Antic Magazine Issue 1

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Issue 1 2013 Poetry prose stories art

description

A new student literary magazine publishing Poetry, Prose, Short Stories and Art. Cockermouth 6th Form, Cumbria

Transcript of Antic Magazine Issue 1

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Issue 12013

Poetry prose stories art

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Editorial

Dear Readers,

Welcome to An t ic , a magaz ine g iv ing vo ices and a chanceo f express ion to young wr i ters o f a l l ta len t .

It has been a real experience creating this magazine and I have thoroughly enjoyed all aspects of it .I wanted to create a magazine that would hopefully spark an interest of li terature in young people, and hopefully make reading poetry and stories seem less tedious and more enjoyable.I hope this idea has worked and some of you are more interestedin literature. If not, I suggest you explore literature on your ownand find an aspect of it you love because I promise, it would be a worthwhile thing to find.

A large thank you has to be made to everybody that contributed a piece of writing or piece of art to Antic;it was a real pleasure receiving the work and getting to seeit all . I t’s taken a total of 6 months to complete this project; a lot of work and time has been put in by myself; as well as others. A thank you has to go towards Mr Milledge as my project supervisor, as well as anyone that contributed to the research I carried out to create Antic Magazine.I am extremely pleased and proud of what I have managedto create.

This issue contains poetry, short stories, prose and artwork from fellow students as well as local writers like Jacob Polley and Malcolm Carson.

Thank you.

© 2013 by Antic Magazine.All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Antic Magazine and it’s authors.

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Contents

Past Days AnonymousGiving Up Jess LongriggMartyrs and Scholars Calvin HodgsonHumans Raw Jessica WalkerColour of Trees Georgia De-Groot A Bard Calvin HodgsonWindow Anonymous

Hoping Jess Longrigg

1

2

3

456

78

910 Chibi Love Ellen Angus

LOCAL WRITERS

The Dung Hill Malcolm CarsonApril Mike HarringtonMagpie Christopher Nelson But Then We Were From Different Times Malcolm Carson

0.3 Christopher Nelson15

Alaska Lines Jessica Walker

Look Into My Eyes Sophie ParkerBeginnings Georgia De-Groot Confronting Inner Demons Anonymous

11

12

13

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Three Tweets From Talking Birds Jacob Polley16

23

22

18

19-21

A Love Affliction Amy Wilks24-26

About The Writers17

Ramblings of a 6th Former Anonymous

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You can keep going and

You can fly forever

But where are you flying to?

And who will be there?

Don't you realise?

You're flying away from

The hardships in your life

But you've flown too far.

You flew straight past what

Could have, would have been

The best time of your life

So, sweetheart, turn back.

Turn back and see

What you could have had

Turn back and see

What you still can.

Darling, your life ain't over.

Look back and GO back

Go back and live the

Best of your life

'Coz you only live once.

So make this one count

And always remember

That they are the best

You'll ever have.

Remember you love them and

You'll always be loved as well

Those Dark Days are behind you

Hun, these days are light.

So make this one

Shine so damn bright

Because you have one chance

So smile away, girl, just smile.

Past DaysAnonymous

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Giving Up

Easy. Huh? To walk away.avoid it for another day.

That’s right, turn your back,gather excuses, go and pack

them all away from me,think I can’t see

You’re used to me.

You stopped you know?the smile, the glow.

bye to blue skies,and hi to goodbyes.

happy days gone,what went wrong?You got used to me.

Dead are soft lullabies,only whispers and alibis

live on now,wow,

I thought you promised,but you lied and,

You got used to me.

Filled with shame,now are my lame

words of heartbreak,feelings one can’t shake,always thought I’d write,of my courageous knight.

but You got used to me.

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jess Longrigg

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There are two kinds of people that fill the streets,That fill the world, and take their seats,

And those they meet, And those they greet,Have in their hearts, their own path to keep

.There are the bloody martyrs, Who keep the world in check,

Who Never back down from a fight,When the blade is at their neck.Although they fight for honour,

Or justice, family, truth;The martyr’s blood will still run red,

When their child is at their youth.

