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Family Dinner by Armaan

Armaan is an undergraduate student of English Literature at the University of Edinburgh. When he is not running late for lectures, he may be found wandering aimlessly around the library or at the university’s climbing wall. His poetry is forthcoming in the Indian Literature Journal and he aspires to write frantically for the rest of his life.

Family Dinner

A round table, with one leg too short,
Ten chairs taking a space for six,
All under lightbulbs dim and flickering,
White light, not bright, rather dimmering,
Shining on backs hunched over steel plates,
Curved spines on straight-backed seats.
Mother sits in the corner, with eldest daughter,
One eye on the stew still simmering.

Father, grandfather and uncles
Eat away like the termites in the walls.
Those ploughs won’t pull themselves.
The meal is done, scraps remain,
Mother calls for the youngest.
All this in a space for six.
Sitting under dimmering bulbs,
Lines drawn in the land are mirrored by
Lines drawn on each hand.
The middle child shifts in his seat
To avoid an uncle’s elbow in his meat.
One can just about see
The creases on colourless foreheads
That move up, as smiles greet
A beetle stuck in the stew
Of the youngest, confused.
For once, even mother is amused.

You can find more of Armaan’s writing via Medium.

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Big Pete and the Russians by Emma Mooney

Emma Mooney is the author of A Beautiful Game and Wings to Fly, both published with Crooked Cat Books. Her shorter works, including poems and short stories, have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines. She is presently working on the final edits of her third novel and recently graduated with distinction from a Masters in Creative Writing at the University of Stirling.

Big Pete and the Russians

Danny watches Big Pete enter the pub with a swagger.

‘Y’aright Danny.’ Big Pete pulls out a bar stool. ‘No workin the day?’

‘Took a holiday.’ It’s only a wee lie.

Big Pete slaps him on the back. ‘Don’t let the bastards wear ye down, eh?’ Even when Peter Delaney’s sitting beside you, you have to crane your neck to look up at him. Cunt was in the year below Danny at school and was already a giant when he rocked up on his first day at Kirkhill Academy.

‘Fancy a wee chaser wi that?’ Pete asks.

‘Why no.’ Danny’s already knocked back a couple of whiskies. But he’s still sober. Still has his wits about him. And, if he’s in luck, a drink with Big Pete might provide the solution to his current problem.

They sip their pints in silence and stare at the headlines scrolling along the bottom of the TV screen behind the bar.

…Boris Johnson warns Russia not to repeat a chemical attack on U.K. soil…

Danny shouldn’t have been surprised when he was handed his P45 this morning. He’d already been given a written warning for being late.

…Homes across South-East England without water…

Well, fuck them. Let some other poor bastard get paid minimum wage for picking out bits of plastic and metal from piles of crushed cement in the pissing rain.

…Stock market surges to record high…

An old guy dressed in double denim shouts over to Big Pete that it’s his turn at the pool table.

‘Can ye no see ah’m busy?’ Pete shouts back. ‘Ah’m keepin mah guid mate Danny here company.’

The old guy doesn’t argue. Nobody ever argues with Big Pete.

They’ve all heard the story.

It had been snowing the day he killed the boy. Danny was in fifth year at Kirkhill—his last year at that place—so Big Pete would have been in fourth year.

It was the end of the day and the novelty of the white stuff had worn off. Everyone was cold and wet and fucking miserable. But the novelty hadn’t worn off for James MacDonald, a first year with shocking ginger hair and so many freckles they gave the illusion of a year-round tan. James MacDonald’s ma hadn’t got the memo on how to survive secondary school
and she’d sent her wee laddie out in a sensible winter coat, complete with furry hood, and a pair of navy-blue welly boots. She might as well have stuck a post-it note to his back that said kick me.

Maybe it was because James MacDonald was a walking target himself, or maybe it was because he took after his ma in the brains department; whatever the reason, there’s no doubting that James was the one that threw the snowball. There were at least twenty witnesses who said they’d seen him bend down and scoop up a handful of dirty snow with his woollen mittens. Mittens? Who the fuck wears mittens in secondary school? Seriously, the wee guy was asking for trouble.

The snowball hit Big Pete at the precise moment he turned round to speak to someone. And it landed, smack, between his eyes.

Danny can still hear the roar that erupted from Big Pete’s mouth as he pushed everyone aside and lunged straight for James MacDonald.

