Alexandra Stewart - funkychicken_101@hotmail.com
Claire Askew - claire_askew@yahoo.com
Dave Coates - duffle86@hotmail.com
David Wright - davidthwright@gmail.com
Fiona Morrison - F.C.Morrison@sms.ed.ac.uk
Jennifer Johnston-Watt - jennifer@johnstonwatt.com
Jo Dube - jojo.dube@gmail.com
Jo Swingler - jo_swingler@yahoo.co.uk
Karen Dawson - karen.dawson@bendawson.com
Kat Eckert - Katharine.Eckert@gmail.com
Natalia Herrero - herrero.natalia@gmail.com
Niki Andrikopolou - nikitabrr@yahoo.gr
Paul Thomas - s0898274@sms.ed.ac.uk
Sandra Collins - sandrilly@yahoo.com
Sarah Gledhill - sgledhill@f2s.com
Shahnaaz Bakshi - shahnaazbakshi@yahoo.com
Stephanie C C Kuypers - S.C.C.Kuypers@sms.ed.ac.uk
Struan Robertson - s0452544@sms.ed.ac.uk
Struan Robertson - s0452544@sms.ed.ac.uk
Aiko Harman - aikoharman@gmail.com
Anna Brailsford - A.Brailsford@sms.ed.ac.uk
Hayley Shields - the_wild_shieldmaiden_of_the_north@hotmail.com
Joel Wright - jwright762@gmail.com
Kate Charles - K.R.Charles@sms.ed.ac.uk
Aileen Ballantyne - aileen.ballantyne@btopenworld.com

Lindsay Grime- lindsay.grime@gmail.com
Elizabeth Stewart- stewart.lizzy@googlemail.com
Toby Cook- asmallhorse@gmail.com
Andrew Denholm- andrewdenholm@hotmail.co.uk
Gillian Kirkland- kirkygill@yahoo.co.uk
Eileen Glass- eileenglass@hotmail.com
Jaimie Lane- jaimielane@googlemail.com
Genevieve Ryan - www.genevieveryan.eu
Fiona Purves- fionapurves@hotmail.com
Trine Mangernes- mangersnes@hotmail.com
Ursula Cheng- pingpongpanda@hotmail.com
Lucy McCririck- illustrating.lucy@googlemail.com
Marc Noble- rahrah-@hotmail.co.uk
Kirsten Cowie- mypaperhouse@hotmail.co.uk
Elizabeth Walker- libswalker@gmail.com
Lindsay McBirnie- linzmcbirnie@hotmail.com
Jonathan Hughes- jspringold@yahoo.co.uk
Sophie Newell- whosepigisthis@hotmail.co.uk
Sarah Tanat-Jones- saraht_j@hotmail.com

***

Days pass. The beast remains in the spring.
Systematically it bobs its head up for air. Hunger becomes problematic. The beast ventures out of the spring several times but the bitter cold always forces it back to the water. The beast discovers lice amongst its hair which it ravenously consumes.
The beast dives to the bottom of the hot spring. There the water is even warmer. It swims as deep as it can before a lack of air forces it back to the surface. At the top, the water is comparatively chillier. The beast starts to shiver. It dives down to the warmer water once more, as far as it can go. It does not resurface.
Days pass. The beast remains in the spring.

The gravestones sit all around
and mourn the loss of the church,
now lying on its back in the grass
as its roof flaps somewhere overhead,
carrying its soul to some kind of heaven.

“My name is Cinderella, and I’m a tormented princess. Who thought it would be a good idea to make high heels out of glass? I’m always so nervous that I’m going to crack or chip them. Plus with all my other responsibilities, I don’t have time to upkeep my pedicures. I don’t want the world to be able to see my feet all the time! I happen to have an embarrassing case of athlete’s foot. Besides, the glass is so cold. And, ew, mice! It’s bad enough that I was scrubbing medieval toilets for the first half of my life for my evil stepmother – now I have to work with mice! And I’m never alone! My Fairy Godmother is always zipping about turning pumpkins into carriages – is it really so difficult to pick up the phone and call a taxi? If only she could do something more useful, instead of setting ridiculous curfews, and dressing me in a white ball gown. I’m a spiller – never dress me in white!”