There is the studious scholar,The wise man of the world,

Can a great man avoid the fight,And keep the world secured?

But the scholar cannot raise a sword,In the way he raises the pen,

So if they faced the glare of death,Who would be the better men?

Whichever person you are,Whether you wield the weapon or the words,

Know that the world will need you both,To stand for the rights of the world.

Martyrs & Scholars

Calvin hodgson

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Young hearts beating togetherpounding into one another’s flesh

carving blinding words out of coldest weatherSpitting out acid from mouths

and dripping down with burning new eyes.

Standing together holding handsout of a feeling of trepidation

Warnings of exploding mindscasting to one everlasting soul

Finally standing tall with no more temptation.

Ripping from the seams with a tearallowing the suture of wounds together

bruising begins to form black and blue marksanimalistic forms start to wear uncovering human

At last and at once we find the salvation

Humans Raw

Jessica Walker

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colour of treesGeorgia Degroot

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I, a bard, am like a dream,Often will I tell a tale,And never charge a fee,I’ll amuse you an entire day,But alas, you shan’t remember me.

It’s the heroes you should remember,The ones both brave and true,The ones of courage – valour – strength,Those ones will see you though.

But remember villains too,The ones of cunning and guile,The ones that would stab you in the back,But look you in the eyes.

So next time on your journeys,You see a fellow traveller,Tell me the tale, of how you fought,Or still stood as friends thereafter.

You ask my name? It does not matter,I am but a lowly bard,But the stories that I share with you,Will help me be your guard

A BARD

Calvin Hodgson

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7.

You may feel like everyone is differentYou may feel like everyone is the sameBut in the moment when everything is

SilentAnd the clouds start to cry

Every single person turns their headAnd looks towards the window pane.

- Anonymous -

window

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8.

Not long nowThe clock ticks on and the days go byApproaching deadlines make tensions riseBurdens of school and the stress of work flood our mindsDrowning the feeble cries of the social lives we once had.

Battling against wave after wave of unfinished work and half written note.All the while, heavy weights of vital coursework drag us under. The weeks fly by,But then the wait drags in,That tense line outside those guard-like doors; Beyond which those dreaded sheets await...

Not long now, seconds to go,Around the room pens frantically rush to get in those last few words.As uniform sigh of relief is heard all around, as that familiar phrase rings out 'Time's up, pens down'.

Ramblings of a 6th Former

Anonymous

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I saw a man with a cardboard sign, Hoping.

Emphasised with underline, coping.

A battered old rug, and a chipped mucky mug,

with a lazy-eyed dog, eyes clouded with fog.A ripped and patched hat,with tassels and frills,

kicked where he’s sat,a small hidden box of pills.

Charred sleeves from cigarette ends,a patch-work blanket with ripped up seams,

I remember the sign, it read: I have hopes and dreams.

Hoping

Jess Longrigg

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Ellenangus

Chibis

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Local Writers

contribute to

Antic

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Each year it would be deliveredfrom Fletcher’s farm at the end of the cinder lane where I’d ride my trike for days on end,go newting in their pond.Each year it would come ina trailer backed upto the garden gates whereI’d lost my mother’s forkby leaving it out, wasnever forgiven as I’ve neverforgiven her for giving my football programmes to the Girls’ Brigade Jumble Sale.Each year we’d watch itbeing teemed intoa hill beside the air-raid shelterwhere John Spink, Peter McRaeand I would burn night-lights, swear allegiance and deathand later Peter would dieon the airfield doing a ton. Each year we’d tread it downhigh on heady steamup to our oxters in happy mirespawning tales like mycelium.And my father would say,‘It’s for the roses,’ but I know nowhe was with us in the dung hill’s glory, dancing still despite himselfon his Cullybackey farm.

