Poem by Paola Di Gennaro

Raison perdue

Juggling with drops of thought

In a silent hilly self.

Drawing a cigarette that I will never smoke

A tattered doll on a windy beach

Who stares at the waves’ surf

White and broken

Soul taking liberties

With a crunchy landscape

Melting in the sand.

The strings of harmony in my brain

Are loose as grasshoppers’ smiles

I thought there was something to find

Somewhere, in our lost garden.

I woke up in a deserted light of rusty specks

I called you, and you were waiting in the wrong place

In the wrong time, in senseless candour.

I shouted over the shyness of time

On a silly but stable sea-hearted rock.

Opening a window at which I will never show

Naked on a white fur carpet of idiosyncrasies

Which nurtures ambitions

In place of me

Eyes eager for meeting a miracle

With a sour echo

Dissolving in the walls.

The past of instincts on my fingertips

is feeble as an old man cry

I saw a truth, once, that was sticky

As squeezed petals on cold marble.

I stood up in the soft gentle breeze of pearly drops

Out again, looking for my muse coming in desire

And I stopped there

at the edge of divinity.

Short Story and Poem by Shahrzad Saeedi

Guise

I never look for trouble intentionally, but trouble always has a knack of finding me.

I had recently been invited to a fancy dress party and I figured I would have a good time there, but the outcome of the party was far from what I had expected, and it changed people's perception of me. One of the reasons I was looking forward to going to the party was because a girl I like called Jane had also been invited. As it was a fancy dress party, I decided to go as a mad scientist, like the character Doc from Back to the Future. I donned a white lab coat and I wore a rubber bald top with an attached grey wig. In hindsight, this was a poor costume choice. Anyway, I arrived at the house where the party was being held and once inside I felt like I had stepped into an alternate universe. I took in the grandness of the house which almost resembled a mansion. There was a chandelier in the hallway and elaborate furniture decked the living room. The music was blaring and many people had already gathered inside the house. The other partygoers were wearing an assortment of costumes, ranging from a Victorian lady to a pirate. The atmosphere of the party was buzzing and there was a good vibe. I heard someone call my name from the crowd of people, 'Vincent, you're going bald!' I looked around and distinguished my friends who greeted me. One of my friends commented on my costume and said that it suited me. Jane was among my friends and she had dressed up as a Flapper from the 1920s. She was wearing a short, silver sequined dress and she looked stunning. I really wanted to tell Jane that I liked her but I couldn't risk rejection. As more guests in costumes flocked into the house, the party was well underway. I and my friends mingled and made the most of the party. I overheard a girl telling her friend that Robert Mills was at the party. Robert Mills is a young, famous actor. Sure enough, I soon saw Robert in his costume. Mills had dressed up as a gangster and his outfit consisted of a hat and a black pinstriped suit. Mills was smoking a Cuban cigar and he was standing with a group of girls who were practically swooning. He looked complacent, as though he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. I perceived Robert approach Jane and they started having a conversation. I suddenly wished I had chosen a better costume. How is a mad scientist supposed to compete with a slick gangster? My costume seemed to confirm my eccentricity, whereas Mills' costume made him appear suave and powerful. As the two were talking, Mills looked nonplussed and then angry. I can only assume that Jane was not interested in Mills. Mills started loudly criticizing Jane in a malicious way. Mills took a puff of his cigar and nonchalantly breathed cigar smoke into Jane's face. Something inside of me snapped and before I knew it I had gotten into a fight with Robert. It all seems like a blur now but I remember punching Robert in the face and him getting a bloody nose. We were grappling with each other, and I could hear people around us shouting but I didn't care. Eventually, Robert knocked me out cold. When I woke up I saw Jane and my friends standing over me looking concerned. Jane asked me if I was alright. Maybe I was delirious, but I felt like all that mattered was that Jane gave a damn about me. One of my friends congratulated me and said I was a dark horse. He added that most of the guys at the party felt like punching Robert in the face too, on account of the fact Mills was too handsome and up himself. Jane thanked me for standing up for her. I later told Jane about my feelings for her and we're now going out together. I'm not advocating violence or anything. I hit Robert because of his behaviour towards Jane. The scuffle between Mills and I appeared in a tabloid newspaper the next day under the headline, 'Robert Mills attacked by lunatic at party'. I guess I really do resemble my character from Back to the Future.

