Heartsong

How many drops of happiness do you contain? Don't doubt that there are lost treasures waiting to be found within the chambers of your heart. Will you keep them a living secret like memories locked in a box? Do not be the ghost of a bride you once were, confined and defined by your past. Be whole again, explore all that you are. Let me drive the travellers from the heath. I will bring them in from the cold and set them up in the comfort and warmth of a Bedouin tent. They have a drunken three legged dog and a bear that plays the banjo and I defy you not to laugh. They will not scorn you, they will welcome your mirth and share in it with you. Come, bring me my locket in payment I have no need of that silver pebble at my throat and they will not uproot themselves for nothing.

Come now. Head towards the weeping willow at the crook of the river and you will see their fires blazing orange against the twilight, the air spiced with woodsmoke and something altogether more mysterious. I know your mother warned you never talk to the gypsies in the wood but she lived her life in fear of shadow demons, do not be hampered by those narrow lines. Go. Live your chameleon dreams, travel through meadows honeyed with dew, through valleys filled with the song of streams, dance naked under the moon doused in perfume and be true always to yourself for you are peerless and priceless and you will become whole again.

The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan

Mermaids and Marigolds

Wednesday was the worst day. It should have heralded the middle of the week, a peak from which she could slide back down into the weekend and her longed for day of rest. Instead it had become this pinnacle of dread. The Nursery gave out at mid day and the well-shod of Finchley descended on her for lunch, their chocolate-smearing, nose-picking, sneeze-swiping, sugar-sprinkling children in tow. The 'Terribles' were not limited to the twos in her experience, the three, four and five year olds that visited her cafe seemed equally capable of rising to the label, as did some of the Mothers. How was it possible to get cappuccino foam on the lamp shades for goodness sake? And yet there it was, mocking her belief in the propriety of a certain class. But they were reliable customers at least. When many of the other traders on the road had gone under she still managed to keep going and she knew it was these regulars she had to thank. She tried to forget that they were the stone in her shoe and smoothed her pinny, ironed on her smile and braced for impact.
The day did not disappoint: two glasses of spilt juice, four returned (half eaten) shortbread squares with smarties missing ( after all that is what happened when the children ate them) -"Smile" and a near emergency when little Amelia had to be taken to the kitchen with her Mother to empty the tea pot of its scalding liquid before the child's finger could be removed from the spout. Then there was the arrival of the raucous Barnston twins who brought with them their Harmonica and a toy kettle drum and proceeded to 'entertain' their unduly appreciative captive audience. What were these Mothers thinking Sky wondered, other than perhaps "Make it stop!"
When she had opened the tea shop Sky had envisaged a quiet clinking of tea cups on saucers, a genteel kettle whistling in the background of an aromatically steaming kitchen, clouds of pink frosted cupcakes and hand piped delicacies. These wild wanderers swishing in and the constant competition between the smell of bleach, floor wax, coffee and gentleman's relish ( don't ask!) was somewhat at odds with her dream. Now by the end of each day she was desperate to escape the marigold handcuffs and slip into a world of her own creation. The church bells would chime their evensong melody and under their spell she would lock up one life and enter another, forget the marmalade stickiness on the backs of the chairs and suck instead the sweet nectar of life; stroke her cat from whiskery nose to the tip of its tail, run her hands through the bowl of frozen peas, sink into a sloe gin at sunset and wait for her haddock to poach. After dinner she would submerge her skin beneath bath water, rainbow-slicked with fragrant oil and let her cares melt away. She would remember the ripples on the lake surface that she had enjoyed in the weekend's sunshine and imagine her silken skin to be that of an iridescent mermaid with magical powers, one who has never heard of marigolds.

