The Looking Glass
Anthology: Volume One
by students at the University of York
Published by The Looking Glass Anthologies at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 All respective authors.
Originally published in print, June 2010.
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The Looking Glass
Volume 1
2010
A literary anthology written and edited by students at The Department of English and Related Literature of The University of York
Contents
Logging by Jesse Garrick
Sugar Syrup by Catherine Bennett
A Short Treatise Concerning the Proper Care and Ownership of a Moustache by Gus Beamish-Cook
Revelry by Katie Williams
Six by Emily E K Murdoch
I Cup My Compact Like You by Catherine Bennett
Time and Punishment by Chris Brent
Half a Conversation by Gus Beamish-Cook
Identity by Marnie Richards
A River (from a Letter) by Jesse Garrick
Climate Change by Catherine Bennett
Dyslexics of the World Yew Knight by Richard Lemmer
Lebkuchen by Robin James Ganderton
Do You Have the Time? by Emily Hodges
Cherries by Nicola Byrne
The Teapot of Forgiveness by Sally Barnden
Deer Skull by Catherine Bennett
Running by Michael Tansini
Antique African Head by Jo Vaizey
A Day in the Life of a Multi-Touch Sensor by Christopher J. Fraser
See You Next Tuesday by Richard Lemmer
Egypt by Jo Vaizey
You Have to Understand Rhetoric by Richard Lemmer
Introduction
On the 3rd of November 2009, I stood at the front of a lecture hall packed with well over 100 students. I’d brought just three bags of crisps to feed them all with.
A week before I had sent out an e-mail asking if anyone would like to join me in creating an anthology of literature written by students in the department. I expected five or six responses – I received 153.
Standing there in front of the expectant crowd, I realised that I had absolutely no idea how to create an anthology of student literature – fortunately, they did.
Over the course of the past two terms, that crowd dwindled to 27 hardworking, dedicated individuals. During that time, we’ve accomplished a considerable amount. We’ve run workshops on creative writing, organised a successful fundraiser, read literally hundreds of short stories and poems, and, of course, created this anthology.
To do so, every week we’ve set aside an hour to gather and discuss the texts we’ve received. If a text shows promise then our editors will get in contact with the author and work with them on it. If we don’t think it’s right for our anthology then we’ll offer to send the author detailed feedback on it.
In addition to the editorial department, we have a strong design team, whose creativity and dedication has been demonstrated through our numerous posters and banners, whilst our events and publicity departments do everything from organising parties to arranging articles in the University media.
I’d like to extend a special thanks to David Attwell for providing us with the funds to make this anthology possible, and to Chris Reardon from the English Society for being both friendly and understanding. I’d also like to thank Tom Bryan for giving me the confidence to get this project started.
Of course, the most important thanks should go to our authors, without whose work this would never have been possible. It’s incredibly brave to expose your work to the criticism of your peers, and we hope that bravery has paid off.
With that said, I hope you enjoy our first edition!
David Zendle, Editor-in-Chief
Logging
Carved like the lash of a whip on its back—is a clearing, still tender and gleaming. An islet in green seas, lapped at the fringe by blackened palm fronds and brittle ferns; the delicate wings of some fettered bird, in some cold hour of a dark mourning.
The quick start of a vibrant engine drowns the hum of the cicada’s chorus, as a plume of bright macaws breaks through the upper canopy. They soar to a clay-lick and peck at its belly, as though heaven might be hidden, to be reached by digging.
I watch loggers hew a profit from slender trunks of teak, attentive like soldiers at the sharp teeth of an acute machine. The trees are grown in rows, just as their fate is determined, on a ridge between two facts: a single seed and a felling.
Sugar Syrup
It took us a month to make the sugar
syrup.
We kept getting it wrong and pouring it down the
drain,
creating a horizon of icicle-sweet stalactites in the
underground
caverns of our plumbing.
We took turns at drinking
it and pouring it over
ourselves, watching in wonder as it
solidified into a crystal
covering. If we dipped our hands in the
vat, we had
saccharine gloves that sparkled. If we traced our
lips
indulgently with our
whitened fingers, we had lips that
had been kissed by snow.
We’d clench our knuckles, and crack
the
sugar coating, flaking the kitchen with drops of sucrose
that
melted on the tongue. It was like the wax from a candle
and the
way it looks when you slowly drip it onto your hand,
scalding and
tempting,
and then snap your fingers with satisfaction,
chipping
the hardened waxy layer, enjoying
the break of cool air onto red
skin. Except
for this syrupy mixture cooled instantly,
and
glinted dimly and humbly
like old jewellery over our palms.
A Short Treatise Concerning the Proper Care and Ownership of a Moustache
This is it, I tell you. All my doing is done. It’s hard even to be tired now, when all of me has run away, been poured down fingers over sticky keys and never knowing why.
Every day, hunch-huddled over, ink tapping itself onto the page, words leaking like blood, and each day the last. But just as always, I will type it out, chatter in spitting metallic toothings into the voiding paper-flesh.
One day, I bought a typewriter. That was the first mistake and I take full blame. I filled it with paper and then I filled the paper with all sorts of things. But it was never enough. The typewriter would always be hungry. Just as it would finish the last of whatever I had prepared for it, a new title would appear: A Study of Contamination in Pine River Watershed, Michigan’, ‘The Diary of a Shameless Fop’, ‘101 Ways to Salvage Roadkill’.
At first I loved it. Me and the typewriter were happy together. We made an odd pair, me and the typewriter—an odd pair but a good one. It gave me titles, I gave it words. I filled its yawning pages with acres and acres of words. And it devoured them—ravenous. Every hour of every day, my fingers would dance a soft rain on the keys, the typeheads themselves providing the spastic rhythm for our waltz. Something about our communion felt eternal—unchanging. And in a way I was right.
Every time Miriam would paint the room a new colour and change the furniture, the typewriter would type the same room around us, pouring its ink out in new walls and ceilings.
