I S S U E # 3 5 www.neonmagazine.co.uk info@neonmagazine.co.uk

This compilation copyright © Neon Literary Magazine (2013). Do not copy or redistribute without permission.

All content copyright © respective authors (2013).

Authors may be contacted through the publisher.

Cover image copyright © Imran Khan (i-k.co.uk).

ISSN 1758-1419 [Print]

ISSN 1758-1427 [Online]

Edited by Krishan Coupland.

Published summer 2013.

Subscriptions and back issues available from the website.

2

C O N T E N T S

J e n n y G r a y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 37 Milvington Road Hampshire Saddleback We Always Swam In Rivers

J a c k B r o d i e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Nothing, Shadows

N o e l S l o b o d a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 The Cannibal Affair My Stepfather As A Porcupine My Mother As A Raccoon

S a r a h G r e e n f i e l d C l a r k . . . . . . . . . 1 6 But What Can We Do About It? This Gun Takes Vowels And Consonants (Smug Sister) I Don't Mean To Brag But... Boot Sale Blues Voodoo Dreams Hunting In The Snow

N i c o l e C l o u t i e r . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 1 Coyote Runs

D e r e k A d a m s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 9 What You Need To Know About Your Caesarean Section Paranormal Investigation The Eels

D e b o r a h S e l l e r s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 4 Methodist Hospital What To Do In Paris I Need A Sharper Knife For This

A n n e t t e V o l f i n g . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 8 Pinpricks: Before The Conference Sharing The Row

C o n t r i b u t o r s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 2

3

Image by Jesse Therrien

4

J E N N Y G R A Y

37 MILVINGTON ROAD

I undress for you,

sliding soft cotton from cold, pimpled, skin.

Watching you unfurl. The dizzying

stripes of your blue pyjamas. We touch

in non-erotic places. I learn the hairs on

your arms, the curves of your calf.

Run me a bath.

Alone, I sink with hot relief. You

lean on the door, "Will you

tell him?"

"Nothing happened," I say.

"No,

nothing did."

5

HAMPSHIRE SADDLEBACK

When he was done arguing

he went to the barn, he had a wrench

crooked under his left arm.

(He'd been fixing the tractor

before the fight began).

The sow shuffled, idle in her stall.

He paused a moment, he put his wife's

face on the sow and the sow's

face on his wife.

When he was done beating

he scooped the sausage meat into a refuse bag

and went to bed.

In the coolness of the darkness

his wife curled round

him, her breath warm

on the nape of his neck.

6

WE ALWAYS SWAM IN RIVERS

and lakes, in the coolness

of a Scottish summer.

I found I lowered myself in

fighting the semi-pain, aware

of jagged rocks and the dog's sharp

paws.

You always

dived deep.

Red hair flowering behind you

the murk in the water

made your skin

seem more like stretched

canvas.

I always watched

in those brittle months

you self-absorbing.

You towelling off. Goose-

bumps forming like the ripples

on the loch.

7

Image by Maxime Perron Caissy

8

J A C K B R O D I E

NOTHING, SHADOWS

I was lying alone in a double bed, doing terrible things to a pair of knickers.

The house was the student house of White's girlfriend – the room an absent

house-mate's. Every few minutes an ambulance would roll past in the night,

turning the room into a silent disco, red and blue. Whenever this happened,

she smiled at me, the girl, from the hundreds of photos on her walls.

There was knocking at the door.

"Yeah?" I pulled over the duvet, tucking myself in. The door scraped

over carpet, stopped, and then White flicked on the light. He stood there in

unbuttoned jeans, rubbing his eyes.

"Class night," he said, and I nodded, although I had spent the last two

hours of it pouring drinks into toilets and checking the time on my phone.

"Turn the light off," I said. He turned it off and lay down along the end

of the bed. I waited for him to say something.

"It's so cool you came," he said, head down like he was talking to Betty

Boop on the duvet cover, "I mean, all my best mates up here together. But you

and me, man. We're like brothers. I'm serious - we're like brothers or

something."

"Thanks," I said. "What's up?" He didn't move for a moment and I began

to think he'd fallen asleep. "What's up?" I said again.

