NEXUSAutumn / Winter 2009

NEXUSAutumn / Winter 2009

Welcome to the first edition of UWIC’s Creative Writing

magazine, Nexus. Dictionaries remind us that Nexus has at least

two meanings - it can represent the process by which

things come together, as well as referring to the centre of that

connection. It seemed a perfect title for a magazine seeking to

bring together and represent creative writing across the

university.

This Autumn / Winter 2009 edition showcases writing from last

year’s First Year BA (Hons) English & Creative Writing

students, in the Department of Humanities, Cardiff School of

Education, UWIC. A Spring / Summer 2010 edition will be

available in the New Year.

Dr Spencer Jordan

sjordan@uwic.ac.uk

Wild Roses

By Ben Liddle(BA English and Creative Writing, Year One)

Dear Rose,

For many years, I have been looking, without knowing it,

for you and those like you. I ache for your scent, the

texture of your deep red skin. Thoughts of thorns

torment my dreams and �ickering at the corner of my

waking eye, your vibrant colour �ashes. You have

inspired a thousand poets, brought down kingdoms,

seared the souls of lovers and had your petals scattered

in the air by those whose hearts are glad to beat.

I have never known you, Rose. You slip out of my grasp

each time I come close. Often I crash through bramble

thickets thinking that I see your perfect beauty, only to

discover yet another empty crisp bag, forgotten, faded

red and wrinkled by the ravages of time. Can time have

meaning for you, reborn each spring to bloom then die?

It does not matter, for if you fear to die then come to

me in fear and rest your head, if not then come with

glorious laughter in your heart and stay with me eternal,

until I go to ground and you bow your head beside my

place of rest.

I beg you come, inspire, respire, breathe your life into

me, as I will breathe into you. Take me away and sing in

my heart.

Yours forever

Author.

01

Dear Author,

I have tried, God knows I’ve tried. To each and every Man

(not men alone you understand but your entire race) I

have been fair and shown myself in desperate hope that

one day you understand. I can do no more than this. Each

poet is so inspired not in my name, but in their own. My

beauty is diminished by the page, for while a rose is but

a word, a word is not the Rose. No kingdoms have I killed,

no lovers saved.

But I have watched. You clamour for me yet you will not

work. Your hands are petrified by soil and so you seek a

false economy, a rose in nothing but the name, no

earthly smell, no thorns, no drops of honest moisture on

the leaves. Where are your sonnets to the worm, that

miracle? Would your amour not accept the tender gift of

half a bag of soil, a flint? And why must you make me

frail? Love’s not frail, and nor am I, nor weak, defenceless,

apt to die in frost. A rose is hard, protected, unafraid. We

grow from stony ground and still we reach great heights.

Damn you and damn your inspiration. If you love, then

love, if you must fight then fight. But leave me be.

Forever,

Rose.

Two shots, a second apart, �re out.

The heft of the blast, and the subsequent ringing drones, reveal the

o�ending weapon to be a 1902 Holland and Holland double ri�e. Set

against the drabs of winter, seasoned with drizzle, one would not

commonly �nd fowl out on open �eld, braving their heads to the

indecisively mourning sky. A weathered man of age strode intently,

though not forcefully, towards his target. The hound sni�ed curiously

over the carcass, excitedly pawing its �nd in anticipation of its master.

As the gentleman bent to gather the bird, the hound continued to

actively investigate the fowl until, quite unreasonably, the man batted

the dog’s snout with his now un-mittened hand and sighed to himself.

As bleak as it indeed was, Brian knew of no other place he would rather

be. For him this landscape, this life, was all he could ever envisage, all he

could ever manage. Times were once where he had many great plans to

travel to the south Americas. But he was young then, and besides,

wheels were much easier to set in motion when the component parts

were still well oiled and eager. As he turned to leave he took a moment

and stood. The hound eagerly nudged his knees and made a low

whimper.

alright lad. i ken still walk by m’self fer now. you’re as old as me remember.

As Brian went to close the lock on the ri�e the hinge seized up. It

was probably the cold. He slowly rubbed the hinge and tried again.

