Novel | Times

The people who madethis issue happen

EditorSapphire Mason-Brown

ContributorsShannen Shayne Ambrosio, Charlotte Aucutt,

Rebecca Bamforth, Linda Bryan, John Conway, Al iGeorge, Karl Hobbs, Wasima Islam, YasmeenKhan, Rosemary Lynch, Mercy, Greg Needham,Brandon Seager, Hannah Sharland, Hol ly Standfast,I sabel la Steel , Kate Tattersfield, Peter Wysocki

www.novelmagazine.com

Many ThanksAli George, IdeasTap, V Inspired,

Contents

1 After her success with National Novel

Writing Month, Al i George set herself a

bigger task; one novel a month during 201 1 .

Al i gives us an insight into the project thus far

and what she plans to do next.

3 A Vase of Daffodi ls by Hannah Standfast

6 Autumn and Si lent Light by Linda Bryan

7 The Broken Promise by Charlotte Aucutt

1 0 Clockwork and The Invisible One by Kate

Tattersfield

1 3 The Girl Who Never Slept by John

Conway

1 6 The Gl itter Globe by Hannah Sharland

20 My Light by Linda Bryan

21 The Marble Boy by Rebecca Bamforth

23 Nature's Embrace and The World of

Water by Greg Needham

24 Our Mistakes by Brandon Seager

32 Reminiscing by Mercy

33 The Scarlet Thread Anthology: Cinders

and Cobbelstones by Peter Wysocki

35 Tesselating Truth by Kate Tattersfield

36 Unborn Ghazal by Linda Bryan

37 Untitled and Storm by Isabel la Steel

38 Volumes of Revolution by Rosemary

Lynch

39 Wind Turbines and Words by Isabel la

Steel

Comment

1 2 Books in 1 2Months

1 1 On Cuts to the Arts by Linda Bryan

1 7 Graffiti in London: Creativity or Crime?

by Wasima Islam

1 9 If You Were Real ly Heartbroken, You

Would Be Dead by Wasmia Islam

29 The Prejudice of Tattoos by Karl Hobbs

The People'sSupermarket

Shannen Shayne Ambrosio and Yasmeen

Khan explore the London food co-operative

1 2 Books in 1 2 MonthsAli George

J .G.Bal lard once said, ‘any fool can write a novel ’ ,

and that was before the Kindle was even a gl int in

Amazon’s beady eye. How spooki ly prescient of

him for, in 201 1 , this statement has been tested

beyond reasonable doubt – quite l iteral ly anyone

with access to a computer can write anything they

want, insert some page breaks, and cal l i t a novel ;

uploading it for sale in various formats to an

unsuspecting publ ic.

In spite of this, if I had a quid for every time I ’d met

someone who claims that they’re a writer, dahling,

only they don’t have time to actual ly write anything,

there’d be a hefty col lection of change for the bus

jangl ing in my socks. The perceived wisdom seems

to be that writing a novel is easy - a chi ld of ten

could do it given enough paper and felt tips – but

sitting down and making the time to fol low through

is regarded as a luxury.

After al l , who has that kind of space in their l ife

between working a job they hate, trying to eat

sensibly, going out at the weekend, reading the news, walking the dog, feeding the kids and pol ishing the thigh

high boots for this evening’s burlesque class?

Except actual ly, i t’s not as hard as you might think. I t’s more a question of priorities. I f you write for an hour a

day, you can have 30,000 words of a novel on your hard drive before a month is through. I ’m not plucking this

out of the air, incidental ly; I ’m basing it on experience.

This year I have dedicated myself to writing the first drafts of 1 2 books in 1 2 months and so far I ’ve written

1 91 , 659 words. That’s on top of working two fairly ful l -time jobs (freelance journal ist and admin temp) , and

doing my best to lead some kind of normal 20-something social l ife as wel l .

1 2 books in 1 2 months was kick started by National Novel Writing Month, which I completed in November

1

201 0 two days ahead of schedule. The goal of NaNoWriMo is to write 50, 000 words of a novel in

one month. Success made me arrogant, and I decided to spend this year writing 50k of a different

novel in a different genre every month. Oh, and I ’ve been blogging about it too.

The first lesson I learned was that my word count target was massively optimistic. I ’ve been

averaging something closer to 30k a month, whi lst in June it was a struggle to reach 20k. I t turns out

pushing yourself to write this much without a break for six months makes your brain hurt. Who

would have thought it? Sti l l , the positives have so far outweighed the negatives. My brain may have

melted a l ittle, but I ’ve met lots of interesting people and had some great feedback and support,

particularly from the onl ine community. I also got to guest blog for Mslexia Magazine for three

months. And because I ’m writing in 1 2 different genres I never have the opportunity to get stuck, or

bored, or crushed by my inner editor – frankly there isn’t time.

Next year I intend to return to these books and begin the laborious process of re-writing and editing.

They are currently first drafts, ful l of holes and errors and occasional random streams of

consciousness, and they wi l l need a lot of work before they can be unvei led before the reading

publ ic. But you can read excerpts and l isten to readings on the blog in the meantime.

When this is over I ’ l l also be writing a thirteenth, non-fiction book about the process of writing 1 2

books in 1 2 months. The chances are with thirteen finished books under my belt, at least one wi l l be

of interest to the al legedly flaky and hard to please publ ishing world. And if not, we’l l final ly have

proof there is some kind of conspiracy afoot to keep new writers working in retai l and offices with

nary a rug on their garret floors.

Wel l , that or a quivering pi le of jel ly that once answered to the name of Al i George, the idiot who

tried to write 1 2 books in 1 2 months.

You can find the blog at www.1 2books1 2months.com | Fol low Ali on Twitter at

@1 2books1 2months

2

A Vase of Daffodi lsBy Hol ly Standfast

Something smel ls different. I reckon John’s bought me some new flowers, he always tel ls me they brighten up

the room. I hope he’s brought along my favourite vase too and put it on my side table. The one I keep in the

cupboard to use on special occasions. Or maybe they’ve just cleaned. I ’m not sure, but I can just tel l that

something is different. But then again who knows? Days just seem to merge into one another in here. I ’ve

basical ly lost al l concept of time anyway so how would I know what’s changed in here since yesterday. John

always buys me daffodi ls. “Simple yet beautiful” he always used to say. We had them at our wedding. Mum

didn’t l ike the idea though. “Who’d have daffodi ls at a wedding?” she said. But I went ahead with the decision al l

the same, and walked proudly down the aisle to John with a smi le from ear to ear that was equal ly as bright as

the flowers that I had clutched to my chest. I insisted on having daffodi ls at my wedding for the pure

sentimental value of it. When John and I were younger we used to take long spontaneous ‘road trips’ to here-

there-and-everywhere. John had a Mini , which I both adored and envied him for. I desperately wanted one of

my own, but at the end of the day, I felt ever so glamorous being chauffeured around in it by John. We’d leave

the house in the morning and return whenever we pleased. The world was our oyster, so to speak. Maps were

irrelevant and of l ittle importance to us. We’d adopt a more ‘left, right, left, right’ mental ity. I t made me feel

young and more importantly, free. I remember this one day when after a good few hours of ‘ left-ing and right-

ing’ , John pul led the Mini into a sort of secluded forested area, i l luminated by the radiant glow of daffodi ls. Each

flower stood tal l , with its head held to the sun, as if soaking up the rays. I t was then that John proposed, and

wel l , the rest is history real ly. I thought what better way to document our wedding day than with the very

flowers that brought us together. Mum thought it was corny, cheap, and made no effort to hide exactly how

she felt about it. Looking back, I think it was more John than the flowers. But John l iked the idea, which pleased

me even more. So daffodi ls it was.