He only delivered one blow, but sadly for wee James one blow was all it took. Danny watched him teeter on his heels before crashing to the ground like the Red Road Flats. School was closed for the rest of the week and Big Pete was hauled off to Polmont.

He was out a year later and James MacDonald’s ma left town shortly after.

‘Ah’ve got a wee job fur ye tae consider,’ says Big Pete. ‘It’s easy, an it pays well.’

Danny’s hand hovers over his pint. No easy jobs pay well, but like his old man always said, beggars can’t be choosers. ‘Whit’s involved?’

‘Ah need someone ah can trust.’ Pete grabs Danny’s hand, flips it over and writes an address on the palm in blue biro. ‘An ah’ve heard yer the man.’

Danny doesn’t know what Big Pete’s heard but he can’t afford to knock back the chance of making some cash. He looks at his hand. What does Pete have doing business on that side of town?

‘Shove this in yer pocket. Quick.’ Pete hands Danny a brown envelope and a bundle of tenners.

A wee voice tells Danny to back out of it now, while he still can, but Big Pete is looking for someone he can trust and he’s turned to your boy Danny here. And the money will see him through for a few days until he finds himself another job.

Pete tells him what to do. ‘An remember,’ he warns him. ‘Ah need discretion.’

Danny grins. ‘Discretion is mah middle name.’

The muscles around Pete’s mouth don’t even twitch. ‘An ah want ye back here in unner an oor.’

‘But it’s oan the other side ae town.’

‘Ah can find another man if yer no up tae the joab.’

Danny looks around the bar. Which one of these lazy cunts does Pete think could do a better job than him? The guy in double denim? Not bloody likely. ‘Can ah finish mah drink first?’

Big Pete doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. The clock is already ticking.

Danny leaves his pint and makes his way to the exit. The door has almost closed behind him when Pete shouts his name. Danny turns round, and through the glass he sees Pete tap the side of his nose with his finger and mouth a single word. Discretion.

Fuck. What’s he got himself involved in? He runs across the road to the taxi rank and jumps in the first car in line. ‘Queen’s Avenue, mate.’

The driver looks him up and down but has the sense to keep his mouth shut.

Ah’m trustin ye, Danny.

What the fuck can be in the envelope that’s worth paying Danny all that just to shove it through a letter box? Surely a first-class stamp would do.

The driver turns up the radio. It’s the same news that was playing in the pub: Houses without water, stock markets rising, Russian spies.

If ah find oot ye’ve been peekin ah’ll hae nae choice.

He replays the last headline in his head. Something about a deadly nerve agent. Shit. Is that it? Is Big Pete working for the Russians?

Ah want ye back here in unner an oor.

‘Stoap here an keep the engine runnin. Ah’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Mate, ah cannae afford tae—’

Danny shoves a tenner in the driver’s hand and opens the door. ‘Wait here.’

A quick glance over his shoulder like he’s seen them do in the movies, and he dodges into WH Smith. The stationery aisle is near the front of the shop and Danny waits til the assistant’s back is turned, and tucks a roll of sellotape up his sleeve. He dashes out onto the street and into the back of the taxi.

The driver pulls away from the kerb and into the busy traffic, and Danny leans back and lays the brown envelope on the seat beside him. He finds the end of the sellotape and carefully — very carefully — winds the tape around it. And around again. And again. Better safe than sorry. He keeps going until the roll of tape is finished. Big Pete and the Russians, eh? Who’d have thought it?

The taxi pulls into Queen’s Avenue and Danny hands over another tenner. If he pulls this off there’ll be plenty more where that came from. This time the driver doesn’t wait and tyres screech as the cab disappears around the corner.

Danny’s never seen a place like it. Audis, BMWs and Mercedes are parked in long, sweeping driveways on both sides of the street, security cameras tucked into the eaves of every house. He pulls up his hood. No one’s gonna know Danny Taylor was here.

Number seven is on the opposite side of the road and there’s a large brass number on the fence as promised. Fuck. Who does Big Pete know that lives in a mansion like this?

