“Time spent with cats is never wasted” – Sigmund Freud
There is not love of life without despair about life.”
― Albert Camus.
My day begins pixelated.
Needle sharp shards of light
refract like monsoon rain
in tropical forest, bending
breaking leaves out of shape
with the violence of descent.
Little red icons beckon.
Visions of perfection
macerate the eye
beyond screens of polish.
Hey, look at me! Me!
Picnics, reunions of red
lipstick with star spangled
skirts, blossom trees, blooming
babies, birthday balloons, home
-baking, sunsets and fragile
creatures perched on the edge
of a black canyon. So smiley.
So breakable. So sad your dog,
granny or dahlias passed away.
So happy you are happy or not.
Who loves ya, baby? Not enough
likes today? Do you exist today?
Click refresh or exit.
Spheres of eau de nil slip through, careless.
The island glimmers like crushed glass.
She doesn’t look up when I speak
the sound of silence spiked with roses.
She is wearing a wolf jacket, face tilted
and edged with gold. A fandango is a gift
not for everywoman, she was someone
ten minutes before and her own name
centre stage. Now she prays as the invisible
life of the sea spills skywards. Pink naked
in newspapers, dislocation strikes a pose.
She turns. No place for strangers they say.
The first time is the hardest and she twists
for her dreams. I want to laugh until
I see rain pelting cheekbones and roll-ups.
Where was my power over water?
Today I hung a silk ribbon on my favourite tree, an alder, to commemorate World Earth Day. My beloved ginger and white cat is buried underneath and his claw marks are still visible on the trunk. The tree was only small when my cat was alive and now it’s over 20 feet. I hope these trees will outlive us all.
the caves of the moon
hide the secrets of the sun
where lizards gather
a bijou creative arts e-zine named after the Scottish sea mist
Unlike any previous generation we live in an age of obfuscation. We grapple with new concepts such as post truth, fake news, alternative facts, propaganda and conspiracy theories. We can no longer be sure of anyone or anything. We have lost trust in institutions and systems that previously went unchallenged. Even our lovely new friend on Facebook could turn out to be a catfish! And now, to cap it all we have a Pandemic to deal with. Human interactions have been reduced to digital media, hugs are virtual. We talk to screens and from behind a mask. When we leave home we are no longer greeted by a friendly smile from our fellow humans but an anonymous face covering. So the theme of Behind the Mask for this first edition of The Haar seems to have struck a chord. I’ve been overwhelmed by the quality and variety of submissions. A very big thank you to all the talented people who have sent in their work. It’s been an exciting task reading through everything and putting this feature together. I’m sure it will be an equally rewarding experience for readers. Please keep on scrolling to the very bottom of the page and don’t miss any of the treasures to be discovered in The Haar. Comments can be left below and also on the Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/thepurplehermit/
Contents in Order of Appearance:-
Unmasked Masks by Mandy Beattie
If the Face Fits by Tom Murray
Love Hurts by Leah Davis
Survival by Meg Macleod
Mask Me…by Magenta Kent
Bistable Illusions by Georgia Brooker
Ahead by Mass Index
Double Bind by Double Bind
When Two Worlds Collide by Kevin Crowe
Glass Mask by Ian Pearson
Canto 99 by Knotbrook Taylor
The Immoral Lobster by Toby Goodwin
Fold Lines by Ursula Troche
Night without Horizon by Ursula Troche
Bolted by Alastair Simmons
Through the Yew Hedge by Magi Sinclair
The Worlds Behind The Eyes that Plead by Ian Tallach
Smiles or Tears? by Rukhsana C
Denham Pebberdy – Still Alive and Unmasked by A Quiller
The Picture Above Your Name by Louise Wilford
Beyond by Jenny Bruce
Essential Items Only by Emma Mooney
Beauty from the Unexpected by Mandy and Alexandrina Beattie
This is not a…by Ursula Troche
Day 357 by Nikita Shackleton
Termination by Nikita Shackleton
Like an Angel by Trudy Gritte
Dead Ahead by Nikita Shackleton
Shhh!…by Crippled Pink
UNMASKED MASKS By Mandy Beattie
To the chemically-challenged
lockdowns are a library of then, now
and next where masks are a must —
those mole-hills the ‘Auld Alliance’
at the door between two fields
of nature and unnatural
where you dab poison
on pulse points and oxters
embalmed alive in wearing-wardrobes
of formaldehyde, rubbing alcohol
and a smorgasbord of chemicals
in a snub of noses
Faux-friends sucked Soorags
in a guddle at being chemical-free
around me and others’ muted —
now you know a smidgeon more
about lockdowns, masks and mole-hills
every breath a mirror
of bared teeth and chemical spills
self-harming skin and self
and everyone else
while Mother Earth cowns
for all nations regurgitating and recycling
chemicals and carbon monoxide
and carbon dioxide through emery lips
in masks and stubble on bones
seen only in bubbles and morgues
Zoom and FaceTime —
An archeological dig and dicht
unearthing my palette of kohl
mascara and damson
above moss-green and Oil of Attar
I AM Scheherazade
in A Thousand and One Nights
in this clusterburach
of a Jackson Pollack painting
I AM litmus among lichen
foraging for truffles
in Microsoft Meeting and Skype —
burrowed below mole-hills
I AM wild things resurrecting
rising with snow drops
wearing a bouquet of Persian Violet
Stargazer Lily and Peace Rose
Mandy Beattie, is a feminist from Caithness, with an MA in Social Work Practice & Research. Her poetry is a tapestry of stories and imagery, rooted in people, place & the natural environment, set at home and abroad.
IF THE FACE FITS By Tom Murray
Underwear and socks the top left drawer of the chest of drawers, masks to the right. Each mask neatly folded, and when Joe was younger laid out in order of the occasion. For a long-time the Yes, I’m really interested in what you’re saying mask was his favourite. He remembered the first time he had worn it, the careful lift out the drawer, taking out the pins and unfolding it, careful not to bend the ears, they were particularly fragile, and running a not too hot iron over the creases. Then rolling the mask down his face. That first time he had forgotten one of the pins and it had stabbed him in the mouth. Still, he didn’t let it ruin the day.
As he had gotten older though he had begun to see the necessity of carrying more than one mask when he ventured out into the world. This was brought home to him one day when the Yes, I’m really interested in what you’re saying mask had cracked mid listen to a conversation about the history of combustion engines. From then on, he couldn’t quite get a mask, any mask that fitted him as snugly as the Yes, I’m really interested in what you’re saying had.
Then one day he read an article on the new improved Weight of the World on Your Shoulders Mask in his monthly Masks for Every Occasion magazine. Our promise: a mask and face truly as one.
He didn’t believe that for a minute of course but still he took the plunge and sent away for one. When it arrived, at first, he put it away in the drawer and tried to forget about it. It had been a mistake buying it he told himself.
Every day though when he opened the drawer there it was staring up at him. Every time he would ask himself–What would be the harm in trying it on? Then right in the bin it would go.
It was a Tuesday when he finally rolled it over his face. He tried not to like it but this new improved mask you didn’t need to smooth and would you believe it, no pins. He was still determined to try it only the once but the once turned into twice and before he knew it a week had passed.
The furrowed brow and eyes slightly downcast, his face a snug fit for the mask, and best of all, it kept people at bay. It had crossed his mind at one time of ordering the grumpy mask. He had seen the effect of that though of making other people grumpy, and he was a kind soul really, he didn’t want that.
The Weight of the World on Your Shoulders made people slightly sorry for him wondering what could have caused that look on his face! Not enough though to ask him.
Worrying became as natural to him as interest in things had been in his youth.
One worry was should he order now the Too old to care what anyone thinks mask for when that time rolled around. It would be here soon enough. Getting one now could save him quite a bit of money.
He decided not to get one but to worry about whether he was making a mistake not getting one.
This decision was made in that time between wake and sleep when he dreamily caught sight of himself frowning in the wardrobe mirror. He couldn’t remember if he had taken the mask off and laid it neatly back in the drawer like he usually did. Or if he was still wearing it.
Tom Murray is a full time writer living in Dumfries. His plays have been widely performed. His stories and poems published in magazines and anthologies in Scotland, and further afield. His website: https://tmurraytg.wordpress.com His Blog: https://tommurrayborders.blogspot.com
Leah Davis is a pop portrait artist, focusing primarily on the female figure and self portraiture.
Her practice has previously explored psychoanalytical theories on human behaviour, women’s empowerment, Pop Culture and societal attitudes.
