Fourth Period

Him

 

You watch as the guard feeds today’s lesson into the VCR. The smell of gun oil from the guard’s AK-47 reminds you to pay attention or else.

You try to focus on this installment of American history, how their version of the truth lost to the right version of truth as god intended, how the country is blessed to breathe in the holy spirit day in and day out. You cough up something oily in your hand, study the flecks of blood in the gob resting in your palm. The cock of the AK-47 tells you to look up and pay attention, or else.

You are grateful that the mermaid’s last name starts with C and yours starts with M. You are close enough to map the beauty marks on the nape of her neck. You think about what her earlobes would taste like, whether her sweat is chemically equivalent to the pills you take to reduce how much blood you cough up. The mermaid must feel your eyes because she turns her head to look at you. Just as your eyes meet, the guard fires a warning volley above your heads. Blood trickles from the fresh bullet holes in the ceiling and covers up how hard you’re really blushing.

 

Her

 

The guard feeds today’s lesson into the VCR. It’s the same one as yesterday as it was the day before. You know this when the orange faced teacher in his American flag blazer appears on the screen. He pulls the pointer out of his blazer, extends it, and says let’s begin in the way that conveys he’s excited to teach you this lesson, as he was yesterday, as he was the day before yesterday.

You are used to seeing the same lesson over and over and over again. The state believes in the importance of repetition. You know better to question their facts after you watched your best friend, the girl with the melting face, almost lose her kneecap when she disagreed with the proctor of your science midterm.

You still feel underwater after last night from all the wine you drank, your mouth stuffed with wool, but it was worth it. The boy who coughs up oil maintained his composure. Even as he showed you the first star you’ve ever seen, he kept his hands and mouth to himself. You turn your head to look at him. Just as your eyes meet, the guard fires a warning volley above your heads. You watch the blood trickle from the bullet holes in the ceiling onto the boy’s forehead and cheeks. You turn back to your lesson after the guard cocks the AK-47, again.

You hope the boy doesn’t do anything stupid. The last boy who was into you, the one-armed one, rushed the proctor who shot your best friend. You thought it was romantic, even when he tried to say goodbye through the new hole in his throat, his vocabulary unable to clot. You used to think you were worth dying over until someone died on your behalf. You want to ask the boy who coughs up oil out, make the first move, to show him there is hope, to show him there is something worth living for, as intact as a boy who coughs up oil could be.

 

 

 

 

J. Bradley is the author of The Adventures of Jesus Christ, Boy Detective (Pelekinesis, 2016) and the Yelp review prose poem collection Pick How You Will Revise A Memory (Robocup Press, 2016). He lives at jbradleywrites.com.

 

 

 

essence

the earth exudes a substance
more human than geological
its carbon/calcium/iron made alive
by those who tilled and shaped it
          fed armies and empires from it
          gave it battles and blood
          built on it
          buried beneath its crumbled loam
                  themselves and their artifacts

trees and crops must draw this essence in
breathe it back into the air
                  for it cannot be shaken off
                  the light hums with it

 

 

Andrew McCallum lives and works in the south of Scotland and is a widely published, broadcast and award-winning poet. He loves collaborations and has worked with visual artists on ekphrastic projects and with sound artists to produce an album of samplings. He currently works as a freelance proofreader, editor and writer.

HEIRLOOM and 1984

HEIRLOOM

As her belly swelled, she heard an opera
the waves crashed against the rocks
in fury, the aria of war.

Perhaps, the geometry of her life unraveled:
love, pain, shame, the chronicle of blood lines,
her clan lived in the same house for six generations.
One son moved from the North Sea to the Pacific,
another lost his life on an oil rig in Aberdeen,
secrets barely audible.

Perhaps, the deep blue
unfurled its long tongue
flicked it on the rocks,
smacking lips, the snack of a snake.
How unencumbered
he was to take what he wanted
from her small frame.

History is an outstretched limb
hungry for expansion,
breathe into the tightness
and feel your body open,
a softening, inside and out.

When the sun no longer dazzles,
we become elemental:
breath of wonder, pens of quartz,
wet briny sapphire.