Danny puts his hand on the wrought iron gate and slowly pushes it open. It doesn’t creak. Doesn’t make a sound. He steps forward and the gate closes behind him. The path leading up to the front door is lined with red and yellow roses. He looks to see if there’s a name above the doorbell. Discretion, Danny Boy. Discretion. He eases the envelope out of his pocket, stretches out his other hand and raises the flap of the letterbox. No dog barks. No alarm goes off. Just pop the envelope through the letter box and get out of there before anyone sees you. In no time at all, he’ll be back drinking in Wetherspoons with money in his pocket. Might treat himself to a fish supper on the way home.

Fuck!

The sellotape has doubled the envelope’s size.

He turns it.

Tilts it.

Squeezes it.

But no matter what he does, the envelope won’t fit through the letterbox.

High heels click against tarmac and Danny drops his head and waits for the woman to walk on by. Discretion, Danny Boy. Don’t look up. Don’t make eye contact.

The clicking stops at the gate.

Danny lowers the envelope and pretends to dig in his pocket, searching for a front door key. Pretend like you belong somewhere and people will believe it.

The gate opens.

Dammit. His acting’s so good she’s coming to help him. ‘It’s okay, I-’

He looks up.

Fuck.

It’s her, he’s sure it is.

Danny feels the weight of the brown envelope in his hand. ‘Mrs MacDonald?’

She nods.

‘This is for you.’

More information about Emma’s writing is available via www.emmamooney.co.uk and via Twitter @EmmaMooney21.

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Tae the Burrymen an’ the Bogeymen by Amy B. Moreno

Amy B. Moreno resides in Scotland after having spent some adventurous years living abroad.  She is an experienced translator and interpreter, now moving on to writing poetry and prose for both adult and child readers.  She has been published in The Scottish Book Trust and in several online publications and blogs.

Tae the Burrymen an’ the Bogeymen


This body of plucked flesh and epidermis
of bread and wounds and awkward surplus
is outside, but I’m rattlin’ about in my own head
Flipped inside out, like the scraped-back skin
from a baked tattie, exposed in the bin
Picked apart by scavengers
with sharp little incisors
following me, as I’m surveyed by
Birds on a wire
chirping out the dial-up internet tone
An’ I’m covered in bickerin’ burrymen
twisted, prickly
scratchy burrs
It feels like polymer
wool between my teeth, and a hair forever coiled in my throat
Smells like a place I’m homesick for where I’ll never go,
and have never even been
Looks like an itch I can’t scratch
deep inside the bone
My hands are red raw,
Ma heid’s mince, and then she answers the door
and begins to speak and
brings out, not the best china
but thankful mugs built for comfort
an extra teaspoon of sugar, you look knackered sweetheart
a Mr Kipling’s Bakewell tart?
Do Not Feed the Beast
he lurks behind the sleekit skirting boards
or wades in fridge shadows
with a warning snarl
Lurid tail and skittering toes
I feel her chatter above and below
Her hushing blether of neighbours and prices and weather
I’m a letter,
sliding into a warm envelope
and a talcum-pink powder puff dampens the brawl
quieting the hairball, I hear
that fellow-mortal with nightmare feet

You can find more of Amy’s writing via her Twitter, @Amy_B_Moreno.

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Interview: Magali Román on From Arthur’s Seat

Magali Román was born in Buenos Aires and earned a dual B.A. from Temple University in Philadelphia (covering European History and English Literature). Having worked as a writer for four years and contributed to numerous publications across that period, Magali undertook an MSc in Creative Writing at the University of Edinburgh beginning in 2018. While on the program, Magali and a number of other Edinburgh MSc students collaborated to publish From Arthur’s Seat, a collection of poetry and prose by colleagues, prizewinners, and University of Edinburgh faculty. From Arthur’s Seat is the fourth installment in an anthology series begun in 2016 and breaks new ground with its definitive structure and style. 

In this interview, Ogilvie editors Calder Hudson and Angela Hicks ask Magali Román about her definitive approach to the From Arthur’s Seat publishing process. 

 

 

One of the taglines for the 2019 From Arthur’s Seat is ‘You are about to start on an adventure.’ Was it also an adventure to put together and edit? What were your main priorities when you and your team set about creating the anthology?

The tagline emulates the choose-your-own-adventure structure of the anthology, but I think anything that involves 30 writers working together is by definition going to be an adventure. When I was planning this year’s anthology (the fourth!), I really just wanted to make something new–something that would set our year apart from what had been done before. Each volume of From Arthur’s Seat has consistently improved on its predecessors. I wanted our contribution to go further, to examine and reconstruct what an anthology could be. There is an element of adventure in trying something completely new, so the feeling was in the project from the beginning.