Stranger

By Jamie Watts(BA English and Creative Writing, Year One)

03

Gradually the ri�e was coaxed into closing back up and locking into

place. The ri�e was well maintained for its vintage age and was only

now showing its years; slowly yielding to the weathering e�ects of the

moors and the routine of use.

From behind lightly frosted panes one could see the dense wooded

coverts to the south, just past the four-hundred acre �elds which

belonged to Brian. The small lanes were almost too deeply set into

the scene to be easily noticeable from the elevated view as the

sides now ventured outwards and gave the impression of a single

hedge dividing the �elds. The table was set with implements that

looked as if wrought, crudely, from the very mines to the north of

them. The plate was of a design long since faded and the placemats

depicted scenes that were now �ne period pieces. Soup was both

hearty and practical in this season and Brian settled down with his

bowl, a plate of fresh bread and a large pot of tea. Bits of ham

remained on the side as Brian periodically passed a piece to the

hound sat expectantly at his side. As he raised his mug to his mouth

the enamel coating re�ected deep orange licks teasing out and falling.

The hearth was lined with stu�ed animals - minks, ferrets and stoats all

stood cautiously, eyeing the scene around them with mock faces of

innocent wonder. Placing tobacco into the pipe had always been a

most pleasing of tasks and Brian sat back in the chair and observed his

countryside. As the clock chimed six times Brian raised the match to

his pipe and embraced the smoke.

.........................................................................................................................................

The sign for the M74 said four miles to Hamilton. It was curious that of

all the places that had red rings around them in the AA guide this was

the only one where you were required to actually mentally calculate

the miles travelled to the miles necessary in order not to wind up on

the main road to Glasgow. The window was open but Anna still refused

to light up. It had been a good while now and it would help keep her

mind clear and focused, but mere cravings weren’t going to win over at

a time such as this. All the signs, all the names, all the endless

calculating had taken far more energy than Anna had ever supposed

she could reasonably handle. On top of this Anna was hungry. She

hadn’t eaten in over a day and the lack of fuel was setting in.

The Range Rover’s handling had irked her from the very beginning and

was only now becoming more �uid and bearable. There was such

strength in the engine and the re-assuring grumble it made. It felt to

Anna as if she could feel the very weight that she was directing at

sixty-eight miles per hour and she allowed a small smile to tease her

face as she thought of the di�erence between this car and her old

Metro. Clutching her stomach Anna let out a groan and suppressed it.

It wouldn’t be long now after all.

The wipers were irritatingly constant and fought staunchly against the

rhythm of her syncopated music to the point where she �nally had to

concede and drive in near silence. It then occurred to her that without

the music Anna’s mind was drawn, irreversibly, to the scrutiny of her

route. Soon she knew that an opening was waiting for her and that

failing to turn o� she would have to carry on for miles, resulting in the

ultimate demise of her trip and the end of everything in sight. Weren’t

places out of the way more signposted? Surely it made more sense to

provide greater directional assistance for a lesser known place. It was

too much hassle to dwell on this however, and Anna �nally made the

turning right as the scenery changed instantly. The well-levelled

motorway gave way, periodically, to gravel-kissed tarmac, to greying

pathways and �nally narrow, mud-touched lanes. On each side the

trees hung down into the path as if patting encouragingly on the

shoulder of the hedges, like a proud parent zealously inciting its child

to take the �rst step. As the contrast of the sky gradually dimmed,

Anna’s intense scrutiny now turned on a place to stop the car for the

night. Past a small brick bridge she had found an agreeable patch on

the edge of a farmhouse and gently turned the ignition o�. She

reckoned that the slowness of the drive and the large wall had

su�ciently concealed her presence from anyone who might inhabit

the house, and settled down in the backseat and slept.

Anna never questioned her place in the world, she only knew of her

humble trappings in East Anglia. On the road up to Scotland she

quickly realised that she had absolutely no real idea of what she

wanted from the trip. It hadn’t really occurred to her at all since she

05

had packed a rucksack, jumped in the four by four and left. Life in

Norwich could be so insular, so paltry. Her pedestrian family wallowed

in their middle class success like a �nely trimmed privet hedge,

contented with what they had, meekly accepting of their constraints in

life.

