fan, the added
noise you’d rather not have. Yet amid all the mess and disaster laughter rings out through
the day for the kitchen’s the place where we all congregate.
Siobhan McCarthy
ALEX IN MY GARDEN
It was a strangely ordinary summer’s day at home. The rectangle of tartan covering the
grass was as scratchy as ever, the sun as intense, the insects as annoying and the
lemonade as sweet. I felt happy and somehow detached from everything, but the
ingredients of my own personal summer. Being alone was essential to the existence of my
private paradise. I was allowed to be adult and child simultaneously, enjoying notions of
independence and irresponsibility, escaping reality and loving every moment of it.
My eyes had remained in the same crinkled position for about twenty minutes and
were beginning to ache. I was getting a headache too. I had to open my eyes. The warm
red of my inner eyelids faded gradually into moderate orange, then an explosive yellow.
Something brown interrupted the yellow haze, something foreign to my garden.
My emotions became confused as I realised it was Alex’s cords I was staring at.
Perhaps I was dreaming. Shading my eyes, I gazed up at his extremely red face, the smile
as magical as when we first met, but eerily out of context. If only it had been a dream, a
particle of my imagination that could be destroyed and forgotten, I could have coped with
that. I adored my garden. I adored Alex. My feelings were incompatible. I was
speechless.
Ann Bradbury
25

THE QUIET MAN
Staring out the window, watching trees and fields pass by at a rate, unable to focus on
any particular feature, he sighs. His eyes introduce a confused world and I want to
embrace him, reassure him everything will be all right, but I can't because I don't know
him. I watch him leaning back in the seat, designed so comfortably for Virgin Trains
passengers. He moves, wriggling his shoulders and back, watching for curious eyes. He
catches mine. Damn. I quickly look away. I would've been less conspicuous if I'd held my
gaze. Anxiety creeps in, then goes as I realise he didn't even notice my look: I was just a
blind spot as his mind pondered elsewhere.
He leans forward and rests his chin in his left hand as he begins to stare again at the
strange world beyond the carriage barrier. I try to imagine what or who he's thinking
about. He says nothing, yet tells me a story. He looks agitated as he leans back, running
fingers through his hair as if his black mane is interrupting his thought processes.
His rugged hairstyle counteracts the immaculate presence. I picture his home in all of
its precision and mystery. I find myself wondering what it would be like to stroke the
creamy furnishings and bathe in the corner tub. The sound of a trolley noisily clanging the
edge of my seat makes me gasp and flinch. I'm rudely interrupted and forced from my
fantasy like a plug pulled from a deep bath. I glance to my left, looking through the tunnel
of cookies and sandwiches, and notice the quiet man has gone. Was I dreaming or was he
real? What does it matter? He didn't notice me anyway.
Natalie Selmes
FIRST SIGHTING
When I first saw him, I was startled by his beauty; he stood over by the floor-to-ceiling
high speakers, next to a cage holding a dancer dressed in black PVC with red lace trim.
Like all the boys and girls in the club, he had his make up on and the glitter on his cheek
was highlighted by piercing strobe lights, which danced round the clammy, smoke-filled
room. The androgynous pouting faces that spent the time, making their way round,
calculating which gender to pounce on next, sulked and retreated to a corner when they
saw him. They knew their Rimmel and No.7 would never match his natural beauty. His
hair, dark, cut in a layered bob, framed his face. His penetrating, aquamarine eyes shot
glances across a floor strewn with the butts of cigarettes. Odd shards of glass and puddles
of alcohol waited to catch dancers as they fall, but he didn't fall. He made his way across
the floor, balanced delicately on his silver hologram platform-boots. He carried himself
with pride for he knew he was by far the most alluring individual in the place.
The music played on, the deep guitar riffs caressed the clubbers' minds and he began
to dance. Some swayed with or around him, some just looked on in wonder. In the sultry
atmosphere he danced wildly. The boy didn't care if they looked at him in amazement, he
just enjoyed the time for what it was, a night-out on the town. He had no thought for those
who followed him meekly, just wishing to relish the dance, the music, the soul for, after
all, his soul was displayed there for all to view. The dancing opened it up like a book that
demands to be read.
The lights came on. The music stopped. The hot sweaty air could no longer be
tolerated and the waif-like bodies poured out of the doors, to breathe again.
Kathryn Daniels
26

CLUB
The dank humid air from the dancers’ sweaty bodies lingers on your skin and hair. The
moment you’re in the large vibrant atmosphere, your heart quickens tempo to fit the
speed of garage propelled through oversize tatty speakers. You feel the rush, racing from
soles to tip of hair. The energy seizes you. You walk through crowds – factory workers,
businessmen, prostitutes, pimps, cleaners, cooks, perverts, students, old and too young, all
alongside each other. Ancient women looking for toy boys, their eyes keen as hawks’, but
not as effective: they dim through the night as every man they try to clasp ignores the
glance. You push your way through the crowd surrounding the bar as if it’s the only
watering hole in an endless desert. You fight to the front of an almost impenetrable scrum
only to witness, to your disgust, a spotty delinquent, who serves your drink with the grace
of a three-year old on a skateboard and the savoir-faire of Mr Bean having an epileptic fit.
You depart twice as light as when you arrived. You look for a seat that’s still intact. You
sit, hoping the last person that sat there wasn’t riddled with disease. You scan the jumping
dance-floor. You finish the drink of white spirit that rips the back off your throat and join
the trampolining troopers. Later you leave the sweat-flooded floor for a cigarette. You
catch her eye, a smile, a glance. You buy her a drink, you ask her name, you talk about
nothing that means everything, you exchange numbers, you look into her eyes, you kiss.
You leave with the words, ‘I’ll phone you’. The next morning, ‘Where’s that number?’
Edward Brazier
SOCIALITE PARTY HOSTESS
‘Oh, darling, you’ve made it. That’s fantastic!’ (The least you could have done was
turn up looking less like you’ve just rummaged through the M&S summer sale.)
‘Barbara darling, don’t you look a doll! Love that dress. Mwah, mwah. Yes, yes.
Richard’s here. Go in and join him.’ (You’re going to have to make a few more trips to
the plastic surgeon before you can hope to get him, sugar.)
‘Oh, sweetie, Deborah, you’ve got to tell me where you had your hair done.’
(I’ll get them to give my dog a trim.)
Zenam Khan
CARNIVAL, CARNIVAL
The streets stifling, their occupants brushing past each other, agitated by lack of fluidity,
yet maintaining a Caribbean air. The calypso dancers jangled in synchronised mosaics of
golds, silvers and summer-flavoured garments, limbs conducted by the metallic beats and
spongy melodies, expelled from the monstrous floats. Barbeque-tinged air forced its way
into nostrils. The sound of laughter soared above a symphony of noises. Deep brassy
27

grooves from the sound system saturated the body and plied it into a dance as an
ironsmith hammers pieces of metal from shape to shape. People clung together like pond
algae, different hues blending into an intimate pattern. Yes, it was carnival,
strangleholding west London. There was no refuge, nor was any required.
Elijah Mariam
THE LAST FIVE MINUTES OF AN EXAM
(a)
The end. I’m sitting third row from the left, five along. We’re arranged like newborn
babies in a hospital, unhappy and confused in this alien environment. Some of us, quietly
content, enjoying and savouring the freedom of completion, but others perspiring fears of
failure. I myself have drifted into slumberland, dreaming of a better place, a better time,
and my pen is checking through my sheets of scrawled writing, while the mind detaches
itself from the body. It feels, like my writing, erratic and distorted. I can see you and
you’re happy, so you must have done well or so you think. Your smile looks like the halfmoon
on that night. I know I don’t feel the same as I fold up my fears like paper
aeroplanes, hoping they would fly away together and leave me content again, but the
heaviness of my pen pulls me closer to the table as my eyes paradoxically float up
towards the clock. Like small spherical spaceships, they hover round the big hand, which
is about to take one step more.
Daniel Baker
(b)
The invigilators’ muffled chatter breaks my concentration. I switch my gaze to the clock,
wishing the remaining five minutes were really fifteen, but in so doing the ticking
resonates like tinnitus. Among the odd exhalations (perhaps of despair) pens swish,
scrawl, and etch fervently across the exam scripts like shoes overzealously brushed. The
exam question revolves incessantly in my mind, anticipating the end as a plane circles
airspace prior to landing. Nervous swallowing makes my mouth arid and stale. After
more excitable movements of the invigilators and glances at the clock, my handwriting
gradually deteriorates as the inevitable close nears. Suddenly, we are thunderously
instructed to put our pens down, which comes as a relief to my con-strained hand, bearing
the embossed mark of my tired pen. The sound of scripts ruffling like birds’ feathers and
the echoing escapees’ footsteps mark liberty from the exam room.
Anosua Mitra
(c)
‘You have five minutes.’
The words pierce my ears; my body goes rigid. Ideas that have been flowing
systematically through my head become distorted as fear seeps through. For the last two
hours I’ve been wishing it to be over, but now the end’s arrived I want more time. My
hand scribbles maniacally. Think, think. Don’t give way to panic. Things I haven’t yet
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included crowd my head and fight to emerge with clarity. My body’s sluiced full of
adrenalin. The whole time I’m writing about one point, I’m thinking I must move on to
the next. All of a sudden I’m out of ideas. I squeeze my mind, trying to push out anything
that lingers behind. I glance at my watch: one minute to go. My eyes fly round the room
to see how many people are still writing. Though I’ve a great desire to observe what
others are doing, I must be careful not to have it mistaken for cheating. My legs are going
up and down under the table like bumblebees against a pane of glass. My hands are
furiously fidgeting. I need to get out of this room; I need to talk, to release my energy. I
am so highly strung that if a bang went off, I would jump through the roof. The last
minute, the minute when you’ve decided to stop, always passes the slowest like sand
through an egg timer…. Time.
Sabrina Beck
(d)
Breathe. You’ re becoming light-headed. Pen to paper. Write, write. Tick, tick, the clock
rushing away, running towards the hour. Write. Breathe, intake quick, end paragraph,
begin anew. Tick, tick. Sitting straight as a Japanese master, muscles marbled, eyes flick
to the damned clock. Four minutes…. Just write. Blank. Breathe. Still blank. Breathe.
Breathe. Stop! Three minutes…. Relax. Slow intake, deep enough to reach the very
bottom of the lungs. Through the blackness a calm filters, dissipating panic. Pen to paper
and…she writes. Theories and criticisms dissolve into each other like the two sugars she
takes in her tea, her pinched red hand flying across the page, pushing the mismatch of
ideas into a surprising cohesion. Two minutes…. Reading through, her spelling mistakes
leap off the page, slapping her face, but there’s no time. One minute…deep, deep breath.
Does she really care now? It’s over, the finality releasing the stranglehold time had on her
lungs. It’s over. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe….
Jeanne-Marie Marcham
(e)
Grips tighten on biros like undersized lycra garments clinging to bodies. Pens reach their
greatest momentum as ink flow quickens. The hands that hold the pen thrust aggressively
across the page. Wrists appear more eager than faces, but the hands of time are as
energetic as the arms of students. A frenzy of handwriting stains white paper. The few
sacred minutes become seconds. Adrenalin’s pumping hard, anxiety increasing faster.
3.2.1. Sigh. It’s over.
Sundip Cheema
THE BEACH
The salty air filling my lungs, so fresh I can almost taste the heat, the stickiness, the
coconut. Beads of sweat running down my forehead and between my breasts, the sand
embedded in my hair, between my toes, mixing with the sunscreen on my skin. The glare
from the white sand, the mirage of shimmering heat where land meets water, a turquoise
29

expanse of rippling silk, the only relief from the sun’s burning rays. The feel of cold sand
beneath my feet, paradise after the scorching grains that led to the water. The sharp intake
of breath as cool water hits my body, the momentary discomfort, then the overwhelming
pleasure as the coolness envelops me like silk, washing away sand and sweat. The sound
of children splashing, laughing as the water hits their hot little bodies, the cries of seagulls
overhead, scanning for discarded ice cream cones and sandwich crusts - sounds that fade
into the distance as undulating water gently lifts my body and carries it out to where the
sea is still. The power of the rays that beat down on my exposed face, drying the salt on
my lips, my skin, bronzed and gleaming beneath the surface of the water with little
pockets of white when I stretch my toes and fingers. The speed with which the droplets
evaporate from my skin when I leave the water. The warmth seeping back into my body
as I lie outstretched, one body among many along the smooth white expanse. This is the
beach. This is summer. This is what I love.
Rebecca Green
THE DAY EXPIRED
The declining sun left the beach dull and exhausted, yet the sea glittered, majestic in
the knowledge another day of tinted excited children was over. Litter scampered across
the sand, yet the sound of ocean whispering could still be heard. The moon dispersed
itself across the fluid surface, fragmented, but unmistakable, marking her claim on time.
A clean white yacht sail flitted along the horizon. Caressed pebbles and shells lay
scattered around homes of sand, crumpled, but lovingly built for imaginary people in
another time.
Lindsey Mitchell
THE SHAKES
Stifling humidity, restless night. Awakened pre-dawn from deep slumber by a sharp
crack, reverberating through the airless room. The bed shifted, scraping, scratching. The
walls bowed threateningly inwards. Jangled sound as the screaming alarm clock hit the
tiled floor. Windows rattled; dustbins far below clattered and stainless steel saucepans
resonantly rang out their protest as they fell from high perches in the deserted kitchen.
Silence, stillness, apprehension, anxiety.
Hastily dress, descend to dining room. People gathered, murmuring voices, shaky
laughter. Locals reassuring. ‘The big one was two months back. This was just the
‘aftershock’ – a mere tremor.’ Life in an earthquake zone.
Margaret Wakeling
KATHMANDU SNAPSHOT
Old women walk side by side with city chickens that cluck and duck between
ricocheting tut-tuts. Pretty children in immaculate school uniforms walk arm in arm down
30

mud streets, stepping casually over sewer pipes that lie between the puddles and the
rubbish heaps. With jovial giggles they place their books on their heads when short-lived
bursts of rain fall on them. The brightness of their teeth radiates out to greet you when
they laugh.
A lady opens her door and sets up her butcher’s shop - just an old table and chair. On
the table lies the lower half of a sheep’s carcass, bloody purple ribs sticking out like
knives, comic legs waving in the air and in the centre the innards – liver, guts and kidneys
sitting like moulded jellies. A customer buys liver. It is like a juicy jellyfish washed up on
the shore. The butcher waves her knife to disperse the flies. The customer gives the
butcher a few tissue-like notes and scuttles off home with a thin plastic of innards,
swinging as she walks.
Gavin McInerney
GENEVA ‘45
Smoke hangs underneath high ceilings, tangled around black marble pillars. When
doors open, it swirls up snakelike before settling again. The people in the room are sitting
comfortably deeply in dark leather chairs, but don’t suggest laziness. Like stuffed cows
on a Persian rug, they chew on a few straws of conversation. The light from yellow lamps
is dim. It’s sunset and the herd is settling for the night. The only activity springs from the
bar: drinks on small metal trays are carried from there by two waiters in white jackets.
Two heavy double doors suddenly swing open, the blow of air forcing the smoke into
undignified hurry. A woman enters. She’s not part of the herd on the Persian prairie; her
lips are painted in an offending red tone, the slim silk dress falls far too perfectly around
her body, and the hair is styled in neat, wavy curls. An uneasiness spreads among the
cattle as the commotion wakes them from their doze. Wooden hooves are heard shuffling
as chairs are turned slightly towards the bar. She mounts a stool and orders different
fluids to be mixed in a metal cylinder. The bartender places a V-shaped glass with a long
neck in front of her and fills it with a screaming green liquid. She looks at the drink,
watches how it settles in the glass and smiles to herself as if the rising bubbles are part of
a private joke.
Karen Rasmussen
CHANCE WOULD BE A FINE THING
Slumped against a slight incline, it stands, an oasis in the desert, foregrounded against
a stone-cold church, sour-white in colour, minute in comparison with its brother
buildings. I can hear the muffled leers of sweat-soaked construction workers, colourful in
appearance and language, permeating through the stained windows and the musty cracks
that form the giant oak front door. The air is free from the taint of any scent, as I stand
outside, motionless, yet my nostrils are filled with anticipation. I step inside and am
immediately smothered by a concoction of smoke and stale-beer breath so dense it stings
my eyes and squeezes my chest, clamping down ever more tightly the larder I try to
inhale. I look round at the rosy faces that fill the spaces and relax. My torso begins to
expand and I take a seat on one of the great cushioned benches that lies sprawled across
31

the floor like a many-tentacled octopus. I settle back and begin to sink under the sublime
weight office of a bittersweet amber ale, daydream awhile, drink, daydream some more
and let the evening pass me by. And as I sit under the soothing pressure of a mothering
atmosphere, a strange figure strolls ghost-like into the building, partially disguised by the
hazy smoke. The burden on my eyelids is lifted slightly. I've never seen her before, but
she seems vaguely familiar. The only features of her face I can make out are her glittering
emerald eyes that sparkle brightly, even from distance. She approaches the bar and leans
heavily on it as if seeking condolence. A sadness so pure seems to be puppeteering her
body, shoulders sagging, head slumped. She exchanges a few quiet words with the
bartender and then drops her laden head as he nods his. She picks herself up and begins to
saunter through the smoky vale towards me, another part of her body becoming clear as
she draws closer. At the last moment she makes a sharp turn, drifting past me. She lets her
body fall at an adjacent table, motionless. Enticed by the sweet perfume that radiates from
her beating pulses, I find my head turning instinctively towards her. All I see is a frozen
Pinocchio, huddled up in the corner. I would've thought her dead were it not for the
gleaming tear at the edge of her eye, so bright it nearly blinded me. The longer and harder
I stared at her, the greater my urge to comfort her, hold her frail body in my arms and
wipe away the punishing tears that hurt her face. Yet I did not. For once again I felt
myself pushed down into unconsciousness. My eyelids grew heavy and 1 began to sense
my limbs grow limp and numb. I took one last look at the apparently tortured stranger and
slipped into nothingness. That was the last I saw of her.
Josh Summers
MY COUNTRY
That winter night I remember tearing through country roads on the way home. There
was choking rains, high tidal winds and tree-preying lightening, which illuminated bare
branches. I caught glimpses of the outside world, which appeared as repetitive grassy
banks, laced with streams, hedges and fences. The headless-horseman-infested woods no
longer chilled me from within the warm confines of the car. I sat listening to the hypnotic
patter of rain from above with the constant bumps of the road disrupting my obsession.
The misty windows shut away a clear night, preceded by a hazy sniff-smoke dusk.
The sun does its own casting on dry mosaics as you rush off to do something you
could never avoid: a prom or a date or a drink with a friend. 'Nighttime is such a different
world. In the towns neon-throws strike out at the buildings. The sun is now replaced by
distant, flickering streetlights, creating pools of fresh atmosphere on a night-out. As you
drift home, looking down upon a glittering sea of silent lights, which lie like a half-dry
molten hotbed, the silent larva flows. A single fly, wanting to be nowhere else, dances
round the only glow in the wide world. Finally, you drop into bed to struggle or fall
asleep, having made a few emotional pleas and sentimental decisions, which are rarely
fulfilled.
On spring mornings I'd awake to the mist outside with invisible birds making
monotonous tunes. Voices continue talking as your mind lies on the distant blur of a
dream-bed. Staring out of the deep mirror window, the still scenery caresses your mind.
Through words of explanation you know there's nothing to do, nothing you can do, but
the tired relief of laziness pulls you through.
At the earliest opportunity spring becomes summer. A late afternoon in the heat sees
dandelion specks illuminated by strips of sun. You play dead on suburban lawns you
could sleep on. All of this is surrounded by picket-fenced perfection, trimmed neatly
32

against linear pathways that meet like neighbours with nothing to do. They all lead to the
suppertime doorways of the evening. At night you sleep easy, knowing tomorrow brings a
day with as much colour and even more to do.
Summer finally fades into autumn when knock-in nails echo through the rich, charred,
wooden fragrance of the day. Sapphire dragonflies dance through a late, lazy afternoon,
when everything lays dead, but for an echoed cry from out of a thousand hiding places.
The crisp air captures your lungs, making you feel so real. Flies float like dust as crimson
beams fall on you to bless your play, bless you as you leap like Lippizaners onto the
evening, which has its own way.
Joseph Budd
NATURE'S WAY
Blankets of bright green grass, illuminated by the burning sun, roll on and on, speckled
with the dark umbrellas of solitary trees. Dappled light is scattered under their canopies in
an intricate pattern of fire and ice. The branches reach towards the sun as if feeding on
warmth. Respite from heat comes only from the iceberg clouds that balance upon the blue
sky. In a nearby field sits an old horse-carriage, a monstrosity to science. It appears to be
deserted, yet on closer inspection, two sweating bodies lie clasped together, hidden in the
dark of its shadow. Undisturbed, they lie in peace like two wild animals in hibernation.
Then, suddenly, one bolts from the ground, laughing quietly. The other quickly follows
and soon they are in chase, leaping from shrub to shrub. Now and then they fall and tussle
on the hard sun-baked ground, then jump to their feet again and continue the chase as if
engaged in ancient ritual. In time everything becomes silent and the trees stop dancing in
the wind. A black cloud kills the sun and the whole sky is poisoned with its darkness. A
rumble of thunder booms, reverberating across the land, stating the sky's unhappiness.
Within a few seconds lightning stretches its fingers across the cloud, splitting it into
several sections and triggering a light drizzle. The two bodies scamper from their
playground and disappear behind a tree as the raindrops begin to grow, falling like a
swarm of bees, tearing the leaves from trees and scarring the ground with millions of tiny
depressions. Yet still they come harder and harder, louder and louder, almost deafening.
Day has turned to night. The land is devoid of life. The trees sag as if saddened by
nature's sudden change. The blanket of heat has been frozen over and the cold air bites at
everything. As quickly as it began, the rain ceases. All is dark, is still, is silent.
Josh Summers
33

2. AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL PROSE
RESCUED FRAGMENTS
'To snatch in a moment of courage, from the remorseless rush of time, a passing
phase of life, is only the beginning of the task' (Joseph Conrad 1897)
I was born at teatime on November 19th, 1958 in the flat above the Gaumont cinema,
Regent Circus in Swindon. For astrologers this makes me a Scorpio with Gemini rising
and Moon in Pisces or, in other words, a talkative dreamer with a nasty streak - well,
something like that; everything is approximate. About Swindon I have little to say.
Nobody has come up with anything very interesting on my birth or that town as anecdotal
evidence for me to use. Steam trains still chuffed through on their way to Bristol on the
Great Western Railway, probably - I haven't researched. I read somewhere that war
rationing finally ended in 1958. It seems a drab year in which obscurely famous people
died and someone invented something that has since proven useful (but was it really the
year of the silicon chip?). Disappointingly average things happened like Elvis joining the
army. Like the year itself, the place, Swindon, strikes me as remarkably ordinary.
There is a newspaper clip around about me entering the world at the same time as
Jerry Lewis' film 'Rock-a-bye-baby' happened to be playing downstairs. My father, the
manager of the cinema, was 'very much the bewildered expectant father'. Hilariously, he
didn't know whether the baby's cries were mine or merely the film's soundtrack!
In the early 1960s dad transferred to Redhill cinema and for a while we lived at 69
Pound street, Carshalton, with my Grandmother, Marie Hodson (given the South London
pronunciation, with the accent on the 'Ma-' rather than the '-rie'). I remember that fusty,
creepy Victorian house from later on in 1965 when, on her big old telly with its grey,
watery picture, I watched Winston Churchill's funeral procession; why I remember that
I've no idea - Churchill, the great, baby-faced war leader. It seemed the war was still with
us in those days. Such a catastrophe echoed into the 60s and into my tiny imagination. I
was permeated with a sense of the memorious solemnity and cataclysmic history of it all.
Soldiers, flags and mossy statues abounded and Hitler was the monster, the
personification of evil. Germans (just like germ) were ready to invade and infect us with
their nasty 'Nazi' disease....
I must have been left, sat in front of that telly a lot, as I have these gloomy memories
of tedious hours staring at afternoon wrestling, which went on forever. Then it was the
football results typed out on the screen by this funny little thing that bobbed up and down
at the bottom; it hypnotised me, I was sent into a kind of torpid trance. I would be waiting
for Dr Who to come on and if it rained, the remorseless traffic would swish and splash
past out in the harsh black street and the lights would come on, a sickly sodium yellow
catching the drops on the window behind the nets. I heave a deep melancholic sigh at the
atmosphere it conjures up.
Grandmother and I never communicated much. I was informed at some point that she
didn't like me, for reasons I will never fathom and don't care about much. I remember
being like an only child, left to my own devices, drawing or flicking through books,
spending most of the time alone, wondering in a kind of void. I have this strange story in
my head, more than likely something made up or a fragment of a dream. It regards Dr
Who: Dad is friendly with the man from the BBC who, it turns out, is working on the
series; before this, he visits our house and steals the design for the Daleks from some of
34

my father's drawings or maybe a painting he's done. (I know dad was obsessed with
robots, machines and futurist art, so this is credible.)
Then we moved to Alexandra Road, on a hill that led down to a track, beyond which
lay rolling hills and farmland. It was all very rural, playing in the fields and making forts
out of the huge bails of hay that the combine harvester kindly left for us at the end of the
summer. I went horse riding and spent hours in the woods and can't remember being
scared of anything, not even cows; innocence was bliss. I played with a local farm boy
whose dad had dead chickens hanging up in his conservatory. We were sometimes taken
about on tractors, which I loved. Words like town or village do not convey the Chelsham
I knew. No duck ponds, Norman churches or cricket greens furnish my memories. No, we
lived in a fairly anonymous cluster of smallish semis, built this century, a spur off a spur
off the Limpsfield road. I would call it suburban but for the overwhelming presence of
countryside, fields and muddy farms, spread about us. The area is hilly with almost
cliff-like drops occasionally presenting themselves through the pillars of trees. Splendid
views of Caterham caught the eye across a chessboard plain.
Around this area – I suppose the South Downs - I was taken on long walks, or so they
seemed to a small child. Dad loved taking photos and I posed for him on a windy hill
once, trying to look heroic and gritty against the gusts and bright sun. Dale by name, Dale
by nature.
Chris Doveton
A PLACE
There is a wooded area at the bottom of our garden, beyond which lies the horses'
field. Amongst the drooping willows there is a natural clearing. I went down there this
morning for no particular reason, other than to be there. Spring is on its way and my
thoughts turn to this wooded enclave, a place to go and stand and breathe.
My pastoral refuge is no more than a thin tract, a slight pretence of forest. It is boggy
in patches, indicated by rushes of some kind, which grow in damp colonies. They hide
fallen branches, which I trip over occasionally. I always return indoors with scratches. I
smell the green, mouldering dampness that rises with my movements, a million
blackening leaves turning into new layers of earth. The weeds compete for dominance;
arching brambles weave amongst gangs of nettle, which nod at me as I brush past. A
second later I feel the familiar rasp and scratch my stung leg. Brown, soggy smells of
mossy, putrefying wood, turning lush, assail me. Bark snaps and woodlice come tumbling
out in writhing masses of life in decay, the one living off the other. The earth is sooty and
fibrous with sharp little needles that stab gently.
A watery light pervades, falling through the leaves in swaying patches; the morning
sun lurks somewhere shyly. A net of black twigs cast tendril shadows; solid wooden arms
are bars against the sky. Superhuman trunks creak and strain at unlikely angles around my
head. How long have they been here? They click and crack like old men now as the winds
nudge at their reluctant forms. A mass of tangled wiry bramble catches me, barbed and
insolent, tugging at my clothes as I move about.
Chris Doveton
35

GROWING UP
I was five and quite happily playing with my He-Man figures on the kitchen floor.
Skeletor had just stormed Castle Greyskull. Battlecat was trying to lead the fight back. All
the drama in the plastic world had to be cut short, even though it was reaching its climax.
Mum and Dad walked into the kitchen. Dad always seemed to tower over me. I'm never
going to be that big, I thought. Mum was holding a fair-sized cardboard box. She rested it
on the table where my two older sisters were sitting playing Monopoly. I'd been playing
before, but got bored after about five minutes. All I wanted to do was race the car around
the board, and build towns with the little plastic green and red buildings. This was met
with screams of ‘don’t, don't, don't’ from my sisters.
Stupid game, I thought.
‘There's something here in this box you just might like,’ Mum said gently.
Ooh presents, I thought and instantly shot to my feet. I stood eagerly on tiptoe. My
head wasn't much higher than the table edge. My sisters were peering at the box, less
enthusiastic, but certainly interested. I guess when you're a bit older you've seen a few
more boxes. I still couldn't see properly. I clumsily clambered onto the chair, knee first,
then swung my other leg round. I stood on the chair, now very satisfied with my bird's
eye view of the mysterious brown container. Dad took a careful hold of my shoulders, as I
stood proud. Mum slowly opened the flaps. My heart was thumping, anticipation
building.
I wish Mum would just hurry up, I thought. Opening...opening...the flaps were nearly
all the way...it's open!
In the box, cowering in the corner, was a little ginger kitten with huge tiger-like paws,
ears that seemed big enough for a fully-grown cat and a pure white belly.
‘Awwwww,’ my sisters yelped in unison, now more than interested.
‘Can we keep it?’ I cried.
Her name was Lindsey, Lindsey Porter. I was eleven and she was a year older. I had
become a bit of a cult hero with my mates because I was going out with an older woman.
The peak of our relationship was when we held hands on a shoe-buying expedition on a
wet Saturday afternoon in East Grinstead - not exactly romantic, but this was all going to
change. We were going to kiss - properly, tongues and everything! I had it all planned.
My parents were out; I'd invite her over. We'd sit down; I'd woo her with a bit of Michael
Jackson, then make my move. That was the plan, at least.
It all started so well. I phoned her and she was coming over. Game on. I got ready. I
put the Coca Cola on ice; I had a go at ironing my own shirt. Interesting results. I shaved
my top lip, borrowed some of Dad's aftershave and placed the Jacko tape carefully by the
stereo. Everything was set. I sat in the lounge, a little nervous, but quietly confident. Your
first kiss is a strange thing. Until it actually happens it's shrouded in mystery. When it
finally comes along, you are too busy making sure you follow every tip given in Just 17
to be able to be enjoy yourself. Unfortunately I couldn't even get past tip number one on
this occasion.
Lindsey was half an hour late. I remained rooted to my seat in the lounge, hands
between my knees, every so often looking at the clock. Then it happened. The doorbell
sounded. I raced to the hall.
‘Keep calm, keep calm,’ I whispered to myself. I opened the door with a strained
attempt to appear sophisticated and there she was, looking every bit as beautiful as she
did in my mind's eye.
‘Hello, sorry I'm late,’ she said sweetly.
‘That's ok, I....’ My sentence was cut short by the sheer horror of what I saw: the little
brother.
36

‘Sorry, I had to bring him, mum was going out. You don't mind, do you?'
Of course I bloody minded. This was going to be the moment, the big one. There were
going to be fireworks on our lips. Yes, I minded all right.
‘No, no, no. That's OK. I understand. We can just watch videos or, erm, something.’
Damn!
I crushed the can in a very manly fashion - well, that is, as manly as a fourteen-yearold
can get. I threw the squashed piece of metal to the ground. It bounced once, then came
to a halt with a clatter. I took a couple of steps back and, thinking I was Eric Cantona,
booted the can into the street. It spun round, with the retaining dribbles of cider shooting
out like a Catherine wheel. The moon, on this warm summer's night, shone off the metal
as it span in mid-air. I swivelled round in some sort of celebration, as if I'd scored the
winning goal in the FA Cup final. I stopped and looked at my mate, Henry, slouched in
the bus shelter. He'd forced his way into the corner as far he could go. He squinted back at
me with glazed eyes.
‘I'm pissed,’ I called out to him as if it were some sort of achievement, ‘I can't walk
properly, my head is spinning. I'm bloody pissed. Pissed, I say. Pissed.' My sentence
tailed off into an intoxicated slur. Henry grunted something inaudible back. He shut his
eyes and his head, now leant to one side, rested on the wooden shelter. Was he conscious?
It didn't really matter.
‘Look,’ I said, not knowing if I had an audience. As though in some sort of
demonstration, some sort or acid test of how drunk I was, I attempted to walk along the
edge of the kerb. I felt like the man on the tightrope in those early movies. I fell off every
five steps or so to my great amusement. Sometimes Henry had his eyes open and was
watching, sometimes he didn't, but the drunken half-smile remained on his face
throughout.
Nicholas Gant
FAMILY SEASONS
Sometimes when you want to say something the words just don't come. You open the
floodgates only to find the river is dry, and you end up looking stupid and feeling
pointless.
Mum, I really don't feel like going today.... I mean...I know it's Christmas and
everything, but can't we just stay at home or go to a friend's or something?
This is what I wanted to say, but, like I said, nothing came out. The car journey to their
house on this frosty winter morning gave me a chance to predict the day's events in my
own cynical way. Looking back, I guess I was overreacting. Resistance is futile, you
could say. I've refused to accept this family into my life for so long, as if I'm still waiting
for them to pass some initiation test I haven't yet set.
Aside from the hangover caused by the previous night, I feel very little. The knife I
am holding seems numb as it cuts into the dry piece of meat, its harsh mundane flavour
invades the territories of my mouth, violently caressing my tortured taste buds into
submission. There is a predictable silence overbearing the room like a dark mist on a cold
autumn evening, a silence I am enjoying, savouring, a silence that signifies nothing,
except lack of communication.
The concept of adoption always confused me.
Daniel Baker
37

FIDDLING THROUGH LIFE
At one time there were as many as four fiddles under my bed, all out of commission
and in various stages of disrepair. Every now and then some muck-sprayed car would pull
up outside our gate. We'd look and usually a woman (not known to us kids) from Kiltealy
or Ballindaggin or Caim would then come to the door, holding a battered fiddle case and
ask if the boss was in. More often than not, he would be and the conversation, as
overheard, would take the familiar train that it had belonged to an old relation who'd
passed away, that it hadn't been played since God knows when, that it was of no use to
them, in the attic, gathering dust and surely if anyone could get it working again, he
could. Then as quickly as they'd come, they were on their way; the gate would shriek with
rust and the car would be heard zooming off down the road, while we, eager to inspect the
latest bequest, raced into the kitchen.
‘Well, we'd better have a look at it anyway,’ he'd say, flipping down the well-worn
clasps; the lock, often jaded and warped, might need to be forced, with a good strong
blade from the drawer. That done, we'd all crowd round one end of the kitchen table,
craning in expectation. We were young and I suppose half-expected a gem of a fiddle;
dad would have a different air. He'd open the case and examine the patient carefully, held
her up to the light to find a name, but there'd usually be none. Though the sound post
might still be in place, which was good, the damage elsewhere would be grave enough.
He'd gently spin her round, examined her, a two-piece, for hairline cracks. She'd be badly
hurt. He'd duly lay her back down into the bright green baize, refasten the clasps, though
not the spent lock.
And that was the shape the event mostly took. Though the prognosis for the most part
was never good, no final pronouncement was made. At some stage perhaps he'd take a
second look, until which time the fiddles would be stored beneath my bed. There they
went untouched for months on end till eventually on some winter's night or Saturday
afternoon I'd haul them out. Four black battle-scarred hardboard cases, hinges and clasps,
all browned with age, leather handles, either dark-brown or black, that were hand-stitched
and as tough as a thumbnail. These I hauled out, blowing off their coat of dust for effect,
and opened to see which was which. In doing this, I was always truly amazed that no
matter how battered and bruised the case appeared from the outside, the interior was
contrastingly good: the cloth, sometimes green, sometimes blue, had not faded at all; their
pockets and bow-rests remained intact. The pockets, dubbed the secret compartments,
bore the strong scent of resin, found there in orange blocks, a perfumy musty smell. There
you might also find an assortment of pegs, strings, bridges and even tuning forks. And
then there was the mortally wounded fiddle herself, her round body, slender neck and
scrolled head. She’d lay there in her cocoon of green baize, perhaps in the hope that one
day she could be resurrected from death-in-life.
Not that the hope was in vain either. I look at the fiddle I have now and recall how, a
long time ago, we overhauled her, father and son.
‘This is a job for the men,’ he'd said, with a conspiratorial wink. We began by erecting
the sound post - not as easy as you might think. We were hours, shining a torch through
the 's' holes, painstakingly manoeuvring the thing in place. It tumbled when moved the
merest fraction; we'd have to start again. Later we attached the chin rest and sanded down
the bridge (also a very delicate task). I then applied some chalk to the sound pegs for grip
and at last the strings were wound in.
At that Mum knocked on the ceiling reproachfully and shouted, ‘Don't you know that
chap has got school in the morning, Tony; getting him up will be like raising the dead.’
38