The Dung HilL

Malcolm carson

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Fronts on the TV weather map whirl like Catherine Wheels.Simulated clouds froth and swirl in from the westlike soap suds thrown across a pavement.Outside in the real world it’s no better.Earlier today an east wind thrashed the daffodils;now it assaults them from the southas the eye of the depression makes its way to the east.

The heating comes on early.I have curry for tea and seek solace in the Internet.

And yet, three days ago, I was tempted to cavortabout in shorts, when the sun shone,the grass was cut, edges were trimmed,buds were bursting, young lambs cried in the fields around and the soil of the new-dug earthdemanded the sacrifice of sweatand the attentions of a mattock.

On a crystal evening that same daythe New Moon rose

holding the Old Moon in her arms,the Maiden softly cradling her Grandmother,

while Venus shone with radiant desire,and Mars responded with a lover’s fire,

just as Homer tells it,and the dark bowl of night

was filled with sparks of lightscattered

from jealous Vulcan’s anvil.

This is the growing season,a time of new life fighting to survive

but it is a time of violence,when youth and tenderness

must face the icy furyof Winter’s last stand.

April Mike Harrington

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Christopher nelson

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A t o u r l a s t p a r t i n g I t u r n e d t o y o u r c a r , g r i mw i t h a n g r y p u r p o s e f o r m y t r a i n a n d s a wy o u h u n c h e d a n d o b d u r a t e a s m e , i f n o t m o r e s o .A n d i n y o u r l o o k , o u r l o o k s , t h e r e w a s a w i l l

t h a t w o u l d n o t s o f t e n t o o u r b l o w s b e f o r et i m e w a s c a l l e d . O u r w o u n d s w e r e o p e n , r a w ,b e y o n d a s u t u r e f r o m y o u r s u r g e o n ’ s p a s t , b l o w s t o t h e h e a r t , p e r h a p s t o o h a r d t o b e a r .

F r o m t h a t m o m e n t w h e n I r e c a l l o u r r o w sI f i l l w i t h g r i e f , f l u s h w i t h s h a m e . B u t t h e nw e w e r e f r o m d i f f e r e n t t i m e s .

A s I p a s st h e p h o t o s o f y o u r w e d d i n g i n m y h o m ey o u ’ r e u p r i g h t , p r o u d , m o r n i n g d r e s s , p a t e n tl e a t h e r s h o e s , y o u r b r i d e , r e a d y f o r l i f e ’ s d a n c e .

But Then We Were From Different Times

Malcolm carson

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1

I am a poet, a night-bird,

working close to the stars.

My songbook is leafless.

From the dark leaf-hall I sing

for banker, beggar and king.

2

In my bespoke

ghost-suit,

I tread the earth

or rive the river

silently. But lofted,

I swank, tricked

out in the dazzling

song of myself.

3

An orphan before I was born,

my folk delivered me in a coffin.

A mother mothered me, odd

among her own, who paid

for my life with their own.

Three Tweets from Talking Birdsafter the riddles in the Anglo-Saxon

Jacob polley

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0.3 C h r i s t o p h e r n e l s o n

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About the writers

Malcolm Carson Malcolm Carson was born in Cleethorpes, Lincolnshire. He studied English at Nottingham University, and then taught in Further Education and at the University of Northumbria in Carlisle where he now lives with his wife and three sons. He is co-editor of Other Poetry. His first collection, Breccia was published by Shoestring Press in June 2007. This was followed by Rangi Changi and other poems in December 2010, also from Shoestring Press.

Jacob Polley Jacob Polley was born in Carlisle, Cumbria, in 1975. His first three books of poems, all published by Picador are The Brink (2003), Little Gods (2006) and The Havocs (2012). He is regarded as one of the leading talents of the Next Generation of British poets. His first novel, Talk of the Town, was published in 2009 and won the 2010 Somerset Maugham.