Davis is originally from Thurso, Caithness. Her website is: www.leahdavis.co.uk
Survival By Meg Macleod
because love is rare
and appears without definition
she makes excuses
she spends hours painting in the gaps
sorting through splintered blossoms
of her expectations
in the family friendly jigsaw
she frames the abuse
everything outside the frame fades
sunlight is shaded music is muted
points of reference clipped
into a perfect thorny thicket
behind which she disappears
her voice a whisper
no-one can hear
Meg was born in 1945 in England. She lived in America and Canada before moving to Scotland in 1974 where she now resides on the north coast in a house looking out over the sea towards Orkney Islands. Meg has a BA in Fine Arts. Her beautifully illustrated book of poems entitled Raven Songs is available to buy from Amazon.
Magenta Kent is a visual and performing artist based in the North of England. She loves to make images with anything she may come across such as dead bees or the charcoal left from a burnt out greenhouse. She will incorporate objects with fabric and handmade paper. In fact, anything goes!!! She also enjoys writing poetry and is working on a book inspired by dreams.
Bistable Illusions by Georgia Brooker
There is always the other way of looking
at the young woman in furs
whose neck becomes the old crone’s sunken chin,
their lines of ink alive in each other’s shadows.
In a world of restless mirrors,
can the mind only be in one place at a time?
In this uncertainty of surfaces,
where the writing’s always backwards,
there must be some trembling field of vision
which holds it all in focus
within that vacillating tryst,
between the Mask of Love;
the single, blurring face
that, unasked, splits in two,
In previous chapters, Georgia Brooker has been a teacher, librarian, bookseller, editor, bibliophile, and occasional author of poems and stories. Nowadays, she is mostly mum of two and veg-gardener in-chief, and writes when no one is looking.
WHEN TWO WORLDS COLLIDE by Kevin Crowe
They met on the Moor. Neither knew the other, both were seeking someone who was seeking something.
They met, they did what they had come to do, then left, to return to their worlds.
Reverend Philip Keeler, scourge of all liberals and humanists and founder of a breakaway free Presbyterian sect, was back at his unadorned desk. In his mid twenties, he still retained the dogmatism of youth. His round chubby face disguised the asceticism he claimed to believe in and wished to impose on the world, an asceticism that was visible on the bare walls of his office, decorated only with plain white paint and dark brown bookshelves containing heavy theological texts.
He had made his peace with the Lord after his most recent instance of weakness. The more his human fallibility manifested itself, the more determined he was to do his best to eliminate evil from the world. He took as his motto: “love the sinner, hate the sin”. He knew God loved him, just as He hated the sin. His faith told him God would forgive him each time he succumbed to temptation, but he also knew God required him to fight immorality wherever he found it.
He proof-read his latest article for the church’s website. He was proud of his ability to present an argument in a coherent and irrefutable manner. He believed those who refused to accept the rightness of his reasoning were blinded by propaganda from the left-wing liberal lobby. The texts were clear: God had created male and female, and to ignore this, to treat male as female, was an abomination.
He made a few minor changes before posting it, and then began his preparation for a meeting taking place later in the week. He was an expert on the science of Creationism, even if he said so himself, having written many papers debunking the basis of evolutionary theory. He was eagerly anticipating a forthcoming reading and book signing promoting the latest blasphemy by some professor he’d never heard of, and looking forward to entering the lion’s den. Like Daniel he was confident he would emerge unscathed. He prayed at least some of those present would see the error of their ways.
His mind wandered back to the events of the previous day. Horrified, he became aware of his erection. He fell to his knees in prayer, asking the Lord for the strength to avoid future visits to the Moor.
Professor Stephen Strachan was not best pleased. There were lots of things he should be doing, particularly as later in the week he was going on a speaking tour to promote his latest book “The Insanity of Religious Belief”. Instead, he was having to deal with the minutiae of his professional life. One of his admin staff was sick, so he was having to update his website himself. Not only that but, due to maternity leave, he had to cover some undergraduate seminars. He really didn’t see why he should have to teach, repeating the same facts ad nauseam to different groups of disinterested students. He thought teaching was for those who were intellectually incapable of carrying out original research and he managed to avoid it most of the time, but on this occasion he had no choice.
Oh well, might as well get it over with, he thought. He lifted his thin, slightly stooped six foot frame from his chair and made his way to the lecture room. He smiled to himself remembering the encounter from the previous day. He didn’t know the young man’s name or anything about him, had never seen him before and didn’t expect to see him again. Afterwards he had gone to a favourite restaurant and ate and drank his fill. He took pride in his metabolism: no matter how much he ate, he never seemed to put on any weight.
As he entered the lecture theatre, he noticed a rather attractive young man sat near the front.
Lorraine Strachan was having a bad day. The medical research unit she headed was under pressure: it had been made clear her team had to run at a surplus or, at the very least, break even, so she had bid for work from the private sector. Successfully, possibly too successfully. She now had more work than she could cope with, and her request for extra staff had been rebuffed, so in a bid to keep within deadlines, her staff had cut corners, with the inevitable result. She had spent most of the morning attempting to calm down an irate client.
Her day was about to get even worse: her receptionist delivered a large envelope. “A courier just dropped this off. Told me it was private”. Lorraine examined the foolscap brown envelope: apart from her name on the front, there was no indication of its contents. She opened it. A letter, signed “from a well wisher”, said the photographs had been taken the previous day at a gay cruising site, known locally as the Moor. Her hands shaking, she looked at the images of her husband having sex with another man.
She stared into space. She felt sick. She felt like screaming and throwing things at the wall, but she wouldn’t let herself lose control, not here, not at work. She choked back the tears, swallowing the rising mucus. As calmly and steadily as she could, she stood up and walked out of her office.
She had no idea where she was walking. She just pounded the pavement, thinking as she went. Why? she asked herself. Was it me? Don’t I satisfy him? The physical side had never seemed that important to him, and there was a time she wondered if he was being unfaithful. But this? She had never suspected this. Perhaps they’d been photoshopped. She shook her head. She doubted anyone could fake the things she saw in the photographs.
She began to doubt all the meetings he claimed to have attended: the many science seminars and the seemingly never-ending humanist or secularist or atheist events. All the conferences and anti-religious campaigns, all the planning meetings: were they genuine? Were any of them genuine? She rarely showed any interest in his passions and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d attended any of his events.
Well, that was about to change. She didn’t know when she would confront him, but confront him she would. She would begin to attend some of the events – starting with the first of the readings he was supposed to be giving to promote his latest book. She wouldn’t tell him, just turn up. At the very least it would cramp his style.
The advance publicity had worked. News of the event had spread across both mainstream and social media and Stephen Strachan’s Twitter account had become even more popular. The hall was filling up nicely. There would no doubt be some who would attempt to sidetrack the discussion in order to defend superstition, but he had plenty of experience of dealing with them.
Copies of his book “The Insanity of Religious Belief” were displayed on a large trestle table below the stage as were his earlier scientific texts, some of which peers had described as ground breaking. Although his work on evolutionary biology was not well known outside scientific circles, he had gained an enviable reputation for his popular books belittling religion, and had even hosted radio and TV programmes.
Among those congregating in the hall was the Reverend Philip Keeler. He had dispensed with his clerical collar and was wearing a shirt and tie. He browsed the books on the trestle table before taking a seat near the front. He hadn’t read the book, nor did he intend to: he wasn’t about to spend money on blasphemous texts. In any case he didn’t need to: he reckoned he knew what would be in it, and anyway the heathen would be speaking and he would respond to his words. The Lord would put the right words in his mouth.
He was busy checking his notes and collecting his thoughts, so didn’t notice the woman who sat next to him.
Lorraine Strachan found the venue easily enough, despite the best efforts of her SatNav. She had scanned the photos onto her mobile phone and, in the lobby of the hall, she discreetly looked at them, surprised to recognise the other man in the photographs. The bastard must really think she was stupid, flaunting his queer bit on the side so publicly. Or perhaps he just didn’t care. The divorce would cost him: the royalties from that silly book of his for a start. And what better way to destroy his reputation than a public scene?
She stormed to the front and sat next to Philip. He didn’t even look up. Surely he must have heard her: she had hardly been quiet. Perhaps he was deaf. Or more likely just plain rude.
He looked up.
She smiled at him, and said: “He’s married, you know.”
Philip furrowed his brow, puzzled. “Er. Who’s married?”