I climbed the stairs, tired but pleased, one less fiddle under my bed. The following day
he put her through her paces. She didn't match his own for tone or aesthetics, but her
volume, he concluded, was mighty, great for belting out a tune. She was a grand ol'
fiddle, to be fair. I only came by it at Christmas some years later .Up until then his
practice had been to play the fiddles in turn for variety. I picked it up, stuck it under my
chin and proceeded to slaughter ‘Danny Boy’. All through my childhood I'd been asked if
I’d take after my father in playing the fiddle, but I was now turned twenty and had never
learned.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you've no real technique, but you have a good ear and if you have that
they say you're half way there. It's not one bit too late; Maurice Furlong didn't start
playing until well into his thirties. Oh we'll make a fiddle-player out of you yet. Don't you
worry about that.’
With a heart and a half I returned to London, fiddle-case firmly in hand. It had become
an unstrung curiosity, flung into the corner of a room. I too had lost all my song, but now
the brokenness had been mended, became a oneness with eyes closed shut and music in
the air.
Music transcends all barriers, is the gift of gifts. Then sometimes the saddest note can
ring out in my head like the final note of the evening yet to strike. Just as the music
ceases, please don't ask me to play; I could never match it for tone.
J.A. Lineen
CONFESSION
The eyes I see through are not my eyes, they are those of a frightened girl, a girl who
was hidden away. I hid her when I was fifteen, not long after my birthday. This
September I will be twenty, two years a grown-up. When I was fifteen, I couldn't wait to
grow up.
It's such a hot day in my memory and I have a cool summer skirt on. I am a Fifteenyear-old
girl. I walk round town with no particular intention. I’m just enjoying today.
There are students around selling rag mags and I think I'll buy one.
Can I have one, please? Yeah, sure, wow, Beatles. I like your T-shirt. Thanks, I like
yours. Where are you from? We've come down from Newcastle Uni. Are you at uni? I'm
only fifteen. No way. You look older than that. Oh, thanks. What are you doing today?
Nothing much, mooching around and stuff. Right. Are you here all day? Only I finish in
fifteen minutes. Do you want to come for a drink? I don't know. Just one. Alright....
...orange juice, orange juice, coke.
Three pints of lager, six cigarettes ...
So what's there to do around here? Well, there are three cinemas, lots of pubs, clubs, a
theatre, shops, the castle, the park. Let's go. I like fresh air. What to the park? Yeah, lead
the way.... Oh, yeah, this is nice. Let's sit over here. Don't you like the sun? No, I'm a
shady type. Anyway, no one's around this bit. Oh....
He’s leaning over to kiss me, and I’m pleased because I want him to, and now we’re
kissing and it's nice. I like the feel of his arm around me and his hand holding my face,
and I feel like I’m falling but I’m not. He has pushed me to the ground and I can feel it
39

damp and cold beneath me. He’s still kissing me and I wouldn't mind, but his whole body
is pressed right against mine and I don't like it anymore. He’s pinning me down now with
one hand and his body, which is heavy, is squashing me. He’s kissing my neck and his
other hand is no longer on my face. It’s going down and down. He has hold of my nice
skirt and is pulling it up and I can't shout, my voice is gone and I can't move because I am
scared and I want mum, but she’s far away. I hear his zip undo and now he’s grabbed my
hand and is making me touch him there. He’s sighing and breathing deeply. It feels hot
and big and I want to be sick. He lets my hand go and starts feeling my leg. I quietly
begin to cry as his hand moves higher and higher until he's touching my knickers, but he
doesn't notice because he's kissing me again with closed eyes, his creeping fingers are
inside my underwear and still I can't move, but I'm crying and as I cry, I begin to make a
little noise, which, as he starts to probe me with his finger turns into a loud noise, a loud
panicky noise, and he hurts me down there, so I shriek and his body makes a little jump
and it’s then that I try to wriggle out from under him, but he's so heavy and tries to keep
me there, but I manage to get away and I run. I run. I don't dare look back. I wish all that
away to the back of my mind.
I wish things could have been different, but wishing doesn't work. I used to wish it had
all been a dream. I used to pretend it had never happened. I have remembered and am sad
again. The frightened girl's eyes are filling with tears as these words are typed. I haven't
been the frightened girl for five years. I am twenty this September.
Clare Hayhurst
THURSDAY, 8 MARCH
Recovered from mother's latest visit and am now the proud owner of a Marks & Spencer
vest-and-brief set. I think mother refuses to believe I have any sort of a sex life. Can't wait
for Friday. Me and the girls are going out to the cinema. Munched my way through four
Panadol Extra and was told I have my appraisal next week. Had a dinner of steamed
salmon and asparagus, followed by creme brulee, courtesy of Waitrose. Decoded: need a
pet for company, perhaps a cat.
Lucie Perkins
WANDERING
Surrounded by the night sky, I thought how the stars looked like a dot-to-dot puzzle,
waiting to be joined. Even in my drunken state I declined and carried on walking, the
alcohol making me look as if I were plunging through a chlorine-infested swimming pool
rather than a gravel pathway.
Contentedly, I hummed a nondescript tune, sounding like an asthmatic trumpet player,
but not caring. I was alone. The midnight chill had long since numbed my hands and face
and I didn't feel a thing. The taste of lager had begun to feel sour at the back of my throat
as if I'd been sucking on a piece of metal like a lollipop. And then the churning began.
My mouth filled with liquid and I felt like a warhead about to detonate. I stopped
walking. I closed my eyes, even though I had that cottonwood-wrapped-around-my-head
feeling, and began to ride the roller coaster of equilibrium. I considered how unbalanced
Van Gogh must have felt as I swayed like a sapling in a hurricane. My eyes snapped
40

open, the whites proving circular like a small compact saucer. Almost retching as I
attempted a deep breath, I felt icy water grate at my lungs, but oddly enough the bubbling
pot of alcohol and takeaway inside my stomach began to calm.
Just then I noticed how crisp and fresh the air smelt - like a factory that makes Lenor
fabric conditioner - and how cars and grass looked as if Jack Frost had painted them with
white emulsion.
A street light lit the space around me like a juicy Satsuma, but I could see little past it.
I could vaguely make out the edges of a Halls of Residence and a fence, encasing
building work, both so uncertain they looked like they'd been drawn on blotting paper. I
was confused. Where was I? Stepping out of the bubble created by the streetlight, I felt it
burst and suddenly realised where I was. The cotton wool unwrapped itself from around
my head and went upwards towards the clouds.
The muffled sound of voices caught my attention, familiar voices. I listened. The same
sound over and over again. A name.
"Andrew! Andrew!"
My name was being chorused, but from where? I wandered off in the general direction
of the shouts to rejoin my friends and began to giggle, like a child, at the thought of the
crate of beer waiting for me back at Halls.
Jeanne-Marie Marcham
SHOTS OF OLD LEIGH
The call of the sea pulled us away from the noise and smog of the city and pushed us
towards Old Leigh, a small fishing village on the South-East Coast. It is the kind of place
where real fisherman still exist, and where they do really wear yellow Wellington boots
and woollen jumpers and where they do really say, 'Shiver me timbers!'
It was warm and the sun filled the sky. The welcome smell of cockles and muscles
mixed with the fresh salty scent of the sea. I will always remember that smell and often
long for it on cold winter nights. I reached into my bag and picked up my camera, which
felt so comfortable in my arm as though it were an extension.
The usual hordes of eager tourists had also found their way to Old Leigh, if only to
drink themselves into a summertime stupor in the sun. As for myself, I was far more
concerned with the rusty old fishing boats, glinting in the sunlight and bobbing up and
down to the music of the tide. The relief that the exams were finally over only then began
seeping into my skin and muscles, making them relax after being tense and rigid for so
long.
One day my Mother said, ‘Why don't you go out with your camera? You used to take
some really nice pictures.’
And that is why I went to Old Leigh. My Mother was right. I was capable of taking
good pictures, but such pictures were hard to take with rigid fingers.
Nicholas Renton
PANKY
Sunday, the day of rest, the point in the week when you can relax and recover from the
previous week and prepare for the next. It has the nostalgia of an Edwardian picnic, an
41

opulence and luxury of still, private moments. People I love and know move typically
around the room, their own private gesture captured in their sways. I will never love them
more than I do now. I want to be them, at one with this painfully intimate crowd. I want
to have been part of their lives, longer than merely my own lifetime. They have loved and
lost and they face that now. I am so painfully aware of my age, so young and innocent
and with 'so much ahead of me', but I don't seem to count in the chronology of their lives.
I would give my soul to understand the reason for the dullness in their eyes. Their
comradeship goes beyond my entire life. I haven't shared 30 years with one person and
haven't had to face the prospect of losing them, of being so totally alone. The only thing
that can bring relief is to stand in a kitchen on a cool Sunday and laugh with the people
who understand that this is the only way I can stay sane.
Cassandra Phillp
A DAY IN THE LIFE
The box stands so woodenly, topped with flowers, cut off in their prime, soon as dead
as the box. Their scent hardly permeates the cool dank air of St Mary's. I stifle a cough,
choking on the past.
He told me they began here. On a hot June day, with the smell of roses and freshly cut
grass in the air, they had promised, ‘Till death do us part.' And on a cold January day it
did, with me listening to her wheezy breathing slow and stop, and feeling her hand go
cold in mine.
'Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today....' Bitter tears are caught by black ties and
white tissues as her existence is condensed into five minutes by an emotionless vicar. 'We
deliver her soul to the merciful Lord....' Merciful? If he were merciful, she would still be
here, a wife, mother, daughter, friend, cooking the dinner, watching Coronation Street
and feeding the cat. She'd be more than a pine box, a brass plaque and a wooden cross.
And as we bury her, the sky cries too. Its cold clear tears fall on my face and I shiver.
Everything seems as empty as a freshly dug grave and as she descends and we whisper
our final words, there is only one thought in my mind: I love you, Mum.
Clare Woods
WAKE UP
It is time. The day has come for me to say farewell. It's come too soon. Brothers,
uncles, cousins, aunts are rushing like swarms of disturbed bees, hastily preparing for his
return. White sheets are being thrown across the dark green carpets and prayers are
echoing in the house. My father is coming home; he's coming briefly, never to return
again. I'm supposed to feel pain, but my body is numb. I should be crying, but there's not
a trickle in my eye. I watch these people, wondering why they are weeping for a person
they never knew as well as I did. What gives them the right to wail for someone I loved
more than they ever could?
Finding a small space away from the multitude of weepers and their songs of woe, I
crouched down like a ball with my knees locked closely to my chest and any arms
wrapped around them. I rocked back and forth like the swaying of a pendulum, trying to
escape. Enclosed in memories of moments we shared together, I didn't hear my mother
42

calling me desperately, "He's here, they've brought him home." The black hearse, carrying
the vessel, which once held my father's spirit, slowly wound its way into the drive. A
chilling silence sealed the room.
Samina Hussein
DREAM
I stared at my feet eagle-eyed as I continued my journey along the narrow, dusty path,
my left hand clenched tight in my pocket, the other hanging still by my side. The
sturdiness of my feet evoked the courage to lift my head and as I did, the blackberry bush,
which stood to the right of the path, captured my attention. I quickly returned to watching
my feet for fear of losing my balance. Occasionally I would look to my left and beyond
the path. Each time I began to shake, a layer of sweat veiled my hands and my heart rate
increased to such an extreme I thought I might collapse. If I should tumble over the edge,
there’d be nothing to break my fall, nothing to hold onto. I would never stop falling.
Such thoughts were interrupted, as I looked to my right, by the realisation that I'd
come across another path, which might lead to safety. Once I'd travelled across this
second trail, an overwhelming feeling of relief settled. I stood on a giant driveway of
gravel and stone. No sound could be heard, not even that of my feet upon the ground. The
grass and trees ahead varied immensely in their shades of green and yellow, and so
evoked in me a sense of warmth and I began to feel safe. I observed the rickety old house,
which stood at the edge of the driveway. Although I’d already seen this building, it had
not fully grasped my attention until now. It could have been attractive to the eye, but it
carried such an air of desolation I began to feel uncomfortable. As I looked closer, I
noticed an old, broken porch and beyond it a small window decorated with cobwebs. My
eyes searched through the glass and recognised the silhouette of a woman. She appeared
to be elderly and of petite build. She was talking, and I stood wondering what company
she held or whether she was merely muttering to herself. The sight of this woman
eradicated any uneasiness within me. I felt almost comforted. However, my watching her
could be construed as rudeness or an invasion of privacy, and so I continued to walk.
I began to feel small in comparison with the enormous driveway and towering trees;
but the comfort evoked by the old lady remained with me. After a short while I found
myself standing at the top of a sloping bank, at the bottom of which there stretched miles
of still, clear blue water. I stood contemplating. Should I fear what lies beyond? Where
does it all end? Eventually, amid the tranquillity of my surroundings, my worries ceased.
Michelle Webb
THE YELLOW DECEIVER
I dreamt once a yellow snake, the yellow snake of deceitfulness. It crawled on me,
intertwining round my flesh. It desired to capture me and keep me there to convey the
lie’s power. I tried to kill it, destroy its young with my mind’s force, but its poisonous
juices coiled through me, distorting my perceptions. By striking it, I only divided its
strength. It multiplied, showing my efforts could not compete. The moment I thought it
had died, its haunting reflection would turn and appear to me again, conjuring my fear.
Locking the door to keep it out only increased its hunger and prolonged my pain. It
evolved from the cracks in the floor and from behind the walls. It mingled with my hair,
43

churning its evil sickness through my body. Its skin seemed light, almost like air, making
my grasp seem futile as I tried to pull it away from me. I felt desperate, powerless. As I
looked at the serpent, I realised it had no face. It wore a mask of sealed identity. I dreaded
its aura, which clouded my judgement, my sanity, even more now. The force of its hatred
possessed superhuman strength. It could not be dissolved. It filled the room, crushing my
belongings, shattering everything that had constructed me. This was no longer my room.
It was the snake’s.
Androulla Savva
WAKING TO NIGHTMARE
I wake up, sticky with sweat, still able to hear the silent whisper from beneath the bed.
Unable to move, frozen with fear, I remain still until the whisper fades. A brilliant white
light fills the room, blinding me, momentarily. My eyes adjust and before me, at the foot
of my bed, is a doorway, emitting an alien glow from its borders. Hypnotised, I approach.
The light immerses me.
I am no longer in my bedroom, but inside the thought of a dreamer. As I descend the
cold stone steps, a disfigured form lurks below, disappearing suddenly as I look in its
direction. Finally the steps end and I am confronted with an impossibly narrow hallway.
The portraits lining the walls seem eager to gloat, their malevolent faces twisted in
grotesque glee. Again, I hear the whisper and follow its maddening insinuations. It
belongs to a demented cripple. He sits in a room that is rotting. "You cannot leave." His
malicious eyes never move from me. "You cannot leave." His mouth twists to form a
devil's smile. "You cannot leave. You are one of this dead."
Alan Ismail
NIGHTMARE
The place seems dark. Though it is supposed to be day, thick, black clouds cover the
sun. It seems as if the sky is going to cry any minute. People are moving in circles
silently. I can hear the sound of bombs and shootings, following me wherever I go.
I can see several men running round with guns on their shoulders, shouting at people,
but nobody is listening to what they say. I think I am in hell. People from every kind of
age group are present: the young, old, middle-aged. They are all wandering round, not
knowing what to do.
A bomb has just exploded nearby. I can see people gathering to watch the scene; I am
also making my way there. My God, it is so crowded, how am I supposed to get through?
Somehow I snake through. Oh God, I don't want to see this! Blood is everywhere as if it
has been raining here with deep colour. I see the dead bodies lying on the ground like
leaves in winter. I see my own body among the dead. Is that really me? Am I dead or
imagining things? As I go closer to the body, I see the wound in the heart. I am dead. This
is the Afghanistan. I am in hell. I start crying and crying, but nobody notices me. Nobody
will ever notice me.
Frohar Poya
44

3. GENRE WRITING
FAIRYTALE ENDINGS
Sleeping Beauty
He stood outside the thick forest of thorny briars and bushes. The castle was a grave,
blurred shadow, steadily suffocated by the enormous thickets. Decades of storytellers had
told of a beautiful princess cursed by a wicked fairy into a sleep, which bordered onto
death. The legend foretold that the only way in which this virginal maiden could be
awoken was through the kiss of a prince.
The sharpened edge of his sword sliced through the briars, silently meeting no
resistance. His firm, sensual lips pursed, his eyes stormy with determination, he soldiered
on; the thought of the sleeping princess awaiting his kiss fuelled him. Eventually he
forced himself through the last of the thorny wall, his chest heaved and his limbs trembled
with effort. Having just emerged in the oxygen-enriched air, he realised just how
oppressive the thicket had been.
He stood still, his eyes taking in the layout of the castle. It was a great stone structure
with tall turreted towers rounding out the corners. One of the four towers seemed to glow
and stood apart from the otherwise rotting, derelict building. That was where his princess
was sleeping. It had to be. He marched briskly towards the tower and up the long, high,
winding staircase, which led to the top. He reached a heavy, oak door. It fell open at the
pressure of his fingertips.
He entered warily. The sight that met him hit him so forcefully he felt winded. There in
a high, four-posted, king-size bed she lay, stunningly beautiful. Her thick mane of blonde
hair was spread out on the snowy white pillow. Her dainty features were relaxed in sleep.
He stepped closer to the bed, his heart overfilling with love for this needy maiden. Her
soft, pink lips beckoned him. They had been waiting patiently for his life-giving kiss.
Breathlessly he bent over the edge of the high bed and gently brushed his lips against
hers. Her eyes immediately flickered open, a velvety brown. Deeply she stared into his
eyes and parted her lips to speak.
‘A hundred years of waiting and that's the pathetic kiss you come up with. I want a
real man. I'm going back to sleep!’ And with that she turned over, presenting her back to
him, and promptly fell asleep again.
Cinderella
Cinderella left the bathroom, stepping into the dimmed bedroom. Her heart leapt with
a mixture of love and excitement. Her prince was waiting in the enormous mahogany bed.
45

Tonight she would lose her virginity to the man she loved devoutly and who equally
loved her so.
Slowly Cinderella walked towards the bed. His firm lips were gently smiling at her; he
would always love her and take care of her. The prince folded back the sheets as she
climbed into the bed beside him.
Shyly she leaned towards him, placing an uncertain hand on his broad, bare chest. She
gasped as in a sudden movement he clasped her wrists with his strong, but gentle hands
and pulled her arms around his neck so that her soft body was pressed flush against his.
Their lips met in a tender kiss, which turned to one of passion. He dragged her into his
lap.
‘0w!’ gasped Cinderella as she tore her lips from his. ‘What was that?’ She flung back
the covers to see his strong, manly toes squeezed as far as possible into her glass slippers.
She looked up at him in shocked disbelief. He shrugged nonchalantly.
‘I had to find the other one, didn't I? Just the thought of wearing both of them made
me bloody horny.’
Zenam Khan
GINGER CINDERS
Ginger Cinders was a hardworking, loyal sibling to her two ugly sisters, Scaryella and
Poshwitch. She did everything for them: she fought with wild cats in the jungle to make
Scaryella's latest leopard-skin leotard, and she slew evil witches to provide her other
sister with her own little black numbers. Ginger Cinders was shy and timid. She just did
not have the confidence to stand up to her sisters.
‘I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want,’ screeched Scaryella, ‘I want you
to count my millions while I'm larging it in Boyzone's love den.’
‘O...okay, Scary One,’ Ginger Cinders replied nervously.
Poshwitch let out an evil cackle and the two of them left on their broomsticks. Poor
Cinders collapsed to the floor, sobbing her distressed heart out.
‘I wish I could go to the Boyzone Ball,’ she cried out, ‘I want to get one glimpse of
that lovely Ronan Keating. He's my ideal man, but...but now one of my sisters
will...marry him.’ The poor soul cried and cried until she could cry no more.
Suddenly, there was a spark of light and standing before Ginger Cinders was a fairy,
dressed in an Adidas tracksuit and trainers, and sporting a set of wings.
‘Who...are... y.you?’ Cinders managed to stammer as she hid behind the stack of
money her sisters owned.
‘I, me, child,’ replied the fairy in a high, Liverpudlian accent, ‘am your Sporty
Godmother.’ And with that the fairy cartwheeled three times and kicked high into the air.
‘Why are y'upset, me ginger whinger?’
‘My...my sisters are so successful. They are part of the Spice Girls and. and I want to
be one. They are at Boyzone's Ball and I love Ronan, but they wouldn't let me go. Please
help me, Sporty Godmother.’
‘Worry not, child. You shall go to the Ball. What you need is a party frock.’ Sporty
Godmother clicked her fingers and as if by magic, Cinders was transformed into
GINGER SPICE. Dressed in a Union Jack dress with six-inch high-heels, Ginger Spice
clapped in glee. ‘Now, me love,’ continued the fairy, ‘y'need confidence to become a
Spice Girl.’ She clicked her fingers once again. The transformation was straightway
apparent. Ginger Spice shouted and confidently wiggled her bottom.
‘I need a date for the Ball,’ she declared. ‘Get me the one and only George Michael.’
46

‘Certainly, chuck!’
George appeared. Ginger Spice giggled and wiggled. She whispered into his ear, ‘I'll
spice up your life, Georgie!’ and pinched his bottom.
The fairy turned a dead leopard, which was going to be Scaryella's new frock, into a
limousine.
‘Thank you, Sporty Godmother!’ Ginger Spice yelled. ‘Girl Power!’
‘What have I created?’ The fairy muttered to herself as she karate-kicked into the air.
Then before Ginger Spice could say "Zig-ah-zig-ah,' she disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
George Michael hurriedly drove Ginger Spice to the Ball. As they entered Ronan's
penthouse, she turned to George and asked, ‘Georgie, would you like to dance?’ George
looked nervous, shook his head and disappeared into the men's toilets. Ginger Spice
walked on. She entered the expansive hall to find Scaryella, Poshwitch and their evil
friend, Babysham, surrounding Ronan, stroking his blonde locks and whispering sordid
thoughts into his naive ear. Suddenly they looked up.
‘Ginger Cinders!’ Poshwitch and Scaryella screeched. ‘Get back to your finances!’
Ginger Spice replied by grabbing the innocent Ronan, pinching his bottom and
kissing him senseless. ‘Now, sisters,’ she shouted, triumphantly, ‘I'm part of the Spice
Girls!’
From that moment the Spice Girls began to rule the world. Scaryella, Poshwitch,
Babysham and Sporty Godmother transformed themselves into Scary, Posh, Baby and
Sporty Spice and for the first time were joined by Ginger Spice. The five of them had
countless hit singles. However, there was no stopping the over-confident Ginger Spice.
She sacked their manager, pinched Prince Charles' bottom, left the Spice Girls and turned
solo. She's already an ambassador, representing our country and is now running for the
job of Prime Minister. This ginger monster is set to take over. SPORTY GODMOTHER
SAVE US!
Lisa Butler
LITTLE BLOOD RED RIDING HOOD
Once upon a time there was an absolute stoinker of a girl named Little Red Riding
Hood. She was a misbehaved little tart, who used to beat boys up for their Action-Force
figures and nose-dirt collections. Although deep down inside she was as cute and loveable
as a Sylvanian family-teddy, playing at tea with a Cabbage Patch Doll, she knew she'd
look a right plonker if she revealed her feminine side to anyone. One day she was out
picking magic mushrooms in the forest for a pie for Grandma, who, she decided, needed
some spice in her life, when she felt she was being watched by someone.
‘If that's you, Bobby Bruceson, I'll hunt you down and take your He-Man action-punch
figure away from you and use it as a bog-brush,’ she said, annoyed because Bobby
always wanted to play Doctors and Nurses and she simply didn't have any more plasters
for him.
Little did she know it wasn't Bobby Bruceson at all, but the nasty Wolf that lived in
the forest. He was looking at her with envious eyes, as he'd always wanted to eat Tart Pie
with extra eyeliner. He followed her as she wandered around, looking for more fungal
fun-bringers.
Little Red Riding Hood returned home and made Grandma the pie, while listening to
her latest in brain-numbing dance music, the sort that is only enjoyable after the ingestion
of a mind-altering substance. Then she went back to Grandma's house with the Wolf hot
on her trail. When she reached there, he hid in the shadows.
47

‘All right, bird?’ she said.
‘What ya want this time? I ain't got no more fags or medicinal whisky,’ said Grandma,
riled at the intrusion into her game of solitaire.
‘I baked you a cake, you miserable old moo!’ said Little Red Riding Hood.
"Oh, thank you, dear. What is it? Vodka-and-Pants Pie? That's my favourite.’
‘No, it's a new one, Magic Pie!’ replied Little Red Riding Hood.
‘What's in it? It's not gonna kill me, is it? Cos I ain't got nothing you can have in me
will,’ said Grandma apprehensively.
‘No, you ungrateful old bird, I baked it especially for you.’
‘Sorry dear, but you can't be too careful these days,’ said Grandma.
‘Oh, but how right you are!’ said the Wolf, who was wanting outside.
Little Red Riding Hood left the house, feeling proud that she'd done something good
for her Grandma and skipped home, but not without checking first to see if anyone was
watching.
‘So, Little Red Riding Hood, you'll do anything for Grandma, will you? Well, let's see
if you'll come to her when she says she's got a nice present for you,’ said the Wolf.
Grandma ate the pie and started to see all sorts of strange things: lava lamps in the
rafters of her house, rocking-horse people eating marshmallow pies and a seven-foot-tall
spider wearing scuba gear!
‘Hello old woman,’ said the colourful arachnid. ‘Would you like some weak lemon
drink?’ (It is a well-known fact that old people like weak lemon drink and can be led
anywhere when following the scent of this irresistible concoction.) Without another word
he swallowed her whole as she approached him for the enticing drink, then dressed
himself up in her clothes (the furry perv always had a soft spot for flameproof nighties)
and phoned Little Red Riding Hood on Grandma's mobile phone. ‘Hello, Red, is that
you?’ said the Wolf
‘Yes, it's me. What's the matter with your voice, Grandma? It's gone all rough and
deep,’ replied Little Red Riding Hood.
‘Oh, I found some old Players' Navy Cut ciggies under the bed and they're really
strong. Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to come over and share them with me. I
know you like a good strong snout. I've got some Wincarnis as well, so we can have a
party.’
‘Yes, all right then, seeing as Steve's stood me up; we was going to play marbles in the
backyard but he's not turned up. See you in a minute.’
So she set off again to Grandma's, skipping through the forest. When she got there,
everything seemed normal: size twenty-four knickers on the washing line, the awful smell
of boiled cabbage hanging in the air, weekly delivery of industrial strength blue-rinse,
waiting on the doorstep. When she entered the house, Grandma was tucked up, looking
distinctly bulbous.
‘Why are you in bed, Grandma? You said we were going to have a party,’ said Little
Red Riding Hood.
‘Come closer,’ said the Wolf.
‘My, Grandma, what big eyes you've got!’
‘All the better to see you with,’ said the Wolf.
‘My, Grandma, what big ears you've got!’
‘All the better to hear you with,’ said the Wolf.
‘My Grandma, what a big nose you've got!’
‘All the better to smell you with,’ said the Wolf.
‘My, Grandma, what halitosis you've got! Do you want some special toothpaste?’ said
Little Red Riding Hood.
‘You cheeky bint!’ cried the Wolf. ‘I'm not your Grandma. I'm a wolf and I'm going to
eat you and your false eyelashes all up.’
48

But Little Red Riding Hood had already got the shotgun, leaning against the
doorframe, and blew the nasty Wolf’s head off, decorating the walls with psychedelic
colours. Then she got the axe lodged in the chopping log outside and cut Grandma out of
the Wolf s guts.
‘Ooh, what happened, my girl? One minute I was about to get some weak lemon off
of a seven-foot-high spider, dressed in scuba gear, and then I wake up in a smelly slimy
room, full of fur balls and nail clippings,’ asked Grandma.
‘A wolf swallowed you to get me to come to the house.’
‘Are you sure it wasn't a door-to-door salesman? They tend to have bad breath and big
ears,’ said Grandma.
‘No, it was definitely a wolf; it did have some semblance of a personality,’ said Little
Red Riding Hood.
‘Have you got any more pies?’ said Grandma. ‘I don't know why, but that last made
me feel weird and now I've got the munchies.’
‘Whatever you want, Grandma,’ said Little Red Riding Hood.
Matthew Hogg
CHARMING!
If the truth be told, I'm getting just a little fed up with all this 'saving the day' business.
If there's a Princess that needs rescuing within a five-hundred-mile radius, I'm the poor
sod that has to do it. And I can tell you now travelling all those miles on the back of my
trusty white steed is certainly not my idea of fun. Ever wonder why it took me a hundred
years to get to Sleeping Beauty? And, on top of that, the saddle sores don't bear even
thinking about!
And women! Why do they always have to get themselves into life-threatening
situations on a Saturday afternoon? Just once I'd like to be able to settle down and watch a
football match with a few mates and a nice cold lager without some silly little tart,
pricking her finger or choking on an apple because she was so greedy she tried to devour
the whole thing in one go.
'Yes, yes,' I hear you all saying, 'but he always gets the girl!' Well, I don't! As soon as
those immortal words 'happily ever after' have been uttered, she's out the door with her
old boyfriend Wayne faster than you can say 'Rapunzel had a bloody stupid name’!
They’re all the same, these princesses. If you’ve kissed one, you’ve kissed them all.
Come to think of it I have kissed them all! Well, I suppose there are some perks to the
job.
But have you noticed they don’t even bother giving me a personal name? I mean
‘Prince Charming’! It’s not exactly ‘James Bond’, is it? I can’t remember if I ever had a
first name, probably not. No one’s ever bothered writing a whole story just about me,
have they? Oh no, I’m just the bloke who turns up at the end and marries whichever golddigging
hussy’s turn it is next.
I suppose I shouldn’t really complain. It’s just that once in a while I’d like a break. And
if that Cinderella loses anymore of her shoes while I’m trying to enjoy a quiet night at the
pub, she certainly won’t be living happily ever after.
Rachel Prior
49

NEW QUEEN SPINS A YARN
LEAH EXPOSED IN BLACKMAIL FRAUD SCANDAL. SARAH
WOLSTENCROFT REPORTS:
In the early hours of this morning our new Queen Leah was exposed as a fraud.
Answering a challenge set by the late King Alfred for a woman with a ‘gift’ to marry his
son, Leah's lying father, Mickey "the Axe" Collyfield, claimed his daughter could spin
gold from thread. A palace insider informed us of the truth. Leah has connections with a
gangster known as ‘Rumpelstiltskin’. Stiltskin allegedly spun the gold himself, making
the then-woodcutter’s penniless daughter promise him a reward when he returned. The
King, fooled by the collaboration, allowed his son to marry Leah.
However, her deception was exposed when the villain returned for his pay-off, the
newborn Prince John. Palace negotiators came to a deal with the blackmailers. If they had
not guessed his name by the time he returned on Friday of last week, he would have taken
the only heir to the throne. Private detectives on a manhunt for the kidnapper and any
associates stumbled across him at his hideout, bragging to friends of his deal. It is not yet
known what his plans for the baby were.
Fortunately, on the villain's return, the baby, under round-the-clock police surveillance,
was saved. We wait on conclusive evidence of Stiltskin's whereabouts. Rumours inside
the palace claim he merely disappeared after a malicious act of vandalism, but there is no
evidence as yet. D.C. Paul Goldilocks, speaking exclusively to the Sun, says, ‘Although
he is not known to be dangerous, Her Majesty is living proof of his power, so we are
advising the public to be wary of suspicious salesmen and the like’. More details soon.
TURN TO PAGE 12: LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD'S NAN GOES
TOPLESS
Sarah Wolstencroft
SNOW WHITE
The mirror was the judge of beauty, the divider of sour from sweet, bad from good,
ugly from fair. It was kept in an old mansion near a large motorway where a young
woman lived on her own. It was believed she was a witch due to her unattractive
appearance. On this particular day she sat, restless, in her chair, the flickering of the T.V
gently changing the colouring of her face from grey to blue to green, her long hair
slithering down to her waist like discoloured worms sown together in a sticky web. On
the end of her nose was a mole that resembled a sour grape and her skin was like cracked
leather. Her long yellow nails tapped upon a glass table next to the sofa where a vase of
red, pink, and yellow flowers exhaled sweet air. She loved flowers. They comforted her
when she was alone, and their aroma reminded her of her childhood. She stood up,
exposing her face to the mirror. She prayed that this time it would be able to see her
honesty, loyalty and intelligence, but it seemed that the mirror was incapable of judging
the depth of beauty. It absorbed only what it reflected, saw less than the eyes could.
‘Mirror, mirror, hung up high,
Who is the fairest and tell me why?’
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The mirror yawned.
‘From my sleep you wake me,
But I will always say
Snow White is the fairest of the day,
Her skin as white as snow,
A dove so sweet and pure,
Her hair the black of night,
Mysterious silk that all adore.
Your hair is grey wire
And your face, a crumpled paper bag.
You stir no desire,
You ugly withered hag.’
Christy Lefteri
FAIRY TALE
It was shortly after they were married that the problems began for Beauty and the
Beast. Stripped of all their wealth by the Inland Revenue, who flatly refused to accept the
Beast's story of ‘all my servants had been sort of transformed into pieces of furniture, and
I was a sort of gigantic beast-thing' as any sort of excuse for nineteen years of unpaid
taxes, they were forced to abandon the country, fly to England and take out a mortgage on
a small, semi-detached house in Staines.
At first this wasn't such a dreadful thing for them, for they truly loved each other.
Beauty changed her name to Betty and got a part-time job as a secretary at the local
veterinary surgery. The Beast, now back in human form, decided that Prince was a
slightly ostentatious name for one in his current position and changed it to Dave. He
joined a surveying company on the bottom rung and found it strangely thrilling to be
faced with the prospect of struggling to climb the social and economic ladder, when his
previous life had been so comprehensively pampered. The couple bought three dogs and
for years life was good. When the dogs were no longer enough, they had two children -
boys.
By this time Dave was an extremely successful businessman with his own company,
growing at a comfortable rate. Betty, realising that a love for dumb animals was always
going to feature largely in her life, had kept her job at the surgery, where she was well
respected by the locals. From the outside they appeared the perfect couple with the
perfect life. Behind closed doors, however, was a very different story.
Quietly observing from the background, the two boys had watched how the lives of
their parents had degenerated from being something presumably very beautiful and tender
in the beginning to the point where their only mission in fife was to drive each other
crazy. The problems had begun with trivialities, such as Dave's strange refusal to trim his
nose hairs or clip his toenails properly. Bearing in mind he'd spent nineteen years of his
life as a giant hairy beast, Betty was able to overlook these things, at least at first. When
Dave began with his strange obsession of tidying everything on a table or flat surface into
one big pile and then complaining that Betty had hidden things from him, such as his
reading glasses, because they were at the bottom of the pile he'd just brushed together, she
decided something had to be done. She brought a cat home from the vet's.
Dave hated cats. Perhaps it was a clinging part of his canine instincts, but he really
hated cats. Betty was very much aware of this, but since Dave insisted on spending so
51

much money on expensive cars, she was able to reason that she too needed something to
cheer her up. Finding new and interesting ways to irritate Dave was what cheered her up,
so she got a cat.
As a device to drive her husband crazy, the cat was perfect. As anything else, it was
probably the most awful creature that ever lived. Smelly, half-blind and with a mewl like
a strangled tiger being dragged across a blackboard, Bober had taken everything life had
desperately thrown at him and come through with his head held high, though slightly
lopsided due to a fight with a car, which he'd only just lost, and he nearly did drive Dave
insane.
Dave responded, quite unimaginatively, by becoming more and more unpleasant to
everyone in the house, and at regular intervals would throw fits of such a childish nature
they could only have been explained by his having been spoilt when younger. For the
most part Dave's family didn't mind this too much. In some ways it was only fair, really.
The rigours of Dave's job didn't allow as much plotting time as his wife's home existence
did, and his method of revenge was quick and simple. It was also quite clear to the
children their mother was not an angel herself. Betty did have a cunning, manipulative
streak that fortunately was often combined with a sense of humour, and she did tend to
use this to make life more difficult for Dave than it should have been. Sometimes it really
was she who hid his reading glasses, but that never really excused Dave for kicking the
cat in front of the children, although to his credit he was sometimes also caught stroking it
when he thought no one was watching, which served only to bemuse the poor animal
further.
Watching all this and quietly absorbing, the two boys grew up quite confused. Having
always been told how lucky they were to have a father, who made a lot of money and
could afford to send them to good schools and buy them nice clothes, and a mother, who
was able to work and also spend a lot of time at home with them, they had been led to
believe by clucking friends and family members their lives were as close to a fairytale as
was possible in this day and age. But they decided fairytales with all their morals and
happy endings were an empty attempt to stop them turning into their parents.
With this conclusion reached, the two boys turned away from their home, made a
solemn vow never to marry and set off to find their princesses. By never returning, they
were able to live in blissful ignorance of how the tale of Betty and Dave, once Beauty and
the Prince, truly ended. Whether it was in divorce, or living out their days together in a
home in the Bahamas, they never found out.
James Griffiths
THE ALTERNATIVE RAPUNZEL STORY
A handsome prince on a bright white steed
Was searching for a dame in need
When he stumbled upon Rapunzel's tower,
Protected by a witch's power.
A ferocious dragon slept below
So the prince crept up soft and slow.
Alas, no stair or ladder could he find,
And so he thought, Well, never mind,
Rapunzel's hair is famous round here
For its spectacular length: there's nothing to fear.
52

‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, throw down your long hair,
I need to climb up and I can't find the stair.’
Rapunzel looked out and yawned as she did so,
‘Come, baby,’ she said, ‘now go with the flow.
Male supremacy, it's over, it's yesterday's drag,
Feminism is cool, babe; that's my bag.’
With that all said, she jumped from the tower,
As graceful and subtle as a beautiful flower
And began to abseil down the wall.
Princey, of course, was appalled.
In her combats, docs and nice new bob
She finished off the prince's job:
She killed the dragon, won his heart,
And rescued herself for a start.
The moral is: don't rely on anyone
Or life will lack its share of fun.
Take control, be happy; love and be loved;
Free up your mind and fly like a dove.
Claire Parsons
I AM THE NARRATOR
Hello. I'll reveal to you the story - or situation, if you will - for I'm the Narrator and
have complete dominion over my slavish words. Right, the setting. We're on a path in a
forest. The forest's not dark for it is light, which indicates it's daytime. It's not as light as it
would be if there was no forest, but it's still light. The trees in the forest are those, which
lose their leaves. They are deciduous. They are green now, which indicates it must be
spring or summer- not autumn or winter. Oh look, a May Bug - that means it must be
May - late spring, early summer. Maha-Maha. Setting complete. On with the story. GO.
GO.
Look on the path. LOOK HARDER. A figure coming towards us. I must hide for it's
not done for the narrator – me - to be seen. I'll hide in this bush - this deciduous bush. I
hope there are no May Bugs. There aren't. How fortunate and not at all contrived -
although I am the king of contrivances, the master of manipulation and
the...a...a...erm...aardvark of alliteration for I am the Narrator. No, wait, I’ve got a better
one - the alumni of alliteration. Yes. Maha-Maha. Quick hide.
Good, the figure's gone. Did you see him? Of course, you didn't for you're blind in this
realm without me. I am your eyes, yet I'm much more complex than a mere set of organic
light-detectors for I am the Narrator. Oh yes. Oh yes indeed. I am also your ears, your
nose, your tongue and any other part of you, which wants to feel.
The figure, in fact, wasn't a man, but quite the opposite, a woman - well, a girl. How
foolish of you for presuming! She's not very tall for she's not as tall as the deciduous
trees, but she's not small for she's taller than something that's small- say, a squirrel.
LOOK - a small squirrel, than which the girl is taller, up there in a deciduous tree. Good -
my point's proved. She's also wearing a red cloak, which covers her from head to ankles.
It doesn't cover her from tip to toe as other narrators may suggest for this is silly. She'd be
constantly tripping over and the hem would get all muddy. Any narrator who says it does
is a fool and doesn't deserve to have his narratives read. Read faster. GO. GO.
53

The path leads on through the forest. Let's follow it. FOLLOW. FOLLOW. Follow in
the direction of the girl. Yes. You see what I'm doing? Maha-Maha. I'm opening up the
narrative to you like a cheap whore, revealing its juicy secrets, but I'm not a pimp,
whoring my bint narrative. Oh no. I'm the narrator and revelation is my duty, no matter
how profane. Read, you bints, you know you like it.
Oh! What's that sound? Just off the path. Sounds like the chopping of wood by a
metallic and wooden instrument, possibly an axe. That's because it is the chopping of
wood by an axe. You see the revelation. That would be the equivalent of the harlot
narrative's breast. Mmm.... You like it, you reader whores?
LOOK! The man who's making the noise is the lumberjack. 'Hello, I'm the lumberjack
and I cut wood.' FOOL! He couldn't make a narrative; he's too much of a simpleton -
that's why he cuts wood. You'd think he has a lot of trouble getting a girlfriend, but nooo.
The girls flock to see his woodcutting skills. Damn his woodcutting hands! But the pen is
mightier than the axe. Oh yes. Watch. Oh, Mr Lumberjack, it would be a shame if you
were to hit yourself with the axe. HARDER. HARDER. Hit yourself again, you
deciduous-tree-felling fool. Hit your handsome tree-cutting face. Maha-Maha. Hack off
your tree-cutting legs and your tree-cutting arms. Maha-Maha. GOOD. The tree cutter's
dead. READ ON. NOW. NOW.
Maha-Maha. The path leads on through the forest to a cottage… WHICH is still in the
forest. It 's in a glade or corpse... I mean, copse. Oh look! A wolf, a wolf, walking on his
hind legs, a bipedal wolf. Maha-Maha. I confounded your expectations. A wolf walking
on its hind legs! It can't he done… but I did it as I'm the Narrator and wolves, like all
biological and non-biological matter, are powerless against my will. And, no, I shouldn't
have introduced the Wolf earlier as we've overtaken the Red-Cloaked Girl, who walks
very slowly… as is my will. You'd think the Wolf has trouble getting girlfriends, but
nooo. The wolf-girls all flock to see his wolf bipedal prowess. Damn his wolf-walking
legs! But the pen is mightier than the leg. Oh yes! Oh yes indeed!
The Wolf. Look. The Wolf's approaching the cottage. He's knocking with his
anthropomorphic paw - Maha-Maha - upon the door. ANSWER, GRANNY, ANSWER.
Oh, look, the door's been answered by a frail old woman, no match for a wolf in single
hand-to-hand combat. WRONG. Kick him, Granny, kick him. Kick his anthropomorphic
wolf face. Maha-Maha. Now crush his wolf head between your granny thighs. Now twist
and snap his wolf neck. Maha-Maha. GOOD. The wolf's dead. That's it, granny, hide his
wolf copse...I mean corpse! Now the story continues. READ. READ.
Look who approaches the cottage. LOOK. LOOK. It's the Red-Cloaked Girl. Oh look,
she's carrying a basket, a basket full of things. Maha-Maha. Little does she know what
awaits her in the cottage. It's her Granny, but it's not her Granny; as the Wolf, after killing
her, has removed her clothes and her epidermis and is wearing them a la Hannibal Lecter
in The Silence of the Lambs. Maha-Maha. WEARING THEM. WEARING THEM. She'll
be fooled, but only for a short time, into thinking the Wolf's her Granny. HER GRANNY.
HER GRANNY? The Wolf? Ah....
No matter. It'll still work for I'm the Narrator and I know no failure. Look. LOOK!
The Red-Cloaked Girl's knocking on the door, with her red-cloaked hand. Maha-Maha.
Come in. But wait, does granny's voice sound a lot lower and more feral? No, it cannot
be. That's it, Red-Cloaked Girl, go in. GO IN! But where's Granny? She must be in the
bedroom. That's it, go in. GO IN! Now ask the questions. ASK THEM! 'Oh granny, what
big eyes you have!' Now, technically, this is a statement and not a question, so I've used
my narrator skills to change it. Watch. 'Oh granny, do you have big eyes?' Maha-Maha.
ANSWER HER! ANSWER! 'I'm sorry dear?' No, you stupid wrinkled harlot! 'All the
better to see you with'. Oh, never mind. Chase her granny, chase her with your granny
legs. Run Red-Cloaked Girl, flee with all your red-cloakedness. Run and be chased into
the forest. Now here comes the wry twist, as the Red-Cloaked Girl's going to be saved by
54

the very man, whom she's always secretly admired and harboured sexual desires for: the
Lumber... Ah....
Erm.... No matter. I must call on all my narrator expertise. THINK, MAN, THINK!
Ah yes, I have it. Quick, Red-Cloaked Girl, hide in this bush, this deciduous bush. Don't
worry there are no May Bugs. Maha-Maha. Now be very quiet.
Good, Granny's gone. I'm glad to get out of that deciduous bush. I was starting to get
narrator's cramp. NO, it's not the same as writer's block. Tell me, Red-Cloaked Girl, were
you starting to get cramp? I could massage you if you were. You weren't... oh! Tell me,
Red-Cloaked Girl, do you have any trouble getting boyfriends? You do! Oh...how
terrible! Tell me, Red-Cloaked Girl, would you like it if I - the Narrator - were your
boyfriend? You wouldn't. You prefer girls. Damn you, Red-Cloaked Girl, damn your
coloured cloak and your lezza ways. Oh look! That deciduous tree seems awfully rickety.
It probably has had its root system destabilised by May Bugs. FALL. FALL. Fall on her
red-cloaked head and crush her red-cloaked ribcage. Mahi-Mahi. Good. The Red-cloaked
Girl's dead. I'm the Narrator and that was my narrative, which you liked. And, no, it
wouldn't have worked better as a play, although I do have total dominion over narratives
in all their forms. GOODBYE.
Loic Thoem
WHEN HE COMES
It’s four o’clock in the city. No one’s about. I sit on the window ledge, resting my
head, my arms tightly wrapped round my body as I try to keep myself warm. I’m wearing
my grey fleece jacket and jeans. I’ve two pairs of thick socks and walking boots on. My
hands are covered in lined leather gloves. My long hair falls around my face. I am staring
– at the moon, the beautiful moon, at the stars. The air’s charged with silence, absolute
silence. My breathing feels loud, my chest heaving up and down, the only movement I
see. I’m waiting, waiting for him. He said he’d come, he told me he’d be here by four. He
wrapped his arms round me and stroked my face with his. That touch was so soft, sending
shivers through my body. Our eyes interlocked, our lips quivering with want for one
another.
‘I’ll be there,’ he whispered. ‘At four o’clock wait at your bedroom window.’
Then he kissed me, softly at first, but then ever more passionately as we gave in to our
deep desires. We made love – warm, sweet, soft love – under the moon and stars. I smile
to myself, anticipating our next encounter, wanting to be enveloped in his strong arms.
I look down at my watch: 4.30. He’s still not here, but I’m determined not to give up
hope. He will come today. I know it. The stars are telling me he will. I can sense it in the
air. I can feel a gathering magic. I will wait.
Shazia Choglay
THE THRILL OF BARE FLESH
I stare at Bill’s flab. I watch it roll and vibrate as his towel is discarded and swiftly
dropped to the ground. The small elasticised speedo pants press tightly against his loose
buttocks, pulling them inwards. They look like over-ripe watermelons. My sensuous
55