*

I can’t bel ieve it. He’s actual ly brought her here. What kind of pathetic excuse of a man brings his ‘bit on the

side’ to his dying wife’s bedside? I know John’s been having an affair. I ’ve known for ages. He thinks I ’m clueless,

but I ’ve read the signs. Little things give him away. I notice al l of them. Regular private cal ls from a ‘Mr So-and-so

at work’. Ironic that ‘Mr So-and-so’ l ikes to cal l at some godforsaken hour of the morning. I ’d pretend to be

asleep, but al l the whi le I ’d l isten to l ie upon l ie spi l l out of his mouth. I wouldn’t be able to hear al l of the words

clearly as they’d be muffled from downstairs in the kitchen. But I knew what he’d be saying; I didn’t have to hear

it. Then he’d sl ip back into bed and fidget for a few minutes before final ly fal l ing back to sleep. I wish the same

could be said for me. I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts of John and her together were enough to keep me tossing and

turning for hours on end. I ’d check his phone later, but al l the evidence would have miraculously vanished into

3

thin air. I could perhaps begin to understand if the affair had started after I ’d fal len into the coma. I imagine

John’s lonely. I can empathise after 6 months without a wife and much hope for the future. But prior? You

know, you read about this kind of thing in magazines. So many times I ’ve scanned through the letters on the

‘Dear Sue’ pages and pity the poor desperate woman who’s writing in for just a fraction of advice to help stop

her world from fal l ing apart before her very eyes. But never in my wildest dreams had I imagined it would

happen to me. I felt smug. I felt that in some ways, they were inferior to me. I feel bad about it now and

embarrassed that such thoughts had ever crossed my mind. But I honestly bel ieved that my John wouldn’t

dream about doing such a thing to me because what we had was real and true. How stupid I was. As I ’m lying

here, I ’m wondering what she looks l ike. Is she prettier than me? A skinny-mini-blondie-boobie-barbie-girl

whose waist is only a few inches in diameter, and who’s young enough to be my granddaughter? I ’d always

hoped that John would have a bit more dignity.

*

I can hear the doctors talking. I ’m no expert in the area of medical jargon, but it doesn’t sound good. “Why

can’t you hear me?” I want to yel l . But I know no one wil l l i sten. John’s back today, alone. I chuckle a l ittle inside

at the idea of his hypocrisy. Why is he doing this to me? I don’t know the answer. But I can feel his grip on my

hand. The l ines of one particular poem keep coming back to me. The name ‘Miracle on St David’s Day’ by

Gi l l ian Clarke sounds fami l iar. That sounds about right. I think I studied it for A-level Literature years ago. God,

I ’m getting old. I t feels l ike an entire l ifetime ago now. The l ines read “In a cage of first March sun a woman; sits

not l istening, not seeing, not feel ing; in her neat clothes the woman is absent’”. I feel l ike that woman. I ’m the

one who needs the miracle now. I want more than anything to squeeze back so tightly. Just a smal l token

gesture to show that I ’m sti l l here. Sti l l al ive. I can hear every word that he’s saying to me. I want to erase the

past few months and pretend that they never even existed. Create a time machine that enables me to travel

back to happier times. Times when there was no ‘other woman’, when John and I had the whole world at our

feet and a fresh new l ifetime to spend together. But those days are long gone now. Life is cruel . I ’ve been

contemplating it for a whi le now, but it has occurred to me that bad things only ever happen to good people.

Take Martin Luther King for example. I ’m no holy woman, but could it be true that, perhaps, God only takes

the best? Those of pure heart and soul? I ’ve tried so hard for so long to please others. Could this in fact be

God’s way of repaying me? Being alone in one’s thoughts for such a vast amount of time can clearly change a

person. I feel different, to say the least. My body feels different too. Nowadays I think of my body as an outer

shel l , because that’s al l i t is. A tough outer exterior that I am consumed, enveloped and imprisoned by. Many

people’s idea of a l iving hel l . For the record, I can clarify this to be true. I am l imp and paralysed, yet my mind is

more al ive and active than ever before. My senses are on ful l alert. I imagine them to be the prison guards that

are patrol l ing my own personal vicinity, preventing me from reuniting with my body once again.

*

Oh dear God. I can feel the l ight closing in on me. Darkness is coming. I feel for John’s touch, but his hand is no

longer there. Neither is mine. My hearing focuses intently on to the deathly sound of my l ife support machine

shutting down.

4

Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

I t is in these final moments that I cast my mind back to daffodi ls. That

afternoon with John in the forest where the l ight of the daffodi ls shone

so brightly. I can’t smel l the daffodi ls that are on my bedside table

anymore. Perhaps they’ve wi lted. I reminisce at the relationship that

John and I once had. Maybe it was never as perfect as I ’d thought. I was

so wrapped up in ‘us’ that maybe I never saw what he was real ly l ike

because I didn’t choose to see. Maybe Mum was right. More l ines are

fi ltering through my head now. Another poem I think. A poem by

Wil l iam Wordsworth. I recal l the last few l ines ‘And then my heart with

pleasure fi l ls; And dances with the daffodi ls. ’ I ’m back there, with John,

surrounded by the daffodi ls. I can see the l ight, but my l ight is going out.

My heart is dancing slowly, more slowly. . .

5

Autumn

By Linda Bryan

Bruised dates sit tired on the kitchen counter

Auburn leaves osci l late in the arctic wind

A confetti of dandel ions revel among the tanned soi l

As the kettle unvei ls its thin haze

Coffee grains disperse, encapsulating the morning air

The cold sun streaking through my window

The crooked fence engraved in the ground

Scattered pebbles make a bed in the sl its of a pavement

The ineffable sound of a black crow cal l ing

Crusades of birds gather around the moulded bread crumbs

At the end of the wrinkled road the breeze is harsh

and the skin of the earth is dry

Another autumn morning

Si lent NightSi lence confined the night,

when the stink of incense coi led in the air.

We stood abreast,

Your jealous green cashmere irritating my skin

Our breath entwined,

our refined image stalking the wal ls

The recitation of rhythm tic rumbl ing

The sound of a Banjo beating . . . .beating

Sedate me with your thorny finger tips

Let us wait quietly

I stare out the window, with vacant eyes

I watch a bluebottle quiver in the street

Stumbl ing upon the swirls of wind

Searching for its way home.

6

The Broken PromiseBy Charlotte Aucutt

The water rippled gently against the white rocks at the shore as the sun shone high i l luminating the land below.

It was the height of summer, a summer that let love rise as though they were the hazy heat of the mid day sun.

Katherine lay against the grassy dunes, with her love of a year next to her, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

Their fingers entwined and their breathing was synchronised with the repetitive movement of the whooshing

tide. “I love you Ben.. .” Katherine smi led, exposing her gleaming and perfect teeth. She felt his touch l ightly

graze her cheek, so l ightly it could be the gentle brush of the air.”Katherine.. .”he paused, a crooked smi le

washed over his sculptured face, “I love you so much more.. .” He chuckled.

The time passed by and crowds of people enjoying the summer weather passed; the couple remainedn. “I can’t

wait for the party tonight it’s going to be so great! Imagine al l the people we haven’t seen since summer began!”

Katherine was too busy daydreaming about the night’s crazy events to notice the shadowing darkness cross

Ben’s face. He muttered under his breath “. . .Sure.. .” Ben sensed the brooding depression emanating from his

body being scrutinised by the wonder l ike green eyes of Katherine.. . “I t should be good” he quickly added.

The sun chi l led, sending icy fingertips brushing across the couples l inking arms. “I have to go now. It takes a

whi le to make a face this beautiful you know” the pair held onto the other tightly as though the winter gale

force winds were striving to separate them. It wouldn’t Katherine thought, smi l ing a smi le so big. Ben’s smi le

mesmerised her, his teeth so white, his eyes sparkl ing. “Now, that’s a l ie. You’re unbel ievably gorgeous Miss

Katherine Lloyd!” He chucked and brought his lusting l ips to hers. Their worlds col l ided and they couldn’t care

less.

Ben left Katherine on her porch before heading back to the Ford he was so proud of. Settl ing into his seat panic

struck and nausea set in. She would be at the same party. Lucy! How stupid could he have been? Of al l people

he chose to confide in with his dirtiest, darkest secret, he chose Lucy, the arch enemy of his dear girl . Confiding

in Lucy was l ike Jennifer confiding in Angel ina before she got her nai ls stuck firmly into Brad. But, what could he

do now? He was an idiot but it was in the past. Maybe, just maybe, Katherine would understand.

He loved Katherine.. . So much in fact that the couple could l ive through anything and had. But would this make

the del icate thread break? He thought to himself as the wheels took off course from his destination. He would

have to talk to Lucy; persuade her to keep what had happened – what he had told her- to herself and

whatever she talked about to Katherine, leave that subject out.

Head bent down, Ben hesitantly rapped on Lucy’s door with nerves causing his steady hands to shake. He was

7

scared that Lucy wouldn’t be in. What am I going to do? He pleaded with his mind to give him the answer he

wanted. To go back in time. “Ben! Hey!” the girl at the door was Lucy alright. Her blonde hair curled back into

a ponytai l , those green eyes more aggressive than Katherine’s. “Don’t tel l her Lucy!” he implored. Evi l swept

over Lucy’s face. “Come in Ben.. .” she beckoned. Her fun had begun.

