Secret Whispers
Alessio Fabbri

May or may this not be the last chance
For the pretty white bird to sing along
Those who listen shall know
That a song must be sang

Let the river walk this way
Witness of a thousand tears
Painting doodles in the fields
Where the hearts have no such fears

Over the sky, no clouds to be seen
And the stars can’t stand to lose their place
Among the ancient threats of men
Never falling out of grace

There is no shame for the bees
To bow and curtsy to the majesty of this
And colours flash through blurry trees
When the parade appears to please

Solitude among the wildflowers
A thousand petals dance together
Till the moon presents no mercy
Wishing this could last forever

The cheerful note of melancholic past
Flashes through the bones and blood of a restless soul
That no more pain wants to bear
And then as high, wishes to have flown

Below there, it’s under the cork tree
That the golden wires fall down to the ground
By unaware people and unwilling smiles
A message of love seeks to be found

CONSTANCE PART 3 - FOG RINGS AND CLARITY

Four years changed and I felt the brunt of none of it. By then my dreams had become plainer as imagination turned its hand to more grown-up matters. Nevertheless my steps towards the twenty year milestone were still as timid as they'd ever been. Not without Constance. She'd been there before, she had to be there again. And then, in the shade of dusk, she stood before me once more. Once more.

            She turned away. She'd changed her hair again: dyed it blonde, let it grow out. I sighed and touched her shoulder. Her cotton jumper felt damp. I moved around her, searching for a smile. Her lips twitched and quivered. Before I could catch her gaze, she hurried forward. I could not fathom where she was going: we were surrounded by a ring of fog.

CONSTANCE PART 2 - STOCKINGS AND PATIENCE

   The slightest rustle of nylon unfolding: a very humble sound to drift into. Not to mention rather promising to a lustful teenage boy. I yielded to a glance at her thigh.

            Oh yes, she had certainly changed with the times; renewed herself, if you will. She could well have been anyone else if it wasn't for her angular chin, her pert little nose. The long brown ringlets had me fooled at first but I recognised the sparkle in those rolling eyes. We were old friends in new roles. For one afternoon in my sixteenth year, the woman of my dreams had become my lover. If only I could remember what had led to this very contented moment.

            My mind was completely blank. All I knew was that I was now truly a man and that a true man would not let a woman like her leave again. She told me she had to: I was only her four o'clock, after all. Naively I thought I was more. I watched dumbly as she draped her red leather coat across her shoulders; I merely nodded as she fastened the straps on her jewelled shoes. I kept commanding myself to stand up, to reach out for her hand but every moment after I did nothing. At last she collected her money and made for the door. At last I found my voice.

CONSTANCE PART 1 - BISCUITS AND ELEGANCE

  Dreams. I've never paid much heed to them. The kind I usually have are loud and screechy things, splashed with colours so bright they're obnoxious. And don't get me started on the experiences of my earlier, more tender years.

            Sleep was more of a place back then; a gaping cave mouth with a heaving breeze leading in. The things I found there weren't so much nightmares but wild imaginings dressed in formal clothing. Nothing is so paralysing than the sight of the usual going terribly wrong. On waking though, there was always a sense of relief as my eyes adjusted to not just the immediate surroundings but to the comforting knowledge that what was now happening was actually happening. Here the horrors were much larger but could always be hidden from, from behind a warm duvet and five extra minutes lie-in.

            But then, as I was drawn in one gentle night, I suddenly found myself...elsewhere. 'Elsewhere' looked nothing like the other dreams. It was the finest living room I'd ever seen. So many facets and ornaments of 1920s elegance. How I admired that period; its art, its colour. Such a fresh-faced era. But the room was a blurry nothing, a background fading in and out of focus. My focus was busily set on the sight sitting so primly before me.

The Siren: By Alex Adams

Daylight drifts through the tiny slices in between the blinds. It’s stuffy in here, the air feels heavy. The air conditioning makes the same old mechanical rattle. I roll over and see the space, that gap that weighs so heavily on my waking eyes. I reach out into that vast expanse and touch the sheets; they are cold. For a moment I see those powerful ochre eyes staring out at me, a smile, and then it disappears. She has gone. Does she think about me at all anymore? Why on earth should she? The photos on the wall bear the brunt of last night’s desperation. The little pieces still stuck to the wall by the pins, a fragment of a hand here, an edge of blue sky there; all that’s left. I drag myself out of the murky daze and sit upright. The clock reads 11:30am, no matter really, I quit my job. Well, at least that’s what I tell my friends. I slowly rise and shamble around the flat. Everything smells stale; the blinds haven’t been opened in weeks. I check my phone, one missed call from Charlie; I’ll call him later. I eat burnt toast and sip on the black coffee, haven’t been to get milk in a while.