He currently lives in Fife and is a Lecturer in Creative Writing at the University of St. Andrews

Christopher Nelson Christopher Nelson was born in Penrith, Cumbria in 1992. He studied at Keswick Secondary School, and continued on to open up a music store in Penrith. He is currently a freelance music producer, animator and musician; with hopes of becoming a professional chef one day.

Mike Harrington Mike Harrington currently lives in Ravenglass, Cumbria and has been creatively writing since retirement in 1993. He has been editor of the University of Liverpool’s prospectuses has done a range of copy writing. He currently attends Whitehaven Writers, a writing group and has done since 1998. He has wrote poetry, short stories interviews and news articles; and is currently working on a fantasy novel.

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As the fires raged blindmy head got so lostbeneath the sea of youThe flames rose higherand I floated as I watchedthe world burn from under me.

The flowers grew in ashy remainsI washed up on blackened shoresI climbed this highway lineon top I could see the beautyMiles and milesof your heart.

The smoke blew wild, we felt youngchildish screams we divedhands entangled and entwined he turned and said to me“tear the veins from your broken hands”we took still all our claims

and we died …

Jessica Walker

Alaska Lines

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Look into my Eyes Sophie Parker

They say that a person’s eyes are the windows to their soul. However for

most, the eyes are just a means to an end: a bit of colour that allows you to see beautiful objects. Mundane objects. Any object. When someone looks into some-one’s eyes, they see the iris. The pupil. The whites with the intricate pattern-work of blood vessels. For me, I see them in their eyes. I see who they truly are.

***Sometimes I come across people that don’t know who they are. I can see it in their faces. At a glance I know their dark-est secrets. Their ultimate fantasies. I see their opinions. Their attitudes. Their oc-cupation. Even what they had for break-fast this morning. I read them like an open book.Currently, there is one person I know of in this world that I cannot read. Him. I see Him everywhere. His eyes a colour of gold so pure, that if solid, would be worth more than the Crown jewels. Stood in a busy square in central London, I was drawn to them. I wheeled round to read them. Those beautiful eyes. I stared into a dark never-ending abyss. Nothing. I couldn’t get anywhere. Trapped in His honey-pot eyes. I wrenched my eyes away. Head pounding. Crying out in pain. Confused. I frantically searched for eyes. Any eyes. Mediocre eyes. Her eyes were blue. In turmoil. Seas in a storm. Darker flecks of colour surrounded her pupils. Boats drawn to a beacon. Lawyer. Stressed. Centre of attention. Married but having an affair. It’s all there. In their eyes.

Now I knew that something was wrong with Him and not me, I searched for him hastily. But He was gone. The only person that I couldn’t read was gone. The game was on.

***

In a past life I might have been a wolf. Wolves are extremely perceptive in read-ing the body language of both friend and foe. They use a sixth sense to pick up the small alterations in stance, gesture, eye contact. Their only weakness is their ina-bility to percept colour. The subtleties of communication are often underestimated. Especially in human spheres. Humans are so self-absorbed that they don’t bother picking up on these intricate subtleties. They are supposed to be the most intelligent life form upon this plan-et. But sometimes, they can be so stupid. This street is full of stupid houses full of stupid people, in a stupid city. The only person I know that I can trust to be re-sponsible is myself. I wander the stupid streets and feel frustrated, angry. An in-sipid, poisonous rage that refuses to stop. I feel green. Red. A venomous purple anger that crashes through my life and anyone that comes near it. There’s no cli-max. Just a plateau of emotion; no rise nor fall. I’m getting tired of it. Tired of the constant frustration, the constant need for pain and anger and violence. People shrink away from me. Make themselves small so I don’t see them. Whisper behind hands so I can’t hear them. But it doesn’t work. I hear them alright. I hear them and their sneers and their ‘look at

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him’s” and their inability to accept that what is, is. But, unfortunately, I’m right. What is, is, and I accept that. If they don’t accept that, then soon what is will isn’t. And no, that does not confuse me in the slightest.