Once inside the toasty warm front room of Lucy Hyde’s house Ben’s fear had reached its peak. “Lucy, please,

it’s not fair on Katherine.. . I t would break her heart if she knew.. .” His brow frowned as his mind was

demol ished by a hurricane of thoughts. “If she knew what Benjamin? That in both your hours of need her dear

boyfriend came to the enemy for a shoulder to cry on?” she grinned as she spat out the words. God, how she

hated Katherine Furnel l ! “If you don’t mind Ben I have a party to get ready for.. . Wil l I see you there?” She

winked, leaving a dazed and panicked Ben quivering on the porch. “Lucy please!” He cal led trying to melt her

frozen heart.

Katherine looked incredible. Her fair hair hung casual ly over her shoulder and her violet dress flowed behind

her as she giggled coming down the stairs l ike the bride Ben would want to see approaching from the church

aisle. But, tonight, there was an objection. Lucy. Katherine’s sweet smi le blocked out the vicious acts of Lucy; as

Ben clasped his hand to hers and kissed her softly. “Ready?” he sighed as though he had no care in the world.

“Ready” she repl ied definitely with no cares in her world.

The hal l was enormous and decorated with white and deep purple l i l ies. Katherine gasped as she saw the

sophisticated and modern décor that converted the old church into the hal l for the start of school party.

“Wow! Isn’t this just amazing?!” A high pitched voice came from behind Ben and Katherine. Lucy. They both

sighed and Katherine forced a fake smi le. “Leave it Lucy” Ben spoke in a firm cold voice. Katherine shot him

surprised glance but Ben only stared at Lucy showing her that he didn’t care for her games. He was too scared

to play. “Oh Ben!” she shouted across the loud music which was now emanating from the huge black monster

speakers in front of the square dance floor. “Don’t worry.. .” Lucy soothed in a menacing voice “Of course I

won’t tel l Katherine that you came to see me today to beg me, l ike a puppy, not to tel l her of our night

sharing.” She laughed “Oops! Dozy me!” she turned her hair flying back wards and walked towards the door to

meet her date.

“KATHERINE!” Ben shouted so loud that even over the music his fel low school students stopped to see the

commotion. Katherine was running out of the church, her dress hoisted up so she could easi ly escape. Ben

stood frozen. He had had the best thing in this stupid town and he had ruined it by trusting the witch ofWel ls

Vi l le Town – Lucy.

Katherine sobbed her hair blowing into her face; as though wiping away her tears. The icy moon i l luminated the

scene. The eyes of the happy couples glancing down at the mess sobbing on the church steps. “Katherine?” a

voice she used to trust softly echoed from behind her as she stood up , straightened her dress and started to

make her way down the stone steps. “Katherine, please!” He insisted, taking her arms in his warn hands.

“Please.. .” he added with a desperation she had never heard before. Katherine turned reluctantly, not meeting

8

his tearful eyes. “Ben, let go of me, please” she asked in a voice that sounded as though at any second she

would let out a huge sob. “Not unti l you l isten to me.. . I ’m sorry Katherine! I didn’t know why I went to her, if I

had knew it would hurt you so.. . I . . . I would of just. . .” He couldn’t finish. The hurt that was radiating from

Katherine was l ike tiny stabs in his heart. How could he have done this to her? He felt his arms slump heavi ly to

his side, expecting her to turn and walk out of his l ife without looking back. “Ben, why?” she asked with tears

streaming from her emerald green eyes. Their hearts were breaking. Katherine was determined for answers,

her heart breaking apart, but she needed to know.

How could she go on not knowing the whole truth? No matter what that truth was.

“Ben?” she cal led and met his eyes for this first time since they had entered the party. “Why did you go to

Katherine?” she sighed and bit her l ip before carrying on, “Do I mean that l ittle to you?” She cried and put her

arms folded across her chest, part because of the icy chi l l in the air, part because of the hurt she was keeping

inside.

“Katherine.. .” He nervously took a step towards her. She didn’t back away but kept her eyes burning into his, as

though she was searching his soul for her answers. “I love you. You mean everything to me. But, that night, I

thought I had lost you. Forever.. . I couldn’t bare the pain. I just saw Lucy and she manipulated me. I didn’t even

know who she was. I just thought she was concerned. But I was wrong.. .”

Katherine closed the gaping distance between them, lacing her fingers around Ben’s. She smi led. “We’re being

stupid aren’t we?” Ben’s brow folded in confusion. “Katherine.. .” He smi led as Katherine’s finger slowly reached

to his l ips, keeping him si lent. He kissed her fingertip holding her hand in between them. “Ben. I love you.. . I

don’t want to have to face school without you.. .” She bit her l ip. “Please let’s just forget this?”

Ben sighed. There was a happy ending for him and Katherine, but, he didn’t deserve a happy ending. He knew

he had hurt her and he could have stopped al l this, he could havre turned to somebody else to talk to. But, he

turned to the person who Katherine hated the most. “Sweetheart, you know I love you to.” She closed his

eyes, trapping the tears inside “But I broke our only promise” The tears escaped as he felt the tear in his heart

deepen. Katherine smirked, “I ’m not letting the broken promise excuse ruin us Benjamin!”

The broken promise was buried and that was that.

9

ClockworkSeek solace in the solstice,

the cold economy of numbered time.

Always seeking the grai ls,

The word bound scripts,

Brutal ly but beautiful ly nuanced,

And fel ine to the touch,

That are meshed in the chrysal is

Of momentary time

Unti l the solstice ceases to be.

And l ike clockwork

Thunderbolts fl ing us

Into a new Existence.

The Invisible OneBackbeat broken boardrooms

And the grey interiors

Of smooth sick deadened minds.

Meanwhi le, Away from the City

And its catatonic cries of chaos,

The weather beaten mind of the unnamed prophet Soldiers on.

I l luminating dark spaces,

Creeping into the smal lest corner of the room

Taking notes.

By Kate Tattersfield

1 0

On Cuts to the ArtsBy Linda Bryan

‘Education, Education, Education’ were the words that Tony Blair once chanted as Labour

campaigned to make education its number one priority. Years on, during the period of election, it

seemed nothing had changed and the majority were sti l l against the notion of tampering with

education. Now university fees have rocketed from £6,000 a year to £9,000 and as if this wasn’t

enough to raise questions of inequal ity in society, cuts to funding the arts have also been enforced

into the Governments plans. The Tories spoke these words prior to the elections;

‘That every chi ld in school wi l l have the opportunity to learn a musical instrument; that every chi ld

has a chance to sing; that every chi ld is able to receive a cultural education.”

Government plans to slash teaching funds for the arts, humanities and social sciences showed a lack

of appreciation towards the arts their contribution to society. Subjects such as Engl ish l iterature, law,

history, foreign languages, social studies, art, music and drama have been i l lustrated as insignificant to

the economy and society. How they fai l to see that culture, history and the arts help with the

development of our society I don’t understand.

History is what defines who we are today and is a record of our existence. Wiping out such subjects

could be detrimental to our society and young people as it al lows them to explore and recognise

their talents that could be beneficial to the economy. The decision to prioritise band A and B subjects

(science, engineering, technology and maths) has shown us what they class to be a necessity in

regards to education.

The withdrawal of funding wi l l h it the creative industries hard and the growth of culture, music and al l

forms of creative expression wi l l suffer in Britain compared to other countries. I /m sure that with the

rise in fees and the cuts to courses we wil l see a major decrease in the number of students studying

in Britain, less young people wanting to further their education due to expense and an economic

fai lure cultural ly and social ly. Through that a rise in unemployment I ’m sure wi l l visible very soon.

When Government original ly made plans to raise fees the National Union of Students claimed the

idea to be “An outrage”. Hundreds of university and col lege students col l ided with others to make

1 1

thousands on the 24th November and 1 st December 201 0. They protested

through the streets blocking roads and some means of transportation. Angry

students stood their ground, marching down the sl ippery iced pavements. A

school boy age 1 2 years old who attended the march on one occasion said “I wi l l

be on the front l ine. I ’m not scared. We’re told in school nothing is more

important than education”.

I t’s clear to see that these changes are not just affecting the students but the

students to come and they are the future who we rely on to better our

economy.

Tory MP Bob Blackman said in the evening standard “My key concern in al l of

this is the people who are ordinary income fami l ies in London who may be

deterred from going to university because of the higher tuition fees.”