The stirring of the grouse roused in Brian a singular moment of

appreciative wonder. It was here, at the break of dawn, that he truly felt

alive. He recalled reading that a certain part of a person is only ever

awake in these hours, a sort of heightened consciousness, as fresh and

invigorating as any dip in the lake. The inviting smell of gun smoke and

its enveloping nostalgia always brought Brian’s mind back to the steam

trains of his youth, passing from Glasgow to the Cotswolds every year

to see Nan and Gag and enjoy the tales with tea that always coloured

every Autumn.

Much work was to be done if the cottage and the grounds were to

remain inhabitable. The south �eld required more work on the soil, the

barn needed a new door with hinges and the fence to the west of the

grounds required mending after an unlucky incident involving a rushed

businessman and an oncoming tractor. This was all menial of course,

and Brian was just glad of the yield this year. The stores were suitably

stocked and the winter looked to be an easy, relaxed one. Even the

pheasants had made a re-appearance. This pleased Brian most of all for,

although shooting fowl was a favourite pastime, the pheasant

produced such beauty that he could never raise a gun to one. For Brian

the bird represented all that’s most divinely elegant in nature’s design.

It looked so proud and yet so frail. This quality provided Brian with a

tough, but thoroughly satisfying, task of making sure these birds could

comfortably inhabit his grounds. The task of keeping the natural

predators, such as the fox or the stoat, away from the fowls’ nests was a

welcomed hobby and a source of responsibility. This winter would

indeed be a treasured one for all of its myriad opportunity.

..........................................................................................................................................

By the time Anna rose from her sleep the owner of the cottage had

already been up, come back from the town and was mowing the lawn.

The plump lady looked over to the Range Rover just as Anna was

taking her in. Her tired indi�erence contented Anna enough to start

the engine and promptly leave without a word. Being back on the

lanes was exciting, for, as last evening’s drive had presented tension in

abundance, this morning had been relieved of all stress. She could

causally navigate the country lanes and take in the beati�c scenery.

With the windows down, the air was allowed to envelope Anna. She

was bathed in the warm, stu�y air that only came about as a result of

rain the previous night, and Anna embraced its stu�y electricity.

It had come as a pleasant, wanted surprise, when it occurred to Anna

that she hadn’t seen a sign for the last hour or so.

She had �nally left it all behind, quite literally. The range rover knew

little of the wilderness, being used as the transit system to town and

back for �ve years, and the suspension willingly took the now uneven,

unkempt lanes. Snatches of starlings whistled minutely and dissipated

almost before they were heard, and as the leafy growth became more

prominent and evidently more diverse, Anna sighed and eased o� the

pedal to slow the rover down to a hum. She had taken a break o� to

the right and into denser foliage, mirroring all of her anxiety in the

tense swaying of the reeds between the trees.

As Anna stepped out of the rover she took a second look at her bag

and decided to leave it on the passenger’s seat. She held the cardigan

sleeves closer to her chest and breathed out slowly. The chirpy air had

a sense of both purity and expectancy, as if by being here Anna needed

some reasonable explanation as to her unwarranted presence in the

realm of the old world. Her eyes passed over fern and branch with

equal wonder. Below the din of nature’s smaller denizens lay an

altogether more throbbing murmur. The face of this foliage masked a

stream of escalating drive. The trickling in the highs, caused by

shallows over pebble, juxtaposed a triad of atonal �ourishes; the

steady displacement of larger stones at depth rumbling below the

perfect harmony of the stream.

The �rst thing to do would be to �nd a place deeper in, which also

retained a suitable size to account for the girth of the four by four. A

spot picked for coverage by greenery and visibility over the �elds to

07

the north, or to the left of Anna, provided both practical sentry

elements and sheer landscaped beauty. It really was spectacular. The

elegant chaos merged perfectly with the inalienable liberty at work

a�orded by such seclusion. Anna recognized, in the small network of

snails making their way to a large crumbling mass of bark, the strive for

life which had forever tainted whoever had savoured it before. At the

base level, where instinct is the very dictator of all and any desire, life

seeks to preserve, not just the bountiful fruits awarded after a life’s work

in struggle and modest restraint, but the very journey embarked upon

to reach such a triumph. Anna saw now that whatever happens from

there on in would only move to carve upon her life what the world had

intended; her life would be moulded by that which she had sought to

leave behind.