 

 

1984

The smash of glass on the guardrail,
phone call in the wee hours
my Mother, hurried us into the car

His face, pummeled by force
crusted blood in nostrils
black eyed, my Father was in that body

Swollen, he looked so small
in the outsized bed. A purple monster
to my nine-year-old eyes

Her face wet with worry,
in the sanitary fluorescence. The nurse
held my hand and baby brother on her hip

She led us to her office, where I drew
and looked at the big Eucalyptus tree in the parking lot
What kindness she gave, meanwhile,
Mom digested fear and anger

See my slippers? They are kitty cats!
The nurse smiled at my pink face
My niece is your age, do you like stickers?

I watched my Mother’s face all the way home,
poised to poke her awake

 

 

Ingrid Keir is a poet, performer and educator. She is co-founder of the WordParty, a long- running San Francisco poetry and jazz series. She has been a featured reader at diverse venues in the Bay Area including the DeYoung Museum, The Beat Museum, City Hall, Quiet Lightning as well as many others. Ingrid has lectured Creative Writing at San Francisco State University where she taught undergraduate poetry, fiction and playwriting while simultaneously engaging students with writers of the Bay Area. She also received both her M.F.A and B.A. degrees at San Francisco State University. She has written several chapbooks: The Secrets of Like (2004), Toward the Light (2007) and recently released a new book of poetry in September 2016, The Choreography of Nests, published by Feather Press. Ingrid has been published in many literary journals including: Two Hawks Quarterly, The Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Sparkle and Blink and Out of Our. She was also shortlisted in the 2016 Litquake poetry contest.

Blank Fear

My heart is like a green moon overgrown with forest

Your heart is like a blue sun, cool yet honest

 

I want to make you a meal and for it to coincidentally be your favourite food and it seem so perfect completely accidentally and

I want you to trace the outline of my body like you might follow a path in a foreign city without google maps guiding you and

I want blankness without the human meddling that always follows

 

I’m living a year ahead of myself……………………………. and

Instead of sleep I search the internet for answers I already have.

Asking again so rhythmically eases something hollow in me.

What I need is to be held in the uncertain place by something certain. Like death. Or pain. Or human life. Or trees. Are trees still certain? Or water.

I can’t ask this of you. Of course I want to. But two uncertain people in an uncertain time and place makes for a very muddy stew.

Do we dream?

What would you do?

 

 

 

 

Clare Marcie is a New Zealand actor, writer and theatre maker based in the UK. You can next catch her performing a work in progress of her solo show What Would Kanye Do? at Hidden Door Festival on the 1st 2nd and 3rd of June. Her website is  claremarcie.com

Simone the Cyborg

The room looked the same as all the other interview rooms. The interviewers too were similar to all the others. They had the same suits, same way of sitting, same bored expressions and now the one on the right, and it was always the one of the right, was about to ask the usual question. “Ms Laker what have you got that makes you stand out against the other candidates we’re seeing today? What is your USP?”

On the hover-train home to Dunfermline, already prepared for the rejection letter or more likely lengthening silence from her hoped-for employer, Simone pondered the question. What was her USP? She had been a security guard for a company who had switched their operations abroad. Key staff were offered a transfer of course, but new security staff could be hired at their new location. Simone had now been redundant for almost a year.

Simone sank back in her seat, watching the Firth disappear from view. To make matters worse the woman opposite was chatting to her friend in a loud voice about how she was re-inventing herself. Being surgically enhanced was “like being reborn or starting completely anew”, she said. “I told him it had to be Cate Blanchett’s nose, not her actual nose of course, that would be silly, but one just like hers. I wanted Fiona Bruce’s eyebrows, you know just bit of an angle but not Mr Spock, and breasts that would enter the room ahead of me and turn every head.”

Picking up a crumpled free paper from the carriage floor, in the vain hope it would distract her from the woman’s chatter, Simone idly flicked through its pages. Suddenly an article caught her eye. “Why stick with five senses when you can have eight or nine? Simple technology available today mean tiny sensors can be very simply grafted to your nervous system and linked by Wi-fi to your computer or smart phone. With these extra senses, you could detect and experience things others can’t.”

A sixth sense, now that would certainly be a Unique Selling Point, Simone mused.

While her boyfriend Andy made dinner that night, Simone checked out the links from the article online. It was all true. It was called cybernetics. You could buy a range of body upgrades by mail order from a company in America. They did not look too complicated or expensive either. For less than a £100 you could get kitted out with fingertip sonar magnets – which by their vibrations would tell you what was in a pitch-black room, and where it was located. It seemed to be a bit like having a bat’s echolocation. Then there were heat sensors to let you know who was in the room, how near they were, and their body temperature. These could be useful augmentations to the hands of a security guard.