"I swear that Irish girl's cheating on me." Just then an ambulance went

past and the lights started rolling around the room. I looked up and took a

tour of the house-mate's life. Hair blown back by a rollercoaster. Some

tattooed boy by a pool. Parties from year ten onwards: the plainer girls

pushed to the sides as she became beautiful.

"How sure are you?" I said, sitting up and feeling the knickers brush my

legs. "Because I don't get the feeling Caoimhe would–"

"I swear she's cheating on me."

"Fine. Why?"

He fell forward onto the duvet and sighed. "Texts."

"Texts?"

"From this Charlie bloke. Work mate. Blatant douchebag, right, clearly

just wants to bang her." He turned over and spoke to the ceiling. "But no:

'We're pals, Tom, he's my pal from work.'"

"Good impression," I said.

"Thanks, I know."

"So what's the problem?" I said. "They're mates; he's a loser."

9

White sat up. "He is a loser. One of those gamers – you know. Probably

likes Lord Of The Flies or something, probably goes to fucking wizard

conventions. It's actually funny. But you should see the fucking texts he sends

her. 'Bought some new boxers you can help me remove.' It's actually funny."

"It's out of her control," I said. "It proves nothing in itself."

"He's one of those gamer boys. Ugly cunt. Works at Costa, right, full-

time – he's twenty-five or something – and then he goes home and plays his

games and has a wank. It's actually funny."

I heard footsteps on the landing. White fell back onto the bed. "But I

swear she's going with him."

"I very much doubt it."

"I swear down she is, mate. I know I deserve it. It's basic karma for all

the times I went with other people." He paused. "The worst was that Sophie – I

shagged her on Caoimhe's birthday when Caoimhe was downstairs."

"You bastard," I said.

"I know. And she wasn't even fit." There was a silence, a long one, and

from far away on another street came the noise of people arguing, a girl

shouting Leave him alone. "Dylan," said White, "Can I sleep in here?"

I sat up. "Go back to Caoimhe, mate."

He stood and reached to lift the covers back; I held them down.

"Mate, you can sleep with me or you can sleep with Caoimhe. I know

which one I'd choose."

The door brushed over the carpet and there she was. Caoimhe flicked

the light on and stood in the doorway wearing a grey dressing gown, no

makeup. Her long black hair was wet at the ends from where she'd been sick

and wiped it out.

"Turn the light off," said White into the duvet. She turned it off and all I

could see of her was a slant of street-light across her face.

"Are you coming to bed?" She might have been talking to either one of

us, or both. "Dylan, will you please tell Tom to come to bed with me?"

"Tom," I said – he was pretending to be asleep – "Will you please do the

right thing and go to bed with Caoimhe. Look at her, for God's sake. If you

don't go, I will." She laughed; strings pulled inside me.

"And will you also tell Tom that I'm not cheating on him with Charlie

from work?"

"Tom," I said. "Come on. Of course she's not cheating on you with

Charlie from work. And even if she is, who cares! She's here now. Look at her,

for God's sake. I think I'm in love with her."

10

No one spoke. From far away came the noise of smashed glass,

screaming. Finally, White rolled off the bed and onto the carpet. As he fell he

took the duvet with him, and I lunged forward to pull it back.

"What was that?" said Caoimhe.

"Nothing," I said. "Shadows." They stood in the doorway and pressed

their foreheads together. As they kissed an ambulance went past, and I

watched the fluttering lights on their faces. For a long time after they had

gone, I could still hear them. I lay there, still tangled with the knickers, and I

listened: to the toilet slamming, to White falling over, and finally to the faint

but rhythmic squeaking that came through the wall.

Next morning the pavements shimmered with broken glass. I had lost my

shoes, and it would be months before they arrived in the post from Caoimhe.

By then she'd have finished with White and would be seeing Charlie from

work. The sun was out and the pavements were hot. At the bottom of the road

White took his trainers off so we'd be barefoot together. We tiptoed across the

city, and as we spoke, about football, films, and girls, I looked down and

imagined the tarmac had turned to soil, the glass to fallen nettles, and that we

were weaving through trees on our way to the rope swing, many summers

before.

