Prohibited Pain by Fran Sutton

You, yes you, the object of my dreams, you are my world. I feel the embers of a furnace burn within me as I think of the future we have. I watch you through the gates, tempting me, catching my eye and shyly smiling, a look of total trust on your face.

Finally, the day has come for action. I conceal myself in a shrub and wait. Sure enough, here you come, the light framing your gentle features, your skirt lifting slightly as it catches the breeze. You trot over to me and tug at my dress hem, grinning as though you know my secret. But you do know, of course you do, because you felt the connection too.

I get out of the cab, holding the limp body in my arms, tears running down my face as blue uniformed figures swarm out of the back of an opened truck, their gold badges glinting in the cloudless sky. They surround me and pause, hand on hips as they survey the scene they are confronted with. The man in charge steps forward, demanding something that won’t be given. I cling onto my precious cargo, knowing that letting go will bring my whole world crashing down around me.

The man asks me again, and through my blurred vision I see that some of his longer moustache hairs are creeping over his upper lip. It must tickle when he talks.

All at once, the men around me spring into action. I hear a bang, and drop to my knees, the world around me spinning as my grip loosens and the dead weight begins to fall. You topple to the floor and I can only watch as the men gather you up carelessly, sling you over a sturdy shoulder and carry you off, far away from me.

I try to scream but my voice has stopped working – the noise that bubbles in my throat is a low groan of agony as I realise the red puddle on the floor is getting bigger, and is coming from me.

Portrait of Dew Drops by Michael Laniyan

For the avaricious, none and to the meek

A few, distant whispers reasons bleak

In San Francisco fetters of tender dreams

Too late for the bringer’s dues!

 

Cry, not for Delta but the trodden in its droves

Weep Assyria, thirsty dust your beads await

With ancient hallowed dew, the dust fed by a

Wise one, whose compassion none persists!

 

Seep big apple seep, thy impishness anguish call

Thy aged sister, oceans rift her ancient bell call

Her heaps, thy embrace it’s wholly moist tamed

Save the well-heeled, in his clench thy destiny delivered!

 

Dust, and sea both silent bystanders, of thy surplus feats

Sails mindfully gathers wind, whither goes’’ thou with thy loot

If thy most precious, entrapped thou in wheels of drain

Unworthy of beasts nor souls, whither goes’’ thou oh master of craft!

 

Who, in thy defence heed, when thy calamity beckons

Who, in the mist of thy well-heeled, the fury of oceans endures

When the cry and wrath of dewdrops, on the sails of time erupt

When in thy season of rein, none wouldst thy tears consider! 

 

The bringer’s ink dries, thy gains only, enshrined in her portrait of thee

Where wouldst thou solace find, when thy judge was thine entrapped

Did thou the bringer’s charm consider, when time made thou master o’er all

Now thy vicious image unveiled in the ink of thy tortured wordsmith!

 

Adorned in droplets of sorrowful seasons, who wouldst thy portrait redress

The scribbler trapped in limbo, for in colourful souls gained thou thy gold  

Thy deceit unveiled in vivid text for all to behold, a snarl emerged

The mountains thy request oblige not, master of barter whither thou run!

 

Treasures profits not beyond, though good words and deeds dwarf’s gold

Shines of silver pales to a lost writer’s timeless scribbles of suffered passion

Chance recall, void of malice or vengeful pursuits, dried ink under the heavens

Orange Sun, arriviste, thou bead in vain, thy image set in portrait of pebble! 

 

Brow of coarse beads, echoes a tortured existence, cold pleading murmurs

Silhouettes deprived of form trail thee Amschel, their wailing pierce thy distress

Dense clouds shield not thy gaudy portrait of torment, unveiled to a lack of rays

From sun nor moon, drab images of warm intents condemn thy led past!  

 

Were it a dream thy willed an end, greyness abounds in thy sea of wail

Madness tilts Amschel’s consciousness, impotent, shackled to eternal thirst

Similar were thy scribbler’s torments, when he in deranged words scribbled

Portraits from a distant world, so valiant in thy timeless grey abyss!

 

Woe mirrors in thy image, thou forgot time belongs to a master scribbler

Who authors all fate, as is with the wealthy so it is with the pauper

In ink their paths are chosen, but to both a blank canvass is accorded

In sheer silence the scribbler observes all, why then oh master of craft!

 

Will, thou traded a portrait of timeless bliss for a season of vapouring silver

Will thy dusty treasure the master scribbler entice, as late for the bringer.

So, it is for a portrait on a dried canvass as thy bringer enters in to his bliss

Save the master scribbler upon thy portrait gaze with dewdrops of tender ink!

