Issue 10

Writers' Bloc

2

Welcome to the twelfth issue of The Journal and the last issueof this term!

For those of you not famil iar with The Journal, it is an anthologyof creative writing which showcases the best writers at TheUniversity of Birmingham.

Thank you to all those who sent pieces in this month. Thetheme this time was an open theme and we had a wonderful lybroad variety of reponses. You wil l find work in here about al lsorts of topics; from a story about washing up elves, to a poemabout a forensic pathologist.

Issue 1 2 contains lots of work from new writers, as well aswriting veterans, and the submissions were narrowed downfrom a very large batch of strong entries. I f your piece was notincluded this time, don't be disheartened as the next issue wil lbe open for submissions soon. Send submissions towritersblocjournal@gmail .com and keep an eye out on theWriter's Bloc Facebook/Website for more detai ls of when thiswil l be out next term.

If you like what you read you can find more work on our websiteat www.writersblocuob.com and follow The Journal twitter@TheJournal_WB. You can also follow our society's activitieson Twitter@WritersBlocUoB andat Facebook.com/writersblocuob.

Happy reading!

Georgia Tindale,Editor

The Journal

3

Contents

Daniel SteedenThe Forensic Pathologist 4

Elden MorrowDry Lipped 5

Ludo CinelliLending A Helping Hand To Those Who Try Hard 6

Fabio ThomasCoffee at Midnight 8

Kate FoleyNumber 1 0

Dean KeatingThe Washing Up Elves 11

Elena OrdeUrn 1 4

Charlie MoloneyThe Episode of Bertie Bumble 1 6

Dean EastmondCreak 1 9

Jessica Syposz 20

Robyn Townsend

Underbelly Nightwalkin' Blues

Slow Pursuit22

Jake Scott

Our Lost Elysium (Feature Piece)

26

4

Writers' Bloc

The Forensic Pathologist

There’s been a shooting in his heart,

a stabbing in his lungs.

The leukocytes were here –

blue l ights and yellow tape.

The antibodies took a statement

and ruled out a rape.

There’s scorched flesh too,

where things got heated

and someone touched a nerve.

His whole world collapsed

with his aorta and left ventricle,

as his ki l ler disappeared

through a crack in his optic nerve

and he becomes just another multi-system organ failure.

And he becomes my playground.

Daniel Steeden

The Journal

5

Dry Lipped

Down here,

only the groan of the ocean is louder

than the rasp and hiss of oxygen.

Too much air out of the tank can cause

dry l ips.

Down here,

it is too dim for human life.

The veil of the sun grates

against the eyeballs

urging ascension.

I was warned to be careful,

to not arise too fast.

Too fast, and bubbles wil l be trapped:

not just beneath the wetsuit, but

beneath the skin.

Niggl ing, jostl ing, screaming.

Bends rack the body,

do not dare kick towards

the surface too eagerly.

The ache wil l surely l inger

beyond the pastel rel ief of the winter sun.

Elden Morrow

6

Writers' Bloc

Lending A Helping Hand To Those Who Try Hard

And the Church said to Gali leo, ‘you wil l sit nai led to this chair for the rest of

your l ife, and your eye shall be fixed to this telescope, and you wil l admire

God’s work forever’.

***

I visited the church in the salt mines. There were some salt crosses, salt

col lection boxes, salt pews, salt candles, a salt Jesus, a salt altar. A saltar. I

took a pepper grinder out of my pocket, and sprinkled some on the ground. The

priests saw me, cal led me a heathen, and threw me on the salty floor. They

grabbed the pepper grinder and beat me with it. As I lost my senses, I stuck my

tongue out, and a grain of pepper touched it, together with a pinch of salt. I t was

delicious.