After it discovered that it could do that, it started typing the same day over and over again, each time supplying me with a new title so I couldn’t notice. Before I knew it, it was Wednesday, 17th, every day. It even typed the weather into my windows and nailed it 9 down to the sill with full stops.
And that’s when Miriam left.
And now she will always be leaving. And I will always be typing. And the coffee will always be cold. And my doing will always be done.
Revelry
It was late October a few years back. You forget when exactly. You try not to think about it too hard. Thomas, one of the guys you were working with then, catches you on your way home, invites you to a party he’s heard about. Not normally your sort of thing, but you were new at the job and wanted to make an effort with new friends so you agree to go. Great, he says, and we’ll crash at your place after, unless I get a better offer. You laugh, and promise to meet him later.
It doesn’t take as long as you expected to get there, and the two of you arrive early. It’s only eleven, but already the yard outside the house is packed with people huddling together in the chill air. They are sharing cigarettes and cheap vodka and laughing cruelly at a pair of screaming girls who push their way out of the building, drunkenly hurling threats and empty bottles at each other. It’s too cold to be outside really. Smoke mingles with warm breath, angry words made visible in the wintry air. You avoid the girls, make your way up the narrow wooden stairs, inside.
It’s bright and loud and warm, full of people you don’t know. You wish you’d thought to bring something other than the bottle of cheap red wine you found in the back of a cupboard, but you didn’t even bring any money with you. Just your house key, safe in the pocket of your jeans. At least it’s a screw top. Tom didn’t bring anything, just snags a beer from where someone enterprisingly—if not very imaginatively—stashed it behind a battered and suspiciously stained sofa. Without meaning to, you let the cram of bodies sweep you further in, the relentless push of drunken revelry claiming you and the pitiful bottle of wine you’re clutching.
The next bit’s a blur. There’s an open trapdoor with a staircase leading down, an open maw into the heart of the party. The next bit’s a blur. You gulp down the acrid wine and stagger down, missing the second last step and stumbling into another person who glares and sweeps past. There are even more people down here. There’s a DJ set up in the corner, bodies jammed together so tightly you don’t know if you’re hearing the heavy bass or if it’s a physical thing reverberating through the walls and floor. Coloured lights and strobes dance through the room creating faces that are abnormal, grotesque, fey. You can feel the beat of the music through your feet and into your body, and you lose yourself in it.
Dancing with a girl who acts as if she knows you, though her face is unfamiliar. In the blue green flashes of light it is ethereal, otherworldly. Elfin. Beautiful. Very drunk now. The wine bottle you clutch is empty. You don’t remember that happening. Carelessly drop it to the floor, though you hear no smash. Music never heard before surrounds, drowns out all other senses. The bass line throbs in your bones. Acid flash of light shows Tom on the other side of the room. He’s sharing a cigarette with an immensely tall someone. So tall the low basement ceiling forces him to almost double over, long hair shrouding Thomas’ face. He is smiling. Vacant. You should leave, while you still can without help. Too many people to get near though. Too loud to shout. You try anyway and cannot even hear yourself under the rhythm.
Pixie girl takes your arm, pulls your gaze away. Mouths something you cannot grasp. She has a tiny mouth. Curves upwards in a wicked grin. A tiny, wicked grin hiding sharp little teeth. Maybe. Mind is wandering. What were you doing?
Look blankly at her. She has a plastic cup of something in her hand. Holds it out to you. Gestures you should drink. Hesitation. Work tomorrow, early. Wine bottle gone already. Music pounds like blood in your ears. Air is thick and damp and you lean forward to take the cup but you sway unsteadily into a fellow drunk and something sharply stabs into your hip.
You reach into your pocket. Hand curls around something cold and hard edged, and suddenly you are plunged into
Dark.
Silence.
Complete deprivation of senses. Robbed of sight and hearing, dumb.
Awareness centres on the thing gripped in your hand. Cool now, warming to your touch. Serrated edge and rounded top. Metal. Your door key. You bring it to your lips, taste the metallic blood taste to reassure yourself it’s real.
This is silly. The electrics probably blew. Your ears are ringing at the sudden loss of sound. Perfectly normal.
But something isn’t right. The quiet is too complete. Absolute. You reach to where pixie girl was, but your hand finds nothing.
Your eyes are getting used to the black now, the darkness fading. There’s a glimmer of light to your left and you automatically move towards it.
The sharp crunch of broken glass under your shoe halts you. You bend down in the gloom, to discover the remains of your wine bottle scattered across the floor. As your sight adjusts, you realise that single bottle is the only thing in the room that might indicate anyone had been there. There are none of the normal party remnants, no scrunched beer cans or cigarette butts.
No people.
The crush of people that were here just minutes ago, vanished. Leaving just a sad, shattered wine bottle and dead leaves on the cold concrete.
Your head is fuzzy still, but clearing. You don’t want to think about it too closely though. Get out, you think, you need to get out. Right now.
Step over the broken glass towards the finger of light. It’s reaching through a chink at the side of a rotten wooden door. You must have missed it before. It was hot and dark and loud and no way could you have seen it (a voice at the back of your mind whispers that it wasn’t there before, but you steadily ignore it). You grope for the handle, peeling paint flaking onto your fingers as they brush over wood. The doorknob is stiff, but not locked. Set your shoulder against it, and shove. A protesting shriek of unused hinges, and the door opens.
Onto bright, full daylight.
Squinting, you stagger forward. Fall to your knees. Retch dryly on the kerbside. Passing shoppers steer round you, old ladies clutching their handbags tighter, mothers gripping their toddlers’ hands. A car speeding past through a muddy puddle narrowly avoids soaking you. Your hands clutch at the pavement like it could anchor you.
It’s all soberingly normal.
After a few minutes, you wobble to your feet. Turn and look at the building you emerged from. An old corner shop, windows boarded and covered with old circus posters and graffiti, sign above faded into illegibility.
It has obviously not been used for years, decades maybe.