“Darling I’ve been thinking…” Simone took a breath. “Maybe I should get myself cybernetically enhanced.” Andy muttered something about thinking he hadn’t cooked the chops for quite long enough. She tried again. “Andy! – Would you mind if I became a cyborg?” His startled face was a picture.

Simone decided that perhaps she should get Andy used to the idea more slowly. After all, the changes she was about to make to herself were very subtle. With luck he’d hardly notice the difference. That evening, she went ahead with buying and downloading onto her phone the software she’d need to use her new senses. Now, she could hardly wait for the parcel to arrive from the US, containing the actual implants.

A week later, a little box arrived by drone, direct from a company in Michigan. Simone tore it open, part in anticipation, but also partly in dread. These were after all implants that were going to be surgically placed in her fingertips. On seeing her enhancements however, she was partially at least reassured. They were so tiny, so delicate – the heat sensor and the sonar magnets. Of course they had to be if they were going to be inserted into her fingers. That part, she admitted to herself, did still make her feel quite queasy.

Simone had passed the tattoo parlour in the town centre on many occasions but never had cause to go in before. The details on the American website however explained that it was not necessary to have fingertip sensors fitted by a doctor. It said a registered tattoo artist or body piercer was fine legally and in terms of health and safety.

The tattooist, who turned out to be a woman covered with intricate floral art, listened to Simone in bemused silence, before admitting that this was the first time she’d been asked to perform a cybernetic augmentation. She was however unfazed upon reading the fitting instructions. As she cleaned with disinfectant Simone’s index and middle finger on her right hand, she reassured her that it would only be a tiny incision. “No worse than when you nick your finger chopping veg.” Simone took a deep breath and looked away.

The tattooist was quick and the job was soon done. Simone’s newly bandaged fingers throbbed a bit, but it was bearable. There was no comparison with what the woman on the train wishing to acquire Cate Blanchett’s nose would need to go through. The tattooist explained that the cuts would heal in a few days, then tried to up sell Simone an inking of a couple of swallows on her back. Simone declined gracefully, but still left the shop feeling like she was a new woman. She felt transformed, reborn and rebuilt. She was in effect a cyborg. Her USP was now unique. The bandages could come off in five days time, which was just as well, as she had just discovered another firm advertising a security post.

When Andy came home from his part-time job supervising shelf-stacking droids in Inverkething, he noticed the bandaged fingers at once and was horrified. He imagined Simone had somehow hideously mutilated herself. Gingerly she undid the bandages and he calmed down.

“Oh is that all it is? A tiny scar on two fingers? Well it’s very neat. I wouldn’t have even noticed if I didn’t have my glasses on.”

Simone re-bandaged her fingers, and though she could feel the occasional odd vibration in one or other fingertip, she resisted the urge to take another peek beneath the bandages until the five days were up.

The day of her fingertips’ official unveiling also happened to coincide with the interview for the job of security guard. Simone put on her sharpest suit and painted her nails. She somehow had a feeling that her hands would be the centre of attention this time around. A USP was about to be unleashed on an unsuspecting interviewer.

As usual there were two suited people waiting to see her in an identikit Edinburgh office. The one on the right, a bored-sounding man told her to take a seat before launching into the usual spiel about how they were seeing a number of candidates for the post. Simone however was in no mood for identikit interview etiquette. Waving her burgundy painted nails in his face to silence him she boldly interrupted, “I know all that, so let’s just cut to the chase shall we? Would you like to see my USP?”

The once bored-looking interview jumped out of his skin and spluttered something unintelligible. “My Unique Selling Point.” Simone persisted, raising her voice slightly as if talking to a sullen child. She stood up, as he still sat there, mouth slightly open. “Let’s go in next room. Shall we?” The interviewer could only follow. Upon reaching the next door in the corridor, Simone turned back towards the transfixed man who clearly believed she had taken leave of her senses. “Before I enter, please turn off the lights and pulls the blinds.” She waited outside whilst this was done, then took one step into the room’s doorway. She raised her right arm and immediately her fingers began to tingle.