I Never Knew - Anisha Dupree Year 2

I Never Knew

Skipping home from school with a gummy grin and a heavy heart

He would say ‘You’re wasted on this world’
I would say ‘I know’

With food in my hair and smoke in our lungs
He would say ‘Well you’ve looked worse’
I would say ‘I know’

With pinkies wrapped around pinkies his face stained with purple kisses
He would say ‘I hate it here’
I would say ‘I know’

With green grass between our lips and hope in our hands
He would say ‘One day we’ll be okay’
I would say ‘I know’

With sunshine in my pocket and madness on our minds
He would say ‘You’re out of control’
I would say ‘I know’

With my broken bones and shard decorated arms
He would say ‘You need help’
I would say ‘I know’

With numbness in my heart and his shadowed eyes
He would say ‘You’re scaring me’
I would say ‘I know’

With his crimson knuckles and our lust for blood

He would say ‘I need the rush’
I would say ‘I know’

With cherry stained cheeks and lightning in our veins
He would say ‘We are nothing’
I would say ‘I know'

With a haggard body and lighting in his veins
He would say ‘I’m tired of this world’
I would say ‘I know’

Staring into the flames dressed for death.

I would say ‘You were wasted on this world’

He would’ve said

‘I know.’ 

'Eulogy' by Jordan Wedderburn

Her love is not confined by any means.

Her beauty’s not dependant on any brands.
In a time when all would seem obscene
Here’s a woman severed from the ideals of man.
Forged beneath the screams of birth
Whispers of death prowled.
Counting the days it’d quench it’s thirst.
Then her heart slept, her fates bound.
Dark desires belittled us all, not you I reckon.
You was different. You lived a life with no regrets.
Making memories in seconds
that’d take a life time to forget.
I pray your spirit ascends well.
“Here lies a beautiful woman in an ugly world”.

Star by Fleuranelle Duwhaz

Holy night oh star so bright

Come cover and guide me as you do every night.

Your image like a moonlit candle

Your perseverance, a taste of your ambition

And your mind an open novel of tales.

You guide and you glide,

So let me come with you in the sky tonight on this heavenly night.

Your embers draw me and tell me to come closer

But how close can I get to you before you say no,

Before you become too dangerous and I have to go back to looking at you from this oh so constricting window.

The refractions of light almost like warning bars to tell me that I can only go so far.

Oh heavenly star, let me join you in the sky tonight.

Let me let you cover me with your glowing warmth.

Caress my skin as the night passes, and once again I’ll admire your last wave

So when I wake I can look forward to seeing you again.

Let me yearn for your presence so I can continue to dream about you, resting up there on this heavenly night.

This star, my star that shines so bright.

Danse Macabre by Monika Ewa Piotras

It will all vanish one day,

stone cold bricks, buildings, roofs,

he used to look at

for hours

letting pinching air into his room.

In the middle of the night

after drowning his sorrows under the crying shower,

open window, stars trembling, stiff bones, cloud in his lungs.

Moths and mosquitos paying a visit

none of them invited

having a feast by the cigarette smoke.

Wet hair, red eyes, runny nose, tears dry.

Builders long gone

their creation is here to stay

up till the first hurricane.

Slowly it’s not a race.

Not.

Staying here for hundred years,

cement running in its veins.

Scratches on the surface, too deep to be covered

watered by the rain

new ones will bloom while

old, once young and strong, columns break.

Rotten inside, weak foundation, with no one to fix it.

Falling with no sound but built accompanied with screaming.

It wasn’t enough,

his back pressed against the radiator

watching the most painful game

trying to hide the shame of losing with ivy.

Long needle won’t fix the scars.

Time claiming what’s his,

with every breath he takes, collapsing lungs

like Italian Pompeii taken away into ashes and dust.

Buildings destroyed within Vesuvius blow,

bones weaker than bricks, disappeared, turned into Herculaneum’s shadow.

Feeling like Zeus, though his powers non-existent,

his floor built on others ossuary,

sleeping all tight during the longest night.

Retracing the touch, making it last

knowing so well – no one can bring it back.

Dancing in the moonlight, the loneliest dance of all,

among others like a hostage, caught up with his ball and chain,

still playing the game.

Making a gallery of unfamiliar faces of people he knows,

nailing new pictures to the wall.

Does one live if it doesn’t hurt?

While waiting for someone with hours passing by,

lost enough time hating the sunshine.

Again.

Trying to find a new place he can call home,

the other long gone,

falling under the spell casted by time.

