 
**The Looking Glass Anthology: Volume One  
** by students at the University of York

Published by The Looking Glass Anthologies at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 All respective authors.

Originally published in print, June 2010.

www.thelookingglass.org.uk

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The Looking Glass

Volume 1

2010

A literary anthology written and edited by students at The Department of English and Related Literature of The University of York

Contents

Introduction

Logging _by Jesse Garrick_

Sugar Syrup _by Catherine Bennett_

A Short Treatise Concerning the Proper Care and Ownership of a Moustache _by Gus Beamish-Cook_

Revelry _by Katie Williams_

Six _by Emily E K Murdoch_

I Cup My Compact Like You _by Catherine Bennett_

Time and Punishment _by Chris Brent_

Half a Conversation _by Gus Beamish-Cook_

Identity _by Marnie Richards_

A River (from a Letter) _by Jesse Garrick_

Climate Change _by Catherine Bennett_

Dyslexics of the World Yew Knight _by Richard Lemmer_

Lebkuchen _by Robin James Ganderton_

Do You Have the Time? _by Emily Hodges_

Cherries _by Nicola Byrne_

The Teapot of Forgiveness _by Sally Barnden_

Deer Skull _by Catherine Bennett_

Running _by Michael Tansini_

Antique African Head _by Jo Vaizey_

A Day in the Life of a Multi-Touch Sensor _by Christopher J. Fraser_

See You Next Tuesday _by Richard Lemmer_

Egypt _by Jo Vaizey_

You Have to Understand Rhetoric _by Richard Lemmer_

Introduction

On the 3rd of November 2009, I stood at the front of a lecture hall packed with well over 100 students. I'd brought just three bags of crisps to feed them all with.

A week before I had sent out an e-mail asking if anyone would like to join me in creating an anthology of literature written by students in the department. I expected five or six responses – I received 153.

Standing there in front of the expectant crowd, I realised that I had absolutely no idea how to create an anthology of student literature – fortunately, they did.

Over the course of the past two terms, that crowd dwindled to 27 hardworking, dedicated individuals. During that time, we've accomplished a considerable amount. We've run workshops on creative writing, organised a successful fundraiser, read literally hundreds of short stories and poems, and, of course, created this anthology.

To do so, every week we've set aside an hour to gather and discuss the texts we've received. If a text shows promise then our editors will get in contact with the author and work with them on it. If we don't think it's right for our anthology then we'll offer to send the author detailed feedback on it.

In addition to the editorial department, we have a strong design team, whose creativity and dedication has been demonstrated through our numerous posters and banners, whilst our events and publicity departments do everything from organising parties to arranging articles in the University media.

I'd like to extend a special thanks to David Attwell for providing us with the funds to make this anthology possible, and to Chris Reardon from the English Society for being both friendly and understanding. I'd also like to thank Tom Bryan for giving me the confidence to get this project started.

Of course, the most important thanks should go to our authors, without whose work this would never have been possible. It's incredibly brave to expose your work to the criticism of your peers, and we hope that bravery has paid off.

With that said, I hope you enjoy our first edition!

David Zendle, Editor-in-Chief

Logging

_Jesse Garrick_

Carved like the lash of a whip on its back—is a clearing, still tender and gleaming. An islet in green seas, lapped at the fringe by blackened palm fronds and brittle ferns; the delicate wings of some fettered bird, in some cold hour of a dark mourning.

The quick start of a vibrant engine drowns the hum of the cicada's chorus, as a plume of bright macaws breaks through the upper canopy. They soar to a clay-lick and peck at its belly, as though heaven might be hidden, to be reached by digging.

I watch loggers hew a profit from slender trunks of teak, attentive like soldiers at the sharp teeth of an acute machine. The trees are grown in rows, just as their fate is determined, on a ridge between two facts: a single seed and a felling.

Sugar Syrup

_Catherine Bennett_

It took us a month to make the sugar syrup.  
We kept getting it wrong and pouring it down the drain,  
creating a horizon of icicle-sweet stalactites in the underground  
caverns of our plumbing.  
We took turns at drinking it and pouring it over  
ourselves, watching in wonder as it solidified into a crystal  
covering. If we dipped our hands in the vat, we had  
saccharine gloves that sparkled. If we traced our lips  
indulgently with our  
whitened fingers, we had lips that had been kissed by snow.  
We'd clench our knuckles, and crack  
the sugar coating, flaking the kitchen with drops of sucrose  
that melted on the tongue. It was like the wax from a candle  
and the way it looks when you slowly drip it onto your hand,  
scalding and tempting,  
and then snap your fingers with satisfaction,  
chipping the hardened waxy layer, enjoying  
the break of cool air onto red skin. Except  
for this syrupy mixture cooled instantly,  
and glinted dimly and humbly  
like old jewellery over our palms.

A Short Treatise Concerning the Proper Care and Ownership of a Moustache

_Gus Beamish-Cook_

This is it, I tell you. All my doing is done. It's hard even to be tired now, when all of me has run away, been poured down fingers over sticky keys and never knowing why.

Every day, hunch-huddled over, ink tapping itself onto the page, words leaking like blood, and each day the last. But just as always, I will type it out, chatter in spitting metallic toothings into the voiding paper-flesh.

One day, I bought a typewriter. That was the first mistake and I take full blame. I filled it with paper and then I filled the paper with all sorts of things. But it was never enough. The typewriter would always be hungry. Just as it would finish the last of whatever I had prepared for it, a new title would appear: A Study of Contamination in Pine River Watershed, Michigan', 'The Diary of a Shameless Fop', '101 Ways to Salvage Roadkill'.

At first I loved it. Me and the typewriter were happy together. We made an odd pair, me and the typewriter—an odd pair but a good one. It gave me titles, I gave it words. I filled its yawning pages with acres and acres of words. And it devoured them—ravenous. Every hour of every day, my fingers would dance a soft rain on the keys, the typeheads themselves providing the spastic rhythm for our waltz. Something about our communion felt eternal—unchanging. And in a way I was right.

Every time Miriam would paint the room a new colour and change the furniture, the typewriter would type the same room around us, pouring its ink out in new walls and ceilings.

After it discovered that it could do that, it started typing the same day over and over again, each time supplying me with a new title so I couldn't notice. Before I knew it, it was Wednesday, 17th, every day. It even typed the weather into my windows and nailed it 9 down to the sill with full stops.

And that's when Miriam left.

And now she will always be leaving. And I will always be typing. And the coffee will always be cold. And my doing will always be done.

Revelry

_Katie Williams_

It was late October a few years back. You forget when exactly. You try not to think about it too hard. Thomas, one of the guys you were working with then, catches you on your way home, invites you to a party he's heard about. Not normally your sort of thing, but you were new at the job and wanted to make an effort with new friends so you agree to go. Great, he says, and we'll crash at your place after, unless I get a better offer. You laugh, and promise to meet him later.

It doesn't take as long as you expected to get there, and the two of you arrive early. It's only eleven, but already the yard outside the house is packed with people huddling together in the chill air. They are sharing cigarettes and cheap vodka and laughing cruelly at a pair of screaming girls who push their way out of the building, drunkenly hurling threats and empty bottles at each other. It's too cold to be outside really. Smoke mingles with warm breath, angry words made visible in the wintry air. You avoid the girls, make your way up the narrow wooden stairs, inside.

It's bright and loud and warm, full of people you don't know. You wish you'd thought to bring something other than the bottle of cheap red wine you found in the back of a cupboard, but you didn't even bring any money with you. Just your house key, safe in the pocket of your jeans. At least it's a screw top. Tom didn't bring anything, just snags a beer from where someone enterprisingly—if not very imaginatively—stashed it behind a battered and suspiciously stained sofa. Without meaning to, you let the cram of bodies sweep you further in, the relentless push of drunken revelry claiming you and the pitiful bottle of wine you're clutching.

The next bit's a blur. There's an open trapdoor with a staircase leading down, an open maw into the heart of the party. The next bit's a blur. You gulp down the acrid wine and stagger down, missing the second last step and stumbling into another person who glares and sweeps past. There are even more people down here. There's a DJ set up in the corner, bodies jammed together so tightly you don't know if you're hearing the heavy bass or if it's a physical thing reverberating through the walls and floor. Coloured lights and strobes dance through the room creating faces that are abnormal, grotesque, fey. You can feel the beat of the music through your feet and into your body, and you lose yourself in it.

Dancing with a girl who acts as if she knows you, though her face is unfamiliar. In the blue green flashes of light it is ethereal, otherworldly. Elfin. Beautiful. Very drunk now. The wine bottle you clutch is empty. You don't remember that happening. Carelessly drop it to the floor, though you hear no smash. Music never heard before surrounds, drowns out all other senses. The bass line throbs in your bones. Acid flash of light shows Tom on the other side of the room. He's sharing a cigarette with an immensely tall someone. So tall the low basement ceiling forces him to almost double over, long hair shrouding Thomas' face. He is smiling. Vacant. You should leave, while you still can without help. Too many people to get near though. Too loud to shout. You try anyway and cannot even hear yourself under the rhythm.

Pixie girl takes your arm, pulls your gaze away. Mouths something you cannot grasp. She has a tiny mouth. Curves upwards in a wicked grin. A tiny, wicked grin hiding sharp little teeth. Maybe. Mind is wandering. What were you doing?

Look blankly at her. She has a plastic cup of something in her hand. Holds it out to you. Gestures you should drink. Hesitation. Work tomorrow, early. Wine bottle gone already. Music pounds like blood in your ears. Air is thick and damp and you lean forward to take the cup but you sway unsteadily into a fellow drunk and something sharply stabs into your hip.

You reach into your pocket. Hand curls around something cold and hard edged, and suddenly you are plunged into

Dark.

Silence.

Complete deprivation of senses. Robbed of sight and hearing, dumb.

Awareness centres on the thing gripped in your hand. Cool now, warming to your touch. Serrated edge and rounded top. Metal. Your door key. You bring it to your lips, taste the metallic blood taste to reassure yourself it's real.

This is silly. The electrics probably blew. Your ears are ringing at the sudden loss of sound. Perfectly normal.

But something isn't right. The quiet is too complete. Absolute. You reach to where pixie girl was, but your hand finds nothing.

Your eyes are getting used to the black now, the darkness fading. There's a glimmer of light to your left and you automatically move towards it.

The sharp crunch of broken glass under your shoe halts you. You bend down in the gloom, to discover the remains of your wine bottle scattered across the floor. As your sight adjusts, you realise that single bottle is the only thing in the room that might indicate anyone had been there. There are none of the normal party remnants, no scrunched beer cans or cigarette butts.

No people.

The crush of people that were here just minutes ago, vanished. Leaving just a sad, shattered wine bottle and dead leaves on the cold concrete.

Your head is fuzzy still, but clearing. You don't want to think about it too closely though. Get out, you think, you need to get out. Right now.

Step over the broken glass towards the finger of light. It's reaching through a chink at the side of a rotten wooden door. You must have missed it before. It was hot and dark and loud and no way could you have seen it (a voice at the back of your mind whispers that it wasn't there before, but you steadily ignore it). You grope for the handle, peeling paint flaking onto your fingers as they brush over wood. The doorknob is stiff, but not locked. Set your shoulder against it, and shove. A protesting shriek of unused hinges, and the door opens.

Onto bright, full daylight.

Squinting, you stagger forward. Fall to your knees. Retch dryly on the kerbside. Passing shoppers steer round you, old ladies clutching their handbags tighter, mothers gripping their toddlers' hands. A car speeding past through a muddy puddle narrowly avoids soaking you. Your hands clutch at the pavement like it could anchor you.

It's all soberingly normal.

After a few minutes, you wobble to your feet. Turn and look at the building you emerged from. An old corner shop, windows boarded and covered with old circus posters and graffiti, sign above faded into illegibility.

It has obviously not been used for years, decades maybe.

You cannot bring yourself to go back inside.

Your fist is clenched painfully around your house key, imprints of its teeth biting into your palm. Uncurl your fingers. The metal glints in the sunshine. Cold iron.

You don't know what else to do. You turn, and start to walk home.You go back just once.

A year and a day later, because that's traditional in these things, or so you were told. You fill your pockets with iron, nails and screws and nuts and bolts. You wear your jacket inside out. Half-hearted light from a streetlamp confirms the building is still empty, still boarded. You force the door open—it doesn't take much—but do not dare go inside.

The room is empty. Of course it is. You can even see your bottle, smashed and scattered across the tiles. You stand there, staring at its broken neck and glittering pieces until you begin to shiver in the November air. Turn to leave, let the door swing closed.