11

Image by Miguel Saavedra

12

N O E L S L O B O D A

THE CANNIBAL AFFAIR

"Better to roast and eat him after he is dead." - Montaigne

During the French Renaissance, no

philosophers could have imagined

you and I would one day embrace

anthropophagy on weekends.

Starved by meagre rations

in arranged marriages, we dragged

bony bodies to a secret banquet

in my Toyota's tight backseat

behind the community tennis courts

gorging on a pale, fleshy feast;

we could not stop ourselves

under the leering moon, who wondered

if we would swallow enough to swell up,

float into the sky and join him.

Tantalized by the vicious caress

of your canines, I was ready to give up

slices of liver, finger sandwiches,

slabs of ribs, a breast, a thigh–

until you designed a fixed menu

for every day of the week and demanded

I do all the cooking too.

13

MY STEPFATHER AS A PORCUPINE

Whenever he held me

at arm's length, he promised

it was for my own good,

never reckoning his legacy

was already at work inside–

spikes that lanced my kidneys,

scratched my lungs,

and pricked my brainstem,

making me bristle with spleen

no matter how delicately

the arms of another warmed me

in an unforced embrace.

14

MY MOTHER AS A RACCOON

Dropped us in trashcans

filled to bursting with blessings

during that first lean winter

I discovered my love of colour.

Taught us schadenfreude

strutting across broken lines

on crimson roads that claimed

whole clans of squirrels.

Cared enough for us never

to remove the midnight mask

covering strain marks

scored around her eyes.

15

Image by "sskies"

16

S A R A H G R E E N F I E L D C L A R K

BUT WHAT CAN WE DO ABOUT IT?

It'll run its course

What if it doesn't?

He'll grow bored of her

Bored? He's never had so much sex.

Eurgh. Just pictured him naked.

Enough girls

It can't be serious.

He's sick in the head.

And the dick.

Enough

(Mother leaves)

He must be a pervert.

A paedophile.

She's legal though.

Agreed.

But what can we do about it?

17

THIS GUN TAKES VOWELS AND CONSONANTS

Open fire

in the etiquette fog,

"Isn't he too old" (a little,

or a lot...)

The air is scarred with a bullet tongue,

and the seconds still

as the round of heated sour words

curdle the atmosphere like an underground carriage.

Reload,

"He's nice enough" (for someone else)

More waiting while the medics check for wounds.

The clock hand beats again. The victim

smiles with false precision;

an artist's impression.

No bleeding, but

we've lost her for good.

18

(SMUG SISTER) I DON'T MEAN TO BRAG BUT…

I've walked

the same shifty underpass home,

no different to you.

I've watched the faces

crease between their brows

as they try to work out

if indeed that man beside me

was my father.

But no,

a father wouldn't swagger,

arm rested over shoulder,

brushing the top of my boob.

I've watched the faces

change to dirty looks

as if they've just eaten shit.

I don't mean to brag but...

I took note.

Now I walk home

with the right man beside me.

And I watch the faces smile politely.

BOOT SALE BLUES

Good advice adorns the Sunday tables; cherished, worn and faded.

She snubs the said befores and I know betters, but,

isn't the best wisdom pre-loved?

19

VOODOO DREAMS

Like mist at midnight

Gently travelling its course;

Poison stops your heart.

HUNTING IN THE SNOW

With us you never camouflaged;

you were the siren on the robin's chest.

I'd killed you in my mind

a thousand ways

a thousand times.

She might have loved you, but she didn't fall.

With a barbed lasso

you hunted her.

Forced the bud to open before its bloom.

Your hunting season's over.

Ours is just beginning;

so cover your tracks as you leave.

20

Image by "bjgr"

21

N I C O L E C L O U T I E R

COYOTE RUNS

A hazed dawn. Coyote runs down the mountain. His body moves almost too

quickly for his feet and the muscles in his legs lengthen to keep up with his mass.

Moss-covered rocks seem to burst from the ground; the coyote leaps,

nearly catching his toes. The mountain sheep stand chewing cud and tossing

their horn-curled heads with unease. He passes by.