***

Sometimes I notice nothing but a per-son’s eyes. Skip all the niceties. Get down to business. Why talk to someone when you can just look into them and see if they’ve had a nice day, or if they’re alright? I suppose that’s why I don’t really have any friends. I don’t need friends. No-one intrigues me. Only Him. From time to time I wonder what it would be like to be normal. I wonder what it would be like to have friends. Lovers. To feel vulnerable. I wonder what it would feel like to feel scared. To feel human.The closest I came to human? When I was drunk. The first time I got drunk, I realised the effect it had on my…ability… was liberating. I felt what it was like to be normal: my eyes saw everybody at the dingy, back-street bar in Soho as friends. I looked across the room, and suddenly felt what it was like to be a lover. Eyes. Smoother and darker than chocolate. Staring at me with an in-tensity that made my heart flutter invol-untarily. The unwavering gaze sent shots of electricity to my very core. Never before had I looked into some-one’s eyes for the sheer beauty of them. They were the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Apart from His.The mystery of her eyes intrigued me: for once I was in the dark. Stuck. And I liked it. She walked towards the door,

never taking her eyes off me, only slid-ing them away when she stepped over the threshold. I was compelled to follow her; it was as if I was a dog wearing a collar, and she had the end of the lead. I stepped out into the fresh midnight air, and immediately sobered. It was a trap.Surrounded by large men dressed in black suits and boots and sunglasses, and the mystery woman in the middle, I groaned at my stupidity. By allowing myself to get drunk I’d made myself vulnerable.She paced around me. Examining me as a trainer might examine his racehorse. She stopped pacing, and stood in front of me, about two centimetres from my nose, breath swirling away into the star-lit night.

I swallowed. I never thought it would end like this. My eyes flicked from one man to the next. He was everywhere. Each pair of eyes exactly the same as the last: golden. Each pair of eyes that I encountered caused me to scream. I real-ised the enormity of my situation. Cap-ture meant years of mind reading. I’ll be a tool to ascertain innocence. I’ll be a pawn in the government’s never-ending game of chess against crime. And now He doesn’t exist. They exist.As the Mystery Woman talked at me, they slowly closed in. Their eyes blast-ing through me. Rendering me useless. I collapsed. Writhing in agony.

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‘Don’t think that this is the end,’ the Woman whispered in my ear, ‘because it has only just begun.’Darkness.

***

They call it Whitewalls. Simply for no other reason but every wall is white. Lifeless. Sterile. All day I look at eyes. I don’t even look deep anymore. The only thing I look for is ‘guilty’. I would bet I don’t even have the capacity to read what they had for breakfast anymore.One day, when I rounded a corner in Whitewalls, I saw someone. A man. His orb-like eyes portrayed his madness. Rings of confusion surrounding his pu-pils. They darted. This way. That way. Every way. They had to dart in every di-rection possible. They were a sickly shade of gold, and twitched nervously.As he approached, I reached out to touch him. His face. My face. My fingers bumped against the mirror. A cold rush sprinted up my arm. Me. My eyes, once a healthy shade of green, had turned gold. I was one of Them. I am one of Them. I am Him.

***Wolves run together. Such loyalty can rarely be seen elsewhere in the animal kingdom. Even humans; selfish, egotis-tic humans; don’t have bonds of loyalty as strong as those formed between a pack of wolves. But they also recognise when it’s time to give up. When it’s time to lie down in some quiet part of the for-est, and die. They know when to sacri-fice themselves for the good of the pack. And the pack agrees. After all, if you’re hampering Us, why should you be part

of Us? Why should We wait for strag-glers?We run through the streets in our black suits with our black sunglasses, looking like something out of The Matrix. But We’re in no computer programme. We’re in the real world. We search for those who possess the same ability as Us. The same ability We had. Now, our ability is honed and reprogrammed. Re-programmed to capture. And if not to capture, to destroy. The pain that We cause is our nutrition; the screams our pleasure. What made Us people before, sustains Us as what We are now. And what are We exactly? We are human.