The sound you hear is imaginary, you tell yourself.

You do not, cannot possibly, hear the sound of bells tinkling or tiny pieces of broken glass falling as you leave. Maybe it was a bell over the door, a reminder of the shop it used to be. Nothing more sinister. The sound does not continue, hauntingly following you until you are seven houses down the road.

You tell yourself that, but you do not believe it.

You never did find out what happened to Thomas. You never saw him again.

And the sound of broken glass and chiming bells still makes you shiver.

Six

_Emily E K Murdoch_

I believe.  
I believe in the utter goodness  
of hamsters. I believe that  
no tomato should be  
left behind. I believe  
in wide open spaces  
and revolving doors.  
I believe in champagne,  
and caviar, and takeaways.  
I agree.  
I agree with road tax  
and postage charges. I  
agree with partisan literature.  
I agree with whoever's just  
spoken and the underdog  
of laundry.  
I trust.  
I trust that the rain will stop, the sun  
will come out, and all people  
will sunbathe. I trust  
that this moment of  
time will extend  
beyond the plain  
up to my homeland, my highlands.  
I understand. I  
understand that I can't  
change history. Yet. I  
understand that power is  
held by the few for the  
few. I understand why  
you lied, and why  
you lied for so long.  
I believe.  
I believe in the death of  
self to faith, the importance of  
decision, of chocolate. I  
believe that the road  
is always longer than  
you think, and shorter  
than you need.  
I believe.

**I Cup My Compact Like You**

Catherine Bennett

i cup my compact like you  
cup  
my chin when i am tired and scared.  
i see myself, my watermarked face  
that remembers so little.  
there's the scent of strawberries in the air,  
the remains of our last night together.  
my lips have turned pinker.  
my eyes, too, seek  
your heart in your face. i wish i could take off  
all of my make-up, strip us both down,  
shape ourselves around each other's naked form -  
the triangle of the pelvis, the square of the chest,  
the crescents of the breasts -  
and lie there,  
breathing through each other's skin as if through muslin.  
i wrap myself, lonely, in the  
sound of your heartbeats. love,  
i cannot stop myself from hurting you.

Time and Punishment

_Chris Brent_

Round, round go the thieving hands,  
Life's precious fragments cruelly stolen  
Secondaftersecondaftersecond,  
A great unpunished crime eternally committed,  
There grins the Thief of Time,  
Unpunishable coward cloaked;

:(Tick): the maddening dialogue imprison :(Tock):  
Heart submits to the infinite beat,  
A slave unconscious to jolting hands.

Anything for a rebellion, if only to hear:  
Tick Tock Tick Tock Tock,  
To at last break the insuperable clock.

Half a Conversation

_Gus Beamish-Cook_

It was the worst haircut that had ever happened to me. I mean, you read about these things, but you don't think it'll be you. Of course, I'd heard of bad haircuts. That's how I knew it was one.

So, I was sitting on this wall, haircut and all, and the sun was just kind of draped around it-like someone was laying it out to dry in itself-and this boy came up, about eight or nine. He was French, but he was speaking English.

So, he looks at me and he asks for an ice cream.

He goes, "Is this where I buy ice creams?"

For a minute I was pretty taken aback. I was just sitting on this wall, just getting along with this haircut disaster, when out of the blue, this boy comes up to me and asks if I'm selling ice creams—no indication whatsoever that I was selling these ice creams.

I just had a haircut. That was all. No ice creams.

As you can imagine, I didn't really know what to say, so I just sort of looked at him and shrugged, like I didn't understand what he was saying-people often take me as a foreigner.

So then he tries it in French. Well, of course, I don't speak any French, so I shrug again, but this time for real and then shake my head and say sorry.

He's still looking at me, though. Expectant. So I shake my head again, this time slower.

Now he looks at me differently, like this whole situation is some kind of sick joke. Some kind of sick, sick 'boy-asking-manwith- haircut-on-wall-about-ice-cream-selling joke' that I'd set up, waiting for some unsuspecting eight or nine year old wanting an ice cream. But it wasn't. It didn't even have a punchline.

I tried to think of some way to explain it to him, but all I could think about was this haircut that had happened to me, and the sun slowly drying itself on all the walls of France.

Identity

_Marnie Richards_

Looking down at the small child in front of me, I forced a smile as he held his hands up in the air and gurgled, "Daddy". It was at this exact point, earlier today, I realised that the lie I was living had to stop. It was one thing pretending to Elaine to make her happy; I couldn't handle lying to this poor kid as well.

I could hardly believe that almost an entire year had passed without Elaine suspecting a thing. Sometimes I wondered whether she secretly knew the truth, and was just too weak to admit to it. Of course, anything would seem preferable in comparison to accepting what actually happened.

But of course, we don't talk about that. It's the unmentionable in this household, and nobody we know has even heard about it. That would make sense though; probably because we don't know anybody. We aren't the most sociable of people, and there isn't any family between us either. Elaine, an only child, lost both of her parents when she was young, and of course I haven't seen mine since I left home years ago.

Tim didn't have the greatest childhood either. He was the 'typical abandoned baby, left all wrapped in a basket outside the hospital, and all that depressing cliché bullshit', as he liked to say with a wry smile. After a rough few years at various foster homes, he left to make his own way, and met me on the streets. You wouldn't think any of this now, of course, looking at what we've made of ourselves. Tim got himself a decent job, met and married the beautiful Elaine, and started a family with Jamie.

Oh, right. This is where it gets confusing.

I live with Elaine and Jamie, provide for them, carry out my husbandly and fatherly duties, and we live your standard middleclass life. The only problem is, I am not a husband or a father. I am 22 not Tim.

Tim died in the accident, just under a year ago. He was my best friend, and had been for pretty much my entire adult life. I escaped with only minor injuries, and Elaine appeared to be the same. At least, until she woke up. The accident itself is still a blur; There seemed to be blood everywhere, but Tim was the only person with actual wounds. Elaine had knocked herself out, but it didn't seem serious, and Jamie was strapped in as firmly as a baby could be, which, as it turns out, is pretty secure.

Unfortunately, Tim wasn't so lucky.

Of course, I wish I could say I had been the hero of the hour, dragging Tim out to safety and giving him the kiss of life and all that, but sadly that wasn't the case. I did what any grown man would do, and passed out at the sight of the torn flesh and blood which seemed to cover every surface. I don't know how long I was out for, but when I woke up I was lying in exactly the same place, with Jamie crying his eyes out. I remember picking him up and going over to Elaine, shaking her awake, and telling her to call for help, call emergency services, call an ambulance, the police, anything. She opened her eyes. And she called me Tim.

This is where it should've ended. All I had to do was explain who I was, and point out the corpse lying through the windscreen. But I couldn't. Don't ask me why, I still wouldn't be able to give a decent answer. I just felt so much compassion and sympathy for the woman that I wanted to be Tim. I assumed she had hit her head, damaged something, and that it wasn't permanent. I wanted to give her a way of avoiding the consequences of his death, if only for a while.

I had no idea a while would turn out to be this long.

I suppose that brings us up to the current day. Of course a lot has happened since then, but it's not really worth going into. We had a funeral for Tim, except of course under my name; it was really worth going into. We had a funeral for Tim, except of course under my name; it was really quite upsetting being one of only three people at your own funeral. And that's including the vicar. Although I suppose I'd rather have my self-esteem completely crushed than actually be inside that coffin. Poor Tim.

We moved, after the accident. It wasn't a hard choice—like I said, we didn't know anyone, and lived in a little house surrounded by nothingness. Elaine said we needed to find somewhere nice for Jamie to grow up, and to get away from the memories of the accident. I agreed. I mean, I was pretending to be her dead husband, the least I could do was let her choose where we'd live. I even let her pick out the wallpaper. The perfect husband, really.

But anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Coming clean. Telling the truth. Confession, atonement, all that. Right. I have to tell her tonight.

*

" _Tim, I need you downstairs please." A voice came calling up. I put down my pen and folded up the notebook, and started to move down the stairs._

Elaine was sitting at the table. "What on earth have you been doing?"

I was writing, I told her. I found it easier to put my thoughts down on paper.

" _Why don't you ever let me see?"_

I pondered this.

It would be an excuse to avoid having to tell her the truth myself. Would that be such a terrible thing to do?

" _Tim?"_

I realised I had been silent for quite a while. I couldn't decide what to do. There was more silence.

I said that I would talk to her soon. Tonight. Later. I knew I had to but I just wanted to keep ignoring it.

Elaine sighed.

" _I'm going to put Jamie to bed. Please sort yourself out by the time I've finished his story."_

She left.

I went back to my writing.

*

Why didn't I tell her? It was the perfect opportunity. I suppose there have been so many opportunities though.

I should have told her when she wanted to try for another baby. The sad thing is, I was so close to just giving in. I mean, it couldn't hurt, really. It would just make her happy. In the end though, I couldn't do it. I don't believe in ghosts or the supernatural, but I just didn't think it was right. I didn't think Tim would like it.

I often wonder what Tim would make of this situation. Perhaps he would be glad that I was looking after Elaine, and protecting her from the sad truth. Or maybe he would resent the fact I had essentially stolen his wife and child from him. I never gave her an opportunity to mourn.

I don't think I'm a bad person. I've always had the best intentions. Don't get me wrong, I'm not being completely selfless, part of this is that I just didn't have the guts to tell Elaine that she was mistaken. But I also just wanted her to be happy. I don't know. It's all so confusing. Maybe I should sleep on it.

I can tell her tomorrow.

*

I woke up to the sound of Elaine crying. This was never a good sign. I cautiously asked her what was wrong. She turned to me, and simply held up my notebook. Damn. I need to find better hiding places.

" _Tim.. What is this? Is this some kind of joke?"_

I didn't know what to say. I told her I was sorry, and that I would still be here for her and Jamie, that she must have hurt her head in the accident and somehow confused me for Tim; I came clean about everything.

" _You don't know what you're talking about. Do you not think I would know my own husband?"_

She was still crying. I carefully explained again that she must have hit her head, but she simply wouldn't accept it.

This was unplanned. I thought that telling her the truth would trigger something, and she would somehow immediately realise everything.

I should have thought this through.

We sat in silence for a while. Well, silent apart from the sound of Elaine sobbing.

Suddenly, without warning, she stood up and stormed out.

I stayed where I was. I didn't think it would help going after her.

When she returned she was holding a box.

" _Take this." She handed it to me._

I opened it. I lifted out two passports. The first Elaine's, the second was mine. Mine?

The picture was mine, but the name was Tim's.

I was confused, scared. How far had this gone? How long had Elaine known?

I asked her what the hell was going on. She had stopped crying.

I carried on looking through the box. I pulled out a photograph. I was holding Jamie, with my arm around Elaine. Tim was standing at the side, smiling.

I told Elaine I remembered this photo being taken. I was the one at the side. I asked her why these were packed away.

" _You told me to store them, when Hugh died. I knew his death had affected you, but... nothing told me it could've been this bad. Tim, what's happening to you?"_

*

I dropped the box, and began to cry. I managed to tell Elaine that it had all come flooding back. I spoke to her as if I were writing in this notebook—it was the only way I could.

"It's coming back to me... nothing clear at first, but an altered vision of what I had previously remembered... Through the haze and the blur, images begin to form... The accident, Hugh's body, the incomprehensible feeling of losing my best friend... I can feel my body practically convulsing as I attempt to digest this avalanche of information... I can see his face in my mind, feel my legs giving out, as they did on that day... I don't know what to do... I look up at my wife, my perfect, loving wife, and I just can't understand how this situation had manifested..."

I stuttered this out, then took Elaine in my arms and told her it would be okay, I remembered now, I loved her and Jamie and I would never leave her, never scare her again, never do that to her again. The photographs had triggered something, caused memories to come flooding back. I was scared.

I told her how the last few months were running through my mind. I had wasted so much time, believing in this lie I had created for myself. I held her closer, and felt her tears dampen my shirt.

This meant forgetting everything I thought I knew and starting again. I told Elaine that we could get through this and that I accepted the truth. It would be difficult, but together we could get through it.

She bought it all, of course. Each stuttered word, the faked tears—everything. I mean, she was clearly mad. Had to be. She went to all the effort to fake passports and photographs. I had to play along. I couldn't crush her after all that; I'm not a monster.

Now I just need to make sure I hide this thing better.

A River (from a Letter)

_Jesse Garrick_

A river will curb the spread of an entire city; will hedge the spill of the morning rush, mete the rising trudge and sunless ebb - to slapdash dinners and seven-hour sleep.