 

You have been a writer for many years. Were any of the skills you developed through your experience as a writer of particular use to you as editor-in-chief? 

I think the best skill you can cultivate as a writer and editor is to be realistic. When editing somebody’s work, you have to be completely honest with what works and what doesn’t. Otherwise you’re wasting people’s time. As an editor, it’s your job to get the writer to fulfill their highest potential. That doesn’t come from coddling people or beating them down with criticism. It’s a weird balance that requires you to be honest with yourself and with your writer about whether you’re both doing the best job you are capable of.

As editor-in-chief I think it’s also important to be realistic about your goals and the work it takes to achieve them. I wanted to run FAS like a professional publishing house, so I delegated a lot and tried to steer my team to follow the vision I’d set for the book. We formed the team in October and set project deadlines six months before anybody submitted a first draft. When you start a project you’re really excited about, you have a million ideas and it’s very easy to overpromise and underdeliver. You have to be realistic with your time, and what you can achieve with the resources you have. How much good work can you realistically get done, considering that you are working with people who have full course-loads to worry about? I think it’s quite easy to get overwhelmed in this position, but I never did because I always knew that we had set the right goals for our team and we had the resources to deliver.  We were ambitious, but not delusional.

 

In the adventure-choosing vein, you’ve included a small section towards the start of the book which provides readers with an alternate way to read the anthology beyond just going cover-to-cover; they can read along thematic and narratives using the guidelines provided. What was the inspiration for this? How early in the editing process was this structure decided on?

It is actually hugely hilarious that I came up with this idea because I normally find most postmodernist lit gimmicky. But anthologies, to me, present a really interesting chance to play around with structure. In an anthology each story and poem stands on its own as it is, but they also belong to a larger, unified physical book. When I was reading through everyone’s submissions, I realized that certain common themes kept coming up: isolation, surveillance, the act of writing, fatherhood, war, et cetera. I grabbed all the submissions and made different piles, mixing poems and stories that seemed like they could have taken place in the same universe. The stories were great on their own, but putting them together as chapters of a larger story added new layers of meaning. It made the reading experience fresh and exciting. I was also watching the film “Bandersnatch” at the time and thought the episodic nature of an anthology–stories that stand alone but share certain themes–would lend itself really well to a choose-your-own-adventure structure.

I came up with this structure and ran it by Merel de Beer, our executive editor, and then presented the concept to our editorial team. It was important for me to have feedback on it because I wasn’t sure if the idea would be too weird to pull off. But I think this concept has really allowed the anthology to present each writer as both an individual and as part of a collective. It also allowed us to connect prose with poetry. Poets and fiction writers are traditionally kept separate in our program, but poetry and fiction are intrinsically linked together, so it was important to us to present them as two sides of the same coin. Writing is such a lonely act–it’s important to remember that we form part of a larger community that is always there, even if we don’t realize it.

 

Setting up the different narrative paths must have taken some doing, all while organizing the rest of the analogy to boot! Was it difficult to decide the themes and to fit all the stories into one and only one? Did you consult with writers about the themes, or did you extrapolate them from the anthology as a whole? 

As editor-in-chief I was responsible for issuing final edits on every story and poem, so I was intimately familiar with the themes present in each piece, and mostly likely had had a conversation with the writer about what ideas that had inspired their work. Merel and I picked out the themes (which we called threads) together over a few brainstorming sessions. We did not consult with the writers mostly because we felt that as editors we were distanced enough to look at the big picture. We didn’t want to rewrite people’s stories for them so we designed the choose-your-own-adventure structure to be subtle. If you don’t read the instructions at the beginning of the book you probably wouldn’t know that there’s anything different about this anthology.

 

You all developed From Arthur’s Seat while also continuing your MSc. Was balancing the ‘down-to-earth’ editing process while also writing creatively on a regular basis a challenge at all, or did the two projects act as good counterweights to each other? Did working on the anthology provide any opportunities or cause any challenges?