The clock on the wall clunks away monotonously, the refrigerator buzzes angrily, there is never a silence in this flat, only nagging little noises. It’s 5:08pm, I should call Charlie.

“Hello?”

“Hey”

“Mate! Where’ve you been? I heard about you and…”

“Busy, sorry”

“Mate I’m so sorry, I know you and her really were-”

“What did you want?”

“Well little Tim finally got something of worth from all those hours he pissed away sat on eBay”

“Yeah?” I pick idly at the dirt on the sofa

“Just meet us on the roof mate”

“When?”

“Now, seriously man you’re gunna wanna be here”

“I don’t… I don’t know, I’ve got things…”

Charlie’s usually cheeky tones are dropped, he speaks from the heart.

“Mate, please. We miss you, come up. Please?”

I look around the room; there’s nothing here but bad memories, the ones that really hit you when you’re alone.

“I’ll be up in ten”

I hang up and run my hands through my hair; filthy. I dig around for some jeans to wear. I pull a pair from a pile on the floor revealing a box underneath. The room seems to fall silent, if only for a moment. I know what is inside. The furry little bear she gave me, the card, the photos from that day. I look at the box with fear. If I dig deep enough in this place I know I’m going to find things, more memories. You can’t escape the past; you just have to move on; something I wish I could do. I throw clothes over the box, hiding it. You forget it’s there after a while, that is until it surfaces again bringing all the darkness with it. 

The door shuts behind me and I climb the stairs. There’s a tattered notice on the lift doors that promises it will be fixed soon, like hell it will. I never used it anyway, always something undesirable in it; someone’s regurgitated late night kebab, needles, graffiti… and worse. I guess in a place like this you get what you pay for.

The door to the roof is propped open with a brick; people learn this valuable action very quickly with this door. I can feel the dry air coming through it. As I swing open the door a hot blast hits me before the wind whips the warmth away. It’s an overcast day in London; the clouds are greys and deep blues, a hint of purple in places. My eyes are still almost blinded; it’s been a while.

Charlie sits in a small arc of deck chairs someone left here years ago, never been moved. He smiles as he sees me and blue smoke curls out of his mouth. He stubs out the spliff on the ground and brushes the ash off that same old purple hoodie he seems to always wear. He beckons me over and pulls a bottle of beer out from a crate he’s brought up. The old chair is surprisingly comfy, and as I sit there looking at the grey skyline I hear birdsong for the first time in weeks. I listen to the carefree little melodies as I tentatively sip the beer, though the skies may be leaden, I feel a little cheered.

“Good to see you mate.”

Charlie pats me on the shoulder. It’s a nice feeling to be part of something again. David paces near the edge of the roof looking down over the city below him. He turns and waves at me, adjusting the ridiculous brown tea cosy he wears with a grin, always a grin. In the centre of the arc of chairs stands a short red metal box. It has a large handle on one side and looks almost like an industrial fan of some kind.

The sun is setting slowly casting a thin orange haze through the clouds and over the sprawling mass of this city. David turns round and almost skips over to us.

“Shall I crank it?” He waits for Charlie’s approval like a child eagerly awaiting a present.

Charlie nods with a smile and looks at me

“Listen to this mate”.

David stands by the fan and begins to turn the handle; the blades inside spin to a blur as a sorrowful moan issues forth from it. The sound grows and grows; the air seems to vibrate around us as the siren blasts its call across the skyline. The clouds seem to break apart just enough to let some of the days dying light creep through illuminating the tall monoliths around us in bleached ivory shades. David lets the handle go as the wail dies back down; the clouds seem to close up again. He lets it roll down for a minute before beginning all over again. The mournful tune seems to stretch out to the horizon. The memories it must conjure, fear, trepidation, people will check the skies to see if they are falling; all because of this little red box. The sheer power it has over this city awes me.