............................................................................................................................................

Lunchtime for Brian came at twelve o’clock sharp every day, and in the

warm weather he would sit outside by the barn on his old bench and

survey his grounds and its inhabitants, both welcome and unwelcome.

Slugs were the gardener’s nightmare, but for Brian the trouble came in

the form of weevils, imperially attempting a conquest of his fruit crop

each week, only to be held o� by a staunch rearguard of pellets and

routine extermination with a shovel. Brian respected nature, even

feared it in part, but over many seasons an abject dislike for weevils had

developed from the sheer problem they presented and often caused.

This task would wait for after lunch, however, as Brian considered it an

almost relaxed task, best saved to work o� the lunchtime meal.

The sun shone generously Brian thought, as if the bad weather needed

as much of a break from pelting the �elds as Brian needed from

weathering through them. As he bit into his Ploughman’s sandwich he

looked out to the town. The waves of slate quaintly re�ected an old

passer-by and the church steeple always took on an almost divine glow

under the scrutiny of harvest’s greatest benefactor. If it kept up the

crops might last that bit longer before the winter months; all the better

since any perceived excess could be sold o� to the market for a fair

price. Thomas ru�ed over Brian’s trouser leg and eagerly awaited

dividends, purring at his side and glancing up expectantly. The sun

soaked all energy out of the land and Brian reckoned he could a�ord a

nice afternoon smoke, and possibly a small nap, if the weather was

going to hold out quite as unexpectedly well as it had been.

In the distance Brian could hear the calls of Monty. He only ever barked

in the �elds when he had found something he thought might interest

Brian. After a small trek down hill to the lowermost �eld he came upon

the dog, whimpering the way he does when he had found a bird. The

fowl, in all its enticing beauty, was alone in the roots of a slanted alder

tree. Brian could see that the bird was on its last evening. He walked

awhile until he came across a patch of wild�ower and uprooted a

knapweed, laying it down beside the root nest of the pheasant. It

seemed curious to Brian that a bird so elegant and strutting in its

prime could die under a tree like this, with not so much as a mate to

see it safely to its last sleep. Brian shu�ed o� and made his way back

up to the house. Monty stayed beside the tree a while, whimpering,

and then looked up to his master and slowly followed on.

...............................................................................................................................

The opening on to the �eld required a small trip through the stream

and up onto the other side. It didn’t look hard, but then, shallows rarely

did and the currents that forced the water down on to the main river,

like whip-wielding jailors to unwilling slaves, could be singularly

misleading. With a brief spark she seized up her will and plunged down

into the river and, having gained a foothold in a none too threatening

current, began wading to the other side.

The �elds were indeed large, and one could envisage a small

encampment set up in one of the corners so as not to attract attention.

In the wilderness of the lowlands could anyone really own every piece

of land? It surely didn’t seem plausible. At that moment a few cockerels

rose up in a kind of jagged alarm and as Anna turned to see the

direction in which it came, a large hound was already making for her at

quite a speed, barking and charging in equal measure. Anna was on her

back and looking up at the dog’s excited whimpering, nudging her

sides and head with its snout as though it had found downed game.

It was around this time of a Wednesday evening that Beryl from the

09

bakery would phone. Their conversations were muddled, like an elderly

couple fumbling to negotiate the gap between platform and train.

why’ve ye been a stranger? she would ask. i’ve nae been. just been a wee

bit busy is all, he would reply. Then she would go on for what seemed

like the whole afternoon at how he’s never busy and has no one to be

busy with. And it carried on like it every week. He knew she wouldn’t

phone this week. Their last conversation, in the town, outlined that if

Brian didn’t show some bottle and take her out to the Motherwell fair

then they needn’t bother themselves with each other any longer.

