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Transcript of Nexus Magazine - Creative Writing
NEXUSAutumn / Winter 2009
NEXUSAutumn / Winter 2009
Welcome to the first edition of UWIC’s Creative Writing
magazine, Nexus. Dictionaries remind us that Nexus has at least
two meanings - it can represent the process by which
things come together, as well as referring to the centre of that
connection. It seemed a perfect title for a magazine seeking to
bring together and represent creative writing across the
university.
This Autumn / Winter 2009 edition showcases writing from last
year’s First Year BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing
students, in the Department of Humanities, Cardiff School of
Education, UWIC. A Spring / Summer 2010 edition will be
available in the New Year.
Dr Spencer Jordan
Wild Roses
By Ben Liddle(BA English and Creative Writing, Year One)
Dear Rose,
For many years, I have been looking, without knowing it,
for you and those like you. I ache for your scent, the
texture of your deep red skin. Thoughts of thorns
torment my dreams and �ickering at the corner of my
waking eye, your vibrant colour �ashes. You have
inspired a thousand poets, brought down kingdoms,
seared the souls of lovers and had your petals scattered
in the air by those whose hearts are glad to beat.
I have never known you, Rose. You slip out of my grasp
each time I come close. Often I crash through bramble
thickets thinking that I see your perfect beauty, only to
discover yet another empty crisp bag, forgotten, faded
red and wrinkled by the ravages of time. Can time have
meaning for you, reborn each spring to bloom then die?
It does not matter, for if you fear to die then come to
me in fear and rest your head, if not then come with
glorious laughter in your heart and stay with me eternal,
until I go to ground and you bow your head beside my
place of rest.
I beg you come, inspire, respire, breathe your life into
me, as I will breathe into you. Take me away and sing in
my heart.
Yours forever
Author.
01
Dear Author,
I have tried, God knows I’ve tried. To each and every Man
(not men alone you understand but your entire race) I
have been fair and shown myself in desperate hope that
one day you understand. I can do no more than this. Each
poet is so inspired not in my name, but in their own. My
beauty is diminished by the page, for while a rose is but
a word, a word is not the Rose. No kingdoms have I killed,
no lovers saved.
But I have watched. You clamour for me yet you will not
work. Your hands are petrified by soil and so you seek a
false economy, a rose in nothing but the name, no
earthly smell, no thorns, no drops of honest moisture on
the leaves. Where are your sonnets to the worm, that
miracle? Would your amour not accept the tender gift of
half a bag of soil, a flint? And why must you make me
frail? Love’s not frail, and nor am I, nor weak, defenceless,
apt to die in frost. A rose is hard, protected, unafraid. We
grow from stony ground and still we reach great heights.
Damn you and damn your inspiration. If you love, then
love, if you must fight then fight. But leave me be.
Forever,
Rose.
Two shots, a second apart, �re out.
The heft of the blast, and the subsequent ringing drones, reveal the
o�ending weapon to be a 1902 Holland and Holland double ri�e. Set
against the drabs of winter, seasoned with drizzle, one would not
commonly �nd fowl out on open �eld, braving their heads to the
indecisively mourning sky. A weathered man of age strode intently,
though not forcefully, towards his target. The hound sni�ed curiously
over the carcass, excitedly pawing its �nd in anticipation of its master.
As the gentleman bent to gather the bird, the hound continued to
actively investigate the fowl until, quite unreasonably, the man batted
the dog’s snout with his now un-mittened hand and sighed to himself.
As bleak as it indeed was, Brian knew of no other place he would rather
be. For him this landscape, this life, was all he could ever envisage, all he
could ever manage. Times were once where he had many great plans to
travel to the south Americas. But he was young then, and besides,
wheels were much easier to set in motion when the component parts
were still well oiled and eager. As he turned to leave he took a moment
and stood. The hound eagerly nudged his knees and made a low
whimper.
alright lad. i ken still walk by m’self fer now. you’re as old as me remember.
As Brian went to close the lock on the ri�e the hinge seized up. It
was probably the cold. He slowly rubbed the hinge and tried again.