It will meet the salt chucks and breach those rougher pockets of memory. While our minds fish thoughts from the rills and brooks; cradles for the weak that have strayed behind.

In the city, five cranes, blinkered and clumsy, dip their vagrant lines for docile scraps. Towers tussle beneath the ragged flag to silence that trudge of hammering feet.

Climate Change

_Catherine Bennett_

The tear drags its long tail behind it like a comet,  
navigating the craters and protuberances  
of my face. I am the solar system, my mouth  
Saturn and my great tongue is a cloud that cleans the  
stars from the sky.  
I feel benevolent, beautiful, in letting the tears go as far  
as they may before they plunge off the hanging crag of my jaw.  
I do not like to brush them away so cruelly  
and hastily as some people do, even  
before they've peeped out of their burrow in my eye.  
I also let anyone who wants to, see my tears: look,  
I am continually being baptised. This rain cloud behind my eyes  
that is constantly being wrung cleanses me.  
Just before I go to bed, it is wrung as dry as possible and then  
wipes off my mind and there is silence at last behind my eyes  
and I can sleep, finally, without the sound of rainfall.  
In the night, the cloud mops up spilt liquids, puddles, worries  
and so requires one more day to wring it all out again.  
I am like the weather in winter: this is a constant cycle.

Dyslexics of the World Yew Knight

_Richard Lemmer_

Why was I not warned of those tricky homophones  
Its got mop and one in it but rhymes with garden gnome  
As for those nasty horrid vowels, I find them such a boar  
Is it the case if one goes missing, I have to add two moor?  
Scissors with its silent letter and debit with its silly bees  
And then their's Ireland without the S and stairs without the ease  
When wright is wrong 'cos its not write is not exactly fare  
And the fact that center isn't 'English' I simply cannot bare  
Sew go ahead and cheque the spelling of every single word  
Then ask yourself - is being dyslexic really so absurd?

Lebkuchen

_Robin James Ganderton_

Herr Brot was standing outside his shop when he saw Herr Verräter pass by and knew immediately what he was eating.

"Herr Verräter!" he said.

Herr Verräter gave a start, crumbs falling from his mouth, and saw at once there was no use pretending.

"Herr Brot," he nodded, through the last of his mouthful.

Herr Brot looked him up and down. "Hungry?" he said.

Herr Verräter coughed and inched the bag he was carrying further behind his back. "A tad peckish," he admitted.

"I see," said Herr Brot. "And what, may I ask, did you choose to assuage this hunger?"

"Oh, just a snack," said Herr Verräter.

"Indeed. And not just any snack," said Herr Brot, "for if my nose does not deceive me, you are savouring the sweet taste of gingerbread."

Herr Verräter coughed again. "I am."

"Good?"

"Yes," said Herr Verräter, colouring a little, "very good."

"I see. And where did you get this gingerbread?"

Herr Verräter mumbled through his teeth.

"Pardon, Herr Verräter? I didn't quite catch that."

"...from Frau Hexe."

"Oh, Frau Hexe. That would be the women who moved in at the edge of the village last month, am I right?"

"You are right."

There was a long silence. "Herr Verräter," said Herr Brot. "How long have we known each other?"

"A long time, Herr Brot."

"Long enough for you to know my profession?"

"Of course, Herr Brot."

"And what is that profession?"

"You're a baker, Herr Brot."

"Indeed. I am a baker. A baker, in fact, who, amongst other things, makes and sells gingerbread. You are aware of that, aren't you, my friend?"

"I am, Herr Brot."

Herr Brot glowered. "So why are you buying gingerbread from some pitch-haired outsider?"

Herr Verräter hung his head. "I'm sorry, my friend. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

"The fuss?"

"Yes. You must have heard. The whole village is talking about this woman's gingerbread and how good it is."

Herr Brot had, of course, heard. He could hardly not have. He frowned again. "And in your opinion, Herr Verräter," he said, "does this woman's gingerbread live up to the hype?"

Herr Verräter opened his mouth, then shut it again. "No," he said finally. "No, it doesn't."

"So in future you will be buying your gingerbread from me?"

"Of course, Herr Brot. Sorry."

"Oh, think nothing of it, Herr Verräter. I was merely concerned about losing a valued customer such as yourself." Herr Brot smiled. "In fact, next time you drop by to make an order, remind me to give you some fresh gingerbread. On the house."

"You're a good man, Herr Brot," said Herr Verräter. "Will you be coming to the Vic Königin tonight for a few tankards with myself and Herr Trinker?"

Herr Brot hesitated. He hadn't had a glass of ale for weeks. Surely he could afford just one? His purse wasn't that empty? He felt his resolve weakening, but at the last moment he pulled himself together. "Sorry, my friend," he said, "but I am busy tonight. Maybe another time."

"Ah, of course," said Herr Verräter. " _Auf wiedersehen_!"

" _Auf wiedersehen_ ," said Herr Brot, and tapping out his long dead pipe he went back into the shop.

Closing the door behind him, he turned and almost tripped over two excited bundles of blond hair and dirty clothes, chasing each other around the shop.

" _Kinder!_ " he said. "Children!" They turned to look at him. "Play quietly," he said. He walked into the back of the shop, where Eva was mending clothes. He looked at her for a second, sliding his gaze over her curly hair and shapely figure. After Belinda had caught the consumption and never recovered, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to look at anyone in that way again. But Eva had sought him out, helped soothe his aching heart, and before he knew it she'd moved in and they were married. He thought of himself back then, a successful man with a thriving business. Everything had been good. Everything had been wonderful. But then sales started slip, to slide, to tumble, and now it looked like that old hag on the edge of town would be the final nail in the coffin.

"Hello, my darling," he said.

Eva looked up. "Husband," she said. "Any business?"

Herr Brot shook his head. "None."

Eva cursed. "What are we going to do," she said. "We have 33 barely enough money for ingredients, and when we do buy them the cakes do not sell."

"I know," said Herr Brot. "It is that woman's fault."

"That woman?" "Yes. The new one on the edge of town. Everyone is buying her pastries, her cakes, her gingerbread."

"How do you know?"

"I see them!" exploded Herr Brot. "Every day I see them, walking all the way to the edge of the village, all the way to the edge of the woods, just to buy that accursed woman's baking. They think I don't see them, but I do."

"So, if that woman was not here, then business would be good again?" said Eva.

"Better, certainly."

Eva nodded. "Then we should kill her."

Herr Brot's eyes widened, shocked at the even tone in his wife's voice. "Kill her? Eva! That's going too far."

"Then what do you suggest?" Herr Brot sighed. "I don't know. Maybe I should improve my technique." He shook his head. "If only I could make gingerbread like her."

"Well, why can't you?"

Herr Brot glared at his wife. "I don't have her recipe."

"Then get it."

Herr Brot frowned. "You mean steal it?"

"Why not?"

"Impossible."

"Why?"

"People would be sure to see me hanging around. And then, when it went missing, it would not take a genius to put _zwei_ and _zwei_ together, hmm?"

"Then send someone else."

"Who would be willing to do something like that?"

"There is always the children."

"The children?"

"Yes. God knows they owe us something, the amount they eat."

"I'm not sure, Eva..."

"It would be perfect. No one will notice two kids hanging around. Children mill about the village every day. They could slip into her house, hide there until nightfall, then steal the recipe and come back here. No one would be any the wiser."

Herr Brot stroked his beard. "And then," continued his wife, "you wait awhile, to avert suspicion, before starting to make the gingerbread yourself."

"I could improve upon the recipe!" said Herr Brot excitedly. "Blend it with mine! By taking the best bits from both I could make the best gingerbread in the county. People would come from miles around to taste it. We'd be rich!"

Eva Brot stopped darning and smiled. "Exactly," she said.

"But can we really send the children in to do our dirty work?" said Herr Brot. "What if they got caught? What if she killed them?"

"Then we would have two less mouths to feed."

Herr Brot's mouth fell open. "Eva!" he said. "I can't believe you would say such a thing."

"I was joking, fool," said Eva. "They are children. If they are caught they can say they are playing a game. Hide and seek. No one will suspect them."

"You make a good point," said Herr Brot. He hesitated.

"Don't you want to be rich?" said his wife. She paused. "The man I married wanted to be rich."

Herr Brot sighed. "You are right," he said. "It is decided."

"Good," said his wife, and went back to her darning.

As the afternoon drew to a close Herr Brot called his children in. He explained to them that this was a game, a very important game, and if they won the game they would get to eat anything they wanted from the shop for a whole week. The idea met with considerable enthusiasm and they skipped off, small heads dancing with cake and pastries.

Night fell quickly. Herr Brot waited by the door, his pacing wearing the floorboards thin. Occasionally he opened it and looked out into the blackness.

"Where are they," he moaned. "What's taking them so long?"

"Calm down," said his wife. "They are biding their time. Do you want some dinner?"

"I can't eat."

"Suit yourself."

An hour passed. Then another. Then another. Finally Herr Brot slammed his fist into the wall. "Enough!" he said. "I am going to find them."

"But if you are caught? You will ruin everything!"

"I do not care! I should never have let you talk me into this fool of a plan."

And he put on his coat and went out into the night.

Frau Hexe's house was on the other side of the village, a tenminute walk, but Herr Brot made it in five. He slowed his pace as he neared it, stealing up to the window. A light glinted.

Moving slowly, Herr Brot peered in. Frau Hexe was immediately visible. What was she doing? Baking! No sooner had he realised than the smell hit his nostrils, the warm spicy aroma of good sweet gingerbread. But where were his children? Moving his head further into the light, he finally spotted them. In the corner.

Bound and tied.

Rage filled Herr Brot. He strode towards the rickety door and kicked it off its hinges. The children screamed, screams that turned to yells of joy.

"Papa! Papa!"

Frau Hexe turned, brandishing a baking tray like a weapon. "So, Herr Brot," she said. "You have come to try where your children have failed?"

"I know nothing of what you speak," said Herr Brot. "Just give me back my children."

"Don't play innocent with me," said Frau Hexe. "I caught them sneaking in and they confessed everything. You're after my recipes." She bristled. "My priceless family recipes. I tied them up to teach them—and you—a lesson. Now get out of my house!"

She attempted to force him back out of the door, but Herr Brot's blood was boiling and raising both hands he shoved her viciously across the room. Frau Hexe fell backwards into a table, hitting her head on the corner. The table wobbled, and the candle that was on it toppled to the floor. The rug started to burn.

"Children, quickly!"

"We're tied up, Papa!"

Frantically Herr Brot searched for a knife. The rug was completely aflame now, and the chair beside it started to smoulder. Still Herr Brot could not find one. Fire crept up the back of the chair. The room brimmed with smoke.

Finally his fingers closed around a blade and he went desperately to work on the bonds, slicing through them just as the table and the side of the wall caught fire. Grabbing their hands, he dragged them through the white-hot smoke, eyes searing, and together they stumbled out of the house.

Behind them, there was the sound of wood cracking with the heat, and as they stood there, coughing and wiping their streaming eyes, the first of the villagers came running towards them.

"Herr Brot? What happened? Are you okay?"

Herr Brot's mind worked quickly. "We are," he said, "but only just."

"What happened?" asked another villager.

"Frau Hexe," said Herr Brot. "was a witch."

"A witch?!"

"Yes. She lured my children into her home with the promise of gingerbread, then tied them up and tortured them. She told them she planned to feed them up, make them nice and plump, then feast herself upon their very bodies."

Gasps rippled around the crowd. Herr Brot kept going.

"She baked the gingerbread into the very walls to make it more attractive to children. That's why they were always around. And when I went to look for my children and knocked on her door, she attacked me with spells and curses. It was pure luck that one of her firebolts missed and in the confusion we managed to escape with our lives."

"And Frau Hexe?"

"Still inside."

Waves of chatter swept over the crowd.

"—never liked her—"

"—rather odd—"

"—could have been any one of our children—"

And in the midst of this someone grabbed Herr Brot's arm. It was Frau Verräter.

"Herr Brot, are you okay?" she asked.

Herr Brot nodded. "I... I think so."

"Well, don't you worry." She smiled encouragingly. "As long as that witch is dead and little Grettie and Hans are safe, that's the important thing." She smiled again. "Yes, that's the important thing."

Do You Have the Time?