How they keep on breathing?

Dancing among the dead,

cold hearts mad of bricks still beating all alone.

They will be all gone in the end.

Chimneys can’t stop.

Choking on a cigarette smoke.

But it’s okay if he is breathing just fine.

Raised from the ground only to stop existing one day,

undergoing the test of time

like buildings collapsing

turning into ashes

we will all vanish,

vanish,

vanitas.

'Jack and Annie - Kitchen' by Tamar Knott

He sat at the kitchen table watching her dry the plates from the night before, the smell of baked goods filling the air.
“Are the kids up yet?”
“I told them you were coming.”
“I’ll call them.” He made to leave the table.
“They’ll be down in a minute.”
“Okay…” He sat back in his seat again.
“Do you want some tea?” she said, putting down the tea towel and turning to check the oven.
“Um please, if you’re making some,”
“Three sugars?”
“Uh no, Sophie’s got me on sweeteners, says it’s bad for the heart.”
“Oh.”
She shuffled the mugs in the cupboard above the kettle until finally finding the hand painted ‘Daddy’ mug right at the back.
“Are they up yet?”
“How was Cambodia?”
“Oh, um, great, we, uh spent most of the time in the temple, took some nice photos…” He took out his phone, looked at her and then put it back in his pocket.
“Milk?”
“Yeah, please, you got almond?”
“Full fat.”
“Oh, um, ah, well, what she don’t know…”
“The kids will be down in a sec.”
“Annie, I…”
“Don’t.” She stared out the window at the barren vegetable patch.
“But Annie-”
She walked to the stairs, “Come on you two, Dad’s waiting.” 

6 Delusions (inspired by Sophie Collins’ Eight Phrases) by Katie Thomas

- What would lettuce taste like in tomato soup?

- I should really change my sheets

- I’ve never looked at the bottom of my foot. I have two moles 

- Ear wax is by far the worst taste, much worse than semen 

- Shut the fuck up Toby 

- Is it bin day? 

Dystopian Joi - Harry G. Clark (Year 2)

The night sky used to be clean. It had some semblance of clarity long ago, now the only things that come close to bright stars are the sprawling numbers of off-world ships. Joi has never seen a star, felt the rain or touched the lips of her lover. This Earth she drifts in, damaged and irreparable, is not her mother, no her true children have hacked and burned their way to other safe havens, leaving the lesser and the artificial to cling to a ghost. To Joi, this is home.

Home is also a shoebox, one that takes mere seconds to cross the length of. Near-luxury living for the overpopulated. A drab grey colour palette does a more-than-disappointing job at sprucing up the place for both inhabitants, the only colours that don't match the monotone world's are the splash of spring grass green and enigmatic auburn. The green; Kay's favourite colour, pasted to his bedroom wall like a cherished banner, it was the colour of her eyes after all and the one that dug deepest into him. As for the auburn, that was Joi's hair dancing around the apartment in a flowing display, specifically tailored to Kay's eyes, catching them whenever he walked in. A subtle blend of coffee with a hint of cherry.

With a jarring thud, the front door flew open with Kay clinging to the handle. On first inspection of him, like a repeating memory, she can never tell what takes more of a beating, Kay's leather overcoat from the gloomy environment or his soft face from his dicey profession.
"I don't suppose you took this one alive this time?" Joi said with a condescending tone, though the question was rife with worry, she knew his job could get him killed one day.
"If they just came quietly then I wouldn't have to burden you with the state I'm in now" Kay smiled in his answer. He wasn't pleased to be 'home', he was happy to see her. Reaching into the breast pocket of his overcoat Kay produced a small rectangular object, roughly the size of a phone.
"I got you something today, let's take you outside" Kay's smile still unwavering in the wake of his glee.
"Kay, you know I can't..." Joi had fallen into a spell of sadness. She looked away to the green wall and appeared to be ashamed at Kay's proposition.
"With this, there's nowhere you can't be." He gestured once again to the emulator that he held in his hands. Joi's gaze met with his once again, the spell had been broken.
"Are you sure it will work, I'll be with you?" Joi said. Kay nodded with contentment and turned to the panel on the wall near the door. A few minutes later the emulator was working, Joi stood there in suspense, almost frozen.