Stranger
By Jamie Watts(BA English and Creative Writing, Year One)
03
Gradually the ri�e was coaxed into closing back up and locking into
place. The ri�e was well maintained for its vintage age and was only
now showing its years; slowly yielding to the weathering e�ects of the
moors and the routine of use.
From behind lightly frosted panes one could see the dense wooded
coverts to the south, just past the four-hundred acre �elds which
belonged to Brian. The small lanes were almost too deeply set into
the scene to be easily noticeable from the elevated view as the
sides now ventured outwards and gave the impression of a single
hedge dividing the �elds. The table was set with implements that
looked as if wrought, crudely, from the very mines to the north of
them. The plate was of a design long since faded and the placemats
depicted scenes that were now �ne period pieces. Soup was both
hearty and practical in this season and Brian settled down with his
bowl, a plate of fresh bread and a large pot of tea. Bits of ham
remained on the side as Brian periodically passed a piece to the
hound sat expectantly at his side. As he raised his mug to his mouth
the enamel coating re�ected deep orange licks teasing out and falling.
The hearth was lined with stu�ed animals - minks, ferrets and stoats all
stood cautiously, eyeing the scene around them with mock faces of
innocent wonder. Placing tobacco into the pipe had always been a
most pleasing of tasks and Brian sat back in the chair and observed his
countryside. As the clock chimed six times Brian raised the match to
his pipe and embraced the smoke.
.........................................................................................................................................
The sign for the M74 said four miles to Hamilton. It was curious that of
all the places that had red rings around them in the AA guide this was
the only one where you were required to actually mentally calculate
the miles travelled to the miles necessary in order not to wind up on
the main road to Glasgow. The window was open but Anna still refused
to light up. It had been a good while now and it would help keep her
mind clear and focused, but mere cravings weren’t going to win over at
a time such as this. All the signs, all the names, all the endless
calculating had taken far more energy than Anna had ever supposed
she could reasonably handle. On top of this Anna was hungry. She
hadn’t eaten in over a day and the lack of fuel was setting in.
The Range Rover’s handling had irked her from the very beginning and
was only now becoming more �uid and bearable. There was such
strength in the engine and the re-assuring grumble it made. It felt to
Anna as if she could feel the very weight that she was directing at
sixty-eight miles per hour and she allowed a small smile to tease her
face as she thought of the di�erence between this car and her old
Metro. Clutching her stomach Anna let out a groan and suppressed it.
It wouldn’t be long now after all.
The wipers were irritatingly constant and fought staunchly against the
rhythm of her syncopated music to the point where she �nally had to
concede and drive in near silence. It then occurred to her that without
the music Anna’s mind was drawn, irreversibly, to the scrutiny of her
route. Soon she knew that an opening was waiting for her and that
failing to turn o� she would have to carry on for miles, resulting in the
ultimate demise of her trip and the end of everything in sight. Weren’t
places out of the way more signposted? Surely it made more sense to
provide greater directional assistance for a lesser known place. It was
too much hassle to dwell on this however, and Anna �nally made the
turning right as the scenery changed instantly. The well-levelled
motorway gave way, periodically, to gravel-kissed tarmac, to greying
pathways and �nally narrow, mud-touched lanes. On each side the
trees hung down into the path as if patting encouragingly on the
shoulder of the hedges, like a proud parent zealously inciting its child
to take the �rst step. As the contrast of the sky gradually dimmed,
Anna’s intense scrutiny now turned on a place to stop the car for the
night. Past a small brick bridge she had found an agreeable patch on
the edge of a farmhouse and gently turned the ignition o�. She
reckoned that the slowness of the drive and the large wall had
su�ciently concealed her presence from anyone who might inhabit
the house, and settled down in the backseat and slept.
Anna never questioned her place in the world, she only knew of her
humble trappings in East Anglia. On the road up to Scotland she
quickly realised that she had absolutely no real idea of what she
wanted from the trip. It hadn’t really occurred to her at all since she
05
had packed a rucksack, jumped in the four by four and left. Life in
Norwich could be so insular, so paltry. Her pedestrian family wallowed
in their middle class success like a �nely trimmed privet hedge,
contented with what they had, meekly accepting of their constraints in
life.