You cannot bring yourself to go back inside.
Your fist is clenched painfully around your house key, imprints of its teeth biting into your palm. Uncurl your fingers. The metal glints in the sunshine. Cold iron.
You don’t know what else to do. You turn, and start to walk home.You go back just once.
A year and a day later, because that’s traditional in these things, or so you were told. You fill your pockets with iron, nails and screws and nuts and bolts. You wear your jacket inside out. Half-hearted light from a streetlamp confirms the building is still empty, still boarded. You force the door open—it doesn’t take much—but do not dare go inside.
The room is empty. Of course it is. You can even see your bottle, smashed and scattered across the tiles. You stand there, staring at its broken neck and glittering pieces until you begin to shiver in the November air. Turn to leave, let the door swing closed.
The sound you hear is imaginary, you tell yourself.
You do not, cannot possibly, hear the sound of bells tinkling or tiny pieces of broken glass falling as you leave. Maybe it was a bell over the door, a reminder of the shop it used to be. Nothing more sinister. The sound does not continue, hauntingly following you until you are seven houses down the road.
You tell yourself that, but you do not believe it.
You never did find out what happened to Thomas. You never saw him again.
And the sound of broken glass and chiming bells still makes you shiver.
Six
I believe.
I believe in the utter
goodness
of hamsters. I believe that
no tomato should be
left
behind. I believe
in wide open spaces
and revolving doors.
I
believe in champagne,
and caviar, and takeaways.
I agree.
I
agree with road tax
and postage charges. I
agree with partisan
literature.
I agree with whoever’s just
spoken and the
underdog
of laundry.
I trust.
I trust that the rain will
stop, the sun
will come out, and all people
will sunbathe. I
trust
that this moment of
time will extend
beyond the
plain
up to my homeland, my highlands.
I understand.
I
understand that I can’t
change history. Yet. I
understand
that power is
held by the few for the
few. I understand why
you
lied, and why
you lied for so long.
I believe.
I believe in
the death of
self to faith, the importance of
decision, of
chocolate. I
believe that the road
is always longer than
you
think, and shorter
than you need.
I believe.
Catherine Bennett
i cup my compact like you
cup
my
chin when i am tired and scared.
i see myself, my watermarked
face
that remembers so little.
there’s the scent of
strawberries in the air,
the remains of our last night
together.
my lips have turned pinker.
my eyes, too, seek
your
heart in your face. i wish i could take off
all of my make-up,
strip us both down,
shape ourselves around each other's naked form
-
the triangle of the pelvis, the square of the chest,
the
crescents of the breasts -
and lie there,
breathing through
each other's skin as if through muslin.
i wrap myself, lonely, in
the
sound of your heartbeats. love,
i cannot stop myself from
hurting you.
Time and Punishment
Round, round go the thieving
hands,
Life’s precious fragments cruelly
stolen
Secondaftersecondaftersecond,
A great unpunished crime
eternally committed,
There grins the Thief of Time,
Unpunishable
coward cloaked;
:(Tick): the maddening dialogue
imprison :(Tock):
Heart submits to the infinite beat,
A slave
unconscious to jolting hands.
Anything for a rebellion, if only to
hear:
Tick Tock Tick Tock Tock,
To at last break the
insuperable clock.
Half a Conversation
It was the worst haircut that had ever happened to me. I mean, you read about these things, but you don’t think it’ll be you. Of course, I’d heard of bad haircuts. That’s how I knew it was one.
So, I was sitting on this wall, haircut and all, and the sun was just kind of draped around it-like someone was laying it out to dry in itself-and this boy came up, about eight or nine. He was French, but he was speaking English.
So, he looks at me and he asks for an ice cream.
He goes, “Is this where I buy ice creams?”
For a minute I was pretty taken aback. I was just sitting on this wall, just getting along with this haircut disaster, when out of the blue, this boy comes up to me and asks if I’m selling ice creams—no indication whatsoever that I was selling these ice creams.
I just had a haircut. That was all. No ice creams.
As you can imagine, I didn’t really know what to say, so I just sort of looked at him and shrugged, like I didn’t understand what he was saying-people often take me as a foreigner.
So then he tries it in French. Well, of course, I don’t speak any French, so I shrug again, but this time for real and then shake my head and say sorry.
He’s still looking at me, though. Expectant. So I shake my head again, this time slower.
Now he looks at me differently, like this whole situation is some kind of sick joke. Some kind of sick, sick ‘boy-asking-manwith- haircut-on-wall-about-ice-cream-selling joke’ that I’d set up, waiting for some unsuspecting eight or nine year old wanting an ice cream. But it wasn’t. It didn’t even have a punchline.
I tried to think of some way to explain it to him, but all I could think about was this haircut that had happened to me, and the sun slowly drying itself on all the walls of France.
Identity
Looking down at the small child in front of me, I forced a smile as he held his hands up in the air and gurgled, “Daddy”. It was at this exact point, earlier today, I realised that the lie I was living had to stop. It was one thing pretending to Elaine to make her happy; I couldn’t handle lying to this poor kid as well.
I could hardly believe that almost an entire year had passed without Elaine suspecting a thing. Sometimes I wondered whether she secretly knew the truth, and was just too weak to admit to it. Of course, anything would seem preferable in comparison to accepting what actually happened.
But of course, we don’t talk about that. It’s the unmentionable in this household, and nobody we know has even heard about it. That would make sense though; probably because we don’t know anybody. We aren’t the most sociable of people, and there isn’t any family between us either. Elaine, an only child, lost both of her parents when she was young, and of course I haven’t seen mine since I left home years ago.
Tim didn‘t have the greatest childhood either. He was the ‘typical abandoned baby, left all wrapped in a basket outside the hospital, and all that depressing cliché bullshit’, as he liked to say with a wry smile. After a rough few years at various foster homes, he left to make his own way, and met me on the streets. You wouldn’t think any of this now, of course, looking at what we’ve made of ourselves. Tim got himself a decent job, met and married the beautiful Elaine, and started a family with Jamie.