Simone moved her arm in a slow arc to allow her fingers to scan the room. Then, in an instant, she felt the sonic sensor in her index fingertip vibrate. By Wi-fi it had communicated with the software on her phone and was now sending information back to her. Then the temperature sensor started to vibrate too. Simone started to explain “There’s a large object there. Registering at lower than room temperature. It’s a water cooler. There’s a woman standing beside it, about five metres from us. By her temperature reading she shouldn’t be in work today. Probably got the flu. There are two men standing together by the window, one of whom should really consider going on a diet for the sake of his health.”

What her cybernetic enhancements didn’t tell Simone was that the rather large man was actually the boss of the company. It didn’t matter, she was hired on the spot and put in charge of the night security team in Edinburgh city centre.

Simone bought a bottle of bubbly to celebrate with Andy that evening. That night, lying in bed, listening to him snore, her fingertip sensor told her he was very cold.- thirty-three degrees centigrade to be precise. Worried she woke him, to be told it was just because as usual she had taken most of the duvet. Andy went back to sleep, but Simone could not. Her sonar told her there was a large moth flying around in the darkened room. For a while she just tracked its movements, but when it almost landed on her boyfriend’s nose she could keep quiet no longer. “Andy, there’s a moth in here.” Exasperated, Andy woke and told her to go back to sleep. “It doesn’t matter, Batwoman. Can’t you switch those things off?” Simone had in fact switched her phone off, but the software brought it back to life every time there was something in the vicinity to sense or detect.

Over the next few weeks, Simone was very happy in her new job. She foiled four attempted break-ins of shops, and caught two teams of burglars red-handed, well infrared handed, you could say, as it was her heat sensors that spotted them hiding in the dark. The company was delighted and she was promoted to departmental manager. It meant longer hours – day and night, but she was now bringing in good money and everything was going well, or so she thought.

It was late when Simone got home that night, but she could see that the light was still on so Andy hadn’t gone to bed without her. As she walked into the hall she could hear him speaking on his mobile, in a hushed tone. She stood behind the door and eavesdropped. “Oh that sounds like Simone coming in. Finally. Look Helen, perhaps we should carry on this conversation at work tomorrow. Bye.” He ended the call as Simone entered the room, glaring at him suspiciously. He asked if she’d had a good evening at work, but Simone was in no mood for small talk. She blurted out that she knew he’d been talking to his supervisor Helen. Helen who raised his temperature by nought point five degrees every time she called.

“Simone!” Andy was shocked at the accusation. Helen was nothing more than a colleague. Simone was not to be pacified. Whose name was it that the infrared let her see him mouthing in his sleep? Could it possibly be Helen’s? Andy was outraged, but Simone was not finished. Small niggles had been building up over the past weeks, like the fact that the previous Monday he had cooked a casserole at twenty degrees over its optimum heat. At the same time he had put the washing machine on at a far lower temperature than she had asked, so coffee stains remained in their best tablecloth.

If she had expected Andy to admit his guilt or even the fact that he was an inferior being without a USP, Simone was sadly disappointed. Instead he erupted into a rant of his own, “I’m sick of this! I’ve had enough. I don’t want to be living with a cyborg! You don’t know how annoying it is, when you keep getting up in the middle of the night to dust a lampshade or move something that only you can see is in the wrong place. It’s getting on my nerves that you can tell what we have, or haven’t got in the fridge or the cupboards without opening them. Your birthday was a nightmare – I knew, you already knew what was inside your presents despite your efforts to fake surprise. And I don’t need telling every five minutes what my temperature is.”

They only retort in her arsenal was one she didn’t really mean. She suggested he run off and live with Helen instead. “At least she’s normal” Andy sniped back. That was it. Simone erupted telling him he should leave.

Andy didn’t leave however. After all the mortgage was in both their names, and whether he liked Helen from work or not, Helen had a husband. Simone and Andy started living separate lives in the same house, eating separately, sleeping separately.

“At least I’ve some privacy this way.” Andy said, adding slightly spitefully “ Not bought a way to see through walls yet have you?”

They were drifting apart. Though Simone genuinely didn’t think there was anything going on between him and Helen from his workplace. It wasn’t that he wanted someone new – it was rather that he wanted things to be back the way they were.

He wanted the old Simone back. The one with the normal five senses instead of seven. It was understandable really, Simone supposed, how could they still have anything in common when they didn’t even experience the world in the same way?