The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan

Put Yourself in Cinderella's Shoes

Autumn curls her toes in the murderous morning's frost and decay, her leaves embroidered with Jack Frost's needlepoint. I set out along the path remembering the feel of shale and shell beneath my feet from that first Summer when we had crunched hand in hand along the sand but it all seems so distant now. Now as I walk the path I feel the emptiness by my side, the ice cracking beneath the heal of my boot, the crust on a creme brûlée. As a child I remember the joy of puddle jumping on these ice-glass surfaces, the innocent destruction that brought a sense of power: to crush the sheet to tiny glass-like shards and watch the splinters spin off across the slippery surface. Now all I see is how brittle things are, the veneer of our reality so thin, so easily broken.
It is a while since I have taken this path through the woods and I do not remember where it leads but I know I must follow it, put some distance between us and our latest dispute. I find I can forgive more easily as the miles extend between us and time serves to bandage my heart. I must lose myself to find myself, talking sternly all the way. Stand on your own two feet Cinderella. Why was that not the moral of the fairytale I want to scream? Can I not make a happy ending of my own? But I had never been taught to believe in myself, to be enough, and so I was bound by fairytale law to rely on you to bring my happy ever after. I am a glass slipper girl: I can dance the first dance and cast my enchantment but I have no staying power without your desire. What lies between us is ethereal, we both need to believe in it to make it real. It is hard to recognise magic in the utilitarian, day after day. But I would be lost without you. If I hobble home to you on lotus feet will you kiss my toes and mend the rift, make love glitter between us again? I may have one last dance to share.

The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan

Satan and Aladdin

At dawn Lucifer and Aladdin made their way down the huge flight of rough hewn granite stairs. They held hands, periodically gazing at each other.
'Where do we start?' said Lucifer.
'What do you mean?'
'You know, the whole 'coming out' thing. I mean, it's not every day the Lord of Hades announces he's gay.'
Aladdin leaned over, planted several rude, fat lipstick circles on Stan's cheek and said, 'You'll be fine.'
'Sure?'
'Yes, sure.'
They continued down the stairs. Aladdin thought of a tune - the humming kind. He mouthed the words, 'Would you do that for me, would you let me do that for you?'
'What?' said Lucifer.
'Just a song. Nothing special.'
'What's it called?'
'Anoint my stump with a kiss.'
Lucifer pushed his hands into his pockets and sniggered, 'I think we've done more than just anoint it!'
'Very funny. Any other euphemisms? How about, "I can't see the wood for the trees"?'
'Aladdin, don't be like that. It really was my first time... I would never...'

The copyright of this post belongs to James Redden

The Story

The story is mottled—unclear, like a rain-stained window pane or the smudged colours of a ripening apple. There are pieces of it, fragments—a book with pages missing and torn corners; incomplete—as it should be, really, or as it inevitably always will be; as a story can never be told in totality: there is always more detail possible to add and parts omitted.
Memory is never the best testimony anyways—now you see it, now you don’t—and possibly never will again. Experience gets lived and lost in a maelstrom of brainstorm, buried in piles of stones like sea-glass pebbles broken and strewn. Sometimes hidden—like a bottle within a paper bag; or hermetically sealed, never again to be revealed. At times, memories glint up from within—glass prisms of broken glass, barely perceptible, but a reminder they are there—were there—and have a story to tell.

The copyright of this post belongs to Monica Jenkins

Responsibility

We are born into a world of life. We breathe living air, stride upon living soil, swim in a living sea. The earth yields plants that grow and nourish its inhabitants.
But we don’t perpetuate life. Like sparks on a leafy forest floor, we ignite and consume; fell trees and smoke the air.
We create death.
We sculpt elephants whilst the real ones are being slaughtered and decimated. We form inanimate objects that don’t require living water to keep cool or clean air to breathe.
The sculptor tips the scales with his artistic thumb and upsets the balance.
We cannot change what is past, regenerate what has perished, or return an accumulated mass to its former state of being.
If we do not govern the Earth, we will be left to guard dead men and sunken treasure.

The copyright of this post belongs to Monica Jenkins

Love

What I invented for myself is our love. You were just you— yet another man on the same earth—another face in a sea of faces—the crowd of skin and eyes and hair—blurred and nondescript, melded together and indistinct.
I heard your voice, and your words enticed. I gambled a seed on you—and within your willing embrace, it sprouted. The bud that grew whispered a promise: I would never be alone- never anonymous. Face recognition would yield identity.
Now we water and fertilize this love with horse manure and bull shit. You offer it as a bursary to subsidize my initial loan. Can we persist in our invented bucolic bliss? I want to know the truth, but I’m scared of it.

The copyright of this post belongs to Monica Jenkins