Brian stirred at the sound of Monty’s barking. It was likely that the old

hound had come across a ferret or stoat or even fox, though Brian knew

it was far more likely that a starling or even fowl had become injured

and wondered into the �eld. Getting to his feet Brian noticed the large

mass beside the dog and reckoned upon a poacher. The last one was

back in sixty nine and ever since, Brian had gotten no trouble from the

like again. He was after the bulbs that had been planted three weeks

before, which at the time struck Brian as being odd, but nonetheless a

nuisance, and �rmly apprehended the fool and took him to the

constabulary personally, earning a pat on the back and a pint of bitter

in the Moorhen’s Trail. This one was female though, the hair was too

long, too fair and they were not at all quick on their feet at that. In fact

Brian was amazed she had even bothered.

monty. monty come away boy. good boy monty. good lad

oh i am sorry sir i didn’t realise this land was owned i swear it sir.

please if you let me go i’ll not come back i swear. im not here to steal. or trespass

is that reet. then hay cum ye know the exac’ way ac’oss the river o’er there

then. tell me that yun’ lass. monty come on boy. come away

oh i didn’t. i mean i really had no idea that there was a way across i just came

looking. looking across the �elds. please sir

aye ye look tay yung t’be getting ye wee self inta any mischeef. what ye be

doin’ here then on this here land. it’s not open te the public ye know. they cannae �nd

it anyway. way out here ye know. hay comes ye gone an’ foond it then

oh i dunno sir. i mean. i was just wondering really

aye well ye lucky that it was me who foond ye and not some o’te others. nae as

understandin’ as me ye see. come up to me wee abode and i’ll �x ye a brew.

From over her shoulder Anna could just make out the outline of her

Range Rover beyond the foliage, across the stream. She kept looking

towards Brian, searching his expression, still undecided as to whether

he was angry or not. She could hardly stop herself from noticing the

strain with which he apparently walked and wondered why he had no

cane. There was a tacit understanding there.

so. whats it like up here. seems awfully cut o� from. well. everywhere.

s’why i like it so much. cant hear nobody cant see nobody. its perfect really. i

ken grow me own vegetables an’ apples an’ pears. though not so many pears lately.

sell any left over. along with my barley crop in town. and from there i can get

anything else i need. other than that i can go to the moorhen’s trail for a pint or a

lunch of a sunday when i feel like it. nice place. cosy. especially on sundays.

sounds lovely, it does. do you live with anyone

only monty here. who you’ve met already. and thomas me cat. me wife left

years back.

oh. oh well must be peaceful then. I won’t trouble you for long. i’ll go after my

tea. thanks again

It wasn’t that Brian disliked the girl, much the opposite; she had fair

hair and her petite face recalled features to his mind that he thought

he had lost to all eternity. No, she seemed a nice young lass. It was

simply that he had all but lost the knack of being in the company of

young women. He felt like a rune, etched on the side of a monument to

o�er an insight into the ways people of the olden days used to live. Of

the people in the towns and in the Moorhen’s Trail Brian only

conversed with the older gents and Beryl in the bakery on a Thursday.

His experience was worn and half perished.

As they entered the small cottage Anna caught her breath. It was as if

she was in a museum exhibition. Every aspect of the abode gently

wheezed antiquity. The only sign of electricity was the classic radio in

the corner, the crude lighting system and a telephone. And yet, for all

of its modern inadequacies Anna found herself being drawn in by its

old brass charm. She saw photos, grainy and greying, of men and

women on promenades, a slender man in a military uniform. Anna

could feel the unpleasant rising feeling within her bones and tried to

take her mind o� of it by admiring the animals by the �re.

11

They settled down at the table and methodically stirred the tea. In the

corner of Anna’s eye, behind Brian’s chair, lay several long stocks of

wood, all broken in half in the corner of the room as if left for reserve

�rewood. She felt unsure of where to take the conversation, her

obligatory subjects already covered on the way up. She resigned to

banally plug away at the beauty of the landscape and perhaps ask more

about Brian’s life. After many superlatives in regards to the beauty of

the nature and natural history of the setting Anna decided to ask about

Brian’s past, how he came to own such a cottage. Brian revealed that

although his father was indeed a farmer this land was brought up and

tended by Brian himself, having no real passion for livestock farming.

