You said that old cliché as we waited for our bus to Vientiane:
‘If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours’
So I let you go.
You didn’t come back.
Author: nelsonandemma
Tides
(with a little bit of a nod to Anne Sexton)
I have always been there, my friend.
A monument of black rock draped in weed,
armed with sharp gnarly edges:
scratchy and easy to graze.
I’ve always been there, my friend.
I’ve had many visitors come for a moment:
The one that wanted to grieve on me;
The doctor whose fingers traced a trail in the cracks;
Pebbles from Poland that cemented the fractures.
(I really did think that the pebbles would stay –
until the day they were dashed and crumbled away.)
I’ve always been there, my friend.
Long before the tide dropped you sudden alongside.
You’ve stuck around longer than most.
But now I find that you’re edging away
as I stay fixed and unmoving.
Sometimes you edge a bit backwards
but that’s only when the moon is still high.
I know that the time is fast coming
(I’ve always known it would happen)
but in low tides I find myself thinking:
Was I just a convenient shady location?
An anchor in strange, stormy waters?
Too dull really to be of benefit
when there is so much more that delights you much better.
I’ll always be here, my friend
But I guess I will have to let you go.
And I’ll watch as you drift far, far away.
But I’ll be here.
Always here.
A black rock covered in weed and the brine.
Bile
I recently learned that my Godfather had passed away. None of my family had seen or heard from him for a number of years after a messy divorce left him bitter and upset that my parents refused to take sides. He died after having had a total Gastrectomy (removal of the stomach) some ten years ago and clearly had been living under the black cloud of cancer for a long time. His death made me wonder whether those years of anger and resentment had somehow manifested themselves in his physicality.
The room is vast. I have walked miles, days to see him laid semi-conscious on wooden planks suspended by a chain at the other end of the room. When I first arrived, the whiteness blinded me; 
once the door had been shut it had seemed like there had been nothing to focus on until I moved a couple of inches away from the entrance and my eyes fell upon the dark spot ahead. With no landmarks or clocks, it is like time has been suspended but I know it has been eons since I began to walk towards him because my stomach twists in hungry protest and my throat rasps with every intake of breath.
There is nothing apart from the white that billows and sometimes weaves around us occasionally so I can focus completely on him. A shrivelled cocoon that used to house a man. Now it is a mass of bones thinly wrapped in tissue paper skin, with a mop of dark hair threaded grey as a grotesque bow to complete the package. He lies supine, sore eyes facing the cloud-like shapes above us, refusing to make eye contact with me even though I’ve struggled to walk this far to see him.
‘I’ve waited years to see you. To clear this all up.’
He turns his head away to face the decades that await us all. Even now, he cannot bring himself to speak to me.
‘Please, face me.’
He turns and I start in horror as I watch small mites crawl from orifices of his decaying body armed with needles and thread to sew his mouth shut. His eyes rage at me defiantly.
‘Fine,’ I say and look beneath the wooden planks of his makeshift bed. He squirms in anger and resentment but can no longer shout out to me, his protestations fall helpless against the fleshy wall of his gums. There it is. In a large glass bottle suspended in a thick bilious fluid is his stomach. Deformed and rotten with cancer, it was removed a decade before but in this half way corridor it has been partially reunited with him. In fact, the intestines have pushed the rubber bung out and are starting to feel along the chains to find him again. As I watch with morbid curiosity the small intestine finds him and, using his belly button as a handle, pulls open the door to his torso to reveal a blackened liver that looks at me ruefully from a myriad of pustules. Hastily, I pull the bottle out and hold it aloft. The stomach blinks at me and I begin to walk back towards the entrance a kilometer. Howls of anguish echo. He knows. He knows what is about to be said.
I crouch down and look intently at the bottle, twisting it to see how it fares in different lights and angles. The speckles and spores of cancer change tone but always remain at base level, the colour of a thin gruel.
The stomach blinks again and from the lacerated tubes spells out the following tale…
‘When it first happened he couldn’t bring himself to talk to you because he felt as though he had failed at work, at home; it wasn’t how things were meant to have been; he was destined to be the high-flyer, Alpha-Male, self-made man. The disappointment was crippling. But as the years marched on it became harder and harder to turn things around and speak to you. Pride and resentment consumed him. Every event you took for granted; Christmas with your family, another anniversary, was a bitter and empty meal . He fed me only lies, anger and fear that served to starve me. Eventually I succumbed and couldn’t pretend to digest it all anymore. I leaked the years of poisons and they destroyed him. Within days he had me removed and blamed me for his predicament. ’
Guiltily the stomach contracts until I can no longer see the eye. Sadly, I realise this is all the closure I am ever going to get.