Kay walked out into the night. He'd only just been out in it moments ago but it somehow had gotten colder, the wind was nearly non-existent but the snow was now the purest of white linen all around the city. He turned away from studying the weather to the doors of the plaza, his emulator still in his pocket. He gripped it tightly with anticipation. In the dead of night and the eerie silence of the snow-capped streets, Joi crept out slowly. She felt like a small mouse emerging from it's hole, stepping out into the bigger picture, her frame; gone.
No words were spoken, for these precious minutes were all for her to experience. Joi's head was almost bubbling over with seemingly endless adjectives for her emotions. Kay fell silent for as long as she did. His eyes never lost sight of her face, this was his gift to her and he took solace in her smiles and studious looks. She reached out with her hands to hold the droplets of snow and one-by-one they shimmered through her. She twirled her hands through the air and the snow was greeting her with the same shimmer. In a moment of inquisitiveness and pure euphoria, Joi dropped to the white blanket and moved in the motion of a snow angel.

Kay slumped into the same pit of sadness Joi had back in the confines of the apartment and he too was ashamed. He looked at the emulator and back at her, elated with the snow, she knew what was happening or rather... what wasn't. Joi left no imprint in the snow, not anywhere. The emulator glitched for a moment.

Joi was the one shimmering against the snow.

Your hand in mine (inspired by 'The meat') - Asher-Lee Tulip Downer (Year 2)

I took a star from the sky, sewed your name into the seam. Placed it above your head, while you continued to dream. I whispered into your ears, warned off all the bad nightmares. Kissed your bitter cheeks in the morning and pushed back your thin baby hairs. I cradled your cold body and warmed up your blue lips. And brushed all the dust off your pretty dress while I tightened the bow around your hips. 

I made the bed around you, wrapping the duvet up nice and tight. Keeping you trapped and safe from the cold, suspicious night. You stared at me, with your blue, crazy eyes and I can’t help smiling as I bat away the greedy flies. 

They sit upon you, like small vultures watching their prey, but I will not let them get to you my dear, no, not today. 

You are still the most precious thing I own, I take your hand and admire the ring. Thin and silver, on your pale skin it has begun to cling. 

The candle’s flame flickers in the descending light as I held your hand in mine. I look at your pale expression and how the light made your lifeless eyes shine. Your cheekbones were beginning to show even more today, your skin sinking into your face. The dark mistress of time taking away what was left of your beauty and grace. 

Stealing your warm, perfume smell and replacing it with odours of old, as I clasp your papery skin to mine and try to ignore the cold. 

I couldn’t keep you forever. I had known this for a while. But just a little bit longer, just a little while more, so I don't forget your smile. The way your lips used to curve up when you looked at me. The confused way your face crumpled up when I got down on one knee. 

Now your figures indent will forever be on our bed, as your body continues to decay. Resting in-between the duvet and the sheet. I will continue to tell you I love you, every single day. 

Every day, I will press my lips to yours and pretend they kiss mine back.  I will hold your hand till it turns to dust and until your pupils succumb to the black. Until the final calls of death ring at our door and take whats left of your decomposing bones from me. I will keep you safe and locked away, with my fingers around the key. 

You may be dead to the world, but you are still alive to me. I will keep your decaying body for as long as the flies will leave it be. 

Alex Pearson - Year 2 - How Much is too Much?

She drags herself into class, lower lip doubled and bleeding.

Her shoulders are bowed inwards, and her boyfriend’s oversized hoodie only just hides the rose petal shaped fingerprints staining her skin.

You and the rest of the class fall voiceless and watch as she takes her seat.

You make like owls; with wide eyes and swiveling heads, exchanging silent queries.

Do we say anything?

No.

Of course not.

It’s none of your business.

You’re sure it was an accident.

A one-time thing that got out of hand.

You’re sure of it.

The teacher will say something when he sees.

It’s none of your business.

You tell yourself this when class is dismissed.

When the teacher looks away as she walks past him.

When she shrinks impossibly smaller.

You tell yourself it is not your problem.

Her feet protest movement as the subway train jostles her lightly around.

She feels herself crumple slightly, the stress of her day like chainmail on her overly tired body.

Settled for a few moments of peace, she does not notice when a swaying man places himself behind her.

It is the stench of stale beer and sweat that catches her attention.

But by then it is too late.

You watch as he presses himself against her, trapping her by the train doors.

He mumbles something drunkenly and grabs her wrist.

You faintly hear her say no, and duck away when her droplet-scattered lashes finally rise to you.

She’s the canary and he’s the snake, and everyone is just observing nature, right?

There are other people on this train.

Surely someone will help her.

It doesn’t have to be you.

It’s none of your business, after all.

When he follows her off at her stop, you remind yourself this.

When her stare welds fault to you like a brand, you remind yourself.

What can you do? You’re just a normal person.

It’s not your problem. 

Her head snaps to the side as her father’s knuckles catch her cheek.