Re: Answers

 

Knowledge leads to money, power-

fall.

Looking at the world

from a different perspective,

does anything make sense

if everything makes sense?

The world is flat because I say so.

If that's wrong and this is right

then where is left?

 

The meaning of life is ----------------.

God will tell you when you see Him.

 

The alphabet soup spells out 'FULL'

but he's still hungry for answers

to questions no one asked.

2 Photos by Amanda Flynn

4 poems by Juliet Powys

Sisyphus

You have become a mountain range.

I scale the relief map of your reclining body, and survey
Your hoods, ridges and canyons.

I set up camp, and attune my breathing
To the bulrush sway of your many grasses,
Pressing my cheek against the smooth stone ledge
Where I have laid rocks for my fire -

Sticks and tinder.

& in the morning I will smear the ashes
Warrior-like across the bridge of my nose, and strike on,
To reach your cloud-ringed summit,
& prostrate myself in view of your circling eye.

Snow

And I wonder how many people have seen London at this altitude

Seen the million mouths opening and closing in the snow on the ridged rooftops
And the beautiful nudes knitting the aerials up to the brooding sky

Whether the lights behind the blinds spread like new warmth through the
Floorboards and keyholes, and how many people are standing out on fire escapes
Like me, with stronger roots in the sky than in the covered ground.

Wreck

Strangling heat under the jetty, spikes
of old nails, bent up between planks
crook and rust, tearing at the skin,
channeling off to harpoon the sun.

Closeness gnarled and spiky and fierce,

Boxes thrown in the river and
found as curses by divers
exploring a wreck.

Curses brought down the ship.

Cooling against the glass
like sleeping snakes, hands -

pinned down in a glow of light.

Quailing softly
the moonless faces whisper up
at the crackling energies of
a swimming sky.

 

Fly

Returning from Paradise to light, a thin caul between the teeth, suggestion. Later you will twist& tear, frantic, unpacked cases withholding grace. The veil is lifted, in the failing light. It seems you have missed what called you home.
Behind grey eyes, a semblance of monotony, monochrome days with the bloodflowers gone, drained away& blocking the sink. The river still flows. The tower is still standing. But there is a heaviness in you which has evaporated, lost in the steam of the kitchen. & you cling to the drawer-handles, clothes horses as you’re lifted upwards, heels grazing the ceiling, your apron paisleyclose to your blushing face. Feeling your way, your ringless hand reaches the open window. Fly. There is nothing left for you here.

Short Story and Photo by Jeremy Kearns-Watts

The Arsonist

There was nothing to do. That was his cry. The deviant's lament. He had thought long and hard about reasons and possibilities and still all he had was that single exclamation of emptiness.

There was nothing to do. The usual places to waste that time before death that some call life were all closed. Bars and clubs held nothing for him as the sweet destruction of the senses that they offered, he had experienced. Cinemas were empty halls, a wealth wasted for two hours of escape. Bowling alleys, too far away. Ice rinks, filed with annoyances. Hunting, against his principles, and a rich man's game. Sports competition failed to excite. And besides, he had done it all before.

There was nothing to do. Sleep, a waste of time. Foreign countries and new experiences, too far away. So while his 'friends' slept, he stalked the night streets of the town. He scratched into some dirt everything that could be done, and methodically he crossed them out until nothing remained.

Was all that was left for him work and death? He thought furiously for something through which he could escape monotony.

The matches. He had brought them out so he could light tobacco, but that was a pointless venture as he could see nothing in it, he had already experienced it and it's cost to pleasure ratio failed to meet his demands.

The matches. What could he do with them. He lit one and watched the flame till it burned his fingers then he threw it onto the dirt. He lit another and let it fall onto some discarded paper that had drifted there. It caught, and flared, burned, flickered, and charred the earth. The last of it died on the ground, but in his eyes, the fire grew.

It grew, first as an ember, smouldering deep within and then as the idea took hold it grew higher and higher until, in his mind, it encompassed his entire being.