Thoughtfully, I walk back to where he now lies half sleeping, his pale lidded eyes half closed as though squinting at something bright. Gently, I return the stomach to its place beneath his hanging bed. Gently, I touch his hand and walk back to 1987.
As I emerge through the door I’m in a large drawing room in Cobham, Surrey. A Christmas tree glitters in one corner, John Lennon is playing softly from the play room down the hall and with a start I see the white again weaving its line across my line of vision. What reality am I really in I wonder and then he pats me on the back, hands me a drink before walking towards his son, Jamie and I realise it’s his cigar smoke, always was, his calling card (the smell lingered for days). Emma 
appears in the doorway holding Georgina’s hand and I have this strange feeling that I’m suddenly disengaged and watching this all through someone else’s memories. It’s like I’m watching him laugh and move with ease around our families and friends as though they are all in a cinematic image and I find myself wishing I didn’t know what happens next. That it turns out differently for us all.
The Airing Cupboard
It had been exactly fifteen minutes since Matthew Mattison had left the devastating note on his mother’s chest of drawers; next to the blackened used cotton wool and parked upright by a fading photo of a dog she had owned for a short period of time when she had been ten.
It had been an exhausting day. He had been forced to recover from at least two tantrums both of which were not taken as seriously as he would have liked. The first had erupted after he had been made to attend a gym class at 8.30am even though it was a Saturday and he had planned to create a lego house for his new toy car that he had demanded the week before. The second had come to fruition after attending said gym class his heartless mother had refused to buy him a milkshake to make up for the inconvenience of it all.
So that was it. He had written his missive.
He was quite proud of it actually. He had discreetly taken a page from his father’s writing pad in his bureau and borrowed not just a thick envelope that he didn’t have to lick to seal, it came with its own glue but his dad’s best pen – which coincidentally he had decided to keep on his person as a consolation for having to sit in the airing cupboard to make his point.
As Matthew Mattison sat next to the aging boiler that hissed and creaked he rested his head against the soothing warmth of the wall and imagined the best scenario that could come from his letter.
Upon reading it, his mother would throw her hands up and wail, beating her chest as her sobs racked her and brought in his father from garden where he was currently picking out weeds. He would rush to her aid and tear it from her both reading and comforting her as the words made their inevitable impact upon him:
‘By the time you read this, I will be gone. It is clear you don’t love me and never will. Don’t come after me, you will never find me. Farewell mother and father and may we meet in Heaven someday. I hope you have a child that you truly love one day. M.M’
It was cramped in the cupboard. Matthew Mattison tried to stretch his tiny frame but all too soon met the edge of the airing cupboard where he had decided to hide. His plan was to hide out for as long as possible to shock his parents into realizing how much they loved and missed him and then dramatically turn up – maybe around suppertime, he was pretty sure Saturday night was lasagna night, his favourite – and then he wouldn’t have to attend gym class ever again and he would get that milkshake because they would be so happy to see him.
Twenty minutes. Why was it so quiet? It was slightly irritating to him that he hadn’t been missed for twenty minutes – what were they doing? To amuse himself he tried to make shadows with his toes using the fractured light that was filtering weakly through the crack between the door and its frame. That soon became dull and he decided to tap out a tune they had learned in Mr. Darwin’s music class the previous day.
Twenty-five minutes. Droplets of sweat were beginning to congregate at the nape of his neck and tickle his spine. Faint pangs of hunger were starting to cramp his belly and he was just about to wonder whether it was all worth it when he heard voices coming up the stairs. This was it!
Eagerly and with a smile broadening across his face he shifted closer to the door so he could hear their reaction.
‘David, are you finished in the garden yet?’ His mother was saying
‘I think so – my back is aching from all that weeding’ his gruff voice returned.
The door to their bedroom was opened and Matthew Mattison who was in the airing cupboard adjacent to their bedroom rolled to his right and placed his hot ear to the wall so he could hear the moment the letter was discovered.