Between Coyote's gritted teeth is a stick that burns from one end. The red

flames devour the scorched bark and singe the hairs on the coyote's cheek. The

sun rises orange. Each breath burns.

A girl, fifteen, throws her leg through the open window and straddles the sill,

balancing one foot on the loose toilet back, the other on the coiled hose that

hangs carelessly against the house's panel siding. The girl shifts through the

window, then winces at the sound of her feet hitting gravel. She releases a

breath, pulls her jacket over her shoulders and walks, hunched, along the side

of the house.

The forest looms up beside her. The glow from her parents' bedroom

window disappears into the spaces between the peeling birch.

Around the side of the house, past the pond and through the garden

that the deer always get to first. Past the stone wall that draws a line across

the top of the downhill driveway, she's safe enough to quicken her steps,

sending garnet stones in a tiny avalanche down the twisted length of the

driveway and into the dirt road.

It's darker here, the lantern-like house over the hill behind. The girl

stuffs her hands in her jacket pockets and walks quickly, her back straight, her

eyes flicking back and forth across the road in front of her. She thinks she

hears something, a rustling of leaves or a chittering of great teeth. She reaches

down and grabs a rock the size of her hand, curling her fingertips around the

uneven edges. It's all about posture, she knows. The animals here attack only

those that won't fight back.

A car's headlights absorb the darkness, until there is no place that does

not see her. She blocks her eyes with her hand, but is too late to duck. The car

pulls to a stop beside her and she looks in the driver-side window.

"Where do you live?" The voice comes before the face. It is not the one

she was expecting.

"Sorry?" She squints.

22

"Do you live nearby?" A woman. One the girl has never seen before.

Curly gray wisps waver around the illuminated face, the darkness slipping

into the crevices of her skin. The green numbers of the dashboard clock reflect

back in the woman's glasses.

"Yes, just down the street." She feels suddenly known.

The woman becomes clearer, her eyes hesitating, suspicious. Her lips,

white, press together.

"Do you need a ride home?"

The girl shakes her head. "No, no. I'm just out for a walk."

The green numbers move up and down as the woman nods. "Be

careful."

Gravel grinds against itself as the car drives away, leaving the girl in

darkness.

She wonders if she should turn back. How hard would it be now for her

parents to piece together? This street was too small for anonymity.

The next car that pulls up, she gets in, sliding into the back seat, the

right side of her body pressing against a boy who smells like leaves. He passes

a pipe and a lighter and she takes them, filling her lungs to prove that she will

not waste. The boy smiles.

In the front seat, the driver grips the wheel like a chauffeur. The smoke

drifts towards him in a suspended stream. He breathes. A black briefcase rests

on the passenger seat – the one his father will need for work tomorrow.

"How long do we have?" the girl asks, exhaling.

The sun, rising, smears Coyote with orange heat. Thief, it calls. Thief. A vulture

floats in the hot air, rising. Her shadow spreads across Coyote's back and he

keeps running.

The blonde driver holds up three fingers, each representing an hour before

the car has to be safely back in his parents' driveway.

"To Anne's?" the girl asks.

The driver nods without turning his head. She sees the shadowy curve

of his upper lip in the rearview mirror – the wide indent that travels upwards,

bending into the underneath of his nose. Around his silhouette, the road

unravels into existence beneath the headlights. The girl focuses on each stone

that passes, trying to hold them in her sight as they disappear under the car.

For some reason, she thinks this will be possible. Each new stone begins to

disappear faster than the last – or is she imagining this? She can't decide. In

the rearview mirror, the driver's upper lip curls into a grin and the wide-eyed

girl presses her fingers into the leaf-boy's shoulder.

23

Suddenly, her body swings sideways, and the leaf-boy wraps his arms

around the girl's shoulders as their bodies fall first away from, and then

towards the car window. The deer's massive chest seems to pass in slow

motion, a held breath; she swears she sees its heart beat, hears the blue fly

buzzing in its coarse fur.

The girl cranes her neck, desperate to see its face, its eyes. The car bolts

past. She spins around in her seat, pupils pressing into the corners of her eyes,

trying to catch a glimpse of it behind them, but there are only shadowy clouds

of dust.

The car horn blares into the darkness.