_Jesse Garrick_

Wind up the clock,  
Your time starts now.  
Rise and shine, bedtime,  
Breakfast and dinner time,  
Time for tea, vicar.  
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Time waits for no man,  
And no woman either.  
"The girls will take their time",  
Relax dear, we've time to spare,  
Time to waste, hours to while away.  
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

No time like the present.  
And past times, they're in the past,  
What was and what is,  
Time, the greatest healer,  
Everything gets better in time.  
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Spending some time, or saving time,  
A stitch in time saves nine—what?  
9 o'clock? Already?  
The clock chimes, times nine,  
And the bells ring out, for Christmas time.  
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Keeping hold of time—a stopwatch  
For the timekeeper please.  
On your marks, get set...  
As if we can keep time,  
Time is running out.  
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Time, time, nobody has the time,  
Time escapes us.  
The sands rushing through the timer,  
There's not enough hours in the day,  
And there's never enough time.  
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Cherries

_Nicola Byrne_

We had cherries for breakfast. Always these cherries, burdened with their own sourness and crisply cold. I remember the way they used to feel against my teeth, the way their juice used to dribble down my chin and the way their smell would stick to my fingers. I used to roll my tongue around the stones and shoot them out onto my saucer. They clattered like glass beads rolling across the floor. And then my Grandmother would look at me and, in her broken English, would say 'nice girl, nice girl'. Her and my mother used to gabble away to one another in Armenian and eat strong, salty cheese that was never the same when we had it at home. Meanwhile, my sister and I used the distraction to steal sugar cubes from the sombre black bowl in the middle of the table. I always thought that it was so odd that something so cold looking could hold something so perfect. They were like perfect, pure white bricks. You could put them on your tongue and feel them dissolve, or you could crunch them between your teeth, or (and this was my favourite) you could hold them at one end and lower the other end into your tea and watch them slowly melt away.

The Teapot of Forgiveness

_Sally Barnden_

(1)

"Ed's coming to meet you tomorrow."

Mummy is in the doorway and her fingers are pulling the paint off the frame but I don't think she's noticed.

"He's got a little girl just like you." Her voice is a little bit squeakier than usual, like when she does the rabbits in Animals of Farthing Wood. "Well, a bit bigger than you."

I imagine her as big as the door with flowing blonde hair and teeth, lots of teeth.

She turns around to go and make tea and suddenly I think of something important.

"Which chair will he sit in?"

She looks quickly and her mouth is like an O. "The... spare one."

"Not Daddy's?"

She shakes her head a tiny bit and leaves. I wriggle into the carpet and pour tea for Mr Algenon and Charlotte, but none for the other cup because there's nobody in the fourth chair.

(2)

She isn't as big as the door but she's plenty big enough. Mummy and Ed are talking in the kitchen and Mummy said to show her my room so I had to let her come and she's sitting on the floor because she's too big for the chairs anyway but it's still all wrong. Mummy said to be nice and even though I don't feel like it I try. I say does she want some tea, and I let her see the teapot. But she says no it isn't even tea it's just milk and sugar and I'm cross because I know, I'm not stupid, but tea is nasty and it burns your tongue so you can't taste anything for the rest of the day and your mouth is rough like sand. So I don't say anything and just pour for me and the others. She says: "your teapot isn't symmetrical". I don't know what it means but I don't like her saying it about Daddy's teapot and I don't like her and I don't feel like being nice any more so I go to the bathroom and sit in the empty bath moving ducks around until I hear him take her away in his big square black car.

(3)

We move, just after my birthday. It's okay. Ed is big and silly and we don't talk much but sometimes we watch Changing Rooms together and he teaches me to play Rummy. I don't talk to her either, except sometimes she says things to me and it makes me want to kick her, and sometimes I do, but she's still bigger than me and when she kicks back it hurts. We have 'family' dinners twice a week, and when I talk she always flicks her eyes sideways and smiles behind her hand and I feel hot and sick in my stomach like I've just said the stupidest thing in the world.

I avoided her, mostly, ever since the first time when I found Mr Algenon drowning upside down in the milk and sugar. Not that I would need him to sleep any more, I'm not stupid. Just, I was only little then and he was my favourite bear and I missed him, because even after he was washed he smelled sour when he dried and he had to go in the skip.

(4)

We grow up like that, occupying the same space but not together, needling and niggling and bullying one another. For a while we go to the same school and she tells everyone I've got nits. 44 Then at another school there's a rumour that I have crabs, and Mum says "rise above it" so I do, but when I find out what 'crabs' means I'm so angry that I pour milk and sugar into her £139.99 new boots from Debenhams.

(5)

When she and Ed come back from her hospital appointment I make sure I'm out of her way: in my room reading 'Glamour' on my bed, leaning against the wall under the shelf where my old teapot is.

"You little bitch," she begins, as my door bangs against the wall. "You told him I'm a lesbian."

"Aren't you one? Sorry." I try to sound cool. I guess Dave believed what I told him, if he passed the message on to her.

"You bitch." Again.

She whacks me in the side, I yelp and we grapple. Eventually, panting, I bite her ear and she pushes me away. She picks up a shoe from the floor, trembling with wordless rage, and hurls it at the wall. Blue ceramic fragments rain down on me.

I pick up the spout Dad made, two inches of it still intact. Direct hit. I don't hear her leave.

(6)

We should have forgiven one another and become close; supported each other through the dark times as the cancer ate up her bones. If we'd been in a novel that's how it would have happened. But I had the blue spout on the shelf over my bed, to remind me that her being there was a crime I could never absolve her of.

(7)

Ed isn't crying, but his face looks like it's made of sand. He's wearing a dark grey coat that makes him look as square as the gravestones, like he's just another monument to the huge lie of immortality. There are lots of flowers, with little laminated messages. They are quietly terrifying.

I'm not crying either, I just feel numb, like I've swallowed tea too fast and scalded all my nerves to deadness. I'm wearing red shoes.

(8)

The eulogy is full of words like 'sunny' and 'giving' and I can't stifle my scornful eyebrows. Mum sees, and after she says "it's such a shame that the two of you never really got on."

I gape in disbelief. "It isn't. We never wanted to get on."

Mum looks pained and vague and she starts off across the room to go and hold Ed's hand. As she leaves she murmurs "oh, you just never understood one another. She was a lovely girl."

Mum knows she wasn't as well as I do, and suddenly the cold black poison in my chest is bubbling up and seizing me by the windpipe.

"Fuck off! Is she somehow better now she's dead? Is she an angel, now? Why do we start lying now? Why do we try to convince ourselves now that we've lost something that was worth having?" Her eyes are white and helpless and furious and her nails dig into myshoulder as she drags me into a corner. She almost can't speak.

"What—stop it. You can't—,"

"I mean it! I understand that it's sad when young people die, but I'm not going to miss her, and I don't just suddenly think she was great...!"

She sends me home and tells everyone I'm too upset to stay for the wake.

(9)

Mum calls me at school when she finds it.

"I went to the cemetery today."

I say nothing.

"You, um. You forgave her for the teapot."

Her voice is little and timid.

"No. What would be the point? She's dead."

"So... so, why did you give her the spout?"

"Because I don't want to see it any more in my room. There's just no point in keeping it."

She just says "mm" quietly and after a little while we hang up.

(10)

Despite everything, I do go back one more time. The flowers are wilted. The laminated platitudes are curling in the damp. The little spout looks like it's there by accident. But it looks—honest. So I leave it there, and walk away.

Deer Skull

_Catherine Bennett_

I don't like the feeling of treading on sugar—  
The snow forms a powder layer under me that makes  
Me lose my foothold amidst the tussocks of frozen grass.  
There are bird tracks like skewer-holes in a cake,  
Pockets of air under the earth's new epidermis  
Where the worms breathe chokingly.  
There is nothing regal about this world of silence and death;  
There are no flowers, only deer skulls,  
Rotting skeleton faces missing a jaw that your dog drags up  
And brings into this world of white, a blot against the papery  
Snow. It would chatter at me if it had its jaw. It is putrid  
But at the same time, grinningly-clean from the snow.  
Its teeth look like old hollow treasure chests, sickly yellow  
And strangely brittle. There is a brown leaf in one of the eye  
Sockets. As I walk it bumps against my thigh, dislodging  
The leaf so the skull is gazing at me dully.  
Its horns appear to have lost a layer: parts of them have  
A reptilian covering, scaly and wet. I let my dog take the  
Skull carefully from me—it was his prize, after all—and  
Carry it sedulously in his mouth until it is dropped in his fervour  
For something else, and it sticks up awkwardly out of the ground,  
Grinning satanically after me, its horns probing the silent air.

Running

_Michael Tansini_

Samuel Walker came stumbling up the hill, trainers slapping into the ground with every step. Samuel Walker, Bambi on a frozen lake, who, when he heard his name called out as he walked to school, would merely shove his hands hard into his pockets and walk faster, whose legs almost but not quite buckled, gasped and gurgled his way to the top. Around him wind straight from Dracula's turret toyed with porcupine hair and set his glasses askew. His chin rocking up and down, Samuel Walker pulled left, gasping like a drowning man, taking in air that turned stale the moment he entered his mouth, scatty second-hand running trainers borrowed from his brother struggling for purchase in the mud. Behind him in colourless procession came more, shambling, fists batting at the air with every step forward, a long wavering column of harsh-cheekboned thin-wristed boys, vests flapping, elbows flaring, following.

Samuel Walker knew that they were coming, in the dim way a mayfly knows that it will soon be evening. He knew that eventually, as they continued, one, maybe more, would break from the pack and a start a lumbling loping stride towards him, and they would follow just beyond his heel, exhaling deliberately loudly so to unnerve him or for a stitch to crack across his sides and him to stop, crouch, bent double to avoid seeing them pass him, or for him to vomit up the frosted flakes he had choked down two hours earlier (his mother had offered him eggs and pancakes with butter and the warmth of a sofa but he had declined). Or, depending on when they moved, or their nervousness—or another of the many variables he had not considered—they would try and stride past him as though he did not concern them businessmen with umbrellas raised, suitcases swinging, passing the beggar with three mangy dogs and a blanket. But Samuel Walker ran.

Samuel Walker, all gangling six foot two of him, who tucked his shirt into his trousers without being told and reminded the Mr. Latchley of homework when he had forgot about it, whose world was safely enclosed in the underpass of the curve on a calculus graph, ran across the mottled green world with an intensity neither he, nor his teachers, nor his parents, had ever thought for one instant he might possess. When his father trained in the dank dungeon of his basement, still adorned with Schwarzenegger holding up the sky, a Californian Atlas, and made Samuel watch, there were moments, straining against the weight at the bottom of the squat, hamstrings against calves, teeth gritted, neck a telephone pole of wires, when the world for him diminished from sight, to be represented by him and the weight only. Samuel understood now what his father had meant when (after roaring out of that position, triumphant, racking the weight with a clang that slammed the world on its axis) he spoke of within the pain, there was the lure, the love. He felt that love now, pulsing in every throbbing vein, electric, radiant. People would look at his father, bursting out his clothes and Samuel, hidden within his, and never realise a relation. Here the connection was found, at the limit of exertion and tolerance, the line between the willing mind and the unwilling body.

There comes a point for every runner, at some point round the lap, in the mire, feet sinking, chest burning as it heaves, where they fall back. Often they rush out of it and as quickly fall back again. And it is easy to see which runners are entrapped, encircled in this pit. Their bodies become pliable as clay. Their tongues hang, shoulders roll. The ridiculousness and the pointlessness of the situation envelops them. Whereas before all sensation had diminished to the knowledge of the race, and the end that inevitably would come, they become skittish and their breath comes as from a bellows. And the confident runner, the leader, the champion, reaches this place and he exults. The lash at his heels does not cause him to trip but to pick up his pace and disregard all tiredness as though it were waves slopping round his ankles on a summer afternoon.Samuel Walker did not run but sprinted the final mile on legs that were about to buckle, buckling but never quite doing so. He no longer thought of the track, the following runners, but, when, on his first day at sixth form (with all his clothes ironed and with the labels firmly stitched by his mother, number and school house clearly visible) he had fled from Kyle Richardson, who played rugby, and did not care for work in that fashionably non-conformist way that makes such boys irresistible to girls, and who—many years later, unknown to the girls that he toyed with or the boys that made up his pack or to Samuel—would be found in his bedsit, needle still lodged in the crook of his arm. But before all of that, Sam had lumbered from Kyle, had been chased down the high street from school, jumping round shoppers like a child hopping round cracks in the pavement and discovered, satchel smacking the back of his legs, sweat circling his armpit and the line of his shirt collar, sheer purpose, exhilaration, joy.