“My husband, he’s married to me.”
“Well, of course he is, he wouldn’t be your husband if you weren’t. Whoever he is.” Was she some sort of mad woman? he thought.
“You know damned well who he is. Don’t fucking lie to me. Don’t compound it by lying.” She realised she was beginning to shout. People were staring at them.
“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. I haven’t a clue who you are. I really don’t…”
At that moment Professor Stephen Strachan walked onto the stage.
Kevin Crowe is the author of the short story collection “No Home In This World” (2020, Fly-on-the-wall Press), is editor of the Highland LGBT+ magazine “UnDividingLines” (https://undividinglines.wordpress.com/) and has read at the Scottish Parliament, Glasgow’s Aye Write Festival, John O’Groats Book Festival and Highland Pride.
Ian Pearson trained as a scientific glassblower and set up his own studio in Thurso in 1990 where he still works mainly on commissions, one of which is this mask for an artist who is developing environmental and biological art. His website is https://glasscreationsirp.co.uk/
Please keep scrolling to see more wonderful writing and artwork…the best is yet to come!
Canto 99 by Knotbrook Taylor
Year by year, the monkey’s mask reveals the monkey:
I wanted to be that man. Up the telegraph pole: with the
special belt. The harness holding him up. I wanted to drive
his truck; wear his rugged mask of efficiency. Saw him as I
left the village: braced in a sling; working up a pole.
I paused at a field, to make a note about the cows; wearing
masks of consanguinity. Earlier, on the community page, a
man was reading actual psalms, divinity his mask. I sent
him a message; what is a Psalm?
Looked out from the top of a hill. The forest wasn’t
wearing a mask; it was wearing a veil. Beyond; the
mountains wore blankets; hiding their slopes and faces. The
silent cars, on the silent road, wearing silent silver masks.
I paused on the bridge; was overtaken by a jeep. It stopped,
a man got out wearing fighter pilot shades, but even behind
his mask, I knew who he was. An old friend. We hadn’t
spoken for many years; it’s good to know: that you can still
like a person even after such an interval.
Hit the main road for a short distance. Saw two beekeepers;
they were wearing all over body masks, (like they do in
care homes these days), they were doing something with a
couple of hives. At first, I thought they were spraying
things into the air. Then I realised it was an impressive
tornado of angry bees. Unhappy at the disturbance; their
masks, like their gloves, were definitely off.
Knotbrook Taylor is an Angus based poet. His first chapbook ‘Beatitudes’ was published in 2007. The Museum of Scottish Lighthouses in Fraserburgh commissioned his second collection ‘Scottish Lighthouse Poems’, published in 2011. In 2014 he won the Erbacce prize for his collection ‘Ping-Pong In The Rain’.
The following short story contains Glaswegian dialect. Click here for more information https://greatbritishmag.co.uk/uk-culture/learn-glaswegian-slang/
THE IMMORAL LOBSTER By Toby Goodwin
We were sitting on the front steps of Lidl eating pastries. Flakes catching on our jumpers and floating off down Duke St. It was a rare, sunny day and we were chatting about masks. Jimmy thought it was ridiculous. Not the masks themselves, just the way folk were treating them. Letting the nose poke out, or letting the kids go back to school without having to wear them.
“I mean it wiz jist so the parents could get back tae work,” I was sayin.
Jimmy was a skinny guy. He had Buddy Holly glasses, short hair, and a brown beard that went ginger in the sun. “Aye, right enough,” he said, “but I’ve seen droves ae kids heading doon the road, no a mask in sight.” He took another bite, an apple turnover. Jimmy always had a bit of a sweet tooth, I didn’t. I had a cheesy croissant. I’d enjoyed the first couple of bites, but it was very dry.
“I mean, it’s a moot point, Jimmy. The kids aren’t high risk.” I took another bite, unimpressed. Naebody likes a dry croissant.
“Aye, I know, but the kids spread it tae the parents. Whit’s the point in having everyone inside if the kids’re gonnae spread it anyways.”
We were both in dark clothes and we had washable cotton masks on doubled elastic straps around our chins. We were halfway up the steps, looking out on a large patch of construction across the main road. Men in high-vis jackets were digging and turning cranes. Causing loud, metallic, sounds to thunder down the street. I had my backpack on the step next to me, so did Jimmy. Mine was plain black and his was this ridiculous orange colour.
“I’ve got to say I like your new bag,” I said, suspecting that it may have been a gift from his missus.
“Oh aye, it’s lobster-orange.”
“I mean… it’s no exactly subtle.”
He frowned. Jimmy was about ages wi me, maybe a bit older – twenty-six or thereabouts. We were at the age when we tried to stop thinkin about age. “I like it,” he said.
“It’s not very practical though, is it? You’d see it a mile away.”
“Well…” it looked like a satchel and it had a plasticky sheen on the outer lining. “…yer probably right, but Chantelle wiz pleased at me taking it oot.”
“She willnae be pleased if you cannae get any work done.”
“Pff,” he took another bite of his turnover. A little bit of apple sauce dribbled out and rolled down his top. He tried to wipe it with a sleeve, but it smeared.
We said nothing for a moment, watching the construction, watching the cars. Then he turned to me and went, “Did you know that lobsters are immortal?”
“Oh aye, I wiz reading aboot it on Reddit. The life cycle ae a lobster goes roond and roond. When it gets auld enough it sheds its skin and a bigger lobster crawls oot. And, the thing is, when the lobster gets too big it’ll get stuck in its ain skin and it’ll die.”
“Aye, so the article wiz sayin that, if some cunts took it upon themselves to help a lobster moult every year, then it would live forever. Like, over the generations, the lobster would get bigger and bigger, always shedding its skin with the help of these people.”
I laughed, “Like a group of lobster worshippers, like a cult for an immortal lobster.”
“Imagine some, fuckin, thousand-year-auld, fifty-foot lobster worshipped by a group ae mad shellfish fanatics.”
At that moment there was a sharp sound behind us. Incredulity’s the word; a sound of pure disdain and surprise. I looked over my shoulder to see these two middle-aged lassies by the Lidl entrance – a few steps behind us. There was a baldie, burly security guard in a fashionable, black mask holdin his arm across the sliding doorway. One of the lassies was trying to get past, but his arm was like a tree trunk.
“Nae mask, nae service,” the guy wiz sayin.
“But the fuckin vaccines oot already, get fucked,” she said. Her pal looked embarrassed. The two of them were in white strappy tops and they had blonde hair flapping about in the breeze. They were about the same height. It’s weird how groups of pals all tend to look alike. Me and Jimmy look similar anaw.
“Hen, I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules,” the security guard said.
“Let us in, we’re only after the wan thing. Fuckin dobber, man.” The lead lassie went for the door again, but the security guard didn’t budge.
“C’mon Jessie, we can go doon that corner shop,” the second lassie said. “Guy in there’s never got a mask on.”
“That’s no the point,” the first lassie barked, making her pal recoil. “Am wanting a bottle fae here.”
“Hen, it’s no happening,” the security guard said. A small queue started gathering behind them, an elderly couple in masks and a group of teenage boys, also in masks.
“A’ve got a medical problem,” the first lassie said.
“If you cannae wear a mask, you can always order deliveries – or there’s the personal shopper service.”
“Fuckin arsehole.” The girl stomped her foot, turned, and then stormed off. Her pal sighed and followed. They took a right, went down the disabled access ramp behind us and continued across the car park.
“It’s no that annoying,” I said, turning back to Jimmy. “I get folk bein frustrated and that, but it’s no hard wearin a thin piece ae fabric over yer face.”’
“Ken, it’s the easiest thing in the world. Can be a bit tricky to catch your breath when it’s hot, and it clouds up ma glasses.” Jimmy took another bite. His turnover was now about the size of a coin. I’d put my dry croissant on my knees, sick ae it.
“Aye, but it’s a jist mild inconvenience,” I said.
The two ladies continued across the car park. At the far end, there was a huge section of metal, temporary fencing covering a crumbling brick wall. It had presumably been put there out of fear of a collapse. The fence also blocked access to another set of stairs that were a bit of a shortcut onto the street. The lassies strolled right up, squeezed through a gap between two metal sections, and continued around the corner. The fence had been that way for months. You could make the argument that it was for safety, but it was a massive inconvenience. People constantly cut through. The gap between those two fences was widened and slightly bent from so much thoroughfare.
“That’s another thing,” Jimmy said, through another flaky mouthful. “I heard some folk dinnae want the vaccine.”