The stirring of the grouse roused in Brian a singular moment of
appreciative wonder. It was here, at the break of dawn, that he truly felt
alive. He recalled reading that a certain part of a person is only ever
awake in these hours, a sort of heightened consciousness, as fresh and
invigorating as any dip in the lake. The inviting smell of gun smoke and
its enveloping nostalgia always brought Brian’s mind back to the steam
trains of his youth, passing from Glasgow to the Cotswolds every year
to see Nan and Gag and enjoy the tales with tea that always coloured
every Autumn.
Much work was to be done if the cottage and the grounds were to
remain inhabitable. The south �eld required more work on the soil, the
barn needed a new door with hinges and the fence to the west of the
grounds required mending after an unlucky incident involving a rushed
businessman and an oncoming tractor. This was all menial of course,
and Brian was just glad of the yield this year. The stores were suitably
stocked and the winter looked to be an easy, relaxed one. Even the
pheasants had made a re-appearance. This pleased Brian most of all for,
although shooting fowl was a favourite pastime, the pheasant
produced such beauty that he could never raise a gun to one. For Brian
the bird represented all that’s most divinely elegant in nature’s design.
It looked so proud and yet so frail. This quality provided Brian with a
tough, but thoroughly satisfying, task of making sure these birds could
comfortably inhabit his grounds. The task of keeping the natural
predators, such as the fox or the stoat, away from the fowls’ nests was a
welcomed hobby and a source of responsibility. This winter would
indeed be a treasured one for all of its myriad opportunity.
..........................................................................................................................................
By the time Anna rose from her sleep the owner of the cottage had
already been up, come back from the town and was mowing the lawn.
The plump lady looked over to the Range Rover just as Anna was
taking her in. Her tired indi�erence contented Anna enough to start
the engine and promptly leave without a word. Being back on the
lanes was exciting, for, as last evening’s drive had presented tension in
abundance, this morning had been relieved of all stress. She could
causally navigate the country lanes and take in the beati�c scenery.
With the windows down, the air was allowed to envelope Anna. She
was bathed in the warm, stu�y air that only came about as a result of
rain the previous night, and Anna embraced its stu�y electricity.
It had come as a pleasant, wanted surprise, when it occurred to Anna
that she hadn’t seen a sign for the last hour or so.
She had �nally left it all behind, quite literally. The range rover knew
little of the wilderness, being used as the transit system to town and
back for �ve years, and the suspension willingly took the now uneven,
unkempt lanes. Snatches of starlings whistled minutely and dissipated
almost before they were heard, and as the leafy growth became more
prominent and evidently more diverse, Anna sighed and eased o� the
pedal to slow the rover down to a hum. She had taken a break o� to
the right and into denser foliage, mirroring all of her anxiety in the
tense swaying of the reeds between the trees.
As Anna stepped out of the rover she took a second look at her bag
and decided to leave it on the passenger’s seat. She held the cardigan
sleeves closer to her chest and breathed out slowly. The chirpy air had
a sense of both purity and expectancy, as if by being here Anna needed
some reasonable explanation as to her unwarranted presence in the
realm of the old world. Her eyes passed over fern and branch with
equal wonder. Below the din of nature’s smaller denizens lay an
altogether more throbbing murmur. The face of this foliage masked a
stream of escalating drive. The trickling in the highs, caused by
shallows over pebble, juxtaposed a triad of atonal �ourishes; the
steady displacement of larger stones at depth rumbling below the
perfect harmony of the stream.
The �rst thing to do would be to �nd a place deeper in, which also
retained a suitable size to account for the girth of the four by four. A
spot picked for coverage by greenery and visibility over the �elds to
07
the north, or to the left of Anna, provided both practical sentry
elements and sheer landscaped beauty. It really was spectacular. The
elegant chaos merged perfectly with the inalienable liberty at work
a�orded by such seclusion. Anna recognized, in the small network of
snails making their way to a large crumbling mass of bark, the strive for
life which had forever tainted whoever had savoured it before. At the
base level, where instinct is the very dictator of all and any desire, life
seeks to preserve, not just the bountiful fruits awarded after a life’s work
in struggle and modest restraint, but the very journey embarked upon
to reach such a triumph. Anna saw now that whatever happens from
there on in would only move to carve upon her life what the world had
intended; her life would be moulded by that which she had sought to
leave behind.