Drawers were being opened and shut and he could hear his mother shutting the windows and closing the blinds.
The sound of the shower in the en-suite was next, its water pattering against the tiles like tropical rain.
Matthew Mattison sighed with annoyance. When were they going to see his letter?
More shuffling and then he heard the shower curtain being pulled back and forth.
Surely his mother would notice while his father took his shower?
Giggles.
This was unexpected. Matthew Mattison’s heart stopped. What? His parents hated him that much that they had read the letter and found it funny? Shocked and perturbed, Matthew Mattison crawled towards the back of the cupboard where it was dusty. His hands were filthy from the floorboards and as he wiped them on his shorts he was stopped short yet again by a groan. Maybe finally his parents had stopped laughing and realized it wasn’t a joke – their son had actually gone.
More groaning. This was more like it. Devastation.
With complacency he relaxed against the wall, happy and comforted that his plan was working. He had just closed his eyes awaiting a more in-depth conversation when he heard the en-suite door bang as though someone had opened it yet the shower was still running. And then, terrible sounds, horrible sounds. The banging of a headboard against the flock wallpaper, moaning and groaning that got louder and louder. Without really knowing what he was hearing, Matthew Mattison knew that this wasn’t the behavior of two terrified and shocked parents but two people…two people….
Horrified, Matthew Mattison scuttled back to the door of the airing cupboard and tried to open it but couldn’t. The noise from his parent’s bedroom was becoming excessive. They were actually enjoying what they were doing. He’d heard rumours of an act mummies and daddies were supposed to do but had never really equated that with his. His mum and dad were far too angry and annoyed all the time when he was around to do that.
Panicked now he pushed against the door.
The bed next door continued to push again the wallpaper
Again and again he leaned his whole body against the door. To escape, for it all to be over. He tried putting his fingers in his ears but it was no use. He banged against the door with one last almighty push…
His mother screamed just as the door gave way and Matthew Mattison fell out the airing cupboard wet and sweaty like a newborn baby.
Silence
And then…
‘Darling, what’s that on your bedside table?’
Rustling as the envelope was opened and read.
‘Oh so he’s gone has he? Well thank god for that. It means I can have you again my sweet…’
Muffled giggles soared through the door and into the hallway where Matthew Mattison lay still on the carpet his eyes open with shock, his mind replaying and replaying and replaying and replaying…..
Mirrors
No, nothing inspired by Justin Timberlake here. Dan and I chose a line that we liked from each other’s work and then tried to turn it into something else. I chose the following line from a poem he had written: ‘rows of misshapen mirrors line the inner sanctum of her thoughts’.
They come and visit her once every six months. Dutifully, they arrive as a foursome, leave familiarity outside in the car park and meander unwillingly across gritty tarmac, through dust smeared and sticky sliding doors and down the green corridor inhaling bleach to where she sits. A monolithic memorial to life. A lump of flesh and bone. A living historical document crumbling at the edges and slowly decaying into invisibility.
She prefers to sit by the window on a high back brown faux leather chair so she can gaze outside at a world she can no longer access. The view provides her with cyclical entertainment as buds burst and then shrivel before they become hidden under hoar frosts that spin spidery patterns across her line of vision. Her ability to sit still for hours like this amazes the others she shares the room with but that’s because they don’t understand what it means to marinade in a mind that is dissipating. A mind that was once sharp and alert to languages, music and reasoning but now lies dormant, asleep in a cloud of dementia.
Her family certainly don’t understand. To them she is now a chore to be undertaken like washing a car on a sunny Saturday morning or defrosting the fridge. Fragmented conversations with her often lead to fraying moods and guilty consciences. Unaware that rows of misshapen mirrors line the inner sanctum of her thoughts, they constantly question and then feign interest when a response comes that is in a tangent all of its own. Their voices slow like a record on the wrong rpm as though that will help piece together the fragments of memories and links that clutter her thoughts. As the hands of the clock make their seemingly soporific journey her family one by one cease to make effort and begin to distract themselves in their own ways. Her adult son sits and picks the hardened skin around his thumb nails whilst idly fantasizing about the woman they passed earlier in the car park; his wife writes out a shopping list while her grandson and daughter idly flick through photos on their phones or angrily text friends they weren’t able to meet up with because they are with her. All are bodily present in this chilly room with its aging television in one corner, frayed and out of date gossip magazines and childish board games but none of them are present. They think they are so different from her but as they sit isolated in their collective boredom they don’t realize they are all the same, lost in fleeting thoughts. The only difference is that she remains unaware of their frustration and therefore absolved of any type of embarrassment.