Music, art, performance, dance, Engl ish l iterature, history etc are al l subjects that

enrich and bring colour to our country. These subjects al low students to enhance

their knowledge and ski l ls artistical ly and emotional ly. I t al lows them to express

freely their inner feel ings by investing it into something they are passionate about.

Limiting students choices and stripping away there opportunities wi l l destroy the

chances of self-employment and wi l l close many doors.

1 2

The Girl Who Never SleptBy John Conway

Out in the wi lder end of Northumberland there once l ived a farmer’s daughter who never slept.

She cost her dad a good deal in l ight bulbs and heating, but more than made up for it in the work she

did in the lonely hours, when her fami ly rested. She had so much time, and yet never wanted for things to do;

because others were always happy to give her the tasks that fel l fal l to them.

So when her mam got up, some time before first l ight, the breakfast would be mostly done, the

kitchen cleaned and the dogs fed. When her brother Mark got up, just before first l ight, the troughs were ful l ,

the mi lking machine was ready and the animals were already out. When her dad got up, at first l ight, the

tractor was fi l led with petrol , the rotas for the lads were ready, and his bacon would be crispy.

And this was aside from the other things she did. She washed and cleaned, she mended clothes and

farm equipment with equal ski l l , she saw to the occasional birth or death of an animal at inconvenient hours,

she fetched in the wood and fiddled the ac-counts better than even her Uncle Larry could manage. Al l this she

did al l night, every night, except for the one hour she al lowed herself to read.

She had been doing this since she was four, when she had become increasingly puzzled at sleep, and

had decided not to go in for any of that nonsense. She started with the few books in the house, but these

were few and simpl istic and tended to feature an-noyingly gung-ho males who did things l ike fly planes and

drink whisky, or go into distant fantasylands to free the exotic populace with the aid of only a talking goat and a

magical sl ipper. So then she started getting books from the l ibrary, on the sly of course, this was her secret.

But that was an hour of her l ife, the rest of her unsleeping time belonged to fami ly and farm.

Now word got out, and a few of the local boys perked up at the idea. The girl was known to be quiet and a

l ittle shy (good qual ities in a lass, they were sure) , was decently pretty, was the daughter of a wel l-off farmer

and al legedly never stopped working. Quite the prize.

So they began to court her.

First was Wil l iam ‘Bi l ly’ Avers, whose fami ly was from up Ashington way. He came to the girl one day

and decided he would act l ike a real man, because he knew that’s what al l girls l iked, especial ly her sort.

“Morning pet,” he said as she stitched her brother’s shirt in the back yard, “I ’ve been seeing you about

l ike, and I reckon you could handle me, and there’s not many birds I ’d say that about.”

The girl smi led, and said she would indeed handle him, if he could guess her favourite book.

“Book?” He sneered. “What’s a lass l ike you want one of them for?”

And so the girl lost her temper with the uncouth youth and strangled Bi l ly, and left his body in the pig

trough. They fed wel l that day.

Next was Abdul ‘Abbers’ Carter, whose fami ly was ‘not from these parts’ , which is what the locals

said in company when trying not to look racist. He decided the way to woo the girl was to act l ike an old

1 3

fashioned gentleman, and charm his way into her affections, sure a friendly smi le and pol ite words would be

just what such a quiet, hardworking girl would fal l for.

“Good morning Miss Handler,” he was wearing his best jacket and shiniest trainers when he

approached her outside the Post Office, “what a fine day this is. Would you care to take a turn about the

graveyard? It is uncommonly pretty since the l itter pick.”

The girl smi led, and said she would take a turn with him in the graveyard, if he could guess her

favourite book.

“Why,” he said after some thought, “for a genteel lady such as yourself, I would as-sume the works of

Mrs Stephanie Meyers.”

And so the girl lost her temper with the boy who saw her as such a stereotype, and beat his brains

out with the hardback copy of Tinker, Tai lor, Soldier, Spy she kept in her handbag for emergencies. She later

deposited his body in the freshly dug flower-bed of the vicarage, as there were some useful rumours about the

vicar. The Rhododendrons did uncommonly wel l that year.

The third boy to try his luck was l ittle James ‘Jammy Dodger’ Atkinson, whose fami ly was local and

had been local as long as anybody cared to remember (and they certainly cared to remind other folk,

sometimes twice a week) . He decided honesty was the best pol icy, and decided to tel l her exactly why he

would l ike them to plan a l ife together.

“‘El lo Sonya,” he said as she untangled the remains of a sheep from the wire fence that sat between

their field and the gorge, “I ’ve been thinking, ‘n my dad sez I ought to get married, ‘n I reckon your dad would

want you to marry my dad’s only son, bring the two farms together sort of thing. Up for it?”

The girl smi led, and said she would marry him for his massive endowment, if he could guess her

favourite book.

“The Bible?” he managed after several moments of hard thought, delving for the name of something

he had once read, in the distant time when he was required to do such things.

And so the girl lost her temper with the boy who didn’t even pretend to l ike reading, and whipped

him to death with a length of barbed wire before al lowing his body to sink into the bogs on the far side of the

gorge. The tadpoles did reasonably wel l , that year.

For a time there were no further attempts to court, seduce or marry her, the vi l lage was far too interested in

the mysterious disappearances to think of such things. The girl continued on as she had, deep at night working

her way through one of the more readable greats of Russian l iterature, and otherwise just general ly working.

But eventual ly there came attention from another boy, the sl ightly drippy boy on hol i-day with his

parents despite being a l ittle too old to be doing so. They were staying in a caravan, rumour had it the three

of them shared a bed.

He was staring at her one afternoon in the l ibrary, he sat with a hardback bedecked in fake, black

leather, with a si lver skul l on the cover. Hers was in shades of green and brown, and publ ished by Faber &

Faber.

She felt uncomfortable with his gaze on her neck, not because she was unwelcome to such attention,

but just because she didn’t want word getting back to her fami ly that she wasted time in the l ibrary. They

could get very snippy when she rested, they feared the disease would become terminal .

1 4

But he solved his di lemma and, for the first time in his l ife, asked a girl out. The way she handled her

hardbacks left him unable to resist.

She smi led, and told him she would indeed go round the back and “fuck l ike bun-nies”, if only he

could tel l her what her favourite book was.

He did not hesitate, merely wrinkled his brow in confusion and asked;

“You mean you actual ly have a favourite?”

And that was it, she was in love.

She was not a girl to wait around, and he was not a boy to blow such a chance. Seventeen minutes

later they were engaged, and sl ightly out of breath. Neither fami ly were pleased with the news.

His mother wai led and screamed and mourned the passing of her baby, she did not make it sound as

though he were dead to her, she made it sound as though death would have been the preferable option. Her

dad shouted and raged, asked what they were going to do on the farm. Who would strangle the unwanted

kittens now, he wondered. Did she expect her brother to do it instead? It was al l very tiresome.

Happi ly their di lemma was brought to an unaccountably fast end by the pol ice storming the farm; the

bodies had been found, and it was common knowledge al l three had been going to ask out the pecul iar girl

with the bags under her eyes. Her dad was not known to be a gun-shy man, nor to be the kind of man who

would al low his daughter to do something so selfish as choose her own husband. Their cars had flashing l ights

and rattl ing engines, in her father’s head came a flashback to that tragic night he had watched Ful l Metal Jacket,

Black Hawk Down and Apocalypse Now back-to-back; the bang of a faulty exhaust completed the feel ing and

out came the shotgun, with which he retreated to a makeshift barricade consisting of the fridge, two sofas and

the kitchen table. From that spot he peppered the invading fi lth with antique lead, accompanied only by a

succession of equal ly matured terms of abuse.

An armed response was sent, and in the ensuing gun battle the girl ’s mam and brother were both

ki l led, and her dad eventual ly subdued and arrested, after a good kick-ing in the pol ice van. The two lovers

escaped through the field, and soon reached his caravan.

He had already taken care of his parents by placing a sheep’s head (the same who earl ier had to be

freed from barbed wire) in the fridge, leading his mother to panic and accidental ly smother her much smal ler

husband in her colossal bosoms whi le she clung to him in fright. She then ki l led herself, thoughtful ly saving her

son the effort.

Their corpses were weighted and dropped into the town’s famous Deeping Wel l , according to

entirely fictitious local folklore the one remaining path to the death courts of King Arawn, which the girl felt to

be a happy irony. The two then departed in the bl issful malaise of first love, and planned their l ife together.