............................................................................................................................................
Lunchtime for Brian came at twelve o’clock sharp every day, and in the
warm weather he would sit outside by the barn on his old bench and
survey his grounds and its inhabitants, both welcome and unwelcome.
Slugs were the gardener’s nightmare, but for Brian the trouble came in
the form of weevils, imperially attempting a conquest of his fruit crop
each week, only to be held o� by a staunch rearguard of pellets and
routine extermination with a shovel. Brian respected nature, even
feared it in part, but over many seasons an abject dislike for weevils had
developed from the sheer problem they presented and often caused.
This task would wait for after lunch, however, as Brian considered it an
almost relaxed task, best saved to work o� the lunchtime meal.
The sun shone generously Brian thought, as if the bad weather needed
as much of a break from pelting the �elds as Brian needed from
weathering through them. As he bit into his Ploughman’s sandwich he
looked out to the town. The waves of slate quaintly re�ected an old
passer-by and the church steeple always took on an almost divine glow
under the scrutiny of harvest’s greatest benefactor. If it kept up the
crops might last that bit longer before the winter months; all the better
since any perceived excess could be sold o� to the market for a fair
price. Thomas ru�ed over Brian’s trouser leg and eagerly awaited
dividends, purring at his side and glancing up expectantly. The sun
soaked all energy out of the land and Brian reckoned he could a�ord a
nice afternoon smoke, and possibly a small nap, if the weather was
going to hold out quite as unexpectedly well as it had been.
In the distance Brian could hear the calls of Monty. He only ever barked
in the �elds when he had found something he thought might interest
Brian. After a small trek down hill to the lowermost �eld he came upon
the dog, whimpering the way he does when he had found a bird. The
fowl, in all its enticing beauty, was alone in the roots of a slanted alder
tree. Brian could see that the bird was on its last evening. He walked
awhile until he came across a patch of wild�ower and uprooted a
knapweed, laying it down beside the root nest of the pheasant. It
seemed curious to Brian that a bird so elegant and strutting in its
prime could die under a tree like this, with not so much as a mate to
see it safely to its last sleep. Brian shu�ed o� and made his way back
up to the house. Monty stayed beside the tree a while, whimpering,
and then looked up to his master and slowly followed on.
...............................................................................................................................
The opening on to the �eld required a small trip through the stream
and up onto the other side. It didn’t look hard, but then, shallows rarely
did and the currents that forced the water down on to the main river,
like whip-wielding jailors to unwilling slaves, could be singularly
misleading. With a brief spark she seized up her will and plunged down
into the river and, having gained a foothold in a none too threatening
current, began wading to the other side.
The �elds were indeed large, and one could envisage a small
encampment set up in one of the corners so as not to attract attention.
In the wilderness of the lowlands could anyone really own every piece
of land? It surely didn’t seem plausible. At that moment a few cockerels
rose up in a kind of jagged alarm and as Anna turned to see the
direction in which it came, a large hound was already making for her at
quite a speed, barking and charging in equal measure. Anna was on her
back and looking up at the dog’s excited whimpering, nudging her
sides and head with its snout as though it had found downed game.
It was around this time of a Wednesday evening that Beryl from the
09
bakery would phone. Their conversations were muddled, like an elderly
couple fumbling to negotiate the gap between platform and train.
why’ve ye been a stranger? she would ask. i’ve nae been. just been a wee
bit busy is all, he would reply. Then she would go on for what seemed
like the whole afternoon at how he’s never busy and has no one to be
busy with. And it carried on like it every week. He knew she wouldn’t
phone this week. Their last conversation, in the town, outlined that if
Brian didn’t show some bottle and take her out to the Motherwell fair
then they needn’t bother themselves with each other any longer.