I actually loved the ‘down-to-earth’ editing process because it felt like a real job. I think graduate school can sometimes feel like you’re play-acting at being a writer–perhaps you’re writing stuff that your peers approve of or your professors reward with good grades, but in the real world success depends on getting published. Your classmates owe you critique and your professors owe you advice, but the publishing industry doesn’t owe you anything. I wanted to lead this project because I wanted to know what it was like to do it for real, whether my ideas would translate into good sales and whether people would actually like what we had to say. Mostly I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it.

I did find it challenging to prioritize my own writing at times with so many deadlines to manage. Being in charge means you have to work for everyone else, so your own projects often have to take a backseat. And a big part of being in charge is having to say no, even to yourself, and standing by that no. There’s always going to be people who dislike your creative choices or think they could do better, but part of your job is to trust in your vision and stick to it. Honestly, sometimes it’s not about making everyone happy but rather about pissing off the right people. That’s when you know you have something good.

 

At the end of the publication process, you also helped organize launch events for the anthology alongside the team’s event planners. What was that experience like? Did it feel like an extension of the publication process, or something separate? Was it exciting or nerve-wracking to share the anthology with people outside of the MSc?

We were really lucky to have two event planners in the team who organized a wonderful event, because for me presenting a book was an extremely nerve-wracking experience. I consider myself a pretty good editor but I hate talking in public and I’d never presented anything that I was so involved in, so I was pretty anxious the entire night. Seeing our writers’ parents and friends come to support them made up for it, though.

 

In addition to launch events, From Arthur’s Seat also had team members dedicated to social media and also had a podcast. What inspired you to pursue these angles as a team?

My ultimate goal for this anthology was to promote our writers and their talents. FAS is technically a student project but we packaged it as a professional, independent anthology of new writing. When we looked into expanding into social media and audio, the definitive question was always, ‘what can we do to jump-start our writers into their careers?’ Can we give them a social media campaign? Can we get them talking on a podcast about their inspiration? Can we get them to perform live? A new anthology comes out every year, so we wanted some footprint of our authors to live on after the books sold out.

As young aspiring writers, we spent all year listening to people tell us (in the nicest, most soothing way possible) that we’re probably never going to make any money off our writing. We had an opportunity to provide people with publishing experience, so I wanted to give everyone who wanted it the chance to develop a skill that could go on their CV after the program ended. What can they contribute to the team, beyond writing? Are they interested in audio production, event planning, web design? I wanted people to be able to get jobs out of this experience if they wanted, so expanding FAS into audio and digital gave us the chance to develop those skills. Of course it helped that we had talented people on our team who were really passionate about those areas.

 

What was it like editing an anthology which also contains your own writing? 

It’s weird; I don’t really consider myself a writer in this anthology. I kind of forget that one of my stories is also in this book. I don’t know why–maybe because I spent so much time editing and talking to people about their work and so little time thinking about my own writing. It was easy for all the editor tasks to get in the way of your own creative work, so I would often kind of leave my own rewrites until the last minute. If I could do it again I’d probably try to remind myself that I’m a writer too, not just an editor. That being said, I had a job to do, and if my own writing had to take a backseat for a few months to make a beautiful book for everyone else then so be it.

 

Is there anything else you feel shouldn’t go unsaid when it comes to the anthology–both regarding its development, and now that it’s out in the world?

This anthology looks like it does because of the work of a lot of people. Designers, editors, PR managers, and mentors are just as important to a publication as the writers whose work you read. Nobody accomplishes anything alone.

 

More students are beginning the Creative Writing MSc in Autumn of 2019; is there any advice you’d offer the next group of Creative Writers about the anthology publishing process–or, indeed, any general advice you’d offer any writers, reflecting on your experience?

Start as early as you can and be as ambitious as you can. There are no rules to the process at all. When we started the only thing we were expected to do was make a book. By the time we finished not only did we have a book, but we had a website and a podcast. So why not go further? That would be my advice for whoever comes after us. Go further. Why not? Why not make an audiobook, a zine, a documentary, FAS merch? Who’s going to stop you?

From Arthur’s Seat is now available in stores and online, with more information available via the anthology’s website (as well as Twitter and Facebook). You can read more from Magali (including a selection of her short stories) via her website.

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Stop by Taha Salim

Taha Salim is from Iraq but currently resides in Greece, having attained a bachelor’s degree in economics. Taha writes articles, poems, and short stories in Arabic, and translates them into English. Taha is currently in the process of writing and translating a debut novel.