***

Dear God,

Please don’t take this to be a sign that I bel ieve in you any more than I do. But I

guess divinity is more plausible than telepathy, and I real ly need to tel l my Mum

something. So if you’re l istening, pass on this message, and if you’re not, then

I ’m about to die in a bit anyway so it doesn’t real ly matter, and if you’re l istening

and not going to pass on my message because I ’ve been a bad in l ife or

whatever, then you can fuck off. But anyway, anyway, anyway, I don’t have all

that much time, Mum, so I just want to say, thank you, Mum, for taking me to

church when I was a kid. And I don’t think taking children to church (yeah I don’t

care if you’re l istening instead of passively relaying this message, God) is the

The Journal

7

best idea, not that it doesn’t promote a sense of community, but because it

gives people the sense that there is a reward after l ife, and who knows, there

might be, and that is your motivation for being a good person, the reward of

going to heaven, after you die. I don’t think it should be your motivation though,

I think l ife is enough of a reward in itself, because it gives me people l ike you,

Mum. And I won’t be going to heaven if it exists, no Mum, I ’m not if it exists or it

doesn’t, because there are bad people and I have done bad things and they’re

going to kil l me soon, and I know that you tried and I want to thank you for that

and ask that you never blame yourself even though I know you probably wil l ,

but you did not make me the person that I am. You didn’t make me like I am,

cheating and stealing and drinking – you taught me to think of other people

before myself, which is why I ’m thinking about you, I ’m not trying to claw my

way out of this room (I did try a bit earl ier and it was pretty useless, I think I ’m

really doomed here Mum). You’re the best person in the world and I love you

and I know you wil l probably love me after you find out al l the horrible shit I did.

I f this message receives you, you can probably contact me through the same

channels later on. I don’t think I ’ve ever thought of anything so logical. Alright.

Bye Mum. I love you. Right, did you get al l that God? Good. I f you’re as good a

thing as they say you are then I don’t real ly need to thank you, but then again I

have a sense of people getting the thanks they deserve thanks to my mum, so

thanks. I might see you soon.

Ludo Cinelli

8

Writers' Bloc

Coffee at Midnight

Senor Sergio told me to look at the streets,

seeing the cuts on my feet.

He told tales of l ighters, umbrellas and free fl ip-flops.

I looked, but could find none,

l iving off love from across the pond

in the form of means to make money.

I read a book about teeth and nails

whilst toying with the idea of being hard up.

I ’ve played Radiohead four times a night

from Praia to Torto,

travelled to Bari by bus,

on money earned from one song.

I ’ve jumped from five meters

and heard tales from twenty two.

A man now seventy dived off it in his youth

sits below and heckles the tourists.

I ’ve learnt languages from lifeguards

throwing pebbles down the beach

we would later pick up.

The Journal

9

I ’ve been dumb struck.

Cut up bread every day for two months.

Served dinner for 22 or 1 6 or 1

and the help can’t count in their own language.

I ’ve held onto metal after the count of two.

My hands now match my feet.

I ’ve set vacuum cleaners on fire,

and broken keys in the door,

there are no bones about it.

I ’ve woken up to the sound of a dog chewing at a zip,

and a father asking if everything is intact.

I ’ve brought cigarettes for a friend,

who was afraid of the model

who worked behind the counter.

I ’ve been heckled in two different languages

and understood neither of them.

I ’ve been caught in the act.

I ’ve left beds unmade.

I ’ve opened bank statements that weren’t mine.

I ’ve boiled coffee at midnight.

I ’ve slept on the rocks above the sea.

Fabio Thomas

1 0

Writers' Bloc

Number

When my daddy counted

my toes in the hospital

and my momma counted

the consonants in my name,

they didn't count

on me

trading in toy airplanes

and porcelain dol ls

for a pack of cigarettes

and the beer

in their fridge

Kate Foley

The Journal

11

The Washing Up Elves

I remember first hearing about the washing up elves when I was four years old.

I grew up with two older brothers, and we all got away with a lot of shit. We

weren’t troublemakers or anything l ike that, but our parents didn’t exactly have

high expectations us when it came to helping out around the house. That might

have been their fault as much as ours, but Logan—my oldest brother—would

always leave dirty dishes everywhere after a meal, and Mom would always say

something l ike “Oh, yeah. That’s al l right, Logan. The washing up elves wil l be

dropping by later. Don’t worry about it. ”

Jess and I were guilty of plenty of other things. Mom would have stand-

offs with me to see who would last longest without picking up the clothes all

over my room. She always caved when it became clear I was wil l ing to reuse

underwear. Jess had a problem with putting things back from where he got

them. You could never find the scissors if he was the last person to use them.