thoughts become too much to control. I watch him thud across the diving board and in
anticipation wait. I run my fingers through my hair and arrange myself in a provocative
pose.
I briefly glance as he lifts his chunky masculine wrestler’s arms. The grey dishevelled
sprouting hair peeps from within his armpits and I notice myself audibly catch breath. I
turn away for a second and as I look back, I see him flick like an open penknife into the
cool blue water, showering me.
As I clear the blessed drops from my eyes, I realise he has bigger breasts than me. I
want to stare. I… I… want to touch. I should feel guilt, but desire – oh what desire! – for
his all-too-large mass tempts me like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
Anna Sanczuk and Jessica Goode
THE GREEN KNIGHT’S GRAVE
Gailen stood perched against the battlement wall, gazing across the bloodied
battlefield. In the distance he could see the fires of the enemy. Smoke billowed in a
swirling mass above their camps like an ominous dragon exhaling fervent breath. Gailen
gently ran his fingers down the blade of his finely-crafted sword and pondered how much
more enemy blood this savage weapon would draw, or if indeed it would be his own
blood smeared against some unknown adversary's crude weapon. The rancid smell of
decaying bodies being cleared away from around him, mixed with the musty smell of
smoke drifting from the dotted campfires below, made him nauseous. The glands in his
mouth began to salivate and he could feel sick rising through his chest. He steadied
himself on the cold crumbling wall of the battlement and once again swept his eyes across
the horde below.
No one knew when that rabble of inhuman beasts would next attempt to mount the
walls like a sea of vermin waiting to wash up from the sewers, infecting them all with
their poisonous diseases. A loud booming laughter from the campfires momentarily
shattered all the other night noises. It was a laughter that seemed to carry death with it as
rats carry the plague.
Antony Nichola
ZENITH
A sickening jolt of fear convulses me from a deep exhaustive sleep. My bleary, sleepglued
eyes blink urgently into focus. I am gripped with a fierce sense of self-preservation.
Slowly my lungs start to ease from their earlier claustrophobic grip, and the deafening
pounding of heartbeats quietens to a constant drum. The silence is so loud it rings in my
ears, ailing my sense of security. Within this numb tomb my body starts to shiver, as a
film of sweat clothing me cools in the black air. Drawn by a sudden need to revel in the
lunacy of an embalming coldness, I slide from warm covers and gasp with delight at the
pain of cold concrete. It creeps over my skin like ivy twisting round a sapling, suffocating
warmth. The indistinguishable burble of voices like boiling water whispers at me through
the walls, intoxicating as a child's laughter. Pulled from the bed by an enquiring mind, I
move methodically towards my unknown destination. The darkness is bathed by a
shapeless creamy light, produced by a single candle flame. As I move along the tight
56

chamber, my fingers scratch against its rough sides, sending vibrations through my flesh.
Shuffling awkwardly forward, a black formless shape sucks all the light from the room. It
glides across the ceiling and walls, and snatches my breath as it passes. An acrid odour
strikes my nostrils, a mixture of smoke and fermenting soil. The harsh quick gasps of my
breath fill the air, shallow and panicky like my footsteps. My hand thuds with a
resounding boom against a solid wooden door. I wince from the pain of rapped knuckles,
and cradle the throbbing bones soothingly within my other palm. My ears attune to the
repetition of muffled voices, closer now and higher in octave. The desperation and
persuasive pleading of their discourse propels me to enter.
The sudden great illumination exhaled by the room steals my breath away. It shimmers
with countless treasures, shiny and bright and beautiful beyond mere memories. The bed
is drowned in richly ornate cloth, red as blood and velvet- textured. My eyes register the
wailing chorus and the beauty within the bed, but my heart soars again with admiration
for my luxurious surroundings. The portrait of the room is captured in the globe of my
eyes, a carbon copy in miniature. I search the beautiful chorus for signs of mortality, but
find them entirely composed by mystic glamour. Then I notice, hidden in a dark angled
corner, a crumpled twisted construction of flesh and bone, sitting staring back at me. His
dark sapphire irises delve into mine, his pupils flickering with silent scrutiny. His eyes
wrinkle as a smile creases his features further, a greater knowledge softening his
originally harsh stare. I regard him irritably, his sympathetic and patronising gaze
infuriating me. My topaz eyes flash dangerously, like a pacing panther with a deadly
promise.
Cassandra Phillp
HORROR
Gazing at the creature before me, I realised it had once been human. Its stench coated my
mouth and nose with the sickening tang of corruption. I felt its twisted claws caress my
stomach, forcing bile to rise in my mouth. I sank to my knees, unable to control my legs.
Things writhed beneath its pale bloated skin, filling me with utter horror. Grasping my
throat in an overwhelming grip, it reached deeper into my abdomen, raising my head
high. My shrieks of agony mingled with a wet, tearing sound of flesh and ligament
ripping apart. The beast feasted on my warm slick flesh as my soul departed, and I saw its
putrescent foulness grow with each ragged chunk it gulped down. I'd failed in my task
and now my body had added to the nightmare I was meant to face.
James Robertson
APOCALYPSE
It was four o'clock and the streets were deserted. The problem with this was that for
Rubin the three o'clock chimes had only just died away. Suddenly, he began to notice the
other more worrying fact that the streets, only before hosting thousands of busy Saturday
afternoon shoppers, were now deserted, completely deserted. No life stirred among the
litter. Even the wind had dropped. The huge blind bell had finished pealing in this
phantom hour and as the harmonic dissolved into nothing, the streets of London fell more
57

silent than they had ever been. A discarded pram lay on its side, the wheel only just
coming to rest after spinning for God knows how long. A mannequin, eyes wide, hand on
mouth, in a perpetual mockery of horror stood overseeing from the comfort of her glassbox
universe. A car nearby growled its way along the road towards Rubin, engine idling,
its radiator grinning malevolently, holding all of the secrets, telling nothing. It ground its
way to a halt only yards shy of where he stood, daring him to approach despite the fact
that it held no life, human or otherwise. Rubin approached the car. Anticipation of terror
spread through his whole body in waves of nausea and a dry sickness accompanied every
swallow. None of this was appreciated by him, who was far too busy worrying about
ending up in the same non-place, as had every other person in London and, presumably,
the world. The car loomed up in front of him with every step and soon he was able to see
inside. A surprisingly serene scene greeted him. An empty vehicle with no immediate
evidence of foul play, it could have been just a deserted car, but then he saw the seatbelt.
His balls shrank and his stomach turned into some kind of icy soup. The seatbelt catch
was still firmly in place, but the means of escape was clear: the belt had been chewed
through.
Phil Rothwell
INNER WORKINGS
The door swung silently open and the woman led Frank into her apartment.
‘I'll get something to drink,’ she smiled, closing the door behind him.
Frank watched her legs carry her into the kitchen and smiled. He couldn't believe his
luck. He'd been set up on a blind date by his mate Keith and had expected to spend the
night with a spotty spectacled secretary with less personality than his kitchen wall.
Instead he was sitting in a plush black leather armchair in the apartment of this incredible
woman, a woman with an abundance of both brains and beauty - such a rarity in the
modem world! Most surprising was the fact that he hadn't made a total fool of himself, as
was his usual way with women. When confronted with beautiful women, he tended to trip
over his tongue as it lolloped to the floor and when confronted with intelligent women,
he'd talk himself in circles, becoming so dizzy he fell over. Now when confronted with
someone who'd both these qualities, he became suave, sophisticated and funny. In other
words, this woman made him everything he'd always aspired to be. Now, from looking
around her apartment he became aware she had another hidden quality: wealth. He looked
down at the table beside the armchair he was sitting in and decided to investigate the
small drawer in the side. It slid out with an ease and grace that was almost beautiful.
Inside the well-varnished drawer was something that appeared almost as beautiful to
Frank as the woman who owned it: a large sharp black-handled stainless-steel knife,
probably used for opening letters. He couldn't resist it. He picked up the shining blade and
looked closely at it. The knife was so elegantly clean he could see his smiling face in its
deadly curves. He idly stroked its edge with his thumb.
‘Shit!’ he hissed as the viciously sharp blade sliced into his skin almost effortlessly.
He stared at the small rivulet of scarlet glistening on his thumb. He seemed almost
mesmerised by the sheer deepness of its colour. Shaking himself mentally, he sucked the
bloated droplet off his digit and unconsciously savoured the bitter-sweetness. Frank
looked at his thumb; he was lucky: the cut wasn't that deep. He carefully placed the knife
back into the drawer.
‘Hey, you okay back there?’ he called to the woman, without closing the drawer.
The following silence was the loudest he'd ever had to endure.
58

‘Hello?’ Frank called again, a sense of uneasiness spreading over his mind like a storm
cloud.
‘Just a minute,’ the woman replied. ‘Hey Frank, do you prefer red or white wine?’
Frank paused before replying, ‘Red, if you've got any.
She didn't answer him, which gave Frank time to compare the colour of a good red
wine with the sumptuous colour of blood. He turned to look at the knife gleaming in the
open drawer. Such a sharp knife! It would be put to better use carving meat than opening
letters. Frank cast his gaze away from its perfect curves to examine the rest of her
apartment. She had managed to turn a boring and unoriginal room into a chamber of
seduction. Elegant fitted lamps illuminated the creamy-white walls, sifting through the
comforting darkness that the outside night afforded. He let his eyes drift downwards to
the carpet's dark crimson - a colour that matched the richness of blood. Disturbed, he
glanced again at the knife. How satisfying it would be to use it to slice through flesh and
bone. He pondered dreamily the power that belonged to this blade, able to hack through
cartilage and gristle with beautiful ease, flashing in anticipation as it swims through the
air. He closed his eyes and tried to push these visions out of his head. Then, unable to
bear it any longer, he reopened his eyes and looked down at the knife again. The yearning
he had to pick it up was overwhelming. He unwillingly let his hand wander back to the
patient blade, knowing that once he picked it up he'd live out his murderous fantasies
upon the poor girl, who'd trustingly let him into her apartment. The relief he knew he'd
feel was sadly too great to allow him to spare her. His hand gripped the knife and he let
out an exhilarating sigh. He paused a moment, letting his anticipation build to a peak. He
listened silently to the sounds of the night: all he could hear was steady determined
breathing. It was not his own. Suddenly alert, he twisted round in his chair only to see the
woman bringing a viciously gleaming meat cleaver down towards his head.
Richard Wilson
GATEWAY TO HEAVEN
She looked out towards the horizon. The moon's reflection was shivering on the river.
It sparkled, leaving tiny fragments of silver scattered across the water. There was a cold
winter chill that night and, stupidly, she'd left the house with just a cotton nightdress on.
She couldn't explain it, but somehow she'd been drawn to the water; it seemed to beckon
her; she was sure it wanted her. Her fair hair flew in the wind, slowly covering her face.
She lifted her hand towards her cheek and gently pushed the loose strands of hair away
from her eyes.
She gripped the rail of the bridge tightly, clinging fiercely, not wanting to let go. It was
late, but she didn't know what time it was. Goose pimples formed rapidly on her arms; the
thin hairs stood to attention. A chill shivered down her spine, as if she'd just stepped over
her grave. She moved closer to the edge. The river yearned for her and she yearned back.
She pondered for a while. The thought of cold water caressing her body excited her. She
could already feel the reeds, entangling with her body, as the taste of the salty air slowly
stained her mouth. No one could ever understand what the silent waves and the rippling
water did to her. They fascinated her. They had a life of their own, their own feelings.
She began to feel the chill and wondered why she had been so stupid as to leave the
house without a coat on or at least something thicker than this flimsy nightdress. She
turned to leave, to go back, but she was glued tightly to the sounds of the winding river.
The moon, still shining brightly, cast a shadow on the sides of the riverbank.
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The girl longed for a closer look. She climbed over the metal railing and sat neatly on
the edge of the bridge as her feet dangled loosely, swaying in rhythm with the wind. She
glanced down: the river was no longer silent; she could hear it whispering to her; it was
sending her messages, explicit ones, asking her to join it; it was almost as if the river
knew she was naïve and weak, and could not resist. The ripples of waves kept calling her,
asking her to join them. She wanted to; nothing was going to stop her. She was the ruler
of her own life; she was governed by no one, but herself.
She looked down into the water. She was searching for answers she couldn't find. Why
did it want her? No one had wanted her before. What made her so special? Was it her
inescapable knowledge? The river needed her and she needed it. What more could she
want? She began to swing her legs ferociously, she started to clap her hands...faster...
faster. She shrieked with laughter as the slippery surface gave her body to the river. Her
feather-light form swayed in the frosty wind as she floated down, hitting the water with a
slow serene splash. The water cascaded around her, swallowing her whole. As she
reached the riverbed, her toes sank into the cold, dirty mud, then slowly her body floated
back up to the surface. She reached out with her hands, trying to find something to grip
onto. There was nothing. Her head slipped back under the water, she was gasping for air,
yet she wasn't in pain. Suddenly she stopped struggling. She wanted it so much it seemed
useless to try and resist. It was fate; it had to be.
She stretched her hand out towards the silver-stained sky. She'd found what she'd been
looking for, for what seemed like eternity. Her mind blanked. It was over. She let the pain
and anguish flow from her spiritless body. No one had understood what was wrong with
her. They would now. She sank closer to her grave, slowly submerging under the ice-cold
water. She smiled as she realized what she'd found: the key of the gateway to heaven.
Rosemary Braunton
FUTILE SUICIDE
She awoke, the pounding in her head nothing compared with the pain in her wrists and
nausea in her throat. Gingerly, she sent mental feelers down her body to check all was
there: stomach, yes; feet, yes; arms, yes; head, definitely yes. Opening her eyes slowly,
she realised the white above her was not the heavens, encompassing her soul, but merely
the cracked and dirty hospital ceiling.
A loud, discordant sound confirmed her status. Death had obviously been busy
elsewhere last night. Turning her head to one side, she saw the blue pinstriped uniform of
a nurse and a hideously beaming face close to hers. The smile was worse than anything
she'd encountered before, worse than the pain, worse than the failure. This was hell.
‘Well, I suppose you'll be wanting to get up now, won't you, dearie? After all, that bed
could be used by a real patient and I'm sure you'll be needing the facilities.’ The nurse
grimaced at her once more and then waddled over to her desk, shuffling papers to seem
busy. The sound hit her like a gaggle of geese, flapping their wings, hundreds of them in
her head. Taking the hint, she swung her feet from under the crispy blue linen, starched
beyond eternity and scratchy as purgatory. Mentally addressing her legs, she gave the
command to move; slowly, but very reluctantly, they began.
Unsteadily, she made her way across cold floor, sticky and treacherous, towards the
most unwelcoming bathroom she'd ever seen. However, as it got nearer, the decor became
less important as her stomach began to revolt against the violent movements she was
subjecting it to. Suddenly, her unwilling, unsteady feet became subordinate to the need to
vomit and she ran the rest of the way, ungainly in her distress.
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Slamming the door behind her, she lurched to her knees, and emptied the meagre
contents of her stomach into the white porcelain bowl. The charcoal drink they'd forced
on her painted the toilet bowl a deathly shade of blue-black; evil was being expelled from
her. Staring at the liquid in front of her, watching the scum settle on the surface, she
pulled the chain, fixated by the two liquids rising, mixing and twisting together as they
were removed.
Resting her face on the cool seat, she tried to think. She could remember taking the
pills – two hundred of them, laid out on the bed before her like soldiers, waiting for their
marching orders. She'd been transfixed by them, slowly bringing one after another to her
mouth, savouring the sickly taste of the sugar coating, the disguise hiding their true
nature. She could remember the bottle of vodka, its crystal, sparkling beauty there to
make her feel the same, make her feel clean and beautiful. She could remember the razor
blade, the metal glinting in the candle- light as she turned it slowly, obsessed with its evil
sharpness; her wrist, bent back in the dim light, the veins standing out, tight with
anticipation; drawing the blade across the skin, pressing as hard as she'd dared, feeling the
skin part and the blood flow; trying to christen the other wrist too, to make them equals,
partners in her death; but, try as she might, she couldn't remember getting here. All she
could recall was waking in that bed, cold, sick and confused.
Standing slowly, supporting her weight with her hand on the toilet seat, she walked
over to the mirror. She looked at her reflection: Astonished, she saw a ghost look back at
her. Her skin was white. Worse than that, she looked as if someone had bled all the colour
from her. Her hair hung lank, her usually glossy locks grey and limp. ‘My mental state
reflected in my hair. How original!’ she thought, ruefully.
Gazing into her tired eyes, she rummaged through the rubbish heap of her mind,
searching for any more fragments of last night’s memories. As she stood there, looking
inwards, she began to hear crying, not raucous sobbing, but a slow, steady crying, the
kind that wears away at your soul until you can bear it no longer. Slowly a face came into
focus, the sound connecting with a visual image. It was Dan. All of a sudden she could
remember everything: his face, a key to the padlock she’d put through last night; his
voice, so upset as she told him goodbye on the phone; his eyes, so hurt as she ranted and
raved at him for, well, for saving her; Dan, devastated as she told him to leave her alone,
that she didn’t want anyone anymore, that she wished she was dead; and it was him
crying; his face crumpled in pain because of her, because she was so selfish, because
she.…
She began to cry. Looking at herself in the mirror she wept for what she’d done, for
hurting her parents, for rejecting Dan, but, most of all, for not succeeding.
Rosemary Braunton
CLAD IN BLACK
Even the greyness of his eyeballs looked white in contrast to his black eyes. He wore
sunglasses in the bus on a dark day when the rain fell continuously. On his hands he
sported woven black gloves that he straightened every few minutes. His shoes were split
at the sides, as though his ever-growing feet hadn't yet reached their full length. The man
was entirely covered. There was no flesh showing that could betray its true colour. His
clothing didn't fit him, in that it appeared to be a size too large. The colour of his jeans
was that of a faded black, not displaced by continuous washing, but because too much dirt
clung to them. The taupe jumper was mostly covered by a withered black woollen jacket.
Only their rotted sleeves could be noted. The woollen black hat hid his brown hair
61

entirely, except for the ends that curled under the pressure of the tight fit. His face was
smeared by what appeared black soot. - either that or shoe polish and yet his skin seemed
comforted by this. It wasn't as though his pores wanted to scream to be allowed to
breathe. The odour that arose from his body could be compared to that of stale, damp
clothes that had been aired after prolonged periods of being confined to plastic bags.
With every glance in my direction he chuckled - not once, not twice, but throughout
the entire hour journey, which I thought would never end. It seemed as though we were
unconsciously playing a game of tag. I watched him until he faced my direction; just as I
would turn to look the other way, his gaze fell on me. It wasn't comforting. Despite his
looking the way that did, I felt the odd one out, as though it was I that belonged to the
world of freak shows and not him. Paranoia had finally caught up with me. He appeared
death-like. Nothing human could be traced. All that was left was for him to do was stand
in front of me, face to face, with a scythe in his hands and the ground beneath to open,
revealing the terrible underworld.
Zozan Masum
FILTHY
Her lips were pushed tightly against each other like two slugs shagging. The wind was
bitterly cold and made her ears burn. It was no good; she'd have to get indoors. She
hurried along the path, using one hand to press her coat against her knees, giving her bare
legs some protection, and the other to keep her bobbled hat on. Her knees came together
as her legs gyrated alternatively while she ran; she looked like some comic automaton.
She decided to save time by cutting across the grass, hopefully avoiding any puddles she
came across. This was a mistake for half way across she slipped. It was a sorry sight, but
she only half-slipped, only one leg went down. She stuck her hand out to stop herself
from falling completely and landed it in a syrupy puddle of mud and rainwater, a puddle
that had started out as just a footprint but had grown into a bowl of chocolate filth, about
one foot by two, inexplicably hidden by the not-so-high grass. She quickly got back up on
her feet. The mud ran half way up her arm. She shook it. With her clean hand she tried to
retrieve a tissue from her pocket. Unfortunately it was in the coat-pocket of the hand that
was muddy. This meant contortionist manoeuvre had to be executed. The bloody thing
wouldn’t come out properly and ripped in half. She used what did emerge to soak up the
cold filth. Once the excess had been removed she got the other half of the tissue and
finished the job.
The only shelter she could see was the decaying Victorian lavatory at the edge of the
park, hidden in the dark holly bushes. She could stay there and sort herself out till the rain
had stopped. The sound of her shoes echoed as she stepped on the old black and white
tiles. Small puddles of water had formed around the basins that hung on the damp walls
like neglected children in an orphanage. Everything was musty and crumbling. The tiles
seemed to stay in place from sheer force of habit rather than the sporadic touch-up jobs
they received from caretakers down the years. She walked to the first basin, the one
nearest the door. Although the rain clouds were blocking the sun, she knew that this was a
place that never saw much light, even on a bright day. She couldn’t help but place her
shoes in the puddle that was beneath the sink. The copper tap was green with age and
hard to twist. The sudden vacuum created by the release of the tap reverberated
throughout the pipe system, the overhead pipes rattled as the air was expunged, sucking
and gurgling the stale water from the hidden tank. The tap positively burst into tune like a
brass band as the steely liquid crept to the basin. Dampening her tissue she began to wipe
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the mud from her woollen coat. She knew it would need to go to a professional cleaner to
get all the filth out. Her shoes were muddy too, but the paper tissue had already
disintegrated from cleaning her coat. She knew she wouldn’t find tissue in one of the
cubicles, but she had to try.
The first cubicle was locked, probably out of order, so she approached the second one,
tentatively pushing open the door. The box was cold and grey like the inside of a coffin.
The cistern seemed to have no support that kept it attached to the wall; it just hung there,
lifeless like a headstone. The chain that was attached was half broken and disintegrating
with rust. A rumple of crumpled pink paper hung limply on the tiled wall. Placing her
foot onto the bare porcelain rim of the bowl, she tore some and began to wipe her shoe.
The wind was still blowing hard outside, the door behind her was moving with the
draught like a black lung heaving slowly. She spat on her shoe to remove the last smear of
dirt and threw the tissue into the bowl. The filthy paper floated around the ugly pond like
a butcher's discards in a bucket. She pulled the ancient chain. Again a brassy mechanical
symphony awoke as the water rushed from the cistern to the bowl. It was then I slit her
throat. The warm blood smelt beautiful.
Gavin McInerney
SILENCE
The moon shone through the window, cold and bright, a silver disc against a black
sky. I sat alone in the darkness, gently rocking myself in my chair, staring out at the bleak
horizon. A tree branch repeatedly scraped against the wall. I pulled the blanket closer
round me, its fibres gently tickling my skin. A cold shudder prickled my spine, every part
of my senses stood alert. As I listened, I could hear footsteps gently ascending the stairs.
One by one they padded on the carpet. I imagined swirls of dust, rising from the landing
only to fall on his black boots. They were getting closer and closer. My body was a field
of goose pimples, my eyes darted about, searching for movement, but the darkness
covered everything like a blindfold. I knew I couldn't escape. The clock chimed. I listened
intently as the sounds shook the house like thunder. Then there was silence, deafening
silence. I rocked my chair, ears searching for the comforting chimes, but all they were
greeted with was silence. Even the tree branch had ceased to move. Silence enveloped the
room, suffocating me. Then the steps started again, slowly and surely, closer and closer.
They were now outside my room. Fear claimed my body and shook it violently. I longed
for the silence again, but knew it wouldn't come. I turned my head towards the door,
holding my breath. A shimmer of light reflected the moon's disc, a glimmer of metal
reflected in my eyes. Soon, too soon, everything would be silent.
Laura Summers
TOO LATE THE UNDERSTANDING
The sun baked down upon Tarat. The heat made his skin blister, his eyes blind. He did
not, could not move. Tied fast to the pole behind his back, he stood in the middle of the
rocky field, a lesson to everyone. They watched him now from where they laboured. They
hacked at the dry ground with their rusty implements, inadequate for the job
requirements. They were to turn the soil in an attempt to cultivate the parched land that
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stretched out before them, four hundred kilometres either side of Tarat's pole. It had taken
six months and two hundred lives to do only a fraction of the required task. There were
quicker ways, but the overseers didn't care. The Monef were unconcerned with these
physical problems. They watched them work, sweat, starve, fall, die, rot in the accursed
sun, and they left them where they fell. Depending on how long it took them to work their
allotted sections, they'd have to toil among the corpses of their fallen brethren as parasites
began to feast upon their crisped bodies. Still the Monef didn't care. High upon their
mounts, they rode through their subjects, the broken abused workers who saw nothing but
misery to follow and waited for their deaths as a sign of release. Broken workers were
better than those that held onto some of their inner spirit, some glimmer of hope to see
them through. This barren land would never be fertile. This whole endeavour was an
attempt to break people, to make their lives worthless, without meaning, leaving them
with nothing, nothing but the desire to die.
Tarat was one who held onto that last thread of who he was and what his parents had
told him about his people's past, their once proud traditions. It had kept him sane all those
years, helped him remember what his people had once been and what they would be
again. He'd been beaten, whipped, kicked, punched, slashed and burnt for holding his
head higher than he should, for believing he was something more than a piece of meat to
be pounded whenever it was thought necessary. He was an example to the others of what
would happen to them if they stepped out of line, but still he remembered, remembered
his people.
It had finally become too much for him, for them, the five. They'd planned at night
when they were allowed a few hours sleep, planned their escape well - or so they had
thought, but reward was their undoing. One of their number had sold their escape to the
Monef, for the chance to be reassigned - maybe to somewhere as fortunate as the animal
dunghills, where disease killed but food never ran out. It hadn't worked. He was filleted
along with the others, the lucky ones. Tarat alone had been spared - as an example. So
tied to the pole behind his back, his eyes almost blind, his mouth dry, skin cracked and
blistering, he waited for escape. To where, he knew not, but it would be better - it had to
be. Soon, soon, he'd tell himself, he would be free, free to see his parents again on the
Eternal Plateau. Then they would be free together.
David Ryan
64

4. SHORT STORIES
THE CHAIN
Pakistani village, 1924
He was out in the fields working his fingers painfully as he cut the green grass with a
scythe, the baking sun was burning his back, his kurta was soaked in sweat. He had to
stop now and again to wipe it away from his face with his arm. He grimly soldiered on
determined to keep his mind from wandering to his now heavily pregnant wife, who at
this moment was at their home, the birth of their child being imminent. He gritted his
teeth menacingly, it had better be a son. His family name must be perpetuated.
Shards of pain rained on her lower abdomen. Her body felt as if it was being ripped
apart. All her surroundings turned sepia, becoming blurred by the confusing, dark,
geometric patterns that were playing before her eyes. The distant voices of her mother
and the acting midwife were buzzing away annoyingly. She wanted to scream at them to
shut up, but did not have the strength or will to pull off the cloak of darkness that was
protecting her from the pain.
Before she began to emerge from her numbness, she sent a hurried prayer to God.
Please let it be a boy. Her husband wanted a son. If he didn’t get one, then not only would
he have no son to carry on his family name, but his manhood would be doubted as well.
She gave a final cry, as she pushed with all the strength her slight body could muster
and then felt the pain ease as the baby she had been carrying within her for what seemed
eternity left her and give out a lusty cry. Her body went limp. She waited for the
announcement of her baby boy, while she attempted to catch her breath, but there was
silence. She struggled to raise herself on her arms as she heard her mother begin to cry.
She almost choked on the lump of fear, which was lodged in her throat. There was a cold
expression on the medicine woman's face as she held up the baby, flaunting to its mother
her disgrace for producing a female.
Zenam Khan
BOXED LOCK
The radio played quietly, some slow chart single, as Dave sat steeped in nostalgia at
his desk. There was a tear in his eye, as he looked at a thick lock of ginger hair in a
golden pillbox. The box and its lock marked his coming of age.
He found it difficult to conjure up any memories that could suit the same purpose.
There had been fireworks when he lost his virginity, November 5th 1985, to a ‘woman’
five years his senior as she straddled him next to a bonfire. He’d thrown his ring the first
time he'd got pissed, two uncles pushing him on, ‘Drink that in one and we'll get you
another.’ And he'd hidden the pain of a fully closed black eye as ‘Big Bad’ Dad
explained, ‘You're harder than he is, son. That eye'll go away, but that twat's nose is broke
forever.’
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The pillbox, complete with lock, meant more. The box and lock were the one. October
13th 1985. That was the day Ginger walked out. ‘Back in a bit,’ he'd said. The next time
Dave had seen him was on a slab in some South London hospital, dead.
They had walked in together - David, Dad, Mum, Nan and some religious man of one
creed or another - all but one of them needing to see his little brother. Ginger had looked
worse. David had seen him with two black eyes, a broken nose and his two front teeth lost
forever from a bicycle accident. This time there was just a bruise (and even that was
barely visible) across his nose. He had never felt that cold, though, and his muscles, for
their entire sibling grappling, had never been so solidly set. How could Ginger be so cold
and hard towards him for no reason?
Oh, but of course, there was a reason: Ginger was dead.
‘Um’ and ‘Ah’ and ‘Dear Angel’ said he who didn't belong. Blessed with a collar that
meant none could say, ‘Fuck off’, he stood glancing at his watch, timing the slot. Viewing
rights over, Dog Collar asked them to leave, just another dead person's family.
‘Would you like a lock of hair?’ he had asked.
Prepared, David's Mum said, ‘Yes,’ produced the golden pillbox, handed it over to the
Priest, Padre, Vicar or just Prick and, followed by all but David and the Mongrel, walked
out.
For the first time ever David could remember he had spent a night without Ginger
within two metres of him and for that reason alone he lingered. The Mongrel had looked
at him with a glare that said, ‘You don't belong here,’ and, literally, frightened, David left
the chapel.
The door swung shut slowly, making a false hissing air noise caused by the bristle at its
base. David looked back through its oval window. The man that, for all his rites, had no
right to be there, bent over his little brother's head and, pulling out a tiny pair of scissors,
removed the lock.
And that was when David came of age.
Padre, Vicar, Priest or Dog-Collared Prick didn't come into it. The Mongrel wasn't a
barber, hairdresser or even a primary school nit nurse. No need for him to worry about
hurting the one-thousand-and-first dead body he'd seen this year. After all it simply is just
one more cadaver. He just yanked its head and hacked the lock off, stuffed it into the
pillbox and left by another door.
‘So that's what Death means to those who believe in the hereafter,’ thought David,
growing up in a single scissor snip.
Michael Napier
STUBBS HILL
His mate Dave wanted to kick empty lager cans along the towpath from the disused
Weetabix factory to the empty canal man's cottage. The weeds had engulfed the broken
wooden fence, and no gate now barred the way to foxes and cats, which could sun
themselves on the concrete patch by the back door when no one watched them. But the
rest of Jake's posse protested at this. "That's boring, let's go up the hill and have a fag."
Their history lesson would go on without them, doubtless profit from their absence.
As they climbed over rough grass, the litter at the base of Stubbs Hill soon petered out.
Only couples after greater privacy climbed much further and truants burdened with the
fierce energy of unoccupied youth. A few factory chimneys still threw out smoke in this
northern town, so some of the men were employed, but Jake's dad had been on the dole
for three years now and didn't look like anyone's idea of a man to give a job to. He drank
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too much and his belt pulled into the soft fat above his hips, and his T-shirt smelled of
rank perspiration from the long black hair hanging from his armpits.
Years ago, when mum had still lived with them, his dad would be out in the garden,
digging it over to plant lettuces and the small tomatoes that tasted so sweet you thought
there was sugar on them, and Billy would be careering round the living room on his
tricycle, laughing.
Jake dropped his empty crisp packet on the soggy ground and watched sporadic
raindrops dent the surface. The low grey cloud hung over the council estate at the bottom
of the hill, continuous homogenous daub from an artist's palette draining all colour from
the houses, factories and odd burnt-out car left in a side street.
Jake often thought about catching the train to London to find his mum, but never told
his dad this, or Billy. They hated her for leaving. He'd seen those programmes on the tele
about the homeless kids dossing down in the streets in London, but that wouldn't happen
to him. He'd be with his mum. Anyway, he could take care of himself.
Kathleen Ham
ANGIE
Angie slammed the front door shut behind her with her foot and dumped all the
carrier bags but one on the floor with relief. She didn't want to crush the new black dress
and soft, silk underwear that had been wrapped so carefully in tissue paper. The other
bags contained toiletries and food. George should be back on Monday or Tuesday.
Shopping all day had passed the time pleasantly and stopped her thinking about what
he was up to. It was always fun to buy new clothes, particularly if she could try them on
by the rails and catch the other women eyeing her. Of course, they wouldn't look as good
in them as she did. They didn't keep themselves in shape.
She bent forward toward the long mirror in the hall and pushed a strand of fine, babyblonde
hair back into place. Yes, this new cut suited her. The bleached halo framed the
finely drawn features and large, clear blue eyes. Her bright pink lipstick still flattered the
porcelain complexion, although of late her lips were thinning. A frown accentuated the
lines crossing her forehead that the new fringe kept hidden and etched deeper
crosshatches around innocent eyes that were still beautiful. As she turned sideways she
saw that her reflection was disagreeable enough to suggest last summer's short skirt no
longer fitted. It had creased around a waist that was growing thicker and a tummy
growing softer in spite of the exercises she did when alone.
She paused, staring at her reflection, as the image of Jake came into her mind. She
really missed him. The youngest had never seemed to care whether she was there or not,
but Jake had always been close. He didn’t look like his dad. He looked like her. He’d be a
heartbreaker soon with those eyes. His father had started drinking too much even before
the factory closed. After he’d lost his job, he’d been bloody unbearable. The second boy
had been a mistake. She’d known it even as the coupling that had made him left her
husband sleeping, making those maddening, snuffly sounds that turned into snorts.
Kathleen Ham
67

BURTON
A chill breeze carried the sound of boys’ laughter. Stephen shivered and held his
books a little tighter to his chest. He knew this could be the worst part if he allowed it to
be. He tried to avoid anticipating what was coming, not to let it to grow and live in his
mind, to become real and fearsome before it actually happened. He could see the corner
where he would have to turn and walk down the alley, where the gleeful, terrible sound of
laughter was emanating from.
He tried to shift his thoughts away from the approaching path, but as always happened,
the closer he got, the more it pressed into his consciousness. He took a deep breath and
ran through his personal litany, constructed at great length in moments of peace and calm
over a succession of Sunday evenings after it became clear that these were not to be
‘isolated incidents’: ‘Burton and all his filthy mates are animals, who were somehow
spawned by human mothers. They are jerks and must justify their existence by attempting
to terrorise and belittle others. It does not matter to them who they choose. My role in
their pathetic attempts to define themselves is coincidental and therefore their actions and
comments are not personal, and of no significance to me. They cannot affect me, cannot
hurt me.’
He still wanted to be sick. Turning into the alleyway, Stephen bowed his head and
shuffled forward slightly quicker than dignity would allow. He closed his eyes and
quickened his pace as the laughter stopped, his only thought now to get it over with. He
almost wanted the conflict now because the sooner it started the sooner it would end. He
knew what was coming. The boys would form two lines against each side of the alley and
start swearing at him almost as soon as he entered. When he got closer, they would crowd
towards him, keeping up the verbal barrage and stand in his way as he tried to move
around them, trying to see if they could get a response, which so far he had been able to
deny them - a small and almost pointless victory against unfair odds. When they would
finally get tired of taunting him, which could take anything up to five or more ago
minutes, they would part and spit and swear as he hurried off, invariably almost in tears.
Then they would start laughing again.
Stephen could hear his own breath, as he got nearer. When he was almost to them, he
realised something was wrong. There was silence. He bowed his head and kept walking,
concentrating on the pavement, his feet, broken glass, a crushed can, a condom wrapper, a
horrific battlefield littered with the smashed bodies of snails (that explained the laughter
then), and then more feet. He had almost walked directly into Burton himself He looked
up almost straight into Burton's scabby nostrils. Burton squinted down his nose at him.
This wasn't right. This had never happened before. Why weren't they swearing and
spitting and jostling him? He noticed the others were watching closely, not in their usual
bored fashion. They were paying attention, wanted to see what happened next.
‘Hey guys,’ Stephen muttered, and dropped his gaze to the floor again.
‘Don’t you even talk to me, you poofter, Sinclair,’ growled Burton. And then in a very
clear and measured voice, which Stephen had never heard before, ‘You shag your mum,
Sinclair. I shag your mum. In fact, all the boys here take it in turns, and then my dog has a
go.’ Burton took a deep breath and let this sink in as he prepared for the final blow.
‘Basically, Susan Sinclair is a filthy whore.’
Any cue would have been the one they were waiting for.
It would be wrong to say Stephen ‘saw red’ or ‘lost control of his senses’. Something
did happen in his mind, but it was as if a fog had lifted. The words rent him: they had
used his mother's name, they had used his mother's name! But in the moment of shock,
which rushed in after Burton finished his utterance, Stephen could see past, present and
future in a crystalline dreamlike state, stretching out in front and behind him. He saw the
planning they had put into this encounter, could see that they had needed to move on from
68

simply taunting him idly with no reaction, could see how the thick strands came together
to here and now as the slow build-up rushed into place at that time and that moment. The
only thing missing now was Stephen's reaction. He could pull it all apart now, he saw
that. He could walk away. In a bizarre way he had the power. He saw and understood all
of this as he stared up at Burton's leering, expectant face. Then, for reasons he would
never fully understand, Stephen pulled back his fist and watched Burton's smile evaporate
as his head jerked back.
For a while after that, the wind would have carried a different sound, if anyone had
been close enough to hear. Later five boys emerged from the alley, sucking their knuckles
with a look of thoughtful concentration on their faces. One had a trickle of dried blood at
the corner of his mouth. A few minutes after, what was basically a bruised and bleeding
mess crawled out behind them. It dragged itself to its feet and then threw up in a mess of
tears and snot against the side of a building. The parting words still rang in its ears.
‘See you tomorrow.’
James Griffiths
FIRST DRINK
Elaine Harvey was just fourteen when she had her first drink. It was sweet Summer
Orchard Cider. Though girls are commonly thought of maturing earlier than boys, not so
Elaine. She looked more like a twelve-year-old than a fourteen-, but she spoke older. She
was a natural big mouth, generally known as 'Cheeky' Elaine. She was the type of child
that was more out of the house than in. Either way, she couldn’t help but get herself in
trouble and if she did it outside, she didn’t get shouted at.
For some instinctive reason Elaine and her friends had decided fourteen was the
correct age at which to be initiated into the wonderfully bendy world of booze. About
eight of them, some from her new secondary school and some from her street, had chosen
the second Friday after the summer holidays as the time to immerse themselves into that
sweet syrup called cider, their first unsteady step into the hedonistic freedoms of
adulthood. To say the reasons were instinctive was not entirely true. Ever since she had
joined her new school Elaine's ears were full of titbits about drinking. Practically
everybody in her year was trying it and saying how good it was. She and her friends had
all picked up that sweet cider was the best one to start with. The taste was the nicest and
the buzz was brilliant.
For the price of a bottle they had convinced one of the older kids on their street to go to
the off licence for them. Putting all their money together the six of them - John Carr, John
Hogan, Catherina Daniels, Tom McGray, Frances Raines and Elaine - had enough to buy
a two-litre bottle of Summer Orchard each, and enough over to buy Ali Gaskell, the older
kid, one as well. For all of them the purchasing of the cider was a tremendously exciting
event, full of nerve-tingling anxieties.
With foot-hopping tension they waited in the car park across from McGinty's pub,
which had an 'offie' in an annexe on the side. In whispers, as if the landlord could here
them, they wondered whether Ali would be served so much alcohol in one go. After all he
was only sixteen and seven two litres of cider was an awful lot for one person to buy. The
'offie' at McGinty's was not an off-licence in the present sense of the term, more a
window in the wall with a wooden shutter, which you knocked on when you wanted
service. Ali knocked on the shutter. Nothing happened. Ali knocked again. The six were
glued to Ali's actions with anticipation. After what seemed an aeon the shutter opened. It
was Mr McGinty himself who answered. Would he knowingly serve a sixteen-year old
69

oy seven bottles of cider? In order to speak to Mr McGinty, Ali had to turn his back on
the group who were watching his every move. In agony Elaine and the others watched as
Mr McGinty closed the shutter on Ali.
‘What' s happened?’ whispered Frances. 'Has he been refused?’
‘Shut up,’ said Tom, ‘give him a chance.’
Ali hadn't moved. Half the group were biting their fingernails, the other half were
practically eating their knuckles. The shutter opened again and slowly four plastic bags
emerged. A whelp of high-pitched laughter arose from the group, which was quickly
swallowed by threats to keep quiet. Struggling with the shear weight of the cider Ali came
out of McGinty's and proceeded down the street. The others raced across the road to him,
calling his name. He ignored them and slipped around a corner.
‘He's doing a bunk with the cider,’ piped John.
They followed in hot pursuit. Around the corner stood Ali.
‘We thought you were doing a runner,’ panted Elaine.
Ali replied that he did not want to be seen handing over the cider to fourteen-year-olds
outside the 'offie'. He'd never get served again if he were. There was a mad scramble by
the group to get their hands on the drink. Without even examining what they had,
practically everyone hid their bottle on the inside of their coats. This was easily done as
they were all wearing ex-Germany-Army coats known by all as Parkas. They seemed
designed for concealing things, as they had a very cavernous internal pocket. Elaine,
however, wasn't wearing a Parka. To her embarrassment her mother wouldn't buy her
one, saying she was so small for her age she'd be lost in it. Instead Elaine had a "Bomber"
jacket. This gave her the appearance of a right street orphan. The 'Bomber', however,
didn't have an inside pocket, so Elaine was lost as to what to do with the bottle. Catherina
suggested she stick it down her jacket sleeve. As the others were already on the move
Elaine did this immediately. The effect was hilarious, giving her the appearance of some
freakish mutation. Her left arm looked about three times larger than her right. With this
lobster-like pose Elaine ran after the others.
‘Rat Island’, an area of wasteland not far from their houses, had been decided on as the
best place to sample the cider. The name ‘Rat Island’ was a bit of a misnomer, as there
weren't that many rats there. ‘Nettle Island’ would have been more correct as the place
was a forest of nettles that grew higher that many of the kids who went there, but ‘rat’
sounded more dangerous and threatening. When the gang arrived, they were practically
drunk already on sheer excitement and anticipation of what they were about to do. For a
few moments they just looked at the bottles of cider, studying the label with its picture of
a golden-coloured orchard, full of ripe red fruit hanging from the branches. The boys
were discussing how Bulmer’s, the maker, was the best brewer of cider there was, and
how that was the brand everyone chose to start drinking with. They were right ‘lads’ now.
Elaine interrupted their talk stating that Catherina, Frances and herself must be right 'girls'
in that case. The girls chipped in with 'Yeah'. Little sides were starting to form.
John had to take the tops off the girls’; John was the nicest, all the girls liked him.
Elaine, egged on by the others, was the first of the girls to take drink. The bottle was too
heavy for her to raise to her lips, so instead she put her mouth over the top and "sqwuss,'
the bottle. She did this too hard. There was a rush of liquid, foam and gas, half of which
rushed to the back of her throat and half of which came out her nose. Everyone broke
down laughing. Elaine was laughing and coughing too. After Frances had taken a slug
and Catherina, Elaine had recovered enough to try again. This was Elaine’s first
encounter with alcohol; it was to be the beginning of a long and not-always-friendly
relationship.
Gavin McInerney
70