“Immoral! That’s, fuckin, immoral as fuck,” I said. “Get yer fuckin vaccines, people. We’re aww tryin tae make the best ae this and some bastarts are jist takin the piss.”
“They might be scared ae needles.”
“Fuck that, naebody likes needles. It’s immoral, man. Putting your ain comfort before the lives of others is immoral. Doing the right thing is so uncommon these days, man. We need more ae it.”
“Thing is, I feel like our generation’s been forgotten aboot,” Jimmy popped the last morsel of apple turnover into his mouth and stood up, brushing the flakes off his legs. “We’re the wans losing our shitey bar jobs, we’re the wans who’re gonnae inherit this economy, we’re the wans with the crippling mental health problems, drug problems, porn addictions.”
“I’ve no got a porn addiction.”
“Never said you did.”
“Aye, and I don’t. Plus, it’s no like we’re goin out of business.”
Jimmy grinned, “Speakin of,” he said, and he gestured for me to follow. I stood up, tossed the rest of my croissant for the seagulls, and we walked off the same way those lassies had gone. Jimmy stepped through the gap in the fence, and I did too – looking at that wall anxiously. We didn’t say anything as we continued down Duke St. There was faint nattering from pedestrians and the hum of car engines. Heavy, metallic sounds from the construction behind us. We crossed at the lights and continued east past the barbers, the takeaways, and that lovely mural at Duke’s Bar.
“Seein anyhin?” Jimmy said.
“Nah, no yet. There’ll be something.”
“Aye, we can check that alley further doon.”
We continued along through the gentle hustle and bustle. Folks in masks, a group of the elderly in a queue outside Boots, a group of weans on BMX’s. Eventually, we got to the far end where the shops dissolved into tenements and the dual carriageway.
“Here, you’d better do something about that bag,” I said.
“If we’re spotted, it willnae take Einstein to guess which wanker wi the orange backpack it wiz.”
“Alright, alright.” He took it off, “Will it fit in yours?”
“Maybe,” I took mine off and unzipped the top. I moved my crowbar to the side and pulled the RF Code-Grabber out, wrapping the wires around the receiver. I shoved it in my back pocket and widened the bag’s opening.
“Aye, that’ll be fine.” He compressed the lobster as much as he could and shunted it in. It was awkward, but with some elbow grease he managed it. I put the – now bulging – bag on my back and we continued around the corner onto a flat stretch of road lined on one side by scrap land, and on the other side by tenements. The street was empty save an old BMW 8 Series, a nineties one. Glossy, white paint.
“That’ll dae,” I said and pulled the Code-Grabber out.
“Hold on,” Jimmy said, grabbing my arm, “masks.”
“There’s naebody around.”
“Might be cameras, you never know.”
“Alright, alright.” I pulled my mask up over my chin and nose. I could feel the heat of my breath. I could smell that cheesy croissant on my tongue. “You keep an eye.”
Jimmy took a spot by the street corner, leaned against a lamppost, and pulled his own mask up. I strolled casually up to the car and started fiddling with the code-grabber. It was a combined walkie-talkie and a garage door control that we’d jimmied together with the help of a series of YouTube tutorials. It had a sliding knob on the side so we could check all the frequencies. I scrolled to the mid-range; German cars generally sit about there. Tried it, nothing. Scrolled again, nothing. Normally took a while, even with the older cars. Scrolling through every increment until I found the right one. After a few minutes, I got it. I hit the clicker and the brake lights flashed.
Jimmy jogged down to the driver’s side. I got in the passenger door. Jimmy was quick; he pulled a flathead screwdriver out of his pocket and removed the panel under the steering wheel. He fiddled for a minute, finding the right wires.
“Careful, these wans lock if you touch the third fuse,” I said.
“I ken, I ken.” He reached over and started rummaging around in my bag. Well, in his bag inside my bag. He pulled out a pair of pliers, skinned two wires, and started sparking them. Blue light flashing across his face. “You know, I was reading about this Facebook-Guru this morning,” he said.
“Aye, like a wise cunt. He wiz sayin we should be forgiving all these immoral mask folk and the folk who don’t want the vaccine.”
“How’s that?” I was looking out the window, scanning the street. There was still naebody.
“Well, he wiz saying that we should imagine everyone’s a tree, right. Like, when you’re walking aboot a forest, some trees aren’t as well-developed cause they’re no getting as much sun. Maybe a few branches are warped, or the leaves are a bit dry.” The car sputtered and stalled. He twisted the bare wires between a thumb and forefinger and tried it again. “And we don’t hate those trees, they’re jist fuckin trees, man. So, we should feel the same way about people, ae? Like those lassies outside Lidl, they’ve jist no got enough sun, ken?”
“That’s a nice thought,” I said.
The engine shuddered into life. Jimmy released the handbrake, put it into first, and revved twice. “Let’s sketch.”
Toby Goodwin is a twenty-five-year-old musician and writer based in Glasgow. He mostly writes contemporary fiction, but also dabbles in crime, memoir and sci-fi. He likes going for short walks on the beach, and he loves cheesecake.
Here’s a link to Toby’s Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/TobyGoodwinWritesStuff/
Fold lines By Ursula Troche
Story was overhung
folded too, it hadn’t really started
instead it was just hanging there
until it fell off from the top
then it lay there, long, stretched, strong
unmistakably moving, something
is going on in the field outside
where it had walked, ahead of me
that’s where I learned about directions
they line up when you least expect
to read between the lines, trying
to make a point instead
but there it was, like an animal
casting me in its outlines, still
holding on to myself I wondered
if that was me now, migrated.
Night without Horizon By Ursula Troche
The night has no horizon,
earth and sky look undivided now,
in this large, vast, dark and sparkling space
amplified and limitless, as if eternal,
over and everywhere again. The scant light
on us a combination of street- and moonlight
so you and me become outlines to touch,
our faint surfaces become sources
of depth, down to inner regions
whereas during the day I walk the edge
and try not to fall, it’s such a thin
line to cross before there is a place
to stay in, to find space in, and even with-
draw, and draw your outlines, then read
between the lines of you, find poems
in the spaces that arise in turn, here
I find an oasis, at last, here is a
place in the light, too, for the two of us
then a call emerges: I stumble across
earth deeply, along parameters and miles
of consciousness untouched, unnoticed
like a palimpsests below concrete
upon this massive moment I encounter
textures of time turning upside, then
down and tumbling, from this edge
to the next, finding everywhere a
threshold, in need of metamorphosis
and I begin to understand the cause
of change: For if space transforms then
time will do so too. We are here, for
better or for beauty, embedded into
the dimensions that hold us
across borders, between countries,
with a sense of promise that
we might know one night.
Ursula Troche, writer, artist, and double migrant on the Irish Sea Coast in West Cumbria. Inspired by space and (translation) places and the in-between, inner lives and hidden stories. She has work published in English and German, and a collection is being translated into French. More details at: About | ColourCirclesite (wordpress.com)
Bolted By Alastair Simmons
Inside our minds there are horses
Wild galloping the moor
The stable door never bolted
While we sleep
Black eyes sharp in the white moonlight
To the land we can never name
But always know
Alastair Simmons lives on the Northeast Scottish coast, finding inspiration in the landscapes of Scotland and Northern England, and also it’s cities. And the gardens he creates, working as a gardener. “Poetry is about finding connection and expressing that feeling, whether it’s people, nature or worlds we find ourselves in.”
Magi Sinclair writes about her piece:- “This is a small, mixed media image of a yew tree /hedge that had been cut through the middle to make a path in Langwell Gardens, Berriedale, Caithness. I was shocked and intrigued by the colour of the severed branches and limbs. It looked like they were weeping blood, cut through to reveal the bones of the tree”. More information about Magi’s work at http://www.magisinclair.co.uk/
The Worlds Behind the Eyes that Plead By Ian Tallach
Vessels branching from an optic disc
-too fragile, almost, for the too-
brisk coursing of the too-strong blood
-convulsing, molten, pushing up
the crust and pulsing with the thud
of every new command to live,
to be, to stand above the dust
as transient as this-
as permanent as this-
Vessels growing from an optic disc
-fluttering images, inverted
on your retina, like frightened birds
with no escape, ensnared behind
the shutter of your memory,
with disconnected quivering
and shards of fractured landscape
as violent as this –
as delicate as this –
Vessels coursing from an optic disc
-around earth’s core the pressure-flood
of magma multiplies veins thrust
up through the quaking ground. Above,
the too-strong blood is still constrained
by aching flesh – this incidental
miracle of dust and love
as arbitrary as this-
as undeliberate as this-
Vessels wander from an optic disc
-uneven as the branches of a tree,
fragile as the veins inside a leaf
and scattered as the stars
-the universe at peace-
but still, inside, the too-strong blood
is crying for salvation … for release
Ian Tallach worked as a paediatric doctor for seventeen years. He became medically retired with Multiple Sclerosis in 2015. The two positives arising from this have been time for his children and the opportunity to explore writing. He also loves Toucans.