Stuff l ike that. Most of it was fine, but Mom hated it when Jess would drag one

of the dining room chairs to the l iving room or his bedroom and just leave it

there for days. But Logan had a monopoly on avoiding the dishes. Mom would

occasionally punish him by not letting him go see a movie with some friends,

but then she would feel sorry and treat him to a pizza. She was soft, and he

took advantage of that. I t became almost an art form.

On Christmas Eve when I was seven, after we were finishing up with

dinner, Logan hopped off his chair at the table and ran to his bedroom to play

Yoshi’s Island. Just before he reached the stairs, Mom shouted to him:

“That’s al l right, Logan! The washing up elves wil l be coming around

tonight!”

She rol led her eyes and cleared the table, putting al l the used dishes in

the sink. I t was either because of the holiday or since she was more tired than

normal that she just left the mess there that night without cleaning. Mom

1 2

Writers' Bloc

probably earned a whole lot more lazy evenings in front of the TV than she ever

took.

The evening chugged along unremarkably for everyone except me. Jess

isn’t much older than I am but even at a young age he had become too self-

conscious because of his friends from school to take Christmas seriously. I was

the only one wondering what Santa would be bringing that year. So, when it was

time for bed, I fidgeted for hours before final ly fal l ing asleep.

But during some hour late into the night, I woke up with a stinging, dry

mouth. I slunk down to the kitchen playing a dumb game in which I pretended I

was blind. I could hardly see anything anyway, but there’s a certain kind of

satisfaction that comes with being able to navigate a place you know so well

that you can close your eyes and not bump into anything or trip. That’s one of

way of feeling l ike you’re home, even if you’re miles away.

When I made it downstairs and opened my eyes, I could see light poking

out from the small sl it of space that separated the kitchen door from the ti le

floor. Then the sounds of plates and utensils sl iding into the dishwasher

registered in my ears and I froze. This was it, I was sure of it. I would final ly get

to see the washing up elves that Mom had been talking about for years.

Compared to Santa and the tooth fairy, the washing up elves had always

been relatively low on my list of mythical creatures I hoped to see in my lifetime.

Maybe it was because Mom never described them and there weren’t books

written about them or movies based on their late-night washing up adventures.

But my imagination ran away as I crept closer. Did they wear the same kinds of

hats that Santa’s elves wore? How small were they? If I scared them while they

were working, would the dishes never get done ever again? Would Mom and

Dad just have to keep buying more and more dishes unti l the elves accepted a

peace offering?

Kids don’t do well with anticipation. I ’m sure I thought I was opening the

door quietly, but I must have rushed in, because Jess gave a yelp and would

have broken a mug by dropping it on the floor if he hadn’t been such a

dexterous kid.

The Journal

1 3

“Jess?”

He looked at me in the same way I looked at anyone back then who hovered

over my shoulder to see me drawing something I wasn’t finished with yet.

“Go back to bed, Dean.”

And so I did. I even forgot to get a glass of water.

When I walked in for breakfast the next morning, Mom was fixing

everyone her traditional pancake Christmas morning feast with scrambled eggs,

bacon, hash browns and beans. I noticed a card on the counter, which was

unusually clean. Jess’ handwriting was easy to spot for me, so Mom would have

known immediately. Merry Christmas, from the washing up elves xx.

I doubt Logan remembered that. I doubt Logan even remembered Mom

talking about the washing up elves at al l . After that Christmas, not much

changed. Logan sti l l left his messes everywhere.

Every Christmas Eve, though, Jess would do the same thing. I t was his

yearly present for Mom to open, I guess. When he eventual ly moved out, I

continued the tradition. Between the two of us, we didn’t miss a Christmas for

over twenty years.

Since Logan died, there’s been fewer messes to clean—fewer dishes to

wash. Christmas is one of the only times each year when we see Jess. Mom

moves a bit slower. Her breakfast is a l ittle less organized. Sometimes she’l l fry

the eggs without scrambling them. Sometimes she’l l forget the powdered sugar

for the pancakes.