Oh, right. This is where it gets confusing.
I live with Elaine and Jamie, provide for them, carry out my husbandly and fatherly duties, and we live your standard middleclass life. The only problem is, I am not a husband or a father. I am 22 not Tim.
Tim died in the accident, just under a year ago. He was my best friend, and had been for pretty much my entire adult life. I escaped with only minor injuries, and Elaine appeared to be the same. At least, until she woke up. The accident itself is still a blur; There seemed to be blood everywhere, but Tim was the only person with actual wounds. Elaine had knocked herself out, but it didn‘t seem serious, and Jamie was strapped in as firmly as a baby could be, which, as it turns out, is pretty secure.
Unfortunately, Tim wasn’t so lucky.
Of course, I wish I could say I had been the hero of the hour, dragging Tim out to safety and giving him the kiss of life and all that, but sadly that wasn’t the case. I did what any grown man would do, and passed out at the sight of the torn flesh and blood which seemed to cover every surface. I don‘t know how long I was out for, but when I woke up I was lying in exactly the same place, with Jamie crying his eyes out. I remember picking him up and going over to Elaine, shaking her awake, and telling her to call for help, call emergency services, call an ambulance, the police, anything. She opened her eyes. And she called me Tim.
This is where it should’ve ended. All I had to do was explain who I was, and point out the corpse lying through the windscreen. But I couldn’t. Don’t ask me why, I still wouldn’t be able to give a decent answer. I just felt so much compassion and sympathy for the woman that I wanted to be Tim. I assumed she had hit her head, damaged something, and that it wasn’t permanent. I wanted to give her a way of avoiding the consequences of his death, if only for a while.
I had no idea a while would turn out to be this long.
I suppose that brings us up to the current day. Of course a lot has happened since then, but it’s not really worth going into. We had a funeral for Tim, except of course under my name; it was really worth going into. We had a funeral for Tim, except of course under my name; it was really quite upsetting being one of only three people at your own funeral. And that’s including the vicar. Although I suppose I’d rather have my self-esteem completely crushed than actually be inside that coffin. Poor Tim.
We moved, after the accident. It wasn’t a hard choice—like I said, we didn’t know anyone, and lived in a little house surrounded by nothingness. Elaine said we needed to find somewhere nice for Jamie to grow up, and to get away from the memories of the accident. I agreed. I mean, I was pretending to be her dead husband, the least I could do was let her choose where we’d live. I even let her pick out the wallpaper. The perfect husband, really.
But anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Coming clean. Telling the truth. Confession, atonement, all that. Right. I have to tell her tonight.
*
“Tim, I need you downstairs please.” A voice came calling up. I put down my pen and folded up the notebook, and started to move down the stairs.
Elaine was sitting at the table. “What on earth have you been doing?”
I was writing, I told her. I found it easier to put my thoughts down on paper.
“Why don’t you ever let me see?”
I pondered this.
It would be an excuse to avoid having to tell her the truth myself. Would that be such a terrible thing to do?
“Tim?”
I realised I had been silent for quite a while. I couldn’t decide what to do. There was more silence.
I said that I would talk to her soon. Tonight. Later. I knew I had to but I just wanted to keep ignoring it.
Elaine sighed.
“I’m going to put Jamie to bed. Please sort yourself out by the time I‘ve finished his story.”
She left.
I went back to my writing.
*
Why didn’t I tell her? It was the perfect opportunity. I suppose there have been so many opportunities though.
I should have told her when she wanted to try for another baby. The sad thing is, I was so close to just giving in. I mean, it couldn’t hurt, really. It would just make her happy. In the end though, I couldn’t do it. I don’t believe in ghosts or the supernatural, but I just didn’t think it was right. I didn’t think Tim would like it.
I often wonder what Tim would make of this situation. Perhaps he would be glad that I was looking after Elaine, and protecting her from the sad truth. Or maybe he would resent the fact I had essentially stolen his wife and child from him. I never gave her an opportunity to mourn.
I don’t think I’m a bad person. I’ve always had the best intentions. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not being completely selfless, part of this is that I just didn’t have the guts to tell Elaine that she was mistaken. But I also just wanted her to be happy. I don’t know. It’s all so confusing. Maybe I should sleep on it.
I can tell her tomorrow.
*
I woke up to the sound of Elaine crying. This was never a good sign. I cautiously asked her what was wrong. She turned to me, and simply held up my notebook. Damn. I need to find better hiding places.
“Tim.. What is this? Is this some kind of joke?”
I didn’t know what to say. I told her I was sorry, and that I would still be here for her and Jamie, that she must have hurt her head in the accident and somehow confused me for Tim; I came clean about everything.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you not think I would know my own husband?”
She was still crying. I carefully explained again that she must have hit her head, but she simply wouldn’t accept it.
This was unplanned. I thought that telling her the truth would trigger something, and she would somehow immediately realise everything.
I should have thought this through.
We sat in silence for a while. Well, silent apart from the sound of Elaine sobbing.
Suddenly, without warning, she stood up and stormed out.
I stayed where I was. I didn’t think it would help going after her.
When she returned she was holding a box.
“Take this.” She handed it to me.
I opened it. I lifted out two passports. The first Elaine’s, the second was mine. Mine?
The picture was mine, but the name was Tim’s.
I was confused, scared. How far had this gone? How long had Elaine known?
I asked her what the hell was going on. She had stopped crying.
I carried on looking through the box. I pulled out a photograph. I was holding Jamie, with my arm around Elaine. Tim was standing at the side, smiling.
I told Elaine I remembered this photo being taken. I was the one at the side. I asked her why these were packed away.
“You told me to store them, when Hugh died. I knew his death had affected you, but... nothing told me it could’ve been this bad. Tim, what’s happening to you?”
*
I dropped the box, and began to cry. I managed to tell Elaine that it had all come flooding back. I spoke to her as if I were writing in this notebook—it was the only way I could.
