Writing |
| Welcome | Calendar | Writing |
Nick Hamlyn
Gambia in the rainy season,
The air, a watery gliss,
Cooling from baked to merely hot:
In momentary bliss.
A “Toubab!” cry from child to tourist,
Touching hands for emphasis,
His fingers mime the raindrop spray
Asks “Is snow as cold as this?”
On the township side of Jamisa,
Rustic crowds keep an urban tryst,
Build concrete walls that tremble for eaves,
Like a teenager her first kiss.
On the far side, broken walls ache with loss,
Their tears an August drizzle mist
On useless rubble – dashed hopes made tangible:
Is snow as cold as this?
LETTER TO MYSELF AGE 16
Leila Cox
Dear Leila,
This might sound strange, but I want you to just try and understand. I’m you. Not you how you are now, but you in the future. I’m twenty-seven and I just want to tell you a few things; a few things I wish I’d known. A few things that might help you.
You’re sixteen years old and have the beginnings of your independence. You don’t like your parents that much, nor do you like other people. Your Dad, he’s old and set in his ways, but he loves you more than you’ll ever know. He’s the reason that you’re healthy and ok; he’s always been there making you his priority – you’re the only reason he’s still in this town. He’s strict and, yes, he’s controlling, but that’s all he knows, he can’t help it. Just love him, try and be good to him; you owe him big time and he won’t be here forever.
See how this continues in our Anthology
Monica Withrington
The tiny J-pod circled the giant Elysian Dome once, before beginning its gentle descent towards the parking area. With careful aim, Jordan landed the craft inside the set of red lines, between the two larger, Executive X-pods already parked there. It always gave him huge satisfaction to position his vehicle precisely according to the Directive. He had never been fined for incorrect parking. and he was determined he never would.
He donned his oxygen helmet and clicked the magnetic straps into place under his chin, then pressed the exit button. The perspex door slid open with a pleasant hum, and Jordan stepped out on to the springy, heat-retardant turf. The air swirled around him, yellow with pollution, as he made his way towards the Dome’s entrance. Excitement, anticipation, too, made him giddy: he had worked long and hard to arrive at this moment.
“State your name and your business.” The electronic voice crackled through a small speaker.
“Jordan 7491, to visit Malcolm Harris.”
“Please state connection to said Malcolm Harris.”
“Grandson.”
“Malcolm Harris is presently in the Library. Enter.” And the outer door slid open with a hiss. Once inside the lobby, Jordan removed his oxygen helmet and hung it on a peg, which immediately swung upwards, anchoring it to the wall. Jordan removed the plastic keycard which had popped out from the slot above and swiped it down the crevice of the inner door. This, too, glided open, admitting him to the Inner Dome. Garden beds, spilling over with everlasting flowering shrubs, filled the centre court. Fountains danced and waterfalls tumbled from the higher levels of the Dome. “Welcome to Elysium,” a celestial voice caressed his ears. “The Library is on the Second Stage.”
As Jordan took the escalator, he felt a sudden surge of wellbeing. Was this brought on by the exciting news he was about to impart, he wondered? Or did it have something to do with the additional oxygen in the atmosphere – in consideration of the needs of the elderly inhabitants of the Elysian Dome?
Through a perspex panel he could see his Grandfather seated before a computer monitor. He looked up, instinctively, and his broad, pleasant, face burst into a smile.
“Jordan, lad!” Malcolm exclaimed, hurrying to the door and squeezing both his hands. “So good to see you! You don’t visit your old Grandpa nearly often enough!” This wasn’t a reproach, merely an observation, as his next remark confirmed. “You must he very busy these days with your research projects.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I am. Of course, I hope to see more of you, very soon.”
“That’s good, very good. The old man was leading his grandson along the platform towards one of the escalators. “I’m in a room with a view, now – did your mother tell you? Stage Five overlooks the Millennium Park, so-called. Pity. I do miss living plants.”
See how this story continues in our Anthology.
Tel:01604715163 Fax:None Email:piedmusic@gmail.com
Copyright © 2012
Powered by   |