“You think your stepmother is bad? She just made you tidy up. Mine tried to kill me! But whenever she’s around I have to put on this act and smile, when I know that witch has hitmen on speed dial. What’s with that mirror, anyway? I took a look in it once, and all I could think of was how badly I wanted to go tanning. By the way, living with seven men is not as great as it sounds. Our bathroom is a disaster zone. You said you scrubbed toilets –could you help me out with that?”

“Blah blah blah … evil stepmothers. At least you both get handsome princes! I’m stuck with a monster. And don’t give me that crap about ‘it’s the beauty underneath that counts’. There is no underneath. I’ve checked. A lot. There are just layers and layers of mangled hair! But I sing and dance and smile because I want the title and the big castle and the golden gown. Does that make me shallow? A touch superficial? I think the clock is on to me. That twitchy little fat timepiece never liked me. Man, the French are rude! Oh, and when I signed up for this, no one said anything about wolves …”

“I’d rather have wolves trying to eat me than deer and birds trying to sing with me. Why can’t I just have some peace and quiet, instead of the whole forest wanting to put on a full-fledged furry production of 42nd Street? I’m supposed to be asleep. For an extended period of time. I’m talking years, here. When little woodland creature songs keep me from my coma, something is not right.”

“Sleeping, yeah that’s a real tough life. I’m imprisoned in my own home, because my father is so over-protective. At least you get to wear a dress! I’m forced to parade around in a turquoise bikini. Why can’t I wear sweat pants, and a Yankees tee? Maybe plop in front of the TV, drink a few Coronas, smoke a cigarette, let myself go a little… but no, a princess can’t get fat. Allah forbid! At least I get a pet tiger – that’s pretty awesome (even if I am too terrified to go anywhere near it).”

“Imprisoned? You live in a palace. And don’t talk to me about over-protective fathers. I can never go swimming by myself, he always sends the babysitter along. How can a puny crustacean possibly protect me? All I want is to sing and have legs, and not necessarily in that order. I’d love a furry 42nd Street production! People don’t appreciate how difficult it is to carry a tune underwater. Whatever, at least I’m actually a princess, unlike this savage over here.”

“Who are you calling savage? I prefer the term Native, thank you. Just because I don’t star in my own fairy tale, doesn’t mean I’m less of a princess. I’m constantly outshone by that kid flying around in his green tights. But I am a princess! Just ask the Neverlandish Natives. I’m the Chief’s daughter! I’m a friggin’ princess, alright?!? Why does everyone forget about me? Is it because of that tree-hugger Pocahontas? I mean, is this like the Highlander: there can only be one, Native American Princess? That’s bullshit.”

“Real Princesses don’t curse.”

“Fuck off, Blondie! All of you – you’ve got your happily ever afters, and you’re still complaining. Where can I get one … Sharper Image? A used one on e-bay may be more in my price range, but then I have to wait for shipping –”

“Joke all you want, savage, but a happily ever after is fleeting and when your once upon a time comes and goes, you’ll find yourself miserably ever after that.”

He said I love you.
She said I love you.

He said I love you more than it is possible.
She said I love you as much as possible.

He said I would love you to the end of eternity.
She said I would love you to the end of my life.

He said I love you enough to shower you with diamonds.
She said I love you enough to stand in this rain of stones.

He said I love you enough to pick all the stars in a necklace for you.
She said I love you enough to adorn myself with this weighty ornament.

He said I love you enough to walk barefoot across the burning desert.
She said I love you enough to sit patiently till your blistered feet heal.

He said I love you enough to jump off the highest mountain for one smile.
She said I love you enough to never smile and save you this arduous climb.