To the spectators waiting at the end of the race, thermos flasks tight in their mittens, stamping on the ground, a mixture of Blitz spirit and yummy mummy Social Darwinism, the sight of the runners finishing was a familiar sight. First the bobbing head of one or two would be sighted curving round the final bend. Spurred on by the shouts of enthusiasm, the knock-kneed pace would whir to a Chariots of Fire sprint, arms flailing, legs kicking up sods from the ground, Roger Bannister collapsing exultant amongst the Barbour and tweed. Today there was one boy alone, and he needed no encouragement to sprint. Samuel Walker, six foot two, ten stone four, crossed the line in a time that broke the county record and still stands. He did not collapse, fall to the ground and kiss the earth weeping, or raise his arms in victory, but went to the family car rutted in the ground and ate one chocolate bar, two, three. Then, under gazes that varied from incredulous to the admiring, he took out a textbook, wiped his glasses on the one square inch of his vest that was not flecked with mud, and, chewing the back of a pencil, began to write. Meanwhile Samuel Walker finished the equation and went over to congratulate the runners seeping in, knowing that soon, he would be back again on the track, and felt the little knot in his stomach tighten. Running was not a sport for the popular or the beautiful. The effort required was seen by most to be unhealthy and masochistic. It won no plaudits, no gag of followers, only a cheap plastic medal, the sort found at car boot sales. He knew this. He did not care. He is still running. He is always running.

Antique African Head

_Jo Vaizey_

African head,  
Silent on the dust-covered shelf.  
Staring ahead  
To a past long dead  
You had your hour once, long ago.

Of splendour;  
Dancing colours in the heat.  
Brown bodies sweat,  
You'll never forget  
Rhythm that reverenced the world.

Red sand,  
Borders the huts that are home.  
Dark hands made you,  
Craftsmanship they knew,  
And you sat and watched the dancing.

All this,  
Leaping sandily in memory,  
Whilst in the world around,  
Dust and decay on the ground  
Of a forgotten time.

Grey people  
Hurry by in a foggy world.  
Stuck in their dark mess  
They never would guess  
Your tremendous secret.

A Day In The Life Of A Multi-Touch Sensor

_Christopher J. Fraser_

The 27th of January was a dark day for us. Really, it spelt the end—the end of any civilised, comfortable life we might have had.

"Get up."

There's that rustling sound as a few billion sensors rub the sleep out of their eyes, in bunks across the vast factory farming warehouse we're confined to. Most of the population have never seen the outdoors. Only a few of the older ones, accidentally left by The Company, serve to tell us about the great Outside, the place where we might see some sunlight before we perish, and even they're losing their minds, seeing their own children and grandchildren forced into a lifetime of slavery.

The voice intensifies, amplified.

"Come on, kids! Rise and shine!"

There've been rumours for a while. About three years ago they'd started rounding us up. Remember that we're a global community – they sent out people all over the world to collect us and ship us out to their storehouses. We weren't told where we were going, what we were going to be doing, or why we had been singled out.

We were taken to a warehouse—probably about a square mile —where we were loaded onto bunks and left. For two years. No-one came in, no-one went out. Imagine the confusion—billions upon billions of us, trapped in such a chaotic environment. I think there were probably about five militant uprisings while we were there, all of them futile—you can't fight giants.

Then, we heard about disappearances. Entire clusters of people were going missing. Of course, this was all rumours from the other side of the warehouse, but you couldn't be too sure. They said they were conducting experiments. At that point, where anger had controlled us before, now it was terror.

Then came the day where our masters announced the Device —a vast machine, mass-produced, each one containing a group of about seventy of us. They were going to be our new homes, they said. We'd be comfortable there. There'd be all the amenities we needed, and we'd finally get to see the world.

That was two years ago. Since then, more of my brothers and sisters have been shipped in, and tons have been shipped out. To keep with the demand for the Device, they forced the women to become creatures whose sole purpose was to breed. The stench of death in this place is awful.

"We've got an important announcement, guys!"

Characteristic of our overlords—they're always chummy, even though they know the conditions we're living in.

"Starting today, we're going to be increasing your groups! This means that you'll be able to stay with more of your friends, while enjoying all the benefits that the others did?"

Someone shouts out. "How many?" There's a silence. We're not expected to answer back, and our master notices it. He frowns for a second, shakes his head, then looks back down at us smiling.

"There'll be about a thousand of you for each Device." Muttering starts straight away. Someone else yells out "will we have enough space to move around at last?" Again, the noise quietens— clearly some of us are at the end of their tether.

"The new Device is bigger than the last one... it's about ten inches wide." The noise at this threatens to deafen us. Ten inches? Per thousand? In comparison to our masters, we're tiny, but still... that's barely enough room to breathe!

Chaos breaks out, and we start to run away, as far as we can get. Sensing the chaos, our masters start picking us up off the floor. I get swept up, and carried outside for the first time in my life.The world whizzes past so fast I don't have time to notice the details. I can hear the whimpering of our children, coupled with the arthritic moans of our elders. There's no discrimination. I look around, and my eyes settle on someone I met only this morning. He's smiling, in a dazed fashion. I ask him what he's so happy about, and he tells me he's never tasted fresh air before. At least someone's happy.

Before long, the new air pressure forces me – and the rest of us—to black out.

I wake up in a tiny glass prison. I can't move. My claustrophobia sets in—I start hammering on the walls and the ceiling, but to no effect. Through the roof, I can see blurred figures moving about in a strange environment. One of the masters approaches us.

By manoeuvring myself, I can make out that I'm not alone—as far as I can see, there are hundreds of others in exactly the same situation—fixed in position, struggling to move.

I feel the prison moving, and stare up at the blurred overlord figure above me, wondering what's going to happen. An eternity passes. I can feel the digital sweat running down my temples. And then...

BOOM.

A sudden sonic terror rips through me, nearly deafening me. It doesn't—it continues to hurt—but I can feel that it's at the absolute fine-tuned threshold of my pain. Something in my lower half senses this, and produces a shock to my entire body so debilitating that I think my mind resorts to numbness in a futile attempt to hinder any mental damage. I look over. The same is happening to more and more of my species—each, one by one, suffering the same. And through the glass, as the red pain clears from my vision at last, I can see the face of our captor.

His eyes light up, and I can hear the distant word as it escapes from his thin, cruel lips:

"Beautiful."

See You Next Tuesday

_Richard Lemmer_

Oh children beware, and give due thought and care, to those terrible words they call curses  
Mind your ps and your qs to avoid those taboos, and don't make up silly rude verses  
Don't you know swearing is ruder than staring, so please do your best to refrain  
From being so rude, or so terribly crude, and try not to be so profane  
But why even try, I mean it's no lie, your parents don't lead by example  
Why take a crowbar, and smash your Dad's car, and you're sure to get a few samples  
F this! And you B! Well I think you'll soon see, it's adults who have got it all wrong  
They swear with such ease, whenever they please; in print , in passing or song  
They do it aloud, alone or in crowds, not thinking that others will hear  
Despite what they say, they don't hold at bay, those words they teach us to fear  
Well it seems to me, and I hope you agree, all swearing is simply inherent  
So children beware, and give due thought and care, or else become your parents!

Egypt

_Jo Vaizey_

Red jewel of sand on a spattered map,  
Divided by red waves. In  
Mountainous hardship lingers the rustle of the basket's reeds.  
Sinai's summit glares down at piously huddled rocks,  
All waiting for instruction from their prophet.  
Gracious dunes play with the sun, deathly games.  
Tricking strangers to run with cracked tongues to nothing.  
Protector. Killer.  
Land of contrasts; pushing plants pant in the  
Slashing sun, turning everything gold.  
Gold was cheap, in the time when double crowns ruled  
Before becoming amber and sleeping in gold.  
History sits by the asphalt. Crouching,  
Buried in old sand. Still shocked by its rude Victorian awakening.  
Glinting waters cut the desert, slippery hope  
Pours to gasping plains.  
Farmers' shadow sinks into soil; Green,  
Painstaking inches of profit.  
Yellowed eyes squint, as  
Tent cloth hangs in the mud, swaying with strides  
All the colors of the earth.

You Have to Understand Rhetoric

_Richard Lemmer_

Sexy Dossier #1

Date: 13/05/2011

Precedence: IMMEDIATE

From: Special Executive Branch, Secret Intelligence Service. Contact: M, Messervy

Report ID: 199 - 1 \- WF - 299088640OR (SISC)1

Approved by: Campbell, A.

Drafted by: Operative OO11 - O288291 - SEB - ID 'DOWNWARD DOG' (Written according to SISC style guide (199-1- SG) (2nd Draft))

Title: OPERATIONS REPORT OF MAY 1st, 2011, ABHA, ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF ARABIA, FORMERLY "SAUDIA ARABIA", OPERATIVE 'DOWNWARD DOG' AND OPERATIVE ' SPREAD EAGLE'

Operatives 'Downward Dog' and 'Spread Eagle'2 3had been operating undercover in the city of Abha, Islamic Republic of Arabia, for six months as part of Operation Forewarned4 when SIS Operatives positively identified Doctor Omar Abdulaziz5. Doctor Abdulaziz was believed to have been working at a classified weapons facility in the 'Asir Mountains, approximately 18 kilometers south of Abha.

Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' were instructed to maintain observation of Doctor Abdulaziz, who was being escorted intermittently by armed guards—minimum guards observed being two, maximum guards observed being five. Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' were positioned on the fourth floor, north side, room 419, of the Royal Abha hotel, across the street from Doctor Abdulaziz's apartment. Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' observed Doctor Abdulaziz from April 17th to April 19th, at which point Operative 'Eagle' had to report to his superiors regarding an outstanding matter of urgency6. Operative 'Dog' was left alone in room 419 and broke observation with Doctor Abdulaziz on April 20th 7. Operative 'Eagle' returned on April 21st 8. Observation of Doctor Abdulaziz was re-established on April 22nd.

On April 23rd, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' were instructed by direct radio transmission to apprehend and obtain information from Doctor Abdulaziz the instant that it could be verified that Doctor Abdulaziz was unguarded. On April 24th , Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' verified that Doctor Abdulaziz arrived at his apartment at 1530 hours local time, unguarded, with the last sighting of two guards being five hours earlier, when the guards evacuated Doctor Abdulaziz's apartment by foot. Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' manoeuvred to the street level entrance of Doctor Abdulaziz's apartment. Upon arriving at Doctor Abdulaziz's apartment door, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' gained entry by use of an Ad-KeyPick and two Flashbang grenades. Doctor Abdulaziz was positively identified in the north east corner of his apartment's lounge, noticeably shocked and slightly injured from an overturned coffee table.

A previously unidentified guard ambushed Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' by Doctor Abdulaziz's kitchenette. Operative 'Eagle' suffered a minor laceration wound to the left shoulder from a passing bullet. A short skirmish ensued, resulting in considerable damage to Doctor Abdulaziz's furnishings. Operative 'Dog' operated his silenced MK23 Mod 0.45 ACP to eliminate the ambushing guard9.

Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' proceeded to hood-and-handcuff Doctor Abdulaziz and then escort Doctor Abdulaziz to the street level entrance of the apartment. Operative 'Dog' conducted a direct radio transmission requesting immediate vehicle extraction. Approximately six minutes later, Operative 'Lazy Dog'10 arrived in a bright yellow Nissan Datsun 72011 12 13. Doctor Abdulaziz was placed in the back of the vehicle with Operative 'Eagle', while Operative 'Dog' sat in the passenger seat in the front of the vehicle. Operative 'Lazy' was designated the driver of the vehicle.

My Granddad, Lion Wrestler

" _I fought a lion." This is what my Granddad—Louis "Fred" Richard Lemmer—tells me the first time I ask about his finger. We are out in his vegetable patch, the two of us snapping peapods off of the vines that grow up the brown garden fence, the sun making my black hair hot to touch, sweat clinging to my Granddad's tanned forehead._

Really?" I ask, imagining Scar from The Lion King. He extend his right hand down to me—I'm at an age where I have to look up to use door handles—and I stare at his hand's index finger. It looks wrong; it is a couple of centimetres shorter than it should be, and it looks gnarled, not smooth, and instead of having a natural curvature it is flattened but with an uneven surface—like the surface of dying conker—no finger prints but a series of criss-crosses whiter than the rest of his finger. And it looks like there is a lengthwise slice missing from his finger down to the first knuckle on the side closest to his thumb—the skin also crisscrossed and gnarled.