That business was best left to better hands. Besides, that job required

more attention and Brian liked nothing better than to tend to his birds,

his crops and to his shooting. It wouldn’t be practical.

so what brings ye way up here then young lass. ye seem a bit out of yer way if

ye get me meaning.

well. well i guess. i guess i came to get away. leave a few things behind

hmm. hmm i see. people getting ye down. they can be like that

She told Brian how long she had been on the road and how she

planned to settle down up here for a few months. Brian listened intently.

They �nished their tea and as Anna got up to leave she embraced Brian

and couldn’t help thinking of her father, and equally embraced the

thought. Brian felt a rushing sensation from his toes to his head and

back again and nearly tumbled.

thanks. thanks a lot. i needed it.

nae problem lass. if you’re up here again don’t be a stranger.

They waved and Anna walked back across to the gate and down the

road to the opening into the woods where she had left the car. Brian

kept chewing over his �nal words to the girl. Don’t be a stranger. He

saw the car leave and then looked to the town. He stepped back in,

over the welcome mat, and into the living room. As he looked in the

kitchen he saw that the two mugs were still on the table opposite each

other. Then he turned and picked up the phone.

Flight

By Abigail Heatley (BA English and Creative Writing, Year One)

The lights get brighter each year, I’ll swear it. There would be nights

where I’d wake, the sofa stealing my senses and the warmth of my own

tiny body caught in its creases while the television still buzzed with the

static of Christmas cartoons; I could kind of remember faint voices

whispering to leave me in peace and hushing the others’ spongy

footsteps all the way up the stairs; my chocolate milk had been taken

out before it could get cold. The tree would ignite my oily eyes,

every time. It was a part of me. I’d helped to decorate it like a bride and

dress it in pictures within pockets, glittery as the stars at this time of

year on the �lms we’d only watch on Christmas Eve. There were a few;

too many to watch all on one night. We’d try it anyway. And I’d fall

asleep on the sofa.

Only a week until Christmas, and I’d done everything to bring it

closer; bought presents, sent cards, made lists; I had already learnt from

the clock in my classroom that time is ignorant and won’t listen to you,

no matter how sincere or reasonable your wish is, like my parents for

the best part of the year. They’d always have something to say about

my impatience. I think time must �y when you get to their age; they

didn’t seem to be very excited at all, or to care all that much either. It

was as though it hadn’t hit them yet. It would though, like the snowball,

on Christina’s cheek.

Christina had been talking to Tom when it happened. It was a

13

mistake on her part; in Newsdale Primary no girl talks to a boy unless

she’s pulling his hair or laughing at him, especially not on her own. Her

�ngers were tangled within each other, like seaweed, and her eyes

seemed lost, or jammed. They couldn’t even make it to his

sneaker-white face without falling back to her shoes, which were

probably wet anyway. Snow is like secret rain when it �nds its way

inside your shoes. I think she must have known some kind of

reprimand was coming; she looked nervous. Then it happened. A

slushy globe of mud-stained snow �ew at her, like a bird to

breadcrumbs and planted a wet one, right on her cheek. Tom giggled,

not aloud, and Christina ran with her tears in our ears. I don’t get what

she was so upset about. It’s not like there was any long-lasting harm

done; everybody knows that snow just turns into steam and goes

anyway, after a bit. So would her tears, come to think about it.

“Little boys,” my mum would sigh. There’s a di�erence you know,

between boys and men; men never cry. Only children, and sometimes

women on New Years Eve. Men would dance like metronomes, ticking

clockwork, rhythmic, for sure, only a little withheld, a little boring.

Women on the other hand did cry, and danced with more repose; like

sloshing wine that was sure to spill. They’d turn a deep red at each

other’s whispers and seal their vicarious delight with a telling hand

over their mouths. Children, I’d picked up, were more like women, they

wouldn’t grow out of womanhood for a while; and some never did.

Only, sometimes a man does cry. Even when he shouldn’t. My dad

had taught me this, years ago. They were taking me onto an aeroplane,

for the �rst time ever; my parents. They’d told me that we would �y, like

birds or angels; I’d asked questions about heaven, clouds, and the

practicality of it all and they assured me that it would work. And that

God wouldn’t mind.