“It’s coming back to me... nothing clear at first, but an altered vision of what I had previously remembered… Through the haze and the blur, images begin to form... The accident, Hugh’s body, the incomprehensible feeling of losing my best friend... I can feel my body practically convulsing as I attempt to digest this avalanche of information… I can see his face in my mind, feel my legs giving out, as they did on that day… I don’t know what to do... I look up at my wife, my perfect, loving wife, and I just can’t understand how this situation had manifested...”
I stuttered this out, then took Elaine in my arms and told her it would be okay, I remembered now, I loved her and Jamie and I would never leave her, never scare her again, never do that to her again. The photographs had triggered something, caused memories to come flooding back. I was scared.
I told her how the last few months were running through my mind. I had wasted so much time, believing in this lie I had created for myself. I held her closer, and felt her tears dampen my shirt.
This meant forgetting everything I thought I knew and starting again. I told Elaine that we could get through this and that I accepted the truth. It would be difficult, but together we could get through it.
She bought it all, of course. Each stuttered word, the faked tears—everything. I mean, she was clearly mad. Had to be. She went to all the effort to fake passports and photographs. I had to play along. I couldn’t crush her after all that; I’m not a monster.
Now I just need to make sure I hide this thing better.
A River (from a Letter)
A river will curb the spread of an entire city; will hedge the spill of the morning rush, mete the rising trudge and sunless ebb - to slapdash dinners and seven-hour sleep.
It will meet the salt chucks and breach those rougher pockets of memory. While our minds fish thoughts from the rills and brooks; cradles for the weak that have strayed behind.
In the city, five cranes, blinkered and clumsy, dip their vagrant lines for docile scraps. Towers tussle beneath the ragged flag to silence that trudge of hammering feet.
Climate Change
The tear drags its long tail behind
it like a comet,
navigating the craters and protuberances
of my
face. I am the solar system, my mouth
Saturn and my great tongue
is a cloud that cleans the
stars from the sky.
I feel
benevolent, beautiful, in letting the tears go as far
as they may
before they plunge off the hanging crag of my jaw.
I do not like
to brush them away so cruelly
and hastily as some people do,
even
before they’ve peeped out of their burrow in my eye.
I
also let anyone who wants to, see my tears: look,
I am continually
being baptised. This rain cloud behind my eyes
that is constantly
being wrung cleanses me.
Just before I go to bed, it is wrung as
dry as possible and then
wipes off my mind and there is silence at
last behind my eyes
and I can sleep, finally, without the sound of
rainfall.
In the night, the cloud mops up spilt liquids, puddles,
worries
and so requires one more day to wring it all out again.
I
am like the weather in winter: this is a constant cycle.
Dyslexics of the World Yew Knight
Why was I not warned of those tricky
homophones
Its got mop and one in it but rhymes with garden
gnome
As for those nasty horrid vowels, I find them such a boar
Is
it the case if one goes missing, I have to add two moor?
Scissors
with its silent letter and debit with its silly bees
And then
their’s Ireland without the S and stairs without the ease
When
wright is wrong ‘cos its not write is not exactly fare
And the
fact that center isn’t ‘English’ I simply cannot bare
Sew go
ahead and cheque the spelling of every single word
Then ask
yourself - is being dyslexic really so absurd?
Lebkuchen
Herr Brot was standing outside his shop when he saw Herr Verräter pass by and knew immediately what he was eating.
“Herr Verräter!” he said.
Herr Verräter gave a start, crumbs falling from his mouth, and saw at once there was no use pretending.
“Herr Brot,” he nodded, through the last of his mouthful.
Herr Brot looked him up and down. “Hungry?” he said.
Herr Verräter coughed and inched the bag he was carrying further behind his back. “A tad peckish,” he admitted.
“I see,” said Herr Brot. “And what, may I ask, did you choose to assuage this hunger?”
“Oh, just a snack,” said Herr Verräter.
“Indeed. And not just any snack,” said Herr Brot, “for if my nose does not deceive me, you are savouring the sweet taste of gingerbread.”
Herr Verräter coughed again. “I am.”
“Good?”
“Yes,” said Herr Verräter, colouring a little, “very good.”
“I see. And where did you get this gingerbread?”
Herr Verräter mumbled through his teeth.
“Pardon, Herr Verräter? I didn’t quite catch that.”
“...from Frau Hexe.”
“Oh, Frau Hexe. That would be the women who moved in at the edge of the village last month, am I right?”
“You are right.”
There was a long silence. “Herr Verräter,” said Herr Brot. “How long have we known each other?”
“A long time, Herr Brot.”
“Long enough for you to know my profession?”
“Of course, Herr Brot.”
“And what is that profession?”
“You’re a baker, Herr Brot.”
“Indeed. I am a baker. A baker, in fact, who, amongst other things, makes and sells gingerbread. You are aware of that, aren’t you, my friend?”
“I am, Herr Brot.”
Herr Brot glowered. “So why are you buying gingerbread from some pitch-haired outsider?”
Herr Verräter hung his head. “I’m sorry, my friend. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
“The fuss?”
“Yes. You must have heard. The whole village is talking about this woman’s gingerbread and how good it is.”
Herr Brot had, of course, heard. He could hardly not have. He frowned again. “And in your opinion, Herr Verräter,” he said, “does this woman’s gingerbread live up to the hype?”
Herr Verräter opened his mouth, then shut it again. “No,” he said finally. “No, it doesn’t.”
“So in future you will be buying your gingerbread from me?”
“Of course, Herr Brot. Sorry.”
“Oh, think nothing of it, Herr Verräter. I was merely concerned about losing a valued customer such as yourself.” Herr Brot smiled. “In fact, next time you drop by to make an order, remind me to give you some fresh gingerbread. On the house.”
“You’re a good man, Herr Brot,” said Herr Verräter. “Will you be coming to the Vic Königin tonight for a few tankards with myself and Herr Trinker?”