She blinks away the pinprick tears building under the new abrasion and lowers her gaze.

He raises his hand again, only to worm his corpulent fingers into her hair and pull her closer so he can whisper into her ear.

She releases a barely-there whimper, which only seems to echo in the shadow of her father’s brutality.

A snarl curl’s his lip and you watch as he assaults her with threats and obscenities, teeth gnashing like a wild animal.

You see new tears in her eyes, these ones more stubborn than the last.

You meet the stares of those surrounding you, and they mirror your own, equal parts horror and understanding of an unfair truth.

Yet nobody moves.

And so, neither do you.

Because it’s not your business.

You aren’t her parent.

Who are you to get in the way of an obviously personal matter?

She could always tell the police.

Or she could run away.

There are plenty of ways to escape.

You tell yourself this until you read the newspaper the next week.

When you notice a familiar face under the obituaries.

When you see that her face is more purple than peach.

But it wasn’t your problem, right?

Your sister comes home late again, her wine-colored nails gripping her latest boyfriend’s arm like a vice.

He smiles politely at you and waves as she pulls him past and into her room.

An hour later you hear a voice raised and slick with venom, so you leave your laptop to check it out.

From a tiny crack in her door you see your sister looming menacingly over her boyfriend, who is huddled on the floor clutching his face.

She spits vicious words at him, makes sure to mention that he would be better off dead.

He trembles in his place like a frightened deer, and lifts his head to reveal a wine-colored gash falling from his temple.

From your place by the door she catches you, and slams it in your face.

Your head runs through the transformation from the polite and quiet boy you met to the petrified and beaten creature you saw.

And how your own family was responsible for such a decaying.

You return quietly to your computer, trying to pretend you didn’t see anything.

It’s not your business.

How she acts in her relationship has nothing to do with you.

He’s a man; he can take care of himself.

He doesn’t need anybody sticking up for him.

You’ll just forget it happened.

Forget his expression of self-destruction.

Forget who put it there.

It’s a Friday and you’re looking forward to seeing your friends.

Everything was planned to be perfect.

The party was set, the whole house filled with booze, music, and good food.

When everybody gets here you say your hellos and get drinking.

The day only improves when he shows up.

Suddenly you are sixteen again and your first crush is the world entire.

You find your skin warming and pulse quickening, excitement tingling your fingertips.

A couple hours in and you are sitting on the couch with him, first drink still in your hand.

You glance away for just a second, to say hi to someone, or tell someone else not to break anything.

When you look back he is smiling at you and you feel ecstatic.

You continue talking and drinking, until your head begins to ache.

Your body grows slack and you can barely feel it when his hand slides up your leg.

Through a half-lidded eye, you see him smirk and your heart falls to your feet.

You wish you could run back in time.

Back to when having a crush was just a metaphor and not an invitation.

You survey the room, trying to find someone, anyone who will help you.

Eyes meet your own, only to sweep quickly away.

It wasn’t their problem after all.

You liked him, so it should be alright, shouldn’t it?

Even if you didn’t want it.

But it wasn’t alright.

You knew this.

Everyone knew this.

But it wasn’t their problem.

It wasn’t their business.

So nobody helped you.

Liam Acornley - Year 2: Workshop week 3 - Boneyard

I always wonder how such a beast comes to die, what can pierce its skin and armour and bring down a goliath of this size. I suppose I’ll never know, the beasts that come here, to this graveyard do so by their own accord. I’ve seen them countless times, they arrive under the guise of night and slowly glide down from the skies, then as they are swallowed by the premise of death they never flap their wings again. They land, or crash, sometimes a combination of the two and lie still until the light fades from their eyes and their loud monotonous breathing stops. More often than not, the ones that come here to wait out their last moments are old, battered, bruised, chunks of flesh missing from their bodies, large scratches and gashes; a crevice of bone and sinew. This one though, this colossus of a beast that lies unmoving in front of my unbelieving eyes, it looks almost young. Unburdened by the trial of time that grinds even mountains to dust, yet it waits here amongst the bones of its kin to await the same fate that the rest entailed by coming to rest in this graveyard.

Assuming I am not the first to get to it, the Cutters will arrive and piece by piece they shall dismantle the beast, ripping chunks of carrion and flesh, peeling away the corpuscles leaving naught but the bones that bake in the sun; every now and then they leave a morsel or two behind that is quickly snatched up by another band of vultures. I am no Cutter however, I respect the hunt, and these beasts are my prey. I do not kill them directly, my role involves nothing but to harvest from their remains the things necessary to live on, I bring home the bacon so to speak.