Fire, his conscience wailed and so did he, a long piercing death cry as the fire consumed the remnants of his soul. He ran. Faster and faster. Left and left again. Across the road, brakes squealed and metal crunched as cars smashed into each other, but he was long gone. For one mile then another, until suddenly. He stopped.

He was outside a small two story apartment block. The doors and windows were boarded up. It's paint was peeling and cracking off revealing a timber frame construction. On the left a tree, long dead, had fallen, sundering the roof. On the right some dead creeper threaded between the bars of an architects idea of a balcony. Graffiti covered the lower part of the wall and obscured the name of the building on the sign in front.

He climbed the tree, collecting dry bark and branches as he went. Inside only the room with the caved in roof was damp, the rest were as dry as he could have hoped for. He moved downstairs and started to gather debris in what was once a child's bedroom at roughly the centre of the building.

Even as he piled the kindling higher in his mind he was still unsure of his actions. Unsure of what his body was doing. Unsure of his purpose in this abandoned house. He still had the last residue of society's model, it was simply silent.

After a time the materials had covered one wall of the room, obscuring the decorations of a childhood. Chairs, wardrobes and a mattress finished what was, initially, a heap of bark and paper. He stood back admiring the work then reached for the box of matches from his coat's inside pocket. He lit three and cast them onto the pile. They soon went out.

He pulled a book from the mound and set it alight instead. It caught, and he set it about the pile. Soon the whole wall was ablaze. He walked backwards to the door frame, eyes dancing over his work. The fire leaped and soared. It crawled over the walls, smouldering paper and moving further into the framing timber of the building.

The fire setter became aware that he must escape. The fire was now consuming the entirety of the building. He ran to the front door. The main panelling was far too secure but it had framing windows with a single sheet of plywood, secured at the top by two lightly hammered nails. He pulled it from the bottom, breaking the piece in two and cast that which he held back for the all consuming flames. He kicked the glass out and escaped. Quietly he crossed the road in front of the building and turned.

The fire was not obvious inside the place. Flames licked the roof and down the tree on the top floor. Behind the boards a bright orange glowered at him casting a glowing shadow of his darkened form. The sky was brightening. It was nearly dawn, and as the flames leaped higher and the roof collapsed; the sun was revealed and it seemed that the whole world was on fire.

He was content for a few moments. He had spent the time he had, and yet, he felt and emptiness. He walked home and thought about his actions. Carefully he justified them with himself, nobody had was hurt, it hadn't been lived in for years, and slowly the feeling of shame faded. His conscience was silenced. His nature was changed. The last vestiges of his humanity died.

For a week he slept, going about the tasks of life in a laze. He noticed little and ignored most of the people that tried to engage him. It was as if he wasn't there.

He went back to the site. It was not forgotten by the government's services. Probably accidental, natural causes the police had thought. So he was able to walk over the ground. He ran his fingers through the ash. Why did he set the fire? Because there was nothing to do? Surely he could have found something. His conscience was speaking up, his nature reverted. Like a phoenix his humanity was reborn and it sobbed.

He knelt in the blackened earth as questions swamped his mind. He cried out as he tried to answer them. Wept when he had no answers. And collapsed when he realised that he had no reason to live.

For that was why he had set the fire, he now realised. It was something he had not already done. This was why he had not set more. Nothing appealed to him. No aspect of life could hold his attention.

There was nothing to do. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to do.

And it was this that he repeated, endlessly, forlornly, hopelessly, as they found him, as they took him away, as they investigated and judged. All this time he repeated, he did not eat, he did not sleep, drink or think and so the last traces of life left him three weeks after the fact, with the words on his lips.

There was nothing to do.

Part of a Story by Harry Buckminster Richman

The Memory Paradox; a story in many parts (Parts 1-3)

Part One: The Remembrance of Steven Adler or In Lieu of an Introduction

I pride (or pity, depending on how I feel) myself on being able to remember a whole lot of stuff - the example I oft will cite is that I can tell you the highlights of the summer 1994 season of MTV's The Real World, which may not seem an achievement, but I assure you, this is something I have never made any attempt to remember and have googled maybe once in the last fifteen years. But the problem is that when you remember a whole lot of stuff is that your memory is full of just that; stuff.