As the daughter looks up from her mobile, she sees reflected in the glass pane the sliding doors behind her yawn open and a nurse wheel in a trolley piled with boxes, small bowls and bottles. She stops just shy of the giant grey box of a television parked by the shelves of blockbusters and they start to line up; the decrepit somnambulists, each standing patiently awaiting medicating. Some stare at the daughter with watery eyes as she finds herself unable to look away, others stare into space with sagging chins while a few look eagerly at the nurse excited at the prospect of consuming drugs that might help pass the time.
The nurse doesn’t appear to expect their Grandmother to line up like the rest. Instead, she bustles over with a small metal tray pebble dashed with pink, blue and yellow pills in a variety of shapes and the family watch idly as frail fingers flail at the tray trying to capture them. Eventually, they submit and the fingers that resemble claws lift them to the slit like mouth where they are gobbled up. This is the only movement she makes all afternoon.
A movement in the clouds outside posts a weak shaft of sunlight through the window and this draws her son’s attention from his thumbs to hers. Crinkled like pale tissue paper, he finds himself musing on what those hands have touched. From wooden spoons heavy with strawberry jam in the summer; soaking cuts on his knees with iodine; the wheel of their old brown Mini, bales of fabric in her shop; his late father’s hands. He wishes he could enjoy these afternoons more.
Shadows gradually creep along the skirting board, crawling up and enveloping the murmuring specters as they chew up softened medication, inhale the bleach from the cleaner’s mop in the corridor outside and wonder idly what will be served for supper.
The daughter notices that the time has come to move from this place and leave her alone again. With the most tenuous of emotions, the brother and sister say their farewells before hurtling outside into the twilight. His wife is more formal and places warm hands on her shoulders, pressing down as though there is an ‘on’ switch there that will spark her back into animation. It is left to him to tenderly kiss her furrowed forehead and stroke her silvery dry hair to say goodbye before he too retreats and heads back into the waiting arms of the Autumnal air outside.
Part ii:
What does she think about each day as she glazes over and vacantly fixates on the middle distance? If for a moment one could bend the laws of physicality and tune into her like an FM Radio, amongst the white noise and the fuzz there would be this:
The feel of leather against her sweaty palms; the glittering internal night sky of switches, buttons and dials; the smell of oil and before her the abyss illuminated only by two shocking shards of light that guide her through the thick clouds. She is a pilot and the thrill of it makes her tremble as the sky rushes past. This is the first time she has flown at night and she looks to her co-pilot sat beside her and she pauses to examine the deep lines around his eyes as he concentrates on the dashboard. The dim light of the cockpit makes his eyes seem like darkened pools and as he moves to look at the shard of red from the sunset to the right of him it is difficult to tell where his eyes stop and his hair begins. The thrill of it all overwhelms her and quickly she looks back and refocuses on what she has to do to quash the sudden desire she has to reach across and touch the hairs peeking out from the cuff of his shirt.
He is a friend of a friend and has agreed to take her up at night so she can practise. She has been jittery all week in anticipation of this evening knowing they will be alone together for a substantial amount of time and anxious that something might occur to prevent it happening. Now it is and she looks to her left seemingly observing the slivers of light bouncing across the horizon but really her vision is looking at him in the reflection. She wonders if he can tell.
The fractured mirrors of her mind mean she cannot piece together what happens next but in her mind are the next collection of photos, well-thumbed like a favoured photo album and greying with time…it’s not even clear to her whether these are real memories or ones formed by desire and wish fulfilment:
They’re entwined together. She re-visits the feelings of lust, joy and love; the snapshots of him lying on top of her damp and spent; him beckoning her over to sit with him on the sofa so they can read together; him imparting knowledge of topics she had never heard of before. She pulls each out of the recesses, mulling each one slowly and delicately, chewing it over and wistfully swallowing the sensations they bring. Cautiously, not to cause herself too much hurt, she thinks about the moment she fell for him…but also the moment she realised he didn’t feel that way for her and the crushing disappointment that brought. It’s a brief dalliance and after three weeks he has to leave for work reasons. They make promises to stay in touch…
A baby cries out for her and she sits alone, squatting on the floor by the bedroom door, her back up against the wall as tears cool her inflamed cheeks. He never called again. The friend who introduced them plays ignorant when she asks after him, hungry for information but always starved. It was a cruel trick to have been played out; her dark thoughts curse a God she doesn’t believe in for playing with her emotions so callously.