Brian stirred at the sound of Monty’s barking. It was likely that the old
hound had come across a ferret or stoat or even fox, though Brian knew
it was far more likely that a starling or even fowl had become injured
and wondered into the �eld. Getting to his feet Brian noticed the large
mass beside the dog and reckoned upon a poacher. The last one was
back in sixty nine and ever since, Brian had gotten no trouble from the
like again. He was after the bulbs that had been planted three weeks
before, which at the time struck Brian as being odd, but nonetheless a
nuisance, and �rmly apprehended the fool and took him to the
constabulary personally, earning a pat on the back and a pint of bitter
in the Moorhen’s Trail. This one was female though, the hair was too
long, too fair and they were not at all quick on their feet at that. In fact
Brian was amazed she had even bothered.
monty. monty come away boy. good boy monty. good lad
oh i am sorry sir i didn’t realise this land was owned i swear it sir.
please if you let me go i’ll not come back i swear. im not here to steal. or trespass
is that reet. then hay cum ye know the exac’ way ac’oss the river o’er there
then. tell me that yun’ lass. monty come on boy. come away
oh i didn’t. i mean i really had no idea that there was a way across i just came
looking. looking across the �elds. please sir
aye ye look tay yung t’be getting ye wee self inta any mischeef. what ye be
doin’ here then on this here land. it’s not open te the public ye know. they cannae �nd
it anyway. way out here ye know. hay comes ye gone an’ foond it then
oh i dunno sir. i mean. i was just wondering really
aye well ye lucky that it was me who foond ye and not some o’te others. nae as
understandin’ as me ye see. come up to me wee abode and i’ll �x ye a brew.
From over her shoulder Anna could just make out the outline of her
Range Rover beyond the foliage, across the stream. She kept looking
towards Brian, searching his expression, still undecided as to whether
he was angry or not. She could hardly stop herself from noticing the
strain with which he apparently walked and wondered why he had no
cane. There was a tacit understanding there.
so. whats it like up here. seems awfully cut o� from. well. everywhere.
s’why i like it so much. cant hear nobody cant see nobody. its perfect really. i
ken grow me own vegetables an’ apples an’ pears. though not so many pears lately.
sell any left over. along with my barley crop in town. and from there i can get
anything else i need. other than that i can go to the moorhen’s trail for a pint or a
lunch of a sunday when i feel like it. nice place. cosy. especially on sundays.
sounds lovely, it does. do you live with anyone
only monty here. who you’ve met already. and thomas me cat. me wife left
years back.
oh. oh well must be peaceful then. I won’t trouble you for long. i’ll go after my
tea. thanks again
It wasn’t that Brian disliked the girl, much the opposite; she had fair
hair and her petite face recalled features to his mind that he thought
he had lost to all eternity. No, she seemed a nice young lass. It was
simply that he had all but lost the knack of being in the company of
young women. He felt like a rune, etched on the side of a monument to
o�er an insight into the ways people of the olden days used to live. Of
the people in the towns and in the Moorhen’s Trail Brian only
conversed with the older gents and Beryl in the bakery on a Thursday.
His experience was worn and half perished.
As they entered the small cottage Anna caught her breath. It was as if
she was in a museum exhibition. Every aspect of the abode gently
wheezed antiquity. The only sign of electricity was the classic radio in
the corner, the crude lighting system and a telephone. And yet, for all
of its modern inadequacies Anna found herself being drawn in by its
old brass charm. She saw photos, grainy and greying, of men and
women on promenades, a slender man in a military uniform. Anna
could feel the unpleasant rising feeling within her bones and tried to
take her mind o� of it by admiring the animals by the �re.
11
They settled down at the table and methodically stirred the tea. In the
corner of Anna’s eye, behind Brian’s chair, lay several long stocks of
wood, all broken in half in the corner of the room as if left for reserve
�rewood. She felt unsure of where to take the conversation, her
obligatory subjects already covered on the way up. She resigned to
banally plug away at the beauty of the landscape and perhaps ask more
about Brian’s life. After many superlatives in regards to the beauty of
the nature and natural history of the setting Anna decided to ask about
Brian’s past, how he came to own such a cottage. Brian revealed that
although his father was indeed a farmer this land was brought up and
tended by Brian himself, having no real passion for livestock farming.