Coyote crosses a stream, but does not stop to drink. The tattered shadows of the

tree line decorate his golden fur. Tiny silver fish scatter from the shadows of his

paws. Water splashes against Coyote's shins. His fur darkens and shines.

The car pulls down the tree-lined driveway, stopping in front of the old stone

house – headlights pressing through the window and reflecting off the gold-

striped couch and the mirror that hangs above it – until the engine shuts off. In

unison, the girl, the driver and the leaf-boy pull their car door handles, step

out and walk towards the house, their footsteps like waves on a pebbled

shore.

"You're smallest," the driver says, and bends his knee in front of the

loose window, intertwining his fingers like a stirrup. She presses the sole of

her shoe into his hands and he lifts up, leaning his shoulder against her

hamstrings as she lifts the screen from the window frame. The screen drops to

the ground with a singing saw shudder.

She presses the glass with her fingertips and the window creaks open.

She pulls herself through the opening and drops, landing on a wooden chest.

Across the room, beside the gold-striped couch, is a pianola, the keys yellowed

and cracked.

The boys' shadows sprout across the stained wooden floor, and she

considers not opening the door. Instead, she could run into the next room,

lounge on the Victorian couch in one of Anne's dust-covered dresses and listen

to a record of Mozart while they ran from window to window, watching the

little Tippler–

There's a light tapping of fingernails on glass and the girl steps into the

stream of moonlight that seeps into the floorboards. The blonde driver and

the leaf boy stand beside each other, the latter out-sizing the former so

dramatically that she presses the outstretched undersides of her knuckles

against her smile. The driver tilts his head and taps the glass again.

24

From this side, the lock turns easily between her fingers. It clicks open

and she pulls the door towards her. Their shoes cross the clapboard.

"Remember what we agreed," the driver says, his eyes blue and severe.

The two nod. If one gets caught, the others run. No waiting, no heroism.

"We're in this alone."

They separate. The driver rests on the gold-striped couch, his heels

propped on the wood-trimmed arm while he flips through a photo album

filled with old stamps. The leaf-boy has taken to spraying the floors with white

vinegar, wiping them with a dry-mop they kept in the closet. The girl sits

down at the Victorian cylinder desk and rolls up the thin wooden cover.

In the corner of the desk are three coconut dolls – souvenirs from a

tropical island where their hair was made of the brown bark, pulled after all

the milk had been drunk. Paper rests on the desktop, a pen beside it that had

dried itself of ink long ago. Indentations are made in the corner of the page

where the girl has tried, once before, to bring it back to life.

The hairs on Coyote's cheek are charred and curled tight against his reddening

skin. He slips between the trees, feeling the gods at his back. The wind shouts.

The girl pulls the long drawer until it presses against her stomach. From it, she

takes a pile of yellowed letters tied together with thin, brown string. She tugs

the string's frayed end and lets it fall from the paper in a loose coil.

Dear Anne, the first letter starts. Thank you for the pictures, Dear.

Especially the one with the display of hose. I love you more than I can... The

pencil strokes soak into the paper, lines of confession invisible after all this

time. His name was John Beban, and hers, as they knew her sixty years later,

the woman who lived alone in the little stone house, was Anne Citron. The girl

imagines that John died there in the trench after he wrote this one last dirt-

splattered letter. Anne would, perhaps, take them out and read them from

time to time, while she waited, while she mourned, while her new husband, a

book draped over his face, snored on the wood-trimmed couch. It wasn't that

she never loved him, this second one, but she would often wake up in the

middle of the night, her body soaked in sweat, with the image of John's face.

And when her husband, this college man, tried to comfort her, it was never

enough.

In Anne's bedroom, the girl sifts through the clothes that still hang in

the armoire: long dresses with lace-trimmed sleeves. She drapes a knitted

shawl over her bony shoulders and sits on the corner of the stiff mattress, one

arm wrapped loosely around the canopy post.

25

The leaf-boy starts the pianola and Bach's ghostly keystrokes drift

through the door frames. The girl sighs and lies back on the bed, staring up

into the canopy's dizzying garden and allowing the song to become familiar. A

slant of light breaks beneath the curtains.

