Month: May 2016

Faux Pas by Helen Laycock


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‘I do not ride.’ I shook my head. ‘I want one that is slow.’
I couldn’t speak the lingo, but I’d watched ‘’Allo ’Allo’.
I felt the French girls sniggered and had masterminded fatwas.
‘You take ze ’orse zat’s at ze back. ’E’s young . . .’is name is Matoise.’

‘But what about a chapeau?’ I pointed to my head.
The girls threw back their têtes and laughed. My fate was viande dead.
Matoise was their accomplice; his eyes betrayed a smirk.
An entertaining novice! How he loved to taunt a berk.

Unladylike, I threw a leg and landed in the saddle.
My rump, untethered, slid about. I was up the creek, sans paddle.
The group set off in front of me in the languid summer heat.
I heard their chit-chat fade away as Matoise stopped to eat.

I kicked my heels as jockeys do and flapped the stringy reins,
but Matoise was on hors d’oeuvres and had yet to start his mains.
Finally, he raised his head and, like a bull, he stamped,
then took off like a thunderbolt! My muscle-mode was CLAMPED.

I yanked his reins to slow him down, but he raced with nose to sky,
and dragged me under branches which, of rider-height, were shy.
‘Stop, Matoise!’ I bellowed as he galloped t’wards a trench
. . . then changed it to ‘Arrêtez-vous’,  recalling he was French.

Finally, our leader cut through my line of sight,
raised her eyes, snatched my reins and, muttering, pulled tight.
She led us to the trekkers, still plodding at their leisure,
and she and Matoise shared a wink of pure sadistic pleasure.

The day was done, the dismounts made, my hair was in a mess,
my face was scratched, my shoulders ached. I feigned a lack of stress.
I waved adieu and thanked them all, despite my dreadful pain,
and for the next three awful days, I walked just like John Wayne.

When life throws up the unexpected, Helen Laycock casts it in rhyme (much to the embarrassment of her Muse/husband). She writes serious poetry, too, as well as fiction. Details of her short stories and flash can be found here and information about her children’s books can be found here.

 

Stitch-Up by Andy Mann


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Thread for her:

Time was, I’d pander to your whim.
Though recently the bruin’s been more grisly than teddy.
This panda watched you. See?
This cuddly love-token you accepted in your boudoir,
my cutesy Chinese bear with webcam eyes.
He saw you fuck my friend.
That knowledge morphed me to the fiend that I’ve become,
more Frankenstein than lover, frankly,

Thread for him:

Friendship, love, hate,
what should you sacrifice to mate? Old Mate,
my erstwhile friend, perfidious cuckolding stallion.
She was my mate; I gave her everything, my life, my love, my hope.
I should have smelt the coffee. Dope.
Never the angel I believed, I was deceived. Oh, not by her: by me.
Yes, I created her. I made that woman fit an ideal in my brain.
In truth, she would fuck anything in trousers. And she did.

‘What you see you get,’ she said: to me, to them, no doubt to you.
Hey, sauce for goose is sauce for gander.
Take another gander. Many have.
But then, of course, you can’t, Old Friend,
Duct-taped to the body you’ve enjoyed.
So, you desired her tits? Well, you shall wear them,
her bits for yours; slot for manhood. Good?
That’s fair exchange in my book. Synergy.

Dead needle:

She wanted cock. I’ll give her yours, Old Pal.
Wear it proudly, Sweet Thing, may it bring you joy.
What’s that you’re mumbling Sweetness? ‘Stitch-up?’
If you say so, Darling — Suture self.
With this rusty scalpel I’ll excise your faithless hearts—
(where some move on – forgive, let live – I’m going to up the ante)
—and scoff them, braised with fava beans, your livers,
and a nice Chianti.

A version of this piece was first published in Infernal Ink Magazine in 2013.

Some say Andy Mann is the dark alter ego of an octogenarian Anglican vicar. Others believe he was once the white-clad nemesis of Jeremy Clarkson. The only facts known for certain: he has conned enough gatekeepers to get fiction, creative non-fiction and non-fiction published in diverse places, in print and online and was once, falsely, accused of poetry. Andy’s hobbies include baroque music, embroidery and taxidermy. He is currently underpinning his sagging creative writing pursuit on a degree course at Birkbeck, University of London, where lecturers and fellow students insist he is kept under maximum physical restraint at all times.

 

Foxes Don’t Wear Gloves by Emily Koch


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My shrink says that when I feel blue
what I need is a deep breath of green –
that there’s “truth in the beauty of nature”,
and besides, it’s a nice change of scene.

Problem is, I’ve got issues with trust.
I’m suspicious of people (and things)
who pretend to be something they’re not
to cover up lies, thefts and flings.

So when I went out in the country
with a guide to show me this from that,
I soon realised most plants were liars,
and their fraud sparked a panic attack.

Lamb’s Ear, Monkey’s Nose and Bear’s Foot
do not pass for the organs of beasts.
Bat’s wings are not green with red berries –
I was the fool in yet another deceit.

Cupid flies, so his car is redundant,
if a hare had a bell he would ring it,
I’m yet to see a fox wearing gloves
or a cow tease a bull in her slip.

Like hell is there truth out in nature –
plants lie just as well as the rest.
Stuff my shrink and his deep breath of green,
a stiff gin’s all I need when depressed.

Emily Koch is a writer and journalist living in Bristol. She writes short stories, flash fiction and poetry and recently finished her first novel.

