'Wood End' by Tanaka Sasha Ngwenya

They say the first is always special. If I think it through that remains the same for you, my memories of us together are not a distant dream but remain as clear as day. A hot July Afternoon that is, where me and my brother would splash around in the inflatable pool, both of us horrible swimmers but here… here we were kings, we felt like Olympic royalty in the garden, our garden. Time is precious, each second passes through my fingers like sand on the beach. I get the same feeling when I flick through old pictures that sit for dust to collect, I remember this green bush to your right - my left. No matter the season it remained firm and evergreen, I always thought it would stand the test of time, I hoped the same for us. I would leave you, spend hours in the park - a green oasis surrounded by a concrete pile. It was my slice of heaven in an afternoon filled with cereal, bottomless baked beans and loud cartoons. Not that I’m complaining, I loved all of that. In my whole life I don’t think I’ve come close to feeling as content as I did in those afternoons. However, every growing boy just needs to exercise, stretch his legs, and I did that, oh boy did I do that. Every thrust on that rusty swing gave me a rush of endorphins which made me feel I was King of the world, the squeaks of the rigid metal work swarmed the small haven, but they didn’t bother me as I was busy conquering my own world. Walking back to you, meant leaving the oasis and stepping into a dystopian cul-de-sac, where everything was the same, the houses, the cars, the shops and streets just looked tired. Everything felt slow, it may have just been the heat, frying my young brain but I remember things felt a lot slower back then. I drove by that same park the other day, but I did not dare enter, some childhood memories are best kept just like that - in your childhood and not ruined by a mature brain that can no longer see the magic in the simple things.

A young man’s dream. You were the spark that kept me up at night, you and the exorcist video that haunted my mind. It’s crazy to think I almost set you alight, bless the old lady that came to the rescue. Saved Me, You and Max, it wasn’t the first or last time we flirted with danger. I remember smaller fires I was able to extinguish - microwave flames thrown in the sink. What was I thinking, was I thinking? All I know is I felt safe within you. But I was a ticking time bomb, I needed space before I could do any serious damage. Ultimately, I think you drove me to want more, the things I went through during our short time together moulded me into who I was going to become, an ambitious man with his head in the clouds - feet firmly on the ground. When I lost my scooter, you were there. When my friend broke my favourite game and I had a sinking heart, you were there. Even though my world fell apart, your walls remained firm and I was able to piece myself together. That bond between a boy and his first is engraved into the book of life, it’s no wonder I still think about you after all these years. So, I find myself parked on your street once again, caught up in never ending rain washing away our past. The evergreen bush is weathered, the lawn no longer full of life. My head can’t keep up with the fast pace surroundings of the busy roads, new bus stops and the different looking houses. I struggle to paint my memories on this new rough canvas. It was a mistake coming back, you knew that, but I had to find my heart.

'Muddy Boots' by Adam Archer

I find myself on ground that gives,
Wild grass up to my waist,
From this point the green cascades,
Yet somehow feels misplaced.
I follow suit and meet new ground,
My steps meet unaged gray,
With each firm foot I’m more detached,
Into the darkling day.
With all footfalls, I miss the earth,
My eyes now meet the ground,
I scan the plain, for signs of life,
No evidence is found.
To take a step into the gray
Removes me from the green,
I shall not meet, that darkling day,
But somewhere in-between.
On ground that gives, I know my place,
I meet earth in mutual trust,
As animal upon the face,
My place on land goes undiscussed.

'Keep your money, I want change' by Asher Downer

The beach has a muted green tone to it today, almost as if I’m looking at it through sea-glass. The fogs perches on the sea, enraging its waves as they force themselves on top of the pebbled shore. The streets are crowded, yet silent. Groups of friends laugh hysterically, families chatter about their day at the seaside, until they see me. Hands into their pockets they go, hats down, shoulders up, no eye contact. Is that what your mother taught you to do?

The sea is welcoming to some, calling out to tourists in the summertime and the locals in the winter. It is unforgiving to others. The ones that huddle in shop doors to hide from the coastal winds, the ones that use the deck chairs as beds, the ones that continue to sit outside the pier no matter how many times they are chased away.

Ding.

Another penny in the can, I don’t bother to look how much. Copper surrounds copper. No silver.

The world hurries around me. Ignoring my pleas for change. For sterling or a revolution, I am partial to both. I light another cigarette. The air is so cold today that I can see the breath leave my lungs and dance in front of me. I huddled further into the balled up position I have formed. I can’t see anyone on the beach. They move in packs here, like a group of seagulls. They scoop up the leftover coins from the penny shoves and fly back to their corners. But you can’t escape the canopy of eyes that watch you every day. The eyes are ready. They wait for you to slip up and make a mistake. They offer you warm beds and staple meals. But we don’t trust them, they will tell on you.

Some people choose not to stay hidden. They busk in the frost or huddle dogs under their blankets and claim the food is for them. Sometimes they will bring their children out to beg. Their small talons being able to pull at your heartstrings and puppet your hands into your pockets for loose change.

No food, just money, my sign reads. Yet I am surrounded by cold chips, coffee and leftover pizza. Given by the hands that want to help but can’t see the flattened cardboard box and thin blankets. Free fish and chips won’t buy me safety.