Denham Pebberdy – (Still) Alive & Unmasked By A. Quiller Steve Allinson Investigates…
GREAT EXCITEMENT HERE at The Benchcombe-Worthy Advertiser – it’s not every day a music legend comes out of retirement… but that’s exactly what Denham Pebberdy III is doing!
Yes, Denham Pebberdy – singer-songwriter with prog-rockers, Harmonic Spittoon… though many may remember him best as the voice of Mr Broom in the popular 1980s’ children’s TV series, Nothing’s Too Dirty For Jim The Janitor.
So, grab those flares, fumigate the Kaftan and get yourself down to the Benchcombe-Parva Social Club on Saturday 28th. Billed as an evening of Music – From When Music Was Music, expect intricate keyboard-driven opuses, anecdotes aplenty and, for the first time in over 40 years, a live performance of Spittoon’s so-nearly-a-hit single (it reached Number 53 in the Charts), The Nomadic Aggravation Of The Libertine Oracle.
In anticipation of Pebberdy’s return to the public stage, I went to interview him to find out more…
Arriving at his home – an unassuming semi-detached cottage on the edge of a village – I am greeted by a Fedora-wearing, exuberant fellow; mustard cords, jade shirt and crimson waistcoat. I ask if this is Pebberdy’s new look. He smiles, then explains matter-of-factly these were the only items in his size at the local charity shop. Apparently, they’d thrown the hat in for free. I consider it prudent to move on; both subject-wise and locationally.
Pebberdy shows me through to his living-room. Even a Spartan would find the place… spartan. No TV. No sofa. Nor any other furniture… but for the single, threadbare chair beside an open fire-place; inside which, incidentally, appears to be the half-charred remains of a broken piece of skirting-board. A quick glance round the room confirms the absence of such woodwork. It’s suddenly very humbling to realise just how some people have to live to make ends meet. It’s then I notice the small conservatory off to one side. The difference couldn’t be more pronounced. A keyboard, two guitars and an amp take pride of place. Whatever else Pebberdy is prepared to sacrifice in life, his music is clearly sacrosanct. I suddenly feel a new-found respect for the man.
‘I would offer you a drink,’ he says, ‘but… well, I’ve not been down the shops in a while…’
I reassure him it’s fine. I certainly don’t want to cause embarrassment. I ask if we can begin the interview and he obliges, indicating that I should take the chair. I politely decline, insisting he sit while I stand. He asks if I’ll be taking notes. It’s my turn to smile now. I show him the hand-held digital-recorder I’ll be using to capture everything we say to one another. He whistles in approval; genuinely interested in the advances in recording technology. I make a mental note, I’ll send him one in a few weeks’ time – a thank-you for agreeing to see me; he’d not wanted any payment…
We begin by covering familiar ground –
First, his moniker. An affectation. There’d never been any Denham Pebberdy the I, nor II. It had just somehow seemed right; fitted with the times. Next, the band. He’d co-founded what would later become Harmonic Spittoon with Eustace Bathurst at art college in Hove in 1968. Then, they were known as The Bathden Twins; a folk duo. Despite their posh-sounding names, neither had come from well-off families. By day they studied, worked evening shifts, then took whatever gigs they could find in the small hours. Pebberdy was employed in a local abattoir. Bathurst drew an income from life-modelling; posing nude for (mainly) ladies of a certain age. Pebberdy told me he never enquired too deeply what other arrangements Bathurst might have had in place… but I do wonder about this, as there’s a track on Spittoon’s 1977 album, Deputised Permission, called Meat. Ostensibly about Pebberdy’s abattoir experience, it’s tempting to read more into it. Consider the chorus, You’re led to your fate, No time for hate, You took our bait, To us you’re just meat…
After college, the pair relocated to London. More part-time jobs. More gigging over the next five years. It was during this time they began to experiment, to develop their progressive sound. They took on a bass player, ‘Bernie the Bass’ Corrigan, as well as a drummer, Ian ‘Sticks’ Munroe; leaving Bathurst on guitar and Pebberdy playing keys and singing. 1976 saw Spittoon formally launched; Pebberdy confirming the name was his attempt to portray sonic harmoniousness, alongside his distaste for the antics of the embryonic punk movement.
Signed by Kudos Records – also in 1976 – Spittoon released their first LP, Accidental Adventure, towards the end of that same year. Thanks to their by-now heavy gigging on the London and Home Counties scene, the album sold sufficiently well for Kudos to promise a second album release. Accidental Adventure peaked at Number 74 in the UK charts but, unusually, proved a top-five seller in, of all places, the Catalonian region of Spain. Pebberdy informs me their then-manager, Freddie ‘Fingers-In-The-Till’ Worthington, attributed the success of the album to its cover… a toy pistol firing one of those flags with the word ‘Bang!’ on it. Said flag bore horizontal yellow and red stripes. Seemingly, it had been taken by Catalonian pro-independence supporters to be a thinly-veiled reference to their Estellada Vermella (red-starred flag). The band, perhaps sensibly, avoided visiting to play live; no doubt fearful of sedition charges being levelled against them by the Spanish government. That didn’t, however, prevent their manager, Freddie, from capitalising still further on their new-found success; a re-working of track three on side two, ‘Going Out With A Bang’, was quickly released. Had the national government not banned all air-play, it might have helped Spittoon get a foot-hold on the European continent.
Freddie and the band parted company soon afterwards – Freddie disappearing; together with all their royalties. Undeterred, Spittoon began recording their second – and what would be final – album, Deputised Permission. Pebberdy recounts how he and Bathurst chose to produce the album themselves. I ask if the title is a nod to this. He says it might be, but he can’t remember. In fact, he confides he can’t remember much about the recording sessions at all.
It’s ‘elephant-in-the-room’ time. I prepare to ask Pebberdy about the break-up of the band. Just two weeks after the album was released, the members went their separate ways – not even the almost-successful, aforementioned Libertine Oracle single enough to keep the four-piece together. In previous interviews I’ve read (granted, the most recent dates from the 1990s), Pebberdy has reacted in one of two ways to such questioning – violence towards the interviewer; or towards himself. I’m ready to make a dash for it… But Pebberdy takes it in his stride. ‘Drugs… women… and more drugs…’ He sighs. ‘One of those things… you know.’ I ask if he’s seen any of his former band members since 1977. He says he hasn’t. I ask if he’s interested in a reunion. He says he isn’t, and that The Eagles had it right… ‘When Hell Freezes Over’. I point out, as politely as I can, that The Eagles did actually get together again; that they embarked on a highly lucrative tour under that very name. He shrugs, then mumbles, ‘Sell-out’. I’m not sure if this is a reference to The Eagles’ success, or to their – in his eyes – lack of musical integrity. I choose not to pursue it further.
I check my watch. We’ve been talking now for over an hour. Time for the ‘big one’ – the reason for Pebberdy’s come-back. I ask him when he first discovered he was trending on social media; that he’d become ‘a thing’? He replies that the counter assistant in the local pharmacy brought it to his attention a couple of months ago – he’d only popped in for a tube of cream to soothe a particularly-intimate area – asking him if he was ‘the Dirty Broom guy?’ Near enough, he’d thought. He confirmed he was. The assistant had asked for a selfie, had posted it on Facebook… and all this had stemmed from that.
Little-known fact, readers. Pebberdy wrote the theme tune to Nothing’s Too Dirty For Jim The Janitor. It was released as a single, climbing to Number 28 in the Charts. But it’s the B-side that interests us. In homage to John Cage’s ‘4:33’– the song commonly mistaken for mere silence… when Cage intended the music to be the listener’s audial environment itself – Pebberdy composed 33:4… as the name implies, just over thirty-three minutes of one continuous D chord, played on a Hammond organ, which terminates with the sound of him clearing his throat into a spittoon. Conceptualised and recorded in 1978, it was his way, musically, of drawing a line under his band-days. I ask Pebberdy how this piece – or, rather, the final three minutes or so of it – came to be included as the B-side of the Jim the Janitor single almost a decade later. Again, he can’t recall.