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This Season’s Decorator: 10 Tips by Pat Tompkins


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I just adore the realness
of dust. Kyrgyzstan never
goes out of style. We always
use fur for holiday meals. You
can’t have too many pearls in
a kitchen. This year’s color is
hand-knotted Turkish carpets.
I simply can’t say enough about
napkin rings. Small pots of chartreuse
enliven any room. Don’t underestimate
the power of vetiver candles. Nothing
personalizes a space like lapis lazuli.
Invest in the very best-quality
curtain rods you can afford.

Pat Tompkins is an editor in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poems have appeared in Confingo, The A3 Review, bottle rockets, and other publications.

 

Beach by Peter Yates


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The sun revives,
sea refreshes;
and the sand eventually realises
I’m on holiday.

Old energy saps away
replaced by new
with its unguarded optimism.

I take two cigarettes from an imaginary pack.
I light them both together
and offer one to you 3000 miles away.
You take it
inhale
and glance quizzically in my direction.

I didn’t know you smoked you seem to say,
sitting at your office desk.

Peter Yates is a playwright who has his own Theatre Company Random Cactus. He works with various charities and is a Theatre Critic at London Theatre 1.

 

If I Were Suddenly Twenty Years Younger by Peter Higgins


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If I were suddenly twenty years younger
Yes, at first it would be a bit weird
I’d ask myself – why this new hunger
To grow a lumberjack’s beard?

But I’m sure I’d soon get the hang of it
I’d be a good little hipster indeed
I’d eat pulled pork in artisan pop-ups
Ride a bike with only one speed

I’d tweet selfies from the roof-tops of Peckham
Though haters might mock me and sneer
I’d come up with an app to sell you some crap
I’d micro-brew a craft beer

But alas I am twenty years older
And thus far too old for that shit
Instead I have Midsomer Murders
And a pain in one knee when I sit.

Peter Higgins was born in Yorkshire and now lives in London.  His short stories have appeared in various anthologies and magazines, and he appears regularly at LondonVille Lit (South London’s finest spoken-word event).
 

What’s Your Poison? by Mark Mayes


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We bought a bar
for the dining room,
to entertain ourselves
and non-existent
friends of the family.

We stocked up on mixers,
European lagers.
Stuck mirrored squares
behind the bottles
to catch reflections
of pretend barpersons.
Sunk muted spotlights
into cheap, beige wood.

Angostura Bitters
and grenadine
lent their cachet
to the gift-set tumblers
and clear plastic coasters.

The months passing,
novelty grew brittle.
And barely noticed
the bar went dry.

The optics glued.
And one by one
the upside down
empty spirits
revealed
their false glamour.

The ice bucket grew musty.
Even the maraschino cherries
unceremoniously
departed.

Mark Mayes has published poems in various magazines, including: The Interpreter’s House, Ink Sweat & Tears, Staple, The Reader, The Shop, and Fire, and has had work broadcast on BBC Radio. He has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize. 

 

Shakespeare’s Skull by Oonah V Joslin


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It seems someone stole Shakespeare’s skull
despite the warning on his tomb
that ‘cursed be he who move my bones.’
It seems somebody stole his skull.
G.P.R. shows that it is gone.
They had to break through brick and stone
inside the church to steal his skull
and yet this sacrilege was done.

It seems someone stole Shakespeare’s skull
end of the nineteenth century
and later boasted openly
that they had taken Shakespeare’s skull.
The science of phrenology
paid for such items handsomely.
Someone bought it. Alas poor skull!
Now you are lost to history.

Oonah V Joslin is currently poetry editor at The Linnet’s Wings. She lives in Northumberland and a constant state of panic.

 

My Dog Nearly Ate My Homework by James Woolf


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My dog nearly ate my homework, Miss – I know what you are thinking
This isn’t some old tired excuse, his teeth were really sinking…

But luckily I grabbed my book and tugged it from his jaws
And as I tossed it in my bag he caught it with his paws

We wrestled with that maths book, an hour went by – or two!
Then suddenly he dropped down dead, I promise, Miss, it’s true

I loved that dog with all my heart – there was no one else you see
My mum and dad are missing, it’s a tragic loss for me

So I put my maths book by my bed and began my evening prayer
When a sudden bolt of lightning struck, it hit my CD player

And that of course burst into flames – it did, Miss, I’m no liar
And half my room was all ablaze as I hosed out the fire

I somehow saved my maths book though it got a little moist
Having worked so hard to do it all I really had no choice

I tried to remain collected, Miss, I made my bedtime drink
But after the traumas of that night I hardly slept a wink

I must have napped an hour or two and I’ll tell you how I know
Because at some point I was burgled by some lousy so and so

There was no sign of forced entry, no damage to my place
And that’s why I am positive he came from outer space

He didn’t steal my money or poor mum’s engagement ring
That alien took my maths book and that was everything

I’m not sure why he needed it – I can’t explain his actions
Perhaps he’s got behind in maths and was stuck with cosmic fractions

Don’t raise your eyebrows like that, Miss – I’m simply being candid
An alien stole my homework – that’s why I’m empty handed

(previously published in a Thynks Publications anthology)

James Woolf is a writer of short stories, scripts and adverts and occasional poems. ‘R V Sieger – additional documents disclosed by the Crown Prosecution Service’ was highly commended in the 2015 London Short Story Prize and will be published this month. Ambit magazine will be publishing another story later this year. He was shortlisted in the most recent Fish Flash Fiction competition. Prior to this, his plays have been produced in various off-West End venues including The King’s Head Theatre, the Arcola and the Theatre Royal Margate. Two radio plays have been broadcast including ‘Kerton’s Story’ with Bill Nighy, Lesley Sharp and Stephen Moore. He also write adverts for Black and Decker.

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