They found themselves opposite enough to be interesting, and simi lar enough to be compatible. He did sleep,

but mostly through the day, which was ideal for her because she was never lonely when it was l ight. More

importantly he did not cal l her pet, did not wear shiny trainers, and did not have any intention of ever owning a

farm. Instead he had a caravan al l of his own, she’d never met anyone who could offer her the open road in

such a way.

The marriage lasted half a year, but it was certainly fun for most of that.

1 5

Catch a star,

And twist it's l ight,

Into the corrosive shadows,

Of this creeping night.

Concoct a cloud,

And whisk it round,

The crevices of the screaming sky,

Like acid pebbles,

Writhing from the eye.

Can we find an alkal i ,

Just in time to neutral ise?

Destroy our sacred gl itter-globe,

This al l protecting ozone.

But trapped inside our own world,

We can't escape from our mistakes.

String up a bouquet of l ights,

Those twinkl ing freckles are a l ie.

Cleanse crimson hands among us,

But blacken, tarnish

Values we do not encompass.

Just a passing swarm of devouring dust we vent,

Into this thick, dense air,

Yet simply we pass judgement.

Industry our new recruit,

An untamed, unrival led catalyst,

A reaction one cannot di lute,

Pol lution the al ly we did not enl ist.

Such a world bui lt on i l lusion,

A place of nocturnal confusion.

How much terror are we wil l ing to create,

Before final ly; our dying dreams dissipate?

The Gl itter GlobeBy Hannah Sharland

1 6

Graffitti in London, Creativity orCrime?

By Wasima Islam

I t’s ironic how the majority of the society views graffiti as nothing more than a form of vandal ism

when in fact, graffiti dates back to the times of ancient Greece and the Roman Empire.

Graffiti is merely just a form of art expressed through the use of spray cans in vibrant colours on wal ls

and other surfaces. So how can someone object to the expression of art? How can London, one of

the most multicultural and diverse cities in the world object to the expression of art? A place where

different faiths, cultures and rel igions are expressed freely, where mosques and temples are bui lt for

the worship of many rel igions, where culture festivals such as London Mela are held and yet London

wants to adopt a zero-tolerance pol icy on graffiti .

How can Britain hold Britain events as Glastonbury for worshippers of music, and then completely

ignore the needs of people who express themselves using Graffiti ?

Admittedly graffiti can look much too colourful at times, and to be fair, some graffiti artists lack artistic

flair; I ’m referring to the graffiti I came across on my neighbour’s garage that said ‘ I l ike cheese! Deal

with it’ . I don’t understand how this expresses any form of art.

Nevertheless, to take it away completely would be preposterous. You don’t see music lovers holding

a festival the size of Glastonbury in the middle of central London. They have their place so graffiti

artists should have their own.

Of course, it wouldn’t be tolerated if music lovers brought their drums out onto the streets and

started marching for their own entertainment. Simi larly, graffiti artists shouldn’t be al lowed to express

their form of art just about anywhere, but there should be a place, a legal site that’s sole purpose is to

serve as the graffiti den, the place where al l the graffiti artists can whol ly express their devotion to art

on the wal ls of the streets of London.

1 8

I f You Were Real ly Heartbroken,You Would Be Dead

By Wasima Islam

To the desperate romantics sitting in their flat al l alone and in despair, distancing themselves from everything

but a big tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, a sad romantic love story rental and a box of tissues, tormenting

themselves over loosing the ‘love of their l ives’ , I have one thing to say, please stop! There is no point in

hopelessly crying your eyes out because she dumped you or he didn’t wait around to develop the inner strong

bond you thought you both shared, also known to you in the form of ‘love’.

Instead of torturing yourself by reading those texts from that person over and over again, crying at the sight of

every “I love you” and “I wi l l always be here with you”, get off that bed, get dressed and party hard! They left

you, their loss, or are you going to demean yourself and protect that person by refusing to bel ittle them

because you sti l l ‘ love’ them. If it was true ‘love’, then perhaps your darl ing dear would have not left you at al l .

Would they real ly leave you if they meant those words that they had said to you in what seems l ike ‘once upon

a time’?

I t must come to your understanding that there is a fine distinction between the ‘love’ that exists in real l ife and

the fairytales you grew up reading. Real ity is much more compl icated and less romantic. Nothing is stable.

Nothing is flawless. Nothing lasts forever. Perfection does not exist.

One of the most highly amusing and comical things is seeing the amount of lunatic lovers that go hysterical over

the mention of their exes. Why the tears? I ’d l ike to think that if I was unfortunate enough to be in their

position I could happi ly badmouth my ex, exploring my way through the dictionary of swearwords bl issful ly.

This is brings closure. Delete those misleading texts that were nothing but a bunch of meaningless words. Burn

the photographs of you two together that were nothing but a delusion. In fact, cl imb into their flat through the

open window and break and steal what you can, why do this? Because revenge is sweet. Of course, you might

not want to break or steal anything expensive or get into legal trouble, inexpensive vases and plates wi l l do.

Back in 2007, one of my friends thought she had met the man of her dreams, only to find out that the day

before their big wedding day, he got cold feet. His excuse was the rather amusing , “I ’m just not ready to

commit myself to one women for the rest of my l ife”, of course, he would not repeat the same mistake after

he was issued with a wel l deserved tight slap from his almost wife but not quite.

Don’t sit and mope around for a miracle of some sort, don’t wait around for them hoping they would see

sense and come back to you, don’t wait for someone that purposely left you. Show them, that leaving you was

the biggest goddamn mistake they had ever made! Instead of them thinking you were their biggest regret, make

sure that letting you go was to be their biggest regret! Make your mark, and make it permanent. Use a Sharpie.

1 9

My Light

I see you in the crystal tear drops of rain.

Your beam bounces through the water skies.

Your presence is the l ightness

that posses l ike the invasion of the morning glow.

The l ight belongs to you.

Your tone, your strings a si lent streak of shivers.

You’re so sweet, your touch, your smel l .

I mould your face in the clouds that float along

A long time I waited to get it right.

Your face the golden stem that defeats the curtains.

You come after the rain, a scene of beauty

My l ips were the orange butterfl ies that were woven

with azure prints,

I spoke your name and trembled.

The honey that dropped amongst the rotten petals

crimson. I lay to hear the orchids breathing.

The col lapsing sound of their buds

standing on the freckles of soi l .

Watching the short summer from a distance.

The sunrise of our tomorrow, stretched

across the purple skies.

The blue winds carrying my song

along the fading surfaces of the earth.

My desires streaming through your waterfal l .

There is a place where I belong

in your palms where you have carved me.

By Linda Bryan

20

The Marble BoyBy Rebecca Bamforth

The house I l ived in had been in my fami ly before WWII , it had been passed down through our fami ly since

that time and now it was mine. During WWII our house was used as a hospital of sorts where injured soldiers

or citizens would come. Many died here in this house; my grandma told me that she remembered one man

lying in bed screaming in agonising pain due to his having his leg blown off. That is, unti l he died 30 minutes

after arriving. She told me that she could sti l l hear him screaming sometimes.

Strange things did happen in this house, they happened even now, but I had learned to l ive with them and

share my house with them. I often heard one of the Nun's that visited; she was only a young sister at the

Nunnery and visited the injured dai ly. She'd walk along the upstairs hal lway; you could hear her footsteps and

the shuffl ing of her feet and the swishing of her dress on the floor. In the back room that I used as a computer

room was a room I was sometimes scared to enter. I wouldn't even al low chi ldren in there unti l they were old

enough to understand. A man had hidden in that room not long after the war, whi le the house was sti l l used as

a hospital but now only for mental ly unstable people. One day the man hung himself, distraught that he had

lost his wife and kids to an i l lness that they were unable to treat. Sometimes you see him sti l l hanging there,

slowly rocking side to side.

I am not here to tel l you the story of every ghost in my house, just one that I cal l the Marble Boy. He appears

every Wednesday in my l iving room. He's about 8 years old with WWII refugee clothing and brown hair. He

sits happi ly on the floor playing with the same 3 marbles. I t doesn't matter where I sit in the l iving room he

always looks at me and smi les before he disappears. I cal l h im Edward and he seems to l ike it. He sometimes

moves my things or his favourite trick.. .writing me messages in flour. Some of his messages can be quite

disturbing to me.

'You look l ike my Mama.'

' I saw my best friend shot.'