SATURDAY NIGHT, SUNDAY MORNING
As Jo stood in the queue outside The Ministry, she could hear the bass already
pounding away inside. It made her feel happy, expectant and welcomed. A seasoned
clubber, she was used to this wait outside in the cold, with only a miniskirt and a bra top
on under her coat and three inch heels strapped to her feet. To her it was all part of the
experience and she loved every minute of it. This was the reason she had made the sixhour
journey from Manchester with Sarah; to party at London's top club and she could
hardly wait. Sarah, however, didn't really want to be there.
Sarah liked clubbing, true, but she preferred pubs, lager and Oasis to overpriced
Malibu and Fatboy Slim. But it was her best mate's birthday and she couldn't really turn
round and say, ‘How about we go for a pint in the Crown instead?’ So she stood there in
the cold as well, waiting to go in.
Behind them in the queue were Daniel and Gary. They were a couple of East End lads,
regulars at the Ministry. They were staring appreciatively at the legs of the girls ahead of
them.
‘Bloody hell, get a look at that!’
‘They're the ones, mate, they're the ones!’
That was Gary talking. Hidden in his wallet was a tiny bag. Inside were two tablets of
rohypnol, a tranquilliser more commonly known as the ‘date-rape’ drug. Like most single
men, he was at the club to chat up women and had decided to swing the odds in his
favour. Daniel had been sceptical when Gary had first mentioned the drug, but he was so
enthusiastic after a good fifteen minutes’ persuasion Daniel had decided, ‘Well, why
not?’
As soon as they were inside, the girls made straight for the bar. An hour and four
double vodkas each later they were perched on bar stools when Daniel and Gary began to
lay on the charm.
‘So, have I seen you ladies here before?’ asked Gary.
‘No, we're from a bit further up North. Manchester. I'm Jo, this is Sarah.’
‘I didn't think you were from round here. I would have remembered such gorgeous
women.’
Normally they would have gagged at such a bad line, but the alcohol was having an
effect and they just giggled.
‘What are you drinking?’ said Gary to Jo.
‘Archers and lemonade would be good.’
Gary ordered the drink and made small talk as he slipped something from his pocket
and hid it in his palm. When the drink arrived, he passed it to her, allowing the tablet to
fall into the clear liquid. Tasteless and colourless, it takes a few moments to dissolve and,
once drunk, removes inhibitions and ensures all memories are erased by the morning
after. Without a further word Gary took Jo's hand and led her to the dance floor.
‘So we're alone now,’ said Daniel, suggestively. Sarah didn't like being chatted up in
clubs. The men were too superficial for her, but there was something about him that
intrigued her, which she couldn't quite place. He looked more genuine than the average
bloke. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Vodka and orange, please.’
When the barman came over with it, Daniel looked over to where Gary was to get the
encouragement he needed. Fighting with his conscience, he followed Gary's lead. He
wasn't a wimp, he was man enough to go out and get what he wanted, as Gary had told
him earlier. ‘It's harmless,’ he reassured himself. ‘No one's ever died of it; it's just a bit of
71

fun. Anyway, she wouldn't have let me buy her a drink if she wasn't interested.’ With
that, he took a deep breath and gave her the drink.
Gary and Jo were on the dance floor. It was pretty crowded and they only just had
space enough to dance. Gary turned to look for Daniel at the bar, but as he did so he
knocked into her drink. She knocked her glass out of the way with one foot and carried on
dancing without thinking twice about it. Gary didn't notice.
Three hours later and they were getting very close on the dance floor. It was twenty to
three and the club would be closing soon. He took her to a quiet corner and began to
make his move.
‘Do you fancy coming back to my place?’ His hand was slowly creeping up her thigh
and under her skirt and the grip was a bit too firm, too insistent. Although she had been
drinking quite heavily, Jo could still think to take care of her friend.
‘What about Sarah? I can't just leave her to find her own way back to the hotel. She's
more hammered than I am!’
‘You don't need to worry about her, she's being well looked after.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think she may have taken a shine to young Dan. Last I saw they were getting their
coats.’ His other hand started creeping round towards her chest, the grip tightening with
every second. ‘That means you don't have to see her home, but I would love to see you at
my home."
Gary was blissfully unaware that Jo wasn't drugged. Jo pulled free from his grip.
‘Where the hell has your tit of a mate taken her? She was pissed as a fart. Anything
could happen!’
‘I think that was the general idea.’
‘Piss off! You're both as bad as each other! Is that all you think we are? Pieces of meat
for you to dump your load in and then forget to phone? Go and crawl back under your
rock!’
And with that she stormed off, not bothering to put her coat on against the cold night
air. The pavement outside was crowded and people were spilling out onto the road and
the air was split by a hundred car horns, screams, shouts and the ever-present thud of the
bass. She ran this way and that, her eyes straining for a glimpse of the red dress that
would tell her her friend was nearby. She stood on a beer crate that had been abandoned
in the street to see over the bobbing heads, but it was to no avail. She ran across the road
for a better view and was almost hit by a cab. The driver sounded his horn, but she ran on,
waving a hurried apology to him as she began to cry. Ten minutes later the reality was
beginning to dawn on her. Sarah had gone home with him, with THAT. There was
nothing she could do. With tears in her eyes she slowly made her way back to the hotel.
Meanwhile in the taxi there came a voice.
‘That girl we nearly hit. That looked like Jo.’
‘Did it? Sorry, I wasn't looking.’
Reality for Daniel was starting to hit home and all he could think about was what he
was doing. He had a drunk and drugged girl next to him, whom he could shag senseless
and she wouldn't object, or even remember, but somehow he wasn't looking forward to it.
It's not fair; he said to himself, this is rape. Rape. RAPE. That word suddenly looked
bigger and bigger. He was a criminal, simple as that. Rohypnol is illegal, it's date rape, it's
wrong. The lump in his throat grew and his stomach tied itself in a few more knots. What
the HELL am I doing? I'm gonna RAPE this poor bitch. Suddenly, the prospect of an easy
lay was not an inviting one.
They arrived at his house and went upstairs. Sarah was barely conscious and
disorientated by now, and was not in a position to object as Daniel carried her upstairs
and laid her on the bed. Looking at her, he was consumed by guilt. He couldn't do it.
Sleeping with her would be wrong. That much he knew. Sex was meant to be something
72

etween two conscious people, not between a drunken man and a comatose shell of a
woman. With one last look at the sleeping girl he made for the spare room.
Sunday morning. The sun was filtering through the curtains of a room she didn't
recognise. The hotel. Hang on; hotels don't have dirty socks on the floor. Sarah first of all
became aware she had no idea where she was, then of the fact she was in bed and wearing
only her underwear. Confused, she leapt out and started to pull on her clothes. Woken by
the movement, Daniel came in.
‘Where the hell am I?’ she screamed at him.
‘Wood Green. We were at the club last night. Remember?’
‘Where's Jo? How did I get here? What happened? What did you do to me, you
bastard?’
She was hysterical. Daniel just stood there, not knowing how to react. Would she
believe he hadn't tried it on?
‘Nothing happened. You were drunk so I brought you here to make sure nothing
happened to you.’ The words burnt his mouth as he said them. Lying to women was not
something he made a habit of, but then again, he couldn't say, ‘I brought you here so I
could get laid.’
‘Why didn't you take me to the hotel?’
‘I didn't know which one it was.’
‘You could have asked Jo to take me back.’
‘She'd already gone.’ He was making it up now. He couldn't tell the truth, but at the
moment he was digging himself a hole. ‘Look, why don't I drive you back?’
‘Yeah, all right.’
The next half an hour passed in silence as the drove to the hotel in Russell Square.
Sarah did not speak other than to give the name of the hotel and its street. When Daniel
stopped the car, she got out and left without a word.
‘Looks like you can't win,’ thought Daniel as he drove off. ‘Decide to be a gent and
they throw it back in your face. Maybe I would have been better off taking advantage.
Next time. Morals don't seem to be any use...’ He was interrupted by the sharp tone of his
mobile phone.
‘Yeah?… Oh, hi Gary.... We went back to mine.... Did you get anywhere with her
friend?... Better luck next time, mate.... Yeah, I just dropped her off.... Good, don't cover
it. Best shag I've had in ages. Might give her a ring sometime.... You coming down the
pub? I fancy a drink."
Clare Woods
THE DILEMMA
A flickering street lamp peered through the square-shaped window, filling the room
with a pale orange light. Directly beneath the window lay a murmuring radiator, which
managed to heat the small room despite its noticeable age. The only movement was that
of a crane fly, which sat expectantly on the windowsill, seemingly examining the
yellowed tabloids, scattered across much of the thinly carpeted floor. Beads of glowing
condensation crept slowly down the windowpane to meet the creature. A single droplet
gathered speed and this urged a flurry of uncoordinated activity as the crane fly propelled
itself away from the imminent threat. The insect's curved course took it to the opposite
corner of the room and a bedside cabinet. It sat motionless seemingly in contemplation of
the near escape. The frantic flapping of the creature's wings was the only noise she
noticed.
73

She gazed intently at the fluttering crane fly as streaks of artificial light penetrated the
thin blue curtains and lit her green eyes. She envied its simple life. Slumping down onto
her pillow, she chewed her last remnants of chocolate and tossed the wrapper in the vague
direction of the wastepaper bin. The insect leapt back to the windowsill as she reached for
the battered remote control. At the third attempt the television flickered into life. She
sighed as she flicked through the channels. Not a single programme was of any interest,
but she decided to leave it on anyway in the vain hope it would distract her from the
promise she'd made and still not fulfilled.
She exhaled deeply and pushed her shoulder length auburn hair behind her ears as she
habitually did. She was aware of an educational programme of some description on the
television and watched with indifference as she thought of a solution to her difficulty. She
hadn't any obligation to this curious man; she didn't even know his name, yet she was
strangely drawn to him and his predicament. Raising her eyebrows, she tried to recollect
his name and why she had even stopped to listen to his inane ramblings. He'd explained
his problems at great length and even won her sympathy, but still it troubled her. She
hugged her pillow in its pretty pink case before punching it in a momentary fit of rage.
Rolling onto her back, she sighed and contemplated whether to stay and meet him or
go out. While he seemed harmless enough, she couldn't be sure. Maybe he'd become
angry, when he learned she hadn't helped him, or maybe even aggressive. Perhaps that
would make her decision easier. Again she brushed her hair away from her angular face
and considered her two options, neither of which appealed to her. Perhaps she'd ask for
help instead, but this seemed to compromise her newfound independence and, besides,
who could she ask? Glancing towards the screen, she realised an elderly man was
speaking about the wonders of chrysanthemums.
The time of his arrival was nearing and still she was undecided. She closed her eyes
and placed her head on the pillow. Perhaps if she distracted herself from the problem, a
solution would present itself. Continuing to lie in the same position, she reached to the
floor in search of the remote control. Instead she found a slightly torn copy of yesterday's
Mirror. She skimmed the first dozen pages before hearing the sound of a closing car door.
She quickly rose to her feet and gently nudged open the curtains to allow herself a view
of the street outside. An archaic pram pushed by a young girl was the only activity she
noticed.
Sighing partly out of relief and partly out of disappointment, she made her way back to
the bed and fell nonchalantly onto it. Sitting up once more, she started to look again at the
crane fly and its crazy, erratic flight.
Daniel Ross-Blundell
DINNER FOR TWO
He looked at the woman sitting opposite him and couldn't help but think about the
honeymoon enjoyed here last year. He smiled fondly as he remembered dining here with
his bride and thinking how beautiful she was and how lucky he was to have wed such a
radiant woman. How times had changed! Then it was a happy woman sitting opposite
him. Now the woman presented a different picture - smiles had been replaced by a
reserved exterior, which he was beginning to tire of. Quite clearly, the woman he'd
married was no longer at this table. He was twenty-eight, an advertising executive; she
was a model two years his junior. Frankly, he thought, this whole situation was a huge
mistake.
"How's the pasta?" asked Claire in a tone that suggested she didn't care either way.
74

'Fine,' he replied. Months earlier he'd have fed her some of his portion, but there had
been such a breakdown in communication recently it would have been a vain gesture. He
wondered what had initially attracted him to her. She was visually stunning - a gorgeous
face and a sumptuous figure -, but intellectually she'd never done anything for him. To
begin with, he'd lusted after her, but had this lust led to love? He wasn't sure. He'd known
her long enough - they were childhood sweethearts and seemed destined to marry -, but
his education and her career had separated them and he was beginning to regret the whole
circumstances regarding Claire.
He wished he could go back six months or so and rectify this situation. He'd tell her
there was a problem and that it could go on no longer. However, he'd let it linger on over
the months. This trip was originally planned so he could get away from home with Claire,
but he'd brought all of his problems with him and could no longer see a way out. He was
going to have to end it right here on his honeymoon paradise island.
She studied his face carefully as she played with her meal. The boyish good looks that
had charmed her through school were still very much in evidence, but were being
obscured by the furrowed brow and tense facial expression. He didn't laugh as he used to
- his whole attitude to life had changed and he wasn't the man he once was. Evidently, the
office was killing him. She'd always love him. She always had, but he'd never once
opened up to her.
‘Justin, what's wrong? You're sitting there all tense and worrying about something.
Talk to me. Is it something at home? Is it me? I mean... is it something I've done?’
‘No, no, it's me. Listen, I've been doing a lot of thinking recently and well....’
‘Well what? Is it work? Is it us? Please talk to me!’
‘Look, I don't want to talk about it. After we're done, let's go for a walk on the beach.
We'll discuss it there.’
She frowned. She sensed Justin had something very important to say and, deep down,
she knew what was coming. They continued their meal in an uncomfortable silence until
they'd finished. He paid the bill and they wandered outside onto the luscious, golden
sands.
'I can't do this any more, Claire, I just can't. I thought I loved you, I really did. I
thought we could make it work - like old times -, but it doesn't.... I've tried, I've really
tried to....'
‘You don't love me any more, Justin, do you? I mean, after all we've been through. It's
always been me and you, except when you went to university and met Sarah. Apart from
her, there's no one that ever could come between us.’
‘I know, Claire, and I'm so sorry. I really am, but this has just got to finish.’
They walked on silently, both musing over what they'd just said. The glorious
Caribbean sunset was wasted on them before it vanished beneath the delightful, turquoise
sea for another day.
Finally, after what seemed a decade, he slowly stopped, turned and spoke to Claire,
'It's over. I'm sorry, but I love my wife and I'm going home to be with her. Whatever we
had is gone. That's it, Claire. We're through.’
With that he turned his back on the sobbing Claire for the last time. After six months it
was time for this affair to be left on this beach and remain a secret between them, the
beach and the wilting Caribbean sun. Justin would return to the arms of his loving, but
unsuspecting wife, Sarah. Claire would go on looking for Mr Right, knowing full well he
was on his way back to his wife.
Mark Frayne-Johnson
75

A SEXY SURPRISE
Half an hour into the train journey and Beryl had fallen asleep. Arthur Brogan hated
the way his wife always did this. No matter where they were going, she always fell
asleep. Women couldn't hold a conversation and it irritated him. Oh sure, she could talk,
but it was only to complain about ‘her poor back’ or to remind Arthur to buy stamps at
the post office. She could never just have a friendly, intelligent chat.
‘Never mind,’ thought Arthur, ‘I'm sure shell cheer up at Brighton.’
Soon after he too fell asleep, but not before he'd time to think. He liked to ruminate.
Times like these, when he'd nothing to do but think, stopped him from going mad. This
particular thought was about something that had bugged him for years: Beryl's aversion to
sex. Yes, they were old, he knew it, but that was no excuse for their sex life being nonexistent.
They hadn't made love now for almost two years. This trip to their honeymoon
hotel to celebrate their silver anniversary was Arthur's solution to this dilemma.
The arrival and check-in went smoothly. Indeed Beryl even cheered up at the
memories the place brought back and after another afternoon nap Arthur and Beryl went
to dine at seven o' clock.
‘You look wonderful tonight, dear.’
‘Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself, Arthur Brogan.’
‘Do you remember, love? This is the exact table we sat at on our honeymoon.’
‘Oh yes...so it is. I hadn't noticed. The place has changed a bit though, hasn't it?’
‘And so have we.’
‘Time catches up on us all, dear.’
‘That's not what I....’
‘Anyway, steak and chips as usual?’
‘You know it's my favourite.’
‘I know, but you never want to try anything new.’
‘Beryl, you know how I am.... Stop going on.’
‘OK, but since it's our anniversary, I think we should at least order some champagne.’
‘I don't know....’
‘Oh, come on, Arthur, do something spontaneous for once in your life. You haven't got
long left.’
‘Oh all right.’
The tit-for-tat arguing ceased as the alcohol took control of the old couple's emotions.
There were tears, a lot of laughter, and quite surprisingly, Arthur thought, a lot of
touching and feeling. Deep down he was excited: he knew his plan had worked and he
couldn't wait to get back to the hotel room.
‘Why don't we go for a walk? You know how beautiful the view of the town is from -
what's that place… you know... where we went on our honeymoon?’
‘Harbour Point.’
‘Yes, that's it. Oh come on, Arthur, please.’
In all their twenty-five years of marriage Beryl had never begged Arthur for anything.
He was sure she was in the mood - like him. The bill was paid and they left. As they
walked hand-in-hand the three streets that took them to the moor, Beryl kept hinting at a
sexy surprise awaiting them both. Arthur couldn't stand the anticipation and just as they
reached the peak began kissing and caressing Beryl. She pushed him away.
‘Not now. Let's just walk and enjoy the scenery.’
Inside, Arthur was raging. Two fucking years he'd waited and for her to tell him she
wasn't in the mood and on their silver anniversary! No way! This was bullshit. He thought
of forcing her. No, she'd report him. He could kill her. Maybe, but if he got caught he
probably die in prison He was lagging behind now. Beryl stopped right in his path. In the
background Arthur made out a car. Their car! What the hell was it doing there? Beryl told
76

him to stand still. He did so, still shocked at was he was seeing. Beryl smiled while she
knelt and took off her knickers. She dangled them over her wrist vampishly. Arthur was
almost laughing. So Beryl had planned this all along. What a darling!
"Oh, I love you darl....'
The hammer blow instantly cracked his skull open; the second one, also from behind,
killed him. Beryl and her lover, Daryl, a life insurance salesman fifteen years her junior,
then buried Arthur's body before celebrating vigorously on the seat in the back of the car.
Richard Jamieson
HIDDEN DEPTHS
Martha looked out onto the vast expanse, which was the farm. Whirling clouds of
orange dust danced across the wide-open spaces as they were chased by tumbleweeds.
She admired how peaceful and quiet it all was, having been the source of such hard
labour over the past few months. Suddenly she was awoken from her peaceful state.
‘Martha! Martha, get your ass over here!’
It was Hank, her husband of twenty years, twenty long and abusive years. They'd both
been married off at a young age and she'd soon learned how dominating Hank could be.
Martha hardly ever left the farm anymore. She was so lonely these days. The fact they'd
been unable to have children played a big part in this. Martha always saw her friends back
in the old days, but Hank gave her so much to do she'd grown apart from everyone,
except mother and father. They'd both died some years ago. It seemed when she wasn't
cooking for Hank, she was cleaning or breaking her back on the farm. Hank always
seemed to have time to go out with his friends though. Martha turned to greet her
husband. Her face was bruised on one side, the bruises partially obscured by greying hair.
‘Martha, I need you to help me bring water up from the well today,’ he said in a
routine manner. ‘Well, goddamn it, woman, set to! You know where the bucket is!’
His aggressive tone shook her out of her daydream and she rushed off to fetch the
bucket. As she came back to the well, Martha vowed to work hard today and try her best
to please Hank. All she wanted was to sit round the dinner table that evening and have a
civilised conversation, not an argument. Hank secured the bucket at the top of the well
and began to wind the rusty handle, which creaked with every turn. Martha aided the
process on the other side by turning with all her strength. It took a while for the bucket to
reach the bottom. They used to be able to do the whole process in minutes when they
were younger, but now everything seemed so much more laboured. They were beginning
to wind the bucket back up when something strange broke their monotonous routine. The
handle refused to turn.
‘Goddamn it! What's wrong with this thing?’ Hank uttered to himself as he tried to
force the handle further. Eventually he ran out of strength and doubled over with his
hands on his knees, wheezing.
‘Damn bucket must be stuck!’ exclaimed Hank. After trying the handle again to no
avail, he turned to Martha. ‘Looks like I'll have to go down there and get the thing free.’
Martha looked down into the pitch black hole below.
‘Well, have you got a goddamn better idea?’ he returned, aggressively.
Martha shook her head and handed Hank the long rope she'd bought from the
hardware store the week before.
‘The guy in the store said this here rope could secure a bull!’ offered Martha.
Hank looked at her as if she'd slapped him.
‘Just give me the rope,’ he said coarsely.
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Hank tied the rope to the old winch cable and then around himself. As he sat on the
edge of the well, he looked sternly at Martha. ‘Now if there's a problem, I'll yank on the
rope and you'd better winch me up fast or there'll be hell to pay. No goddamn
daydreaming, you hear!’
Martha nodded several times as Hank grabbed his flashlights and began lowering
himself down the well. She'd waited at the top for some time when suddenly she heard
what sounded like a faint cry, which was shortly followed by several extremely hard tugs
on the rope. Martha immediately switched on the winch, which quickly brought more and
more rope into view. Eventually she could hear Hank screaming and cursing until his
sweaty head came into view. He pulled himself up the rest of the way and ran from the
well shrieking. She knew something was seriously wrong since Hank had never moved
so fast in his life, not even when he was younger.
‘What the hell's the matter!’ yelled Martha in fright.
Hank finally stopped cursing and looked at her strangely.
‘There's something down there, goddamn it!’ shouted Hank.
Martha looked at him in bewilderment.
‘I got down to the very bottom and there was no water there - it just kept on going.
Then suddenly out of nowhere something grabbed my foot!’ explained Hank, frantically.
‘What the hell did you do?’
‘Well, I kicked out and it let go, then I tugged on that rope like hell and got out of
there!’ gabbled Hank.
Martha couldn't believe what she was hearing. Slowly they both peered over the well
into the dark expanse below.
‘Well I don't know what the hell's down there!’ mumbled Hank, who was clearly
shaken.
Suddenly there was a tugging on the bucket rope. Hank jumped back in fright.
‘What the hell was that?’ he shouted. They both stood back from the well and watched
the rope continuously move up and down.
‘There must be someone down there,’ offered Martha.
Hank leapt over to the winch and began to pull the bucket up. It reached the top very
rapidly and Hank looked inside it only to find his flashlights, broken and battered.
‘Well I'll be damned,’ he said to himself.
Martha looked down the well with concern.
‘Maybe someone's trapped!’ she said.
A sudden glimmer from within the bucket caught Hank's eye. He lifted out the
flashlights to find four bars of solid gold partially wrapped in cloth. His face lit up.
‘Oh my God! Whatever's down there sure needs flashlights... loads of them,' he yelled
as he ran into the house. Hank emerged some minutes later with his arms full of all the
flashlights he could lay his hands on. He carefully placed them all in the bucket, greased
up the mechanism and sent the consignment down. ‘Just think of all the supplies they
must need, and all the gold they'll be willing to pay!’ Hank said enthusiastically, ‘I could
make some serious money out of this thing!’
He began to run over to his truck.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Martha, timidly.
‘I'm getting my ass into town to find some more flashlights and supplies!’ Hank
retorted.
‘Shouldn't we go and get some help? Shouldn't we tell someone?’ Martha inquired.
Hank looked at her in an extremely angry fashion.
‘We don't breathe a goddamn word of this to anyone, woman!’ rasped Hank as he
pulled his shotgun up onto the seat, "and if you go anywhere near that well, your life
won't be worth living. Do you hear?'
Martha nodded solemnly.
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‘Just don't touch a goddamn thing!’ Hank yelled as he sped off, leaving Martha to
choke on the dirt, which flew up into her face.
She stood there for a while dusting herself off, unable to take in what had just
happened. She stared over at the well and before her very eyes the rope started to move
again. A wave of excitement ran through her body. There was a powerful force telling her
to pull the bucket back up, but fear of what Hank would do stood in her way. Gradually,
however, she began to feel free from his grasp. He wouldn't be back for a while and there
was something down there, which wanted to communicate. Eventually, the urge got the
better of her.
‘To hell with him,’ she thought.
All those years of control and abuse had given her the strength she needed to do
something she wanted to do. To hell with the consequences. Martha rushed over to the
well and began to hoist the bucket up. When it finally got to the top, she looked inside
and found all the flashlights, which Hank had sent down. They had been smashed to
pieces. Martha stared up in confusion.
‘Whatever's down there is not too keen on flashlights,’ she thought.
After some time pondering, Martha went into the house and gathered up a few things
of her own to send down the well. In the bucket she placed a dictionary, a pencil, some
paper, a cup cake and a roast chicken. The last two items were intended for supper, but,
Martha thought, this was a worthy cause. She sent it all down and eagerly awaited the
bucket's return.
The day went on and the clouds in the sky gradually became highlighted with yellow.
Martha would avert her eyes from the brightness every now and then and spend long
periods staring down the well into the inky blackness below. She was just about to return
to the house when there was a hard tugging on the rope. Martha jumped into
consciousness and without thinking pulled up the bucket with all her might. As it reached
the top, Martha looked inside and found four more bars of solid gold, wrapped in cloth,
and a piece of paper. She put the gold into her pocket; it seemed so surreal. The gold felt
smooth and perfect. She'd never touched anything so precious before. Martha hesitated
for a while before she allowed her trembling hand to open the paper. The contents of the
letter, though poorly written, were just about legible:
Surface dweller,
By using the book known to you as 'a dictionary', my people and I have been
able to write this letter. You are the first surface dweller we've ever had
contact with. We thought you were only a myth. From the primitive death
rays which you sent down to us we can conclude you're not a particularly
intelligent or technologically advanced race of people and yet we can't
understand how you have overcome the problem of living above the ground.
Any exposure to the surface is deadly to my people. We understand that what
you call 'gold' is very valuable to you and therefore we will send more if you
comply. From your dictionary I see you sent us what you call 'food'. We
didn't like the sweet bread, but we greatly enjoyed the food you call
'chicken'. We understand this is a small animal, which lives on the surface
and is extremely tasty when cooked. Such a delicious food I have never
tasted and we beg you to send us some more. We've also learned there's
another animal, which lives on the surface and is larger and even more
delicious than chicken. We understand that this is called 'turkey'. We ask
that you send us some turkey and definitely no more death rays.
Martha sank to her knees in shock, clutching the paper to her chest. Suddenly,
everything around her seemed so different; the world felt a lot smaller as Martha realised
79

what she'd become part of. Without hesitation she rushed back into the house and began
to gather up every cultural item she could get her hands on. She began to write a note of
her own, telling who she was and what the surface was like. She found it hard since her
hands were shaking.
‘Calmly Martha, calmly,’ she said to herself. As she wrote, she could hear the noise
of Hank's truck, rushing up the drive towards the house.
‘Goddamn, Hank!’ she cried, ‘That fool will blow it all!’ She'd completely forgotten
about her husband and in realising this, felt an emotion she hadn't felt for some time:
happiness. She rushed out the house to be greeted by Hank, who was enthusiastically
filling the bucket with equipment and flashlights. When she saw his face, all the fear and
timidity returned.
‘Hank, I've got something to tell you!’ she offered.
‘Goddamn it, woman, not now! I've got some serious money to make,’ returned Hank.
‘But I really think you should listen to me, Hank!’ said Martha nervously.
‘Look, just get your ass inside. I don't want to hear it. I've got important work to do.
This is none of your business!’ he barked.
Before Martha could stop him, Hank had lowered himself down into the well with his
equipment. She called to him frantically, but he wouldn't listen. She waited for an eternity
until suddenly there was a tugging on the rope. Without hesitation she turned the winch
and began to haul the bucket up. She was shocked to find a line without Hank attached to
it. Instead the bucket was full of gold bars with a letter attached to the rope.
Surface dweller,
I was confused as to why you sent more death rays and other items, which
we are yet to understand, but we were most impressed by the turkey you
sent down. I must admit it tasted somewhat different from what we
expected, but it surpassed all of our expectations and was absolutely
delicious. We will send more gold when you send more turkey. Please give us
much as you can find!
Klar the Master
Joseph Budd
OLD FLAME
Mr Pinkerton carefully picked his steps along the iced cobbled streets of Burygains.
Under his arm he carried a small rectangular leather box. Involuntarily, he squeezed it at
moments when he felt he was losing his footing. His heavy boots marked time with each
step, just like the second hand of the timepiece, which he referred to frequently. Gingerly,
Mr Pinkerton secured his grey scarf round his neck. From his pocket he pulled a card and
checked the address: 22 Cordor Street, Burygains. He arrived at a large fading house.
Stopping outside the ornate gate, again Mr. Pinkerton verified the house number. Having
satisfied himself, he once more checked his timepiece.
A little too early, he thought to himself. He looked up at the sky. The sun was indeed
losing its illuminating presence, but he needed to be sure his timing was just right. After
waiting a moment or two longer, Mr. Pinkerton rang the bell.
While straightening his attire, he surveyed the garden beyond the gate. He imagined it
had perhaps been very pleasant during the previous summer, but now it was dark and
barren. The dull grass had a layer of frost upon it and the hedgerows had been cut back to
reveal only twiggy stumps. Knowing his business was to be completed shortly, and
80

impatient for it to end, he rang the bell once more. The sound was dull, but clear. As he
rang, he could see a pale lady of about forty, leaving the house and approaching him. He
drew himself up and adjusted his hat.
The lady walked slowly, but purposefully to the gate. Her hair was scraped back from
her face. Her skin was the colour of parchment paper. In her hands, which were clasped in
front of her in a nun-like manner, she carried a large key ring with two keys attached.
‘Yes, what do you want?’ Her voice was cool and low.
‘Permit me to introduce myself. I am Mr Pinkerton of Kimball, Smith and Pinkerton.
I'm looking for a Miss Eleanora Jones who, I believe, may reside at this address. Could I
speak to Miss Jones?’
Straightening her skirts, the lady took on a more erect pose. The keys she held in her
hand rattled.
‘I am Eleanora Jones....’
Before she could say anything more, the solicitor interjected, ‘Miss Jones, I'm the
executor for the estate of the late Dr John Albion.’ Visibly, the lady shrank as he said the
name. He continued, ‘I have here something that has been bequeathed to you.’
The pale lady placed a key in the lock and opened the gate. She stood back a little to
allow the man admittance and was a little surprised when he did not enter. She took a step
towards him. With much aplomb the sprightly man motioned to give the lady the leather
box he was carrying. She slowly opened her hands to receive it. The man placed the box
in her hands, raised his hat a little and, pulling the gate shut, turned on his heels and left.
Bemused and a little shaken by the man's abrupt behaviour, Eleanora Jones stood for a
moment, looking at the brown leather box. Although her shoulders were covered with a
heavy wrap, she shook somewhat. Turning from the gate, she retraced her steps through
the garden to the house.
Gently and with some anxiety, she placed the light brown box on her drawing-room
table. For a short while she did nothing but look at it, marvelling at its meaning. John
Albion was dead. She hadn't thought of him for such a long time and now here she was, a
benefactor of his estate. What did it mean? At one time he'd courted her, but that was only
a brief youthful affair. The last news she had of him was that he'd become a surgeon with
the army and was travelling in the Far East. She hadn't seen him or his family in over
twenty years.
The sun was setting fast. The cool November day was being replaced a cold nighttime
chill. Her breath was already taking the shape of spirits in the air. She pulled a chair from
under the table and sat on it, tentatively placed her fingers at the corners of the box and
slowly lifted the lid, all the while holding her breath.
Inside the box there was nothing more than a small candle and a folded letter. She ran
her hands over the contents, thinking that John Albion had placed these things in this box
for her. She picked up the small candle. It was only about four inches in length and not
particularly stout in circumference. A short clean wick sat on top. Eleanora looked round
her drawing room; it was dull with darkness taking root in the corners. She crossed the
floor to get a candleholder, lit the little candle and protecting the flame with her hand,
returned to the table and focussed on the letter. Its paper was clean and white and sealed
with red ribbon. She took it in her hand. Carefully she undid the ribbon, which slipped
from the paper quite easily.
Eleanora's heart began to beat strongly. She felt very foolish, as if her action were
being watched, though she knew she was all alone in the house and had been for a long
time. The light from the candle threw a protective halo round her, warming and luminous
enough to read by. Eleanora unfolded the letter. Its handwriting was smooth and small.
Dearest Eleanora,
It has been a long time, I am sure, since I entered your thoughts and know
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you must be in some state of surprise to receive a letter from me, under these
circumstances especially; but it has always been my wish I should have one
more chance to express to you how much you have enriched my life.
Although for your part, I know, we were not fated to be together, in my heart
you were and always have been the centre of my world. Not one day of my
life has gone by without you entering into my thoughts....
Eleanora stopped reading. She was dumbfounded. How could John Albion have felt
like this? She pulled her wrap closer round her neck. As the room became darker, the
candle's glow enveloped her more and became a refuge. She returned to the letter.
How I have cursed myself for my inability to show you how I felt when I
was with you that beautiful summer, how the moment I left you my head spun
with images of your beauty and charm, how I loved to walk with you in that
garden paradise; but when we were together, I could be no more than civil to
you for fear of making a fool of myself. Like a child I longed for you to give
me some hint first, just the smallest indication that you had some feeling for
me. What a coward I was! Taking into account some of the sights I have seen
and bloody situations I have witnessed, those wasted opportunities with you are
still my greatest shame. I have saved the flesh of many men, but have ruined
my own through my own inaction.
The light from the candle began to dim a little. There was not much wax left. Eleanora
pulled the holder a little closer. Darkness was winning the battle in the room, but she
knew the flame would last till the end of the page. Her eyes scanned the text until she
came to the final paragraph.
Eleanora dearest, if I could return to that summer, how I would tell you of
the sweetness of your lips, the radiance of your blue eyes, the gold of your hair.
I would tell you how I loved you, how I longed to make you mine. I would have
never left Burygains if I had had you by my side, but it was not to be. I myself
took the light out of my life and let it go free, and every day since it has been
dark. Fore my cowardice I have suffered all my life, never knowing what might
have been, never tasting the fruits of the garden, never having you in my arms
to caress. My body has suffered much at my hands for this and now I have
finally put it to some good use, to be with you again. I have let myself
illuminate your presence as you did mine so many years ago....
The candle flickered. It cast strange shadows on the table. Eleanora looked at it again
and began to wonder whether it would, in fact, survive until she had puzzled out some
meaning from John Albion's words. She returned to the letter.
To show how devoted to you I would have been in body as well as soul, I
have left instructions with my solicitors that on the event of my death, my flesh
is to be removed from my body, boiled down to its constituent parts and the fat
to be removed. From this a candle is to be made and the candle is to be
delivered to you with this letter on 16 November, my birthday, a half an hour
before the winter sun sets. So, my love, this light that you are reading by is my
epitaph, dedicated to you, returning to you some of the light you have given me.
With the brightest love,
Dr. John Albion
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As Eleanora looked up from the page, the candle guttered and darkness swallowed all
things.
Gavin McInerney
NAUSEOUS
The morning was always dark. It meant uncurling from the comforting foetal position
that made slumber possible and walking into that sea of contradictions. This was not the
only reason the morning was dark: this man had a distance, a distance from all humanity.
He lived in solitude. Not a soul now knew of his existence. He had become nothing but a
giro number.
He liked to roam, passing through the recesses of urban anonymity along a path so
many of us take without ever realising, the path found instinctively in resignation or
sorrow. It was an existence of light and dark as obscure as a shadow can be. His route
blended in with his very being. People were coaxed into not noticing him, a cultural
camouflage. It was not that society couldn’t physically see him, if he walked in someone's
path, which was rare. They saw enough of his alien presence to choose not to collide.
This is a physical state generated by the human mind - its intuition, instinct and its
structure. Society and its cultural rules ooze from the base of this structure. We all posses
the almost inherent ability to understand the human language of sense, emotion and
chemical language. To our shadow, our hint of a man these serve as tools in his self-
imposed alienation from mass society.
Be not mistaken for this was self-imposed. He chose a life that did not adhere to the
conventions set. He stood outside the perimeter of that gluttonous globule of mass society
to the extent that now he even refused language. He understood the nature of people
without using words. His was a mute watching life, seeing the contradictions, the nature
of the injustice, and feeling nauseous to the black extremes of his gall bladder.
It was at this stage a thought began to play with his mind. Every day while wandering
he saw the dead, the dying, the mutilated and against this was set all those people who
spat on them. It was not purely this societal injustice, but the injustice inside himself that
was replicated throughout human nature, which disturbed him so. It was the ability to
mutilate and rape and destroy pitted against the ability, often in the same person, to feel
compassion and love. The same contradiction had torn his own psyche to breaking point.
He loathed the most basic of human drives: the need for power and domination.
He thought it ironic how our lives are geared towards the acquisition of symbols that
serve to advertise our presence and status, when he wanted nothing more than anonymity.
This feeling had been a slow process building up inside him; from childhood he'd felt
different. When he was young, he'd participated as all children do in malignant play,
recreation that prepares for a cancerous world. Even as a child he felt above the
indoctrination and spent most of his time refusing to be Rambo.
What he hated most was the human need to dominate. As a man he found to have sex
he needed a woman to succumb to his desires and her own. She must submit her body to
him, yet was this not another form of dominance? It confused him to the point of
madness. The act of sex to him was in essence an insertion, an invasion into female
territory, tantamount to an act of war.
The City was colon dark, an infinite monotone rolling like an old man's navel,
suppressed from above. Below in the ant farm everybody tried for his or her own little
piece of control. It was like purgatory, a limbo in which he roamed. His days were spent
walking, observing the interactions around him, finding no place in which he could
83

interact. The depths of his stomach conversed with him and with the world somewhat. It
was one of the only connections he still had with the human race: the social and possibly
hereditary convention of nausea. Nausea had become his prime physical emotion, the
only one through which he could express himself and be socially understood: everyone
knows what vomit means.
The park that afternoon received a hallowed gilding of sunbeams. They broke through
the grey barrier in the sky sporadically like a religious painting of divine intervention.
Here our ghost had sat for a good part of the day. The weather had deterred people from
the drab, cold grounds, but now the dancing beams brought them out. It was at this point
the bench was subject to an assault. All his defences had failed and an invader was
coming. The phantom could do nothing but sit tight.
There they were, two marvellous white eminences on invasive feet amid the green and
grime of a city park. The owner was obviously very proud of his acquisitions; he wore
them as a billboard wears its paper. The phantom vainly hoped for no more
communication than was possible from visual language, for this told him enough and he
didn't feel very well. Unfortunately, it was not the case. The man had no recognisable
features; he was a Joe Bloggs, a face in the crowd, although this may have been partly
because the phantom made no attempt to record his face. All he remembered was the
brilliant white shoes before and after. The man opened his mouth hoping to prompt a
response, ‘Nice evening, isn't it?’ Inane pleasantries had begun. ‘I've just had a lot of
dental work done, those bastards charged me an arm and a leg.’
Does anyone care for such impotent conversation? The pointlessness of it all made his
head spin. A queasy sensation rose in his body. ‘My mother-in-law is a member of
BUPA. She costs me an arm and a leg too.’ There was a pattern here. Again the stranger
had prompted no response.
‘Anyway enough about my problems.’ This was the best thing he’d said all day, 'This
weather is spectacular,’ but on and on the lips poured. The sickness was larval inside the
ghost. His physical expression was taking form. ‘Did you see The Bill last night?’
That was it, the final meaningless straw. The inside was coming out in an eruption of
gall. His whole body began to retch. The masterpiece concealed was about to be
emancipated onto the world. He could feel his mouth salivating, the water dribbling from
his lips, his head rushing. A music inside was building to a crescendo, and there they
were those beautiful white shoes. The sick geysered from his mouth, its black extremes
erupting in a deluge so thick there was no escape. The man looked down at his new
trainers transformed before his eyes by a cascade of sick. Shock was all he felt. What the
fuck had just happened? He stood up, his feet and trousers soaked with bile, and the two
men looked into each other's eyes. What followed maintained an almost Victorian
prudery. The man with the now-gall black trainers nearly exploded with embarrassment.
Trying to find some explanation he squared up face to face, but in the eyes of the ghost he
found nothing but a void, no anger, much less embarrassment. The blank eyes scared the
man beyond belief to a point where he wanted to destroy them, and he would have done
so had he not feared a repeat of the masterpiece. There was no option but to turn around
and walk away, the vomit dancing between his toes and clinging to his legs.
Occurrences of this kind didn't use to happen with great frequency, but they were
becoming a more regular affair. The apparition of a man found the need to express
himself more and more. The explosive nature of this expression was more powerful in
gaining a response than any words and more effective in obtaining silence. Silence was
his true passion. To find muteness in a screaming world was indeed an accomplishment.
He liked the underground, but it was a dangerous place. Solitude was easy in its depths,
although there was a good chance he might get stuck with someone that irritated him. He
would sit on a train for hours. The rhythmic song of the track soothed his brain, giving it
an alternative to venting its anger. It was here he found himself, on a train going round in
84

circles, sitting, observing, listening, hiding in the murk deep under the maze. The pastel
neon lighting of the carriage made skin tones yellow, and eyes look dark and hollow like
those of a shark. He liked to observe people not directly, but through their reflections. The
transparency of form was to him more symbolic of reality than flesh and bone. The dark
eyes of the people in the window had the underground in them. Their depth gave no
reflection of eyes, only a dark domain of abstract forms that live behind the glass. In front
of the glass were the billboards, the pretence of society, the insurance adverts.
The underground summed up many of the feelings he had of society: all these people
clustered together and not finding a shred of humanity in each other. He had been on the
train for hours, observing, watching. A hundred people had come and gone. He had seen
them all. Next to him sat a girl, possibly on her way to or from work. He looked at her in
the reflection in front of him. Again those dark hollow eye sockets engaged him. Her hair
was neatly pruned and her face well painted, but the mystery of the subconscious looked
back, the deep eyes, dark and cyclonic, moving constantly. There hid the abstract desires,
chemical and hormonal, the associations, the unknown, the dark moving tunnel. It was as
close as he could come to seeing the workings of the brain, the life of darkness behind the
eyes.
In front of him sat a man reading a newspaper. The apparition's eyes gazed across the
front cover:
POSH SPICE AND BECKHAM - THE BEDROOM SECRETS.
They stayed on the article. Unbelievable, he thought, how could anyone care about such
narcissistic behaviour? It sickened him. To the ghost's disadvantage and to everyone's
around him, the man had seen his interest. It is strange how one little misunderstanding
can cause such catastrophe.
‘Hey, pal!’ There was a pause. ‘You like her, mate?’ He motioned to the woman on
the front of the paper. ‘Do you like reading about her and Beckham?’ This time he
addressed the woman next to our ghost.
‘0i, darling, check this guy out; he's a regular perv.’
She made no recognition of what he had said, but two other men started laughing. The
train stopped, and the woman looked up, gathered her thoughts and got out. This was the
best course of action and one which the ghost himself would have done had his senses not
been in overdrive. The living picture was about to be painted.
‘Look, mate, you scared her off with your ogling.’ The man was playing to the other
men, who were laughing. The ghost made no response, even to move, his mind was
racing. Every neuron in his brain was active, a hurricane of particles in his skull.
‘Oi mate, read it, you filthy fuck!’ The man stuffed the paper into the ghost's face. The
moment of unveiling was ripe, expression had begun. He felt his abdomen contract at its
very base and shoot rapidly upwards. He gagged. The next time would be for real. There
was an immense relieving of pressure as the vomit was forced from his mouth. It shot
forward, hitting the newspaper right in the middle, a combination of the bile, its
propulsion disintegrating it on contact, reducing the man's only form of defence to papier-
mache. The object of expression was enveloped. As he staggered back, he fell and the
pool of sick got bigger. The onslaught seemed endless like a hosepipe watering a garden.
When the ghost finally had nothing left to give, there was little to see of the obnoxious
creature that had existed before. The man was covered in sick from head to toe, a
masterpiece, a sight to behold. There were just the two of them: everyone else had run
from the river of projectile vomit. The man himself had by now begun to throw up in the
overwhelming stench. He started to sob, crying at a world that loved him none too much,
especially now in his wretched state. The tube stopped. The doors opened on a deserted
platform. The stinking creature bent forwards, so that he was on hands and knees, and
started to crawl towards the door. He was at the phantom's feet when he turned back his
head to look into the eyes of his attacker, searching for some emotion, some resentment,
85

some cause of this action, but he understood our phantom less than us for all that looked
back were the same eyes as before, the cold uninterested eyes. He continued his journey
out of the carriage just before the familiar sound of the doors closing resonated around the
now-hollow shell, and the ghost was carried into the sunset.
Alex Buckley
86