Herr Brot hesitated. He hadn’t had a glass of ale for weeks. Surely he could afford just one? His purse wasn’t that empty? He felt his resolve weakening, but at the last moment he pulled himself together. “Sorry, my friend,” he said, “but I am busy tonight. Maybe another time.”
“Ah, of course,” said Herr Verräter. “Auf wiedersehen!”
“Auf wiedersehen,” said Herr Brot, and tapping out his long dead pipe he went back into the shop.
Closing the door behind him, he turned and almost tripped over two excited bundles of blond hair and dirty clothes, chasing each other around the shop.
“Kinder!” he said. “Children!” They turned to look at him. “Play quietly,” he said. He walked into the back of the shop, where Eva was mending clothes. He looked at her for a second, sliding his gaze over her curly hair and shapely figure. After Belinda had caught the consumption and never recovered, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to look at anyone in that way again. But Eva had sought him out, helped soothe his aching heart, and before he knew it she’d moved in and they were married. He thought of himself back then, a successful man with a thriving business. Everything had been good. Everything had been wonderful. But then sales started slip, to slide, to tumble, and now it looked like that old hag on the edge of town would be the final nail in the coffin.
“Hello, my darling,” he said.
Eva looked up. “Husband,” she said. “Any business?”
Herr Brot shook his head. “None.”
Eva cursed. “What are we going to do,” she said. “We have 33 barely enough money for ingredients, and when we do buy them the cakes do not sell.”
“I know,” said Herr Brot. “It is that woman’s fault.”
“That woman?” “Yes. The new one on the edge of town. Everyone is buying her pastries, her cakes, her gingerbread.”
“How do you know?”
“I see them!” exploded Herr Brot. “Every day I see them, walking all the way to the edge of the village, all the way to the edge of the woods, just to buy that accursed woman’s baking. They think I don’t see them, but I do.”
“So, if that woman was not here, then business would be good again?” said Eva.
“Better, certainly.”
Eva nodded. “Then we should kill her.”
Herr Brot’s eyes widened, shocked at the even tone in his wife’s voice. “Kill her? Eva! That’s going too far.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Herr Brot sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I should improve my technique.” He shook his head. “If only I could make gingerbread like her.”
“Well, why can’t you?”
Herr Brot glared at his wife. “I don’t have her recipe.”
“Then get it.”
Herr Brot frowned. “You mean steal it?”
“Why not?”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“People would be sure to see me hanging around. And then, when it went missing, it would not take a genius to put zwei and zwei together, hmm?”
“Then send someone else.”
“Who would be willing to do something like that?”
“There is always the children.”
“The children?”
“Yes. God knows they owe us something, the amount they eat.”
“I’m not sure, Eva…”
“It would be perfect. No one will notice two kids hanging around. Children mill about the village every day. They could slip into her house, hide there until nightfall, then steal the recipe and come back here. No one would be any the wiser.”
Herr Brot stroked his beard. “And then,” continued his wife, “you wait awhile, to avert suspicion, before starting to make the gingerbread yourself.”
“I could improve upon the recipe!” said Herr Brot excitedly. “Blend it with mine! By taking the best bits from both I could make the best gingerbread in the county. People would come from miles around to taste it. We’d be rich!”
Eva Brot stopped darning and smiled. “Exactly,” she said.
“But can we really send the children in to do our dirty work?” said Herr Brot. “What if they got caught? What if she killed them?”
“Then we would have two less mouths to feed.”
Herr Brot’s mouth fell open. “Eva!” he said. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing.”
“I was joking, fool,” said Eva. “They are children. If they are caught they can say they are playing a game. Hide and seek. No one will suspect them.”
“You make a good point,” said Herr Brot. He hesitated.
“Don’t you want to be rich?” said his wife. She paused. “The man I married wanted to be rich.”
Herr Brot sighed. “You are right,” he said. “It is decided.”
“Good,” said his wife, and went back to her darning.
As the afternoon drew to a close Herr Brot called his children in. He explained to them that this was a game, a very important game, and if they won the game they would get to eat anything they wanted from the shop for a whole week. The idea met with considerable enthusiasm and they skipped off, small heads dancing with cake and pastries.
Night fell quickly. Herr Brot waited by the door, his pacing wearing the floorboards thin. Occasionally he opened it and looked out into the blackness.
“Where are they,” he moaned. “What’s taking them so long?”
“Calm down,” said his wife. “They are biding their time. Do you want some dinner?”
“I can’t eat.”
“Suit yourself.”
An hour passed. Then another. Then another. Finally Herr Brot slammed his fist into the wall. “Enough!” he said. “I am going to find them.”
“But if you are caught? You will ruin everything!”
“I do not care! I should never have let you talk me into this fool of a plan.”
And he put on his coat and went out into the night.
Frau Hexe’s house was on the other side of the village, a tenminute walk, but Herr Brot made it in five. He slowed his pace as he neared it, stealing up to the window. A light glinted.
Moving slowly, Herr Brot peered in. Frau Hexe was immediately visible. What was she doing? Baking! No sooner had he realised than the smell hit his nostrils, the warm spicy aroma of good sweet gingerbread. But where were his children? Moving his head further into the light, he finally spotted them. In the corner.
Bound and tied.
Rage filled Herr Brot. He strode towards the rickety door and kicked it off its hinges. The children screamed, screams that turned to yells of joy.
“Papa! Papa!”
Frau Hexe turned, brandishing a baking tray like a weapon. “So, Herr Brot,” she said. “You have come to try where your children have failed?”
“I know nothing of what you speak,” said Herr Brot. “Just give me back my children.”
“Don’t play innocent with me,” said Frau Hexe. “I caught them sneaking in and they confessed everything. You’re after my recipes.” She bristled. “My priceless family recipes. I tied them up to teach them—and you—a lesson. Now get out of my house!”