That business was best left to better hands. Besides, that job required
more attention and Brian liked nothing better than to tend to his birds,
his crops and to his shooting. It wouldn’t be practical.
so what brings ye way up here then young lass. ye seem a bit out of yer way if
ye get me meaning.
well. well i guess. i guess i came to get away. leave a few things behind
hmm. hmm i see. people getting ye down. they can be like that
She told Brian how long she had been on the road and how she
planned to settle down up here for a few months. Brian listened intently.
They �nished their tea and as Anna got up to leave she embraced Brian
and couldn’t help thinking of her father, and equally embraced the
thought. Brian felt a rushing sensation from his toes to his head and
back again and nearly tumbled.
thanks. thanks a lot. i needed it.
nae problem lass. if you’re up here again don’t be a stranger.
They waved and Anna walked back across to the gate and down the
road to the opening into the woods where she had left the car. Brian
kept chewing over his �nal words to the girl. Don’t be a stranger. He
saw the car leave and then looked to the town. He stepped back in,
over the welcome mat, and into the living room. As he looked in the
kitchen he saw that the two mugs were still on the table opposite each
other. Then he turned and picked up the phone.
Flight
By Abigail Heatley (BA English and Creative Writing, Year One)
The lights get brighter each year, I’ll swear it. There would be nights
where I’d wake, the sofa stealing my senses and the warmth of my own
tiny body caught in its creases while the television still buzzed with the
static of Christmas cartoons; I could kind of remember faint voices
whispering to leave me in peace and hushing the others’ spongy
footsteps all the way up the stairs; my chocolate milk had been taken
out before it could get cold. The tree would ignite my oily eyes,
every time. It was a part of me. I’d helped to decorate it like a bride and
dress it in pictures within pockets, glittery as the stars at this time of
year on the �lms we’d only watch on Christmas Eve. There were a few;
too many to watch all on one night. We’d try it anyway. And I’d fall
asleep on the sofa.
Only a week until Christmas, and I’d done everything to bring it
closer; bought presents, sent cards, made lists; I had already learnt from
the clock in my classroom that time is ignorant and won’t listen to you,
no matter how sincere or reasonable your wish is, like my parents for
the best part of the year. They’d always have something to say about
my impatience. I think time must �y when you get to their age; they
didn’t seem to be very excited at all, or to care all that much either. It
was as though it hadn’t hit them yet. It would though, like the snowball,
on Christina’s cheek.
Christina had been talking to Tom when it happened. It was a
13
mistake on her part; in Newsdale Primary no girl talks to a boy unless
she’s pulling his hair or laughing at him, especially not on her own. Her
�ngers were tangled within each other, like seaweed, and her eyes
seemed lost, or jammed. They couldn’t even make it to his
sneaker-white face without falling back to her shoes, which were
probably wet anyway. Snow is like secret rain when it �nds its way
inside your shoes. I think she must have known some kind of
reprimand was coming; she looked nervous. Then it happened. A
slushy globe of mud-stained snow �ew at her, like a bird to
breadcrumbs and planted a wet one, right on her cheek. Tom giggled,
not aloud, and Christina ran with her tears in our ears. I don’t get what
she was so upset about. It’s not like there was any long-lasting harm
done; everybody knows that snow just turns into steam and goes
anyway, after a bit. So would her tears, come to think about it.
“Little boys,” my mum would sigh. There’s a di�erence you know,
between boys and men; men never cry. Only children, and sometimes
women on New Years Eve. Men would dance like metronomes, ticking
clockwork, rhythmic, for sure, only a little withheld, a little boring.
Women on the other hand did cry, and danced with more repose; like
sloshing wine that was sure to spill. They’d turn a deep red at each
other’s whispers and seal their vicarious delight with a telling hand
over their mouths. Children, I’d picked up, were more like women, they
wouldn’t grow out of womanhood for a while; and some never did.
Only, sometimes a man does cry. Even when he shouldn’t. My dad
had taught me this, years ago. They were taking me onto an aeroplane,
for the �rst time ever; my parents. They’d told me that we would �y, like
birds or angels; I’d asked questions about heaven, clouds, and the
practicality of it all and they assured me that it would work. And that
God wouldn’t mind.