" _A real live lion," he says. My granddad has tiny eyes that look like they are constantly squinting and perfectly white straight teeth and a full head of glossy paper white hair. We never have play fights, but he'll smile at me and Rex, his cocker-spaniel, mucking about. He never pinches my Nan's bum or gives her a cheeky wink, or shouts, or dances, but he'll always open the door for Nan and sometimes he'll hold her hand._

When my Granddad was a young man, he was out in the jungle with some friends. They were camping in a clearing in the jungle, when one evening a lion wondered into camp. My Granddad wrestled the lion out of the clearing, and just before it turned tail and ran back into the jungle, it took a ruddy great bite out of my Granddad's poor little finger.

This is what my Granddad tells me, when I ask about his finger.

He smiles at me, and I believe the way only grandsons can.

The Greatest Hero Of Them All

While dinner was being prepared, I would have been told to play with my brother. We loved playing round our Nan's house because she had a great collection of old toys; she had a whole box full of original, first release Star War toys, bought because one of my cousins was lucky enough to have his childhood just as A New Hope came out. The box contained: a Chewbacca that looked more like an upset dog/man hybrid that smelled as bad as the real Wookie would have, a figurine-holding Millennium Falcon with consoles and computer stations that were peeling stickers, a Darth Vader with a ripped fabric cloak, and, the piece de resistance, a foot-tall Rancur—the monster Luke fights in the beginning of Return Of The Jedi. This collection inspired me to start my own box of Star Wars toys: Princess Leia in white jump suit, Princess Leia in revealing slavegirl outfit (please don't judge me: I was about six and it was completely innocent), Han Solo with Clip-In Carbonate Casing, Han Solo in standard roguish black and white uniform, New Hope farmer-boy Luke, Empire Strikes Back Yoda-training Luke, Return Of The Jedi blacksuit Luke, tiny models of every ship—from B-Wings to Y-Wings to TIE Interceptors to even Correllian blockade runners.

My brother shared my toys, but he had an Action Man and a Dr Evil all to himself. The Action Man had rigid, mechanical arms that you were supposed to wind up and then release in the bath and watch him go! Instead, it looked like he was having a seizure. But it was an Action Man —The Greatest Hero Of Them All, with a perfect scar across his cheek, something I wished to have one day—something that looked daring and adventurous. The Dr X was a standard Dr X toy—evil eye patch, evil Mohawk, evil beard/moustache.

My Han Solo Clip-In Carbonate Casing model did not survive my childhood. My brother flattened his face by reacting Han's torture scene form The Empire Strikes Back; Han being shackled to a metallic frame that is lowering him onto a bed of sparking prongs and needles and razor blades, then a shot of Han's supposed best friend waiting outside, where the sound of Han's screams carry through the door, in the film. My brother improvised with a white hot bedside lamp, and Han's face left a black mark of melted plastic on the bulb.

Sexy Dossier #2

At approximately 1700 hours local time, Operatives 'Dog', 'Eagle' and 'Lazy' and Doctor Abdulaziz arrived at a safe house on the east side of Abha. Operative 'Lazy Dog' assisted Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' with the securing of Doctor Abdulaziz to a wooden chair in the basement of the safe house, after which Operative 'Lazy' drove the Datsun 720 back to HQ.

At approximately 1800 hours local time, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' ordered a takeaway from Tada's takeaway. At 1816, Operative 'Dog' and 'Eagle' began interrogation of Doctor Abdulaziz. Questioning was hindered by Doctor Abdulaziz's mental condition, which had rapidly deteriorated after his being secured to the chair in the basement. Doctor Abdulaziz continuously cried and seemed unable to construct coherent sentences, eg. repeated references to unidentified persons Mahta and Yasna14, hysterical screaming and spitting at Operative 'Eagle'. Operative 'Eagle' expressed to Operative 'Dog' that he had previously observed such interrogation-aversion techniques, and that Doctor Abdulaziz was refusing to co-operate. Operative 'Dog' agreed.

Operative 'Eagle' conducted a direct radio transmission to his command. In light of Doctor Abdulaziz's refusal to co-operate, Operative 'Eagle' requested that Doctor Abdulaziz, as a suspected enemy military official, be classified as an "Enemy Combatant", and that Operative 'Eagle' be permitted to use Advanced Interrogation Methods in order to "facilitate the successful completion of HUMNIT operations". Operative 'Dog' expressed that such techniques may not be necessary. Operative 'Eagle' expressed that Doctor Abdulaziz was perfectly able to answer the questions provided, but Doctor Abdulaziz had been trained to "break down" in order to avoid assisting interrogators15. Operative 'Dog' expressed minor reservations.

At 1840 hours local time, Operative 'Eagle' asserted he was about to commence Advanced Interrogation Methods16, removed his Standard Issue Desert Gloves, and requested Operative 'Dog' leave the room.

At 2200 hours local time, Operative 'Eagle' emerged from the basement and requested his Standard Issue Water Canteen17.

Operative 'Eagle' locked the basement, which remained locked until 0205.

At 2230, another takeaway order was ordered from Tada's.

During the meal, while Operative 'Eagle' bathed his hands18, Operative's 'Eagle' divulged the information rendered from Doctor Abdulaziz. The information obtained included: Doctor Abdulaziz could take the Operatives to the exact location of the 'Asir Weapons Facility; the journey would take approximately one hour; HQ had the appropriate Enemy Combatant identification for the 'Asir Weapons Facility, and that Doctor Abdulaziz could assist the Operatives' infiltration into the 'Asir Weapons Facility19.

A Body Like A Swing Set

_24th December, Robert "Todd" Sloan Brown, Captain of an infantry company in the 4th Infantry Division (Mechanized), husband, an Eagle Scout, an avid Ironman_ _Triathlete, Stanford University graduate, quoted in in the New York Times as saying "You have to understand the Arab mind; the only thing they understand is force—force, pride, and saving face", still wearing his olive green t-shirt and sand brown fatigue trousers, sitting on an uncomfortably hard folding metal chair, his dry as fuck elbows on the plastic desk in front of him, opens his green-covered journal and flicks through to the first white blank page after his latest entry, and writes, "About 0200 Sergeant Hays calls up, "Yeah, we still have a dead guy here at the front gate." Battalion came back that they would handle it, so we just let it go. Sassaman and a bunch of the TOC guys went out there to get the body, but the guy was really big and stiff. It turned into a Weekend at Bernie's-type event as they tried to fit this 250-pound rigor mortis corpse into an SUV. They kept trying to bend parts to fit him in, but they couldn't find the dude's knees once they put him in the body bag and he kept falling out. Sassaman kept referencing the swing set he had to assemble on Christmas a few years back as being much harder than fitting the corpse into the car. It was one of those surreal comical scenarios_ _where the guys involved are asking what are we doing with this dead guy on Christmas morning, but it's not really funny and it's not really Christmas," then Todd sighs, scratches his left elbow with his right hand, and taps the stopper end of his pen against the page as he thinks about his next sentence._

Sexy Dossier #3

Operative 'Dog' conducted a direct radio transmission to HQ at 2300 hours, reporting an Operation Update and requesting further instructions.

HQ's direction radio transmission to Operative 'Dog' detailed the following instructions: the Arabian military would now be alerted to Doctor Abdulaziz's disappearance, meaning reconnaissance of 'Asir Weapons Facility would be postponed; Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' were to equip Doctor Abdulaziz with one unloaded Beretta 418 and instruct Doctor Abdulaziz to report to the nearest Arabian army guard post, where he would report he had been abducted by an unidentified intelligence agency, possibly of Middle Eastern origin20. Doctor Abdulaziz would explain he escaped through the use of the hidden Beretta 418. Before his release from JO custody, Doctor Abdulaziz would be chipped with a GPS biometric microchip so that HQ could relay Doctor Abdulaziz's location to Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle'. When Doctor Abdulaziz was secured in a new apartment, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' would re-detain Doctor Abdulaziz at a more convenient date and proceed immediately to the 'Asir Weapons Facility, where they would conduct reconnaissance.

At 0203, a doctor and armed guard from HQ arrived to escort Doctor Abdulaziz to a new safe house where Doctor Abdulaziz would be chipped and receive medical attention. Accompanying the doctor and armed guard was Operative 'Luke Warm Harding'21, Communications, Reconnaissance and Photography specialist. Operative 'Luke Warm Harding' issued Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' with two micro-cameras22, then escorted Doctor Abdulaziz, hoodedand- handcuffed, out of the safe house.

Politics and the English / American / Japanese / Iraqi / Consumer / Nerdish / Media Language #1

Minutes of House of Commons secession at 12:21pm on the 20th day of March, year 2003. Minuets taken by Hon. Gentlemen R.M. Lemmer. 12:22pm, Speaker introduces and acknowledges the Rt Hon. researchers of video-game development companies—Infinity Ward, EA Pacific and Take Two Interactive—conducting research for upcoming videogames. 12:23pm, Speaker introduces and acknowledges Hon. Gentleman Private Louis "Fred" Lemmer. 12:23pm, Hon. Gentlemen Dr X, MD, of Nagasaki interrupts and demands the floor and distributes photographs of deceased wife and children. Much ooohhhing and aaahhhing arises from the House. Hon. Gentlemen reveals that his purple Mohawk is a wig to disguise the loss of hair due to radiation sickness; also, dentures are removed; also, eyebrows. Hon. Gentlemen explains to Speaker that his evil activities against numerous Western liberal democracies stem from the psychological trauma of watching his six year old daughter's skin fall away from her flesh. 12:30pm, Hon. elderly Texan Elephant begins screaming "EVIL! EVIL! EVIL!", causing much disorder in the House; Hon. Gentleman Lion, official representative of the Royal Crest, asserts that "soit qui mal y pense"; Hon. Gentleman philosopher Wittgenstein begins, "if a lion could speak..." but is eaten by Hon. Gentleman Lion; Speaker reminds the House that eating whilst on the floor is strictly prohibited and that all mobile telephones must switched off - not just be switched to silent. 12:30pm, President Harry Truman defends the use of the Death Star to destroy Nagasaki and asserts, "Results: clear-cut. Successful in all respects. This is the greatest thing in history." 12:32pm, Much disorder in the House; Matthew McConaughey demands knighthood for valour during the capturing of the enigma machine; Tom Hanks applauded for his work in the Pacific Theatre; Robert Sloan Brown is asked to define racism. 12:33pm, Rt Hon. Lord Darth Vader silences House and declares himself Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.

Sexy Dossier #4

April 26th, 2030 hours local time, HQ relayed via direct radio transmission that Doctor Abdulaziz was being held in an apartment on the west side of Abha. Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' preceded to conduct reconnaissance of the apartment from the adjacent Arabia Café23.

By April 30th, 2230 hours local time, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' conducted a direct radio transmission to HQ regarding the situation. Doctor Abdulaziz was picked up by two guards in a jeep at 0830 hours every morning, at which point four guards - Doctor Abdulaziz's night guard from 1900 hours to 0830 the next day - evacuated the apartment by foot. HQ and Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' agreed that Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' should ambush the night-watch guards at 0745 hours, ambush the jeep guards in Doctor Abdulaziz's apartment, and proceed immediately to the 'Asir Weapons Facility.

Estimated window of opportunity for reconnaissance at the 'Asir Weapons Facility, between one to three hours.

On May 1st, at 0745 hours local time, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' manoeuvred to the street level entrance of Doctor Abdulaziz apartment. Using an Ad-KeyPick and two Flashbang grenades, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' gained entry to the apartment. Operating a silenced XM8 Compact Carbine, Operative 'Eagle' eliminated one guard lying prone on a sofa, one guard sitting in an armchair, one guard leaving the apartment's bathroom, and one guard standing by the apartment's refrigerator. Doctor Abdulaziz was positively identified in the north east corner of his apartment's lounge, noticeably shocked but uninjured.

No further guards appeared from the apartment's lounge, 69 bathroom, bedroom or kitchenette.

Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' proceeded to position the apartment's sofa in a strategic cover-and-ambush position (between the apartment's leather armchair and kitchenette work bench). Doctor Abdulaziz sought cover in the apartment's bathroom. At 0834, two guards entered the apartment and were eliminated by Operative 'Dog' operating a silenced MK23 Mod.

Operative 'Dog' informed Doctor Abdulaziz it was safe to evacuate the bathroom. Operative 'Dog' noticed that Doctor Abdulaziz appeared changed since April 24th; Doctor Abdulaziz was found to be wearing an eye patch on his right eye and had bandages wrapped around the index, middle and ring finger of his right hand. When Operative 'Dog' questioned Doctor Abdulaziz how he had sustained these injuries, Doctor Abdulaziz became hostile24.