 

 

Stop

 

Stop.

Stop and take a glance at your past, weary with defeats.
Stop and cast your eyes over your body, covered in wounds.
Stop and look into your spirit, saturated with gas.
Stop and take off the underwear that is constraining your insides.
Stop and remove the watch that broke long before your birth.

Time has no importance in the face of death’s ugly end.
Start your day in the middle of the night; kill off your distorted little dreams.

Turn your concerns to the birds–who will give them bread?
Worry about the mermaids–who will make love to them when they are half fish?
Be God in the morning; be a little smarter than him.

Create humans who fly high, for the earth is weary and wants rest from our footsteps.

Be the devil in the evening and listen to God with passion.

Play him a dulcet little tune until he readies himself again for sin.

You can contact Taha via email at tahasalim9494@gmail.com.

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Bad bread. by DS Maolalaí

DS Maolalaí is a graduate of English Literature from Trinity College in Dublin. Maolalaí’s work has appeared in publications including 4’33’, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Out of Ours, The Eunoia Review, Kerouac’s Dog, More Said Than Done, Star Tips, Myths Magazine, Ariadne’s Thread, The Belleville Park Pages, Killing the Angel and Unrorean Broadsheet. Maolalaí has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice and has published two collections (Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden and Sad Havoc Among the Birds).

 

 

Bad bread.

 

I make coffee. you are in the shower.
in the kitchen
I toast the bread
my mother gave us. it’s ok,
full of pumpkin seeds,
though she has a theory
that salt is unhealthy
so the satisfaction
is muted
with each bite. butter helps, the way it melts
flavour,
and sitting with you
wrapped
in your toweling dressing gown,
taking only a dribble
of my full-fat milk
and fitting our hunger
with stirrups, your teeth
shearing slices
and loving me
this morning
through
bad bread.

You can find more of DS Maolalaí’s work via Twitter. You can read his other piece published on The Ogilvie here.

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a merciful fist, an abundance of despair by John Sweet

John Sweet resides in the the rural wastelands of upstate New York. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the continuous search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest poetry collections include HEATHEN TONGUE (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions) and BASTARD FAITH (2017 Scars Publications).

 

 

a merciful fist, an abundance of despair

 

dead man doing the worm down on
the corner of grant and main,
giving it everything he’s got, face torn
against the concrete, mouthful of blood,
eyes rolled in his head and this is
the past and this is the future and
this is always the here and now

this is the dream
after the dreamer has been crucified

the bastard children of
crippled saints

we leave them to laugh
at the desert’s edge

leave them to sing and to play in
the ruins of the
abandoned cities and, later,
when they sleep,
we crush their skulls beneath our heels

we feed their bodies
to the wolves

there is no such thing as a life
that can be survived

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Vapour Trails by Kirsti Wishart

Kirsti Wishart’s stories can be found in The Seven Wonders of Scotland anthology, New Writing Scotland, 404 Ink, The Evergreen and a quiet grove in Edinburgh’s Botanic Gardens (courtesy of the Echoes of the City project). She was awarded a Hawthornden Fellowship in 2013 and in 2018 was a finalist in the Scottish Arts Club Short Story Awards.

 

 

Vapour Trails

 

The global shut-down of social media channels led to different modes of communication being developed. For those members of radical or subversive groups, older codes were researched and given life again. In coffee houses and bars, fans made a reappearance; the number of folds exposed, taps to the cheek and chin, the rhythm of waving all resulting in meetings being arranged, warnings being issued. Handkerchief sellers experienced a surprise uptake in trade. Suit jackets disappeared from charity shop racks as the angles of triangles and the colours displayed in top pockets became significant, telling others which particular offshoot of the anarchist, techno-luddite, post-modernist terrorist group you were a member of. Florists began to receive orders for unusually archaic arrangements of heather and lilies, bouquets not seen since Victorian times but tweaked to convey slogans later unleashed by
graffiti artists on the streets. Origami night classes sold out. Letters written under the wings of a swan could be rearranged when the paper was folded into the shape of a flamingo, revealing the name of the latest politician who should be targeted in a silent watch campaign. MPs would open their windows to discover a silent crowd staring, unnervingly united in their muteness. Retired naval commanders found themselves being asked about Morse code
sequences during previously lonely nights in the corners of pubs.