He said I love you enough to fight a thousand barbarians and protect your honour.
She said I love you enough to meet not a single barbarian and preserve your life.

He said I love you enough to tear open my chest and reveal the heart that beats only    for you.
She said I love you enough to witness this gruesome exhibition and stitch your wounds shut.

He said Your love surprises me in its restraint when accepting these gifts of great value.
She said Your love amazes me in its eagerness when offering these gifts of little use.

He said Your love seems hesitant to explore beyond the limits of the sky.
She said Your love seems mistrustful of walking the firmness of the ground.

He said Your love seems uncaring of the pain I would willingly bear for you.
She said Your love seems unaware of the strain you would put me through.

He said Your love seems incapable of realizing the height of my passion.
She said Your love seems unable to recognize the depth of my annoyance.

He said Your love shocks me with its lack of sensibility.
She said Your love appals me with its absence of sense.

He said Your love is nothing but a sham now, I see.
She said Your love is a farce that is clear to me.

He said Your love shatters me into a million pieces.
She said Your love splits my heart into just two.

He said I hate you.
She said I hate you.

The heat and the noise come together clanging and rise above daily industry. It’s smelling an orange and biting into an onion. Food and arguments spill out open doors like potatoes dropping off a pedlar’s cart; sweet, sour, ripe, rotten. The sound becomes the durians, the racket chopped in doorways with lumps of carcass. Street songs entwine in a crescendo, seeking rubbish, selling time. Spoons banging together sing of noodles and bay leaves and kaffir lime, coriander, blood jelly, star anise. Yellowed fingernails and red plastic stools mix fish sauce with midmorning chat. Coffee with condensed milk and nicotine are knees close together on a sea of Honda 50s and chili, burning high heels on Vespas, back to back, bumper to bumper, sweat on sweat. Fish sauce and shrimp paste fume with jasmine, smoke and beef bones, road works spurting into solid waste. Bumps and potholes are squealing pigs and chickens and mucous and spit spat from all angles. Sweet mango that wafts through the rank is the child’s song splashing in puddles after a downpour.

I

I told myself I wouldn’t write again
on these solitary white pages.
I thought I’d whittle away the time alone,
bored with the same clothes,
same eyes, same torments.

Every time white birds filled my mind,
whitewash would fall from the ceiling,
cover me
and frighten them away.

In that corner I would find a corpse
telling stories:

‘For a girl the moon would burst
into tears
and a flower would play briefly
in the glassy fog.’

The forceps of time –
a small god and the elusive fetish of love –
would tighten my heart.

My good people,
we are all the same body,
indivisible.

Hear me and remember.

As I was getting up to anticipate you,
to grab on to you
and like a mad wild beast,
enjoy happiness;

Neither snakes, nor predators,
sucked so much blood.

There, where the great shade lurked,
our souls weakened,
growled.

Why did you give me such dirty clothes to wear?

I won’t make your speeches.
I won’t stand on a podium.
I won’t.

Flow bitter, indignant tears,
become song, life.

Caress us: the hollowed out,
the so, oh so rainy.
And shout. Shout!

‘Your every external covering is needless.
Offer just a little opening in the heart
to pour out the marrow of love.’

Get out and leave me in my room.
You have made me a coward.

II

I am lying down,
my beloved next to me.
The bed has legs
and begins to walk the street.

The ride is magic.
We laugh
and slide, ecstatic.

Around there are people,
they look us straight in the eye.

Above hangs a transparent dome,
no-one can touch us.

We are protected,
or so I think.

I want to prove it,
stretch out my hand,
touch the sky,
proud of my confidence.

Then my hand bends,
hurts,
is crushed.

Why does my blue sky drip
with red?

Where does my faith dwell
and those painted sacred faces on the dome?

There is no dome.

I pass out.

With open eyes,
handless.

The people reach us,
the people surround us.

The beloved takes his body
and covers me.

Everything becomes one
in a thunderclap.

And the sky falls
hot,
heavy.

It flattens us.