What he can recall, though, is lawyers for the American-owned Reality Media Inc contacting him recently to apologise for the company’s inadvertent sampling of the end of ‘33:4’ on one of its market-leading, shoot-em-up Virtual Reality games; the snappily-titled Drop Down Dead in Dodge City. The scene in question allows players to test whether they’re quicker on the draw than the feared outlaw, Long-Breeches Madigan. The shoot-out takes place in a saloon. If the player wins, the D chord commences, swelling in volume as a bar-tender slides them a whisky along the counter-top; after which, a buxom good-time-girl who’s chewing tobacco projects said baccy into a spittoon… and all to Pebberdy’s original sound effect.
Pebberdy tells me that, from the discussion he’s had with their lawyers, Reality Media Inc clearly wants to avoid a costly legal case. I ask Pebberdy if they’ve made him an offer. He confirms they have… though he declines to talk figures; nor when he’ll actually be paid. He adds that it’s thanks to this he’s now acquiring a whole new generation of fans. Plus he’s getting to do the come-back gig he’d secretly always hankered after. Just the one, I ask? We’ll have to wait and see, he replies.
For now, this new generation – these Dodge Cityers, if you will – may only equate Pebberdy with being their Spitter… their Dirty-Broom Guy… but I’m hopeful, in time, they’ll find their way to Harmonic Spittoon’s back catalogue and come to appreciate his wider, genuine talent.
All together now – and be careful where you aim – Hhccch Pttiiingg!
The Picture Above Your Name By Louise Wilford
The self-conscious tilt of the hat-brim screens
half your face. Camouflage. The scarf,
climbing your neck and cradling your chin,
composes your anonymity. There’s no revelation
in the grainy curve of lines down each thin cheek,
from the gloom of your nose to the passport smile.
You’re concealed, lost in plain sight. Cheerful wit
sculpts your online chat. There, you cloak your courage
in irreverent wit – you consider your words with care,
hiding your caution, controlling your discourse.
But when we talk, alone, in the sleepless hours,
connected by a mobile mast somewhere
out on the hills that lie between us,
your voice is rough as water falling over rocks –
and much deeper than I guessed. Your words
waver from cool to hot, veined with an electric wire
that flames against my ear. Your talk is woven
of folktales – goblins and were-folk, the forested
landscapes of your living and your life.
I can feel your laughter in my veins.
When we meet, will I know you still?
Will you smell of grass and clay, of the trees
you climb, and the stone walls you build,
of the wind rattling through reeds at the water’s
edge? Will your face be puckered with squinting
at poems, skin coarsened by outdoor life, pale eyes
narrowed from staring at the clouds? I know
the hole you make in the world. I might not
know your face, your flesh – but I know
your midnight voice, the mask-less dreams
that hold you tight when you cannot sleep.
Louise Wilford’s work has been widely published. In 2020, she won First Prize in the Arts Quarterly Short Story Competition and the Merefest Poetry Competition, and she was awarded a Masters in Creative Writing ( Distinction). She is working on a fantasy novel. Blog: https://louviewsnewscues.blogspot.com/
The natural world and history have always intertwined in the execution of Jenny Bruce’s artwork. Archaeology, both ancient and industrial, and engineering likewise play large parts in her expression of the visual world through the creative mediums of painting,writing or poetry. Social media. Facebook sites:- Jenny Bruce or Sharing Art with Jenny.
ESSENTIAL ITEMS ONLY By Emma Mooney
Helen swings into a space in front of the D.I.Y. superstore, giant orange letters inviting her in. She lifts the face mask from the passenger seat, hooks it over her ears and looks in the rear-view mirror. Today’s the first time she’s worn it and, Jesus, she barely recognises herself. She scans the car park, checks and double-checks that no one is nearby before getting out of her car and walking to the entrance.
Stepping onto the yellow circle on the ground she remembers a game they used to play in the school gym: sharks and islands. She looks at the concrete shop floor in front of her no longer sure she wants to be here. But too late. A young boy wearing an orange apron raises his hand and beckons her to come in. Helen looks over her shoulder at the small queue that’s already formed behind her, each shopper standing on their own island. It’s probably safer to go forward.
Inside she follows the one-way system, scanning the signs above her head for the plumbing aisle. The drip, drip, dripping has kept her awake every night since lockdown and, if she doesn’t fix it soon, she fears she’s going to go insane. The tap washers are hanging on hooks at eye level, but she never thought there’d be so much choice. And nobody warned her that wearing a face mask would steam up her glasses. She takes out a tissue, wipes her glasses, and then folds it into a small square and tucks it into the back pocket of her jeans, making a mental note to bin it as soon as she gets home. Thankfully the packets are labelled on the front so she doesn’t need to touch anything. Nylon, polythene, rubber. How is she supposed to know what kind of washer to choose? Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. She unhooks a packet of nylon washers and, trying to handle as little of the packet as possible, she carries it in a pincer grip toward the tills.
The automatic doors to her right swoosh open and she gazes in. Empty shelves and pallets stare back at her but her eyes are fixed on a single weary plant in the corner and her cheeks sook inwards as she remembers…
All the kids in her street would congregate together, dirty faces and dirty knees, cap guns stuffed into the pockets of cut-off jeans. They’d make their way down to the bottom of Jimmy Jackson’s back garden at the end of the row of terraced houses because that’s where, among the jaggy nettles and the long grass, the rhubarb grew. The plant was ginormous and they’d take turns breaking off a stalk and dipping it into a poke of sugar.
Helen steps forward and, once again, the doors to the garden centre slide open. She slips the tap washers into her pocket and crosses the threshold. The air is warm and still and she pulls down her mask to breathe in the sweet scent of honeysuckle. If she’s imagining the smell she doesn’t care. She picks up the potted rhubarb with both hands and laughs, already imagining her granddaughter’s face as she takes her first bite.
Note:- Rhubarb can’t be harvested until a year after it was planted.
Scottish writer, Emma Mooney is the author of A Beautiful Game and Wings to Fly, both published by Crooked Cat Books. Emma graduated with a Masters in Creative Writing at the University of Stirling and is currently working on the edits of her next novel. Checkout her work at http://www.emmamooney.co.uk.
Sometimes there is beauty from the unexpected. The vibrant flowers of this textile piece have bloomed from humble beginnings. When Mandy Beattie moved into her house which was built in 1880 she found a pile of old potato sacks in the attic. They may have been up there since the year dot. Her mother Alexandrina was inspired to use one as the foundation for this fabulous rag rug, a special gift for her daughter. Mandy says that it is now one of her most treasured possessions. Thanks to both of them for sharing this personal story and image.
This is not a… By Ursula Troche
‘Ceci n’est pas une bouche’ – ‘this is not a mouth’, I wrote on my mask, paraphrasing Magritte’s ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe’. Magritte’s point was that this was just an image, not the real object. So there’s a dimension of unreality to images which we so often overlook. Reality then, is layered, and images and objects aren’t the same.
And now, in pandemic times, it seems we have to make do with layers. When we meet, we often meet online, and see each others’ images on zoom – and when we meet in reality, we have to put a layer between our mouth and ‘the real world’.
It’s unreal somehow and at the same time our new reality. Things are not clear or direct, everything has to happen in roundabout ways. It’s a dull, fuzzy, foggy picture – but not like the haar which is physical – now we are not exposed to anything we can touch or feel! It’s a surreal situation. We are exposed to the virus, which we are trying to protect ourselves from with our masks, but the danger is impossible to see. It sounds like another episode to the old film ‘The Invisible Man’: now it’s this virus that we have to hide from – try not to let it catch us, in the absence of a sign.
We are on the run. We might have been on the run from ourselves before. Now the past emerges too! Then it was us, now it’s a virus. Or both! This pandemic is so symbolic – though it’s worse too. We have to deal with us as a collective as well, as we are all exposed to the effects of what went wrong – and that is to do with environmental degradation, deforestation. The virus has hit us like a nuclear accident, and is a sign that our system is cracked – and so are we, with it.
Behind the mask, our inner life might spill out. The past lies there in pieces, as therein lies the truth? What does each layer that we have to carry on our mouths and noses do to us? Ironically, with the mask on, we are more exposed to ourselves than without. It’s as if now, behind our physical mask, we are more naked than we had ever been with any mental masks that have been part of us before. Or maybe it’s now that all our previous masks are coming out. The painfulness of not being able to connect freely is revealing things that had been hidden before.