Instead of me or Jess cleaning and leaving a note for her to wake up to,

we try to leave as many dirty dishes around the house as possible. I t’s not

often—maybe once every couple years—but she’l l sometimes shake her head

and remind us sarcastical ly that it’s fine. The washing up elves wil l take care of

it.

Dean Keating

The Journal

1 4

Urn

‘So tel l me what you find hardest?’

Interviewer leans conspiratorial ly close,

sharp l ines and shoulder pads.

She squints into the question.

Cables snake over crocheted throws and

industrial l ighting squats l ike huge mechanical flowers

glaring.

‘Don’tlookatthecamera. Are you lonely?’

Beside her husband

she weighs the solidity of his l ined hand

as if waiting for a sl ip.

His watch is twisted, buckled upside down -

he called it a ‘hand-clock’ yesterday.

Sometimes it feels l ike loving smoke.

He clears his throat.

A day-old cut near his mouth coagulates -

this morning she shaved for him.

1 5

Writers' Bloc

‘So I hear he’s forgotten your wedding?’

showing snow-bank teeth in a placid smile.

A break long enough to allow for editing, then

‘Do you call yourself his carer?’

She swells big enough to hold two lives

and replies

‘I ’m his urn. ’

Si lence.

Beside their clasped hands, time ticks backwards.

Elena Orde

The Journal

1 6

The Episode of Bertie Bumble

Among the rol l ing hil ls and far away from the noisy cities, Bertie Bumble l ives in

a vil lage called Bumbleton. Bumbleton is a quiet, happy place.

Sil ly old Bertie Bumble l ives in a ramshackle house on the edge of the

vil lage. There are holes in his roof. On windy days his chimney fal ls down, and

he has to cl imb onto his roof and put it back up.

People in the vil lage say Bertie Bumble is a nice man. He wears big clunky

shoes. They say that he is very jol ly. He has rosy cheeks, and a nose as big and

red as a tomato. He can hardly see anymore; he always looks l ike he is

squinting very hard. Everybody has their favourite story about Bertie Bumble.

One day Bertie Bumble decided to go on an adventure. He jumped into his

rickety car, which went chug chug when he turned the key. The exhaust went

BANG, and then he was off, very, very slowly down the street. Children in the

vil lage loved to run alongside Bertie’s car, and Bil ly, who was the fastest boy in

the vil lage, could keep up with Bertie running backwards. Bertie would rol l up the

windows and look straight ahead unti l they went away.

After a while the vil lagers and the vil lage disappeared from view, and

Bertie found himself petering along an old country road. All around him he could

see the lovely countryside where he had grown up. A happy memory from his

youth came back to him, and a tear fel l from his eye.

He remembered a wonderful summer with Anna, the Milkman’s wife. They

had kissed each other tenderly on the hil l top with the beautiful sunset, back

when they were both so young and free. Bertie thought that he might l ike to see

that sunset again. He sped off at the fastest speed his l ittle car could go. I f he

hurried, he would get there just in time.

The gate leading down the old country road was padlocked, and so he had

to proceed on foot. Bertie Bumble waded through thick mud and cow dung for a

1 7

Writers' Bloc

long time. Eventual ly he felt tired, and sat down among the toadstools of a

rotting oak tree.

He looked up at the sky. I t was getting late. He had not even reached the

foot of the hil l , and the sunset was almost over. He blew his big red nose on his

big spotty handkerchief and thought about the horrible house that he must return

to and longed so desperately to escape.

He stood up, knowing that he must continue to the hil l top, he must do

something. Too often in l ife he had given up, simply accepted the monotony and

disappointment of everyday things. He started forwards again, even though the

night had now entirely taken hold.

As he carried on he passed by a swamp. He caught a reflection of himself

on the moonlit surface of the water. He saw a haggard, cartoon of a man. There

was no humanity, only a mass of wrinkles. Was this what he really was?