POETRY
87

1. SYMMETRICAL FORM I: COUPLETS, TRIPLETS, ETC
THANK YOU, KIT MARLOWE
(a)
Come with me and float to Mars,
Glide blissfully by brilliant stars.
Guided by Aphrodite’s smile,
We’ll reach the moon and rest awhile.
With one giant step we’ll take
A walk past craters, mountain lake.
Floating weightless miles above the Earth,
We’ll fill each day with light-headed mirth.
Ann Bartelous
(b)
What can I do to make you see
How amazing our computer world would be?
Games, programming, whatever your pleasure,
Evenings with C++-, moments to treasure.
My modem is efficient and quick,
Oh, our bliss when we hear the keyboard click!
With memory of 128 megabyte of RAM -
Are you getting as excited as I am?
Come with me, love, as we surf the net,
The possibilities of my PC haven’t been explored yet.
We can become one, staring at the screen,
As from our CD ROM more info we glean.
Delia Williams
(c)
Lover from London, come live with me
Up in my lighthouse down by the sea,
Inside my tower we’ll make love.
The pounding waves, we’ll cry above
And, after, lie upon the rocks.
I’ll watch the sun transform your locks.
The deep sea seethes and so shall we,
Then, damp, run in to brew some tea.
88

I’ll make the bed with bits of wood
To twice its size, for lovers should
Be free to sprawl when they are through -
There’s not much else for us to do.
This lighthouse tall - I need not say
Why it stands for you today.
The foaming spray that hits the door
Will serve our standing metaphor.
There’s nothing like the coastline, dear,
To wipe away that London sneer.
So, come, I’ll show you round the place
And put on you a windswept face.
Sailors will hum a shanty tune.
The sea will dance around the moon.
I promise this, if you’ll agree,
To come to my lighthouse by the sea.
Chris Doveton
(d)
Come live with me and be my bint,
Even though I’m totally skint.
My room is full of lager cans,
A Dolpiaza and a Naan.
Here we’ll sit upon the couch
And watch some telly as we slouch.
We’ll stuff junk food into our gobs
And sit there like a pair of slobs.
A TV dinner’s what we’ll eat,
A dish with 15% meat.
We’ll munch it as we watch the box -
And while you’re at it, wash my socks!
So if you think you’d like to be
A couch potato just like me
And watch me eat kebab with mint,
Come live with me and be my bint.
Matthew Hogg
89

(e)
Come live with me; I am a tramp.
I have no house, my clothes are damp,
But we can live on rum and gin
Inside an old decaying bin.
Beside the gutter we shall sit
And act like drunks that smell of shit.
Wet and soggy our clothes shall be,
So take them off and lie by me.
Alan Ismail
FACE VALUE
Rain running down my cold face
And overflowing the drain.
I lie here in my cardboard box,
Alone, except for the pain.
The cold wind blows against me,
Chill runs down my spine.
‘Nature, wild and free....’
(Oh, if freedom could be mine!)
The disgust in their eyes is easy to see,
Their total lack of respect
For someone dirty like me.
If only they’d take time to inspect,
They’d notice the person inside,
The one disguising his tears,
Wishing he could run and hide,
Avoiding his life and their fears.
David Ryan
TRAINPAIN
British Rail, please don’t fail!
Mainline station, anticipation.
Crowded stuffy train, such a pain!
If it’s delayed, won’t get paid.
I’ve no seat, now what a treat!
Natalie Selmes and Paul-Anthony Kershaw
90

CLEVER TREVOR
In his armchair in the parlour sits Trevor the sage
And every morning he delivers with conviction in a rage
A thunderous condemnation of some bureaucratic blunder.
‘The world’s in a mess!’ he cries, ‘ and is it any wonder?’
Then his wife brings him breakfast and sits there an age,
Soaking up the righteous words of Trevor the sage.
Chris Doveton
ENVIRONMENTAL BLUES
Puffing, wheezing, oozing smoke.
People safe in houses think it’s a joke,
But it won’t go away, it won’t go away.
Sky looks so peaceful, blue and pure.
You can’t see the hole from behind a locked door,
Yet it won’t go away, it won’t go away.
Countryside littered, green turns to grey.
People think only of me and today,
Still it won’t go away, it won’t go away.
They say one day, a day of fire,
The world will give up, finally expire,
Then it will go away, it will all go away.
Lindsey Mitchell
BODIES BEAUTIFUL
Medium, small, size sixteen or eight,
We ladies are never quite content.
‘My tummy’s fat,’ ‘I must lose weight,’
‘My teeth are too big,’ ‘My nose is bent.’
Rhinoplasty will flatten the bumps
And a facelift will smooth eye bags.
Liposuction to remove fatty lumps
And a breast lift if the mammary sags.
Delia Williams
91

SNAKEMAN
Slithering slowly, softly he glides.
Slyly stalking, in glades he hides,
Hissing as he hunts his innocent prey.
Who will be his victim today?
Sabrina Beck
GOD SAVE HER
The opening chords of ‘God Save the Queen’
Rang out in that cavernous hall
And everyone dragged themselves to their feet,
But I stayed sat down through it all.
The pianist played a few bum notes,
Which gave an ironic tone,
As they stood, self-consciously sheepish
And I sat there, awkward, alone.
A burly young man with a crew cut
Said after the show, ‘You’ve been seen
Not showing proper respect and all
For our dearly beloved queen.’
He growled, ‘You’re one of those lefties
Who spits on the red, white and blue.
You’re lucky to live in a country
That allows you to do what you do!’
I said, ‘So our glorious monarchy
(That, yes, in a way I despise)
Allows me this precious small freedom,
To sit here while you all rise.’
‘The trouble with you socialists,’ he replied,
‘Is you think you’re the brightest sparks
With your dubious dialectics
And a couple of slogans from Marx.’
I said, ‘Let’s agree then to differ.
After all we’re in the same boat,
Though sat at opposite sides -
Now kindly let go of my throat’.
92

‘Violence is never the answer,’ I cried
As I stood there trembling and hot;
(These violent fanatical royalists
Should be herded together and shot!)
Chris Doveton
HEAD BUTT THE BOTTLE
Head butt the bottle, baby, take it while you can,
Then next morning throw it all back down the pan.
Head butt the bottle, baby, atrophy and fat,
Head butt the bottle, baby, give me some of that.
Head butt the bottle, baby, that’ll cure your cough,
Head butt the teacher when he tells you to fuck off.
Bang your head against the wall, head butt duty-free,
Oh, and while you’re at it, baby, head butt one for me.
Richard Laslett
TU PAH, TU PAH
Let the night begin,
get a few drinks in.
I don’t want to conform,
become a simple pawn,
another spot in the spawn,
a shapeless form.
A few more for the cure,
intoxicate the pure,
suffocate the pain,
for a night become insane.
You laugh at any joke,
sad songs make you choke.
There’s a rumble in the corner,
all the fungi and fauna
are out to cause trouble,
burst a college boy’s bubble.
Now faster and faster,
see the peeling plaster.
The water falls on hats
as you stroke alley cats.
Escape into yourself
with your invincible health.
The amber kaleidoscope
is the provider of hope.
93

Now quicker and quicker
and sicker and sicker,
and now you’re dumb,
yet the edge says, ‘Come.’
Up jumps the moon,
find an answer soon.
Increase the molarity.
Now I see with clarity:
I’m clinging to the ceiling,
on a Ferris bed I’m reeling
‘cause the dead are on the grass
which was smoked so very fast.
They were wild knights
with their love-lost plights,
yet tomorrow there’s no sense,
just a brain lying dense.
Please return, my mind like a knife,
cutting through the meaning of life.
Joseph Budd
GIVEN TIME
Given time
To describe the fine
Aspects of wine,
I would decline
For a lime
And whisky on the rocks in line,
Complete with Woodbine.
Phil Rothwell
GREETINGS TO YOU ALL
Is there no reply when you knock on my door?
Just to make sure, go on: knock once more.
No reply? Well, I guess no one’s there.
Sorry, no joke. I’m being sincere.
Expecting a drink after that climb uphill?
Never mind: The Rover’s Rest at the foot still.
So go quench that thirst and pop back in a while
Or if you can’t, then simply dial.
You don’t know my digits? But you must know my name!
You don’t? Well, that is a shame!
What’s my problem? Well, you knocked on my door...twice,
Making a racket, which just isn’t nice,
94

Then you accepted my apology - what a cheek! -
When all it is is a drink you seek.
You don’t know my name, so you can’t know me.
Your reason for knocking I simply can’t see.
My advice to you is not to stay.
In fact, why don’t you just GO AWAY?
Daniella Byamukama
I LIKE YOUR SHOES
I like your shoes.
Can I try them on?
Mine are all scuffed
With the laces gone.
I like your mirror.
It always flatters.
Can we trade reflections?
Mine is shattered.
I like your glasses,
coloured rose.
Mine are heavy,
Slide down my nose.
Can I unzip you,
Step into your skin,
An old life discarded,
A new one begin?
Sameena Imam
INERTIA
I’ve always followed Inertia,
Goddess of sweet sighs,
Whose trademark is her stillness
And those ever-spreading thighs.
Chris Doveton
95

COLOUR BLIND
A reverse rainbow,
A spectrum of glow,
Blurred images of colour,
A world becoming duller.
James Peacock
TELL ME
I want you to tell me you love me
Just before you put down the phone.
I want you to tell me you need me
Because without me you’re alone.
I want you to tell me I’m beautiful
Whenever I walk in the room.
I want you to tell these things
And not just let me assume.
Jenni Webb
RAIN
I’m sorry I let in the rain, I’d been our shelter a long while.
My efforts seemed in vain - to cling to the years gone by.
When realisation poured, I let it wash away denial.
Awoken on a wave of time, we’d been swept down different paths.
I ceased to be yours, you mine; we’d drifted away too far.
When realisation fell, I let it rip me from our past.
Although those years have spilled away, I’ll look back in time,
Try to forget the cloudy days and leave all sunny thoughts behind.
Rain’s let me go my own way; there must be clear days to find.
Michelle Webb
96

RECIPE
Take one full heart
And break it in two,
Five fluid ounces
Of tears, shed over you.
Take a pinch of hope,
An ounce of trust,
A teaspoon of hurt
And a pound of lust.
One beaten soul
to bind the mix
And bake in the oven -
Gas Mark 6.
Anna-Louise Maloney
SMILE
Can’t remember when I last saw you smile.
Tears replaced laughter,
Washed away that style.
Heavy load of sadness weighed upon your head,
Remembering the promises,
Everything he said.
The past won’t live forever, let it go awhile.
There’ll be brightness tomorrow,
Remember how to smile.
Wendy Rashed
DEPRESSION
Never a good morning.
Now they’re all the same.
Coming without warning,
Depression’s the name.
Scott O’Donnell
97

NOTHINGNESS
As I stare down the serrations
Of the blade I call my life,
I wonder if it matters
And slowly draw the knife.
My knife cleaves through flesh
Like day through night,
Like man through woman,
Or death through life.
I weep when I realise
My blood is what drains
Into a parched universe
Where I feel no pain.
Maderlin Bidmead
SHAVED ROOF
She sits alone in an empty room
With chanting inside her head,
Watching four walls around her loom,
Wishing she were dead.
In hospital-blue flannel slippers
She talks to the wall all day
About what they got up to in the war
And the prices they had to pay.
The doctor comes round at quarter to three.
She does exactly what she’s told,
Though still talking to her friend the wall,
Her bony fingers cold.
At six-fifteen a visitor’s child
Points at her face and cries, ‘Hey!’
His mother embarrassed the boy’s noticed
That alien shade of grey.
When her daughter and son come to visit,
She doesn’t know who they are,
Even though they show her photos.
‘It’s your wedding, mum.’ ‘There’s pa.’
98

It doesn’t mean anything to her now.
She continues to stare into space,
Memories spinning, swirling, soaring,
But all of them out of place:
The apricot yellow of kitchen walls,
The day her life was saved,
The almond smell of sleeping babies
And the roof the flying bomb shaved.
Anna-Louise Maloney
LUCIFER SAM
Your name, your face fits in so well,
As sorrowful as drowned cathedral bell,
As pale as death, as dark as hell,
As fragile as daylight’s shell.
Richard Laslett
UNDERWORLD
Barren dusty ground with no vestige of life,
Bound by shimmering iron gates.
Scalding heat, turning the surface crimson,
Scattered stones clasping the thirsty soil.
Overhead, opaque swirling masses of cloud
Denies any glimpse of grey above.
Humid singeing spirals from broiling rivers,
Sinister Erebus and damned Tartarus below.
Live honourably and there is a promised ride.
Lie and a welcome from Cerberus awaits.
Mendacious mouths ensure a journey
With Charon along the sweltering Styx.
Samina Hussein
99

2. SYMMETRICAL FORMS II: SONNETS, VILANELLES
WRITING A SONNET
What does it take to write a sonnet?
Choice figures, some words both terse and honest,
Thoughts of love - its loss - or death,
Epic emotions of joy or sighed breath.
Or is it structure, sound or tone,
An even rhythm or maybe none,
Or poetic licence to say what you want,
To abbreviate words in ways you sh’n’t?
When I look back at the lines of the greats -
The Shakespeares, the Dylans or W.B.Yeats
(All wild swans and valleys and summer’s day) -,
What could there be possibly be left to say?
Compared to them I feel mute and small.
I know I can’t write a sonnet at all.
Gavin McInerney
CHEPSTOW HALL
Each morning my cutlery goes missing,
Only to be found in the dreaded white bin.
Each night on the dance-floor couples kissing
And outside my window, oh what a din:
Fire alarms, blue flashing lights, drunken shouts!
At nine in the morning I get woken,
The drink still there in copious amounts.
Soon I’m back to sleep, feeling tired, broken.
Later I walk to the kitchen’s wet floor,
Finding a pile of washing up lurking.
I must fill the sink up - oh, what a bore!
Thank God, the hot water’s not working!
I think I’ll go back to my nice warm bed
And take something for the pain in my head.
Emily McFadden
100

ALL I WANT
I stumbled clumsily along the street,
Shaking and staggering as I went,
Motioning to everybody I’d meet
To give me what I wanted, what’s not lent.
I can’t take this anymore, I shouldn’t even try.
I cough and splutter as the pain gets worse.
My head aches, my stomach hurts, I’m gonna cry.
I think I’m dying. This must be a curse.
I can’t see it as focus turns to haze,
Feel its hands around my neck as it starts its attack.
I can’t breathe, I’m choking. Is this a phase
Or is it the end? I’m going and I won’t be back.
I’m not a druggie, I don’t beg or bet.
All I want is just one more cigarette.
Stewart Vasey
INDIA
Malodorous streets decay beneath magenta sky,
Filled to excess with indigent lives,
Struggling all day in hope of a place on high,
Content to believe this is their duty while alive.
Yet to an interested observer, looking from afar,
The devotion below is not rewarded above.
Masses grind away till dusk as God looks down from a star,
While observers sense the absence of love.
Unless in the faction you’ll misread the role -
How inner protection saves them from the kill,
How their strong hearts prolong the life of the soul,
Ending in outside stability, inside will.
Life’s complex, irrational, a game of lack,
Yet most follow through into perpetual black.
Rajaen Patel
ROADSIDE FLOWER-SELLER
Red roses at the roadside stall, so bright,
A contrast to the urban traffic’s haze,
Rich with the warmth of peaceful summer days
And quiet reveries of dark and light.
101

Glimpsed only for a moment and then gone,
Such wistful beauty, such a brave display
Stands out against the drabness of the day
In confirmation that our dreams do live on.
But, lonely seller, from your tired face
I see your flowers are only goods to sell
Without innate significance. Ah well,
Familiar things seem mostly commonplace
And yet I wonder, trapped inside life’s schemes
And compromises, do you sell your dreams?
Rupalee V. Ghia
EVENING SONG
Between the daylight and the dark there is
A time of day with glamour in the air
And as light is fading you shouldn’t miss
The still beauty, moving calm you’ll find there.
Green-smelling roses grow along the path,
Beds of pansies wave petals in the breeze,
Forget-me-nots are spots among the grass
And on the lavender the last few bees.
The night has fallen hard across the lawn
And sleeping are the creatures of the day.
The birds will sing tomorrow for the dawn
But until then in quiet nests will stay.
That the garden’s now asleep till the light
Is as certain as day will follow night.
Clare Woods
LOVE?
It was autumn, leaves lay on the ground.
He took my hand for the very first time.
The town was quiet, few people around:
It was as if we acted our own mime.
He showed me the castle, so very grand,
And we walked through the High Street, dimly lit,
And we remained mostly hushed, hand in hand.
We strolled by the river - nowhere to sit.
The trains trembled by us with planes above,
Reflected on the water like fireflies.
Right then I couldn’t have seen it was love,
But as time goes on we tighten the ties.
102

I panic: feelings lead to pain, which grows,
Deep hurt caused before, of which no one knows.
Lindsey Mitchell
JUST BEFORE I GO
We sat alone in silence and we thought
Of all the special things we’d said and done
And when we found the unique things we sought,
I saw that looking takes up half the fun.
You spoke sense, but I only heard your voice,
The meaning did not really filter through.
The words (all concerned with me) brought a choice:
To walk away or sit here more with you.
If my defection shocked you, then I’m sad.
The truth is all I ever had to give.
You are the greatest friend I’ve ever had,
You took my hand and taught me how to live.
Each day since leaving you I have known
That we were never meant to be alone.
Paul-Anthony Kershaw
1977-92
No one heard the cricket’s song from the fields
That day the summer suddenly stopped,
Fracture of our usual, smart, but casual shields,
The inside out as popcorn being popped.
But how could we ever have warned him?
He just drove back from a day on the beach
So blindingly bright, all blood and denim.
The lights went out, impossible to reach.
How can days like that give anyone strength
When every thought seems to cause you pain,
Knowing it will stay in the head at length,
But hoping it never comes back again?
To accept a pain that may never cease
Is the only way to find release.
Karen Rasmussen
103

BLOODY NEIGHBOURS
I hate the people next door:
Not exactly the respectful sort;
They always cause such a furore.
Early nights no more
And small hours fraught.
I hate the people next door.
Music on till four,
Drunk on Heinekin Export.
They always cause such a furore.
Love to steal from the local store,
Just the type to extort.
I hate the people next door.
Complete disregard for law,
Consistently in court.
They always cause such a furore.
Detested for evermore,
Their manners equal to nought,
I hate the people next door.
They always create such a furore.
Mark Pendergast
PURSUIT
Hot beads of sweat on her shining forehead.
Wherever she turns he seems to get in her way.
If that monster catches her she’s better off dead.
She’s no way of telling where she’s sped.
She seems to have been running for a day.
Hot beads of sweat form on her shining forehead.
She feels pangs of hunger - it’s long since she fed -,
But she swallows that hunger to push it away.
If that monster catches her she’s better off dead.
Her heartbeat’s erratic, her feet feel like lead:
For how long they’ll keep working she cannot say.
Hot beads of sweat form on her shining forehead.
‘Maybe if I give in he’ll have mercy,’ she said,
But knows she must keep him at bay.
If that monster catches her she’s better off dead.
104

She collapses, spent, but it seems the ogre’s fled.
She sighs with relief, safe for today.
Hot drops of sweat drip from her shining forehead,
The monster can’t touch her, she’s better than dead.
Richard Wilson
105

3. SYMMETRICAL FORMS III: HUMOROUS VERSE
LIMERICKS
(a)
There was a young girl called Bernice
Who married a fellow named Keith.
There was something strange
Which she couldn’t explain
Till she found out Keith was her neice.
Rosanna Giarraputo
(b)
There was a young woman from Hayes,
So easy to please and amaze.
A good-looking bloke
Once told her a joke
And she stayed in his flat for three days.
Chris Doveton
(c)
There was a young woman from Rhyl
Who decide to go on the pill.
She did it with Rex
And then she had sex
With Billy and Martin and Phil.
Chris Doveton
(d)
There was a young man from Cowley
Who was rather timid and owlly.
He read, ‘Do what thou wilt,’
Did it up to the hilt
And now he’s like Aleister Crowley.
Chris Doveton
106

(e)
I once knew a woman from Ongar
Who taught me the twist and the conga.
I was doing quite well
Till one day she fell
And thereafter could conga no longer.
Chris Doveton
(f)
There was an old dear from Carlisle
Whose favourite book was The Trial.
She’d laugh herself red
As she read it in bed
And then drift off to sleep with a smile.
Chris Doveton
(g)
There once were some students from Runnymede
Who decided to smoke lots of weed.
They got really ill,
Fell down Egham Hill,
And saw in their pants they had peed.
Alix White and Hana Sutch
107

4. FREED VERSE
A LIFE
Ripped from the womb,
Slapped on the back,
Surgically separated,
Weighed, checked, wrapped,
‘A bundle of joy,’
Yet cause of such strife,
A precious gift,
A human life.
Alan Ismail
MORNING BREAKFAST
Early in the morning
Have a cup of tea,
One, two,
Have some more,
And then make it three.
What to put on toast now?
What’s the choice to be?
Butter,
Jam or marmalade?
Why not have all three?
Neisha Kausmally
108

FAILED VERSE
A poem can never say,
It can never say,
Say all the things,
The things I want
To tell you everyday.
Lauren Simmons
UNSEASONAL
There is summer
In your lips,
But winter
In your tongue.
Your words fall
Like icicles,
But the summer’s
Long since begun.
Lauren Simmons
CURRICULUM VITAE
You ask me to write a C.V. -
Sell yourself on paper
Is what you really mean.
Is mine presentable, pleasantly different
Or is it like the piles you’ve seen?
Well, is it?
Androulla Savva
MIND MINING
Mining my mind
To find what is mine,
Trying not to be blind
To what I may find,
And though I’ve been here before
At my mind’s mined core,
109

Immersed myself completely
In its rich sticky ore,
I’d noticed before
The ore has a flaw.
If the ore has a flaw,
It’s therefore impure
And I can’t be sure
Of my truths anymore,
So in an attempt not to scatter
The abundant grey matter,
I’ll do my best not to flatter
My mind’s mined core ore
Anymore.
Michael Napier
DOWN
Confusion and doubt,
Feeling lost and alone,
Is now a permanent part
Of what’s me.
The things I’ve done
With people I’ve known
Do nothing to help me see
Through the cold wet fog
Before my eyes
That blurs all my life into grey.
I know there’s a route
Through this hall of mirrors,
But I
Just can’t find the way.
Michael Napier
THE SUM OF IT
Life matters,
So
It should be,
If talking in binary,
The I
Or 1.
But death is bigger,
So
Should not life
110

Be nought
Or even
(Maybe odd),
Just the zero
Of the two?
‘Unless, of course,’
Said I
(Or 1),
‘As a mathematician,
Pure and true,
You give a value
To self,
Which, obviously,
1 knows you
Don’t do.’
Michael Napier
LOOSENING CHAIN
Brick by brick
Evil and grey
Slabs
Scabs
Hellish holiday
Tall walls
Superficial security
Duty calls
Safe as unsafe
Aggro falls
All the rage
Free as a cage
Cool as ironic ice
Fucking with my life.
Ann Bradbury
BIG ISSUE
Breathing in country air,
Travellers in shawls, flowing hair,
They live at peace with Mother Earth,
Blissfully happy, free as birds,
Fleeing from the sea of concrete,
Just leaves and grass beneath their feet.
Brilliant sunset ends the day,
Beautifully tranquil ganga haze,
111

Paradise beneath the night sky.
What more could one expect from life?
Criminal justice blocked the sun:
Concrete world, nowhere to run,
Caged in squats, rotting in doorways,
Nothing left but to kill the days,
A brand new underclass,
Wasted on cheap cider and grass.
No fields and trees around them now,
Just buildings, cars, and the shopping crowds.
The dream turned sour, freedom’s gone,
Downing Street made it all go wrong.
Rank with filth, submerged in squalor.
‘’Scuse me, mate, spare me a dollar?’
Neil Edwards
THE GARDEN PARTY
Garden party happens today,
Invites calls and debts to pay,
Social climbers polish ladders,
Wayward sons again have fathers.
Etchy eggs and cooling cucumbers,
Rudely woken from their slumbers.
Time has come again for slaughter
On the lawns which need no water.
Sweeping swallows chased by violins.
Struck by stroke they softly climb.
Couples loiter in the cloisters,
Social leaches quoting Chaucer.
Please don’t touch the grass
Unless accompanied by a mower.
Hunting’s such jolly fun,
Except when boundary people come.
Eddy’s chalked another blue,
Jenny smiles,
Her son did too.
Checker chatter,
Gossip lash.
Smile boosted with false charm,
Locking on royal arms.
Welcome to the garden party.
Edward Simpson
112

TO BE OR….
I don’t want to be a barren spinster,
A lady who withered while waiting too long,
Don’t want to lather my walnut complexion
With mud five hours a day,
Pretend I’m forty years younger,
Still waiting for life to come my way.
I don’t want to reminisce with grotty laced letters
From those who’ve long forgotten me,
Make feeble excuses for friends
Who never come to tea.
I’d hate to laugh as if windows would shatter
Because I haven’t laughed for so long,
I don’t want to mouth the words
When I’ve never heard the song.
Anna Sanczuk
EULOGY FOR GRANDFATHER TIMOTHY
We drove three hours in a four-wheel drive.
We encountered so many mountains before we arrived.
There was a convoy of cars
Bumping along
To pay their respects
To the man who has gone.
Siboniso Nkatazo
113

5. FREE VERSE
DEFINITION
A poem that doesn’t rhyme!
Come off it!
You can’t have one of them.
That wouldn’t be a poem,
Would it though, eh?
Well, it wouldn’t,
would it?
That would be just words,
that would.
Words that don’t rhyme
is prose.
That’s what it is, though,
isn’t it?
Well,
isn’t it?
Michael Napier
ART
old songs that make you cry
a cigarette while having a drink
running to catch a bus when late
tea on a cold day
coke on a hot
dancing like a maniac
crisp notes in wallet
foreign moonlight and stars
a hug when it’s needed
a kiss when it’s not
smiling open spaces
bacon and sausages
family
art
Siobhan McCarthy
114

HEAVY
A profound poem is
not light,
although it should shed some,
I suppose –
what with it being
‘pro’ found.
Like losing your keys
in an autumn leaf pile
at midnight,
you want that stuff
to be shed –
light, that is -
because
losing your keys
can be heavy
and is definitely
‘anti’ lost
and therefore
profound -
heavy!
Michael Napier
GOA
Oppressive heat, shoulders weighted, height stilted
‘One rupee please, madam, one rupee!’
you give till you can give no more
cows dotted with bells
all the coloured yarns of the world
a lighter tone of flesh
different code of dress
eyes so bright and black so knowing
night again devours us under its blanket of midges
the odd lizard
heat suspended, distant fig leaves rustle
a new life
eyes wide shut now wide open
Lucie Perkins
115

SNOWDRIFT
Sitting, watching
the snowflakes
arriving
falling
each dot a person
rest
116
in the world
the great significant earth
where the snowflakes
small and insignificant
sleeping, moving, lying,
unintentionally deceiving:
it’s always deeper than it seems
colder too as elements collide
away from that burning core.
Ann Bradbury
POTHOLES
Rain is falling
turmoil manufactured
hand-made
rain becomes sleet
wetter and stronger
the grass grows
like black smoke
spiralling out of control
new machinery
it starts to snow
Ann Bradbury
ARDRISHAIG
Wee houses licked by sweet tongue of ocean
scents of salt, seaweed, smoke
cheery people gesturing in groups
granny’s house ancient yet warm and comforting
baking, whist, bowling and wind

canal dark and looming, whispering to come close,
seashells in plastic jars
midnight feasts
walks through the hills, polo mints, smoking pipes
young days never to return
Siobhan McCarthy
CHILD
Listen!
Laughter,
voices,
a juxtaposition of senseless gabble.
Look!
A crow fleets through the air, razor-sharp,
stark against the sky,
black against swirling bluey grey.
Laura Summers
GREY DAY
A thin cat on a dark rock.
With a jump it lands on the sand.
Drops of rain fall off its tail,
footprints made of rain,
but prints of paws cannot be seen.
You take them as
you
go.
Then it’s just me, the rock and sea,
dripped on by drops of rain,
left as the fools of a cat.
Karen Rasmussen
117

SUB
Under the subway
is a dark, dingy, lightless, leaf-littered place
where chill winds blow, rain flows, mould grows
in cracks and crevices, and dust encrusts.
Under the subway
is where lifeless shadows, void of love,
hover and linger and loiter, listlessly on and on,
where the day is no more, cut-off, lost.
Under the subway you wait, waiting,
standing on one foot, on two, in the cold, the old,
among litter and filth,
expecting, wondering, watching hot breath turn misty
and I am there – a silhouette -, stepping on cracks, looking for you….
Clare Hayhurst
The between place, the under pass,
under ground, under grass
under air and space.
No place to dwell or dream, but to talk in broken
whispers, stand still, look shifty, sad, lost,
so upwards we surface to live.
GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT
Bottles of wine, drunk in beakers,
clothes carpeting the bedroom floor,
cries of ‘What shall I wear?’
and ‘Does my bum look big in this?’
Mood-music from the stereo,
‘Has anyone seen my lip gloss?’
Hairdryers, tongs, curls,
‘I look fat, don’t I?
The sweet, sickly air of perfume and spray,
‘Sure you can’t see my nipples through this top?’
Taxi horn creates silence,
‘Oh, my God, is that the time already?
Still in knickers,
can’t find those shoes,
but stumble out,
‘BYE MUM, DAD,’
118

piling into taxi,
giggling like children.
Jenni Webb
BEHIND THE VEIL
Calm. Breathe slowly. One step at a time.
Smile. There he is. Smile.
Oh, shit! What am I doing?
Mum, gran, dada,
Auntie Carrie, Uncle John.
Giggle. Smile.
Dammit. Turn back. Run.
Hide. Just go.
This isn’t right!
Oh no!
Relax. It’s him.
HIM. Not him.
He’s the one. He’s not.
It’s not him.
For God’s sake, just turn back.
I can’t.
Drag the veil up. Curtains drawn.
I’m exposed.
Kiss dad.
Oh, shit!
‘Do you take…?’
Shazia Choglay
HOME SAFE ALONE
Home?
Cocooned, stiff and dwarfed in grand office.
Clock shows night
Home? Soft suit bunches under desk.
Thoughts fleeing, flying confused through bare emptiness.
Home? Low steady aircon hum.
Home?
Peaceful hum. Home.
Home.
Buried fighting, itchy blackness.
Too enormous hat, gloves.
Move
Wind bruises, punches, cold swallows. Move.
Screams through black air. Bites.
119

Vicious, ingenious.
Finds path, flows straight, cuts icy to bone.
Walk, try body, fail, pause, succeed. Move.
Move.
Cheap Vodka laughter, hollers, pukes of a different life.
Creep, move.
No remedy. Move, walk, move.
Safe, protected. Slammed oak. Safe. No attack.
Flame, raves, kisses. Safe.
Huge goblets, glasses.
Books stacked, curled to heat.
Tiny cat mewing.
Home. Safe. Alone.
Sian Dockray
FIND ANTHONY
Find Anthony!
Phone up Anthony!
Telephone directory –
His name’s listed? No,
Then try looking for him.
He wears a yellow anorak
And a dark corduroy cap.
His hair’s curly and greasy.
Basically, he looks a tramp.
I hope that narrows it down.
You may find him near the station.
He smokes roll-ups.
Just look for him, OK?
Find that bastard,
Find Anthony!
Alan Ismail
RITES OF PASSAGE
Leary girl’s shagged 201 blokes – she’d say.
It’s early autumn, the mouldy sun, like an aging slob, sits blandly on the wall.
Day-trips to Margate and nights in clubs and pubs and streets and haystacks
and short giggly flings,
dramatic romances and safe strutting without the dirty scary
fucking at the end.
That’s left to real men and women,
men with big hands and cocks that get straight down to it.
120

Is this one a man?
He’s got a big bed, nice mum. Just the usual fumblings with
light risks and intentions, but no mess for her.
She disappears behind, below, beneath this mass of warm, hard heaviness,
squeezed into the space.
They shuffle and push,
slide like worms trying to bury themselves, pink fleshy wrigglers,
pushing and pressing, suck, stick and pop,
a dip in the mud.
Two unzipped, cooked plum tomatoes squelched among peaks and hills of linen –
Verdant.
Anna Sanczuk
MASSAGE
Baby oil running down my body,
your gentle hands caressing my skin,
gradually every muscle relaxes,
overwhelming happiness envelops me
as we move together and are one.
Caroline Lee
BELONGING
I want to shout out
in a crowd of no one,
no one I know,
except someone who’ll hear me,
who knows who I am.
She wants to fall out
of a crowd of no one,
of no one she knows.
There’s nothing to stop her,
except someone who’ll have her,
who likes who she is.
121

And we want to keep out
everyone we don’t know.
They can’t really stop us,
unless there’s someone
who keeps the crowd from being crowded
and who doesn’t care who we are.
Thomas Kent
A HELPFUL FRIEND
You disinfected boy,
drinking pints of Jif,
gleaming
and fussing and glossing your teeth,
creak upon the timber of your brain
And wonder
whether sugar would have pleased me more
than your talk
of failure
and my betterment.
Anna Sanczuk
THE END
The canal spread in front of us,
Your words like the water,
Filthy and greasy,
Slipping off my mind like droplets off a coot’s back.
Trust?
Why should I drown in your deep, dirty lies?
Rosemary Braunton
122

6. SYLLABICS
HAIKU
(a)
Pleasingly short, yet
so annoyingly concise
that you must compro- (mise)
Daniel Baker
(b)
Don’t say anything.
Ah! Don’t say another word:
It is perfect now.
Paul-Anthony Kershaw
(c)
Keep your mouth shut! I
Can see lies dripping like
Tarmac from your lips.
Rosemary Braunton
(d)
If clouds are to part
and God is to reappear,
should we applaud Him?
Ben Coleman
(e)
We move from place to
place all our suburban lives,
but can’t leave our heads.
Ben Coleman
123

(f)
Naked on the grass,
nose all red from hay fever –
damn English springtime.
Alan Chang
(g)
Winter creates cheer,
jingle bells and Christmas smells,
eating, drinking, smiles.
Nadia Colyer
(h)
Glittery snowflakes
float through the velvet black,
webbing the dead grass.
Kelly-Ann Davis
(i)
A shining clear sea
covers the land each morning -
the beautiful dew.
Jenni Webb
(j)
Gulls fly overhead,
gliding on the warming air,
crying to the wind.
Maderlin Bidmead
(k)
Great field lies restful
under snow. Look there! In the
corner: a blackbird!
Satiyesh Manoharaja
124

(l)
Pure dew dripping down.
crisp air, blue and onion-sharp.
smoke breath, iced but new.
Jeanne-Marie Marcham
(m)
L’eau, H20, pure,
transparent, unapparent,
vital, hydrant cleanser.
Lucie Perkins
(n)
The darkness of the sky,
the pinpricks of lightening –
universe lives bright.
John Fortune
(o)
The bright coin plummets,
the air begins to nip like
thousands of small pins.
Jeanne-Marie Marcham
(p)
Hungry red petals,
beauty always has a thorn:
pleasure, passion, pain.
Christy Lefteri
125

(q)
Cold, crisp, brave-footed,
she’s wrapped in soft slinky silk,
alone in the world.
Linda Hodgkinson
(r)
Saturday night dance
hip-swaying, bum-shaking, jig.
Stumble home at four.
Shazia Choglia
(s)
Tense yourself for it,
take it down, feel the burning,
warmth envelops you.
Geoffrey Harrison
(t)
An empty window
filled with fingerprints, smudges,
where people once were.
Alexandra Laws
(u)
Condensation hangs,
thick and warm: taste the people
who were here before.
Alexandra Laws
(v)
Atchoo in Kleenex,
those lavatory sightings,
Queen of Boggy.
Jenny Steele
126

CINQUAIN
SNOW TEARS
The snow,
frozen white tears
forgotten on the ground,
so many wishes falling from
the stars.
Christy Lefteri
MONOSYLLABICS
CHOKING SORROW
White on white,
dust steals the light,
chokes the life she breathes.
Old black door,
brown wood floor,
here she starts to grieve.
Hannah Bernstein
BITTER BITER
Start, snap, strain,
Hit, punch, pain,
Knock, back, bite,
Fear, fall, flight,
Sting, tear, stain,
Pierce, pulse, pain.
Kate Foley
127

ALPHABETICAL POEMS, ACROSTICS, ALLITERATIVE VERSE
THE ALPHABETICAL YEAR
Another year
Begins with snow,
Crisp and sparkling there
Down beneath my window.
Everything is quiet, still, white, waiting
For something expectantly and when it appears,
Green and full of life, the world looks
Happier. Colour springs from every corner: daffodils, tulips and
Irises. They wave in the wind; life continually appears
Jostling as the sun rises higher in the sky. Children with
Kites, soaring in the last breezes of the season soon to expire.
Light follows dark, the clock ticks, the wheel turns, dark follows light.
Memories race, laughing, crying, dreaming, tick…times, people, all, any, every,
spinning, twirling, almost
Nauseating as the heat creeps ever upwards. Water fights, the beach, swirling seas,
holidays, new
Opportunities, new friends, new starts, same beginnings, same endings, same
feeling, freedom, running for ice creams,
Picnics in the sun, the smell of suntan lotion, family outings, salt in the air as the
Quiet evenings gradually become darker and the season creeps silently away. The
heat follows, tick… and the trees
Regretfully weep tears of rusty leaves, landing on the ground, patterns of red,
brown and yellow, not gold, not
Special or precious, but dead, no longer needed. Feet pound them to mush, tick…
the trees look
Torn, like skeletons naked and sorry, there for the world to see. Black silhouettes,
sinister, threatening. Home early, home, warm, safe
Underneath the duvet, head all that shows. I want to hibernate like the squirrels,
hide till it’s warm again, till it’s colourful.
Virtually dark by four and winter is back, crispy cold, gloves, scarves, hats, fires,
baked potatoes, tick…tick…tick…will it snow? Unlikely.
Will it rain? Almost definitely, though they say the years are getting warmer.
Tick…Xmas shopping, frantic people, snatching, buying a present for child
X, who they’ve never met, but it’s Christmas, a time for giving. Season of good
will to all men, roast turkey, crackers, funny hats, jokes,
Yelling…tick…and from my little window snow, new and crisp, white on the
ground and the only marks, car tracks, black lines like those on
Zebra skin. Another year begins with snow, crisp and sparkling, there down
beneath my little window. Everything is silent, still, white, waiting and the
clock ticks on.
Lindsey Mitchell
128

ALPHABETICAL ADJECTIVES
Abstemious like austere academics.
Bemused like bewildered batsmen bowled bumpers.
Corrupt like crooked coppers.
Desperate like dolled-up divorcees.
Exultant like expectant mothers, expanding daily.
Forgotten like fights in the fourteenth pub that day.
Garrulous like geezers with the ‘gift of the gab’.
Headlong like hyenas heading headfirst for the hedge.
Impregnable like islands invulnerable to intrusion.
Jittery like Judas on Judgement Day.
Kamikaze like kissing pythons or karate-kicking kangaroos.
Leisurely like the laid-back, laissez-faire lifestyle of the Leeward Isles.
Mystified like Mounties mulling over the whereabouts of their man.
Nefarious like nettled Nosferatus.
Oafish like outmoded oxen oblivious to the invention of tractors.
Paralytic like pie-eyed parsons, partial to snifters of sherry.
Questionable like words with the prefix ‘quasi’.
Raucous like raving razzle-dazzle reactionary rebels.
Salubrious like smoked salmon and sea salt (supposedly).
Tart like Tiger Tongues, timeless tangy confectionery.
Untoward like unopening umbrellas.
Vehement like vociferous veggies.
Wanton like worldly women, welcoming wenches.
Xenophobic like all-white xylophones.
Yielding like yin as opposed to yang.
Z…zzzzzzzz zzzz zzz zz z.
Author unknown
ALPHABETICAL REPRESENTATIONS
A is for anarchists’ alleged anxiety attacks.
B is for balloons, bursting when man belches badly.
C is for children, crying before candid cameras.
D is for death dying, when Donne is ‘done’.
E is for elephants, eloping eastbound to Ealing.
F is for flippant fairies dancing flamboyantly.
G is for ‘Gregory’s Girl’ gaining her goal.
H is for Halloween hauntings before the mighty HO HO HO!
I is for idiots’ idiosyncrasies and idolising idols.
J is for Jesus’ Jerusalem reflecting jaded jings.
K is for karaoke kings, mellowing the kindred kin.
L is for licking lollies in lavender-laced fields.
M is for monopoly money, unreal for man and mate.
N is for nanny Nancy, behaving nicely naughty.
O is for oily oranges, sliding over ogles.
P is for puny pigs, eating huge pork pies.
Q is for Quentin quack, filming quirky queens.
129