Ultimately she knew what she had to do. The sensors had to go. Her mind was made

up as she headed out, on my way to the tattoo parlour. Perhaps after the woman had removed her cybernetics she would have those little swallows tattooed on her back after all, just to cheer herself up.

Simone had reached the corner of the street when she heard cries for help. Smoke was billowing from the upstairs windows of a flat above a shop. The fire brigade were on their way but someone was apparently trapped in there. She didn’t think twice. With a couple of guys from the neighbouring shop, she broke down the door.

The heat of the inferno hit her as she rushed up the stairs. The smoke was thick and stifling, the heat from the flames registered over one hundred degrees. Simone felt as if her eyeballs were melting. It was impossible to see anything through the smoke – well it was unless you happened to be a cyborg. Her sonar and infrared sensors were detecting two figures in the gloom, pressed up against the wall in a corner. One by its

size and temperature reading was a child, the other was not human.

With her scarf up over her face to prevent her being overcome, Simone let her finger sensors guide her through the choking smoke. Suddenly the little boy was clinging to her and the other life form was revealed to be a very frightened dog. Grabbing

them both, she turned around. Checking her phone to squint at the data from the heat sensor, she could see there was a cooler blue patch registering to her right. It must be some kind of exit: a door or a window. With flames and acrid smoke all around them, she didn’t care which it was. Clutching the boy and dog, Simone made for that exit. It was a window, and then they were falling.

Simone awoke in a hospital ward to see Andy looking at her, concern and love on his face. She struggled to sit up, instantly worried about the little boy and his dog. Andy reassured her that they were both fine. She had saved both their lives. Unfortunately she had cracked two ribs and inhaled a fair bit of smoke in the process. Andy told her he would leave her to rest.

“No!” Simone had something apart from smoke she wanted to get off her chest. “Andy, listen, I’ve got to explain. I was on my way to get them removed – the sensors – and I still will I promise. In fact perhaps one of the doctors here can take them out?”

Andy told her to hush. No one was going to remove her sensors. She was now a national heroine. The TV News and the papers were all waiting to interview her. Andy had even had a call from the fire brigade asking if Simone would like to join them, and a mountain rescue team too. “You’re a lifesaver, my darling. They’re telling me that’s what you should be doing – going out saving lives. It’s your

vocation.” Simone could barely take this in, especially when she heard the headline the local paper wanted to go with was ‘Cybernetic Simone The Superhero.’ She laughed, it was ridiculous, and that was still how she felt when she received a tweet from Steven Spielberg.

When she came out of hospital, things were good again between Simone and Andy. She never did hear any more from Steven Spielberg, but her life still changed beyond all recognition. She became a Dunfermline fire brigade reservist and a weekend mountain rescue volunteer, while still managing security in Edinburgh city centre. Simone had one further little augmentation too – on her ring finger. It didn’t do anything extraordinary. It was just a little gold band. After all there’s no law to say cyborgs can’t get married like everyone else. Or live happily ever after.

 

THE END.  

 

 

 

Judy Upton is a multi award-winning playwright/screenwriter with plays produced here in the UK by the Royal Court, National Theatre, BBC Radio 4 and others. She has also had two feature films produced. Her short stories have been published in a number of print and online publications and her website is at: http://www.judyupton.co.uk

Four drawings by Aurore Garnier

rapi

Rapi, 21*15 cm, ink, 2016

dune

Dune, 21*15 cm, ink, 2016

lune

Lune, 21*15 cm, ink, 2016

nuit-de-mai

Nuit de Mai, 21*15 cm, ink, 2016

 

 

 

Aurore Garnier is a French artist living and working in Glasgow. After a Bachelor of architecture, during which she had the opportunity to work with artists such as Miquel Barcelo and Antonio Gallego, she studied in the National Decorative Art School of Paris and the Glasgow School of Art.

Everything is question of scale. She likes the moon, climatic changes, the immensity of the universe, the tightening around the intensity of feelings, and the smallness and magnitude of our cellular system. So she represents the universe with dots of 0.2mm.

https://auroregarnier.jimdo.com/

https://www.facebook.com/aurore.garnier.AG/

A Gap of my Own Making and Soak

A Gap of my Own Making.

Gap toothed, bare knuckled, ugly out there emotion,
Stop gap, heart attack, silent killer hidden emotion.