***

Look Into My Eyes

Sophie Parker

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Beginnings . . .

22..

Georgia de-groot

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Confronting Inner Demons anonymous

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‘W here are you?’ He says dreamily as he follows Her retreating

form. ‘Not yet, don’t leave yet.’He stumbles through the snow in search of that light azure gown which sways in the frosty wind. In only his nightwear he feels the bitter cold easily, but through sheer determination he continues through the snow. Gradually, he climbs the moun-tain; trampling amidst the snow and for-est life.When finally he breaks through the shel-ter of the trees he finds Her. She stands with Her back to him, facing the steep edge of the mountain cliff. He halts; astounded. He steps forward but She doesn’t vanish. He savours Her every detail. He notes Her frame; small like a ballerina, and Her draping red hair; light as an orange.As he is about to meet Her, She moves forward; escaping him. Within another moment She continues forward until She falls forward off the cliff. He does not once stroke Her soft hair, nor smile upon the face of an angel. He cannot meet Her, not now, not ever again. She is lost to him forever. With a scream directed to Her falling frame, he awakes from his nightmare.

***

He emerges with a start and the reality of his life is evident all around him. No brightening plant life or entrancing paint-ings decorate the vast house. To observe its full breadth would remind him of his isolation, so he remains confined in this living room.

His life has become unlivable. He exists purely because he cannot escape his tor-ture. His torturer exists purely to see its subject suffer for their crime. He lies motionless on the floor. ‘No more, please,’ he begs. ‘I can’t stand this anymore.’ As always no answer is received. It’s part of the torture; not viewing Her or hearing Her melodic voice. She would brighten this dull room with no more than a smile. Bit by bit he drags himself into a sitting position. Unexpectedly the door opens and a shad-owed figure proceeds into the room.‘Lily?’ His voice aches saying Her name.With full conviction of Her presence his heart slows into a steady rhythm at the sight of a man without the sun bursting in like a ray, as it would, had it been Her. Jonas steps cautiously into the room. He assesses the lightless space and the image of a broken man before him.He stumbles to stand to fend any further advancement. ‘No visitors!’‘Good lord Charles, what have you been doing with yourself?’Charles looks up at the lifeless man. It is Her brother; a man who is caring and considerate; the exact traits of a man he despises. He vehemently believes one should be strong and domineering.This man is not blessed with beauty; She had bright, beaming hair, while he has mousy brown. She was graceful while he is fragile.‘Let me help you.’ He reaches for Charles, who pushes him away.

A Love Affliction Amy Wilks

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‘You are not welcome in these premises.’ With determinate effort he rises, without help, to his feet. ‘I come with good intentions to help you now She has gone, and you’d refuse it? What will is this to refuse a steadying hand? Does hatred spur you, or is it your disgust for hideous things?’Charles shouts, ‘I’ll not lay a hand on such a vile loathsome creature as you!’Jonas, ever a kind-hearted human being, says, ‘If I’m not welcome I’ll leave, at your request.’ He approaches the front door. ‘My sister, God bless Her soul, loved you, but you, sir, don’t deserve the happi-ness She gave you. You were a brute to Her, and so She took Her life. I pray you are never met warmly at heaven’s gate.’ The door closes firmly behind him. Later at night, Charles heads for the grave-yard.

***

With a shovel thrown over his shoulder, he strides through the rows of centuries-old graves, advancing toward a fresh one. When he reaches the headstone he touches the cool marble before he digs. He barely notices the strain and effort the digging puts upon his body. When he hits some-thing solid he halts, and throws aside the shovel. With his bare hands he brushes away the dirt and other natural matter. With another tool he pries open the casket. When he looks upon Her face, he turns away. This is not the face of beauty. This is a decomposing corpse; bearing no re-semblance to his love. He pulls himself up and, leaving the casket open and his tools behind, walks away. He is absorbed in thoughts; how could it be Her if She wasn’t recognisable?