The week leading into this anxious trip was drawn out and

punctuated awkwardly by phone calls and another woman’s name:

Anne. I’d heard them both say it a few times; hushed, from their

bedroom, my mum spitting it; my father on the phone, softer. Awkward

dinner tables would wait, nervous for conversation. The clatter of my

cutlery drowned out their muttering, back and forth, like the wagging

of an excited dog’s tail. My mum had spent hours on the food, you

could tell. A cake had been baked, larger than any she’d done before;

the house had been completely tidied. My father had been coming

home late recently and my mum was just keeping busy.

“A family trip,” my mum rewound and started again, “like a family”.

She looked tired and drained, her eyes painted with drab rings: a

teacup’s stain. I was excited. Later at night, their whispers were spat a

little louder, sounding moist, like a rainstorm. It was almost violent; I

was almost asleep.

We landed early in the morning and �lled the day with our

surroundings: hotel rooms, beaches, siestas, evening meals,

comfortable beds and the brightest of nights. I woke to �nd my father

treading heavily into the doorway. “Your mum’s gone out.” A pensive

pause. “Let’s go for ice-cream.”

The parlour was foreign to me, quieter than I’d known them at

home, and subdued. The �avours were limited and turning to cream in

the heat; humidity made me clammy. We sat in a corner with my

father’s back to the door, his left palm lying �at next to the salt and the

�ngers on his right stroking its depth, longingly, almost scratching into

it. A consuming glance into empty tables and then words, leaking out

like an apology; “Your mother…well…we, well, I’ve…” Another, longer,

bottomless pause and then a murmur, cavernous and instantly seized

by his teeth, catching his lowest lip. It was as though he couldn’t

breathe; his eyes looked suddenly bloodshot and raw, swelling up like

a bruise and dripping tears. The tenderest, most honest tears I’ve ever

seen. Not like my mum’s, not so desperate. His shoulders engulfed the

extent of his neck and he became sti�, like a trapped animal. And in an

instant he had stood up, turned around; I could see he was

straightening his tie. His words soaked into meaning once he’d left,

“Excuse me, I’m going to the toilet.” He returned as before and bought

ice-cream as planned; mint-choc-chip, for two.

When my mum arrived from her walk they talked, probably

planning the week ahead, the week that became tied in our cohesive

company: the week that was enjoyed, embellished with presents and

15

attention.

I yawned the journey home through, whilst my father slept, my

mum’s eyes �xed open. She looked hungry, her �gure skinnier than

we’d left. Arms pin-thin, like matchsticks. Waiting to be lit.

Funeral of a Young Man

By Ioan Morgan (BA English and Creative Writing, Year One)

They gathered early to save a seat,

Hurrying in from the slanting rain that stung our cheeks,

Falling in tune.

Reverential whispers in dusty pews

smelt of the past and pitched you forward into prayer.

Serried rows of blackened shoulders and reddened eyes,

Filling the balcony, upstairs and down, and on into the vestry.

Hundreds more stood outside.

The service all in Welsh with hymns and tender tributes

and bitter sweet rhymes from school mates.

Prayers and supplication and in between Llef and Gwahoddiad

His music - corny pop made poignant.

Pu� Daddy at Tabernacl.

And the believers drank - in the words of God

And saw reason in his madness

And it sustained them, bore them up

But for us the lumpen Godless, no such peace of mind.

Though, I did notice, on shu�ing out, through the heavy chapel door,

That the rain seemed kinder on my face.

17

Bionic Beauty

By Louise Cosgrove (BA English and Creative Writing, Year One)

The room reeked of chemicals still fresh in the air from the night before.

He felt uneasy as he peered about the bright white room and walked

nervously into it. His eyes squinted and began to run.

“Sorry about that, we need it bright in here for the…” He would never

know what the reason was that he was being near blinded and wasn’t

happy either that this could hinder his decision-making process.

Apparently, however, ‘Samuel’ had a crisis that could only be solved at

that particular moment.

“Yah yah, well I’m sorry, Samuel, I really am but we simply cannot go

under ten thou. No, no that just won’t do, it won’t do at all.”