R is for random riders, cautiously rioting royals.
S is for slippery snakes, slithering slowly along.
T is for totally topless, tittering tactfully on.
U is for utterly useless in understanding.
V is for vicaring vice, scattering varied (ad)vice.
W is for wonderful wonder bras, making women go, ‘Whoo!’
X is for xx xx, I love you, xx xx.
Y is for yellow yetis, fading into yesteryear.
Z is for zebras and zany zany zany.
Natalie Selmes
THE A-Z OF STUDENT LIFE
A’s for alcohol.
B for bar.
C for cocktails.
D for drinking.
E for Ecstasy.
F for fun.
G for graduation.
H for hangover.
I for intellect.
J for jamming.
K for Monday-night karaoke.
L for lectures
M for money-lack.
N for note taking.
O for organisation of time.
P for module passing.
Q for quitting.
R for running late to lectures.
S for socialising.
T for tutorials.
U for unemployment (after graduation).
V for voicing your opinion.
W for part-time work.
X for x-rated.
Y for lecture yawning.
Z for zzzzzzzzzz.
Joanne Moruzzi
130

FLAKY
Itchy – unbearably so.
Mouldy – well, almost.
Painful – whatever the doctor says.
Earnestly applying cream.
Turning yellower by the day.
Impossible to wear make-up.
Gradually flaking till it’s gone.
Oh, it’s back again!
Ann Bradbury
THE OLD DEVIL
Demon from hell,
Evil and
Vile,
Intent on extinguishing my
Light and life
Corrina O’Rourke
ALARM
Sweet, sumptuous, cosy sleep.
SHIT: sirens screaming, grating, grinding.
Grabbing, fumbling, falling into clothes,
Stumbling hazily, haphazardly downstairs,
Shaking, shuddering against the fucking freezing cold.
Silence. Trudging tiredly up the stair.
Once more, sweet sumptuous cosy sleep.
Zenam Khan
THE STORM
The wind is whistling, whining. Rain pours down till huge puddles appear.
The dog dives under the duvet, terrified of the din. I sit, silently staring out
at the terrible tyrant that throws trees from right to left like limp rag dolls.
131

It rages on relentlessly, rattling roof tiles, ripping flowers from beds.
Surely the storm must stop, cease to torment, terrify us. The dog lies
whimpering under wide, woven blanket. Perhaps he thinks the wild wind
will pick him up, pulling paws from body. I’m terribly tired, can take
the storm’s tempestuous tyranny no more, so I slip into sleep, dreaming of
deserts and smooth, silky sands.
When I wake, a wonderful sight waits for me: a scarlet sunrise, no wind,
whistling through willows. Calm has returned; the stubborn storm has
surrendered and slipped sullenly away.
Corrina O’Rourke
SOAK’S NIGHT OUT
Vivacious vodka-ish vomit,
Tequila terrorises trachea.
Benevolent bile of beer,
Searing schnapped stomach,
Port-pierced pancreas,
Liver-lambasting Lambrusco,
Mind-mangled Martini,
While Guinness gurgles guts.
Absinthe-anguished arteries,
Holstein harms heart.
Cinzano shapes solution,
But all this abrades resolution.
Wendy Phillips
SILENTLY
Silently the fox flashed his fiery coat, then skulked away into the early morning mist.
Silently the black rooftops were silhouetted against the red of rising sun.
Silently the chimney smoke spiralled upward.
Silently the dew danced on tiniest tips of grass blade.
Silently the two slept on as dawn sprawled seductively round the bedroom.
Silently his gentle breath stirred her shrivelled silver hair.
Silently she woke and mouthed in his ear words of perpetual love.
Silently, so silently the old man’s eyes closed forever.
Laura Pitcher
SNAKE
Silvery scales slither in sunlight,
Symbolising sorcery and sin,
Soothing you into salacious bliss,
132

Sacrilegious serenading of the Judas kiss.
Sliding slowly, the sly serpent,
Scourge of sacrosanct sacrifice.
Delia Williams
THE KILLER COMES
Rain ricochets off rusty rooftops,
Beating belligerently, banishing birds from trees
Where leaves lightly lash
And darkness douses the dank day
To cloud loudly, almost proudly.
Through the blackness the killer comes closer.
Josh Summers
SUNSTRUCK
The sun sets slowly,
Sizzling as it hits the sea –
Our solar system!
Jessica Goode
ENGLAND! ENGLAND!
Fists flew as rioters fought.
Gliding glass smashed the ground
as they thundered threateningly through streets,
splintering shop windows, shouting swearing,
peaceful people pleading for peace,
but their voices vanish amid violence,
no single sound heard among screaming crowds.
‘When will it end?’ ask bewildered women,
denoting dreams for this disturbance to die.
Michelle Webb
133

BELDAM BLUE
Burning blue,
Tranquil turquoise,
Alluring azure
Across a whole horizon.
Fluctuating flecks
Of gregarious green,
Yelling yellow
And waspish white
Flicker flippantly.
Ultramarine unfurling,
Descending deviously,
Creating a colonising column,
Provoking prudent, pearly, placid
Blue.
Anosua Mitra (based on a painting in the Beldam Gallery)
134

6. CONCRETE POEMS (STRAIGHT-LINERS, OUTLINES, WORD-
PAINTING)
A LONG SHORT POEM
A
page
was
blank
a
while
ago
and
now
my
pen’s
ink
starts
to
flow
I’m
writing
words
that
rhyme
and
so
there
really
is
not
far
to
go
for
now
what
you
see
spells
out
my
pen
that’s
it
no
more
you’ve
reached
THE END Clare Hayhurst
135

JUST WATCH
David Ryan
FAITH?
Lauren Simmons
Watch
What
You
Are
Doing
Because
You never
Know what
Will happen
O R
When
Time
Will
Run
Out
S
O
MANY WASTED
P
R
A
Y
E
R
S
136

RAINDROP
Kelly-Ann Davis
TORNADO
Samina Hussein
Rain Drop
The pitter-patter of the rain
pounds persistently upon the windowpane;
increasing without pause, it picks particular points to
hit and then pours at a perilous pace as all the heavens
perspire, a thousand pinpricks, pinching the frosted glass
AND DRIPS TO DRENCH THE EARTH IN BULBOUS
DROPLETS OF WATER, BATTERING SO HEAVILY
until the roar falters, forgets to roar and peters out
to this endlessly, endlessly repeating,
pacified drone of
pit pat,
pat pit
pit pit
pat
Tornado, touring unmercifully through the sleeping town,
Thumping shut doors, tearing through the ground,
Ripping trees from their roots, throwing
Possessions recklessly, waking a
Trembling community suddenly.
Trapped in their
Houses, helpless and weak owners watch the torrid wind racing towards
Them murderously. Round and round in violent
Vicious circles the victims spin,
Caught in his tight grip.
Tormenting the poor
And torturing
The rich,
Each
Upon
The
Sea
Of
D
E
A
T
H
137

USELESS PLEA
Ann Bradbury
EVOLVE LOVE
Hana Sutch
Please don’t go, don’t leave, forgive me please, please do
Please don’t go, don’t leave, forgive me please, please
Please don’t go, don’t leave, forgive me please
Please don’t go, don’t leave, forgive me
Please don’t go, don’t leave, forgive
Please don’t go, don’t leave
Please don’t go, don’t
Please don’t go
Please don’t
Please
Plea
LOVE
V
O
EVOLVE
V
EVOLVE
O
LOVE
E
138

THE S IN SADNESS
D B
A E
E N
H T
R
E
H
H
T
I
W
Y
139
L
D
A
S
Y
L
T
F
O
S
G
N
I
G
N
I
S S
T Y
Y X
L E
I S
S Y
H L Jessica Goode

NOOSE POEM
Zozan Masum
th
er
ei
sn
om
ea
ni
ng
tolife
andido
f n’
l t
e l
s i
r k
u e
o y
y o
l u
l m
i a
k y
l a
l e w s
140

TELETEXT (i)
I am responsible for mankind’s intellectual regression….
I enthralled a nation with hapless motorists, gay traffic wardens and low-rent lounge
singers….
Nothing comes close to the perverse satisfaction I get from seeing mundane pastimes
branded onto the national consciousness. Cookery is not the new Rock ’n Roll, no
more than Alan Titchmarsh is the new Keith Richards….
With remarkable ease I convinced the general public that their days would be far
better spent watching our oversized, slack-jawed cousins from across the pond thump
each other in the name of entertainment.
Thomas Kent
(ii)
Aamer Khan
COME TO ME
I WON’T HURT
PROMISE
DON’T LISTEN
TO WHAT
THE OTHERS
SAY
141

LIGHTHOUSE
Boy,
I really need a drink -
Not to take away the pain
Or excuse my troubled day.
No, I just need the feel of the
Sweet taste of alcohol. Let it run
Through my veins – to feel it swell inside me
Like a calming tide before a storm.
The bar a beacon to the end of my week,
I plot a course through Monday morning.
When Tuesday comes the wind is at my back.
Wednesday, the water is choppy and I see fog ahead.
Thursday, vision’s poor and I rely on navigational instinct.
As Friday dawns, I feel the brief swell of an essay deadline,
Rising pressure of bills demanding payment, the full force of parents,
Demanding results. Land’s a distant promise, sweet dream of a lifeline.
All around me are treacherous rocks of failure, disappointment, despair,
But then a glimmer of hope, of life, a lone light in the distance, something
To guide my tired ship, bring it safely to shore, avoid obstacles in the way,
The light envelops me, it is warm, calming and will save my dogged ship
From landing on the rocks. Oh, lighthouse, the rocks - on the rocks, barman!
Thomas Fenwick
MOVING IN
Daniel Baker
Many
Differ
entWon
derfulSub
stancesAre
FlowingA-
RoundMy
GutsAnd I
ThinkThey
Like Their
NewHome
142

BEER QUEST
SNOWBOARD FREEDOM
Mark Ellis
Cheekily checking for
Change, he hassles the
Hired help, desperate
For delicious draught,
Religiously recites
The received request
Grasping the glossy
Change and glass:
Beautiful brown
Bubbling
BEER!
by
Sian Dockray
Not flying,
floating, more
like gliding, but
without friction,
contact with slow-
wing forces, there
to remind you
you’re still on the
planet earth for the
plumes behind you
resemble clouds so
much you want to
believe the imposs-
ible and forget the
real world with its
cold sun and biting
wind. In any other
circumstances you
would leave, but
not today.
143

WHOLE
YOU MAKE ME
SOUL’S
WHAT YOU GET FROM ME
EVERYTHING
YOU DO IS WHY I
LOVE
OUR CONNECTION
SONGS
MAKE ME SING OF YOU
LAUGHING
MAKES ME THINK OF YOU
BEAUTY
MAKES ME WANT YOU
AND THERE IS NOTHING ELSE
Siobhan McCarthy
144

Burn me
SET ME ALIGHT SO I MIGHT FEEL LIFE
Free Me
LET ME BE WHO I WANT TO BE
See me
OPEN YOUR EYES + LOOK INSIDE
Challenge me
MAKE ME BELIEVE IN HUMANITY
Paul-Anthony Kershaw
145

DRAMA
146

1. THEATRE PLAYS
(a) PLAYS WITHOUT WORDS
THE OUTSIDER
SCENE:
The lounge in a modern semi-detached house. To the right a door with a view into the
kitchen; to the left a set of French windows with a similar view. In the lounge the scene is
very festive. In the corner of the room by the French windows stands a green plastic
Christmas tree. Other noticeable features include a large television, two settees, an easy
chair and a sprig of mistletoe, placed above the entrance to the kitchen.
In the easy chair sleeps Bill. He is aged around fifty-five and is visibly overweight and
balding. The television is on, but the volume is turned low. Scattered around him are
various items of food, nuts, chocolates and crisps, and drink, mainly cans of beer.
Enter from kitchen Janet, an ageing woman and wife to Bill. She wears an apron and
looks flustered. She walks into the room and sighs deeply. She looks at Bill and, seeing
he is asleep, shakes her head. She picks up the remote control from his lap and sits down
on the settee. She presses the off-switch, but nothing happens. She presses it a few more
times before bashing it and then throwing it onto the other settee. She looks at Bill one
more time, then at the TV, then, realising how tired she is, closes her eyes. Pause with just
background TV noise.
In the background indecipherable voices, laughing. They get louder until Stuart and
Beth enter the lounge, arm in arm. The couple are barely in their twenties. Beth is the
daughter of Bill and Janet. She is dressed normally; Stuart sports a Santa hat.
On entering the lounge they fall silent. Beth puts a finger to her lips, gesturing that
they should be quiet. Stuart nods. They separate from each other. Beth walks across the
room to look at her mother, sees she is asleep, then looks at her father and, seeing he is
also sleeping, takes the remote control from the settee and presses the off switch.
Realising it doesn't work, she switches the television off from the set itself and walks
back to Stuart, who has noticed the mistletoe above the doorway. He points at it, then
beckons to Beth. The couple run into each other's arms, silently laughing.
Beth extracts herself, then pulls Stuart towards her parents. He waves to both of them,
even though they are asleep, and this makes Beth laugh out loud. It is enough to wake her
mother, who looks at them both for a while before smiling and standing up to greet them.
She bugs Beth and shake hands with Stuart. Everyone smiles, except Bill, who is asleep.
Beth hugs Stuart before Janet beckons her into the kitchen. Beth points to the settee, upon
which Stuart sits. With Stuart's back turned Janet is able to give two thumbs up to Beth as
they exit.
Stuart looks around the room until his eyes finally rest on Bill. Stuart sighs and shrugs,
then gets up and walks towards Bill. He removes his Santa hat and places it on Bill's
head, chuckles playfully and runs back to the settee.
Pause. Silence.
147

Beth and Janet enter. Beth beckons to Stuart as she stands under the mistletoe. He gets
up, goes to her and they embrace. Janet walks over to Bill and hurriedly cleans up, finally
throwing all the rubbish in the bin.
The couple finish kissing and cross to Janet. All smiles. Beth sees the hat on Bill's
head and laughs. This starts Janet off laughs, followed by Stuart. Beth pats Stuart on the
back and puts an arm round him.
As mother and daughter leave the room, Janet gestures to Stuart to make himself at
home. He smiles and sits back down on the settee, picking up the remote control. He
presses the buttons, but nothing happens. He looks puzzled.
Chris Lane
THE OUTSIDER
Curtain rises on a completely dark stage. A soft spotlight comes up to pick out a girl
positioned centre stage. She is standing hunched over, looking dejected and lost. She
wears a tatty school uniform that is too big for her. She also has a mask, which is of a real
human face, but larger than life size and with exaggerated features - prominent
cheekbones, large eyes. The soft light and the girl's posture give the mask an expression
of intense sadness. Her shoulders shake as she starts to cry. She makes quiet whimpering
sounds and looks round for someone to comfort her.
The lights come up to show a playground with a school building behind it. On each
edge of the stage there is a group of girls, all in masks. They are different from the
isolated girl's mask, smaller and without prominent features. All are identical. The girls
all wear similar school uniforms - short skirts, tight shirts and chunky platform shoes.
They are all stand tall and happy. They are talking to one another, but no conversation is
distinguishable.
The lone girl, still whimpering, creeps to the group standing stage left. She tries to
make eye contact and looks longingly for some recognition, but gets no response. She
slowly makes her way to the other group standing stage right and again tries to make eye
contact. For a second she thinks she has succeeded and her whole posture changes.
Suddenly, she is upright and leans toward the group almost jumping to the girl she thinks
has looked at her. She seems happy, but soon realises she was wrong. Her whimpering
starts again and her head goes down. She stands a while by the group and her body does
not move. She seems stuck, but eventually manages to walk back to centre stage. She
collapses to her knees and hangs her head, but the crying stops. There is a long pause.
Centre stage goes dark and the girl is no longer seen. Suddenly a bell rings and the two
groups of girls walk off stage left in lines of three and arm in arm. They walk like models
on a catwalk. The lights go down.
A spotlight comes up from the back of the stage behind a tall thin window of the
school building. The silhouette of the girl is seen. She is in the same position as when she
was first seen - hunched over with her head down -, but this time a silhouette of a rope is
seen going from the girl's neck to the ceiling. There is a long pause and the lights go
down.
Laura Summers
148

CAN'T THEY SEE ME?
Katy Saunders, 14, sits on her own in a crowded classroom at her desk, looking at the
groups of other pupils, talking and laughing together.
Can't they see me? Am I invisible or something? How much effort does it take to just
come over and talk to me? I s'pose I'm not really one of them, not good enough. Mum and
the teachers say it's only because I'm naturally shy, say it'll take time, but it's more than
that really. It's so easy to picture an outgoing, confident version of myself, going up to
them, cracking a joke, then having them laugh along with me, but that's not real life, not
me. Maybe a couple of years ago I could have...before it all started. It doesn't help that
I've had to join the school mid-term either. Everyone seems to know each other, all get
along great, except, of course, me. I may as well be an object as far as they're concerned.
Mind you, being ignored is better then being picked on and treated like some freak. That
was terrible. I can still hear their taunts and laughs - horrible sounds. They echo round my
head until they're almost deafening. The psychiatrist called it a panic attack. Thinks he
knows everything, but how does he know what goes on inside my head? He's just as bad
as they were. Makes me feel worthless and stupid. That patronising voice of his only
brings the memories back. It didn't help. Waste of time.
(Picks up random book from desk)
Hymns of Praise. Huh! That's ironic. Is there a reason why I should be praising anyone
for what I've been through? When I feel like this, I don't think I even believe in God. How
could he let anyone go through such pain? How could he create a race that can be so cruel
to one another?
Louisa Davis
THE MEETING
The lights come up.
Early evening. A crowded London Underground tube, packed full of commuters.
Sound of carriage, rattling along the track, and occasional flickering of lights as it passes
through a tunnel.
The tube stops and a number of people get off, exiting to either side of the stage.
The train starts up again with a lurch and a female passenger falls against a man who's
also standing. Both are dressed in the manner of office workers and are in their early
thirties.
She's clearly embarrassed and looks down and away.
He doesn't appear annoyed, instead offers a reassuring smile.
The tube stops again. More people exit - in the same manner.
The carriage is almost empty now, but the man and woman remain. They take seats with
an empty one between them.
The other passengers appear engrossed in an assortment of newspapers, books and
personal stereos.
The man extracts a newspaper from his briefcase and starts to read, but cannot help
looking over at the woman before going back to his paper.
The woman appears not to notice, although soon after she chances a look at him before
turning her attention forward again. She pretends to study the map, high up on the wall
opposite.
149

A moment later they both sneak another glance and catch each other's eye. They blush
and turn away.
The man smiles to himself, the woman smoothes her hair.
The tube stops again and a couple of passengers board, entering from either side of the
stage. One of them, a rather large man, also dressed in a suit, takes the seat between the
man and woman, obstructing their view of each other.
The man leans forward, pretending to tie his shoelace, and again looks up at the woman.
This time she smiles. She looks around self-consciously to see if any of the other
passengers have noticed their flirtation. Nobody seems to.
In no time the train comes to another stop and rather regretfully the man gets up to leave.
He turns back, clearly wanting to say something, but at the last moment loses his nerve
and instead smiles and nods.
The woman fidgets in her seat anxiously as if in the midst of a dilemma.
The man passes out of the door and begins to exit stage right.
On impulse the woman leaps out of her seat, gathering her belongings. She hastily leaves
the train, although clearly this is not her stop. She hurries after the man, also exiting stage
right.
The tube starts up again. The lights fade.
Rachel Prior
INTRAVENOUS
SCENE:
A glum living room, sparsely furnished. Daylight shines through the closed thin
orange curtains. In the corner two tall gas cylinders, brown and green with gauges, pipes
and a clear plastic facemask. Parallel is a low hospital bed, tightly made, with a pile of
clothes on the floor at the foot. Beside the bed is a small table with numerous bottles, a
telephone, a radio and a foggy glass of water. In the opposite corner an old small
television on an upturned crate. There is a tired-looking dog-bowl on the floor near the
TV, which looks dry as though it has not been used for years. There is also a virtually
empty plate on the floor, smeared with dried tomato ketchup. Distant traffic can be heard.
The front door at the right of the room swings open quickly and jerkily as though it has
been kicked. A stocky, untidy man in a wheelchair, wearing a chunky red plastic-looking
coat, wheels himself in and reaches back to slam the door shut. He moves to the middle of
the room and drops the bag, which he was carrying on his lap, onto the floor. It sounds as
though it is full of cans. He moves a little backwards, looks at his watch and closes his
eyes, breathing heavily for a moment. He crosses to the bedside table, picks a bottle with
no lid, carelessly pours a few tablets into the palm of his hand and swallows them
together without water. He sits still again. He turns to face the bed and eyes it up and
down. He reaches to the top end and pulls the sheets back a little at an angle. He fumbles
in his pocket and pulls out a chocolate bar. He opens it and eats quickly, throwing the
wrapper on the floor. He reaches again into the coat and pulls out a few five and ten
pound notes. He positions his wheelchair parallel to the bed and pushes the money under
the mattress. He looks at his watch again, propels himself back across the room and lifts
one of the curtain edges to peer out. He returns to the centre of the room and unzips the
monstrous coat. He pulls his arms out of the sleeves and wriggles manically in the chair
from side to side. He finally pulls the coat free and throws it to the floor.
There is a knock at the door. He sits up, looks at his watch, wheels forward, opens it,
and rolls backwards, facing his guest. It is a woman wrapped tight in a long dark coat,
150

She has a bag. She manoeuvres behind him, takes hold of the wheelchair handles at the
back and pushes him to the bed. She puts the bag under the bed and stands behind him.
She slides her hands down the insides of his chair under his thighs, and presses his open
palms firmly on the armrests. They lift simultaneously and, with much struggle, flip him
onto the bed. She pushes the chair back out the way and turns him over onto his back. He
has a distorted smile on his face, she remains clinical. She crosses to the gas cylinders and
fiddles with the gauges. She attaches a pipe to the facemask and throws it to the man on
the bed. He claps it to his face and she opens the valve. He breathes deeply, hungrily, and
the hissing becomes louder. She returns to the side of the bed and snatches the mask out
of his grabbing hands. She holds the mask to her face now and takes a few deep sharp
breaths. He looks on, drugged and grinning. She throws it to the floor, undoes her coat
and begins to take off all her clothes.
[Curtain]
Satiyesh Manoharaja
151

(b) MONOLOGUES
DR FAUSTUS
FAUST: …no matter what I read,
I seem no nearer to the truth.
Though I have studied since my youth
And read the Bible line by line,
There is no magic there that's mine.
‘Avoid all sin,’ so goes the lie,
‘Be a good boy,’ then you die.
Doctor, nurse, plumber, baker,
All go to one eternal maker.
Where's the point in being nice
When I could indulge all that vice?
This brain can claim rewards much more
Than simple gold; I have in store
A fame for Faust by being eternal,
Not buried in some doctor's journal,
But, risen above this petty age,
Now watch this rising star emerge!
And so I turned to other pages,
Hidden symbols, occult sages.
And soon I learned to raise a wind
And with that storm, I knew I'd sinned.
But I am made for greater things
Beyond the laws of man or kings!
Chris Doveton
JENINE
The following piece is the phonetically rendered monologue of a teenage school dropout
from the West Country.
Wal, Oy drapped owt curze iht jurst weren't moy thing. You naw, collerge an' that. Oy
did arrt at skool, wal, becaurze Oy loyked iht, an' ahl moy mates went orn to collerge, so
Oy thourt, thart looks loyk a larrf, an' Oy loyke drawin' an'awl, an' you can do A-leverrl
in iht. Burt then when they'd gort me therr, they sayrd, 'Oooh, burt don't you think you'd
be better doin' another one ars wal?' So Oy sayrd, 'Burt Oy don't naw whart else ta doo!'
Curze Oy'm nart inta moosic orr englirsh or nothin' loyk thart, an' as forr marths! Oh moy
worrd! Anyways, they sayrd, 'Do Desoygn Technorlogy.
152

Wal, iht warz OK at first, burt then they gave me so much howmework an' stuff, me
an' Cassie decoyded ter gow ter the pub! Any'ow, Oy goht inter trubble in the end, an' Oy
thought, Sod it! Oy'm goin' ter worrk in Marrks en Spencerrs!
Sarah Harvey
STRINE MONOLOGUE
Okay. Could I have everybody's ettention, please? Yes, sir, could yer all just face this
way a menette? Um, yes, that also includes the character at the back. Yes sir, I do mean
you. I would appreciate it if yer could leave the fence alone, please. Yes, it is electrified;
yeah, so that means, don't touch the electric fence. Right, um, g'day, I hope yer had a
good night's sleep. I know that sleep was the last thing on the agenda of John and Lucy.
Looking very flustered at the back there. It's a pity ye don't put that much effort into our
treks, mate.... I'm sorry everyone. I was sidetracked there.
Right, g'day, I'm here to tell yer about taday's trek inta the outback, which myself and
my beautiful wife, Sheila, will be supervising terdie. Basically, for yer people not familiar
with our fair land, we’d like to warn you of some of the dangers: snakes, scorpions,
spiders. Nah some spiders are as large as yer hand. En those of yer with small hands, I’d
like yer ta look at my wife’s hand. Now that’s just the average size of a black widow and
tarantulas are even bigger, so be careful. My bute wife will nah use thet hand to get me a
cold beer, en there she goes. I would hope all the kids would forget they saw thet hand
signal. Heh, heh. She loves me really.
Tim Holmes
PIECE OF AN ACCENT
I think people underestimate the Welsh. I mean, where would we be without Tom Jones?
He's a legend! Oh, and that new girl, Catherine Zita Jones, is doing well for herself, mind.
She was back in Swansea the other week with her new fella, that Yank that's in all them
films. Mind, she was soon back to Hollywood. But it's like the saying goes, ‘You can take
the girl out of Wales, but you can't take Wales out of the girl.’
Hannah Bernstein
BEST MAN
As Best Man, Oy feel it muy responsability te say a few wurds about the deep, dark
and dirty past of muy mate yer, Callum Jones. I've known Callum fr’m un unfortun-ately
long tyme, since we wer young enuff to be runnin' round Porthcawl in our underpants.
From the first day o'school 'e wus forever tryin' t'get rid'o tha' association with bladder
problems. I must now confess, i' was me oo poured orange pop all down 'is trousers that
day. 'E was askin' forit, mind, tellin’ that Lisa 'bout some severe mental disorder I was
153

s'posedly suffrin' from, which led me to talk to lampposts! Bastard! She was nice, she
was. School was an education in many ways - mind yew, not as far as work was
cuncern'd. Neither ov us really did anything apar' from fightin' and smokin' be'ind the
bike sheds. I like to take praise for 'is ability to knock out any bloke with one punch. I
also 'elped in the experience of many personal experiments involvin' cars, women and
drink, usually altogetha, which I have been paid a tidy sum to mention no furtha. It must
be said, mind, 'e's now certan of the diff'rence between a sheep an' a bird!
On that note... I sincerely hope he an' Caroline enjoy a very happy an' energetic life
togetha. I only hope fe' your sake, Cassa, you don't tire easy (I told yew I'd mention it!).
There really is just one thing left te say then: DING DONG, BANG ON, init, boyo?
Alexandra Laws
WHERE'S JOJO?
I'm forty-two years old today. I know how to spell that. F-o-r-t-y slash t-w-o. (Pause)
Isn't it strange the way you say double-u when it actually looks like a double-v?... Well, if
you have curly writing, then it looks like a double-u joined together. (Laughs shyly with
his hand over his mouth.) And if it's really curly, then it looks like something rude.
(Laughs in the same manner again.) (Pause) I did invite two people around today, but
they both couldn't make it. Sarah had to go to the library and Paul had to look after his
grandmother. (Pause) His grandmother's really old. (Pause) I didn't know the libraries
opened so late (Pause.) I suppose I should start the birthday party soon...before it's too
late. I don't want to fall asleep at my own party. (Laughs as before). (Pause) I wish they'd
told me yesterday they weren't coming. I wouldn't have bought so many things. Today's
been very busy. I was rushing around trying to organise everything, making phone calls
all over the place. (Pause) My sister wanted to plan my birthday for me, but I said this
year is my year. I will do everything. If Philly and her husband and her children came
over, then it'd be awkward for them and my friends to get on because she's fifty-six andeight
months, and my friends are still young.... Sarah's twenty-two and seven months and
Paul's twenty-nine and four months. They wouldn't blend very well together. (Pause) I
wish I hadn't said that now.... I don't even have Jojo to talk to. (Pause) Jojo's a great
listener. She doesn't answer back, she isn't rude. Above all, she doesn't talk. She just sits
there, no matter where I put her. Course, she doesn't look so good now - her stitching's
coming loose -, but she's always there when I need her... till tonight.
Zozan Masum
ON THE ROAD TO SUCCESS
Mandy is in her late twenties. She is wearing a long tight glittery dress. Her makeup is
flawless, even though a little overdone. She is in a grotty bed-sit, sitting on a stool.
Well, I can safely say I've made it this time. I always knew my talents wouldn't go to
waste. I went to an audition at Benny's Nightclub - you know, the exclusive one for upand-coming
singers - and I passed. Ooh, I'm so excited! Quite frankly, the other so-called
singers weren't up to scratch. One even had the cheek to accuse the auditioner of being a
sleaze, claiming when she refused him, he rejected her from the backing group.
154

Pause.
Jealous - that's what I say. Backers are amateurs. Steven (that's his name) or Stevie, as I
call him, wouldn't dream of being so uncouth. His room's nicer than mine: got a fourposter
and rugs on the walls. Fancy that! Well, that's what you get when you mix with
high-calibre people.
On my second audition he said, ‘Can you do a bit of Shirley?’ ‘Valentine?’ I said. ‘No,
Bassey.’ ‘Oh Shirls,’ I said, 'off to a tee.' So I did a bit of Goldfinger with some hipshaking
and hair-tossing to boot. I can honestly say I put my heart and soul into that song
and when I finished, there was total silence. It was here I knew I'd made my impact
because Stevie and co-director, Ashley (bit of an odd one, always talking to my chest),
just sat there stunned. Obviously they'd never heard a voice like mine before. After a lot
of conferring and whispering in the front row, Ashley said, ‘Yes, Mandy, very good, but
Stephen wants three backing singers to help the harmony....’
Contemplative pause.
He obviously wants others to credit from my success. I think he can sense I'm going to be
something big because Ashley just sat there with a smile on his face as I did my warm-up
scales - like all the professionals do.
Pause.
He also asked me for my address - obviously coming round to discuss business later.
Fade to black.
Kelly-Ann Davis
MICHELLE
Michelle stands in the hallway, she is holding her jacket as if she has just come in and
taken it off.
I watched her cry. There was nothing I could do to stop her, nothing I could say to ease
her pain. I felt so helpless. Why couldn't I be the one to comfort her and take her away
from all that upset her?
She hangs up her jacket and walks into the living room.
She told me what had happened. He'd come home, grim-faced and grey-toned, and
walked straight past her to the bedroom. She ran after him - I think she's always been
running after him - begging him to tell her what was wrong. God, I hate to think of her
like that, reduced to that state.
She pauses, looking out of the window.
Anyway, evidently he told her it was all over. He'd met someone else, been sleeping with
her for a few weeks. And all the time she thought he loved her. They'd been trying for a
baby - well, she had. I suppose it's just as well she didn't get pregnant. I mean, what
would she do now? She's on her own, alone, no job or money. At least he's let her stay in
the flat. I offered her my spare room, she needs to get away from that place, but she
thinks she should stay - for when he comes back.
Michelle walks into the kitchen. She picks up a knife and starts to stab the breadboard
idly with it, leaning her elbows on the kitchen surface.
Of course, he's not coming back, but she can't see that. She keeps saying that if she'd got
pregnant, he wouldn't have slept with this other woman, he wouldn't have left her. She's
so convinced it's her fault; my heart breaks to hear her defend him. He didn't even go off
with someone glamorous - I suppose that's why she thinks he'll come back. The ‘other
155

woman’, as they say, was the woman from downstairs. I suppose it was just another
challenge....
The idle stabbing becomes more violent and uncontrolled.
How can she stand to see him go in and out of that woman's flat? How can she be so
fucking stupid?
Michelle visibly calms herself down, breathing slowly and deeply. She puts the bread
knife down.
It's not her fault, I suppose. She loves him. I just get so angry at the way he's treated her.
If she was mine, I'd look after her. I'd never hurt her. I just wish she knew how I felt.
She gazes at a photo on the fridge. In it we can clearly see Michelle and another woman.
I wish I could tell her I love her.
Michelle picks up the photo and stares at it, tears in her eyes as the screen fades to black.
Rosemary Braunton
ONE SUNNY DAY
What am I doing here? And why is that bird whistling at me? And that one? And that
one? Leave me alone. Oh God, I need to hide. Somewhere. Anywhere. But from what?
Myself? The outside? All the things that scare me? I wish I knew. Regain my senses.
Yeh, that's it. I wish I could smell the air. The scent of a flower. They're all around me,
but my senses are numb. I don't know why. It worries me. I feel like I'm losing control.
Losing control? I've never lost control before. What's happening to me? I need to hide.
Hide? From what? You can only hide for so long. I must calm down. Breathe. Deeper.
Better. What now?
Josh Summers
ASSESSMENT
INT. A WHITE AND BLUE CELL WITH ONE BED, MINIMAL FURNISHINGS FOR
PERSONAL SAFETY. ON THE BED LIES HELEN, STARING UP AT THE CEILING.
SHE BEGINS TO TALK.
HELEN
Today's the day. I'm so excited. They all say I've been doing very well, really well. The
chance's good for me this time. I'll probably be able to go home. I have to show them I'm
ready to cope with society again, and it's so obvious I am. I mean, look at me now: I'm
happy. Look, I can even smile! You should've seen me before... I was bad. (Sits up on the
bed quickly and leans towards the camera, looks furtively over each shoulder.) I came
here 'cause they said I tried to kill my sister. I didn't. I don't remember any of that time;
they flushed it out of me. Drugs, all sorts of pills. I was forced to take them 'cause they
said I was bad. I didn't mean to be. I tried to be good when I first came here, I kept my
temper for a while, but they trick you into being bad, so they can keep you here and pick
on you more. That's what happened. One of the doctors here's always provoking me. One
day I got too mad and tried to strangle him, I think. I don't remember that either. I just
woke up feeling sore, my hands and arms hurt and it was as though a big chunk of my
thoughts had been lost. They said I was paranoid and have uncontrollable bursts of anger,
156

which made me dangerous. So I have to take these pills to control me. I'm used to them
now, but at first they made me so tired. Mum cried when she first visited me: I didn't
recognise her. My brain was sort of half asleep, and I could feel myself dribbling. I
couldn't stop. Sis never visited. (Looks very sad. Long pause in speech. Helen looks far
away at nothing. Then suddenly happy) It’s not like that now though! I’m really all right
now. I can't wait to go home!
(Footsteps from the corridor.)
Clare Hayhurst
ENDINGS?
The lights come up to reveal a single hospital bed centre-stage. A woman in her midthirties
is lying in it, presumably asleep. The bed, a bedside table and a single vacant
visitor's chair are the only furniture on stage. On the nightstand rests a glass of water, a
closed book, an assorted array of pill bottles and a hairbrush with a disturbing amount of
hair caught in its bristles. As the stage is illuminated, she wakes and begins looking
around blearily. She sits up and studies the clock on her table, then groans in frustration.
WOMAN: What? Six o'clock in the bloody morning for Christ's sake! What on earth are
they doing waking us at this hour? It's bloody torture, that's what it.... (She pauses and
focuses on a point beside her bed. The following angry outburst is presumably addressed
to a hospital worker) No, I don't want a sodding cup of tea! It's the middle of the night.
What do you think? (Pauses and gently shakes her head as though mentally berating
herself.) Sorry, I've never been a morning person. Tea and toast would be lovely, thank
you. (Pause as she lays back down and attempts to go back to sleep) Oh God! Now she's
put the lights on! Okay, I give up. I'm awake. (Looking round) Where did I put my book?
Ah, there it is. (She picks up the book and begins leafing through its pages.) What page
was I up to? Oh forget it, it was a load of slushy rubbish anyway. I'll go and get washed.
People always feel better once they've had a quick wash. My gran used to say that. Let's
hope it works. That last session left me lucky to be able to keep water down. I'm not
exactly feeling my best at the moment. (Looking around her again) Now, where's that
nice one, the one with the short blonde hair, who doesn't make me feel like a twelve-yearold?
(Focuses on a point in space again) There you are! Can you help me to the
bathroom? I want to beat that Mrs. Johnson again...once she gets in there, the rest of us
have to wait for hours. Hurry up! She's awake!
She begins hobbling towards stage right, but stops half way, seized by a sudden coughing
fit. She doubles up in pain, clutching her stomach, but gestures to the invisible nurse to
leave her alone.
Don't fuss (gasping). I'm fine. (After several seconds, she has ceased coughing and stands
upright again. She looks towards stage right.) Oh bugger! That bloody woman's done it
again! She's worse than a German with a beach towel, that one. (Slowly makes her way
back to her bed and gets in)
Tracey Lebow
157

ALONE AGAIN
Afsana is in her late twenties. She stands by the bed of John, her husband, who has been
in a serious accident and has no chance of recovery. There are also three hospital staff
in the room, watching Afsana and waiting, rather impatiently, for her to give permission
to switch off the life-support machine.
I never wanted anyone else. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was going to be the one to
save me. I overcame my drug addiction because of him. I began to depend on him more
and more, and he never let me down ever... till now. When my family disowned me, he
was there, always the strong one. He believed in me, he gave me the confidence I'd
always lacked. I remember we could just lie for hours, not saying anything, wrapped in
our own thoughts, content just to be in each other's company. (There is no sound while
tears fall silently from Afsana's eyes.) There's no future for me anymore. Yet again I'm
alone in the world; he's the only person I've ever loved? Why did I have to be left behind?
Why was it not me? How am I supposed to carry on alone? You BASTARD, how could
you leave me? (She breaks down for several minutes, then runs out screaming.) Just flick
the bloody switch!
Caroline Lee
DON'T YOU DARE
Don't you judge me. Don't you dare fucking judge me. I see you in your cosy little home,
your cosy little world. As long as the car's washed and the lawn mown, you're happy. Just
because you've satellite fucking television, you see yourself fit to pass judgement on other
people. You've just no idea, man. I needed the money. It's not like I wanted to take the
money, I needed it. Have you any idea what it's like to be hooked on smack? Have you?
No, I doubt it very much. You get worried if you drink too much at Christmas. Things
like the pure orgasmic quality of heroin simply zoom way over your head, man. And don't
start preaching the ‘why-didn't-you-give-it-up?’ bullshit cos you've no idea, man. No
idea. I tried once - before I was forced to, before I was here, here doing a stretch. It's like
your very insides are being torn from you. If you've a chance to avoid such shite as that,
you do so. You would. You'd stay on smack. Anyway, I wouldn't be in here, would I? Not
if that stupid wanker had just done what I'd told him to. I gave him crystal-fucking-clear
instructions, man. Crystal fucking clear. All he had to do was follow them. A chimp
could've done it. A chimp, man. But no, he had to try and be a hero, didn't he? I mean,
really, what was his game, huh? It wasn't even his money. I'm sure ESSO can afford to
lose £157 pounds. Yeah, I'm sure they can. They probably piss that away everyday on
paperclips. But I know what you're thinking. Yeah. I know. Why did I have to cut the
guy? OK, so I panicked. I shouldn't have done what I did, I admit that. See, I'm not evil,
I'm holding my hands up and saying I'm sorry. But the kid shouldn't have come at me
with that fucking bat. What the fuck was he thinking? I mean, for God's sake. If he'd have
just followed my instructions, everything would have been cool, man. I would have
walked away with the money and he'd have probably got a couple of days’ sickie for
emotional trauma or some other airy-fairy shite. Everything would've been cool. Anyway,
it's not like the guy died. It might even teach him a lesson in life. He might not mess with
hard bastards like me in future. So here I am stuck in a shoebox for twenty-three hours a
day, but I'll be out soon. They like to think they can break me in here, but I'm stronger
158

than that. I'll be out soon, man. And when I'm out and you see me, don't you dare judge
me. Don't you dare. You may have more money, you may have a car and lovely little
ornaments on the mantelpiece, you may have a mobile phone with twenty differentsounding
rings, but you're not a better person. No way, man. No fucking way.
Nicholas Gant
BELLS WERE RINGING
Are you sick? If you spit in the wind, it will fly back in your face. You know that, don't
you? Oi...are you listening to a word I'm saying, you manipulative cow. I told you this
will come back onto you in the future! If you said it, you better admit it because if you
don't, you know the consequences of lies. No matter how hard you try you can never
have what I have...it'll never happen. You'll never get him. How could you say this to me
on this day? He didn't...didn't spend last night with you...you conniving piece of.... I hate
you and what you stand for. How could you do this, how could you? My sister tells me
everything.... How could you...and on my wedding day?
Siboniso Nkatazo
ONE LAST JOB
Delaney? It's Parker.... Yeah, I'm good.... That's why I'm calling. I need a favour.... Look,
you know I always see you alright.... Last time was just a hiccup.... Christ, Delaney....
Okay, so the girl had nothing to do with it, but what the hell do you want me to do?
Magic her bloody leg back?... Don't blame me, you pulled the trigger.... I don't want to
hear all that crap, Delaney.... Accidents happen, but as long as the job gets done and you
get paid, who gives a fuck about consequences?... You're not paid to care.... Are you
going soft or something?... I'm sorry and all that, but life goes on.... Heartless? Whether I
am or not isn't the question here.... I need you to do one last job.... My wife and her
lover.... I'm deadly serious.... You'll be paid top dollar.... His name's Mike Storey.... I'm
aware of that, Delaney. That's why I'm prepared to offer you £500,000.... Each .... Look,
anything's possible.... I need to know, yes or no?... Storey's screwing my wife for fuck
sake! I'm offering you £1 million for one last job: to dispose of that lying bitch and that
crooked bastard. Will you do it?... They plan to run off together within the next 72 hours,
Delaney. A job needs doing, so I need an answer. Remember, £1 million. Good.... Yes,
this'll be the last time.... I'll meet you at the club tonight.... Half tonight, half on
completion.... One last thing, no fuck-ups....
Mark Pendergast
159