The memories expire as her thoughts are interrupted by the nurse with medication.
Strange how a short affair can stay with you for decades. The man is sealed in a block of ice in her mind – he never aged, he never developed faults, grey hair, a paunch or disgusting habits. In her frazzled mind he remains perfect and she thinks about him every day, seeing signs of his existence in the most mundane of items: a calendar denoting the month when they took the plane up, his name formed out of letters from her prescription, a scrabble word that sums up how she still feels about him, somebody who looks familiar on the television…
These are the thoughts that chase each other through her mind as her family sit beside her. Unaware and disinterested.
Glass Eye
Apologies in advance for the language in this one!
Yeah I know it’s a cliché to be writing letters like this just before I exhale my last breath but I no longer give a shit. There’s some stuff you need to know. Not because you really need to but because I know that that lame arsed nosy bitch of a sister-in-law knows and is probably twitching at home just waiting for me to scuttle off my mortal coil finally so she can get that womble sized ass of hers out of the door as fast as that fucker Usain Bolt to tell you. So I better get in there first.
Here’s the thing. I fecking grew to hate your Ma during that last decade we were together. You had probably already figured that out. Maybe the shredded photos you found all over the carpet like a charity shop rug gave it away, or the punched hole in the garage door after I wanted to hit her so bad I had to take an aim at that instead – I was never that kind of man to hit a woman and you better not be either. Possibly it was the fact those fuckers at social services came round cos some knob end teacher of yours thought we were neglecting you cos your uniform looked a bit dirty. God I could have punched that woman straight in the face; right on the bump of that crone’s nose of hers for that. The only reason you smelled dear boy was cos you never freaking thought to wash unless we told you to and your Ma was too busy messing around with those losers down the club to notice clothes weren’t getting washed. And no it wasn’t my place to do it. I made the money. She made the house run. Or was supposed to. Lazy bitch couldn’t even do that right.
So yea, I guess I’m also writing this an apology. I’m sorry we were lame. I’m sorry we were always screaming at each other and basically forgot you were there. I hope this gets to you in time but I’m not even sure where to send this fucker to – I’m guessing you are still in the same home you ended up in 5 years ago? I’m not sure as I haven’t heard from you for awhile. Your aunt’ll know though. Yea, she’ll know alright.
So anyway, back to the confessional. Not that I want you to think badly of her but basically your Ma was a whore. If it wasn’t that Dan she was hitching her skirts up for, it was Chris behind the bar, Gary who ran the chippie; I think she even boned the neighbor once and I swear to God he must’ve been about 50 or so at the time and she only in her early 30s.
I used to ask her why but all she would throw back in my face was that I ignored her. Spent too much time with my guys down the pub when I wasn’t working. Wasn’t giving her enough attention. Bull. If she’d made more effort I’d have been home every night but what kinda man wants to come home to a stinking cesspit of a home, a woman who smells of some cheap shit cider and who needs to wax her top lip; a kid that needs its nappy changing and egg and chips on the table? Well, that fucker Gary clearly liked it and eventually it was Gary she left me for. Yea, so not only had you been taken off her hands but she kicked me out in all.
Thing is, Ben, I’ve never been the type to just walk away from a situation. I can’t do it and I sure in hell hope you’re like that too. So for six months I lived in this shitty little bedsit opposite my actual home. I could see what your Ma and Gary got up to through the window most times. She sure did look a lot happier and that twisted my guts to see. I noticed a bit of a swell to her belly and used to get all fired up at the thought of her having that prick’s baby – but turns out she was putting on the lard, you know what I mean? Some chicks do that when their happy. It’s like they feel they no longer need to make any effort. Just be aware of that Ben. Don’t ever let a girl think you’ve only got the eye for her; she’ll pack on the pounds faster than an addict shoots up.