'Progress' by Kim Wildish

My town has changed a lot since I was just a youngin’, running my mouth and getting into my troubles. It was an old place, for the generation that had lived in it before, tall grey buildings that were daunting to look at – they might have had some significance back then, but now they’re just an ode to what was. A grounded reminder of the grey skies that hung above, the kind that affects everybody’s mood, the kind that left any and all under it in a permanent state of sadness. I still remember how it use to be, when I was a kid; the rundown church that wasn’t a place of gathering or worship, unless you were a rat or didn’t have a home to call your own. The rundown and underfunded library, where Ma used to take me and my sister to complete reading challenges, that came with its own metal detector for all the times people had pulled sharps or whatnot over some disagreement. I found that out when I tried to pass a toy Ma managed to afford for us through the holes in it, and the alarms wouldn’t stop blaring throughout the building. I wasn’t a criminal, just a kid, not that it mattered (kids made great skag mules though.) It was the way our town was, everybody was always ready to think the worst of everyone.  The places in this town that were meant to represent what human society was founded on – religion, community, education, etc. – failed.

I look back on my town now, as I walk through it. And damn, the years have done it justice. A place that use to terrify me and subjugate those I knew, seems to have got a whole lot lighter. But that could just be because I got older, less scared and created my own brighter memories in it. The streets are the same, the old routes I used to walk as a kid are familiar, but things have changed for the better. That old church has been reformed into a bar, it’s a gathering place once more, perhaps not in the way powers above intended, but it should count for something. Right? That cesspool became the place I decided to make a brother out of best friend, during an afterhours lock in. It still has rats in the cellar though. The library, while still a little run down and underfunded, had a bus station built close to it. Where drug dealers and addicts hung about, has gone back to being a place of education, as well as a hangout for groups hopping from here to there. It still has the metal detectors, but I think that might just be because it’s hard to take them out. I really don’t know. While me and my sister don’t need reading challenges anymore, it’s still a place we’ve both sat waiting for friends and the like. Something about seeing a pal walking up brightens the day of anybody. I’m blessed I got to see it often.

It wasn’t just the buildings that had changed. I walk down the street to blue skies, the kind of blue that makes everybody happy. The kind of happy that can’t help but leave you thinking of those special people, even the ones that you haven’t quite figured out how special yet – though the fact they’re coming to mind probably says a lot.  

People are so concerned with change, that concern is what stopped this town from changing for the better earlier. It’s something I find myself thinking on whenever I walk these so-familiar-you’re-on-autopilot streets. It can be scary, you can’t know what’s on the other side. Different chances, different prospects, maybe even different friends. As cliché as it sounds, change is ultimately inevitable and something very important, something that shouldn’t try to be stopped. Instead, what you should really do is hope that as things change, the people that plague your thoughts often; the brother you never had, the friends coming your way, that someone you may have just figured out meant a whole lot, anybody you’ve decided to let into your circle of near fatal happiness and human indecency, change and progress with you.   

'Prestigious Horror' by Harry Clark

It's a weird feeling, sitting in a trench for the first time. That nagging sense that you're next in line for slaughter, much like a pig and not the lamb. Not many people are inclined to feel anything towards a pig, why should they? The other folk here are rolling around in horrendous conditions just like them, the dirt is a murderous playground to the Enemy and a woeful obstacle to us. 

I've been in a trench for the past three months, occasionally switching out for respite but it's lost the relief aspect, you dread the damp and the wind's howl funneling through the manmade pipelines lest you yearn for a harsh existence. I was yearning for my Edith's silken mousy hair and the way her cloudless sky blue eyes held me in time. The government had sent us away but home was still beckoning us back. The false hope of glory and prestige charged the core of many young men enlisting back home, London's churches, halls and pubs were stacked to the brim with droves of men looking to serve their country, not to mention the boys, barely out of school, jostling for a way to fight. Back home, it all seemed too glamorous compared to what was happening on the other side of the channel. 

Did I tell you about the day the sky crumbled with ash?

'Gustosi' by Tamar Knott

You slip through a small door and down a rabbit hole, away from the dreary grey. When you re-emerge, you have been transported to another world. Bright blue butterflies flutter out of cups of warm pink tea. A circle of cloud filled with colourful crystals floats in the centre of a glass cabinet of glass cakes. A rich sound drifts through air; smooth with just a little kick, like cinnamon, dark chocolate and the slightest hint of coffee. On the table next to you, a couple in flowing white and orange gowns swim side by side, lost in their own little world.

'A Journey Home' by Katie Thomas

This dirt I stand on is old, I long for a younger world.

 

I can slip between these trees and find myself among new woods, of one hundred acres. 

 

Or I could drift, and dream of storms for eighty-four days, until I reach lion’s shores.  

 

Perhaps what I’ll find is a world of green; glorious countryside. Hills smothered with cows, what secrets they must hide.

 

And while I’m at it, I’ll befriend a fox, one like no other. I’ve heard from the locals he’s rather fantastic. 

 

If I get lost I can take the train, where the tracks could chase me back to wherever I call home.

 

I could always part the tides, walk the deserts, do all things and even have time for a revelation. 

 

I venture far, with every step I fall deeper; swimming, drowning in an infinite sea of twenty-six. I keep my breath held, it’s rushing and churning, and I’m coughing and spewing. Pink faced, blue toes, white knuckles, tears streaming,  

 

Knock.