'The Blender-Man' by Liam Acornley

When I first started to live in Brunei at the age of three, my house was across from the main road of the country. The main road. It began on the border to Malaysia and travelled through the capital of Brunei, Bandar, before looping around the country and ending in Kuala-Belait. My family and I lived on the KB end. When I finished kindergarten, and had started to go to primary school, every Wednesday, my mother would take me in the car and we’d travel down the main road into a town called Seria, maybe half way between KB and Bandar. The reason we made this trip every week was to go to the market that established itself there every Wednesday from 12:00 until 17:00. Rain or shine the market was always there. In fact, the only time the market was closed was during Ramadan, for obvious reasons. I loved the market.

The market was located in the parking lot of a community centre; it was close to the middle of town and across the street from a cinema / bowling alley. When it was raining, if my mother got too antsy about me getting wet she would often buy me a ticket to see whatever was showing and go do the shopping, waiting for me by the entrance as the movie finished. When it wasn’t raining or the only things showing were too violent for me, I was allowed to walk with my mum through the market, to me at the time it was massive. Each stall consisted of four towering metal poles holding a tarpaulin above a table, stocked to the brim with exotic fruits, vegetables and nuts. Mostly it was stuff you can’t get here in the UK; bitter melons, drumsticks, Chinese cabbage and lotus root (which I hated the look of), to name a few.

Stockpiles of bananas or sugar-apples were held in plastic milk crates, the colours often clashing with each other and the tarpaulin above. Meanwhile a hoard of nuts would be lying underneath certain tables. You’d ask for a certain prices worth and they’d measure it out for you. If you wanted meat or fish you’d have to travel to the centre of the market, as there was a tent set up for holding the generators vendors with freezer or fridge units would bring. My favourite stall was near the middle where the meat was kept; it was uncle Fuad’s stall. He sold perangs to farmers, and was a close family friend. Sometimes I would sit behind his stall whilst my mum went off into the market, and he’d tell me stories of when he was in the army or chuckle as I tried my hardest to husk a coconut with my bare hands.

My favourite fruit, which we would always get if I went, was a bunch of rambutan. Rambutans come from the same family as lychees do, so they are very similar. The best way I can describe their outsides is as a hairy lychee with splashes of yellow mixed into the red. The insides are similar too, a milky-white pearl of flesh held within an easily peel able skin. Rambutans are much less sweet, and they lack the watery texture the lychee has. Its seed is coarse and rough with a consistency reminiscent to a trees bark, so it’s important you either remove it or eat around it. My mother on the other hand would always get a bag-full of mangoes, she would use them to make chutney throughout the week which she would try desperately to have me sample. I hated, and still do hate mangoes though, so that never happened. We would always pick up a dragon fruit for my dad too. The insides of which always reminded me of chocolate chip ice-cream, white and soft with small black seeds dotted throughout.

We would take the same route every time we went to the market. We’d move around the market as if it were a spiral staircase, moving inward gradually as we bought from as many stalls as possible. We’d find uncle Fuad talking with the fishmongers near the middle, and he’d always hand me a coconut that he had saved for me. He would have cut into it earlier and drank the sweet nectar, but keep the flesh handy for whenever I came around. My mother would then with great disgust (she is a devout vegetarian), acquire some mince for my dad to cook with. He took control of the kitchen every Friday so my mother could go and play bridge with her friends at the Boat-Club.  Then we’d  head to the Blender-Man’s stall.

The Blender-Man’s stall was unique; it was different to the rest of the market. One could be forgiven for thinking it wasn’t a part of the market in the first place as it was near the entrance of the community centre and not in the parking lot itself. Unlike the other stalls the Blender-Man had a tent, it had a bead door that would chatter in the wind, and I would often play with it before we entered. The tent was always the same whilst the market stalls changed over time, some stalls would buy a scale as the years went by to measure fruit, some incorporated ice-boxes to keep their fruit fresh, some even bought fans that they would place on the table, its cable jacked into a neighbours freezer unit. There was always a table in the middle with a blender atop it, a very small one, maybe the size of a bedside counter. Then there was a freezer unit in front of this table, its glass cover revealing a huge assortment of different ice-creams within. Finally there was a chair behind the table.

We’d enter the tent and he’d stand up from his chair, arms akimbo and look expectantly at us. You’d hand the man a bag of fruit you bought at the market, pay him two dollars and say if you wanted syrup or not. He’d take the fruit and prepare it next to the blender, he’d take out the rambutan seeds, or skin the mangoes, or husk the coconuts, and then he would chuck it all into the blender. He’d add some ice, milk and syrup if you asked for it and blend it for a minute, he’d stop the blender and look at you again, you then had to pick an ice-cream from the freezer unit and he’d scoop it up and put it into the blender. The Blender-Man would pour the contents into a bag, hand you a straw and sit back down, waiting for the next customer. He would put it into a bottle or cup, but only if you brought one with you, otherwise it was a plastic bag. I can say with a clear conscience it is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, the flavours of fruit and ice-cream melded perfectly together.

Two years ago I returned to Brunei, my dad’s contract with Shell there was running out, and I was about to head off to university, so I knew it might be the last time I would be there. My mum had changed her market days to Thursdays, but I asked if we could go on Wednesday so we did. We arrived and I followed her around like I used to do, if she strayed from the path we used to take then I subtlety nudged her in the right direction to make sure the illusion wasn’t broken. I was a kid again, back home away from the cold wet UK, without having to worry about my grades, or getting a job or a steadily dwindling love life. We met uncle Fuad again and talked for what seemed like hours, he asked about my A-levels and IGCSEs, I asked him about the stories he used to tell me from the army. As we began to leave he passed me perang, he said he was sorry he didn’t have a coconut for me and he hoped this would make us even, I still have the knife in my drawer in Scotland, much to my parents displeasure. Finally, once the shopping was done my mother headed for the car and I asked if we could see the Blender-Man. She said he wasn’t there, he had stopped showing up the same month I had left for Scotland. So we got in the car and headed home, mum asked me if I wanted to stop at Jollibee and get a milkshake, I didn’t.