Even after my years of experience, I still have to wait dumbstruck before I begin, captured by a sensation of awe as I stand mere meters from the ever decaying body. I place my hand against its skin and steel myself for the wave of pensive anguish to wash over me. Every damn time. I don’t know if it’s the disbelief that this beast, as large as a skyscraper can fall and bend the knee to death, or the lack of cognizance that now renders its memories and mind null and void. Regardless, I’m letting my emotions get in the way of my work; professional as always. I extract the las-scalpel from my belt pouch and begin to cut a way inside of the creature.

I have been inside a great deal of beasts like this, however, this one was unique, perhaps it’s due to the young age that I do not recognize the intricate paths I can take to journey around the body. Maybe it is of a different genus, rendering my knowledge useless, or maybe it’s just a new kind of creature. I have to stop every five minutes or so to ensure that I am going the right way. The organs are the most valuable and being as young as it is I assume its heart is in fairly good condition, I cut into a vein and dodge out of the way of the black sludge that spills forth, the gore splatters against the floor, slick and jet in colour. However the small trickle of claret that continues to weakly pump throughout the body shows me I’m heading the right direction; satisfied I continue.

On the way to the beast’s heart I begin helping myself to the copper nerving embedded into the tissue walls, what was once the organ used to transport commands, stimuli, and electronic signals from the brain, now lay within the confines of my backpack weighing me down both physically and emotionally. I didn’t like my job, but my god if it didn’t pay well. Mechanics, the Cutters, scrap-merchants, there was no trouble in finding a buyer for these parts, however those willing to gather it were in short supply. Many of us worship the beasts, myself included, so finding those of us who were able to stomach the idea of cutting into a god; well, let’s just say I don’t rest easily at night.

It’s hard to determine how long I walked through the body, attempting to find that which pumped life into the creature, no natural light and a miasmata that gave me a splitting headache didn’t help. Yet sooner, or later, in the fullness of time I arrived at the heart. I can’t even begin to imagine what it would sound like if the beast was roused, perhaps it would sound like a waterfall careening through the body as gallons of fuel sprouted off in every direction. Would each pump emphasise and praise the strength and sheer size of the creature? Regardless, in death much like how the rest of us will end, it is nothing but a derelict mausoleum housing the promise of a past.

I decide as I pull bits and pieces from their roots, that perhaps I should think in a less sombre tone. True, if something as grand as this being cannot survive in this universe then what hope is there for the rest of us? But then again perhaps….shit.
Being distracted in my solemn thoughts I didn’t notice the jut of bone, and looking down to my arm I wince at the cut I sustained, you’d think an organ once known for bringing life would have more sympathy towards you but that is clearly not the case. A quick dressing of tape and I’m ready to continue stripping small globules from the heart. My bag is soon too heavy to carry so satisfied I took the juiciest cuts, I look over the heart one last time. I wonder if this is what my heart looks like, cold, grey, but just as breath-taking, at a smaller scale anyway.

As I retrace my steps to my initial incision, I hear, faintly, a voice. Low gothic tones and a guttural dialect give away the Cutters, the muffled renditions of their voices however, give away that they are sat outside the beast. I slow my walk, rectify my posture and outstretch my hands ready to catch myself in case I trip on a vein, a stray nerve I didn’t already plunder or a great many other potential hazards. While Cutters are not inherently violent they are very territorial, I doubt they’d both let me live and take with me the spoils of this hunt. More likely than not they’d confiscate my bag, give me one or two swift punches into the stomach and warn me never to come onto their ‘turf’ again before removing me from the premises. They would then over the course of the coming weeks forget my visage and when they catch me the next time the cycle would repeat itself, a self-fulfilling idiocy on my part.

What disturbs me about the Cutters above all else is how they treat the fallen beasts. Take for instance my involvement with the cadaver, I enter with minimal damage to its lifeless form, I do not disturb the age-old skin, I do not strip away at its tired and weary flesh, when I am finished with my job it still stands as a monument to the beasts life; a proud testament of a rich and vibrant existence. The Cutters though, they show the same respect a locust would show to an ear of corn and the result is all too similar as well. When I first discovered the graveyard I almost wept to the sight of these half-dressed skeletons. The disdain these grandiose creatures sustained in their final moments of existence horrified me, all they could leave on this world were their bodies, I expected people to respect that, most do, not the Cutters though. I knew it would be mere hours before the flesh was carved away, chiselled and hewn from the remains to be taken back to the Cutters den, a veritable slaughterhouse.