He stands momentarily, regaining control over his emotions. It is a whisper and then a wail of a wom-an’s voice. He stills until the voice be-comes repulsive to hear. He turns, and, at the sight of a hideous creature staggering towards him he jumps back. The creature bears female characteristics. She wears a tattered dress, her bones clicks when she moves and the smell resonating from her is overpowering. He is immediately infuriated. He can see resemblances of Her in the beast. Instantly he knows this is another trick, like the nightmares that tease him.‘Your state offends me, beast!’ He strides forward. ‘How dare you face me? Do you have no dignity to cower away to some-place no light may reveal you? Be gone vile fiend!’It seems some unearthly powers give him strength over the evil before him. As he moves closer it falls back. Feebly it tries to reach out to him; to touch his skin would be a curse. It tries to speak; a shriek erupts. ‘I banish you, unclean spirit! Haunt here no more, you are unwelcome.’

At last it reaches Her grave, and falls back-wards into the space. Dirt mats its filthy hair; insects crawl over it. Without ac-knowledgement; it rises up and again reaches its hand; a plea for his.

Lily May Charles 1907 - 1945

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He looks down scornfully into the crea-ture’s soulless eyes; a pitiful sight. He steps back, raises his hand, and gazes afresh into those empty eyes. It makes him halt, and dig deeper. Green sparkles in its depths; the very embodiment of life and beauty. He steps forward…At last, when the being speaks, it is more a lullaby than a shriek. ‘Charles, it’s tru-ly me, Lily.’He feels his heart shudder and beat pain-fully against his rib cage. He reaches his hand to Her. She takes it eagerly and pulls him to Her, smiling unreservedly, though lice crawl over Her teeth.He falls forward.

***

The light breaks out over his face, and when at last his sight clears, he takes possession of the vision before him. Grabbing Lily, he pulls Her to him with-out delicate handling as his passion for Her will not be caged, nor will She break in his arms. He fears momentarily She may dissipate; another trick, but already he trusts in this reality. The wind blows through their hair in the field they stand in, swaying like their natural surroundings. He takes hold of the fabric at Her waist; white lace identi-cal to his clothing, and he fills his other hand with Her hair; as bright as he has ever seen. No longer is She disguised as a hag, She is once again the beautiful being he knows.When he sees Her now, he sees the com-plete beauty of Her being.Stroking the hair from Her face, he says, ‘Darling, you were testing me?’

She smiles; the light catching Her eyes shine, ‘We could not be reunited until you found love in a person and not their irrelevant beauty. I feared we wouldn’t meet at heaven’s gate. Nevertheless, I’ve been waiting for you, and you discovered the truth because you truly looked at me, not with an eye of possession or a thought of avarice. You could only have seen the truth if you were at first open to seeing it.’Reaching inside his shirt, She places Her hand over his still heart, which comes alive at Her touch. ‘When I lived, your heart was closed to me, but in death your heart is open.’He wipes a tear from Her cheek, as his own falls. ‘Angels shouldn’t be cursed with sadness.’She wipes away his fallen tear. ‘No, but they should be blessed with happiness.’He lowers his face to Hers and blissfully feels the warm touch and the pleasure pressing his lips against Hers makes him feel. The complete happiness of this mo-ment cannot be forgotten. This is the mo-ment they unite. This is the moment he thought he’d never have, and in retro-spect the suffering he endured was all irrelevant, just, he realised, like beauty is. Their human bodies were unimportant; it is their souls that matter. Their empty bodies were left in disarray; She in a grave, where Her soul is not and never will be trapped; him collapsed, lying draped over Her grave; hand out-stretched.

Charles and Lily break apart and, together united, enter heaven.

***

26.

Page 31: Antic Magazine Issue 1

Antic Magazine 2013

Editor - in- chief: Jessica Walker

© 2013 all rights reserved

Page 32: Antic Magazine Issue 1

Antic Magazine2013Issue 1FREE