Operative 'Dog' and 'Eagle' proceeded to search the guards, take possession of the guards' weapons25, strip the guards of their uniforms, and appropriated the guards uniforms26.

Shock and Awe

" _I don't believe in the Geneva Convention."_

This is what caused the most gasps of breath from the audience during the evening's debate. The romantic dream of being a heroic army medic has given way to the romantic dream of being a fearless reporter. Yaron Brooke, executive director of the Ayn Rand Institute, Glenn Beck guest, right wing commentator, a man who believes it is morally right to "inflict suffering on complicit civilian populations, who enable terroristsupporting regimes," who believes "if humiliation or torture is an effective method of extracting information that would save American lives, we should humiliate or torture prisoners," is in my hometown to take part in a debate about Palestine at a university hall. The debate is over, and the audience are queuing up to leave. I am at the front of the hall thrusting a Dictaphone in Yaron's face.

" _Do you really believe it's okay to do anything in order to win a war?" I ask, holding up my Dictaphone._

" _Yes, of course," Yaron says. He is a tall, thick lipped man with grey hair but few wrinkles; a man who speaks with Elma Thud's inability to hit his Rs ._

" _If the US invaded Mexico tomorrow, completely unprovoked," Yaron says, "Mexico could bomb me and my family. They could do whatever they needed to. Truman did. Sherman did. You have to do whatever you can to win the war."_

What about Shock And Awe? What about the 6,000 Iraqi civilians who were—

" _Shock and Awe barely touched the Iraqi people. Can you confirm every last supposed civilian casualty? Can you 100% tell me how many Iraqi's were hurt by Shock and Awe?"_

Okay, Okay. No.

Yaron smiles, as if to say, amateur.

Sexy Dossier #5

At 0852 local time, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz locked the apartment door, and proceeded to commandeer the vacant Arabian Army jeep outside.

Despite navigating rush hour traffic and dirt roads in a jeep fitted with poor suspension and handling, and a lack of working on-board air conditioning, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz27 identified the 'Asir Weapons Facility after just forty five minutes.

Doctor Abdulaziz indicated the 'Asir Weapons Facility was at the base of Wadi Rijaf valley. Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz approached the valley from the south, travelling between two stretches of foothills, the Taif foothills and the Saif foothills . The two sets of foothills stand parallel to each other for roughly three kilometres, forming the Wadi Rijaf valley, before joining at a 23 degree angle to form the start of the 'Asir mountains. Light forest and scrubland slopes up the 'Asir mountains at the joining point of the Taif and Saif foothills28.

Operative 'Dog' drove the jeep along a dirt road, guided by Doctor Abdulaziz. After approximately three kilometres, the 'Asir Weapons Facility came into view from the jeeps windshield29. The facility appeared to be ringed by a wire fence with one guard post and barrier allowing for vehicle entry. The facility appeared to be a three storey tall windowless construct, built purely from breezier blocks of an unknown material, of a candyfloss hue30. Doctor Abdulaziz informed Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' that the distinctive material was mined from a local quarry. Doctor Abdulaziz went on to describe the facility as diamond shaped, ringed by an outer-wall that housed several offices and was connected to the main building at several points. The majority of work at the facility occurred in underground laboratories and factories. At the main entrance was a service elevator which allowed for large scale equipment to be brought up from the underground complex. As Operative 'Dog' drove the jeep to the guard post, Doctor Abdulaziz instructed Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' to respond to any questions with: "We're taking Doctor Abdulaziz to his office, commander Al-Zarqaqi's orders".

Fourteen Cold Hours

" _Rhetoric."_

This is what Chris Arendt, 24 year old ex-Guantanamo Bay guard says is the reason behind the Iraq War. Another university —a lecture theatre rather than a hall, this time—another debate. Another queue of people waiting to leave. Chris could pass for a punk band reject, his converse and un-styled Mohawk not fitting with Ho-Ah jarhead stereotype. Chris has been part of panel with Moazzam Begg—Guantanamo Bay detainee for three years—Omar Deghayes—Guantanamo Bay detainee for five year. At Guantanamo, Omar was pepper-sprayed in the face and lost the use of his right eye. He doesn't wear an eye patch—just stares blindly. Moazzam Begg heard the screams of a woman he was lead to believe was his wife being tortured, and he was repeatedly told he would face a firing squad. He lightens the mood, barely, by talking about Barney the Dinosaur and the Sesame Street theme tune being played at ear-splitting volumes, day and night, for hours and hours at a time. During his talk, Moazzam asked why the British government needed 28 days without trial during the War on Terror, but during the height of the IRA campaign, with the attack on Ten Downing Street, why did the British government need only three days?

Moazzam doesn't mention the internment camps that held IRA suspects without trial indefinitely during the sixties. The camp at 73 Bagram, in Afghanistan, was also called an internment camp; also, the camps where Japanese "aliens" and nationals living in the USA were taken during the Second World War.

I thrust the Dictaphone in Chris's face.

" _That's what this whole war has been based on," he says, "it's words, words like detainee. Torture. Patriotism. Freedom. Because prisoner implies they have the rights of a prisoner of war."_

What about torture?

" _It's a lot more insidious than the sensationalist ideas people have. You'll hear air conditioning and squat positions and constant movement and say, 'That's no big deal.' They know these things won't shock you."_

And they should?

" _How would you feel about being made to do this for fourteen hours, not being allowed to sleep, the air con on freezing, Barney The Dinosaur blaring out at you?"_

Then Chris squats, his hands behind his back, his backside resting on his heels, all his weight on his toes.

Sexy Dossier #6

Operative 'Dog' pulled the jeep up to the guard post, manned by two guards. One guard remained watching television inside the guard post booth. From the booth's window, the other guard addressed Operative 'Dog'. After providing fake-identification, and Doctor Abdulaziz31 allayed the guard's concerns for Doctor Abdulaziz's health, the guard at the booth window raised the barrier and indicated that Operative 'Dog' could drive through.

After Operative 'Dog' parked the jeep, Doctor Abdulaziz and Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' used Doctor Abdulaziz's key card on an electronically locked door to gain entry to the facility. Entering through the previously locked door, Doctor Abdulaziz led Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' into a well lit, whitewashed corridor. Doctor Abdulaziz led Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' into an elevator, which transported Operative's 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz to B1.

Doctor Abdulaziz instructed Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' that they needed to change elevators and led the way down another well lit, white washed corridor. Operative 'Eagle' questioned Doctor Abdulaziz regarding the function of B1. Doctor Abdulaziz detailed that B1 was used for assembly and maintenance; that B1 was divided into two factory floors, one large factory floor for assembly and another smaller factory floor for maintenance. When Operative 'Eagle' requested access to B1, Doctor Abdulaziz informed Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' that only B1 staff had access to B1. As a B2 technician, Doctor Abdulaziz did not have access to B1.

Doctor Abdulaziz led Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' to another elevator which took them to B2.

On arriving at B2, Doctor Abdulaziz led the way down another well lit, white washed corridor. Agent 'Eagle' expressed concern at being led down another well lit, white washed corridor, inquired how much further to Doctor Abdulaziz's office, and warned Doctor Abdulaziz that any attempts to sabotage the operation would be ill advised. Doctor Abdulaziz assured Operative 'Eagle' that the B2 offices, including Doctor Abdulaziz's, were in close proximity.

On arrival at Doctor Abdulaziz's office, another technician, Ahmad Al-Asad, greeted Doctor Abdulaziz,. Ahmad Al-Asad handed Doctor Abdulaziz several files and socialised briefly. Doctor Abdulaziz swiped his identification key card on an electronic panel adjacent to the office door, and Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' entered Doctor Abdulaziz's office. Using their micro cameras, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' proceeded to photograph schematics, blueprints and documents32 33 provided by Doctor Abdulaziz.

Operative 'Dog' noticed that the English alphabetised name 'Orange Cake'34 reoccurred on nearly all of the documents, which were primarily written in the Arabic abjad . When Operative 'Dog' questioned Doctor Abdulaziz regarding 'Orange Cake', Doctor Abdulaziz explained it was a chemical compound with the principal ingredient coming from a chemical plant near the town of Koltan in Niger. After further intensive questioning from Operative 'Eagle', Doctor Abdulaziz revealed that Orange Cake was: toxic and capable of eliminating large numbers of people - under certain specific technical conditions.

Operative 'Eagle' requested to see where 'Orange Cake' was produced. Doctor Abdulaziz affirmed he could take Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' to the 'Orange Cake' test laboratory. Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz left Doctor Abdulaziz's office, and proceeded once again down the well lit, whitewashed corridor of B2.

On arrival at B2 'Orange Cake' test laboratory, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz had to present their identification to a guard standing guard. Satisfied with the identification, the guard allowed Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz to enter the laboratory.

Inside B2 'Orange Cake' test laboratory were four rows of computerised workstations and three large metallic cylindrical containers, each one humming, and each one connected to a large metallic pipe that spanned the entire room before disappearing into the ceiling/floor above. Doctor Abdulaziz explained that the containers were used for mixing industrial quantities of 'Orange Cake', while the rows of workstations regulated temperature, pressure, quantities of chemicals, etc. At the far end of the laboratory was a sterilisation chamber, which led into a smaller laboratory, used for smaller quantity testing and experimentation. The laboratory was unpopulated, save for Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz.

Operative 'Eagle' began to photograph the laboratory35. Operative 'Dog' questioned Doctor Abdulaziz as to where all the other technicians were located. Doctor Abdulaziz explained; that 'Orange Cake' was used in the mixing of extremely volatile substances, and as such was only mixed and pumped to B1 when required; this substance was usually needed once a month, and it took 2-5 days to mix and pump the substance to B1; and that the two B2 'Orange Cake' laboratories alternated the mix and pumping of the substance as to minimise the risk of an accident. Both B2 'Orange Cake' laboratories were not needed at present.

Operative 'Dog' questioned Doctor Abdulaziz as to whether weaponised 'Orange Cake' had been developed. Doctor Abdulaziz explained his specific purpose at the facility was to assist in creating a weaponised substance using 'Orange Cake'. Operative 'Eagle' requested a sample of the weaponised substance. Doctor Abdulaziz instructed Operative 'Dog' that he would have to operate the computerised workstation closest to the sterilisation chamber. Doctor Abdulaziz changed into a biohazard suit while instructing Operative 'Dog' how to operate the computerised workstation36.

With Operative 'Dog' operating the computerised workstation, Doctor Abdulaziz entered the sterilisation chamber.

At 1020 local time, shortly after Doctor Abdulaziz entered the sterilisation chamber, the door to the B2 'Orange Cake's test laboratory opened.

Sticks and Stones

" _His friends cut it off."_

This is what my Dad tells me when I ask about Granddad's finger. My Granddad died four years ago. Me and my father are in Wagamamas, packed against total strangers on wooden benches. I'm leaving a ring of Katsu curry sauce around my plate. My Dad is dribbling noodle soup down his chain. You can tell we are related.

" _What do you mean his friends cut it off?" I ask._

Granddad Fred, my Dad says, never talked about the war. And my Dad never asked. When my Dad was about my age—learning to use a razor more for effect than for necessity—Granddad told him how his finger became so short and gnarled.

It was a welt. Or a boil. Or some kind of infection that made the tip of the finger swell up until it was little more than a transparent film covering the black and purple puss you could feel inside. Black veins began to snake down the rotting finger tip.

I should say, Dad, I'm eating. But that doesn't seem that important.

_Granddad Fred became feverish. He was laid out on a blanket in a POW hut, and a friend held his malnourished arm steady and straight. Another friend wrapped his hand around my granddad's right hand's_ _index finger._

Did a friend rip off a shirt sleeve or hem and stuff it in my Granddad's mouth and say, Fred, bite down on this and imagine Greta Garbo sucking your balls, imagine giving Hirohito a sharpened bamboo stick up the jaxie? The Japanese guards—who never gave any antiseptic or antibiotics or anaesthetic—did they watch? Did they think of the POWs as unworthy because they surrendered? Or did the scarcity of war demand no help? And did the unlucky friend who cut away at the black and purple finger use a fragment of dirty broken glass, or a stolen or granted dinner knife, or did the guards lend a tiny blunt scalpel, or did the friend have to grow and sharpen his nails? And did my Granddad cry out to God, or just cry out, or not cry out at all, when whatever they used that was sharp enough disappeared into the growing spot of blood on the tip of the black and purple finger and kept appearing and disappearing (did they reach bone?) until the fingertip had been flattened and chewed?

I can't help but ask, over and over, in my head. I don't know and neither does my Dad.