The authorities cracked down, raised the prices of coloured card, banned the sale of multi-coloured torches that made excellent signalling devices. Milliners were monitored for the feathers or tartans that decorated hat bands, revealing those whose protected heads carried subversive thoughts. Baristas learned to spot the darkened bags under the eyes of officials in disguise and modified the swirls of espresso decorating the surface of a latte accordingly; a nervous shake of the wrist made sure the latest gathering place for a conscience-raising event wasn’t revealed accidentally in the fronds of a foaming fern.

The restrictions increased to nearly all forms of extraneous decoration, anything that wasn’t purely utilitarian disappearing; window boxes, candles left lit on windowsills, the way blinds were left three-quarters open, all became sources of suspicion. The Secret Opposition found it increasingly challenging to connect; cells became isolated. The authorities claimed victory in newspapers that were laminated, making them difficult to cut and fold into messages contradicting their contents.

Such constraints only increased anger, however, which fuelled new levels of ingenuity. Had they been paying attention, officials may have noticed how busy newly-opened vaping shops had become. They might have monitored more closely the after-hours tutorials given on the modification of devices and breathing methods developed so that beautifully elaborate plumes could be produced: curlicues, cloudy ribbons and tendrils in which hidden letters would drift. Dyes could be added to produce rainbows that vanished as soon as they spread, colours matching the walls behind which covert gatherings would take place.

And adding to the messages were the scents produced; pomegranate, watermelon, candyfloss and gin and tonic being puffed out to arrange a rendezvous, a demonstration, a newsletter, a riot. The clouds continued to form, adding a concealing layer of smog to the city until one evening the square before City Hall filled and filled and filled with people breathing like dragons, becoming ghostly in their self-created fog.The authorities trembled behind closed doors.

But those locks, the hastily arranged draft-excluders—they can’t hold, can’t stop the reek of gunpowder, blood and flares seeping through the ventilation shafts, turning their vision misty as though cataracts are forming. Smoke blurs the portraits of their glorious leader, the bitter tang of freedom tickles their lungs, catches their throat, voices choked by coughs that leave the taste of burnt flesh.

You can reach Kirsti and keep up to speed on her writing via Twitter.

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Headfirst by Lottie Lynn

Lottie is a UK-based author. She has an MSc in Creative Writing from the University of Edinburgh and a BA in English Literature with Creative Writing from Aberystwyth University. In 2014, she came fifth in the BBC Opening Lines competition and her stories have appeared in multiple university anthologies. She has also had articles published on PCGamesN and Rock, Paper, Shotgun. Lottie runs a blog and is currently working on her first novel.

 

 

Headfirst

 

There are creatures living under Michael’s bed. They wait until Mum has gone down the stairs, her steps rumbling throughout the house, before pattering across his bedroom floor with far too many feet. The metal bars of his bed rattle as they poke the underside of his mattress. Sometimes talons creep onto the bottom of his duvet, pulling and tugging it, so Michael has started sleeping curled up in a tight ball like a hedgehog. He has tried talking to them, but they always vanish back beneath his bed after the first word.

Mum doesn’t believe him. She tells him that only spiders and empty space live underneath his bed. Michael looks and sees that she’s telling the truth. Only to remember that these are night-time creatures he’s dealing with and they will be invisible during the day. When he explains this to Mum, she shakes her head and tells him she’s not leaving his bedroom door open anymore—nine-year-olds sleep with the door shut. She also makes him promise not to tell Dad about the creatures; he wants to rest when he’s home, not listen to Michael’s stories.

Michael knows he has to prove that the creatures are real.

One day in school, head heavy from lack of sleep, Michael decides to draw one of the creatures. If he showed Ms Carpenter the picture, then she could find the creature in a book and, maybe, tell him how to get rid of it. A photo would be better, but he doesn’t own a camera. Anyway, when his class visited the art museum, Ms Carpenter said that a picture tells a thousand words.

The problem, he realises looking at the white paper, is that he had only ever seen one of the creature’s hands. He can’t make the rest up or Ms Carpenter might pick the wrong creature. Maybe, Michael thinks, the hand will be enough. In his mind, Michael sees the long, thin fingers, which are the same inky, black, colour as the night shadows that dance across his bedroom wall. Picking up a pencil, he begins to draw.