'He's coming for us, for everyone.'

'He took my Mama because she was Jewish.'

His messages in Engl ish confused me, why would he take his Mama if she was Jewish but l iving in England? It

bugged me so much that I left him message hoping he would be able to read it and understand. The next night

he left me another message but I seemed to have reached his l imit of Engl ish.

' Ich bin ein deutscher Junge aus Deutschland, aber ich entkommen war, ohne Mama zu verlassen, landete ich

21

hier falsch, aber die Leute in England um mich gekümmert.'

This translated to: ' I am a German boy from Germany, I escaped but had to leave without

Mama, I ended up here by mistake but people in England cared for me.'

I t made me smi le; this l i ttle boy had been through so much and then sti l l ended up dead 1

year after he arrived in England. He sti l l leaves me messages in German occasional ly; he

asked me one night if I would be his new Mama. I told him yes if it made him happy.

Though his favourite message to leave me was ' Ich l iebe dich.' Which means ' I love you.'

Such a sweet l ittle boy robbed of his l ife when he thought he was safe. I found his Mama;

she survived the war and for years after she looked for l ittle Edward. I found one of

Edwards Mum's Friends Descendants in Germany, she told me Edwards Mum died of a

lonely heart when she real ised she'd never see him again. She had a picture of Edward and

she kindly sent me a copy. Now I can look at Edward every day and see him every

Wednesday. Sometimes I wonder though if Edward's Mother’s ghost is sti l l looking for him.

What torture that must be for her; even in death she cannot rest.

22

Nature's Embrace

By Greg Needham

I set out this morning without a destination. Now I am here, deep within the web of the forest. With each and

every step you can hear the crunch of the crisp-fragi le leaves beneath your feet. I t' s late Autumn here, the

trees are bare and the ground is covered in a col lage of the red, orange and brown. Al l around me birds are

whistl ing their heartfelt song, whi lst the squirrels and hare dash amongst the fal len leaves.

I look to the sky to be met by an untouched grey canvas, not a hint of blue in sight. The win wai ls through the

skeletal branches of the trees bringing a frosty chi l l to my already too-red cheeks. There's a fresh-nature smel l in

the air, not the newly-cut grass kinda smel l , but more of a damp woodland smel l , the foretel l ing of an

encompassing mist. In the distance I heard the gentle slosh of the rainwater stream guiding a path down the

contours of the earth, cleansing as it passes. Truly purity in it's ultimate form.

In every direction al l I can see are tree trunks. This forest seems to be never-ending, a labyrinth of nature. I am

trapped. Wil l I ever escape these trees, wi l l I ever escape Nature's embrace?. . . I wonder.. .

The World ofWaterAs I stare out into that deep blue abyss I can feel the heat of the embracing sun above, it' s celestial l ight and

warmth extending through the surface of the cool , tranqui l blanket which encompasses me. Al l around are the

si lver-rainbow fish, reflecting the spectrum of that enigmatic world above. They twist and turn as they gl ide

through the coral reefs below.

In the distance I notice an abnormal but fantastic sight. From afar it looks to be a pink candy-floss cloud, but as I

drift closer and my sight accl imatises to the spectacle, I real ise it is in fact a smack of jel lyfish. Each one bobbing

up and down as they float through this endless paradise.

I t soon comes to my attention that my air reserves are depleted and it is time for me to ascend. As I arise

towards the portal of shimmery l ight above, I understand my time in this world is up, time for me to leave.. . for

now at least.

23

Our MistakesBy Brandon Seager

The single-pane window was covered by plastic bl inds, the off-white l ines not quite folding al l the way, and

through the gaps she could see the fl ickering l ights of the motel sign, highl ighted by a weak, red glow. It was

early – a quick glance at the clock on the wal l informed her it was about four in the morning – yet sti l l she

could hear the constant purr of traffic travel l ing down the long, straight road that sat adjacent to the motel , the

sort of endless highway that was never empty. I t was quiet otherwise, only the gentle ticking of the clock to be

heard coupled with the sound of her own breathing, and the groan of a mattress past its prime as she shifted

against the rigid bed upon which she perched.

Even though al l the l ights were off, the sickly yel low beams that crept through those cracks in the bl inds were

just enough to i l luminate the detai ls of the room, the basic, low-grade furniture, the paraphernal ia on the desk.

Clothes were strewn across the floor, a checked shirt here, in the corner a narrow tie, and a jacket had been

slung carelessly over the back of the wicker-seat chair, the contents of the pocket having spi l led onto the sul l ied

carpet below. On the end table to her side, a blocky, wooden thing with a single drawer, sat a mobi le phone,

which, as she peered in a l ittle closer, suddenly came to l ife, causing her to jump sl ightly. The screen l it up with

the image of a woman in her forties, smi l ing proudly at the camera, as the phone vibrated gently against the

table, probably inaudible to the customer, who had been in the bathroom for the past ten minutes. She didn’t

know what he was doing – he had excused himself not two minutes after she had arrived, offered him a

forcedly sultry greeting – but she did not bother to alert him to this early-morning cal ler. Within moments, the

phone was dead again, the woman’s face no longer on the screen, and al l was sti l l once more.

Feel ing boredom beginning to consume her, she inspected her surroundings once again. The customer had left

a book, not too far from the phone, which she pul led towards her, dragging it lazi ly against the hard, stained

surface. Squinting in the darkness, she could just about make out the title – The Catcher in the Rye – and her

fingers traced the styl ised horse that leapt across the cover, swirl ing brushstrokes of cream languidly running

across crimson. She had a vague recol lection of reading this one in school – al l the kids read this one in school ,

and, before she’d turned to working nights, she had quite enjoyed reading – but, in the early morning haze and

the numbness that spread through her legs from the cold of the poorly-heated motel room, she could not stir

those chi ldhood memories. She could not even remember what this book was about, she thought, as she

fl icked through it idly, the running pages tickl ing the edge of her thumb as they flew past, unti l i t had reached

the back cover. She was tempted to read the first few pages, but the thud of footsteps in the bathroom

reminded her that she was working.

From behind the paper-thin door to the bathroom, suddenly, there came the sound of retching – was that him?

24

As she strained her ears to l isten, she caught the muffled sound of a single, short sob. I t surprised her. She

could almost hear a cold sweat fal l ing from his forehead, each single bead dropping to the floor and crashing

against the l inoleum, and the sound of his muscles twitching and shaking, and then she knew – he was stal l ing,

behind that door, pacing, probably caught up in a wave of nausea because this was a mistake. Of course it was

a mistake – this entire field of business, if it could be cal led so, was a mistake, every transaction another mistake

– but never before had a customer deemed it so. I t was a first for her, and it almost made her want to cry,

summoning from within her a sadness, the source of which she could not quite pinpoint, but in this spl it

moment of something entirely uncanny – she found it unfami l iar, but so understandable – it almost hurt.

The grind of the door being unlocked caused her to turn her head, and there, with his back to the dim l ight of

the bathroom, stood the customer, his si lhouetted hand sti l l trembl ing as he gripped the metal handle tightly.

She looked at his face – the first time she’d seen it in any proper l ight – and was taken, not only by the sheet-

l ike pal lor of panic, nor the wet stains upon those colourless cheeks, but the vulnerabi l i ty. Now she saw, for

that façade of eagerness he’d initial ly displayed, he was just a boy, perhaps only just seventeen or eighteen, one

who’d raced into a headstrong decision with teenage zealousness, or maybe one who’d tried to quel l sorrows

with a first experience, but definitely one who, for al l his youth, was vulnerable. As he waited, naked save for

his shorts, goosebumps rising on his pale, smooth flesh, she saw before her an exposed, scared being, and, in

the strains of painful memories, it reminded her of what it was l ike to be young, vulnerable, scared and

exposed.

“I – I ’m sorry, this, this was a bad idea,” he choked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after he’d

spoken. She didn’t ask why. She didn’t ask what had been going through his head when he’d picked up that

card and that telephone – later, she would speculate, wonder if he saw sex as proof of manhood, or if she was

a drunken decision made by a boy miles away from home. For now, though, she did not even think to ask why,

simply accepting what was as she stood, the bedsprings creaking, running a hand across the creases in the dress

that clung to her slender frame, and nodded with a wan smi le.