The week leading into this anxious trip was drawn out and
punctuated awkwardly by phone calls and another woman’s name:
Anne. I’d heard them both say it a few times; hushed, from their
bedroom, my mum spitting it; my father on the phone, softer. Awkward
dinner tables would wait, nervous for conversation. The clatter of my
cutlery drowned out their muttering, back and forth, like the wagging
of an excited dog’s tail. My mum had spent hours on the food, you
could tell. A cake had been baked, larger than any she’d done before;
the house had been completely tidied. My father had been coming
home late recently and my mum was just keeping busy.
“A family trip,” my mum rewound and started again, “like a family”.
She looked tired and drained, her eyes painted with drab rings: a
teacup’s stain. I was excited. Later at night, their whispers were spat a
little louder, sounding moist, like a rainstorm. It was almost violent; I
was almost asleep.
We landed early in the morning and �lled the day with our
surroundings: hotel rooms, beaches, siestas, evening meals,
comfortable beds and the brightest of nights. I woke to �nd my father
treading heavily into the doorway. “Your mum’s gone out.” A pensive
pause. “Let’s go for ice-cream.”
The parlour was foreign to me, quieter than I’d known them at
home, and subdued. The �avours were limited and turning to cream in
the heat; humidity made me clammy. We sat in a corner with my
father’s back to the door, his left palm lying �at next to the salt and the
�ngers on his right stroking its depth, longingly, almost scratching into
it. A consuming glance into empty tables and then words, leaking out
like an apology; “Your mother…well…we, well, I’ve…” Another, longer,
bottomless pause and then a murmur, cavernous and instantly seized
by his teeth, catching his lowest lip. It was as though he couldn’t
breathe; his eyes looked suddenly bloodshot and raw, swelling up like
a bruise and dripping tears. The tenderest, most honest tears I’ve ever
seen. Not like my mum’s, not so desperate. His shoulders engulfed the
extent of his neck and he became sti�, like a trapped animal. And in an
instant he had stood up, turned around; I could see he was
straightening his tie. His words soaked into meaning once he’d left,
“Excuse me, I’m going to the toilet.” He returned as before and bought
ice-cream as planned; mint-choc-chip, for two.
When my mum arrived from her walk they talked, probably
planning the week ahead, the week that became tied in our cohesive
company: the week that was enjoyed, embellished with presents and
15
attention.
I yawned the journey home through, whilst my father slept, my
mum’s eyes �xed open. She looked hungry, her �gure skinnier than
we’d left. Arms pin-thin, like matchsticks. Waiting to be lit.
Funeral of a Young Man
By Ioan Morgan (BA English and Creative Writing, Year One)
They gathered early to save a seat,
Hurrying in from the slanting rain that stung our cheeks,
Falling in tune.
Reverential whispers in dusty pews
smelt of the past and pitched you forward into prayer.
Serried rows of blackened shoulders and reddened eyes,
Filling the balcony, upstairs and down, and on into the vestry.
Hundreds more stood outside.
The service all in Welsh with hymns and tender tributes
and bitter sweet rhymes from school mates.
Prayers and supplication and in between Llef and Gwahoddiad
His music - corny pop made poignant.
Pu� Daddy at Tabernacl.
And the believers drank - in the words of God
And saw reason in his madness
And it sustained them, bore them up
But for us the lumpen Godless, no such peace of mind.
Though, I did notice, on shu�ing out, through the heavy chapel door,
That the rain seemed kinder on my face.
17
Bionic Beauty
By Louise Cosgrove (BA English and Creative Writing, Year One)
The room reeked of chemicals still fresh in the air from the night before.
He felt uneasy as he peered about the bright white room and walked
nervously into it. His eyes squinted and began to run.
“Sorry about that, we need it bright in here for the…” He would never
know what the reason was that he was being near blinded and wasn’t
happy either that this could hinder his decision-making process.
Apparently, however, ‘Samuel’ had a crisis that could only be solved at
that particular moment.
“Yah yah, well I’m sorry, Samuel, I really am but we simply cannot go
under ten thou. No, no that just won’t do, it won’t do at all.”