Someone pokes him in the cheek so hard it hurts his teeth. He looks up from his drawing and finds Poppy grinning down at him. She asks him what he’s drawing. Michael tells her to go away. Poppy says he won’t tell her, because he knows his picture is gross. Michael looks at the drawing.

The fingers aren’t exactly right—he can’t draw straight lines—and the skin is a little too bright, but it’s not bad. It’s not gross. Poppy is fairy tale pretty with shining blonde pigtails that bounce when she runs. She thinks she knows what gross is because she’s pretty. Michael likes his drawing though, so he grabs one of her pigtails and pulls.

Poppy cries.

Ms Carpenter makes him stand outside the classroom. Michael knows he can’t ask for her help now, because her face has turned tomato red. Ms Carpenter says he has to apologise. She tells him to make a card—they always have to make sorry cards. He gets another piece of paper and folds it in half. Inside he writes ‘I’m sorry Poppy’ in big letters and draws a flower on the front with pink petals.

Poppy laughs when he gives it to her in the playground. Digging her fingers into the paper, Poppy creates holes in his card, before tearing it in half. She sticks her tongue out at him and runs away, pig tails following her.

Mum won’t help him. Dad can’t help him. The picture is missing when he returns to the classroom. Asking Ms Carpenter will only get him another talk about not being mean to girls. Michael is alone now, but he won’t give up.

When he gets home that day, instead of watching cartoons, Michael goes to his room and begins to plan. At first he tries to think of a way to trap a creature, but he doesn’t own a net. He needs to do something easy, but still sneaky. If he wants to see a creature he’ll have to trick the creatures by pretending to be asleep.

Michael spends all his time practising, because he might only get one chance. He tells Mum he’s pretending to be a cave explorer, so she won’t make him stop. He learns how to roll onto his stomach without making the metal bars of his bed ring. By jumping up and down, he finds the non-squeaky floorboards and teaches himself how to find those boards without looking.

Michael high-fives himself when he does this silently ten times in a row. This glee vanishes, however, when he wonders if the creatures will hide when they see his feet. They always vanish when he gets up to go to the loo at night; why would this be any different?

There is only one solution—Michael will have to go headfirst.

It takes a while, but he figures out the right position for his body to be in—flat on his belly, with his legs in the air. Michael practices reaching for the bottom bar of his bed frame one hand at a time, until his arms ache. Most importantly, he finds the right speed for lowering his head, so he won’t get dizzy.

Finally, after a whole week, Michael is ready.

He picks his night carefully, waiting until the moon is shining brightly through his window, because Mum won’t let him use the torch. Michael pretends it’s just an ordinary night—argues with Mum about his bedtime, reads, grumbles when she turns his light off and pretends to sleep.

The floor creaks when the creatures arrive.

Michael rolls onto his stomach and raises his legs slowly, so the duvet won’t fall off his bed. His breath is hot and the duvet feels heavier, but he still manages to grip the metal bar. It’s cold—freezing—and his fingers begin to stiffen.

Michael pauses. Maybe it would be better to go feet first. The creatures have never tried to be friendly; what if they attacked him? Although, he is only looking with his eyes and not his hands, which Mum says is the best way to look. This, he thinks, could be the act of bravery the creatures have been waiting for. Maybe they’ll be his friends once he shows them how smart he can be. Slowly, Michael lowers his head down.

Looking beneath his bed, Michael realises that he was wrong.

You can find more of Lottie’s writing via her website, Snippets of Tales.

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Walk Into Twilight by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Luis, born in Mexico, lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA. His first book of poetry, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. His poems have appeared online and in print via Blue Collar Review; Ink, Sweat, and Tears; Ink Pantry; Mad Swirl; and Runcible Spoon.

 

 

Walk Into Twilight

 

I walk toward afternoon
with the light still out.
I walk into twilight
and it is like all I ever
wanted and more.
Seeing is more difficult.
I could fall if I am careless.
I walk toward the night
searching for lost love
in the sky. I look higher
and higher toward the moon.
I focus on its light
that is not like the sun.
At night you can stare.
The sun can blind you.
I walked toward midnight
with a shadow following.
It could be the love I lost.
It could be the mugger
who will take out the light,
leaving me sunless and moonless.

Luis can be reached via his email, cuatemochi@aol.com.