“Here, look – I ’m so sorry, look –“ he stammered, as, seemingly caught up with fear, he dived to the desk and

flung the drawer open, rummaging about frantical ly before extending a money cl ip towards her, thrusting it

forth as a sort of offering, an armistice to fend off the fate the media had dri l led into his head – “Please, I ’ l l pay

you. Look, don’t, I ’ l l pay you for your time and everything –“

“Please, don’t.” She del icately pushed his hand away, leaving it to fal l l imply by his side. She didn’t want to be

paid, not for this. Being paid to become an object of lust and nothing more was in itself painful , hol low, but this,

taking money from a scared youth because he’d made a mistake, was something she found personal ly

unthinkable. He had no reason to pay her. She had no reason to accept his money. I t would have been so

cl ichéd, for her to think she was doing this in her capacity as the hooker with the heart of gold, but, in real ity,

there was nothing else she could do. Plagued with this existential moment, where a customer was afraid and

she was feared, she was no longer herself. Like some twisted mirror, she saw in him the wreck of a youth she

had been, with that same bruised naivety, and – to see it in someone else, something she had guarded so

25

zealously and smothered with her false security – it was crippl ing. She could only turn to

go.

Neither bid the other farewel l as she crept out of the motel room. For al l the raw emotion

and the pure humanity of that moment, with masks shattered by the unexpected, neither

had anything else to say. She felt his eyes upon her, oddly peaceful , as she left, and, when

the door had been closed, she knew she would see them no more. She hadn’t even known

his name, she mused, and even now she knew his face would soon fade from her memory

as more customers replaced him in her mind, the look of helplessness in his eyes soon to

be substituted for that carnal desire she had come to know. Even so, though, she knew she

would try desperately to hold onto the moment, that single moment of understanding,

where the low-class prostitute had more in common with the lost young man than anyone

else in the world, just as another of those vague memories, perhaps, l ike reading Sal inger in

school , that might stir again sometime in the future, when she was alone, with her thoughts,

and those tiny seconds of obl ivion.

The sun was rising now, slowly, just peeking over the horizon as the edge of the night sky

began to fade from deep purple to dewy orange, as she walked away from the motel and

into the direction of the gradual sunrise. Sti l l consumed by this feel ing of bizarre tranqui l l i ty,

but also a level of bleak emptiness, she sighed, taking a moment to compose herself before

putting the barriers back up once again, and resuming her working woman persona. Letting

her thoughts of the young man run from her head – she was sti l l on the clock for another

two hours – she al lowed herself one final glance at the fl ickering sign before resigning

herself to real ity, and the grounding fact that, unl ike in her fantasy world, one moment of

empathy between a stranger would never be enough to pul l her from this pit into which

she had fal len so far. This was her final thought of him for the day, as she l it up a cigarette,

the cherry burning brightly in the darkness, no longer someone’s kindred spirit for a fleeting

second – instead, again, a whore under the streetl ight.

Highl ighted by a weak, red glow, onwards she walked, heels cl icking against concrete

pavement, onwards to the next job. Always, onwards to the next job.

26

The People's Supermarket

By Shannen Shayne Ambrosio

A food cooperative is a type of grocery store. This means that it mainly sel ls food to their consumers. The

store is organised as a cooperative; an organisation that was establ ished to be owned by a group of people that

wi l l benefit for each other. Food cooperatives are known to offer natural foods. An example of a food

cooperative is the People’s Supermarket.

The People’s Supermarket is a food cooperative. I t is located in Holborn, London. The People’s Supermarket is

an organisation that entitles you to an ownership stake when you join their membership. As a stakeholder in

the store, you would also have a say in what happens in the store. As a member as wel l , you would get a 1 0%

discount on al l purchases in the store.

Joining the organisation is easy; if you l ive near-by you could pop in the store and ask about the membership.

An alternative way of inquiring about membership is by emai l ing info@thepeoplessupermarket.org. For those

who have access to the internet, you could also apply onl ine by going to their website, cl ick on join and then

how to apply. The web address for applying onl ine is www.thepeoplessupermarket.org/join/how-to-apply/.

As of now, the market has 1 000 members already. I t provides the community with cheap food, which is not

only cheap but also, has qual ity. They tend to create a commercial ly sustainable, social enterprise. The market

wants to offer a new way of providing food to the community. The supermarket wants to meet the needs of

their members; keeping them happy with their service and helping them make healthy decisions. They also aim

to buy and use sustainable energy to help the environment as wel l .

The People’s Supermarket has been such a success. The comments include: A bri l l iant concept, original , one of

London’s best gastropubs, excel lent experience, different from regular supermarkets, friendly atmosphere, food

looked amazing, great qual ity and, good prices. The fact that the supermarket has already 1 000 members for

their one year in operation can be considered evidence of their success.

The organisation has just celebrated its first birthday in the industry. The celebration was held on the 5th of

June in the store’s backyard. There were many exciting activities going on that day; music was provided by the

King’s Cross Hot Club, another activity held was the interactive art project. Last but not the least, there was

obviously food to go around!

Overview

27

Nowadays customers complain about changes, freshness and differences within a Supermarket. But how

many Supermarkets actual ly incorporate their customer’s feedback, in order to attract more customers, so

the business flourishes and operates effectively. Wel l look no further, as The People’s Supermarket has

already incorporated this idea of fulfi l l ing their customer’s needs and demands.

I t’s a Supermarket that sel ls food at affordable prices via getting members to join and work a few hours a

month voluntari ly. Which means they save on staff costs and any profit they make through sel l ing their

food products rebounds in making the food more affordable.

The People’s Supermarket isn’t just about sel l ing good food to customers, but an innovative way for

customers to provide for their community via having your say, putting forward your ideas and decide how

your supermarket should operate. So as a customer and a member of The People’s Supermarket, it’s about

taking ful l advantage on what you want and don’t want.

About

Why is it a Success?Many Supermarkets rarely think of news ideas to attract customers. I t’s al l about hiking and dipping food

prices, vying with other Supermarkets as a way of pinching more customers.

But The People’s Supermarket offers a change. They throw the bal l in the customer’s court, where you as

a customer decide what you want and don’t want. I t’s al l about working together in unity and choosing

what food is best for the community as a whole.

The People’s Supermarket isn’t only considered thumbs up with their customers due to its freshness, but

it goes the extra mi le by providing choices and information that help their customers make healthy

decisions.

Is i t an overal l success?The People’s Supermarket is riding high on success and going from strength to strength. I t’s a renowned

supermarket that has created its own original ideas via creating a durable supermarket that meets its

customer’s needs and offering top qual ity food at moderate prices.

I t also creates a professional working platform by valuing, taking into consideration and welcoming

everyone’s contribution in order to work out what is best for the community as a whole. I t’s a fantastic yet

effective Supermarket that tai lors the needs of its customers by working together as a large fami ly.

By Yasmeen Khan

28

The Prejudice Of TattoosBy Karl Hobbs

For many years tattoos have been considered a sign of rebel l ion to society associated with punk rockers, macho

bikers and gangs. In modern day society, tattoos are sti l l equipped with a great deal of stigma. The stigma

associated with tattoos is so large, that some employers may even turn down an individual who wants to work

for them, because of the sole fact that they have a visible tattoo. If a tattoo wil l be considered disruptive to the

workplace then I understand why an individual may not get a job, for example someone who has a 'British

National Party' tattoo on their neck may not be able to land a job as a pol ice officer for obvious reasons.

However, most won't have a tattoo as extreme as this, and often times it comes down to just whether a

person has a tattoo that can be seen in the work uniform, and not what it symbol izes, which wi l l be a deciding

factor in a job interview.

In my opinion tattoos are a personal choice, every day the media submerges us with role models sporting

visible tattoos, and they are sti l l talked about with praise and admiration, but yet the moment one of us

'average' individuals give in to the temptation, we wil l be looked at as a l ingering street thug waiting to rob an

old lady of her money. Anyone who has a tattoo wil l have their own reasons as to why they have the tattoo,

but it does not reflect the ski l l or the qual ities that they bear and wi l l be able to transfer to a job situation. If

someone is incompetent at a certain job, they wi l l be that way regardless of whether they have tattoos. I t is not

just in my opinion to look at an individual differently because they have a tattoo of a parachute with a gun on

their arm to symbol ize their Grandad’s service in the parachute regiment.

Tattoos are a sign of an adapting society, a beacon of evolution. An article from the Mirror website proclaims

that a third of young people now have tattoos. If this is the case then this just shows how society is removing

the associated stigma with tattoos. In 45 years can you imagine how many people are going to have tattoos?

The craze of tattooing is only just heating up in my opinion, the pot has only just been put on the cooker and it

is going to get heated up a lot more before it is set and done.