Anyway, there was this one evening when I was mighty sore at the sight of them coming back late drunk. They couldn’t even wait to get in the front door before she’s pulling at his belt and spreading her legs for him…in the doorway! The freaking doorway! I hope isn’t too shocking for you Ben but you need to hear it all. Anyway, I’d had a binge with the guys and like they say, that fecking red mist just come down on me all of a sudden. I pushed myself out of that tatty sofa your Gran gave us (you remember it? The one with that shit paisley pattern and covered in fag holes?) and stumbled down the stairs and into the street. I could hear her screaming before I even rolled the first punch but feck me it felt good.
I don’t really remember what I did except I woke up in hospital in cuffs and the fucking pigs all over me like ants. Anyway, you know what I did and I’m sorry, I really am but what’s mine is mine and that fucker Gary had no right, HAD NO RIGHT. She was mine; we hadn’t even got a fucking divorce or nothing. So it turned out, as you know, I did in Gary and your Ma followed him a few days later. The only good thing to come out of this situation, Ben was the fact they asked me if there was anything I wanted from home. So I asked for your Ma’s glass eye. You may not have known this but your Ma was blind on her left side and used this glass monstrosity for reasons of vanity. That thing freaked me out. I once came across it once in a glass in the bathroom. I wasn’t too happy about that Ben so I will admit to teaching your Ma a lesson about that. I only did that now and again when she needed reminding how things were meant to be in the house, you know?
They gave it to me in a box after her funeral. The daft pricks had wrapped it in tissue paper – like it was something precious and fragile! As soon as I got back to my cell, I remember taking out a teddy of yours I brought with me (it kinda smelled of you still…yeah I know…surprising) and ripped out one of the eyes and replaced with your Ma’s. It looked kind a freakish and all but did the trick.
Ben, you need to know that those bastards who keep me in here want to tell you what I used to do with that teddy but I think you need to hear it from me. Some nights I’d stick pencils up its butt and twist until the stuffing started to come out. Other times I scrub the fucking toilet bowl with it until the shit stains looked like a crap hair dye job. Other times they found me smashing it against the wall of my cell.
They want to give you the teddy when I go, but can you do me this one favour? Stick it in my coffin will you? I want to be cremated with that bitch and you.
I love you.
Dad
Martha and the Chemical Rain
Many moons ago, when my parents would come and visit me at university the first time around, they would refuse to use the bathroom in my student house citing how unhygienic it was (student bathroom? Dirty? No!) This little story was inspired by their distaste for all things student…
For my Parents
Martha ignored the looks and tuts as she pushed through the crowd to reach her friend Carrie who was near the front.
‘What have they got for us today Carrie?’ She asked trying to peer over the head of Carrie’s husband.
‘Just Brown today I’m afraid although there was a little bit of Green earlier but that went quick as usual’
Martha sighed. As they inched forward to get their rations from the official at the Rim she pondered over what a struggle life was. She mindlessly thought about how futile things were and how repetitive their days seemed. Every day was the same. Wake up, wave off Richard as he went to work at the Steel Bridge and then walk to the Rim to try and pick up some food for the evening; all the while grieving for her lost children and all of this under the constant threat of Chemical Rain.
Chemical Rain – one of the many blights that made life so difficult. Everyone knew the drill; they got taught it from the first day at school – it was mandatory. The Chemical Rain could strike at any moment but there were clues you could look at for that it was going to happen. It was usually heralded by the sound of clattering in the sky and then the world above would turn either yellow, black or blue depending on the strength of the Chemical and then it would arrive: great drops of foul smelling thick liquid that killed everything and anything in its path. All of them knew that at the first sound of clatter they had to disperse and take cover – usually the Steel Bridge was the safest place but on that day Martha had left her kids at home while she went out to get the day’s ration and hadn’t been able to get back in time when the clatter came. It had been a horrible decision to make; risk going back and taking the kids and almost certainly dying with them or leave them to their fate and head to the Bridge. So she had made her mind up and headed to where her husband, friends and neighbours were gathering on the shiny platform that overlooked the Rim. She could always have more kids. She knew it sounded callous but she also knew she wasn’t alone in having had to make that decision – there wasn’t a soul in their community who didn’t know somebody who had not had to make the same decision she had had to and so she wasn’t vilified for it…she just had to deal with her gnawing sense of guilt.