A unified layer of skin
makes us,
stirs blood
and light from the spirits.

Fertile soil
to make the earth
bloom again.

III

Like every morning,
I wake and a drop of guilt
weighs on my forehead.

Like every morning,
I must lower my soul
from the feather bed
and raise it on its two feet.

Dawn stings me
through a crack
in the curtain,
hits once on my head,
once on the crack
and then my head
hits the crack
once, twice
and my soul refracts
with the dawn
on the glass.

Like every morning
I begin to be frightened;
perhaps I am the ghost
who waves from the window.

IV

Today seems
like a new day.

Lost within our preconceptions
and in favor of our memories

we shall slap Pain
in his face,

wearing fingers
of numbness.

Will an action ever have less meaning?
Filled with hope and nothingness…

In a while, Remorse will arrive to exchange
those chains on our feet,
for new ones.

Pulling our ears
down to the ground

he will whisper:

‘Your dead things live longer than your living.’

Then we’ll stand up,
kneeling down,
empty this room’s challenge at once.

Forming a circle
of belief,
we will celebrate our rage

beyond this room
beyond this town
beyond the air

puffing small, rounded prayers
towards our black or white lives.

Some days, because he did believe in a joyous God, Luke wore striped socks. Today they are black and fifty per cent wool, but his feet are cold on the tile floor above the empty space of the cellar. The iron coughs and steam spits up into his face, blows the smell of mothballs against the back of his throat. Will he have to take the cassock off right then, while the Bishop is there? Will the Bishop sit behind his desk, or will he stare out of the window at the Cathedral, hands clasped behind his back. Luke puts down the iron, lifts the robe up and over his head. The cloth is finely woven and for a moment, until he finds the hole in the neck with his trembling hands, he is in darkness. It is nearly time. The new dog collar is the one he keeps for special occasions, but Luke reaches past it for the one he wore at his ordination, yellow around the top where it has chafed against his skin. His fingers fumble with the fastening and he retches as he lowers his chin, the collar tight around his neck. The Bishop will take it away, he knows that from Ridley Hall days, from canteen gossip. After this they will talk about him. Bubbles of gas whine softly, slither upwards inside the clenched ball of his stomach. It is time to go.

…
The room is hot and sweet with the smell of sherry and furniture polish. Luke is afraid to move, dizzy from the alcohol and no breakfast. The Bishop is smiling, stepping round the desk, leading him to the door. Luke’s right hand, cold, stiff-curled is picked up, held firmly in strong warm fingers. Shaken. The Bishop is smiling, saying something that Luke won’t remember. Outside, on the pavement, Luke stares down at the shiny black cloth stretching to his shoes, walks slowly, then faster and faster, the skirt of the cassock tugging his trousers, catching his legs. At the end of the road he has to stop; hands resting on his knees as his heart slows down, his breathing steadies. He still has everything. He has to go somewhere else, but that’s all. No-one need know anything. Everything is as it was. Inside Luke’s abdomen a space opens up. Some vital organ is moving, sinking down between the slippery folds of his intestines, squeezing against his bladder, lodging heavy and solid, deep in his pelvis. Oh God, Luke thinks, I should have prayed. This morning of all mornings, I should have prayed.

Rarest rowan frae singin greenwood growes
an bends tae gie her bounty fine.
Ah tak the best frae yonder faerie tree,
then tae a sauchie place ah dauner doon.

Frae willow sweet, an fragrant yet
frae quickenin beuchs o’ forest green,
ah cairve in juist yae piece tae mak the soon’
cam ringin lang an clair an high.

Ah seal the soondbit weel nou at the back
wi a shilpie sliver o’ the faerie wuid.
A bit o’ plane tree fir the neck ah fin,
sae strang and pale; it taks decorement weel.

Then fir the pillar that’s the spine o’ it,
ah cairve alang the grain o’ aiplewuid.
An last, wi linseed an wi beeswax ah preser’
ma airt an fantoush cairvin oan ye nou.