Finally after what felt like hours I find an exit, the eyes, the Cutters enjoy the plumpest cuts first and so they will be distracted by the midriff of the beast, however it won’t be long until they are upon me. Through the eye I can see the Cutters are already chopping away at the poor graven being,
I say a prayer to the beast, and ask for forgiveness before vaulting through his eye. I fall, shattered glass tinkling and shining in the setting sun’s light accompanies me to the ground; I crash to the earth. A particularly large shard has embedded itself in the soil next to me, and I see my reflection in its aspect. I look so old, so tired, exposed wiring, rusted joints, my left eye clearly dislodged by the fall is hanging to my face by a single cable, and its socket begins to spit sparks from the disturbed wires. I clamber to my feet and sprint away, intent to leave. One day I’ll find the parts I need to fix myself, I’ll have to try again when the next beast falls.

‘On the Path of Beasts’ by Adam Archer : Year 2. A short piece of flash fiction inspired by the work of Annie Prouix

That squalid lad, hands worn and feet raw, good shoes left atop the shelf, clothes ragged as hair, knees bruised and bent like spoons, quick footed, short breathed; a boy who knew the value of footwear – his life spent on the run – who knew not of friends nor family, only creatures from afar, Creed’s mind now set on what to eat; his final meal, that crucial choice, so much at stake.

When butterflies should come to rest upon the path of beasts, their boneless bodies shan’t withstand the gnashing of the teeth. The snapping of those untamed jaws, their minds on naught but flesh.

Upon this path many have died, no turns have been presented. They join the crowds; the dead now stand, humanity descended. These flies take home on flesh and bone, and lay their wretched eggs, the dead now stand, no hope at hand. Creed walks with living death.  

Year 2 // Cocoon by Josh Ferguson

Hey guys! This is my post for this week's workshop. Sorry that it's a bit late. Hope you enjoy!

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All that is left:
butterfly,
butterfly.

It sings and cries
for the dark,
for the moon,

while painting white
the walls of
a cocoon.

Now nothing's left
but a fly,
but a fly.

Year 2 - God Song by James Lancaster

We were raised on the plains, and we rest in the mountains

Ranging from the ice wastes to the desert fountains

My pack lives in the cold lands in the shadow of peaks

Criss-crossed by caves, and sheltered by titanic trees

The scars of our lives are written on our faces

Jaws broken through combat, fly-bitten in forgotten places

Legend tells that the thing you see before your demise

Are sharp teeth, crests, feathers and orange eyes.

To the animals, sky and earth we were known

But the evidence of our rule lay in the stone

Our legend was unwritten, until you came

A tremor in history that would never be the same

Without the strength to claim territory

Your kind wandered migratory

Over time they followed us and one fateful trek

We saw they wore our faces around their necks

Painted on their backs, as a sign of respect

To a king this meant nothing, but to a believer

A God's gaze brought strength to the receiver

On mountainsides and forests you drew power

From the sight of my pack and carvings on stone towers

But time brought a problem with greatness

Is its never forgotten, domination makes aimless

Even the mightiest monsters in creation
And the weakness of an empire is the strength of a Nation

Bringing down prey and leaving bones with no meat

Bring home broken viscera, leaving scars from three-toed feet

I become legend by dragging bodies into trees

Built by cave paintings that make children believe

They worship gods that chase them from their kills

They carry my totem, to protect their tribe from ill

But as they walked past, we paid them no attention.