Everyone in the vil lage had forced him into becoming a caricature: cheery old,

si l ly old Bertie. But he was a real person! He was broken and wretched and

without hope. Didn’t he have a right to feel something other than emptiness?

He became determined to recapture the sentimental ity of his moment with

Anna. I t was the greatest passion he had ever known, and it was now just a

memory that he alone cherished, for Anna had married the milkman. And yet that

memory was all he had to justify the fai led project he had etched out and called

the rest of his l ife. I f he could just evoke the spirit of that moment once more,

then maybe he could bear a l ife with only one emotional crescendo.

After what seemed like an age, Bertie Bumble got to the foot of the hil l .

The first time he tried to cl imb up the little hi l l he tripped and rol led al l the way

back down. Bertie tried again, and again he went rol l ing, rol l ing, rol l ing back

down the hil l . Considering that it may be his bitter lot to be a living joke, he

picked up a big stick to support himself and once again made for the summit.

When Bertie eventual ly got to the top he was so tired that he went straight to

The Journal

1 8

sleep.

Bertie felt the sun shining in his eyes. He sat up. From the hil l he could

see the whole valley. He became aware of someone else sitting on the hil l top. I t

was Anna, the milkman’s wife.

Bertie’s confusion was apparent, and so Anna smiled sweetly and said “I

often come here.” Bertie considered this, and his heart raced. He felt impelled to

find out, did she even remember? What if it had all sl ipped away, leaving him

alone in the past? Bertie Bumble swallowed his fear, and forced himself to ask

her.

“Yes Bertie, ” she said, and she smiled at him again, “I do remember that

time.” A famil iar calm set in, and they sat quietly for a while. They stayed on the

hil l unti l the sun was high in the sky. On the way home they laughed and sang

the old songs of their youth, learned many years ago.

Charlie Moloney

1 9

Writers' Bloc

Creak:

Your words form universes of northern l ights,

di luted by stars and the constel lations

of your cold l ips against mine.

whole mountain ranges sigh and creak,

standing on their tiptoes,

reaching for the moon, for your rhymes,

for you to be dissolved into snowcapped hours,

where broken typewriter keys align

with earthquakes and forgotten mistakes.

you are a waterfal l , an unexplored ocean,

the yellowed maps from other people's wrong turns.

you are every superlative

that creaks my floorboards

and undresses itself across my walls

as starl ight.

Dean Eastmond

The Journal

20

Underbelly Nightwalkin’ Blues

Clerk in his Daylife, office wretch, money-talker

Now he’s fighting the City, aimless steps

A Nightwalker

Nowhere going

Walks in the gutters, on the ‘keep-off-the-grass’-es

Watches the youngsters who kiss in

Underpasses.

Just passing.

No Westminster wastrel, briefcase ful l of sardines,

shoes drowned, canal water, bulging

Suit seams scream.

Went a’swimming.

In his Youth, trapped hankering in dusty white bed

for true bawd, buggered off to the red l ights,

red legs instead.

Unsteady stepping.

Now back there, now back, to pools of lemon piss l ight,

Cheddar Road, whisky, al leys where the violence is

Bright

Bleached, bloodless, his skin

Neon dripping off his tongue

Carlsberg in his cranium,

21

Writers' Bloc

Sees faces in the puddled stink

of oily rainbows underfoot,

in plastic, aluminium,

street corners pocked with chewing gum,

battl ing though a heaving glow

of hazy, woozy caramel,

coating, coating everything,

as taxi hum grows louder

and scarlet eyes wink back at him.

Night-dweller, he throws away his tie with pride

Amid the buzz of cars and bars, amid, amid

the pristine grime

He’s a’grinning.

Jaw slack, drunk, fal l ing. Is that

Digbeth Call ing?

Yes, he’s conquered the City, down the high-street

he’s crawling.

Only-

Shop-window mannequins look far too real at 4am.

Jessica Syposz

The Journal

22

Slow Pursuit

Sunday night: he lays out his clothing for tomorrow. The weekend stubble on his

chin is bothering him and he rubs it gently with his thumb as he considers ties,

before careful ly pairing a sl iver of si lver and blue with his newly ironed grey shirt.