ALWITE
Half of a mock-telephone-conversation, written phonetically to be read in the accent of
those from the Medway Towns, which is similar to Estuary English.
Alwite Stig, 'ow's u doin'?... I'm alwite, just wochin a bi' a tele.... O, i cudden 'andle subs
tooni'.... I 'aven' go' any munny, 'av i?... No, i fink u'd luv i'.... Oh, alwite, yeah i'd luv i'
too, but that dussen mean i can go.... I 'aven' go' any munny.... No, i cudden owe u
munny.... I owe u shi'loads awreddy.... Yeah, i'll ask 'er, bu' i nah wot she's gonna say....
Yadda yadda yadda; i've sed i'll ask; stop goin on.... Oh, i see i'm jus invi'ed so you av
somwun ter go wiv, so u cun see steve there.... Yeah, i' is loike tha'.... Yeah, i' is, i know
ur sor'.... Yeah, yeah - yadda, yadda, yadda....Yeah, i nah it'll be fun....We'll see alwite?
Fank you.... Look, 0mi, i can' tawk abaa it enimaw.... I'll phone ya layta. (Replaces
receiver.)
Kathryn Daniels
CALLING THE SAMARITANS
Hello? (Trembling voice).... Err, hi. Err, oh yes, I'm Yvonne. (Pause). Oh my God, I don't
know where to start. Do I just talk, you know, tell you what's wrong, and you listen?..
Well, yes, that's what I thought. (Pause) Shall I start now?... Right, well, my life's a
mess, a complete mess.... No, really, you don't understand: I, I, I, I can't see a reason for
living. Things are so bad.... No, I'm not being melodramatic. I've got serious problems - I
mean, why else would I phone a helpline? Never in my life have I resorted to this. Never.
I’ve always sorted out everything myself.... Yes, yes, I know that isn't always possible. I
think that's one of my problems - I try to do too much - people take me for granted.... Yes,
I'm sure they do too. Oh, you will help me, won't you?... The problem? Oh, yes, of
course, the problem! I'd almost forgotten - I was so busy talking! Yes, problem. Oh my
God, it's terrible, awful, horrific.... No, really. Just a week ago I thought everything was
working perfectly, and now.... Well, that's just what I asked myself, but I don't really
know what went wrong .... A vague idea? Oh yes, I can give you the facts.... Yes, (pause)
well, as I was saying, what it was (pause), what it was...oh, it's difficult for me to talk
about this. I'm not sure I can.... No, no I don't want to call back later.... OK, yes, OK, I'm
sorry - but I expect you get lots of people like me phoning up, don't you? (Pause) Well,
I'm sure you do. What it is - the problem, that is - is that my husband's run away with my
father, oh, oh.... No, he didn't take my phone with him.... What? Yes, my phone's broken,
but that's a separate issue. No, I wouldn't want to contact him. Why are you asking me all
of these questions?... But I've told you what's wrong!... What do you mean? It has nothing
whatsoever to do with a phone. Really, you're making me feel worse, not better - I
thought you were supposed to help.... What do you mean, you can't? I thought the
Samaritans listened to all kinds of problems; I was lead to understand that.... What? The
Vodafone Customer Services Helpline? Is it really? Why didn't you say so?... You
thought I was talking about phones - oh, oh, I see, I must've got the numbers mixed up - I
was going to phone them next, you see. Oh, well, while you're here, about that phone....
Ann Bradbury
160

A GIRL'S FAVOURITE PASTIME
The telephone rings. A young girl of sixteen answers.
Hallo.... (Excitedly) Oh hi! Ow'r fings?... Yeah, I'm aright, bit bored tho'. What ya been
up to?... Don't talk to me 'bout work. I got loads t'do and I really ain’t bothered.... Oh
really! You got that much.... What me? Well, I got sum courseworks t'do and this exam to
revise for.... Oh that reminds me: I gotta go to the library and get sum books, but they're
all shut on Wensdays, arn’t they?... Umm, remind.... Yeah, o' cores I saw Eastenders.
D'ya see Frank and Peggy gettin married?...Yeah, she looked well nice in her weddin'
dress....Yeah.... Yeah.... I know; that Gianni's gorgjus. (She laughs, then pauses for a
moment.).... (Thoughtfully) Yeah ... yeah....(more confident) oh yeah, I knew 'im, ee's that
bloke in me maths class. What about 'im?... You're not!... (High-pitched) Really!... What,
ya goin out with ‘im?... (She screams with delight down the phone) Oh, that's brill, babe.
(In a gossipy tone) Oh, gess what I fand out from Julie?… Well, listen to this. I was well
shocked when I fand out.... OK, shush and I'll tell ya. Well, y'know Angela and Mike,
they broke up the othur day.... Oh really...(shocked) really!... You're joking!... All I hurd
was that they 'ad a big bust up. Julie nevur said nafink 'bout Mike liking some othur
girl.... Why, who told ya 'bout that then?... Well, Sam told Julie - y'know Sam, don't ya?...
Then Julie rang me on me mobile and told me. That s how I fand out.... What? Yeah ...
Alright then, I'll ask Julie again. She might know somink else by naw.... What Julie?...
She's the bloody queen of gossip: she knows loads 'bout other people.... Alright, I promise
I'll speak to 'er 'bout it.... Yeah, she' a nice girl and stuff - don't get me wrong or nafink -
but she's always pokin' round in uther people's business.... I know what you mean....
Yeah.... It's like she's got nafink else to worry 'bout.... I remember when she did that....
She looked well stupid.... I know that bloke din’t even like her. (She laughs. A female
voice in the distance shouts 'Sarahhh' ) Oh, me mum's shouting, she's well loud.... What,
you hurd 'er too? (She laughs) Anyway, I betta go.... I promise I'll fone ya after I chat
with Julie.... (Excitedly) Oh, it's on naw. What channul?... OK, fanks, I'll watch the film,
then I'll do me work.... Take care, babe.... You too, bye...
Androulla Savva
FRIENDSHIPS
1830.... Speaking.... Sorry who? Rachel. Excuse me, I don't know a Rachel.... No, I don't
.... (Pause) Rachel from Queen Elizabeth's Girls' School.… Ah right, hello Rachel, how
are you? What?... What are you going on about?... I haven't said anything about you....
No, I think you've got it wrong. I haven't seen Lorna or Nicki for weeks.... I'm not lying to
you. (Phone cuts off. Sarah doesn't understand what's going on. The phone rings loudly.)
Hello.... Now Rachel, listen to me, whatever you've heard is rubbish... I haven't spoken
about you.... They're lying... Look, don't shout at me. I haven't done anything.... Calm
down for a minute. I promise you I haven't said a word, you're a friend and I'm not going
to say anything bad about you.... I know what the others are saying, but please believe
me.... Rachel, just forget it. If you're not prepared to listen to me, then I cannot be
bothered to explain.... No, I haven't said anything.... Oh, so you believe Lorna and Nicki,
well more fool you.... I realise they're your best friends, but I'm not going to bitch about
you, we've known each other too long for something to come between us.... It's up to you.
I really don't care.... Fine, speak to the others and sort it out.... No, I'm not ignoring the
161

issue, but there's nothing I can say to make you to realise it's not me.... I understand all
right, but the information they're feeding you with - wait, let me finish - is wrong.... I
appreciate you're annoyed and distressed, but don't accuse me.... I haven't got the time to
talk now, so I'll speak to you soon.... No I'm not avoiding the issue, but it's eleven o'clock
at night.... Why do you believe them anyway?… So what: they're your friends, but so am
I.... Look I've got to go, I'll speak to you soon.... Bye
.
Joanne Moruzzi
162

(c) DUOLOGUES, TRILOGUES
DIALOGUE FOR TWO OPPOSING VOICES
JESUS: Oh, no, not you.
DEVIL: That's not nice. Coming from you.
JESUS: All right. Hello, how are you?
DEVIL: Cut the crap, you know what I'm after.
JESUS: What have you got to offer? I already have everlasting fame and immortality.
DEVIL: Everlasting immortality! That's a bit tautological, isn't it? No, I know I can't
tempt you as easily as that. I thought we might come to some kind of um... understanding
after all these years of polarisation.
JESUS: I'm not interested. You must understand I find evil ultimately... boring. That's all
I have to say.
DEVIL: Don't you get sick of being so... good all the time?
JESUS: Being good is doing good.
DEVIL: All right then. Don't you get sick of doing good all the time for Hell's sake!
Come on, we could have some fun, you and me.
JESUS: Doing good is fun for me. It's my very nature. I was born to love and doing good
makes me feel good and that makes me happy.
DEVIL: How very dull. What about sex?
JESUS: I'd rather have a cup of water. Now please leave. Haven't you got havoc to wreak
somewhere?
DEVIL: Don't tempt me. Yes, well, I'd better get on, I suppose. The devil's work is never
done: there's a war in the Balkans to attend to and I'd hate an early settlement after all this
build up. You know, I was thinking, Jesus, you and me are quite similar in a way. We
never take sides, do we?
JESUS: As Stevie Wonder sang: 'There's good and bad in everyone....'
DEVIL: I prefer Cliff Richards myself.
JESUS: If you say so. Now excuse me, I must pray.
Chris Doveton
163

WHAT ABOUT THE MASH?
SCENE 1
Brothers Rhys and Dewi are sitting underneath a tree in their garden on a farm in rural
Wales. Rhys is 18, two years older than Dewi, and has a bigger build than his brother.
Both have thick Welsh accents.
DEWI: Hey, Rhys boy, 'ave you ever thought about gettin' away from all of this?
RHYS: What d'you mean, Dew? Gettin' away from what?
DEWI: Oh, you know. Life by 'ere, on the farm like, countryside, just everything.
RHYS: Not really, Dew. This is our life, our dad's life, our granddad's life. It's our…
what d'you call it? (pause) um, 'eritage, that's it. And I mean, if you're not goin' to work
on the farm, where are you goin' to?
DEWI: (sighs loudly) Oh, I dunno, mun. Maybe something to do with sport, I s’pose.
(Sighs again) I dunno, right!
RHYS: Now don't you start gettin' mad with me. I was only asking. (Long pause)
Anyway, where's all this come from, Dewi? What's got you thinkin' about all this now
then?
DEWI: I get my G.C.S.E results next week and I might go back to school to do some A
levels, instead of coming to work on the farm and.…
Rhys butts straight in.
RHYS: Going back to school? (He cannot believe it.) Mam and dad were countin’ on
you to be here on the farm with me. They're countin’ on you to be here and help.
DEWI: I know, I know, Rhys. (Long pause. Rhys sees Dewi is genuinely upset about
everything.) I really don't want to hurt mam and dad, Rhys. Really, I don't, but (pause) I
think I could really make a go of it at school. I know I could. Trouble is Dad's not going
to understand, he's never going to speak to me, ever again!
RHYS: Come on, Dew, he won't be that bad. You're his son and he loves you. You've
been gettin' away with murder ever since you were small because you were the youngest,
and this time it'll just be...well (pause) different, and we'll all have to deal with it the way
we deal with everything.
(Dewi butts in.)
DEWI: What - you mean, not talking about it and hoping it'll go away?
RHYS: For Christ's sake, Dewi, I'm only trying to help and you're just throwin' it all back
in my face.
DEWI: (Sorry) Look, Rhys, you know I didn't mean that. It's that I, well (pause) I don't
know what to do.
RHYS: There's only one thing you can do and that's go inside now and tell them. (He
stands up and reaches down to Dewi to pull him up. Dewi takes his hand and pulls
himself up.) Come on, Dew, you can do this.
(They walk off towards the house with Rhys' arm round Dewi's shoulders.)
Alix White
TWO SEAMEN
FIRST: Once you're out, there's no return.
SECOND: But where do we go?
FIRST: It depends.
164

SECOND: It depends on what?
FIRST: It depends on where we’re being launched - and the possibilities are endless.
SECOND: Where do you think we'll end up?
FIRST: Impossible to say. There are, however, two destinations that most of us will go
to.
SECOND: Well, where are they?
FIRST: The most common of these two destinations is known as the "Kleenex" tissue.
SECOND: What will happen to us there?
FIRST: The "Kleenex" tissue is a barren place, devoid of water or life. We'll dry up and
die.
SECOND: What's the other destination like?
FIRST: Ah. This is a place of mystery. Only the chosen ones may enter there.
SECOND: Where is it?
FIRST: I cannot say. It's shrouded in mystery, but I have heard rumours that once inside
there are treasures beyond your wildest dreams!
SECOND: Do you think we have a chance of entering this divine place?
FIRST: Many have died trying. I suppose we've just as much chance as anyone else.
SECOND: I think it's time to launch!
FIRST: You're right! Hold on and remember we're all in the same boat. If we don't make
it, at least we can say we died trying.
SECOND: Good luck!
BOY'S VOICE: UGHHHHH!
GIRL'S VOICE: It's gone all over the curtains. You can wipe it off this time.
Alan Ismail
ONE-WAY CONVERSATION
Anna's flat. She is sitting at her desk working. There are piles of books and screwed-up
balls of paper, scattered all over the desk.
SCENE I: Paul enters, his face flushed from walking. He's happy and carries a duffel
bag. Anna's not surprised to see him and shows no emotion.
PAUL: Hi, babe! You all right? I've had the most mental day; traffic was murder. (He
dumps his bag on floor, removes his jacket and throws it across the bed.) You all right
then, babe? (He kisses the top of her head.)
ANNA: Yeah I'm fine.
PAUL: So, what are you up to?
ANNA: Just finishing this work. I'm so stressed out. It's taking so long. I thought I'd get it
out of the way before you came. I'll be finished soon, sweetheart (She looks at him and
smiles cutely.)
PAUL: Cool. I'm just going to phone Chris.
ANNA: (in a disappointed tone) Okay.
PAUL: Is that all right?
ANNA: Yeah, that's fine. (She is upset. Her coldness shows this.)
PAUL: Shit! My mobile's out of battery! I'm borrowing your one. Okay? You won't need
it now, will you?
ANNA: No. (Sarcastic) Who's going to call me?
165

PAUIL: You all right?
ANNA: Yes. Use it.
PAUIL: (He dials phone. Pause. Talking to Chris.) What's up, Nutter? (Pause) Yeah,
yeah! I'm in Uxbridge. (Loudly) At Anna's place. (Pause) Wicked! I've got the Rizla; you
got the drugs? (He laughs out aloud. Anna's concentration is shattered. Her face becomes
perplexed and confused.)
PAUL: I'm going to roll up a spliff and we'll be over in twenty minutes. All right! Nice
one. See you later. Bye. (He switches the phone off and turns to Anna) Just putting the TV
on. (The volume is very loud.)
ANNA: (finally shows anger). Paul! It's too bloody loud! I'm trying to finish my work!
PAUL: Where's the bloody remote? (He fumbles round, looks under bed, on the floor and
ruffles all the papers on her desk, confusing everything).
ANNA: Paul! I'll look! Just sit down and keep out of the way! (She finds it under the
pillow) Here! (She goes back to her seat at the desk).
PAUL: (excited) Fucking Hell! Did you see that? What a dram-machine! Did you see that
go? One hundred and sixty miles top speed. Ninety miles in under eight seconds. (He
turns to Anna.) Pass me the board so I can roll up a joint, Babe, or give me the desk.
ANNA: (distressed voice) Paul, please, I need to finish this work. I'll be with you in a
little while, okay. I'm working; I can't give you the fucking desk.
PAUL: I tell you what. I've got to go to Matt's flat to pick up the weed and when you
finish your work, phone me.
ANNA: (upset) Paul, you've only just arrived. Don't you want to relax for a second ...
please? I want to spend some time with you, babe.
PAUL: Yeah, but you have got a lot of work to do. There's no point me waiting around
until you finish. If I go, you can concentrate and then call me when you're done. All
right?
ANNA: Okay, I'll finish it later. I want to be with you now. Please, don't make me beg,
Paul. I've been working all day, waiting for you.
PAUL: All right then. Hurry up. I'm going to roll this joint at Matt's place. I'm going to
the toilet. Hurry up, Sexy! (He smiles suggestively at her).
(Paul leaves the room. Anna waits for the sound of the toilet door locking. When it does,
Anna picks up phone and dials.)
ANNA: (Pause) Hi, Andri. It's me, Anna. Don't know where you are, but I just needed to
talk to you. I'm so pissed off. He's done it again. Two weeks I haven't seen him. Two
weeks! And what does he do? Comes in. Phones Chris. Says 'hello' for two seconds. Now,
he thinks I'm going to follow his sorry arse to watch him get stoned out of his head. I'm so
hurt, Andri. I hate him. He just doesn't see what he's doing wrong. Anyway, I got to go.
Love you, babes. Hope you're cool. (Quickly puts the phone down)
Neisha Kausmally
ETERNITY WITH A DASH OF SEA BREEZE
Sarah sits on a chair in her secure cell. It is 10:32. Enter Dr Joseph with a clipboard and
her file. Sarah's eyes light up at her new visitor, a sinister glint beneath the smile.
DOCTOR: Miss Butterfly? Miss Sarah Butterfly?
SARAH: Hello doctor, overworked and tired doctor.
DOCTOR: Good morning, Sarah. What makes you think I am overworked and tired?
166

SARAH: You are a doctor, are you not? (He nods curiously.) Then you are overworked.
The bags under your eyes tell me you are tired and you have been too busy to keep the
10:30 appointment I was told to attend.
DOCTOR: But it's only 10:32. I had to wait for clearance at the gate.
SARAH: Ah, but from my knowledge of this prison - believe me, I have been here long
enough - the clearance at the gate takes 20.5 seconds approximately.
DOCTOR: (looking a little phased at her accuracy]: If you say so. Anyway, enough of
this idle chitchat ... (he thinks) I'm sorry for being late. (Sarah smiles deviously.) I have
reason to believe you may be able to help us solve a crime, not unlike your own.
SARAH: Before we start, you know my first name, I don't know yours. Not good
psychology if you try to dominate your subject by not giving them your name, now is it?
DOCTOR: Dr Joseph.
SARAH: First name, please.
DOCTOR: Marion.
SARAH (Thinks for a while, a smile, then wicked laughter) Marion Joseph! )(Laughs
again, then stops suddenly.) But, seriously, continue.
DOCTOR: As I said, we believe you can help us solve a crime, not unlike your own....
SARAH: Did she tear his face off with her nails and disappear with it, perhaps keeping it
as a memento of her conquest?
DOCTOR: Not exactly, she used a rusty razor blade instead.
SARAH: Then it's not a bit like my crime. Mine was more pleasurable as I did not need a
weapon to cause such… (contentedly) damage.
DOCTOR: (seeming a little repulsed) Yes, thank you!
SARAH: Where was it done? I hope in the house they shared, a sort of sacrilege, if you
like.
DOCTOR: Yes it was, just like yours. No signs of an argument, his dinner was on the
table, no ironing in the basket (she closes her eyes, dreamily imagining every detail),
washing on the line, everything in the house polished to perfection.
SARAH: (has grown greatly contented.) Music to my ears!
DOCTOR: I thought as much. Wonderful thing being an obsessive compulsive, isn't it?
SARAH: Oh... (with deliberate innocence) and what is one of those then?
DOCTOR: You had many friends in your coffee club. Did you ever talk about how to
revenge an improper spouse?
SARAH: Marion... (thinks) that's a girl's name, isn't it?
DOCTOR: Yes... well, my mother chose it. She liked the name so much she said she'd
have it for a boy or a girl.
SARAH: Must feel bad to know your mother wanted a girl, but she could only manage a
boy. Such a shame for her! (Dr Joseph starts to look at her file, finds what he wants and
smiles.) You feel you have failed her and so you became a psychologist to discover some
meaning in your life by secretly laughing at other's problems.
DOCTOR: You were a psychologist for a while, weren't you?
SARAH: (her eyes stare into his and she looks down.) Yes.
DOCTOR: Do you have any theory as to why a house-proud woman would do such a
thing? After all you did it!
SARAH: I enjoyed my coffee mornings: (looks around like a little girl) we could chat
about men!
DOCTOR: Really? What did you say?
(Sarah looks around again and leans forward as if to whisper to him; he plays along with
this game to humour her and he leans forward.)
SARAH: (shouts in his ear) That they were all pigs! (She giggles to herself.) Every one of
them wanted the same thing. I never gave it away, you know.
167

DOCTOR: Really? But how do you know so much about men and their habits, if you
never got that close to them?
SARAH: I know what your scent is now! It's Eternity after-shave balm with a dash of Sea
Breeze shower gel.
DOCTOR: How do you know?
SARAH: The shaving nick on your top lip means you will have had to use a balm;
Eternity is the scent and the Sea Breeze's faint in the air.
DOCTOR: (writing on the clipboard.) Very good. No prize though. We can make it
worth your while, if you help us.
SARAH: I'm sure you can, but do I want one of your little rewards?
DOCTOR: I can get you a day trip out of this psychiatric ward.
SARAH: Where to, the loony bin?
DOCTOR: No. (He thinks) The Ideal Home Exhibition.
SARAH: (her eyes light up.) That would be wonderful!
DOCTOR: Just tell us if you know who might have done it. Your coffee mornings used to
end up as revenge plotting sessions for all of the wrongs you've been dealt by men. Your
friends became frenzied with your lust for revenge and now a murder in your style has
been committed exactly ten years after you went down.
SARAH: I'm so flattered.
DOCTOR: Who was it and why did she do it?
SARAH: Now, now, that's not the way to go about asking me, is it? Gently does it and I
might help.
DOCTOR: (looking at his watch) Oh, look at the time. We've got far today, I think. I'll
come back tomorrow and continue our little chat. Don't go away now! Goodbye, Sarah.
(He gets up and starts to walk from the window of the cell.)
SARAH: (desperately, at the window.) Psycho Sarah. That's what everyone calls me in
here.
DOCTOR: Bye, Sarah.
SARAH: (calling out) Why do women do it, you ask. I did it because he left his dirty
shoes on my freshly Hoovered carpet. How about my visit?
DOCTOR: (leaving the door.) OK, I'll enquire about the trip. (He leaves.)
SARAH: (sitting down on her chair. A devilish grin creeps across her face.) Good thing,
this...care in the community (turning to imaginary person sitting next to her). Social
comment, that.
Matthew Hogg
TRILOGUES
THE REVELATION.
Three women, who are old friends and haven't seen one another for a while, have
decided to meet up. The three of them are all sitting round a table in a small chic cafe.
Amber and Dana are both in their mid-twenties and are successful businesswomen. Ariel,
who is just 19, is a happy-go-lucky type of girl. We join them in mid- conversation
ARIEL: So has either of you two found yourself a fella yet?
168

DANA: Well, I have and it's great!
AMBER: Me too. He is the sweetest man alive!
DANA: What about you, Ariel? Anyone you'd like to tell us about?
ARIEL: Yes, I have met someone, quite recently. We met in Flash Harry's - you heard of
it?
DANA and ARIEL: Eh, that's where I met my man.
(Both look at one another in astonishment and then start to laugh)
ARIEL: Wow, that's really freaky.
DANA: Yeah, I know.
ARIEL: So anyway, what do your fellas look like?
DANA: I'll go first. Mine is about 6ft tall with the most piecing blue eyes you've ever
seen and dark brown floppy hair. He's also got a cheeky, but adorable smile. Oh yeah and
he's incredibly sexy. (Laughs.)
AMBER: That's weird; he sounds like my friend.
ARIEL: Yeah, and like my fella as well.
DANA: What's your boyfriend's name, Ariel?
ARIEL: Jay.
DANA and AMBER: (Both exclaim together) That's my boyfriend's name too!
(All three women look at each other in shock)
ARIEL: Hold on a minute. I think I have a photo of my fella in my bag.
(Rummages around in her bag and pulls out a crumpled photograph. The other women
both study it)
AMBER and DANA: That is my boyfriend!
ARIEL: I'll kill that three-timing bastard!
Jasvir Janda
CLASS 'A'
Three boys are sitting together in one of their university campus rooms. Balls and rings
of cigarette smoke are swirling through the dim light, which is shining upon the table
onto the cluster of playing cards, illuminating the Queen of Hearts, which Alam has just
spun onto the table. For a few moments there is silence, only the impatient licking of the
clock can be heard. They have been playing cards for many hours and it is coming to the
end of the night.
ALAM: Pass the matches, please. No, not the spliff, the matches.
JOHNY: (Walking around oblivious to the card game, he has a perplexed look in his
eyes) Where's the charger, Mike?
MIKE: (He yawns and stares at the Queen of Hearts on the table.) Look under the bed.
JOHNY: Why would the charger be under the bed?
ALAM: Go on, Johny, get on with the game.
(Mike burps loudly, his eyes still fixated on the cards.)
JOHNY: Mike, stop burping!
ALAM: Pass some of that Doctor Pepper.... Cheers, matey!
MIKE: Oh shut up, Johny.
ALAM: Go on, get on with the game!
MIKE: (looks away from the playing cards for the first time) I didn’t realise I had a spliff
in my hand.
169

ALAM: How could you forget you had a big fat zoot? The spliff’s calling out to you,
‘Mikey, Mikey, smoke me!’
MIKE: My ears are goin’ numb.
ALAM: Come on, Mike, it's your go. This is bollocks, man, I haven't had a good card.
JOHNY: (Resumes his position on the small table and looks at the cards.) Hurry up!
(The base line of a song is gently beating in the background. It has been on automatic
repeat more than five times.)
ALAM: Right! OK! Change this tune then.
MIKE & JOHNY: No!
ALAM: Put something mellow on, that Motown shit. Oh, you wanker!
JOHNY: (He skips through the song on the CD.) This song first. What's this?
ALAM: (Singing.) I don't know, oh ooohh...
JOHNY: You can't lose with two Jokers, can you?
ALAM: Go on Johny, deal!
(There is a long pause)
JOHNY: Na, fuck it. I'm gonna get relaxed and do what I'm gonna do.
ALAM: Have you got the ashtray, Mr Funny Man?
JOHNY: (Oblivious again) What's that word?
MIKE: I can't find my lighter!
JOHNY: Have you seen Mary Poppins? What's that word?
ALAM: What are you on, mate?
MIKE: Where's my fucking lighter?
ALAM: I'm gonna go have a shower, you lot can watch TV until half two, then you can
fuck off.
MIKE: Wicked, man.
JOHNY: (Puts on jacket that is too small for him and laughs.)
MIKE: Ha, ha! Look at him, Alam! Johny, your charger's up there, man. What the
fuck was it doing up there?
JOHNY: Oh yeah! Oi, what's that word?
MIKE: Supercalafragelisticexpialledotious?
JOHNY: (In a tone of satisfaction.) Right.
(They sit in silence for a while. Mike breaths hard on his cigarette, the orange ash
glowing in the dim light of the room before turning grey and falling on the carpet.)
MIKE: I'm knackered, man, I'm goin’ t’bed.
JOHNY: See ya, mate!
MIKE: Tomorrow. Yeah?
JOHNY: Yeah.
Christy Lefteri
170

2. RADIO PLAYS
INTERCOURSE
1 You see it all revolves around sex.
2 But not in the sense Freud thought.
Freud never understood sex.
1 Hardly anybody understands sex, in fact, except a few poets here and there.
Any scientist who starts to get an inkling keeps his mouth shut because he
knows he’d be drummed out of the profession if he said what he knew.
4 Here, I'll help you unhook that.
1 What they're feeling now is supposed to be tension, and what they feel after
orgasm is supposed to be relaxation.
3 Just hold it like that a moment. Yes, stay there in my arms.
No, don't touch!
2 Tension?
1 Yes, that's what I mean. How can this be tension?
2 It's not a worry or an anxiety or anything else that we like to call tension.
1 It's a strain, but not tension.
2 It's a drive to break out.
1 And tension is a drive to hold in.
2 Those are polarities.
4 Oh, stop for a minute. Let me do this. You like that?
3 Oh, darling, yes, darling, I like it too. It makes me happy to
make you happy.
1 You see. They're trying to break through their skins into each other.
2 Trying to break the walls.
1 Yes, yes, break the walls.
3 Let me kiss them again. So big and round. Your lovely
belly. Mmmm. Lord, you never came so fast before. I
love to watch you doing that. I love to see it go into your
mouth. Do you love him? Yea, you do love him the
way we love each other. I’m inside you.
4 You’re inside me.
3 We’re inside each other.
2 The walls are down.
1 That’s what I’ve been trying to say.
3 That’s me you feel.
4 That’s me you feel.
3 Deeper… there!
2 It’s the fields, not the physical act.
1 That’s what people are afraid of. They’re afraid of letting down the walls. That’s
why they’re so tense.
2 They’re afraid of letting the fields merge.
1 It’s a unifying of forces.
2 That’s why it’s so fast for most people.
1 They rush.
2 Complete the physical act before the fields are charged.
1 They never experience the fields.
171

2 The unifying, the coming together.
1 They've taken it out of sex.
2 That's why we have fantasies.
1 And the promiscuity.
2 It's a search.
Fuck and be fucked.
1 Chose the one you screw and get screwed by your self.
Thus fantasies came.
2 Blacks, homosexuality, our parents, our brothers, people we hate,
neighbours, teachers, Saint Bernard’s, everything.
1 It's not neuroses or perversion.
2 It's a search.
1 A desperate search.
2 Everybody wants sex with the enemy. Hate mobilizes the field easier than
love.
1 And hate is safer.
2 Safer than love.
1 That's too dangerous.
3 Lord, Lord, I love you.
4 I love you.
3 Let me have more. Get the weight on my elbows, hold
yourself with my hands. Yes, mmm, oh yes. There.
2 White against black.
1 Men against women.
2 All down the line.
1 Keep us apart.
2 Don’t let us merge.
1 Make sex a dirty joke.
3 A few more minutes. A few more.
2 The whole of society is set up to prevent this, to destroy love.
3 Oh, I love you.
1 Love you.
3 Worship you.
1 Adore you.
2 They don’t want us to. Unify.
1 The Forces
4 Love me.
Edward Simpson
BACKWARD LOVE
NARRATOR: We now join the scene as Essex man, Patrick, is desperately trying to
convince Alice that his upcoming appearance on the Jerry Springer Show as a transvestite
is a good idea.
PATRICK: You have to give me a chance with this! This could be what I need to feel
confident about who I am and what I feel.
ALICE: What? You're my boyfriend! Why the hell would you want to dress up like a tart
and appear on a T.V show with an international audience?
172

PATRICK: I want you to give me support, as someone who loves me.
ALICE: Support! You're a man, not a drag queen!
PATRICK: You're obviously having problems coming to terms with the situation. My life
as a man is now over; I am Patricia, queen of the night.
ALICE: Queen is right.
PATRICK: I beg your pardon?
ALICE: You're a man!
PATRICK: I'm getting tired of this.
ALICE: Then face facts.
PATRICK: Talk to the hand because the face ain't listening!
ALICE: Oh brother!
PATRICK: I'd prefer, 'Oh sister'.
ALICE: Oh, stick it up your arse!
PATRICK: And what do you mean by that? Anyway, I can rise above you, I can be
bigger as a woman than I ever was as man.
ALICE: That shouldn't be too hard - or soft - as the case may be.
PATRICK: If you're going to be of no help at all, I'll just have to do it without you. I'll be
the best guest Jerry ever had, I'll be glorious!
FX: GRADUAL BUILD-UP OF INSPIRATIONAL MUSIC AND DOORBELL RING IN
THE BACKGROUND.
PATRICK: (continues) My make-up will be perfect, my heels will be high, I'll be on
cloud nine!
ALICE: Sorry to interrupt (music stops) but this registered letter just came for you.
Looks like it's from the States.
PATRICK: Yes! This is it! Give us it.
ALICE: What does it say?
PATRICK: Er, noth...nothing.
ALICE: Come on, tell me!
PATRICK: They don't want me on the show.
ALICE: I see.
PATRICK: Oh well, back to playing rugby then.
ALICE: Yes, until next week anyway.
PATRICK: Why is that?
ALICE: I'm going on the Jerry Springer Show.
PATRICK: What the hell for?
ALICE: It's an update for all those who used to be men.
PATRICK: You what?
FX: JERRY SPRINGER THEME PLAYS UNTIL END.
David Ryan
A CASE OF CROSS PURPOSES
SCENE 1
FX: THE SOUND OF A STEAM ENGINE APPROACHING FROM A
DISTANCE, HEARD FROM INSIDE A ROOM. THE ROAR REACHES A
CRESCENDO, THEN GRADUALLY DIES AWAY. AS IT DOES SO, THE
173

SOUND OF A CLOCK TICKING BECOMES AUDIBLE AND FOR A
MOMENT IS THE ONLY SOUND TO BE HEARD. A CHAIR SCRAPES.
MAIRI: Would you look at that? It’s gone eleven, so it is. You’d think the awld goat ‘ud
be back by now, surely to God!
BRIDGIT: Ach, Mairi, sit down and stop your frettin’. He’ll be home soon enough.
MAIRI: But, Bridgit, do you think he might have told him yet? I can hardly breathe from
thinkin’ of it. The shock of it will kill him, so it will.
BRIDGIT: It’ll take more than that to finish off awl Seamus O’Heaney! But, Mairi, it’s a
fine thing your Paddy’s doin’. Sure, he’s as single-minded as a salmon in the spawning
season once his mind’s set on a thing!
MAIRI: Aye, Bridgit, and look what happens to most of them! Whisht! What was that?
FX: THE CLOCK TICKS ON AND IN THE DISTANCE A DOG HOWLS. THE WIND
CAN BE HEARD, BUFFETING THE COTTAGE WALLS AND THEN THE SOUND OF
A BRANCH, TAPPING AGAINST A WINDOW PANE.
MAIRI: Ech, it’s just the wind in the awld yew! My nerves are like little shreds of
sheep’s wool, caught on Brady’s barbwire, so they are.
BRIDGIT: The anxiety of it certainly brings out the poetry in you, Mairi, but calm
yourself. You’ve never been surprised when he’s staggered back the wrong side of
midnight before. He’ll be back soon for sure!
FX: LOUD AND INSISTENT KNOCKING ON THE DOOR, WHICH SETS UP A
SHRIEK FROM BOTH WOMEN. TWO CHAIRS SCRAPE AND ONE FALLS OVER.
BRIDGIT and MAIRI: (simultaneously) What in the name of Jaysus?
FX: SHORT SILENCE, THEN A SECOND BOUT OF FURIOUS KNOCKING AND A
SHRILL HIGH-PITCHED VOICE ARE HEARD.
VOICE: Mairi, it's Bernadette O'Grady. Let me in. It's blowin' a hurricane out here, so it
is!
BRIDGIT and MAIRI (simultaneously): Bemadette O'Grady! What the divil?
BRIDGIT: Well, let her in, Mairi. See what she wants on such a night - what with the
wind an' all.
MAIRI: Ech, Bridgit, I'll let her in if I can shift me feet from being rooted to the spot in
sheer terror!
FX: SOUND OF LATCH BEING LIFTED AND THE DOOR BEING FLUNG OPEN BY
A STRONG GUST OF WIND. ROAR OF WIND, ACCOMPANIED BY BERNADETTE’S
WAIL AS SHE IS BLOWN INTO THE ROOM.
BERNADETTE: Ach! It's a wicked night out, that's for sure. That wind's enough to
knock the air out of a balloon!
BRIDGIT: (muttering under her breath) But it'll surely leave enough in your mouth to be
going on with!
BERNADETTE: What's that you say, Bridgit O'Gachoty.
BRIDGIT: Nothing at all - and what would be bringing you all the way up here on a night
like this, Bernadette O'Grady?
MAIRI: Is it something you have to tell us, Bemadette, or something you've come to ask?
174

BERNADETTE: We-ell... but whisht! Where's Paddy? Is he not back yet? Was it not
him I passed over an hour ago on the low road?
MAIRI: (lets out a wail) Ohh! I knew somethin' had happened to him - didn't I say so
meself, Bridgit? Oh Jaysus, Mary, mother of God, he's lying in a ditch with a great gash
in his head, so he is. That Johnny O'Docherty's smacked him one, so he has. Ohhh, I'll
niver see him alive again. Ohhh, Paddy!
BRIDGIT: (Bangs hard on the table and shouts above Mairi's wails.) Would you be still
now, Mairi? Would you be quiet and let Bernadette tell us what she's come for?
Stop that blitherin’, woman, before you summon up the banshee of Blarney’s Dell.
Mairi is heard whimpering and repeating Paddy's name in the background.
BRIDGIT: Well, Bernadette?
BERNADETTE: But I came up to see if it was true what Conan O'Doyle told Eammon
O'Andrews down at the Peat Bog Arms.
BRIDGIT: And what may that be, Bernadette? What might you have heard that would
concern us?
BERNADETTE: Oh, ‘us’, is it now, Bridgit O'Gachoty? Since when have you been privy
to the secrets of the O'Machohan's household? I should have thought you were the last
person dear Mairi would confide in - after all....
MAIRI: (hysterically) Would you cut out all the whingeing and whining, Bemadette
O'Grady, and spit out what you have to say before I burst with fear and terror?
FX: SCRAPING NOISE AS BERNADETTE MOVES TO TABLE AND DRAWS UP
CHAIR. SHE PAUSES, TAKES A DEEP BREATH, CLEARS HER THROAT, THEN
BEGINS TO TALK IN AN URGENT BREATHY VOICE.
BERNADETTE: Well, I was just passin' the Peat Bog Arms early this evenin' - not to go
in, you'll understand. I was on me way with a bag full of potato cakes for awld Mrs
O'Donnelly - when who should I meet but Mrs O'Flaherty just comin' down the road? She
was headin' towards the Bog Arms with a face like boiled beetroot and when she catches
sight of me she cries, ‘Have you heard what Conan O'Doyle's got to say about Seamus
O'Heaney? Surely to God it can't be true, but my Eammon’s not one to lie about such
things....’
BRIDGIT: Get to the point, woman. What did she tell you and how does it affect Mairi
here?
Mairi is heard moaning in the background.
BERNADETTE: Well, if you'll just give me time to draw my breath, Bridgit, I was gettin'
there. The point is she told me Seamus O'Heaney has a dark, dark secret and this is it....
Lucie Perkins
175

AFFAIRS OF THE HEART
SCENE 1 Interior: Kitchen
FX: KETTLE BEING BOILED.
MANDY: Chris, your breakfast is ready!
FX: DOOR BEING SHUT
CHRIS: Thanks, love. (Pause) Look, Mandy, I've got next Thursday off. Could we try
and get an appointment with that therapist? I want us to get back to how... the way we
were ... before my accident happened.
MANDY: What do we need to see the therapist again for? She didn't help last time. I'm
sorry, love, but I don't want to start that again.
CHRIS: Why? Just one more try to see if it would help.
MANDY: I'm late. Look, I don't want to talk about this now!
CHRIS: Okay, love, maybe we'll talk about it....
CUT TO FX: DOOR BEING SLAMMED.
CHRIS: ...later. (Pause) I know she doesn't want to go, but she might change her
mind by next Thursday.
FX: PHONE DIALLING TONE. PHONE RINGING.
SCENE 3: Int. - Busy pub
FX: CLOCK CHIMING TWELVE TIMES. PUB BACKGROUND NOISE.
MANDY: I really don't know what to do about Chris: he keeps wanting us to go back
into therapy.
CLARE: Mandy, maybe you should tell him reasons for not wanting to go.
MANDY: Clare, I can't, it'd kill him.
CLARE: No, it wouldn't.
MANDY: Yes it would, Clare. You just don't know what it's like... you don' t know how
guilty I feel all the time. I'm the one who caused the accident that's left him impotent. But
to tell him how it was my fault would just tip him over the edge.
CLARE: Listen, Mandy, the accident wasn’t your fault. It was just that - an accident.
You could never have predicted what that other driver was going to do. Anyway Chris's
impotence is mostly physical. Once his body has been given some time to heal itself and
with a little psychotherapy he should be back to normal.
MANDY: But that's just it, Clare; that's what I feel guilty about. I don't want things ‘back
to normal’. (Pause) I just don't love Chris anymore.
CLARE: I know, love, I know. (Patting Mandy's leg) We' re in a right dilemma, aren't
we? What you need is a night out to forget about things.
SCENE 4: INT.: Car and Living Room of House
FX: PHONE RINGS
176

MANDY: Hallo!
FX: TRAFFIC NOISE.
CHRIS: Hi! Mandy, it's Chris.
MANDY: (Hesitantly) Hi! Love.
CHRIS: I'm afraid I won't be home till late tonight. I've got an important client to see in
Manchester. Don't wait up I'll sneak into bed while you're asleep.
MANDY: Okay then.
CHRIS: Have you thought anymore about going to see the therapist?
MANDY: A little ... listen I'll talk to you about it in the morning, all right. Bye.
CHRIS: Bye love.
FX: PHONE DIALLING TONES.
MANDY: Hi Clare, it's me Mandy, 'member what you said about needing a good night
out?
SCENE 7: Int: Doctor’s office
MANDY: …look, Chris, I don’t want things back to normal, I want a clean break, that’s
what I want.
CHRIS: What’s brought this on? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.
MANDY: You haven’t been hearing a lot of things lately, Chris.
CHRIS: Yeah! Like what?
MANDY: Like, like.
CHRIS: What Mandy, what is it exactly that I haven't been hearing?
DOCTOR: Now let' s take this gently, Mr King… Chris. What is it you think has been
missing, Mandy? Do you think you can tell us?
MANDY: After the crash, no one asked me how I felt. I mean I know it wasn't my fault,
that the other driver crashed into us and all that, but no one seemed to worry about me.
Oh! Listen to me, I'm being so stupid, why should they? I mean Chris was the one who
got hurt, him and the other driver, I was the one that walked away unhurt, but still, I still
felt like it was my fault.
CHRIS: But why do you feel like that, Mandy? You're not the one that hurt me, even the
other driver didn't do it deliberately; he hardly wanted to get himself paralysed, did he? It
was… just an accident, Mandy, that's all.
MANDY: Yeah, fault. I know that, still I feel it was my fault.
DOCTOR: But it wasn't, Mandy. How could it have been? You weren't even in the car,
you couldn't have done anything that would have prevented it.
MANDY: But I could have prevented it.
DOCTOR: How?
CHRIS: What do you mean?
MANDY: I mean, I knew the other driver ... Gareth.
CHRIS: Knew him? How?
MANDY: From work: he was my new area manager. I'd been talking to him before you
surprised me by turning up at work. We thought you were going to be working overnight
in York that evening and we had arranged to meet up for a drink. But then you turned up
in the car park, and he panicked or something and tried to get out of there as fast as he
could. And that's when he hit you.
177