We practiced what was laid down before their ascension

But as seasons passed and winters blow, i see your number

It grows, and it grows, and when we awake from slumber

Each day a missing beast on the plains isn't seen or learned

Until the hunger sets in from the missing herds

But as we travel through abandoned caves and crevices

The image of beasts real and fantastic, scream reddish

On rocks that last summer were brown and pale

Deep in the chamber embers flicker and animals wail

We ignore and press on, even we feature on this scarred gallery

And the youngest look in awe at their future immortality

But the old teach lessons the young soon forget

Yet as they hurried us home, our future was set

As we outlasted a rugged winter we saw

Plants and trees shake off of the snowy draw

As the spring turned dead soil multiflorous

For the hungry teeth of hadrosaurs and Titanosaurus

After weeks surviving on bones and morsels

We waited to sever their tendons and dorsals

But our prey was big enough for the Gods to feel small

You can't teach courage at the sound of their call

We set out with the young who hoped to learn

And knew that death was the price of what they couldn't earn

And for years we held the secret to bring their end

But something came from which we couldn't defend

Cultivating strong chi from years of hunger

We crept upon them while they lumbered

As they littered the ground with wasted branches

We cut them off at every pass to better our chances

The die was cast and and we called our brothers

the survival of all was dependent on the others

And as we stepped up to flash our fangs

The call of an almighty prey sang

When you can't out fight you outrun

We weaved between legs massing ten tons

As the bushes and shrubs were torn and smashed

Claws and teeth flowed poetically and slashed

The Titan stood full of thunder and torn asunder

Its limbs crushed the chest of the bravest hunter

As our bellows echoed from a dozen sources

It refused to die without dropping some corpses

The sun passed the horizons once or twice

And when all of us had paid our price

As we all bled together into the creeks

We knew soon we'd be fed for weeks

The greatest of all to walk the land still held breath

And we readied ourselves to bring death

We knew we were secure and that its fate was clear

When the neck of the titan was split by a succesion of tiny spears

The blood flow carved a river like we'd never seen

This instrument of death must've belonged to a mighty being

How do you think we felt, dealing with this fallout

From the trees it was your kind who walked out

The same necklaces and tattoos still decorated their frames

Headdresses and torches bearing flickering flames

The same eyes that once beheld us, held us in shame

Though they carried the same sticks that once seemed so meagre

for after many years of work they'd made them pierce deeper

As both tribes sat in awe we both learned a lesson we never forgot

Men had powers that their Gods did not.

The Flaming Emissary - Michael Laniyan Yr 1

Conceived to a pale hand, in a furnace womb.
By myself, l am harmless.
Through the ages, in countless duels am l deployed.
Many kings, my emotionless duty seek.

In my silence, one trembles.
In my utterance silence is shattered, another stumbles.
In my duty some dreams are realised, others broken.
In thoughtful hands am lame, in bitter minds bloodthirsty.

With a raging soul, l bear a piercing spirit.
Deployed, relentlessly l return not unfulfilled.
With shameless spirit, l pierce at will in rage.
At my egress-ion, l leave behind despair.

Solemnly widows say a prayer, in wake of my visit.
Agonisingly, loved ones gather in silence by an open ground.
Bitterly vengeance is conceived in a grieved heart, tomorrows task beckons.
Yielding l serve coldly, untamed by reason.

Peaceful cemeteries, bear witness to my passionate service.
The ages l defy, in fervent fatal pursuits.
Demons trail behind me closely, in hope of gain.
Angels in disbelief, wonder why men in metal their faiths bestow.

Soul nor spirit, none do l possess.
Yet master am l, to many souls demise.
Sheol is mine to expand, till my labour is abhorred.
Thence my steely vigour, in a bone yard is condemned.
 

Untitled - Adam Archer - Year 1

Now, days in which I felt less worn are gone,
‘Neath black swan’s wing, I bed my forlorn thought.
I have no grasp upon myself or mine.
The truth of tomorrow grants me my absence,
And I am of a mind to thank its stance.
I fear thee, morrow of which I remain
Absent and without a hope to give
Without first permission; the truth of today.
I denounce the stars. Their light brings me
No reflection of my glimmered dermis.
Such rays do not penetrate my sullen,
crimsoned waters, for their light serves only
in forming scabrous, clotted purpose.
I run and babble and cut, through the virgin
earth that is my sense. Wearing. Never resting.
I am a passenger upon a path
I do not recall etching of my own
volition, or deceitful intention,
this infertile land in which I course.
In time gone by, I felt not this disease.
I reflect and perpetuate this plague.
I felt a warmth that did not cause decay,
My body did not steam and hiss in day,
And of the night, my surface shone in rays.
Though not with tide, I felt the moon’s embrace
And all would see, for I held all but mine,
For beauty gleamed, as was my purposed truth.
Light hath no tongue; but is all eye.

Year 2 - 'Spring' By Claire Fraser

I thought I'd give you my Spring poem from my seasonal poetry since we're stumbling into spring now.

As I frolic through the lavender field
I stumble upon a sight, concealed.
Amongst the flowers, they did wield
the means to create their golden yield.

Workers dive in and out busily
as they land upon their source softly,
then return to their mother, freely.

And so, the beautiful bumbling bees
quietly buzz in the open breeze,
sailing around the flourishing trees,
like fishermen in vast open seas.

Dainty feet and delicate petal touch,
like stroking frail skin of one you love so much,
cocooning themselves in your safe clutch.

Their fuzzy bodies float around my head,
comfortable with my presence, without dread
they flaunt their stripes, and to their home I was led.
To the ether, I shamelessly said:

If I got the chance to encounter someone of such beauty as this,
I would take them by the hand, and thenceforth life would truly be bliss.