The cat, the lover and the laundry
by Ariadne Radi Cor
Revisiting ancient sites of winter mis-takes
on a line of clues, a cruise of thoughts,
circumnavigating Venus and the lamp beside the golden door, I recall.
My father used to demolish metal
and magnetic fields, manoeuvring cranes
laying his warmer right hand on the spine of the subalpine skyline.
Then he became a star, shooting back and forth
like a drunken cyclist on a dynamo bicycle
slaloming heaven, pedalling to be seen.
While my mother on earth used softener liberally
because the world has been so harsh:
at least the laundry is dreaming.
She used to leave the lamp on, to pretend we were in
but the burglars stole h... Read More ›
The wire of the fence was forged in flame, but the wirecutter in your hand boasts a fresher, sharper fiery intelligence, and in a minute you duck through. The wind pours through the gap with you and as you climb the hill it changes from loud gusty muttering to a sustained yell.
The text from Jules said to meet at the third pylon. The grass is short, kept mowed by sheep, a common sight on sunny days as they traipse these hillsides spinning sunlight into wool. But tonight the sheep are nowhere to be seen. Above you, presumably, the great blades of the wind turbine turn at the very limit of their design – or have they gone past it? You try to look up, but the night is black and the sky spits... Read More ›
E. S. Jones
Play for several unnamed actors (1, 2, 3) who play different versions of the same part, (male or female) and one who plays Jules. The scenes can be played in any order.
A story that has no ending can hardly begin at the end. So somehow I find myself in the middle. Back to the beginning for another rewrite, a new draft, each word becoming permanently etched on the page until flawless. Still lifeless.
Not Julie or Julia or Juliette, but Jules. Plain Jules.
My lips form your name and spit it out with anger. And I have to write you, find a way to put this to rest at last so I will no longer be driven half mad by your face in my head, words reel... Read More ›
At the beginning, there were sparks. Not the metaphorical start-of-relationship sparks, but real sparks, vivid blue and bright as camera-flashes. I was catching the Tube with Archie, taking him back to meet his Mum at Heathrow. He was excited: the excitement of a railway-obsessed four-year-old who had spent the weekend in London repeatedly asking whether we could 'go on the trains now'. Other kids would have been excited by the dinosaur-skeletons or the zoo-giraffes, but Archie was much more interested by turnstiles, escalators and maintenance-cupboards: the grubby innards of the commuter-transport network.
Now was our final time to take the train together. I'd bumped two rucksacks and a bu... Read More ›