A blue bird flies by Coyote's head – low – swooping closer and closer. It pecks at

the skin on his skull over and over until he's sure he deserves it.

He bends between the trees under the cover of leaves. His tail stretches

behind him and the gods reach for it with fiery hands. In the distance, there is

music.

The leaf-boy is standing by the window, overlooking the back yard. The girl

stands behind him. His wide shoulders rise and fall with each breath. He is

silhouetted by dusty yellow light and suddenly seems small – a grain of sand,

an atom.

They are standing together, watching the first hazed cues of sunrise.

The girl slips her hand into his. The back yard's steep slope is smeared with

treetops and fog. It feels as if the house is floating; just one push and it would

be swallowed whole, like a melon.

"We should go," the girl says. The driver slips the book of stamps back

on the shelf.

Outside, a thick fog presses against them, and they wonder what time

it's gotten to.

The car speeds through the fog, streams of white rolling against the

windows. Through the windshield, they see only white. They are in a cloud.

They are flying.

"Slow down." As she says it, the car lurches sideways, lifting their

bodies from their seats. The driver slams on the brakes and the girl's head

smashes into the seat in front of her. For a moment she is lost; the car has

stopped. Her nose feels like it's been pushed inside her head. She tastes metal.

She reaches up to her face and feels her nose, still there, still whole. Her hands

cup over it.

"Let me see," the leaf-boy says, pulling her hands from her face. Staring.

"You're fine, it'll be fine." He smiles.

"Shit, shit, shit," the driver says, stepping out of the car and into the

glow of the headlights. The front bumper is smashed against a stone wall –

broken rocks strewn across the grass of an apple orchard.

The girl and the leaf-boy come out of the car slowly. She can feel her

heart beat pressing frantically against her ribs and struggles to swallow.

26

"Shit," the driver says again, running his hand along the hood. The other two

step forward, fog separating around them like a sea.

In the headlights' distance, surrounded by a mist of disturbed white,

lies a mass. Its midsection rises and falls unsteadily.

"What is it?" the leaf-boy asks.

They step carefully. "A dog?"

Up close, the animal's grey fur looks as if it's been brushed with gold

paint. Its body is motionless, laying on its side, but its eye – tinted brown

around the pupil – follows them frantically, straining into its corner while they

kneel beside the body. Gravel presses into the girl's knees as she runs her

hand against the animal's luminescent fur and the breathing, shallow,

quickens. "A coyote," she says.

The beast's legs begin to twitch and then kick. The leaf boy grabs the

girl around her shoulders and pulls. They fall backwards, together into the

dirt. They sit still, breathing in rhythm while the coyote stands and shakes the

dust from his fur.

He looks at them, and the girl tries to discern anything from his eyes.

The coyote turns and runs, disappearing over the stone wall and between the

apple trees.

The sun rises orange, setting fire to the orchard.

"We have to go," the blonde driver says, plucking an apple and

throwing it over his shoulder. It lands in the girl's lap and she takes a bite. It

soothes her swelling tongue.

Coyote runs. His teeth dig into the burning stick's bark. His cheek boils. His legs

go numb beneath him – mechanical feet. Coyote stumbles over his own pin-

pricked toes. The fire, loosened, leaps from his mouth, tumbling end over end

over end across the sky–

Until it lands in the apple tree's igniting arms. The fire catches, infecting

the orchard with majesty. Coyote collapses on a twist of upturned root.

The car pulls up to the driver's parents' house. The driver rolls the car

carefully into the previous day's tyre tracks. The three get out and follow

silently, ducking behind the car's broken body. The blonde boy tip-toes up to

the side door and waves once before disappearing through it. The girl counts

to ten.

The two grab the largest rocks they can find, and, gripping them tightly

with their fingers, smash the rocks against the car hood. At first, she does it

tentatively, wincing with each crash. The impact echoes through her body.

27

Morning light glistens from the metallic indents; the paint cracks. The girl and

the leaf-boy shout and cackle over the sound of cracking aluminium.

When the lights in the house flash on, they drop their rocks and sprint

as fast as their feet can carry them. Dew damp dirt splatters the backs of their

bare legs.