A clarsach fir a lass sae sweet an fair,
lang schuiled in Fraunce in notes
sae doucely played – huntin, hawkin,
rinnin free, smirtlin and lauchin

wi aa the bairns o’ the forest -–
she was a bairn hersel tae but yestreen,
that’s nou oor swank an luesome Queen.
She spies ye. An wi a yowt o’ pleisur rins:

a clarsach glazie, bricht an new,
untae hersel she clesps ye ticht;
an there ye bide. An ye becam the singer
o’ aa the lass’s thochts and words.

Her robe, a skein o’ finest muslin, pirrs
an flows tae kiver herp an lass’s saicrets baith:
a clarsach finely pierced bi hooks
o’ gowd an bress an siller.

Oan baith a gowden chord is strung,
her sang jowes oot sae high an clair,
her thochts they ring sae true. But then:
nae mair o’ singin.
Fir tae an English Queen’s domeenion
she maun yield. Ma Celtic cross, cairved deep
wi dule; ma draigons an ma lions –
they bide here yet – but oan a clarsach ratchit nou.

Yer singin greenwood’s pit tae final rest.
But cairvin’s ayeweys wi the timmer.
Wi aa yer chords lang lost, ye lie sae quiet.
But in ma dreams ah hear ye. Ah hear ye yet ma lass.

Glossary:

clarsach: small harp, originally “willow board.”
sauchie: willowed, where there are willows
dauner: wander, amble
quickenin: living
beuchs: boughs
shilpie: thin
airt: craft
fantoush: leading edge of fashion
schuiled: schooled, taught
cairvin: carving
doucely: sweetly
smirtlin: giggling
lauchin: laughing
yestreen: yesterday
swank: tall and slim
luesome: lovely, loved,
yowt: cry
glazie: shining, smooth
clesps: holds
bide: stay
pirrs: ripples
jowes: rings
maun: must
dule: grief, pain
ratchit: damaged by rough use
timmer: timber

She is standing next to the sink, chopping a pile of carrots into little sticks, julienne style. She is frowning as she cuts the carrots with icy venom, her knife newly sharpened. Off with their heads! she thinks, just like the Queen of Hearts. She throws them into the casserole dish with the chicken, mushrooms and herbs, and flings it in the back of the Aga.

The champagne is chilling in the fridge, the pavlova (the second one, the first refused to leave the baking parchment), sits regally on the white china plate, the juice of the raspberries heaped on top beginning to bleed through the light dusting of icing sugar.

The table is set, the candles lit, the canapés await. She rushes upstairs, pulls a dress over her head, squirts a cloud of perfume over herself, applies lipstick, mascara and snags her tights.

The evil hour strikes. Her husband appears like magic. He struts around the dining table, puffing out his chest like a Bantam cockerel, checking the bottles of wine and adjusting his tie. The doorbell rings and in they come. She smiles a rigor mortis smile and passes round the blinis.

Dinner is served. Waitress service. She is the waitress. She wonders if she should have donned a frilly apron and a mob cap.

Nobody sees her as she sinks into her chair. She disappears behind the floral centrepiece. The man on her right is staring lecherously down the lumpy blonde’s cleavage. She has an asinine face and a matching, braying laugh. This is her husband’s secretary. Her husband doesn’t know that she knows that they are having an affair. You are welcome to him, she thinks, imagining them in bed together. Hee haw, hee haw.

‘Any sign of pudding?’ says her husband. I’m looking at her, she thinks.

She gets up from the table, gathering the plates. She goes into the kitchen and puts them in a big pile by the sink, just like her husband who always left his dirty mugs for her to put into the dishwasher. Her bag is already packed, waiting in the downstairs cupboard under the stairs, concealed behind the Hoover. I have done my duty, she thinks. Two children; one married, one at university. I don’t need to look after another one. She takes the money she has been siphoning from her husband’s bank account, the going rate for a housekeeper, no more, no less, she checked in The Lady, and escapes into the night.