He crosses the room and opens his window a crack, al lowing in a breeze that

flattens his pyjama shirt against his chest, and refreshes the room.

Monday: she is a splash of colour amongst the white shirts and dark blue pencil

skirts that fi l l up the cafe at noon, daily. This is how he notices her, the woman in

the pale pink dress. A floral scent accompanies her as she weaves round tables

to a free seat at the window. Sipping his coffee, he observes her slyly. She sits

up straight and neat at first, sl im and birdl ike, picking at a pastry. With one hand

she expertly holds a worn paperback; thumb and little finger holding the pages

apart, with the three fingers between supporting the book. As time passes, she

becomes disinterested in the pastry. She lays the book flat on the table and

pours over it, her l ips parted sl ightly, l icking her fingertip as she goes to turn the

page. He feels as if he’s intruding on an intimate, secret moment. He shifts in his

seat and brushes crumbs off his lap, a spark of electricity running up him as this

coincides with an innocent bite of her thumb as she considers the l iterature

before her.

Tuesday: a gaggle of women block his path. The dry strawlike-strands piled up

on their heads smell of bleach, and it tickles his nose and makes his throat itch.

He feels the irritation rise in his chest and balls his hands in to fists as he waits

for them to dissipate. Final ly he is at the cafe, panting a l ittle from the stress,

more than from the rush down the street. Sti l l grumbling, he takes his place in

the queue. A deep breath makes his heart skip and for a moment he does not

understand. Then he hears her laugh and she’s right there, dipping her head

when the barista tries to fl irt, and running her fingertips over the glossy counter.

They are suddenly so near to one another. He can breathe her in, the l ight floral

23

Writers' Bloc

notes of her perfume and beneath that, the clean, pure scent of skin. Her voice

is soft and l i l ting, convincing him there were a thousand secrets she needed to

share, only with him. He can see the delicate powder that keeps her complexion

soft and smooth. He admires the fine down on her arms as she pushes up the

sleeve of her cardigan. As she scratches the crook of her elbow, he observes the

neatly manicured nails. When the barista final ly releases her order, she quickly

trots to a seat and he smiles fondly as she takes out her book.

Wednesday: today her dress is pale blue, matching the scrunchie in her hair. He

sits jammed up in a corner booth, watching as she reads the beloved paperback

at a window seat across the room. Chin resting on her cupped hand, she takes

little finger in her mouth, l ips pursed around it. Her shoulders are sloping and

pale, but scattered with freckles, and her red hair catches the sunlight and turns

to gold. She is an angel of Botticel l i , classic in her beauty and sensual in her

feminine body. He notices, to his shame, how ful l her breasts are, emphasised

by the cut of her dress. His lower body tenses, and he aches to rel ieve himself.

The hand lying sti l l on his knee now slides, almost without his control, to the

erection nudging uncomfortably against the material of his suit trousers. With an

almost imperceptible movement, he sl ips his hand in to his pocket and gently

massages the head of his cock, shifting occasionally to push the length further in

to his hand. His entire body trembles. She sucks her l ittle finger. A woman

stomps past him to the toi lets, carrying her grizzl ing baby, and the moment ends.

Panic replaces lust, flooding his body and making his head spin. His shame

forces him up and out in to the street.

Thursday: standing aside, he scans the room for a blue scrunchie and the soft

swish of a skirt. But amongst the noise, there is a deafening absence. No

perfume, no high laughter. His stomach knots, and then grumbles, but he puts

off ordering. Instead, he waits, checking the time every ten minutes. Final ly the

anxiety rising in his stomach forces him to join the queue and then rush to a

spare seat. Bouncing his leg, he fixes his eyes on the door. Perhaps she saw

The Journal

24

him yesterday, cramped in the corner and lusting l ike a bitch in heat. She must

have realised what a shameful man he is. He disgusts her, and she’l l never

come back, she’l l be tel l ing the police this moment. His head aches with panic

and embarrassment, and then with five minutes to spare, she bursts in. Her

cheeks are flushed and her hair is untidy, hanging loose beside her face in frizzy

strands. A bulging bag pulls one shoulder down slightly. But she is sti l l radiant.