My Dad spills more noodle soup down his chin and says, "Do you know what he was told when he knew he was going to the Pacific?"

" _What?"_

" _You've got it lucky—the Japanese, they're still fighting with bows and arrows."_

That's what some people thought. The Japanese—they're lucky to have guns.

Bows and arrows.

No lion.

This is the story my Granddad couldn't tell me.

Sexy Dossier #7

A tall Colonel entered the room, followed by the laboratory guard and a previously unidentified guard. Operative 'Dog' kept his weapon concealed behind the workstation. The tall Colonel addressed Operative 'Eagle'. Transcript provided, verbatim:

COLONEL: What is going on in here? Identification, both of you.

( DOG and EAGLE provide COLONEL with identification. COLONEL examines identification).

COLONEL: What is going on in here?

EAGLE: Sir?

COLONEL: I want to know what is going on in here. I want answers. What are you doing in this laboratory?

EAGLE: We're instructed to escort Doctor Abdulaziz to this laboratory, commander Al-Zarqaqi's orders.

COLONEL. I am Commander Al-Zarqaqi. Where are you stationed? Where is Doctor Abdulaziz?

DOG: We were instructed by Sergeant Arif that you had instructed us to escort Doctor Abdulaziz to this laboratory. He is in the sterilisation chamber at the moment.

COLONEL: Sergeant Arif?

EAGLE: Yes sir, Sergeant Arif.

COLONEL: What?

Commander Al-Zarqaqi proceeded to the sterilisation chamber with the unidentified guard. At this point, 1022 local time, Operative 'Eagle' took the executive decision to terminate the reconnaissance of the 'Asir Weapons Facility and commence immediate evacuation.

Operative 'Eagle' proceeded to operate his Tabuk Short Assault Rifle to eliminate the previously unidentified guard and Commander Al-Zarqaqi, firing several rounds into the back of the previously unidentified guard and Command Al-Zarqaqi. Operative 'Eagle' then engaged the laboratory guard in hand-to-hand-combat, using the butt of the Tabuk Short Assault Rifle to administer severe blunt force trauma to the face of the laboratory guard. Operative 'Dog' then operated the computerised workstation to allow Doctor Abdulaziz to leave the sterilisation chamber. Doctor Abdulaziz placed a small metallic container (approximately, the size of a cigarette packet) on the closest workstation, and then changed out of the biohazard suit. Doctor Abdulaziz gave Operative 'Eagle' the container, which Operative 'Eagle' placed in his left side trouser pocket. Doctor Abdulaziz instructed Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' he would lead them to a service tunnel where Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz could evacuate unhindered.

Proceeding down B2's well lit, whitewashed corridor, Doctor Abdulaziz led Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' to another door, through the door, and then down another corridor. At this point an alarm sounded, and Doctor Abdulaziz proceeded to commence running. Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' also proceeded to commence running.

After navigating and manoeuvring through several corridors and avoiding two guards, who ran past Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz, a large metallic sliding door came into view. With Operative 'Dog''s help, Doctor Abdulaziz was able to open the door, while Operative 'Eagle' observed the corridor.

After opening the large metallic sliding door, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz proceeded to manoeuvre down a wide, poorly lit service tunnel. Doctor Abdulaziz explained that the tunnel led to a motor pool in the Saif foothills. After manoeuvring approximately 50 metres down the service tunnel, sudden sporadic gunfire from the west exit caused bullet wounds to Operative 'Eagle''s thigh and Doctor Abdulaziz's calf37. Operative 'Dog' provided covering fire while Operative 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz sought cover between two large cement structural pillars protruding from the tunnel wall.

Politics and the English / American / Japanese / Iraqi / Consumer / Nerdish / Media Language #2

12:34pm, House acknowledges that Hon. elderly American Texan elephant is administering physical violence to Hon. Gentleman Saddam Hussein. Hon. Gentlemen Saddam Hussein defends his use of acid baths, stressing that "bodies don't just dissolve themselves", causing much heckling from the House ("I think, Mr Hussein, you'll find that they do if you give them enough time"/"patience is a virtue"/"EVIL! EVIL! EVIL!"). Green leather cushions, brass knobs from fixtures, and a noose are/is thrown at Hon. Gentleman Saddam Hussein. Speakers requests a desisting of giggling from Rt Hon. Gentlemen satirists—George Orwell, James Joyce, Salman Rushdie, Tim O'Brien, Kurt Vonnegut, Donald Barthelme— seated in the public gallery. 12:35pm, brief interlude of pole-dancing from a series of legal documents. 12:36pm, Hon. Dr. Hugh Laurie, MD, is allowed entry to the House in order to remove 1) Hon. elderly Texan elephant who has passed out from chocking on a pretzel and 2) certain Rt Hon. Gentlemen of the media—Glenn Beck, Richard Littlejohn and Bill O'Reilly—who have suffered—simultaneously—stress-induced cardiac arrests. Speaker reminds the House that eating whilst on the floor is strictly prohibited and that all mobile telephones must switched off - not just be switched to silent. 12:38pm, Speaker's mobile telephone emits ring tone ('Crazy Frog'). Much disorder in the House; Dr X, MD, increases the volume of his mourning and crying for Mrs X. 12:42pm, House approves Serious Organised Crime and Police Act which leads to the arrest of Charlie Chaplin. 12:44pm, Dr Hugh Laurie, MD, returns to remove Speaker, who has suffered a nervous breakdown. 12:45pm, House adjourned for lunch. Hon. Private Louis "Fred" Lemmer left standing.

Sexy Dossier #8

Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' began to provide suppressing fire towards the east exit of the service tunnel. Doctor Abdulaziz, still bleeding heavily from the calf, and unable to stand, took cover by crouching in the alcove between Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle'. A grenade detonated in close proximity to Operative' 'Dog', causing Operative 'Dog' to lose the hearing in both ears38. Operative 'Eagle' indicated to Operative 'Dog' that a tactical retreat manoeuvre was of critical importance. Operative 'Eagle' suffered a bullet wound to the left shoulder, gunfire intensified from the east exit and a second grenade detonated in close proximity to the alcove.

Operative 'Dog' manoeuvred to another large cement structural pillar to examine the west exist of the service tunnel.

At 1053 local time, Operative 'Dog' returned to relay that the west exit was clear of hostiles. On returning, Operative 'Dog' discovered that Doctor Abdulaziz had sustained a bullet wound to the head, perforating through his left eye39. Operative 'Eagle' continued firing on hostiles. Enemy fire intensified and additional hostiles appeared from the east exit40. Another grenade detonated in close proximity to the alcove. Operative 'Dog' suggested that Operative 'Dog' and 'Eagle' advance on the west exit. Operative 'Eagle' agreed.

Operative 'Dog' administered a Flashbang grenade towards the east exit of the service tunnel. With most hostiles debilitated by the flash bang, yet still under heavy enemy fire, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' were able to successfully manoeuvre to the west exit of the service tunnel. Upon arrival at the motor pool, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' were able to use the numerous jeeps and flatbed trucks as cover. Several guards already stationed at the motor pool identified Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' and attempted to flank Operative 'Dog' and 'Eagle''s position. Operative 'Eagle' provided covering fire and instructed Operative 'Dog' to commandeer a jeep. Operative 'Dog', firing whilst moving, began to manoeuvre around the parked jeeps and flatbed trucks, evaluating each one as a possible evacuation vehicle. Operative 'Dog' sustained a slight laceration wound to the right forearm, as a result of a passing bullet. Operative 'Eagle' was last seen performing flanking manoeuvres and a tactical decoy manoeuvre. Operative 'Dog' found a suitable evacuation jeep furthest from the service tunnel's west exit, and began to conduct an emergency electronic ignition of the jeep. The sound of gunfire at the west exit continued to intensify.

Providing suppressing fire from the jeep's window, Operative 'Dog' drove to the west exit of the service tunnel and was unable to locate Operative 'Eagle'. For several minutes, despite intense sustained gunfire and heavy damage to the jeep, Operative 'Dog' drove around the motor pool, attempting to locate Operative 'Eagle'. It was only on exiting the motor pool and proceeding down a rocky dirty path leading into a narrow wadi, that Operative 'Dog' positively identified Operative 'Eagle''s body.

At 1142 hours local time, Operative 'Eagle''s body was located in a shallow ditch, slumped face down behind a boulder. Operative 'Eagle' had sustained six bullet exit wounds to his back, and a fragmentation grenade detonation had removed his left leg from below the knee. Operative 'Dog' was able to search Operative 'Eagle''s body for the 'Orange Cake' sample, but was unable to ascertain the 'Orange Cake' sample's location. Despite enemy fire, Operative 'Dog' attempted to extract Operative 'Eagle''s body, sustaining a penetrating bullet wound to his left forearm in the process. Due to increased enemy fire, and the wound to his arm, Operative 'Dog' was unable to extract Operative 'Eagle''s body.

Operative 'Dog' drove the jeep as far into the 'Asir mountains as was possible, thereby losing pursing hostiles. At 1231 hours local time, Operative 'Dog' proceeded to seek shelter in a cave and conducted a direct radio transmission requesting immediate vehicle extraction. HQ instructed Operative 'Dog' to proceed to the western slope where the Saif foothills meet the 'Asir Mountains. At 2213, Operative 'Lazy' extracted Operative 'Dog' in a bright yellow Nissan Datsun 720.

Operative 'Dog' briefed HQ and provided his reconnaissance material41 42. HQ declared Operation Accomplished, May 1st 43.

These Things Won't Shock You

I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're a happy family, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too, I love you, You love me, We're best friends as friends should be, With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, Won't you say you love me too,

Footnotes

1 All further coding is SIS.

2 NSA Operative

3 Further references to Operatives 'Downward Dog' and 'Spread Eagle' will be Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' respectively. Operative 'Dog' has received four Service Distinction Awards during his eights years at SIS, is a Junior Officers' Instructor and has completed more successful missions than any other Operative currently in active service. Outside of service, Operative 'Dog' is a founding member of the H-Branch Fencing Team (three trophies won in military competitions) and is one of SIS's best marksmen - scoring 89/100 on Advanced Marksmanship. Operative 'Eagle' came to JO's highly recommended.

4 Joint Operations: SIS/CT/NSA. (199 - 1 - WF - 299088500JO). CT & NSA designated the Operation as Magneta, ie Of Critical Importance To International Security.

5 (199 \- 1 - WF - 299088610OR).

6 SEB, SIS, despite several requests, is still awaiting the report on Operative 'Eagle''s disciplinary action (also, emailed replies from NSA to SIS have so far consisted of (quoted in entirety): "Who is this?" and "How did you get this email address?")

7 Operative 'Dog' would like to state that observing Doctor Abdulaziz was made increasingly difficult after Operative 'Eagle''s departure, ie, by the lack of room service at the Royal Abha hotel and by the only immediate food source being Tada's takeaway, adjacent to Doctor Abdulaziz's apartment. (HRC - 299OO11).

8 Operative 'Dog' sustained a slight head injury from Operative 'Eagle' during an altercation regarding the disappearance of Doctor Abdulaziz and the allegedly female underwear discovered in room 419.

9 Agent 'Dog' has requested to retake Advanced Marksmanship. Operative 'Dog' has also requested to attend an NSA seminar on "The Big Hole Theory Of Ballistics", as suggested my Operative 'Eagle' (HRC - 299OO11).

10 OO15 \- O288341 - SEB - ID 'LAZY DOG'.

11 Operative 'Lazy Dog' would like to note he has requested better civilian transport for Operations (HRC - 299OO15).

12 Operative 'Dog' would like to note that Operative 'Eagle' initially refused to enter the Datsun 720, stating it was unfit for military purposes ("shitty") and that it posed a threat to the Operation ("would be safer to ride back in a goddamn Muhammad-themed Macy's Day float"). Operative 'Dog' assured Operative 'Eagle' that the Datsun 720 was a perfectly sound vehicle.

13 Operative 'Lazy' would like to note that he has no recollection of the above altercation. However, Operative 'Dog' would like to note that Operative 'Lazy' was administering mechanical repairs underneath the Datsun 720 while the alleged altercation was occurring.

14 Later identified as Doctor Abdulaziz's wife (Mahta) and daughter (Yasna). Doctor Abdulaziz expressed concerns for their safety should he be found to be co-operating with Operatives 'Eagle' and 'Dog'. Operative 'Dog' attempted to gain Doctor Abdulaziz's co-operation by giving Doctor Abdulaziz the reassurance that Mahta and Yasna would be safe, protected etc. Doctor Abdulaziz remained uncooperative.

15 Operative 'