“What are we going to do about The Pygmy Giant, then?”

“… What did you just call me?”

“What?”

“Look, I’m not fat you know, I’m having a baby!”

“What? No! The Pygmy Giant – you know, that webzine we used to edit. You know, the one with all the submissions, don’t you remember? Some of them would make you laugh, some you’d hastily chuck, some would make you scratch your head, and some would transport you on a sudden tsunami of emotion, delight, admiration – you’d read eight hundred words and look up seeing the world differently. Remember how we loved reading those words from unsung British geniuses and sharing them with the world? Don’t you remember that feeling when you found a nugget of pure prose gold in the deep mine of the inbox?”

“Oh – the inbox. Yeah, I remember. Did we ever reach zero unread messages?”

“Not since 2008, I don’t think.”

“So what are you trying to say?”

“Well, I can’t remember the last time I had time to sit down and have that beautiful inbox experience. But in my heart, I love TPG! What does this mean?!“

“Calm down, isn’t it obvious? It means that Life happened to us. New jobs, new routines, weddings and babies…”

“You mean we’re not the editors we once were.”

“Well no, we’re much less competent.”

“Thanks. You’re right, though. Do you think… do you think this is the end for TPG?!“

“Hey now, don’t cry. Have a rusk.”

“No… No, I think… we should just reassess it all after this crazy summer is over. D’you think the writers and readers will mind if we take yet another break?”

“Maybe, but they can do our jobs, move house, organise a wedding and give birth for us if they don’t like it. Ahh, I’ve made you smile again.”

“Yeah. Thanks, man. But what about all the stuff still waiting for a reply in the inbox? We’ll have to leave it there languishing for months.”

“Well, why don’t we ask those writers nicely to give up on those submissions and send them elsewhere for now, and make a totally fresh start in September?”

“With zero unread messages?”

“With zero unread messages.”

“That sounds like some kind of dream. You think they’ll stay subscribed and listen out for our eventual return?”

“I’m sure they will. Now shut up so I can have a nap.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I have to stop talking about writing and go and have a ‘hair rehearsal’ anyway. So it’s come to this.”

Beneath the cloud palaces of August
my flame burns smokeless:
an air sign rising in a river of glass.

Watching the black curl of history
I’m terrified that this magic
will take more than I wish to give.

Diaries, letters, photographs of you:
bright fingers wear your faces
as tarnished rings loosening to ash.

-

Andy S Barritt is an East Midlands-based poet and writer who is interested in describing brief instants just slightly widdershins of the everyday: bright fragments born from chance fluctuations in the flow of experience.

There is a Bible. In fact, there are five Bibles – three laid neatly on the desk, one beneath the bed, and one on the bookshelf between Edgar Allan Poe and James Hogg. This last Bible is the strangest. It is a very old edition, bound in worn leather and branded with gothic letters (some of which missing), spelling out the words ‘King James’ – scary-looking like a Dracula tattoo. Next to these words, on the neighbouring book on the shelf, are the words ‘Spirits of the Dead’ labelled down the spine of Mr. Allan Poe’s terrifying masterwork. On the other side of King James sits a daemon printed on the cover of a new edition of James Hogg’s ‘The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner’.

Lying flat in the centre of the room he exhales. He has switched off the lights. Then he stands up and steadily gropes the darkness for the Bibles. He finds the three on the desk and places a hand on each in turn. For every hand placed he mutters ‘please!’ out loud. Then he crouches next to the bed and shimmies his arm beneath it to find the dusty Bible that he sleeps above. It has amassed fluff, crumbs and other crap that lives down there. He kisses this Bible – dusty shit and all transferring onto his lips. He says ‘please!’ again and puts the book back. After this he edges toward the bookshelf. Along the rows of old and pretentious titles he fumbles for King James with both hands, starting at each separate end with each separate hand and moving inwards. The left hand lands on Hogg and the daemon flashes into his head; the right hand lands on Edgar, and the skeleton of his own body joins the daemon in the immaterial parameters of his mind. The skeleton shakes gruesome hands with the daemon, and their salutations are grotesque. He has each hand on each book – neither of them move away; neither of them reach between the horror-texts to find the final Bible within. He is too afraid to continue into the middle. After all, would King James even have helped?

-

Henri Pearson is from North Yorkshire and is an Archaeology student at Newcastle University, though he is working to be a published author.

It’s tempting to say: let’s forget March and be back properly in April. And anything that does appear in March will be a lovely, surprising bonus. Let’s do that. Keep your eyes peeled and don’t be overcome by March madness.

See you soon!

Eds

The BBC news said that winter had been one of the coldest on record. Even the sea froze and salty snow on the beach left a white scattering. We could feel the sand in hard bumpy ridges, solid as a cobbled path, where the tide had been, beneath our padded feet.

It was so cold, later even my glasses broke on our way home.

The sky was a beautiful cloudless clear blue, kidding us with sunlight. The wind was still and yet froze us right through, breathing it shocked us like sucking fresh clean oxygen into our lungs and left ice in our veins for blood.

We should have felt snug wearing American tan tights under our jeans, three pairs of socks, fur lined boots, mittens hiding gloves beneath and scarves wrapped around our heads. Our noses were running with the cold but I didn’t want to take my gloves off to find a tissue to wipe mine so I just kept sniffing it back up until I coughed and couldn’t get my breath in the chill air.

We weren’t allowed on the pier. The handwritten sign tied to a piece of rope said it was closed: the old rotting planks were icy and the steps leading up were covered in untouched snow. The fairground was closed and eerie: a winter ghost town of faded colour.

A handful of cars drove slowly down the coast road, cautious to avoid skidding on the huge icy patch of flood water beneath the pier, collected where the road dipped. Even the seagulls appeared to shiver under their feathers, I thought, from my blinkered view of them underneath my scarf wrapped around my head and held on by the hood of my navy duffle coat.

‘Let’s take a picture, I’ll finish the film!’ I took my Kodak 110 Christmas present from my pocket. The others huddle together, smiling, shivering on the beach.

Photograph taken we went to the beach café – the portakabin one by the fairground entrance. Relieved it was open we quickly shut the door behind us, to keep the cold out. We sat on red plastic chairs by the steamed up window. I just about dared to remove both my mittens and gloves. I wrapped my hands around the white chipped mug, breathing in the hot chocolaty steam. A Kit-Kat would have been good to dip into it, but we weren’t allowed; we had loads of chocolate at home still from our selection boxes. I wished I’d brought one with me.

With a serviette I wiped the condensation from my foggy glasses. With another I cleared the window; water trickled down to a puddle on the sill.

I gazed out at the expanse of sand, empty, apart from a most familiar and welcome silvery haired man dressed in a grey-blue jacket, a jumper to match and a stripy navy tie. No coat or scarf though, he must be freezing, I thought. He had no cap either. He turned toward me. Only me, and waved. I looked around. The others with me hadn’t noticed he was there. I waved back, my hand against the window soaked from the melting ice. I caught the twinkle of his eye and the accustomed way he carried himself. I recognised his solid and steady walk. I saw his smile.

Then I blinked and he was gone.

I wiped away a tear.

-

Josephine Howard lives close enough to the sea to hear the seagull feathers shivering when wearing her hearing aids.