That night, I watched the Simpsons on Star-World with my father, a lychee smoothie in my hands. It tasted awful, the syrup made it too sweet, I had put in too much milk. It was naught but a grim slimy and sugary paste and when I finished my cup I went back into the kitchen to see if there was any more left in the blender.

"To the Moon and Back" by Alex Pearson

(Preface: Common sense does not apply)

Simon’s feet padded quietly along the empty street, his bare soles collecting small bits of gravel and dirt as he walked. His eyes scanned the road set out before him, careful of broken glass and cracks in the pavement, just like his mom always warned him. The houses that surrounded him were dark and silent, their perfectly groomed lawns glistening with the dimly lit dew. Above him, the moon dangled in the sky like bait on a hook, and Simon’s eyes widened almost as if to mimic it. The light washed everything in silver, glinting off the sides of garters and illuminating a common scene with mischief and magic. Porches dotted with toys and rocking chairs that seemed to play by themselves. Somewhere not far off he could hear the neighborhood raccoons finding their dinners, the telltale scratching, squeaking, and clattering bins the only thing interrupting an otherwise mute night. Elegant cars lined the pitch street, their reflectors glinting in the stretching distance, seeming to go on forever. Tucking small hands into his Power Rangers jacket, Simon sighed dramatically and kicked a stray pebble at his feet, a pout building on his mouth. 

After a sour talk with his mother about bedtime, followed by a shouting match and a few mistaken choice words, the boy found himself very grounded. Sent to bed with a stern word and the most frightening expression his mother was capable; disappointment, Simon stewed in his frustrations until he finally gave up and made his decision. 

He was going to run away to the moon.

So, after writing a hasty note reading “Going 2 moon, never coming back” and rolling out his window, he set off on his journey, only to remember he’d forgotten to put on his shoes.

Too late to turn back now.

He doubted he’d need shoes on the moon anyway.

Taking another look at his home, Simon replayed the fight with his mom in his head, and bitter tears began to build, obscuring his fairy-tale filtered eyes with a slightly darker lens. Bewitching the suburbia and turning everyday objects sinister, his childhood kingdom became consumed with doubt and umbra, its friendly familiarity foreign in the night. The perfect rows of mailboxes cast shadows that looked like soldiers, and chipping picket fences echoed prison bars. Streetlamps paving every side glowed a burnt yellow, casting just enough light to make the dark look threatening, like eyes watching from just out of sight.

Fear started to accumulate in Simon’s gut, and he tightened his hands in his pockets.

Time to go.

Using the back of his sleeve to wipe his eyes, Simon steeled himself and snapped his legs together, turning his face to the moon once more and closing his eyes.

When he opened them again, an entirely new view greeted him. Before him laid out long-reaching dusty plain, dyed grey and white, only disrupted by the oddly shaped dot in the horizon. He’d done it.

Simon broke into a face-splitting grin, and proceeded to jump excitedly into the air, which he soon realized was a mistake in zero gravity. He flailed about until he was able to regain his footing, and soon found himself crouching in relief, his panic at the thought of being carried off into space sobering the boy up. Observing the ground now that he was so close to it, Simon could see small particles of dust floating just above the surface, fluttering under his body whenever he moved. The shoelaces on his light-up sketchers rose gently in the atmosphere and stayed there, softly hovering. A giggle escaped his lips and he ruffled the floor, enjoying the way the moon powder danced around his hand. Truly a child in the largest sandbox ever, Simon played for a good while before eventually growing bored and going off to explore.

Invigorated by the new environment, Simon started by running. Well, if you could call it that. Haphazardly bouncing and stumbling along, the ecstatic boy “ooh’ed” and “ahh’ed” at each and every warped rock, deep crater, and raised mountain of soil. The smaller craters he used as slides and hideouts, while the larger ones he dragged his foot along, writing his name in the fragile exterior. Making use of the lack of gravity, Simon also worked on his throwing arm, gathering up all of the vaguely round shaped stones he could find. When he got sick of watching them disappear from view, he headed for the strange dot he’d seen in the distance upon his arrival.

It seemed to take years to get all the way over to it, but once he saw the frozen-state red, white, and blue star flag, Simon decided the trip was absolutely worth it. Immediately he pulled the pole from its spot buried in the moon and proceeded to play astronaut. However, because he didn’t pay attention in school, he could only call himself Buzz.

So busy playing with the planted symbol of patriotism, Simon almost didn’t notice the enormous sight hanging in space before him.

Almost.

With a single turn to the side the entire Earth laid out before him, huge and mighty and totally overwhelming. Awe loosened his grip on the flagpole and Simon let it float there beside him for a moment, too distracted by the sight of his home world. He stared at it for ages, longer than he’d played or pouted, longer than he took on his homework.

Something must have dawned on him as he gazed upon the Earth, because in the next few minutes, Simon was just a crying little boy again, the words “momma” and “sorry” dripping from his mouth in unintelligible sobs. He closed his eyes and let loose a wail.

Then before he knew it, he was being gathered up in familiar, loving, wonderful arms, being kissed and fussed and shushed. His bewildered mother cradled Simon in her arms, standing in her dressing gown and slippers in the middle of their street. She pet his hair and whispered words of comfort to him, smelling unfamiliar smells in his clothes and clutching him closer. This was where he belonged. This was his home, and this was his mother and he loved her to the moon and back.

'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?