She attempted to force him back out of the door, but Herr Brot’s blood was boiling and raising both hands he shoved her viciously across the room. Frau Hexe fell backwards into a table, hitting her head on the corner. The table wobbled, and the candle that was on it toppled to the floor. The rug started to burn.
“Children, quickly!”
“We’re tied up, Papa!”
Frantically Herr Brot searched for a knife. The rug was completely aflame now, and the chair beside it started to smoulder. Still Herr Brot could not find one. Fire crept up the back of the chair. The room brimmed with smoke.
Finally his fingers closed around a blade and he went desperately to work on the bonds, slicing through them just as the table and the side of the wall caught fire. Grabbing their hands, he dragged them through the white-hot smoke, eyes searing, and together they stumbled out of the house.
Behind them, there was the sound of wood cracking with the heat, and as they stood there, coughing and wiping their streaming eyes, the first of the villagers came running towards them.
“Herr Brot? What happened? Are you okay?”
Herr Brot’s mind worked quickly. “We are,” he said, “but only just.”
“What happened?” asked another villager.
“Frau Hexe,” said Herr Brot. “was a witch.”
“A witch?!”
“Yes. She lured my children into her home with the promise of gingerbread, then tied them up and tortured them. She told them she planned to feed them up, make them nice and plump, then feast herself upon their very bodies.”
Gasps rippled around the crowd. Herr Brot kept going.
“She baked the gingerbread into the very walls to make it more attractive to children. That’s why they were always around. And when I went to look for my children and knocked on her door, she attacked me with spells and curses. It was pure luck that one of her firebolts missed and in the confusion we managed to escape with our lives.”
“And Frau Hexe?”
“Still inside.”
Waves of chatter swept over the crowd.
“—never liked her—”
“—rather odd—”
“—could have been any one of our children—”
And in the midst of this someone grabbed Herr Brot’s arm. It was Frau Verräter.
“Herr Brot, are you okay?” she asked.
Herr Brot nodded. “I… I think so.”
“Well, don’t you worry.” She smiled encouragingly. “As long as that witch is dead and little Grettie and Hans are safe, that’s the important thing.” She smiled again. “Yes, that’s the important thing.”
Do You Have the Time?
Wind up the clock,
Your time
starts now.
Rise and shine, bedtime,
Breakfast and dinner
time,
Time for tea, vicar.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Time waits for no man,
And no
woman either.
“The girls will take their time”,
Relax dear,
we’ve time to spare,
Time to waste, hours to while away.
Tick,
tock. Tick, tock.
No time like the present.
And past
times, they’re in the past,
What was and what is,
Time, the
greatest healer,
Everything gets better in time.
Tick, tock.
Tick, tock.
Spending some time, or saving time,
A
stitch in time saves nine—what?
9 o’clock? Already?
The
clock chimes, times nine,
And the bells ring out, for Christmas
time.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Keeping hold of time—a
stopwatch
For the timekeeper please.
On your marks, get set…
As
if we can keep time,
Time is running out.
Tick, tock. Tick,
tock.
Time, time, nobody has the time,
Time
escapes us.
The sands rushing through the timer,
There’s not
enough hours in the day,
And there’s never enough time.
Tick,
tock. Tick, tock.
Cherries
We had cherries for breakfast. Always these cherries, burdened with their own sourness and crisply cold. I remember the way they used to feel against my teeth, the way their juice used to dribble down my chin and the way their smell would stick to my fingers. I used to roll my tongue around the stones and shoot them out onto my saucer. They clattered like glass beads rolling across the floor. And then my Grandmother would look at me and, in her broken English, would say ‘nice girl, nice girl’. Her and my mother used to gabble away to one another in Armenian and eat strong, salty cheese that was never the same when we had it at home. Meanwhile, my sister and I used the distraction to steal sugar cubes from the sombre black bowl in the middle of the table. I always thought that it was so odd that something so cold looking could hold something so perfect. They were like perfect, pure white bricks. You could put them on your tongue and feel them dissolve, or you could crunch them between your teeth, or (and this was my favourite) you could hold them at one end and lower the other end into your tea and watch them slowly melt away.
The Teapot of Forgiveness
(1)
“Ed’s coming to meet you tomorrow.”
Mummy is in the doorway and her fingers are pulling the paint off the frame but I don’t think she’s noticed.
“He’s got a little girl just like you.” Her voice is a little bit squeakier than usual, like when she does the rabbits in Animals of Farthing Wood. “Well, a bit bigger than you.”
I imagine her as big as the door with flowing blonde hair and teeth, lots of teeth.
She turns around to go and make tea and suddenly I think of something important.
“Which chair will he sit in?”
She looks quickly and her mouth is like an O. “The… spare one.”
“Not Daddy’s?”
She shakes her head a tiny bit and leaves. I wriggle into the carpet and pour tea for Mr Algenon and Charlotte, but none for the other cup because there’s nobody in the fourth chair.
(2)
She isn’t as big as the door but she’s plenty big enough. Mummy and Ed are talking in the kitchen and Mummy said to show her my room so I had to let her come and she’s sitting on the floor because she’s too big for the chairs anyway but it’s still all wrong. Mummy said to be nice and even though I don’t feel like it I try. I say does she want some tea, and I let her see the teapot. But she says no it isn’t even tea it's just milk and sugar and I’m cross because I know, I’m not stupid, but tea is nasty and it burns your tongue so you can’t taste anything for the rest of the day and your mouth is rough like sand. So I don’t say anything and just pour for me and the others. She says: “your teapot isn’t symmetrical”. I don’t know what it means but I don’t like her saying it about Daddy’s teapot and I don’t like her and I don’t feel like being nice any more so I go to the bathroom and sit in the empty bath moving ducks around until I hear him take her away in his big square black car.