Tattoos also represent individual ity, the world would be a bland place if everyone was the same, and now

tattooing is a wonderful opportunity for everyone to express themselves, and use their creative artistic flair to

make an addition to their skin which real ly compl iments their personal ity, or a certain phase in their l ife. To take

away this individual ity would be a step backwards, we are no longer cavemen who al l look the same and

i l l i terately grunt at each other, we are now smart, rational human beings who have the right to make their own

decisions in l ife and l ive with them.

No matter what anyone says, it is direct discrimination. I for one have tattoos I am proud of and wi l l have many

30

more, regardless of what anyone else may think of me, you

don't know the reasons an individual has gotten tattoos and

mine define who I am, I would not change my tattoos for

the world, and l ike many others, I wi l l get more before I am

done.

A great quote from Mr King once read "Don't judge me on

the color of my skin, but on the content of my character".

The same appl ies to those with tattoos, individuals bearing

tattoos should be judged by who they are and not what they

choose to put on their own skin.

31

ReminiscingBy Mercy

I t was a day much l ike this one

when we last spoke.

Quite clearly I recal l

your presence, how I felt

when you wrapped your arm over my shoulder.

Cloudy, with a sl ight wind,

our hair flowing around our faces

with the breeze.

Your voice. Insistent, yet,

also strangely gentle.

Unl ike you to be so soft-spoken.

A hammer slamming onto metal ,

that was your voice, your

actions much the opposite.

Gentle, yes. Gentle, always.

The bench creaked under our weight.

And we laughed -

do you remember?

Our laughs together, they were

infectious – is that the right word?

Now I laugh empty, echo.

Missing yours.

The look on your face

as you stood up

mirrored mine, the moment lost.

Stolen by the action.

Waft of your aftershave.

And I cried -

do you remember?

Face crumpl ing up unattractively.

In those few seconds

you stared at me as

the tears fel l ,

I could feel myself being torn from you.

You cried too, and

I looked at you

startled.

You rarely cried. Ever.

I real ised that you had to do this.

So.

I let you go.

The last time we spoke.

And now, months later

I 'm sitting here and

I can smel l you. Feel your presence.

I t' s si l ly but -

I think you're sti l l with me.

32

The Scarlet Thread Anthology

CindersI sit and l isten to si lent memories as the cal lous

hands of winter caress

My skin in a bitter, precarious romance.

The cold is my mistress, but my love for you hasn’t

frozen.

And despite the chi l l , and the sol itude… I endeavor

to remain jovial ,

for birds sing their dulcet melodies with the

symphony of the breeze.

My ears, my mind floods with icy torrents of

winter’s amiable refrain,

But my heart remains bare without your hand in

mine,

Without the gentle harmony of your warm,

wonderful voice flowing l ike a clear blue river into

my deepest dreams, my sweetest reveries.

I am a boat on the sea of your love and devotion,

And the waters are the shimmering mirror of the

memories that time has long misplaced.

If time should wish to please me now, and stand

sti l l for one mere moment,

Then let the moment be this: our first night alone,

our very first kiss.

I am the lantern in the tree, and you are the l ight

within me.

Hand-in-hand we would waltz through fields of

the lovel iest flowers,

Which I would del icately pick for you.

I watched them bloom and brighten as you

Draped your fingers ‘round them.

The woods were fi l led with the soft echo of your

footsteps.

I recal l the wolf; whiter than the fal l ing snow.

Floating blue eyes against a si lky white canvass.

They gazed at you, and fai led to gaze at me.

You‘re the good in each person, and a sun that’s

blazing strong.

You’re the tender breeze, and sing its song.

I do not weep for you; you are not gone.

You are the petals on each rose, and the

raindrops on my window.

You are the dewdrops on the leaves, and the

snowflakes on my tongue.

I do not weep for you; you are not gone.

Now on the same road again, I travel alone,

trusting the day to take me home.

My heart is empty without the feel of your hand in

mine…

And I feel adrift in a semi-real wintry world.

The wolf, the resplendent white apparition, I see

again.

The ethereal specter, now sentinel to our jubi lant

memories.

I turn away and leave, as he gazes at the snowy

emptiness beside me.

33

The Scarlet Thread Anthology

Cobblestones

I walk along cobblestone streets, where my footsteps echo,

And I am found underneath the caustic l ights, my breath a neon cloud in the moon’s lambent shadow.

The streets are adorned in l itter; confetti of a faded dream.

They speak, but they say nothing.

Dark figures of a haunting sameness that has robbed their spirits.

A once-burgeoning flower, deprived of sunl ight and strangled by your velvet ropes.

A l ight that i l luminated the darkness, washed away by words so chi l led and piercing.

They are the proselytes of profanity, the converts of sorrow.

Autonomous though they are, they are grey and bleed propriety.

Puppets on a string, every fiber of their souls scream dazed thoughts in an inferti le mind.

Their souls have been raped, and now they wither back into shadows of conformity.

By Peter Wysocki

34

Tesselating TruthBy Kate Tattersfield

You are the conscientious deflector,

Reflecting dreams upon dreams

Tessel lating truths, and folding the un-truth,

Ti l l i t is creased

And no longer legible.

This world is a sweet shop

in which you are the Fuhrer.

You fed us on fast food

Then tried to wean us off-

We proceeded to wither and die

With a head ful l of heartache

And a heart ful l of promise.

Saturated in slogans,

We were the sacrifice.

35

Unborn GhazalBy Linda Bryan

The arch in your back showed curved ambitions being born

Simi lar to the sound of an innocent cry from a new born

You painted a crippled flower on a clean slate

but it grew with the sunrise and that’s when it was born

Plunged deep into the waters that cleansed you

You emerged from the ground again new born

Washed of your sins and bad deeds that tormented

As clean as the breeze that is autumn born

Lakes and rivers driven by the fire in the wind

and the velvet sky where the moon is born

The chestnut brown in your hair grown stale

Sti l l you blossom l ike time which is born

in the nakedness of the earth,

bare and exposed l ike a new born

Your heart unhampered and love so rich

Just l ike the heart of virgin un-born

36

Untitled

By Isabel la Steel

The grief has left its mark on me

A foriegn stamp upon my heart

I know not what the answer be

I only wish it would depart

Every dream would end in tears

Channels deep down every cheek

The pain errupted from my fears

The words I know I cannot speak

Though time passes slowly, the storm clouds do break

My sadness flees, my sorrows they take

For as the rain fal ls the roses grow tal l

And l ife is sustained by each muffled cal l .

StormThe rain is heavy

I watch it plummet

To the earth below

Each ready ripple

Wil l ing to flow

As every action

Starts a chain

A fal l ing secret

Like the rain.

37

Volumes of RevolutionBy Rosemary Lynch

The storm giants marched in the black and white night.

They towered and they fought

Ti l l they bruised a deep pinkish-grey,

And returned to balance moodi ly on the bowl of the world.

They did not see what you

And I

And my clock face saw:

A bright morning blue and a freshening breeze

That showed the pale undersides of leaves

And promised that

One day, flowers wi l l riot in the rai lway tracks.

They wi l l pul l down the bridges

and choke along the roads

Unti l certainty flees before us into the cool ing twi l ight

and the stars sing for salvation.

When that day comes,

when you gl impse a purple turret through the leafy mist,

come with me.

Come with me to the corner of your eye

and dance with me and my clockwork love

to the l imits of the sky.

Defy the l ightning with me for a thousand, thousand summers

And spin on the scars of the cuts to your heart. .

And wait,

As I do,

for your l ife to start.

38

Wind Turbines

By Isabel la Steel

A scar in the distance

A victory roar

The tal loned turbines

Up they soar

To chal lenge the eagles

To laugh at the sun

Their strength is daunting

They think they have won;

As hour after hour

They spin and they twist

To fund our obbession

They hum and they hiss

And al l I can see

Is a white hazy smear

Scribbl ing over

Al l I held dear.

WordsSheltered by the bounds of fate

The letters land on wisened tongue

Crafted into dreams of speech

The breath to every gasping lung

Tales it weaves for l istening souls

Places not yet known

The l ives of those who know not what

The seeds of destiny have sewn

Words; they haunt me l ike a knife

The trembl ing power of love and strife

To set against the deepest thought

The joy and sadness words have brought.

39

Thank you for reading

Next issue: 1 st October 201 1

Unti l then, you can find us here: www.novelmagazine.com