Like Venus, she commands attention; al l noise, colour and light in the cafe is

dimmed by her presence. She rushes to the counter and orders a large black

coffee and taps her foot as she waits, glancing around. His heart flutters. She

looks unhappy and he wants to gather her in his arms, and kiss those pink

cheeks ti l l her brow unfurrows. Soon she is gone, whirl ing out with her coffee to

go, and a few moments later he is walking back to the office, missing her.

Friday: he hovers by the door, watching the clock and waiting. He wil l sl ip into

the queue behind her and strike up conversation. He bought a copy of the

paperback she always has close at hand, and has read it four times. He wil l pay

for her coffee and pastry, having careful ly observed what she orders each day

and has set aside the exact change. Then they’l l sit together, and conversation

wil l flow. He’l l be charming, but not fl irtatious; he’s seen how awkward the barista

makes her with his poorly concealed lust. The bell above the door j ingles and a

chorus of voices and laughter fi l ls the café. He’s shoved aside by a tal l young

man with dark untidy hair and a young woman leaning close, cackling and fal l ing

forward. The vulgarity makes him frown, and he begins to anxiously search the

thickened crowd. But the vulgar woman straightens, and he feels a rush of

horror. She’s here, with this brute. He is grabbing at her skirts and tugging her

close; wrapping thick arms around her tiny waist; burying his bearded face in her

beautiful , Botticel l i curls. His head throbs and his mind is black. As quickly as

they arrived, she and the ape sweep out again, charging on to the dirty sidewalk

to tramp along, arm in arm like teenagers.

25

Writers' Bloc

Saturday night: she lays the old paperback on the bed stand and moves away to

the wardrobe to pick out a dress for that evening. With half a dozen pages to go,

she’l l be glad to finish it, and hopes her mother won’t insist on her joining the

ladies for book club again. Returning to the bed stand, she moves to fl ick open

the novel and rush to the conclusion. But it’s not her battered copy lying there,

bent at the corners and with a coffee ring on the cover. Instead, a pristine new

edition takes its place. She is cold inside and out; a breeze stirs the hem of her

sl ip and she is reminded of the night she sl ipped out of the house in her nightie,

and found her father beating the neighbour’s barking dog with a spade. She

turns towards the window and he’s there, slumped against the wall . His eyes are

dark, and unfathomable.

Robyn Townsend

The Journal

26

Our Lost Elysium

Feature Piece

Lucky were we, in summers past,

To lie in fields of sweeping grass,

And feel Time brush our cheeks.

He rushed us past on soughing wind;

We waited for l ife to begin,

With Grief not ours to seek.

In shades of trees and boughs of oaks,

Our youth played out in loving strokes,

While crows were thronged above.

Beside the stream and by the brook

We forced old Death to close his book,

And only saw the doves.

From under sunsets scarlet-hued,

In fal low meadows, stained with dew,

We looked to East instead.

As foxes crowded to our scent

We wondered what the wolves' howl meant

But l istened not for dread.

Between the sheep and lounging cows

We wandered with no heed for hours,

The threat of Life seemed moot.

As autumn came and singed the leaves,

And hedges withered in their sheaves,

Our holly tree bore fruit.

27

Writers' Bloc

The world we had of dales and glades,

Of open countries unafraid,

Would seem to always be.

But as the snow came drifting in

Presumptive cold, the lovers' sin,

The crickets turned to flee.

Now blankets cold snubbed out our flame,

But too obsessed to mark the shame,

We may as well be dumb.

I f only we had had a sign,

Or heard a warning come in time,

We would not feel so numb.

But Time now gripped us by the throat,

The watchman Grief had come to gloat,

With crows behind his threats.

The doves had all lain down and died,

The East now blazed across the sky;

The wolves collect their debts.

The argument is laid to rest,

Our trees succumbed to Winter's test,

And now the glades are gone.

There's si lence where once music played;

We loudly mourn mistakes we made,

But sti l l the wind drives on.

Jake Scott