This is where I must explain how my memory works - I could fairly easily tell you the Guns n' Roses line up that recorded Appetite (and in what order they left) or even summarize all four seasons of Saved By The Bell, including why the Tori paradox totally mattered. But, what I can't tell you is the name of the girl with whom I shared a few cigarettes a couple of months back - memories of real life seem so inconsequential compared to memories of pop culture.

Everyone's mind works differently, but from quite a few years of getting to know mine I can say that I can pretty much remember most abstract events in an historical context. That is to say, I doubt I will remember exactly when these events happened, and potentially may confuse a few but usually don't entirely forget the event entirely.

I have come to the conclusion that this is possibly why I don't like anything that has too many sequels, i.e. more than one, as I am slightly unable to keep track of which bits happened in which volume. But yes, I remember a hell of a lot of junk.

Part Two: In Want of a Time Machine

Smell is often cited as the main cause of deja-vu, but there are many things far more powerful and vivid than deju-vu and these are most certainly not caused by smell.

I recently bought Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morissette. I probably should have known better;  she is one of those musicians who, for me, mean something very powerful yet slightly theoretical. Certainly, she reminds me of the past, but which past I cannot be sure. Am I sure that hearing You Outta Know reminds me of being younger, or could it be evoking a memory of something like Reality Bites, from which my mind weaves a fictional past of missed opportunities for myself? It is not at all clear, for I can defiantly remember listening to Alanis Morissette, but do I necessarily care that I listened to Alanis Morissette when I think I listened to Alanis Morissette? And, does it really matter for me?

When I listened to a few songs, it caused a brief, but rather real, panic attack. What I cannot tell is whether the anxiety over Ironicwas due to a fear that 1995 is gone for me and not coming back  (what I hope it means), or was it because something since 1995 has told me that Hand In my Pocket should signify something happening, something far greater than what is happening. If it is the latter, I should be quite worried, as it could potentially mean that this and many other memories are not memories at all, that my fears are not real fears. In effect it can mean that anywhere between one and most of my memories are simply implants, things I have tricked myself into thinking I am supposed to think. Take the song Don't You (Forget About Me) as an example; anyone who has ever seenThe Breakfast Club will find it hard to listen to this song without feeling like some sort of monuments breakthrough in their life should be occurring to coincide with the lyrics urging that you 'don't forget about me'. Now, apply that same feeling across the entire body of music you have listened to.

Let it be noted, that this is very different from the expectationscinema and television can give off. If it is true that I am remembering a fictional past, based upon ideas gathered from various, and forgotten, corners of popular culture, then it must be that I have, in some point in my history written these expectations to memory as facts.

As an exercise I am trying to recall the origin of my memory regarding the song 'Blister in the Sun' by the Violent Femmes. For me it evokes an incredibly hot summer, and being very hot whilst doing almost nothing at all. But, did that really happen? This song was released some years before I could possibly remember any event like this happening, so it would be extremely strange were I to have heard that song more than once, yet I would be impressed were I to have so thoroughly imprinted 'Blister in the Sun' upon one chance listening. However, the song is featured prominantly in the late nineties John Cusack film 'Grosse Pointe Blank', which is seemingly set during the summer in small town America. It is not inconceivable that it is this that causes me to think that I heard, and enjoyed, that song at some point in the mid to late nineties, and have saved that to my memory as an occurrence in my life. Does this invalidate all cultural resonance this song has with me? Or at least, should it?

Part Three: An Interlude to Ensure the Proper Recollection of Daria

She Knows she's a winner.

She couldn't be any thinnner.

Now she goes to the bathroom

And vomits up dinner.

-Daria, February 1998

NEXT MAGAZINE

Hi Everybody, 

this weekend I'm working on the magazine, and hope to put all of the submissions onto the blog, which will become a regular practice - it may solve all of our problems, and let all of the submitters have a forum to read the others' work, and have their work read by the largest community possible.  The submissions have been put in here according to the date that they were sent to me, I'm sorry if this means some are given a more desirable place than others, it really has no bearing on the amount I enjoyed them.

Cracking, bravo, whatnot!

William