A charismatic person she may be, but annoying certainly. He wondered
to himself what else he expected from a person in her line of work: the
ability to take a breath between sentences perhaps. She stood hand on
hip in a tight �tting black dress and suit jacket. He noticed her
immaculately manicured long �ngers as she held her hand up and ran
them through her jet black hair.
“So anyway, Dave, tell me, tell me, tell me, which little lady here takes
your fancy?”
Dave glanced up to take in the room properly, smelling the arti�cial air.
This decision was impossible.
“Um, well, I don’t know, Deborah; it’s a hard choice to make, you know,
appearance wise. What do you think?”
Deborah looked Dave up and down; her blue eyes judgmental, and
thought about this for a long second. How could she tell the spectacled,
corduroy suited man to her left that she didn’t recall having a Woman
there who she could see him with? She needed this commission after
all, her en-suite needed a new look almost as much as Dave did.
“Doll, you seem like a very nice guy and all, but I’m working on the
clock here honey, now who takes your fancy?”
He was immediately drawn to the blonde right in front of him. A bionic
beauty. She looked like Paris Hilton’s younger sister but with dark,
piercing eyes; he’d never seen anyone so pristine. He’d never seen
himself with a blonde, probably because Marie wasn’t, and she was the
only one he had been with anyway. Only now he had the choice. ‘Easy
enough decision,’ he thought to himself, and was surprised at how little
time he’d spent on it having once taken twenty minutes deciding
whether to wear black or navy socks to work.
Dave’s eye’s shifted as he swept his feet warily back towards Deborah.
‘Wait’, a voice in his head made him stop dead in his tracks. ‘It can’t be.’
It had been nearly a year now since he had been able to look upon this
face which had been the �rst thing he saw when he went to sleep, and
was smiling at him when he woke up. It was di�cult to look at this, this
imitation of Marie, but wasn’t that what this ‘investment’ had all been
about? He couldn’t have the real thing anymore, she was in another
place, but he wouldn’t give her up.
Marie’s majestic green eyes were like saucers on her heart shaped face,
draped with strawberry blonde hair. Dave remembered how it hung
perfectly, showing o� her freckled shoulders. There she was. Yes, that
was de�nitely her. She looked just like her. ‘She’s perfect.’
“Erm, yeah, so I would like to take this one right here.” Pointing to his
strawberry goddess and beaming Deborah looked thoroughly bored
19
by the whole decision making process and simply clicked her �ngers,
ushering over a boy stood in the far corner of the eerie warehouse.
“She’s all yours, Dave, honey, enjoy. Vincent here will sort out all the
details, payment and the paperwork. I have to dash I’m afraid, I hope
you’ll be so happy with her.” Dave listened to her, nothing she said
sounded unrehearsed and blasé.
He woke, his head resting on the keyboard of his laptop. Deleting the
jumble of letters from the last paragraph he began to read back.
The phone broke his concentration and although he was in no mood to
talk to anyone it beat listening to its harsh, persistent ring.
“How are you, Davey?” His brother, it didn’t surprise him, it was near
enough ten thirty and he always called from work, ever since the
accident. “Look I’m sorry about last time we spoke, but I stand by what I
said, you can’t just make people come back into your lives. You need to
move on. It’s not healthy.”
“Yeah, good- err, can I call you back later, and I’m kind of working, so
yeah I’ll call you.”
Moving through the dimly lit room, sitting himself down on the couch
next to the bionic beauty, Dave let out a sigh and looked hard at her
face.
“Now, my love let’s hear that sweet dulcet voice I’ve missed so much.”
He took the remote hidden under the polystyrene balls from the
cardboard box and pressed the volume button.
Almost at once a grating, monotone sound erupted from the doll
positioned at his side.
“Hello, Dave, it’s me, Marie.” Something was di�erent. Ah who was he
kidding? It would never be her, never really her.
He raised his arm throwing the remote aggressively back into the box.
Sighing frustratingly he vigorously jumped up and snatched his car
keys o� the co�ee table positioned in the centre of the room. Cursing
loudly, banging his leg on the table he headed for the door, got in his
Peugeot and drove.
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NEXUSAutumn / Winter 2009
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