A charismatic person she may be, but annoying certainly. He wondered

to himself what else he expected from a person in her line of work: the

ability to take a breath between sentences perhaps. She stood hand on

hip in a tight �tting black dress and suit jacket. He noticed her

immaculately manicured long �ngers as she held her hand up and ran

them through her jet black hair.

“So anyway, Dave, tell me, tell me, tell me, which little lady here takes

your fancy?”

Dave glanced up to take in the room properly, smelling the arti�cial air.

This decision was impossible.

“Um, well, I don’t know, Deborah; it’s a hard choice to make, you know,

appearance wise. What do you think?”

Deborah looked Dave up and down; her blue eyes judgmental, and

thought about this for a long second. How could she tell the spectacled,

corduroy suited man to her left that she didn’t recall having a Woman

there who she could see him with? She needed this commission after

all, her en-suite needed a new look almost as much as Dave did.

“Doll, you seem like a very nice guy and all, but I’m working on the

clock here honey, now who takes your fancy?”

He was immediately drawn to the blonde right in front of him. A bionic

beauty. She looked like Paris Hilton’s younger sister but with dark,

piercing eyes; he’d never seen anyone so pristine. He’d never seen

himself with a blonde, probably because Marie wasn’t, and she was the

only one he had been with anyway. Only now he had the choice. ‘Easy

enough decision,’ he thought to himself, and was surprised at how little

time he’d spent on it having once taken twenty minutes deciding

whether to wear black or navy socks to work.

Dave’s eye’s shifted as he swept his feet warily back towards Deborah.

‘Wait’, a voice in his head made him stop dead in his tracks. ‘It can’t be.’

It had been nearly a year now since he had been able to look upon this

face which had been the �rst thing he saw when he went to sleep, and

was smiling at him when he woke up. It was di�cult to look at this, this

imitation of Marie, but wasn’t that what this ‘investment’ had all been

about? He couldn’t have the real thing anymore, she was in another

place, but he wouldn’t give her up.

Marie’s majestic green eyes were like saucers on her heart shaped face,

draped with strawberry blonde hair. Dave remembered how it hung

perfectly, showing o� her freckled shoulders. There she was. Yes, that

was de�nitely her. She looked just like her. ‘She’s perfect.’

“Erm, yeah, so I would like to take this one right here.” Pointing to his

strawberry goddess and beaming Deborah looked thoroughly bored

19

by the whole decision making process and simply clicked her �ngers,

ushering over a boy stood in the far corner of the eerie warehouse.

“She’s all yours, Dave, honey, enjoy. Vincent here will sort out all the

details, payment and the paperwork. I have to dash I’m afraid, I hope

you’ll be so happy with her.” Dave listened to her, nothing she said

sounded unrehearsed and blasé.

He woke, his head resting on the keyboard of his laptop. Deleting the

jumble of letters from the last paragraph he began to read back.

The phone broke his concentration and although he was in no mood to

talk to anyone it beat listening to its harsh, persistent ring.

“How are you, Davey?” His brother, it didn’t surprise him, it was near

enough ten thirty and he always called from work, ever since the

accident. “Look I’m sorry about last time we spoke, but I stand by what I

said, you can’t just make people come back into your lives. You need to

move on. It’s not healthy.”

“Yeah, good- err, can I call you back later, and I’m kind of working, so

yeah I’ll call you.”

Moving through the dimly lit room, sitting himself down on the couch

next to the bionic beauty, Dave let out a sigh and looked hard at her

face.

“Now, my love let’s hear that sweet dulcet voice I’ve missed so much.”

He took the remote hidden under the polystyrene balls from the

cardboard box and pressed the volume button.

Almost at once a grating, monotone sound erupted from the doll

positioned at his side.

“Hello, Dave, it’s me, Marie.” Something was di�erent. Ah who was he

kidding? It would never be her, never really her.

He raised his arm throwing the remote aggressively back into the box.

Sighing frustratingly he vigorously jumped up and snatched his car

keys o� the co�ee table positioned in the centre of the room. Cursing

loudly, banging his leg on the table he headed for the door, got in his

Peugeot and drove.

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NEXUSAutumn / Winter 2009

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