The mask, our paper curtain, like a little tiny Iron Curtain, but battling not only with ‘the other side’ but with ourselves too!
I remember, at the beginning of our lockdown, remembering one of my favourite songs, with the title that now acquires another meaning This Masquerade!: “Are we really happy with this lonely game we play, looking for words to say… We’re lost, in this masquerade.”
Masquerade! Maybe we can only identify it now, forgetting what masking had been going on so far, some of which so inbuilt into our society that they have become normal. The dangerous normal: environmental degradations, deforestation, practices that have made this world ill, and so the virus is just a sign for us to stop. Metamorphosis in need. And yet the lockdown is hard.
Unrealities of life revealing deeper realities of the subconscious, and there comes out life again, but not as we expected it. Questions.
What will life be when this is over? When we can take the ‘lockdown masks’ off, will we replace them with our masks of old?
Look out, the answer my friend, may be blowing in the haar…
Ursula Troche, writer, artist, and double migrant on the Irish Sea Coast in West Cumbria. Inspired by space and (translation) places and the in-between, inner lives and hidden stories. She has work published in English and German, and a collection is being translated into French. More details at: About | ColourCirclesite (wordpress.com)
a strange dawn uncurls
oyster pink I am breathing
alone in my shell
Termination By Nikita Shackleton
I am squeezing my Self into an empty crisp
box. Guards wearing smiley masks watch
from three rifles distance. Muted
comrades observe from a perspex Zoom
box. Guards wearing smiley masks watch
my hands tremble as I clear out my desk:-
driver’s license, a diary with twenty-twenty
visions, a framed photo of a kitten in a tree.
My hands tremble as I clear out my desk:-
a notebook full of redactions, a wee feisty
cactus, a broken compact mirror, tampons,
lipsticks, tissues and a stained pair of pants,
a notebook full of dictations, a wee feisty
box of Black Magic, a blunt pencil with teeth
marks, my first draft of an Utopian Manifesto,
A Dummy’s Guide to Democracies, an empty
box of Black Magic, a blunt pencil with teeth,
an eraser shaped like a penis, a list of dreams,
an emergency jam jar and a wedding ring.
In the bottom drawer I find the forgotten;
an eraser shaped like a vagina, a list of dreams,
the one who truly loved me, the candle burned
at both ends, the first rainbow ever seen, secret
wishes, a rope bridge with the missing link,
the one who never loved me, the candle burned
the dirty girl I hated at primary school, the key
to the midnight garden. Shushing faces observe
while I squeeze my Self to an empty crisp.
CONTENT WARNING! Racism, racial slurs, hate speech in the following story which may offend.
LIKE AN ANGEL By Trudy Gritte
Doris stumbled out onto Dulness High Street in a state of humiliation. Her English rose complexion flamed an unflattering shade of tangerine. Like a statue she stood in the middle of the pavement hindering the tidal wave of Christmas shoppers. Snowflakes tumbled from a grey sky but Doris never noticed. Her brain was in overload. She was struggling to comprehend what had occurred within the dimly-lit interior of Kaleidoscope Gift Shop and Café.
Doris was tempted into the shop by the cute rolling pin in the window display, hand-painted with images of Santa and his reindeer, it would have been perfect for making her mince pies. She loved Christmas so much. She could never have enough tinsel, baubles and fairy lights. So she ventured into Kaleidoscope for the first time and was astounded by all the beautiful Christmas decorations and gifts. But when she looked at the label on the exquisite rolling pin she was dismayed to see it was made in China. So that was that. Derek wouldn’t tolerate anything Chinese in the house. Doris browsed the shelves admiring the jewellery, notebooks, pictures, cards, porcelain and knick-knacks. She fell in love with a jade bracelet but that was made in China too. Derek was quite right. They were taking over the world with their rolling pins and jewellery. The last straw was the cat calendar. It was the sweetest cat calendar she’d ever seen. Doris simply adored cats! But that was Chinese too! Can you believe it! Didn’t they eat cats in China? Or was it dogs? She wasn’t too sure now.
The amount of foreign garbage for sale in this shop was unacceptable so Doris marched up to the counter to complain. Well, not so much marched as shuffled because there was a long queue of people with happy faces and loaded baskets. She had to wait her turn and that was unacceptable too. The woman in front was fat and smelled of garlic. Three small children were hanging onto her coat, faces smeared with chocolate. Riffraff. They really need to stop these people breeding.
At last it was Doris’s turn. She looked up and there was a tall black woman smiling down at her with one of those veil thingies wrapped around her head. A hib-jib or was it a hobnob? Something like that. ‘How can I help you, madam?’
‘I want to speak to the Manager, please’, said Doris.
‘Well, that’s me. Is there a problem?’
‘Isn’t there someone else in charge, who is the owner of this establishment?’ asked Doris.
‘I am the proprietor of Kaleidoscope. Please tell me what the problem is Madam because I have customers waiting.’
‘You have too many foreign goods in this shop. I am proud to be British and I only buy British.’ Doris straightened her back and tried to look imperious. She heard a snigger from the young woman standing behind her. Doris cast a dirty look over her shoulder noticing purple hair, a nose stud and an orange coat. What right had she to laugh, some tart who didn’t even know how to dress properly.
‘I’m sorry you’re disappointed Madam. My stock comes from a variety of sources and I’m sure much of it is made in Britain.’
‘Such as what? Show me’.
I’m sorry but if you don’t intend to buy anything will you please step away so I can serve this lady.’
Doris grabbed a carved wooden goose from a revolving display stand. It was wearing a festive garland. She waved it in Hobnob’s face. ‘Is this British?’
Hobnob checked the base of the ornament. ‘No, this one is made in Germany.’
‘’Germany!’ Doris snorted with disgust. ‘After everything they’ve done!’ She realised that people were staring at her.
‘I really must insist that you step away, Madam. If you don’t like my shop then please leave.’
Doris suddenly noticed cakes and pastries for sale in a glass cabinet by the café area. She quite fancied a nice cake for tea. It would be a treat for Derek, take his mind off being made redundant.
‘Have you got any Victoria Sandwich Cake? ‘ she asked.
‘We have Baklava, Key Lime Pie, Apple Strudel, Belgian Chocolate Cake, Tarte au Citron and Panetonne, all very delicious but no Victoria Sandwich Cake I’m afraid’.
‘’Key Lime Pie, that’s a Yankee dessert, isn’t it? Well they’re a bunch of big mouths. And I wouldn’t eat Baklava if I was starving. I don’t swallow anything unless it’s made in Britain’.
Hobnob and Purple Tart started laughing. A man wearing a Santa hat and holding a Winter Wonderland jigsaw, piped up. ‘Hurry up, you racist bitch’.
‘Yeah, clear off Mrs Fancy Pants,’ shouted a woman wearing a beret who looked like a Communist and they all started laughing. At her. At Doris. How dare they!
She couldn’t remember actually leaving but abruptly found herself outside in the cold, the smug tinkle of the door chime still echoing in her ears. Crowds of shoppers swarmed past, ignoring her as if she was a nothing, a nobody.
She couldn’t think straight. Now concentrate Doris. What else was on her list of chores? She spotted the Building Society across the road and recalled Derek’s instructions to make another withdrawal from their savings account. The money was going down faster than expected since Derek lost his job. Her hands trembled as she pressed the button for the pelican crossing and waited for the little green man.
Doris could see herself reflected in the building society window opposite; a slim figure with blonde hair in a pony tail, wearing a coat with a fur collar. She was not a racist, she said to herself. She was a good person. She went to Church every Sunday, she was kind to animals, she donated to charities. As she watched her reflection the snow stopped and a shaft of sunlight broke through the overcast sky. It beamed down on her like a blessing. Her figure was illuminated by an unearthly light. She was an angel descending from heaven. Her face radiant, white and pure. Mesmerised by her own image Doris walked forwards into the road too soon. Needless to say, the car that broke her neck was not made in Britain.
SHHH! By Crippled Pink
Can you keep a secret? I have a guilty one that I’ve never told a soul. So I hope you’re sitting down when I tell you that a small part of me is enjoying Lockdown.