Pushing these thoughts to the back of her mind, Martha arrived at the edge of the Rim. As always she was struck by the sheer size and beauty of it. Even though the official was talking to her as he arranged for her rations to be handed out, she had half an eye on the landscape that engulfed his tiny frame. Hundreds of feet of white dropped down to the cavern below to where the Central Lake lay still. It looked cloudy today and there were marks of grey and black starting to speckle the bottom. The community had long ago worked out that the murkier the water was the more chance there would be of Chemical Rain. Every day there were regular clouds and thunder that deposited food into the lake and this was always followed by the waterfall. The waterfall was spectacular. Thousands of cubic metres of water rushing from the cave just from beneath the Rim. It made a tremendous noise but the spray also gave the children something fun to frolic in whilst young lovers would stop and hold each other admiring the size and ferociousness of the foaming water as it gushed into the Lake. And then as soon as it started it would end and everyone would go back to their normal routines. Such was the climate that their community was governed by. Martha played with her bottom lip thoughtfully wondering how long it would be until they have to run for cover this time and whether she ought to stay close to the bridge – she had a feeling it would be today. As she picked up her rations she headed over to the Monument of Thankfulness to pay her respects to those in the community who risked their lives daily traversing the Rim in order to glean the riches from the Lake, their only source of nourishment. It was fraught with danger because there was usually only a short period of time between food becoming available and the waterfall starting. Those that chose to do this for a living were looked after extremely well by the officials as of course, if you got caught by the waterfall, that was the end. The Monument was covered in the names of those who had sacrificed their lives so that the community could live and it was law that once you had collected your rations, you paid your respects before going home.
As Martha headed back she sensed it before it actually began. The clatter. It was quite quiet and in the distance but grew discernibly louder very quickly. As usual it was pandemonium. Children started crying as their mothers swept them up in their arms and began scurrying towards the Steel Bridge. Martha turned on her heel and followed the crowd but as always it was a bottle neck. The officials had to tried to solve the problem by opening up new routes to the bridge but there were thousands of them trying to get to the same place. Normally Martha was able to squeeze her way past and wave at her husband who knew officals who were able to lift her up out the crowd and deposit her safely on the bridge. However, she couldn’t see him and as the seconds ticked by a knot of fear began squeezing her. In a panic she darted farther right hoping that most people would have gone to the main pathway by the Rim but the farthest path was full of schoolchildren being led up by their teachers. She was dithering when the darkness fell. Martha and the rest of her community stopped instinctively and looked up. It was black today – the deadliest of all. Martha watched in horror overcome with the fumes before the liquid fell. In the few moments before she was obliterated Martha surprised herself by smiling. She was going to see her children again.
Above the Rim and the Chemical Rain Mrs. Wainwright twisted the cap back on the black anti-
limescale Domestos bottle and placed it back behind the drain.
‘Richard! Your toilet was a disgrace as usual! No wonder your father refuses to use the bathroom when he visits you.’
And with that Mrs. Wainwright bustled out slamming the door behind her.
Sofa
This was borne from another one of those afternoons spent with Dan and Ashlee in a cafe…I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time in Cafes in Ho Chi Minh City! I then read it out at a book launch for publishing house Ajar later on at an event held at Saigon Ranger, D1.
Two cushions used to sit side by side
With complementary colours and textures
Of a strongly meshed fibrous weave.
Once vibrant and so much desired
they’ve started to stretch out and fade;
much like our feelings, I fear, my friend.
Zips that held it together
burst now and vomit forth out
all that’s stuffed up and furious inside.
That stain on the back of the left one?
It’s a puddle of tears, angry coffee, spilled bubbles
that together spell out my integrity.
Two cushions that move further apart.
One’s been scratched to pieces by the cat;
one’s got a seam that’s unravelling
with colours that no longer connect
as if it’s been burned by the sun;
while the other spent too long alone in the dark.
I think it’s time we replaced our shamed dirty sofa,
bedrock of our so called great institution
cos the springs have all gone from the bottom
and the cushions no longer make sense.
International Women’s Day
Women’s Day is a BIG THING in Vietnam and this year I took part in events held at Saigon Outcast in District 2. I decided to read the following as a speech even though it was an article I had originally written for Word magazine.