Every word that has passed between us has been superficial, letters that don’t know any better,

Polite & light & speaking without saying any one thing mean or meant.

Except for a Guinness lip loosened attempt at letting me know you missed me, & it made you sad.

“Why do you never call round anymore?”

You were asking “What did I do?” & even Dutch courage couldn’t inspire in me an answer either of us could understand.

There was the bolt from the blue phone call that left me breathless in a Morrisons’ at 2 in the afternoon, with a boy who was leaving my life left with no choice but to offer me half-hearted comfort. I felt homesick, homeless. & then you said “Just come home. We need you here.” & for the first time in a very long time I needed you too. Home is where the heart is, & I hadn’t realised how big a piece of my heart you still held, & I hadn’t realised how little of my heart I still clung to.

So I returned, I came home, where two halves of a whole were returned to the earth, where grief hung heavy round our necks & under our eyes. Where we cried, as family, for the first time that I can recall. & we laughed, as friends, because that much time has passed now! & you thanked my friends for being my friends & I thanked, someone, something, for all the love that I had left.

 
 
 
 

Soak.

He says, “I feel like a bath for you sometimes, when you need a good soak.”

She says, “I’m sorry that lately I’ve left the tap running, been too much for you to hold. Lain too long and let things grow cold between us.

A bath is somewhere to relax after a hard day. It’s not a place to hide for weeks, or days even. It’s a short term tool to ease worry and soothe aching muscles. It doesn’t fix anything, nor is it supposed to.

So in future I need to remember that it’s good to feel your warmth, to close my eyes and let the day slip away. But once that’s done I need to dry off, get dressed and use the serenity you’ve gifted me with to make more concrete steps to feeling better, to fixing myself.

I need to get out while there’s still warmth in the water.”

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Jamye Drohan is Irish born, Edinburgh based. By day she serves tasty coffees and runs a café, and when she’s off the clock she writes as a type of therapy in a constant quest to figure out how her anxiety operates, and show her workings.
Blog: jamyedrohan.wordpress.com

Only Cable Car in Ireland

Only Cable Car in Ireland

Harry had come to Ireland. Iris had loved him, married him and left him. It was all over a misunderstanding, but like most misunderstandings it led to greater revelations and an irresolvable rupture, leaving a gaping hole torn into the fabric of being where happiness had once lived. Ireland was to be a forgetful journey: a tour to forget.

He flew into Dublin, hired a car and drove as far as he could in one day, stopping only when he reached the south western tip of the Beara Peninsula down the wild Atlantic way. Here he could go no further by car. Off the tip of the peninsula lay the Isle of Dursey, population of eight. Between the island and the mainland lay a thousand metres of wild churning, foaming surf and spray, hundreds of metres below the cliffs on which he stood: the Atlantic continuing its ancient and endless dance of loving violent erosion with the rocks and stone of the land.
High above the churn, operating most days except when the winds reached gale force eight, the only cable car in Ireland swung in stretched suspension across the abyss. The small passenger cabin dangling from the wires midway across looked ancient and decrepit, but not in comparison to the model it had superseded, the latter now serving as a chicken coop in the cable car operator’s back yard, behind the office hut. The sign in the window advised the hut was closed until 3:00pm, and if he cared to wait it would cost him six euros to cross, and a further six to return.

Harry lit a cigarette and stood as close to the cliff edge as he would trust himself. The wind was up, (though not, he hoped to gale force). The day was relatively mild by local standards for mid-December and the afternoon winter sun hung low in the sky, peering around clouds and shooting rays of light that suggested God was at home, but not entertaining visitors this day.
The cable car ground into motion, the large winch wheels drawing the cable and the cabin towards the mainland in anticipation of as yet unannounced passengers. As it reached its berth outside the hut, an old Citroën pulled up to park and an even older man eased himself out of the driver’s side and slowly opened the back of the car to unload his load of carriage. The cable car operator appeared from nowhere, as though he had been hiding behind a rock all this time, and hustled to help the old man. They exchanged greetings and familiarities of men who had known each other for years but knew nothing of each other, other than years of familiar greetings and exchanges. The two carried the goods and loaded them into the cable car: bags of burning coal; bags of groceries, food, wine and household supplies; cans of paint, lengths of timber and all manner of small hardware and DIY necessities and fittings. They must have made a half a dozen trips each, each time passing Harry with no acknowledgement as if he were a ghost made of no more than the constant winds whirling up off the ocean below.