Along with the fear, boredom and grief there is a sense of empowerment. For the first time I am the one at an advantage. Covid has levelled the playing field. Stay at home, avoid people, protect yourself….easy peasy….what’s so difficult about that? For once, the tables are turned and the non-disabled are having to learn some resilience, self-sufficiency and come face to face with their own mortality. It’s about time, I say. Along with thousands of other disabled people that’s what I’ve had to do for as long as I can remember.
Historically, disabled people have been excluded from full participation in society by a non-disabled majority. We had to fight and struggle for years to win our rights as equal citizens but even in 2021 barriers remain. There is discrimination and prejudice everywhere. Despite the Equality Act of 2010 not much has changed. There are improvements in physical access such as ramps and lifts but in practice the environment is still largely inaccessible. Building regulations are not enforced. Hate crime persists. It is still more difficult for a disabled person to get a job or go on holiday or go to the the theatre. Many live in poverty particularly since the introduction of PIP. Whatever your disability, going out into the world each day is hard work, it require guts and determination to keep facing the endless challenges. Some are forced back into their own homes, existing in isolation and sometimes in chronic pain, on a low income and with minimal support from Social Care. Staying at home is the norm for many as they grow older. As for missing jolly trips to the pub…there may well not be an accessible pub within twenty miles of your home. Lockdown or not, meeting mates down the pub might be as likely as a trip to the moon.
If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger. In this Pandemic age there is a new normal. Disabled people have acquired survival skills that are proving useful. We are more resilient, emotionally self-sufficient, adaptable. We are accustomed to planning ahead and being alone. Disabled people tend to live on the cusp of crisis mode. There is no certainty so we learn to cover every possible eventuality. I bought respirator masks, hand sanitiser and extra food supplies a month before the UK went into the first Lockdown. Since a botched up NHS operation in 2018 I can no longer drive my car and must rely on Internet shopping. Lockdown doesn’t feel that much different to me but in some ways it is better. The miraculous advent of Zoom means I can catch up with long-lost friends, participate in meetings and online events I was previously unable to do. People have more time for each other, more time to talk, to care. People are learning to appreciate what really matters in life; the importance of loved ones, of the natural environment and the interconnectedness of the world. So when we surface out of the Pandemic I sincerely hope society will not return to the ruthless rat race of the bad old days. I hope, for once, we will be better.
Thank you for exploring The Haar at The Purple Hermit. I hope you enjoyed the treasure in the mist. The Haar will return with a new theme when you are least expecting…so keep watching this space!
Kind thoughts to all readers, writers and artists from Nikita Shackleton, 7th April 2021.
The Haar is the name for my new bimonthly magazine slot. I’m inviting writers, poets, artists, photographers, cartoonists or anyone with something different to say to send in contributions on a theme. This is an online community feature and everyone is welcome so long as the work is original. All work will be clearly credited to the author who retains copyright. Please use the contact form to get in touch if you want to submit a piece. There are a limited number of slots. I want to keep this feature small scale so sadly not all work will be selected.
The word limit for short stories is 2,000. Poems must be no more than 40 lines in length.
The theme for April’s The Haar is ‘Behind the Mask’
The deadline to send in your contribution is 31st March.
I’m looking for the broadest interpretation of the theme, not just Pandemic related. Who are we when we remove our masks? What lies behind the personas we create to survive in society. We are all different people in the privacy of our own homes and we behave differently according to where we are. We all try to fit in one way or another. I’d like to see and hear what happens when we let our hair down and truly open up…our loves, fears, jealousy, anger, hopes, worries, mistakes, secrets…
Looking forward to receiving your contributions.
For those who don’t know, as well as being a cool name for my creative arts e-zine, Haar is a special type of fog that suddenly rolls in from the sea transforming the world into a mysterious dream. Even on a sunny day in Scotland nowhere and no one is safe from the Haar!
Even on the sunniest Scottish day, the Haar can come in out of nowhere. For those who don’t know: Haar is a special type of fog that rolls in from the sea transforming the world into a mysterious dream. Everyday objects like the washing line or a garden chair take on alien forms and the other side of the road might as well be the planet Neptune.
But right here on The Purple Hermit The Haar is the name for my new bimonthly magazine slot. I’m inviting other writers, poets, artists, photographers, cartoonists or anyone with something different to say to send in contributions on a theme. This is a community feature and everyone is welcome so long as the work is original. All work will be clearly credited to the author who retains copyright. Please use the contact form to get in touch if you want to submit a piece. There are a limited number of slots. I want to keep this feature small scale so sadly not all work will be selected.
The word limit for short stories is 2,000. Poems must be no longer than 40 lines.
The theme for April’s The Haar is ‘Behind the Mask’
The deadline to send in your contribution is 31st March.
I’m looking for the broadest interpretation of the theme, not just Pandemic related. Who are we when we remove our masks? What lies behind the personas we create to survive in society. We are all different people in the privacy of our own homes and we behave differently according to where we are. We all try to fit in one way or another. I’d like to see and hear what happens when we let our hair down and truly open up…our loves, fears, jealousy, anger, hopes, worries, mistakes…
Looking forward to receiving your contributions.
I probably inherited the creative gene from my maternal grandfather. He was a writer, photographer and political dissident in the former Soviet Union. He wrote for an underground newspaper and spent time in prison because of his views. Every birthday and Christmas he would send me a card with a specially written poem. He encouraged me to read Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Solzhenitsyn at an early age. After his death in 1974 my grandmother gave me his camera which contained a roll of exposed black and white film. Years later I developed the film in my home darkroom and found images of myself as a young adolescent. It was a spine-tingling moment, alone in the dark watching the images slowly materialise and seeing myself the way my grandfather saw me. The images were faded and decomposed because of the length of time they’d spent inside his camera. They had aged, they had scars – like myself.
In the beginning was the word, according to the Gospel of John in the Bible. We experience and interpret the world through language. We write the words and the words write us. I’ve always associated writing with the desire to make the world a better place. It’s a way of getting inside someone else’s head, a chance to see life from another point of view. Writing has a therapeutic value but it’s much more than that…it leads to greater understanding and tolerance between people. It is a powerful tool for personal and social change. Writing can break down barriers, build bridges.
As a disabled woman I have been marginalised by a society that treats people as disposable commodities within the Capitalist machine. Throughout history disabled people have been ignored, silenced, treated as if we are stupid, useless. Alas, the ‘does she take sugar?’ attitude persists even in the 21st century. Disability is the last great taboo which feeds on society’s fear of death, illness and impairment. This is an issue which affects everyone, disabled and non-disabled, because we all age, sooner or later our bodies start to let us down and no-one is ever perfect. We live in a society obsessed with superficial appearances, it’s a kind of body fascism and it creates a lot of misery.
Creative writing and art have given me an equal voice. They have empowered me, helped to counter the negative stereotypes of disability that underpin mainstream culture. Visual arts and writing are two sides of the same coin for me. I often incorporate text in my artwork through collage and photography. I enjoy unexpected juxtapositions. I tend to use abstract and surreal imagery and a lot of colour in both poetry and art. They are just different ways of communicating my unique experience of the world. In recent years I’ve focused more on poetry as it feels purer, more precise. It satisfies my obsessive compulsive streak! Poetry works through the construction of images, as well as metaphor, rhythm and rhyme. And there is the important visual element of words typed on paper, black on white, the shape of the poem on the page. Concrete poems, ekphrastic poems, black-out poems, cut-up poems, acrostic poems all rely on our visual sense.
I am often asked about my working methods. Like many writers I keep a journal. I try to write every day even if it’s just a few words. Ideas and phrases frequently come to me at night and I record them on my phone otherwise they are lost. Sometimes the first line of a poem will take root in my mind and I can’t rest until I’ve put it down on paper. Once it gets a hold on me I can’t let go until it’s finished. Stephen King said that when he’s writing it’s as if he’s just a channel, a conduit for a story that already exists in a mysterious parallel universe. I agree. Like King I believe in what the psychologist Carl Jung named the collective unconscious. Creative people and mystics are able to tap into universal images and stories that we need in order to navigate our path through a complex and difficult life.
There have been many tines when creativity has literally saved my life. I survived several long hospital stays trapped in a bed alone in a small room because I had paper and pencils. I was able to make my mark on a world that seemed to have forgotten me. I have a vivid memory of drawing a vase of anemones on my bedside locker when I was in intensive care at the age of nine after spinal surgery that left me paralysed. Looking at those delicate flowers, the pastel colours, the shapes and recording them on paper reminded me of the beauty of the world beyond the horror and pain of the hospital.
We all need art, we all need stories, we all need to survive.