I stand watching as the sun makes its way slowly down; golden fingers creeping slowly back to the horizon. The wind is cool but refreshing. I feel more awake now than I have been for months, David chuckles broadly as he cranks the handle with such great delight. Charlie slaps his leg and laughs merrily over the din. He looks at me with a cheeky glint in his eye. Anything is possible. I think about the box, about fragments of pictures, about the bed. The siren calls out to the horizon in defiance against this bleak day, a smile touches my lips.

Collection of poems: Anne Iredale

 

Catching Rain

We are starlight.

We are stories.

We are an empty chair.

Please remember that I was there.

And you’ll remember me in silhouettes and muffled sounds,

Dreamscapes in which I’m the star,

Trying to catch rain with your hands

As I run past the corner of your eye,

Darting in and out of your conversations.

You will remember me.

I know you will.

We are starlight.

We are stories.

I will be an empty chair…one day

When I am no longer here.

Where will I be?

Trying to catch rain in my hands,

Sifting sands for clues,

Cold stars crowning my head,

I’ll be trying to get back to you.

To you.

To you.

I will remember you.

You know I will.

An empty chair that sings.

I will vibrate for you

In rivers rushing to the ocean,

In the breeze that whispers in oak trees,

In seashells that tell my story,

Softly.

I will shine for you

In soft sunlight in dappled streams,

In rainbows against the summer storm,

In all the glory that we made.

You will remember us.

I know you will.

An empty chair that weeps.

But move on.

Listen for me,

Look for me

But move on

And let me be starlight

And my favourite song

And let me fill the empty chair

With the fullness of you.

I will remember us.

You know I will.

We are stories

Come to pass

And the end takes us back to the beginning

And the cry of birth,

A new star bursts and I am not here.

I am everywhere.

Reveille

They danced

And she was a layer of silk away,

He could feel her heat

And the sound of trumpets dazed them.

Later,

Her back arched

And the arc of her scream

Tore through the Milky Way.

They had melded

With a savage grace,

Not a conquest but a treaty,

In declaration sung at high pitch.

Like two retreating armies,

They withdrew.

His rhythm had matched her heartbeat

And she knew,

She had found the drummer

To march her on

And the sound of trumpets dazed them.

The Hunter

It was supposed to be a rite of passage,

A slaughter to carry you to manhood,

The air was crisp

And the leaves were parchment dry.

Oh, you didn’t come up to expectations,

Oh, the rifle didn’t fit in your hand.

None of it felt right,

Felt like a jerk in a coonskin hat.

The deer was in your sights,

Lazily grazing,

You made a noise

And it looked at you dreamily.

Swinging the gun to the right,

The crack echoed to the sky,

The deer loped off to fight another day.

Father and you crunching back home,

Sun low in the sky.

He doesn’t speak,

Just gives you the look,

The look you know so well.

There was another forest

In a far off land.

You feel like a jerk

In an ill fitting uniform,

The gun doesn’t feel right

In your hand.

The moon is yellow,

The frost a dirty blue.

They said if you hesitate,

You’re dead.

The hunter and the hunted,

Face to face,

A sniper with a face but no name.

You dreamily look at him,

And the crack echoes to the sky,

Your heart stops in your chest

And flies back home.

Mother opens the telegram and screams.

Father says they sent a boy to do a man’s work.

Goes straight out to shoot rabbits in the dusk.

The moon is yellow,

The frost a dirty blue.

Short Story

By Jeremy Albaster
In the dim light from the doorway, her fringed eyes seemed part of the felt. The two girls were introduced to the young man in a formal but inviting manner. As if their comparative youth might bond them, thus taking care of the younger guests for the afternoon.
“These are my two princesses.” He smiled down at them and then added “Don’t let them get you into any trouble.” They all laughed accordingly before the adults manoeuvred themselves inside. The young man, only nineteen but soon to be twenty was not yet considered for the adult conversations that centred on such middle-class worries as ‘where to shop’ or ‘how good the wine was’. So far in life he’d been spared the horrors of trying to sell a house in a bad market or of deciding colour schemes for the spare room. He didn’t mind too much being stuck with the two children. He still had an unbound freshness within that meant he hovered towards the younger crowd in situations like this anyway. It had been unspoken but assumed in the journey over, that he would entertain the two girls, and so, upon introductions and pleasantries he agreed to take them out for a walk.