(3)
We move, just after my birthday. It’s okay. Ed is big and silly and we don’t talk much but sometimes we watch Changing Rooms together and he teaches me to play Rummy. I don’t talk to her either, except sometimes she says things to me and it makes me want to kick her, and sometimes I do, but she’s still bigger than me and when she kicks back it hurts. We have ‘family’ dinners twice a week, and when I talk she always flicks her eyes sideways and smiles behind her hand and I feel hot and sick in my stomach like I’ve just said the stupidest thing in the world.
I avoided her, mostly, ever since the first time when I found Mr Algenon drowning upside down in the milk and sugar. Not that I would need him to sleep any more, I’m not stupid. Just, I was only little then and he was my favourite bear and I missed him, because even after he was washed he smelled sour when he dried and he had to go in the skip.
(4)
We grow up like that, occupying the same space but not together, needling and niggling and bullying one another. For a while we go to the same school and she tells everyone I’ve got nits. 44 Then at another school there’s a rumour that I have crabs, and Mum says “rise above it” so I do, but when I find out what ‘crabs’ means I’m so angry that I pour milk and sugar into her £139.99 new boots from Debenhams.
(5)
When she and Ed come back from her hospital appointment I make sure I’m out of her way: in my room reading ‘Glamour’ on my bed, leaning against the wall under the shelf where my old teapot is.
“You little bitch,” she begins, as my door bangs against the wall. “You told him I’m a lesbian.”
“Aren’t you one? Sorry.” I try to sound cool. I guess Dave believed what I told him, if he passed the message on to her.
“You bitch.” Again.
She whacks me in the side, I yelp and we grapple. Eventually, panting, I bite her ear and she pushes me away. She picks up a shoe from the floor, trembling with wordless rage, and hurls it at the wall. Blue ceramic fragments rain down on me.
I pick up the spout Dad made, two inches of it still intact. Direct hit. I don’t hear her leave.
(6)
We should have forgiven one another and become close; supported each other through the dark times as the cancer ate up her bones. If we’d been in a novel that’s how it would have happened. But I had the blue spout on the shelf over my bed, to remind me that her being there was a crime I could never absolve her of.
(7)
Ed isn’t crying, but his face looks like it’s made of sand. He’s wearing a dark grey coat that makes him look as square as the gravestones, like he’s just another monument to the huge lie of immortality. There are lots of flowers, with little laminated messages. They are quietly terrifying.
I’m not crying either, I just feel numb, like I’ve swallowed tea too fast and scalded all my nerves to deadness. I’m wearing red shoes.
(8)
The eulogy is full of words like ‘sunny’ and ‘giving’ and I can’t stifle my scornful eyebrows. Mum sees, and after she says “it’s such a shame that the two of you never really got on.”
I gape in disbelief. “It isn’t. We never wanted to get on.”
Mum looks pained and vague and she starts off across the room to go and hold Ed’s hand. As she leaves she murmurs “oh, you just never understood one another. She was a lovely girl.”
Mum knows she wasn’t as well as I do, and suddenly the cold black poison in my chest is bubbling up and seizing me by the windpipe.
“Fuck off! Is she somehow better now she’s dead? Is she an angel, now? Why do we start lying now? Why do we try to convince ourselves now that we’ve lost something that was worth having?” Her eyes are white and helpless and furious and her nails dig into myshoulder as she drags me into a corner. She almost can’t speak.
“What—stop it. You can’t—,”
“I mean it! I understand that it’s sad when young people die, but I’m not going to miss her, and I don’t just suddenly think she was great…!”
She sends me home and tells everyone I’m too upset to stay for the wake.
(9)
Mum calls me at school when she finds it.
“I went to the cemetery today.”
I say nothing.
“You, um. You forgave her for the teapot.”
Her voice is little and timid.
“No. What would be the point? She’s dead.”
“So… so, why did you give her the spout?”
“Because I don’t want to see it any more in my room. There’s just no point in keeping it.”
She just says “mm” quietly and after a little while we hang up.
(10)
Despite everything, I do go back one more time. The flowers are wilted. The laminated platitudes are curling in the damp. The little spout looks like it’s there by accident. But it looks—honest. So I leave it there, and walk away.
Deer Skull
I don’t like the feeling of
treading on sugar—
The snow forms a powder layer under me that
makes
Me lose my foothold amidst the tussocks of frozen
grass.
There are bird tracks like skewer-holes in a cake,
Pockets
of air under the earth’s new epidermis
Where the worms breathe
chokingly.
There is nothing regal about this world of silence and
death;
There are no flowers, only deer skulls,
Rotting skeleton
faces missing a jaw that your dog drags up
And brings into this
world of white, a blot against the papery
Snow. It would chatter
at me if it had its jaw. It is putrid
But at the same time,
grinningly-clean from the snow.
Its teeth look like old hollow
treasure chests, sickly yellow
And strangely brittle. There is a
brown leaf in one of the eye
Sockets. As I walk it bumps against
my thigh, dislodging
The leaf so the skull is gazing at me
dully.
Its horns appear to have lost a layer: parts of them have
A
reptilian covering, scaly and wet. I let my dog take the
Skull
carefully from me—it was his prize, after all—and
Carry it
sedulously in his mouth until it is dropped in his fervour
For
something else, and it sticks up awkwardly out of the
ground,
Grinning satanically after me, its horns probing the
silent air.
Running
Samuel Walker came stumbling up the hill, trainers slapping into the ground with every step. Samuel Walker, Bambi on a frozen lake, who, when he heard his name called out as he walked to school, would merely shove his hands hard into his pockets and walk faster, whose legs almost but not quite buckled, gasped and gurgled his way to the top. Around him wind straight from Dracula’s turret toyed with porcupine hair and set his glasses askew. His chin rocking up and down, Samuel Walker pulled left, gasping like a drowning man, taking in air that turned stale the moment he entered his mouth, scatty second-hand running trainers borrowed from his brother struggling for purchase in the mud. Behind him in colourless procession came more, shambling, fists batting at the air with every step forward, a long wavering column of harsh-cheekboned thin-wristed boys, vests flapping, elbows flaring, following.
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