"Someone's been breaking into that old house down the street," her mother

tells her. "Did you hear?"

The girl shakes her head and sips her coffee. The mother watches her,

and the girl swallows carefully.

Her mother shrugs. "Well, the nephew's taking the place over, finally.

That old woman's been dead for months."

The next time they drive by the old house, a green dumpster overflows

in the front yard – furniture and clothes, the gold-striped couch, the Victorian

cylinder desk. Plywood is nailed over the windows, and a path of pink

insulation litters the grass.

Before the nephew sells it, the three will make it back inside Anne's

house one more time. They will be overwhelmed by the dust-covered floors,

the empty quiet, and they will find a chandelier bead, a photograph and one

broken piano key under the radiator.

When, years later, the leaf-boy and the girl meet by chance on a layover

in Chicago, she'll still be wearing the piano key around her neck. Snow will be

piling against the window, covering the wings of the planes that will take her

east, him west. They will sit side by side at a coffee bar and she'll try to recite

Anne's letters, but stumble over the words. He'll interrupt and say she looks

radiant. She'll comment on how much weight he's lost, he'll say he's stopped

drinking, and they'll wonder how they got away with it all.

28

Image by Ognjen Djokic

29

D E R E K A D A M S

WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR CAESAREAN SECTION

Turning the pamphlet's well-worn and underlined pages,

in the soft green waiting room,

comparing bellies; yours ripe and ready,

mine a dream-filled pillow.

Choosing the one, that was hard,

the right one, my ideal other,

the right hair, right eyes.

Everything must be perfect for baby,

The plan meticulous,

your home town

a twenty-five minute drive,

just over the state line.

Our meeting "Hey, look at us,

how long? Me too."

away from the video surveillance

of the Grantsburg prenatal unit.

"Perhaps I'll bump into you again."

Not too often, enough for a check up,

not enough for anyone to remember

seeing us together.

Double-checking dates.

Not too soon, not too late.

Timing is the key,

like me arriving at my

"What a co-incidence, next to yours"

auto, in the hospital lot,

with you, the ignition, the battery,

all at the point of despair.

30

My Arm & Hammer smile offering a lift.

Hand, clean and red,

on the car door

"Help yourself to some of my OJ"

Ketamine bottle in my purse.

In the trunk,

distributor wires, carrycot,

sterile sheets, alcohol, scalpel.

31

PARANORMAL INVESTIGATION

I am experiencing strange phenomena

in the streets of this deserted ghost town.

I catch your blonde locks flowing

from the corner of my eye

or your skirt lifted by the wind

in the movement

of a curtain at an open window.

I am setting out my equipment

in search of what once was physical.

I have a tripod-mounted

Full-spectrum video camera

to catch any unusual motion:

the corner of lips lifting into a smile,

or the flash of your glow worm eyes.

I switch on my voice recorder,

ask tentatively "Are you here?"

Listen, straining to create my name

in the distorted buzz of white noise.

Wander around

Electro Magnetic Field meter

in my hand,

waiting for the needle to jump.

32

THE EELS

Several people said

they had seen him

clinging to the guardrail,

after the huge wave

had sent him off the pier,

before he disappeared

into the grey water

and out of sight.

The lifeboat and a helicopter

searched till dark,

then again the next day.

Nearly a week later

just off Dungeness

some fishermen hauling

in their net, drag

a bloated rag doll

from the water.

Out from the jeans' legs

and under his anorak,

leaving the body

by various orifices,

some of them new,

the eels.

33

Image by "soopahtoe"

34

D E B O R A H S E L L E R S

METHODIST HOSPITAL

Hopeless

you in the bed

me in the chair

both of us waiting

You became talkative

near the end of my visit

I counted

the freckles on my arms

35

WHAT TO DO IN PARIS

I put on my best Edith Piaf hair

explored the city with a grin

and a red push-up bra

Frenchmen

thought my accent was cute

perfect loaves of bread

jumped into my arms

strong bottles of wine

followed me

through the French Quarter

I knew you'd be napping

when I returned

hungry when I woke you

so I brought you an apricot tart

and didn't tell you

I fucked Hemingway in the Louvre

his breath smelling of scotch and the

garlic potato salad they no longer serve

at Café Lipp

36

I NEED A SHARPER KNIFE FOR THIS

Sixteen yes,

but, if I was

all too willing,

can it really be said

you corrupted me?