Finally, when the cabin was laden with the weight of the load and the old man had taken his seat inside, the operator turned and acknowledged Harry with all the charm of the Irish, as though he had just arrived. Selling him a return ticket to ride, the operator directed Harry to hustle inside, as he was just about to send the cabin on its way.

As he climbed into the cabin, Harry felt it swing away under his weight, like stepping into a dinghy from a jetty. Taking his seat he took note of the sign that warned of a maximum weight of six passengers for safety. He and the old man were the only passengers but Harry wondered at the weight of the freight, spread and piled across the floor at their feet. The rusty wheels turned and the corroded wire reversed in direction, and the decrepit cabin began its journey out into suspension, exchanging the relatively short drop to the ground below for the certain death plummet into the angry churn of water raging through the passage. As they passed through the first tower, from close range he could see that this structure too was also rusted and corroded from the salt air and the ages. Now the old man turned to Harry, and acknowledged him for the first with a weathered but sincere smile. He wore protruded dentures that made for an over bite in a false white that was belied by the yellow of his original teeth. Without invitation, the old man introduced Harry to his wife.

She was beautiful when they met 40 winters ago and she had aged into a still beautiful woman of her years. Her blonde hair of youth had changed to silver of grace. Her figure remained, if not as curved and defined, but still lithe. Her smile had changed with his over the years as they shared the same dentist, but her eyes had kept that brilliant sparkle that had transfixed him at first sight, and outshone the waters on the Mediterranean beach where they first met. She married him immediately and they never spent a night apart for as long as they had been together. They travelled cities and countries like the average people do bus stops, as they made their living and lives together wherever the opportunity of adventure beckoned. They were citizens of the world, with allegiance to no one but each other. They needed nothing as long as they were together and feared only being apart from each other’s heart.

At middle age, they had decided to put down roots. They had lived in the most exciting cities of the world, but had no interest or need of others. For them the adventure would be to find a home as far away from the world as possible and live their lives as they were meant to: together. They had bought an old run down shepherd’s cottage on the far side of the island, with no neighbour but one of the world’s most ferocious oceans. For years they visited every chance they could, slowly renovating by hand and turning the cottage into their dream, finally settling there for good. Once every few weeks they would take the cable car across to the peninsula and go into the nearest village to stock up on supplies. That was the reason for his goods today, he explained. The cost of living in the face of such elements was the constant need for maintenance and repairs, but it was a labour of love. The joy she had felt when they had finished the cottage made him vow to keep it in the same condition for as long as his body would allow.

As the cable car passed through the island side tower, the old man fell silent, a smile on his lips and sadness in his eyes that stretched back through the decades of his memory. Where was she now inquired Harry, taking advantage of the silence to speak for the first time. Was she on the island waiting for him at the cottage? Surprised, the old man turned to him. Oh no, he replied, she left me long ago. It was a simple misunderstanding, but…

The two of them sat there in silence as the cable car docked at the island end of the journey. Opening the door, Harry helped the old man carry his goods, load by load, and load them into a rusty old flatbed truck. This was the old man’s island vehicle that knew no journeys other than the track from the cable car up and over to the cottage on the far side of the island, and back. In between it sat silent, rusting, waiting, like a loyal dog, waiting for its master to return and need its company once more. Without a word or a nod, the old man climbed into the truck and trundled away along the muddy track.

Harry climbed back into the cable car carriage and pressing the button to signal the operator on the far side, he began his journey back to the peninsula. It was time to go home, back to Glasgow.

 

 

 

 

 