Recently there have been charming little sayings in Asia that …..‘A hundred girls aren’t worth a single testicle’ (Chaliand 1969) and ‘one boy, that’s something; ten girls, that’s nothing’ (Le Thi Que 1976). Hard to believe then that all the way back in 40CE the Trung sisters (responsible for establishing what is now parts of Hanoi) were already fighting a cause that still rages on today; that of equality in the face of criticism from those all too keen to trot out the ‘Feminazi’ taunt as a defense mechanism.
Being a Feminist does not mean A) you are a necessarily a woman B) you are a misandrist (not sure what that means? Well I bet you know what a misogynist is so work it out) C) in a bad mood at the world in general. As Caitlin Moran pointed out so concisely and clearly in ‘How to be a Woman’: ‘Feminism is just equality. Would a man be allowed to do it? Then so should you.’ Thank the lord then for Vietnamese women such as the Trung sisters who symbolise the struggle for independence in general. In fact, if you are in any doubt about the pivotal part played by women in a country where traditionally they were regulated by ‘dieu’ and meant to be the weak ‘yin’ to the masculine ‘yang’, then just head down to Bui Vien and amongst all the vest wearing travelers you’ll spot shops selling old propaganda posters with heartening slogans such as: “Bao ve va xay du’ng buon lang’ (to protect and build village) emblazoned across images of women holding guns…and children, lending a whole new meaning to the term ‘multi-tasking’.
It is on such a fighting note as this that International Women’s Day takes center stage. Not only was it responsible for kicking off the Russian Revolution back in 1917 but it has evolved to raise awareness of women’s issues throughout the globe. And if you are one of those people reading this tutting and rolling your eyes to the ceiling wondering when women will stop whining then take a minute to ponder some of these statistics: 1 in 5 girls never finish primary school in the developing world; 14 million girls (some as young as 8) were forced into marriage in 2014 and 970,000GDP is the difference in earnings between men and women in the UK Financial sector. Similarly, one of the men involved in the appalling rape and murder of a young woman on a bus in Delhi back in 2012 is currently trying to overthrow his death sentence. He can only demonstrate bewilderment at the ‘fuss’ the rape has caused. In his own words he is documented as saying: ‘A decent girl won’t roam around at nine o’clock at night. A girl is far more responsible for rape than a boy” and “Housework and housekeeping is for girls, not roaming in discos and bars at night doing wrong things, wearing wrong clothes. About 20% of girls are good.” Until these numbers and cultural attitudes improve; there is a continued need for events such as International Women’s Day.
It’s all too easy to focus on what is negative but International Women’s Day and events such as ‘One Billion Rising’ acknowledge that there is much to celebrate. Celebrities such as Thu Minh and Thanh Bui are currently touring the country to raise awareness about the endangered Rhino and Mai Kieu Lien, Chairwoman and CEO of Vietnam Daily, was listed in Forbes ‘top achievers’ in 2013. It would be nice, however, if when you googled ‘Vietnamese Female Success’ more links like these came up rather than ‘How to Date a Vietnamese Beauty’ and others of their dubious ilk.
Even if, in some misty eyed version of the future, it is no longer necessary for institutions like the ‘Little Rose’ to exist, I do hope International Women’s Day continues, even if just to retrieve ‘cunt’ from its position as the ultimate profanity to one that celebrates females instead.
Frog with One Eye
My parents have retired to Brixham, Devon and when I was back in the UK last summer, my close friend Zoe came to visit us. We spent a very wet afternoon in nearby Dartmouth and came across a poor little frog with, surprisingly, one eye.
For Zoe
I wonder what Dartmouth looked like to you
the day we found you on the path in the park.
Was everything halved to you?
When we peered at your speckled and slimy green back
Did you only see half a face?
Did you look with an envy the colour of your skin
At our blinking curiousity?
Frog with one eye
You were the most original thing I spotted that day
Amongst the clothing boutiques
The chain stores and the boats;
the London contingent on their weekend away.
I felt a twinge of something like regret
not pity
as we went on our rainy way
that I didn’t have the courage to lift you
and hold you up so you could see
Dartmouth in its 360 degree scenery.
Frog with one eye
I hope whatever happened to you
You managed to hop back somewhere safe
and didn’t end up squashed underfoot
Cos someone with two eyes didn’t notice you
Whimsical Emma 