To this day

I gauge all men

against you,

even your brother.

To say who was better

is a baby

I won't want to hold.

37

Image by Marcelo Moura

38

A N N E T T E V O L F I N G

PINPRICKS: BEFORE THE CONFERENCE

So you step

out of the three-star hotel

into a different rain from at home.

Numb streets, the narrowing hours.

Search out

a table for one, as you wait–

a single rose, a luminous wine.

But there's no story here.

Just the wait

for the start, just the shivering spell

cast in the clouds so you'll think and you'll breathe

like a doll that somebody hates.

39

SHARING

His dreams are amateur. Maybe,

once a year, a girl;

maybe even one with breasts;

but he can never be quite sure.

She sighs, impatiently, as he confesses–

then explains how she was raped,

yet again, by the entire Red Army

in just two minutes before the alarm went off,

and still had time to re-take

her French O-level and wash the kitchen floor.

40

THE ROW

A swollen day, jabbed.

Soon it will split right open,

to a black place by a black sea,

all outline gone,

just a shuddered spoke

like the devil's tail.

41

Image by Yazmeen Razak

42

C O N T R I B U T O R S

Jenny Gray grew up in rural Aberdeenshire, Scotland. During her school

years she wrote a monthly column for her local newspaper The Ellon

Times. She read English with Creative Writing at the University of Chester.

Since she graduated she has been travelling in Canada and working on her

first novel.

Jack Brodie is twenty-two, and started writing in 2011 after he read The

Rain Horse by Ted Hughes. He lives in Alton, Staffordshire, amid the

screams of the famous theme park. During his degree he took a Creative

Writing module under the novelist Joe Stretch. This is his first publication

Noel Sloboda serves as dramaturg for the Harrisburg Shakespeare

Company and teaches at Penn State York. He is the author of the poetry

collections Shell Games (Sunnyoutside, 2008) and Our Rarer Monsters

(Sunnyoutside, 2013) as well as several chapbooks. He has also published

a book about Edith Wharton and Gertrude Stein.

Sarah Greenfield Clark is just another someone, writing in what little

free time there is. She studies the craft with the Open University and sh e'd

love to do this as a living, but for now she's mostly happy being a mum

and escaping in poetry and prose when she can.

Nicole Cloutier is the Editor in Chief of Lumina. She grew up in rural

Connecticut and is currently completing her MFA at Sarah Lawrence

College.

Derek Adams is a photographer, poet, poetry promoter and sometimes

writer of short stories. You can find out more about him and his work on

his website (www.derek-adams.co.uk).

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Deborah Sellers lives outside of Indianapolis, and is temporarily of the

leisure class, which unfortunately doesn't pay the bills. She lives with

fellow writer Kitrell Andis and their cat who thinks she is a marshmallow.

The most interesting thing she's done lately is seen an Ai Weiwei exhibit.

Annette Volfing is originally from Denmark. She is now an academic

teaching Middle High German literature. Her poems have appeared in The

Interpreter's House, Smith's Knoll, Snakeskin and The Oxford Magazine.

Imran Khan provided the cover image for this issue. You can find out

more about him and his work by visiting his website

(www.imrankhan.co.uk).

44

S U P P O R T E R S

This issue of Neon was made possible by the kind support of:

Lisa Clark

April Davila

Shannon Ralph

Jessica Falzoi

EAM Harris

Richard Fox

Matthew Di Paoli

Simon Collings

Patrick East

Steven Young

Victoria McGee

Noah Saunders

Sandra Hiortdahl

Benjamin Liar

CH Thompson

Danica Richards

Kevin Bannigan

William Wallace

Sarah Purnell

Jan-Kees Kok

Sunetra Senior

Cynthia White

JA Underhill

Tracey Swan

Amelia Ashton

Bryn Fortey

Jon Margetts

Scott Thornley

Charles Thielman

Christopher DiCicco

Woodland Grove Gallery

Neal Holtschulte