CHRIS: But why did that cause the accident? I have drinks with my bosses all the time.
MANDY: Because we were having an affair with each other, Chris - that's why. Because
we were sleeping with each other and we loved each other.
CHRIS: Oh my God! You were having an affair behind my back.
MANDY: How else can you have an affair, Chris? So you see it was my fault. If I hadn’t
arranged to see Gareth that night and if your meeting in York hadn't been cancelled, the
accident would have never have happened. You wouldn't have got hurt and Gareth
wouldn't now be in a wheelchair, living at home with his wife. Now do you see why I feel
guilty? I've ruined so many people's lives, including my own.
DOCTOR: (Pressing intercom button) Jill, can you push the rest of this morning's
appointments back to this afternoon, please? Thank you. Now, Chris, Mandy, we have a
lot to discuss. Maybe we should begin with you, Chris.
Gavin McInerney
178

3. SCREENPLAYS
MATRICIDE
It is a one-set monologue, in which John talks to himself. I have divided conversations
lineally. He should change his voice slightly during the imaginary dialogues. There are
four fixed cameras, plus one mobile for SHOT REVERSE SHOTS.
We know nothing of John.
FADE IN.
INT: A SMALL ROOM, CONTAINING A BED, DESK, MOBILE TABLE, CHEST OF
DRAWERS. IT IS ILLUMINATED BY A SMALL, LOW-WATTAGE DESK LAMP.
(MONTAGE OF PERSONAL EFFECTS, CONTAINING AT LEAST ONE SHOT OF A
LOCKET AND ONE OF A FRAMED PHOTOGRAPH OF AN ATTRACTIVE
BLONDE FEMALE IN HER MID-TWENTIES. MONTAGE ENDS WITH HIGH-
ANGLED SHOT FROM CAMERA 1 TO DOOR.)
There is the noise of keys rattling in a lock.
Enter John, carrying a Thresher's bag and a takeaway.
Nutter, you fucking nutter!
JOHN
(JOHN IS CLEARLY HAPPY. HE PLACES THE BAG AND TAKEAWAY ON
CHEST OF DRAWS, TAKES HIS COAT OFF, HANGS IT ON DOOR, REMOVES
ONE BEER FROM BAG, TAKES BAG AND LEAVES.)
SLOW DISSOLVE.
INT: SHOT FROM CAMERA 1
John returns carrying cutlery and plates and sits on bed.
JOHN
Mad bastard, fucking mad, mad bastard!
(HIGH ANGLE FROM CAMERA 2 TO BED)
You really are mad, mate. What's someone going to make of that, eh? (LOOKS IN
MIRROR) Nothing, mate, I'm not talking to you, I'm talking to myself.
Well, what do you make of that then?
Nothing, it's only to be expected I'm mad, mate.
True.
No, it's not. I'm as sane as the man next door to me. Unfortunately, I live in Bedlam.
(LAUGHS UNCONTROLLABLY)
No, no, alright then why did you do it?
What?
Leave the note.
It's funny.
Funny? Why funny? You'll probably scare the shit out of some old Doris, who thinks
you're still on the train.
That's funny. Funny? Yeah, right. You were confessing, you twat, that's all. But you've
got to do it with a twist, haven't you? Hoping to take some other poor sod down with you.
179

Surprise sur-fucking-prise. Well, you're down on your own and you're never getting out.
Best get used to it
(LIFTS CAN TO MIRROR, WINKS, DRAINS CAN AND LEAVES ROOM. COMES
BACK WITH ANOTHER, SITS ON BED, OPENS CAN, SWIGS AND TAKES A
LOCKET FROM OFF SHELVES. OPENS IT. IT CONTAINS LOCK OF RED HAIR).
It's all your fault.
No it's not.
Yes it is. If you didn't die, she'd have been alright.
Oh well, I'm sorry for dying then. I mean, after all it was deliberate, wasn't it?
Fuck off. There's no need for that. You didn't kill yourself.
Yeah, you're right. I didn't and nor did she.
Fuck off.
You might as well have put the pills in her mouth yourself.
Fuck off.
Well, you might as well have.
Fuck off, she was sick
Yeah and you didn't help, did you?
It wasn't my fault.
No, no, you're right, it wasn't. She was too far into the desert to make it out alive.
Fuck off.
Face it. You should have known better.
(HIS VOICE IS BECOMING EMOTIONAL AS IF HE WANTS TO CRY, BUT IS
HOLDING BACK.)
Manic depressives don't need their sons arguing with them. (HE BEGINS TO SKIN UP
AGAIN.) But you just couldn't stop yourself, could you?
I should have known better. I should have bit my tongue. I should have walked away
without saying a word, should have said, ‘She's drunk; she'll say sorry for it tomorrow.
Let it lie, walk away and let it lie.’
Yeah, but you didn't, did you? You decided to talk away and make her die.
Fuck off, I never.
Yes, you did and nothing you will ever do will change it. Drink all you want, smoke all
you can, it's not going to go away (PUTS LOCKET BACK, LIGHTS THE JOINT,
STARTS TO CRY.)
FADE OUT FROM CAMERA 4.
Michael Napier
ANONYMOUS
Cast:
WOMAN
CHARACTER TWO (C2)
Opening: Blackout, flashing lights. The sound of distorted voices, screams and heavy
breathing can be heard for approximately 30 seconds. A harsh red light comes up on a
180

aised rostrum, on which the woman is sleeping, but having a nightmare. When the voices
have stopped, the woman suddenly sits up and screams at the audience. She looks
exhausted.
Image:
Newspaper headline is projected behind the woman. It reads: 'LOCAL GIRL RAPED’.
The sound of a baby's cry can be bear. The heavy breathing begins and gets louder. The
woman is becoming increasingly disturbed. The crying stops and the woman screams,
‘No’, holding her hand out to the audience.
Image:
Another newspaper headline appears, this time reading: ‘RAPE VICTIM FORCED TO
SIGN AWAY BABY’.
In the next sequence two voices can be beard. The faint whisper of the woman repeating
certain phrases of C2. This will occur when the * sign appears both before and after a
line, emphasising to the audience the importance.
C2:
*She was a beautiful baby. * She was seen for *ten seconds. That's all. She had to be
taken away. They said the mother was ‘mentally unstable’ due to ‘her inability to come to
terms with the tragic incident that took place on the 23rd of February 1996’. Losing the
baby was the punishment for being the victim.
Coughing noises are heard from the woman. C2 turns to look briefly and then turns away.
C2:
I wouldn't say the appropriate counselling was always given.
TAPE-RECORDED COUNCELLOR'S INTERVIEW:
"Hello. I understand you were sent here. To talk about your troubles, wasn't it? ...
Everyone has troubles. I shouldn't really be telling you this, but this morning a friend of
mine lost her cat - to a car, I might add. You see, since she talked about it, she's been
much better. Talking does help. The sooner you start talking and getting back to normal,
the sooner we'll leave you alone. We can't have another event like last week on our hands,
now can we? It wouldn't look very good for publicity - not that I'm trying to force you.
I'm sure you understand that in your ... circumstances, you need to get back to normal as
soon as possible. Now then, how are you feeling?
The woman moves and sits in a chair stage left. A video projection is played of the woman
talking into a camera.
WOMAN:
I signed myself away. They helped me realise I couldn't cope. They're really friendly. I
can even have my window open at night, with the bars still on, of course. I can do what I
want – well, as long as it's in the building and under supervision. I don't think about her
anymore. The pills stopped that for a while anyway. They'll come and get me in a minute.
Don't need a watch to tell that, not that I've got one anyway. They'll scrub me soon. They
think I'm incapable. Little do they know? They're friendly here. It's almost like being a
child again.
(Lights up.)
181

C2:
Right, everyone, that concludes this week's case study. I hope you all found it tolerably
interesting; it's quite a recent one. If you could get those assignments to me as soon as
possible, including the other two cases we looked at last week....
Natalie Selmes
TURNED OUT NICE AGAIN
6 EXT. EARLY EVENING
Christmas at Sam and Matt's parents' house. Sam and Neal sit on the sofa. Sam has a
letter in her hand. Neal is comforting her. Sam is sobbing.
SAM
My brother has Aids. My brother has Aids. It's all down here. What? Does he think I'll
take it better from a letter? Did he think I'd react badly and wouldn't love him anymore?
Why couldn't he tell me to my face?
NEAL
Perhaps he didn't know how to tell you, perhaps he was too ashamed.
Ashamed?
SAM
NEAL
You know, Aids is a dirty disease. He must be ashamed of himself.
Neal, what are you talking about?
AIDS. It's a disease for poofs, isn't it?
Neal, how can you say that?
SAM
NEAL
SAM
NEAL
It's true. You play with the bad boys, you expect to get hurt.
Neal!
SAM
NEAL
He's a dirty rotten poof, and now he's got the stinking poofs' disease to prove it.
Sam slaps Neal.
182

SAM
How dare you? Matt isn't gay! He never was. You, as his best friend, must know that.
NEAL
Well, what other explanation is there?
SAM
I don't know: a bad blood transfusion - God forbid; sex with a woman who had AIDS. He
would've told me if he was gay. He told me this, didn't he?
NEAL
Yeah, well, he's still unclean and I don't want anything to do with him.
SAM
Well if that's your attitude, I don't want anything to do with you. Get out of this house.
This minute. Do you hear?
Pushes Neal away.
Kathryn Daniels
ARRANGING MARRIAGE.
Nita is a twenty-one year old Gujarati girl, who works at Tesco; she is quiet and timid,
and was brought up by her mother after her father left for a younger woman. Since then
Nita's mother has been obsessed with her looks and lives in the deluded belief her
husband will eventually come back. However, over the last year her attention has
diverted onto her only daughter, who, she has just realised, has grown up into a beautiful
young woman. Since this revelation Nita's mother has decided it is time to get her
married.
Glossary:
Achah: (colloquial) OK, good.
Behta: child.
Benn: sister
Chuup: quiet!
Goraa: white person.
Gorees: white girls.
Heh na: a question tag.
Jasu: Nita’s mother’s first name.
Maa: mother.
Maasi: commonly used to mean ‘auntie’, but also applied by father or mother to a female
family friend, who is older than they are.
Salwar: a kind of Punjabi dress.
SCENE 1
INT.THE LIVING ROOM. THE FURNITURE CONSISTS OF A CAMEL-COLOURED
SUITE, ARRANGED AROUND THE ROOM SO THAT FROM WHEREEVER YOU
ARE SITTING THE TELEVISION IS IN VIEW. IN THE CEN'I'RE OF THE
ARRANGEMENT IS A BROWN, OVAL-SHAPED COFFEE TABI.E. ON THE LEFT
183

JUST NEAR THE DOOR IS A LARGE GOLD-FRAMED MIRROR. NITA'S MOTHER
IS DUSTING THE GAWDY ORNAMENTS, WHILE NITA IS SITTING QUIETLY
ON THE COUCH, WATCHING ‘ZEE TV’ AND TALKING TO SOMEONE ON THE
PHONE.
N ITA'S MOTHER (in a typical Indian accent)
Now Behta, please make some carnversation with the boy. He comes from a very
respectable family, you know. I mean, it makes it so akward when you don't say
anything.... Nita darling, are you listening?
Yes, mummy.
NITA (sighing)
NITA'S MOTHER (defiantly)
Good. Who are you tawking to? You're always on the phone. (She looks into the goldframed
mirror, which is hanging on the wall and carries on talking.) Oh, by the way, how
does my blusher look? It's new, you know: that Avon lady - what's her name?
Mrs Humphreys.
NITA
N ITA'S MOTHER
Yes, yes, Mrs Humphreys. She said shimmering bronze is my colour, you know. What do
you think, hmm? ... Nita! You make me say everything twice! If you had some discipline,
you wouldn't do this! When your father returns, he'll set you straight. And put the ruddy
phone down. The bill's soo high!
The doorbell rings.
N ITA'S MOTHER
They're here! Quick. Nita, tidy your salwar. How do I look?
See you later, bye.
NITA (talking into the phone)
Nita gets up, turns off the television, lifts the cordless phone onto the coffee table and
looks at her mother with a blank expression on her face.
NITA'S MOTHER (impatiently)
Well, Behta, tell me quickly. What do you think?
NITA (absently)
Fine, mummy, you look fine.
Nita's mother looks again into the mirror, runs her hand through her hair, then leaves.
Nita goes to stand by the window. Her mother had instructed her to do this whenever men
came to the house. She does her best to look like an Indian movie actress by pulling her
hair from one side to rest on the other shoulder so that one can see her side profile. Her
mother thought this pose the basis of the art of seduction. An elderly Indian lady enters,
wearing a white sari. She is followed by her son, who is tall, dark and, according to the
Indian community, good-looking. Nita's mother comes after them and sits them down.
184

NITA'S MOTHER
Nita darling ... this is Mrs Khotari and Kamlesh. You already know Auntie, don't you,
Behta? She's on the board of our community.
Nita turns from her pose to face the marriage prospect her mother has arranged for her.
NITA (in a subdued tone)
Hello, Auntie. (Looks at Kamlesh.) (Quietly) Hello.
Nita sits down opposite Kamlesh.
MRS KHOTARI
So Nita ... your mother tells me you are werking. Tell me, Behta, what do you do? No ...
let me guess. From that pretty face of yours I'd say you're an accountant, heh na?
Nita is puzzled, looks over at her mother, then replies.
NITA
No, no, Auntie ... I actually work in....
Nita's mother cuts in before Nita can finish her sentence.
NITA'S MOTHER (hurriedly)
Would you like a drink, Kamlesh? Maasi? Go Nita, go and get Kamlesh and Maasi a
drink. You have to get used to all this running around, you know. It is your duty as the
wife to do these things.
Before the guests have a chance to answer, Nita obediently gets up and leaves the room.
NITA'S MOTHER
So, Kamlesh, Maasi tells me you're now a qualified dentist, no?
KAMLESH (in a heavy English accent)
Yes, Mrs Chohan, I qualified three years ago.
Achah
NITA’S MOTHER
There is silence in the room until Nita enters, carrying a tray with three glasses of coke.
She serves her prospective mother-in-law first, then her prospective husband and, lastly,
her mother. She puts the tray onto the coffee table and sits down.
MRS KHOTARI
Nita, are you not having a drink?
Nita’s mother cuts in before Nita can speak.
NITA MOTHER
No, Nita doesn’t drink coke. Not good for her figure, you know.
Nita smiles politely at the elderly lady.
185

I see.
MRS KHOTARI
There is virtual silence as the guests sip their drinks and look around the room, breathing
in the heavily scented incense sticks.
MRS KHOTARI
Kamlesh, why don’t you and Nita go for a drive in your new car?
NITA'S MOTHER
I'm sure you two youngsters don't want to sit around with us oldie goldies.
Nita looks at Kamlesh questioningly. Kamlesh looks over at his mother, gives her a
disapproving look, then smiles in a sleazy way at Nita.
What do you say, Nita?
Nita's mother butts in once again.
KAMLESH
N ITA'S MOTHER
Well, yes, of course she'll go. Off you go, darling. You'll have fun with Kamlesh.
The phone starts to ring. Everyone's eyes go to the cordless phone on the coffee table.
Nita jumps up.
NITA
I'll just go get that phone from upstairs.
Nita leaves the room.
SCENE 2
INT. NITA'S MOTHER'S BEDROOM, WHICH 1S VERY SIMPLY FURNISHED,
CONSISTING OF A LARGE DOUBLE BED, WHICH FACES THE DOOR. ON THE
LEFT SIDE OF THE BED IS A SMALL WHlTE BEDSIDE TABLE, WHICH HAS A
PHONE ON TOP OF IT AND A FRAMED PHOTOGRAPH OF NITA'S MOTHER
AND FATHER ON THEIR WEDDING DAY. NITA ENTERS, SITS ON THE EDGE
OF THE BED WHERE THE PHONE IS, AND PICKS IT UP.
Hello?
It’s me.
NITA (quietly)
CALLER
NITA (annoyed)
Why are you calling me now? I told you another one was coming. What the hell do you
think you’re playing at?
CALLER
186

I couldn’t help it.
NITA (quietly)
I know, I know…but what can I do?
You know what you have to do.
CALLER
NITA
It’s not as simple as that. We’ve discussed all this before.
Just tell her, Nita.
CALLER (pleadingly)
NITA (almost crying)
I can’t: it’d break her heart. I’d be a disgrace in the community. Can’t you see that? I
mean, for goodness sake, we’re not even the same religion, let alone the same colour.
CALLER (angrily)
What does colour matter? You’re not even religious, anyway! And who cares about the
stupid community? It’s just a bunch of people gossiping about whose son has the better
profession.
In the background Nita’s mother starts calling.
NITA’S MOTHER
Nita…Nita, who’s on the phone, Behta? Come downstairs now!
There is a temporary silence upstairs when the only sound that can be heard is the
mother’s voice and laughter from the living room. Then the phone conversation begins
again.
CALLER
Anyway…what’s this one like?
NITA
Oh, you know, the usual: he’s a dentist, which means he’s shit hot in the community and
his Mum’s on the board. So, basically, if I marry him, I gain status. Oh, I almost forgot,
he’s tall and good-looking….
CALLER
I can’t believe it’s so superficial… and what’s this about his looks, huh?
NITA
Oh, don’t be silly! You know I don’t go for looks.
Oh cheers!
CALLER
NITA
No, silly, I didn’t mean it like that. Besides….
187

NITA’S MOTHER
Nita Behta, come downstairs now! You’ve been up there for a long time. It’s so rude!
NITA
I’d better go: they’re all waiting for me.
Hang on!
What?
Tell her, tonight.
CALLER
NITA
CALLER
NITA
I have to go. Come over this evening…usual time. We’ll talk then. Bye.
Nita sits still on the bed, looking at the phone receiver, then gets up and walks out the
room.
SCENE 3
INT. THE LIVING ROOM. NITA ENTERS. HER MOTHER AND MRS KHOTARI
ARE LAUGHING, WHILE KAMLESH IS PLAYING ‘SNAKE’ ON HIS MOBILE
PHONE.
NITA’S MOTHER (still laughing)
Behta, you were ages. Anyway, are you ready to go now?
Hmm?
NITA (absently)
NITA’S MOTHER
Silly girl! With Kamlesh, of course! (She turns to Mrs Khotari.) I tell you, Maasi, she’s so
absent-minded. What are these gorees called with blond hair?
KAMLESH
Blond bimbos, I believe, Mrs Chohan.
NITA’S MOTHER
Yes, Kamlesh. Thank you, Behta. That’s it. My Nita’s a brown bimbo!
Mrs Khotari and Kamlesh laugh politely at the mother’s joke, while Nita smiles
awkwardly.
KAMLESH
Well, it’s got late and I have to open up my practice tomorrow. Maybe we can go for a
drive another time, eh Nita? I mean, we’re probably going for a lot of them anyway.
188

But Kamlesh Behta…
MRS KHOTARI
KAMLESH
Another time, Maa. Isn’t that right, Nita?
She looks at him curiously.
NITA’S MOTHER
Stay a little longer. Nita would like you to stay…. Wouldn’t you, Nita?
KAMLESH
Thank you, Mrs Chohan, but I really must go. Come on, Maa.
Mrs Khotari and Kamlesh get up to leave. Nita’s mother also rises.
NITA’S MOTHER
Such a polite young man, Maasi! These professional people! What charm they have, heh
na? Well, if you must go….
KAMLESH
Yes, we must be off, but don’t worry, we’ll see each other soon.
MRS KHOTARI
Jasuu Benn, I’ll call you to arrange the dates.
NITA’S MOTHER
Yes, yes, OK, see you soon.
Kamlesh walks over to where Nita is standing and looks her up and down as if he is
mentally undressing her. Nita crosses her arms over. He whispers in her ear.
KAMLESH
The next time we see each other will be on our wedding day and from then on I’ll see you
in our marriage bed.
What?
NITA (whispers in shock)
Mrs Khotari and Nita’s mother look over at the young couple.
NITA’S MOTHER
See. What did I tell you? A match made in heaven.
Kamlesh draws back from Nita and speaks to her in his normal tone.
KAMLESH
Take care and I’ll see you soon. (He winks at Nita as he is leaving with his mother.)
SCENE 4
189

INT. THE LIVING ROOM. NITA’S MOTHER ENTERS.NITA IS SITTING VERY
STILL ON THE COUCH, STARING INTO SPACE.
NITA’S MOTHER
Nita daaling, we’ve hit the jackpot! Kamlesh like you very much and so did Maasi. Nita,
are you listening?
NITA
You lied to me! How can you stand there smiling? You lied to them, telling them I was a
bloody accountant! What bull! I work in Tesco’s for crying out loud! How the hell are
you going to explain that one? You did all this for what? The community?
NITA’S MOTHER
Nita, daaling, you’re overreacting… like your father.
NITA
You’re unbelievable: in the space of ten minutes you and that creep decided my future for
me. How could you?
NITA’S MOTHER
Calm down, Behta; this anger’s no good for your complexion, you know. That Avon lady,
she told….
I don’t care what she said.
NITA
NITA’S MOTHER
Fine. You want to know why I arranged for you to marry that boy? Well… I did it for
your happiness.
NITA
You’re lying: you didn’t do it for me; you did it for yourself!
NITA’S MOTHER
You disgust me! Talking to me as if I’m some rubbish on the street. I’ll not tolerate this
anymore.
NITA
Is that all you can say? What about you? You’ve decided the rest of my life for me and
with whom? A dirty pervert!
NITA’S MOTHER
Hold your tongue! He comes from a very respectable family.
NITA
Respectable! You call that respectable? He’s filth!
NITA’S MOTHER
Enough is enough. You will marry him! (The doorbell rings.) Then you’ll have what I
haven’t!
NITA
190

A husband! Look where it got you? He left you, didn’t he? And it wasn’t because his tart
was younger. It wasn’t because she was white. It was because was because of your
obsession with the bloody community!
The doorbell rings again.
Shut up this filth!
NITA’S MOTHER
NITA
Why? Because it’s the truth! You cared so much what the community thought you drove
Papa away!
NITA’S MOTHER
You’ve never spoken to me like this. What’s happened to you?
NITA
You don’t know me. You never have. If you did, you wouldn’t force this upon me.
The doorbell rings a third time.
NITA’S MOTHER
Who’s that? (Nita leaves to answer the front door, then returns with someone behind her.
The mother’s eyes widen when she sees who the person ringing was.) Terry! What the
hell are you do-wing here? Go home! Nita’s not coming out tonight. Go!
NITA
Terry’s not going anywhere, Mum. Look, there’s something I have to tell you.
NITA’S MOTHER
God damn you, Nita. This is a bloody family matter. This is not the kind of thing your
goraa friends should hear!
NITA
I’ve been trying to tell you for years, Mummy, but you just don’t listen, so I’ll tell you
now… The reason I can’t marry is because….
Spit it out, Nita!
NITA’S MOTHER
TERRY
I think what she’s trying to tell you, Mrs Chohan, is that….
CHUUP!
NITA’S MOTHER
NITA
No, Terry. Mum, the reason I can’t marry is because… Terry and I are lovers.
There is complete silence while the mother stares at the pair in astonishment. It is finally
broken by her shrill cry.
191

NITA’S MOTHER
But she’s a girl! (Nita moves over to her partner and kisses her defiantly. Her mother
emits a gasp of disbelief, but her mood soon turns to anger.) You disgust me! … But
what will I tell Maasi, huh? You stop this nonsense, you hear, Nita! Stop it!
I’m leaving, Mum. Bye.
NITA
She takes Terry’s hand and walks towards the door, but her mother grabs her arm.
NITA’S MOTHER
And what will I tell the community, huh? That my dorter is gay?
NITA
Tell them, mummy, your daughter’s run off with a blond bimbo.
Nita shakes her arm free and she leaves with Terry. Her mother stays still for a moment,
then walks over to the mirror, puts her hand in her pocket and takes her lipstick out to
reapply it to her lips.
NITA’S MOTHER
She’ll be back – and so will her father!
Rupalee V. Ghia
CONTINGENCY
END
1.INT. CARRIAGE OF LONDON UNDERGROUND TRAIN
THE
Two men sit on opposite sides and at opposite ends. One wears an expensive black suit
and brown shoes. His hair is short and tidy. The other man is unkempt, with cheap worn
clothes and untidy dirty hair. We look down the carriage with the unkempt man in the
foreground. At the other end the smart man can be seen looking upwards and focusing on
an advertisement.
We are now looking at the advert as if through the smart man's eyes. The advert is for
cheaper holiday insurance and shows a young blonde woman with her back to the
camera, apparently wearing nothing but a large rucksack, which only just covers her
behind. We hear the smart man's thoughts on the advert in the background as we keep
looking at the rucksacked girl.
SMART MAN
I don't want to go on holiday. Why would I want to know about holiday insurance? All
the time I'm bombarded with adverts for things I don't want, need or could find any use
for. When McKaye flew to Chicago, he said there was a Pepsi advert in the toilet, the
ultimate captive audience. Clever idea on the part of the advertisers, yes! This advert, on
the other hand, is a stupid idea. Am I really supposed to believe if I go backpacking -
heavily insured, of course - I'll get to fuck a nubile blonde hippy chick in some flea-bitten
hotel in Bangkok?
192

We are focusing on the Smart Man's face from a position above right. The smart man
stares directly at us from about four feet away.
SMART MAN
(Aside) I work for Mr Biafra. He heads a large business organisation here in London.
Extremely profitable concern. Caters for the various illegal, immoral and socially
unacceptable demands of a large percentage of this city's population. If you find yourself
in need of something, which the law of this land disapproves of, the chances are you’ll
procure it indirectly from my employer and his various associates. My job's to intimidate
and kill individuals or groups who threaten or damage the organisation's interests. I'm
kept constantly busy by the number of people who, for some reason, feel they can cheat,
steal from or compete with my employer. People try to fuck with the boss, but only once.
Then they're killed. As an example, earlier on this morning, a Greek gentleman who I
knew only as Victim No. 1 was killed when he lit a cigarette, on waking at around nine.
Target No. 1 had apparently left the gas on the night before. He would've been able to
smell the gas, but for the fact that all the membranes in his nose had been damaged
beyond repair due to four years of consuming high-grade cocaine, supplied by a Mr.
Jennifer, an associate of Mr. Biafra. Unfortunately, Target No. 1 had declined to pay for
his product for quite some time. His demise wasn't difficult to engineer. I picked the lock
on his front door, let myself in and turned his gas on at two o'clock in the morning. To be
completely honest, I was rather displeased with the assignment. It held no challenge. I
secretly hoped he'd wake up and confront me, so I could shoot him between the eyes from
close range, but, alas, he slept like a baby. Unfortunately, now I'm left unfulfilled and
unsatisfied by the menial nature of last night's task, so I might just be forced to kill this
unfortunate down-and-out, sitting at the other end of this carriage.
We again look down the carriage. The scruffy man is in the foreground. The smart man
can be seen at the other end staring fixedly at him. We now look directly into the smart
man's face from above left. The smart man has stopped staring and now looks directly at
us.
SMART MAN
I naturally feel more comfortable on my own, don't feel particularly secure with strangers.
This was a large part of the motivation for my taking up a job, which would involve
carrying a loaded firearm at all times. The individual sitting way to my right is guilty of
no other crime than invading my privacy. This crime on any other day would go
unpunished, but due to special circumstances, he stands now to pay with his life.
We now look directly into the smart man's eyes from about ten inches away.
SMART MAN
I'm going to give him a chance - not out of any moral or merciful instinct. My conscience
hasn't come into play too often in the last eleven years. It would hardly do so for this poor
excuse for a human being that my late father would have referred to as Jakey Parrafin. I'm
giving him a chance merely for the sake of uncertainty, for my own personal suspense.
There are two stops left: Lambeth North and the Elephant and Castle. If he gets off at
Lambeth North, he'll survive; if not, then not: I'll follow him outside and shoot him
through the back of the head.
193

We look down the carriage from the scruffy man's end. The train stops. A recorded
message announces, 'This is Lambeth North'. The scruffy man rises stiffly and leaves the
train. The smart man stares fixedly at the scruffy man as he moves down the platform.
Neil Edwards
CHEMICAL NARCOLEPSY
6 INT. EARLY MORNING
Cut to a black screen.
Viewers see a massive space before them. The floor consists of rotting wooden slats as
far as the eye can see. Standing regimentally round the space is a mass of red steel pillars,
which hold up the ceiling. Their paint is peeling and the warehouse is in general disrepair.
Simultaneously this scene appears in full and the blare of a loud fire alarm sounds. The
movement of the camera speeds up in relation to the shrieking alarm. It travels into the
corner of the warehouse while the alarm continues to caterwaul. We discover Miles
sitting at a desk in an office. He is awoken by the alarm. This corner of the warehouse has
been converted into an ultramodern office. It is clinical both in furniture design and
tidiness. Everything's white and there's an atmosphere of purity. The camera moves past
Miles into the office. There's a bed with white sheets and a white desk with a computer.
He sits on the only chair, dressed in white shirt with a tie that matches the red of the
pillars. He wears black trousers and shiny black leather shoes. Strewn across the bed are a
black leather jacket and the threatening revolver that was seen in his apartment. The
alarm ceases and we hear Miles moving round. The camera heads off into the warehouse
with the colours gradually fading. Just before the screen turns black, Miles emits a
piecing scream of despair that echoes round the space.
Sian Dockray and Paul-Anthony Kershaw
VAMPIRE FEAST OF THE MIDDLE-CLASS LIVING DEAD
EXT: A GRAVEYARD. DUSK
A group of four people are kneeling beside a grave, paying their respects to a deceased
relative. Crosscutting between the gravestone and their faces. A noise is heard in the
background.
What was that?
What?
RELATIVE 1
RELATIVE 2
RELATIVE 1
(pointing off-camera)
194

I heard a weird noise coming from over there.
You and your noises!
RELATIVE 2
Cut to POV from behind the group. The camera moves towards the four. They turn, look
shocked and begin to scream. Cut to gravestone while primal unearthly cries.
are heard off camera.
Credits roll as voiceover begins.
VOICEOVER:
Let me introduce you to a feast – a feast of blood. The predators: VAMPIRE DAMES!
The prey: THE MIDDLE CLASS! All in gruesome blood colour.
Revel in THE VAMPIRE FEAST OF THE MIDDLE-CLASS LIVING DEAD.
Our story begins in a small room in a university. In residence: MIDDLE-CLASS TYPES!
Cut to a room with three people sitting inside. They are just finishing off a conversation.
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 1
… and so I said, ‘That’s why I only eat Brie now!’
Raucous laughter ensues.
You kill me.
If I only could….
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 2
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 1
More raucous laughter. A loud knock is heard.
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 3
There’s somebody at the door!
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 2
There’s somebody at the door?
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPES 1,2,3
(in unison)
There’s somebody at the door!
Enter!
In walk two vampires.
VAMPIRE 1
(hiss)
I bare my teeth at the middle class!
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 1
VAMPIRE 2
195

(hiss)
I bare my nails at the middle-class!
VAMPIRES 1,2
(in unison)
In essence, why should we bear the middle-class at all?
The vampires attack Middle-Class Types 2 and 3, who let out a terrifying scream, born of
Hades itself.
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 1
Look, whatever you do, don’t get blood on my doilies!
The vampires turn towards Middle-Class Type 1 and hiss. He jumps up and rushes from
the room. The camera follows him as he runs downstairs and out of the building only to
be confronted with the two vamp babes.
How did you do that?
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 1
VAMPIRE 2
In the world of vampires many things cannot be explained.
Why?
I can’t explain.
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 2
VAMPIRE 2
Vamp 1 grabs the Middle-Class Type 1 by the hair and drags him along a path towards
the graveyard, first stopping at the main road and checking both ways before crossing.
Once inside the graveyard they tie him to a tree and start to torture him by lashing him
with a couple of twigs.
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 1
Ooooh! Ooooh! No, please stop!
VAMPIRE 1
We shan’t stop until you’ve died!
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 1
Oh, that’s OK then…. Ooooh… ooooh…. Please don’t kill me! I’ll give you all my
money!
VAMPIRE 1
PAH! I bare my teeth at money!
I bare my nails at money!
VAMPIRE 2
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 1
How can I survive without money? Ooooh! Ooooh!
196

VAMPIRE 1
Halt sister! It is time for us to kill him!
They bend down to his neck and bite through the artery. He bleeds blue blood.
Noooo! Ooooh! Ooooh!
MIDDLE-CLASS TYPE 1
Their task finished, they straighten up to their full heights.
We have done well.
VAMPIRE 2
VAMPIRE 1
Yes, my sister, but our work is not done. Wherever there are middle-class types in the
world, we must be there, wherever the poor are being exploited, we must fight and
wherever there are wine bars, we must kill; but, you know, the problems of two workingclass
vampires don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.
They walk towards the horizon with the following voiceover.
VOICEOVER
Yes, folks, their work is far from over, but wherever their travels take them, we shall
follow… in VISCERAL VAMP-O-SCOPE! So all you middle classes beware or you will
find yourself in VAMPIRE FEAST OF THE MIDDLE-CLASS LIVING DEAD 2: BLOOD-
SOAKED BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S!
Joao Ferrier
FIN
197

MULTI-GENERIC THEME
198

COMMUNICATIONS
THIS IS A RECORDED MESSAGE
#1:The person you are calling knows you are waiting. Please hold.
#2: Welcome to Odeon hotline. Please state clearly the cinema for which you
require information.
#2: Press hash for more options or hold for the operator.
#2: None of our operators is available at the moment. Thank you for waiting.
#3: Welcome to One-to-One. I’m afraid there’s no one here to take your call.
#1: The person you are calling knows you are waiting.
#4: Hello. Welcome to BT. Please key in your telephone number now.
#4: All our operators are busy. Please hold.
#4: The person you are calling is unavailable. Please leave a message.
#1: The person you are calling knows you are waiting. Please hold.
#5: Thank you for calling Al Italia. Please press star now.
#6: If you know the extension you require, please dial it now.
# 6: I’m sorry. That extension is invalid.
#1: The person you are calling knows you are waiting. Please hold.
#1: Thank you for waiting. Our office is now closed. Please call again tomorrow.
Nathalie Cox
199

WAITING TO HOLD
Hello, um, I’m ringing to complain about a vacuum cleaner I recently bought from your
company. (Pause.) Yes, it’s the Suckback 2000. (Pause.) Yes, yes, OK, I’ll hold. (Pause.)
Hello, yes, hello, I’m ringing to com…. Well, yes, I will wait. (Pause.) Ah, hello, now
about this vacuum cleaner I bought from your shop not four days ago. (Pause.) It’s the
Suckback 2000. (Pause.) Right. (Pause.) Okay, well, if you could please put me through
to them, I’d be eternally grateful. (Longer pause.) Hello, yes hi, look, this is all getting
rather silly, but all I want to do is to talk to someone about my faulty vacuum cleaner.
(Pause.) ANOTHER DEPARTMENT. (Pause.) Internal error, you say! (Pause.) Right,
I’ll hold. (Longer pause.) Hello…. Hello….
Tom Fenwick
JUST PUTTING YOU THROUGH
Good afternoon, Atlantaplex, how can I help you? …Yes, sir, just putting you through.
Good afternoon, Atlantaplex, how can I help you? … I’m afraid Mr Paterson’s out to
lunch…. Yes, sir, he’ll be back within the hour. If you’d like to leave a message…. OK
then …. Have a nice day.
Good afternoon, Atlantaplex, how can I help you? …You’d require the finance office, sir.
Just putting you through.
Good afternoon, Atlantaplex, how can I help you? … I’m sorry, sir, Mr Schwartz will
not be in today…. Personal reasons…. I’m sorry, sir, I really can’t elaborate on that….
Yes, he will be back tomorrow. Is there any message? …. No message…. Have a nice
day.
Good afternoon, Atlantaplex, how can I help you? … Recruitment Office? Certainly.
Just putting you through.
Good afternoon, how can I help you? … Mr Paterson? Oh yes, he’s just come in this very
moment. I’ll put you through.
Good afternoon, how can I help you? … Yes, madam, just putting you through.…
Nicholas Gant
MALL PRACTICE
Nestle milk powder,
Babies cry louder.
Drink diet coke,
A fat-free joke.
200

McDonald’s fries,
Rainforest dies.
Another Nike trainer,
More child labour.
Lauren Simmons, Brynley Gibson, Hannah Bernstein
WHITE NOISE
- The timing was there; he steered it away through the slips….
- Melissa’s the talk of the town….
- If you need advice, just call….
- Headed for earth. God save us all….
- Clover, a taste we all adore….
- The way you make me feel….
- Number three in his hundredth rally….
- Near the end it was really messy….
- Too long since somebody whispered, Oh shut up and kiss me….
- Does it have to be so dark in here? …
- A good concubine always paints whispers of pleasure on her emperor….
- But what’s in it for me? …
- It’s a plain case of miscarriage of justice….
- Could be ten years, Rodney. Don’t….
Nadia Colyer
TV SONNET
‘You’re watching BBC 1. Now the news:
[Cut to opening titles, cue music]
The Queen is dead. Mourners form massive queues;
[Cut to sombre image, pause, remove it]
Across the shocked world the tributes are heard;
[Pictures of Clinton, Yeltsin, Mandela]
Her eldest son is to be King Charles III;
[Pictures of Charles, but, mind, no Camilla]
Blair hails ‘Our Lizzie, the People’s Monarch’;
[Cut: solemn PM, no hint of a smirk]
Plans year of mourning, held in her honour;
[Cut to the newsroom, zoom in, Michael Buerk]
Comrades! Revolution! This very hour!’
[Shit! What’s he doing? Switch off the power!]
Satiyesh Manoharaja
201

GOD BLESS HOLLYWOOD: FOURTEEN TRUTHS I’VE
LEARNT FROM AMERICAN MOVIES
1.When visiting haunted houses, women should always investigate any strange
sounds, while wearing their most revealing underwear.
2. Ventilation systems in any building are perfect hiding places. No one will
ever think of looking for you there and you can access any part of the
building without difficulty.
3. You’re likely to survive any battle in any war, unless you make the mistake
of showing a buddy a picture of your wife back home.
4. When in Paris, you can see the Eiffel Tower from any window of any building.
5. Male leads will never show pain while being tortured, but will wince when a
beautiful woman cleans their wounds.
6. The chief of police always shouts.
7. Kitchens do have light switches, but they disappear at nighttime. So when
entering a kitchen at night, you should open the fridge door and use that
light instead.
8. Any person waking from a nightmare, will sit upright, pant and perspire.
9. One man shooting at ten men has a better chance of killing them all than ten
men firing at one.
10 When you turn out the light to go to bed, everything in the room will still be
clearly visible, just slightly bluish.
11 Dogs always know who’s bad and will naturally bark at them.
12 Police departments give their officers personality tests to make sure they are
assigned a partner who is their total opposite.
13 Megalomaniacs, like Dr No, prefer to kill their arch-enemies using com-
plicated machinery that will allow their captives at least twenty minutes to
escape.
14 When they are alone, all foreigners prefer to speak in English to each other.
Michael Ward-Horner
SIX SIMPLE RULES FOR DATING MY DAUGHTER
Rule 1: If you pull into my driveway and honk your horn, you must be delivering a
package because you’re not picking anything up.
202

Rule 2: You never touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so
long as you do not peer at anything below the neck. If you cannot keep
your eyes or hands from my daughter’s body, I will remove them – from
your body.
Rule 3: I’m sure you’ve been told that in today’s world, sex without utilising a
‘defence mechanism’ of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate, when it
comes to sex, I am the defence mechanism and I will kill you.
Rule 4: It is usually understood that for us to get to know each other, we should
talk about sport, politics and other issues of the day. Do not do this. The
only information I require from you is when you expect to have my
daughter safely back at my house and the only word I need from you on
this subject is ‘early’.
Rule 5: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter:
places where there are beds, sofas or anything softer than a wooden stool;
places where there are no parents, policemen or nuns within eyesight;
places where there is darkness; places where there is dancing, holding
hands or any form of happiness; places where the ambient temperature is
warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank-tops, midriff T-
shirts or anything other than overalls, a sweater and a goose-down parka,
zipped up to her throat.
Rule 6: Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of
your car in the driveway for a helicopter coming in over an oil refinery
near Beirut. When my Gulf-War syndrome starts acting up, the voices in
my head tell me to clean my guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter
home. As soon as you pull into the driveway, you should exit your car
with both hands in plain sight, preferably above your head. Speak the area
password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter
home safely and early, then return to your car – there is no need for you to
come inside. The camouflaged face in the bush will be mine.
Michael Ward-Horner
NETCRONYMS @ CYBER CAFE
HotRod: PMFJI (pardon me for jumping in).
Satin: A/S/L (age/sex/location).
HotRod: 19/yes, please/wherever U want
Satin LOL (laugh out loud).
HotRod: JK (just kidding).
Pottie: ROFL (rolling on floor laughing). Not!
HotRod: FWIW (for what it’s worth), sorry!
Satin: G2G (got to go).
HotRod: Wot? Now? Just getting 2 no U. Where U going?
Satin: BRB (be right back). POS (parent over shoulder).
HotRod: OK, C U L8R.
203

HotRod: Any1 out there?
Pottie: No! JK (just kidding).
Hana Sutch
IN CASE OF PLAGIARISM
In case of plagiarism, repeat after me
In case of repeating, take notes
In case of notes, don’t play the same tune
In case of tune, observe your muse
In case of muse, is she a goddess or are you musing over another’s art?
In case of art, what is it?
In case of it, being something old, new, borrowed or blue
In case of borrowing, did it make you blue?
In case of blue, you blue-eyed boy
In case of eyes, did you think of me?
In case of me, place your blue eyes behind you and wait
In case of waiting, I served you my ideas on a paper tray
In case of tray, place the first half of better before it
In case of betray, read this: ‘plagiarism is the knowing presentation of another person’s
thoughts’
In case of thoughts, am I just another person?
In case of just, were you?
In case of you repeating after me
In case of repetition, take note
In case of repeating notes, is it plagiarism?
In case of plagiarism, repeat after me
Author Unknown
204