Rob Doran has been writing, teaching and directing theatre in Queensland, Australia for over 20 years. His most recent productions include: Spirit of the Lore (ACPA / QPAC / Brisbane Festival 2013), Battle Scarred Phallic Wounds (The Actors Workshop 2014), Orion’s Way (The Actors Workshop 2014), Agender (The Actors Workshop 2014), Assumptions (The Actors Workshop 2015), Mortality (Make Theatre 2016), Polity (Make Theatre 2016), and Hunting Phia (The Actors Workshop 2016). Rob trained with Australian master teacher Lyn Kidd, to teach and direct her acting process, the Psychology of Character, from 1994 to 1996. He then developed Lyn’s teaching program into the Advanced Diploma of Film, Television and Theatre Acting, accredited under the Australian Qualifications Framework, and continued teaching for her vocational college, The Actors Workshop Australia, for the next 20 years until moving to Scotland in 2016. During this time Rob also managed other vocational colleges across the creative industries, including his roles as Head of Vocational Education and Training for QANTM College (digital media, video production, animation and games design), Head of Vocational Education and Training for SAE Australia (music performance, recording and production), Deputy Director of the Australian Dance Performance Institute (ballet, commercial dance and musical theatre) and Training and Artistic Director of the Aboriginal Centre for the Performing Arts (music, dance and acting). Rob’s areas of teaching expertise include acting technique, improvisation, script writing, acting for film and television, and acting for theatre.

Internet poem

They seek exits from their flesh:
and the internet is compressed text
each hyperlink blue-slurpee sweet,
that fact a hook-duck, this poll
tipped by bowling at the coconut
shie. Win information! Roll home
with a rumour! By hitting the button,
bright lights, rubber hammer.

‘Make me the next
like Robocop’ one whispers to the sugar night.
The Ringmaster flickers:
eyes now LCD screens,
levels of light pass through
to the second substrate, scatter
when he blinks. Narrow visor nobly set
on the woman at the kissing booth,
who does not look at him.

Swaggers into each full tent like
sturdy corruption malware, spits
razor sharp letter-shards, causes crowds
to spill their drinks. Malfunctions, briefly
opens his mouth to mete out justice, screams:
ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A PROPERTY
DO YOU OWN THIS WEBSITE YOUR LICENCE
YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHO OWES YOU PPI

He sits, ogles
the flickering sentient bot that pours the last
dregs from the raw text tap and sings for tips.
Staggers, pixelated, out to where
the kissing booth is closed. No fear.
He’ll locate her later, after hours
her quiet tent, his virtual firearm
glistening in the soft lights overhead
or else what is endless lonely chaos good for?

Under his breath he starts to sing:
How did we do?
Enter your feedback here to win
what may or may not occur:
Serve the public trust, protect the innocent, uphold the law.
Humouring him in his metal suit, Ringmaster says:
‘Nice shooting son, what is your name?’ so quiet
it sounds like the bump of bumper cars
the hiss of the Ferris wheel heard from the edge
where the fair-lights do not reach.

 

 

 

 

Alice Tarbuck is a writer living in Edinburgh. Most recently, she has been shortlisted for the Jupiter Artland Poetry Prize, and work is forthcoming from Zarf, 3elements Review and Antiphon. She is part of Edinburgh based writing collective, content work produce form.

Jam today and Have half sleep

Jam today

Red light giant cyclops watches unblinking over
Still snake skin of steel
Which winds up and down so far in the distance
Before your eye gives up
And returns to your half read book,
Too tired to comprehend the little dancing shapes,
Been here too long,
What started as grey counterfeit light has
Transformed into winter’s black
Submerged lagoon,
Small flash of yellow wink, turns into emerald smile,
Move once, move twice,
Feel sensation of rush, of deliverance,
Then yellow smile, Red stare,
Shudder to halt, the old alcohol men complain,
The tin-pot warm, the damp smells,
Eyes flutter up and down and chins bury into compliant shoulders
Tries once more in face of jade jaw taunt
To push past metal hoard and break,
Into open stream
We hold our breath
We count it down
And release ourselves into the sweeping road

 

 

 

Have half sleep

In one of the moments that comes before sleep
when dream and wake gently try and pull you aside
And laugh and dreams laughing plant unsteady memories,
When the picture on the internal screen become warmly fuzzy
Light a black and white picture in front of a friendly fire
You wish to give it all
To the embrace
Started the moment your washed back to childhood head
Trusted tousled pillows and body craved cushioned covers
Then smooth vibration
At first
Tap taps against table top wood
Then shrill screech of tinny tortured tone
Takes over from mesmeric hum
Mingles in shallow dream, tangles amongst picture
Like black tentacles of ivy
Silently strangling sepia scene until
Gasps and shaking
You reach through your half-remembered world
and grab the silence

 

 

 

 

Darren Sempie lives and works in Glasgow.  He studied English at the University of Stirling.  He has performed stand up comedy at the Edinburgh Fringe and had poetry published in various publications and websites.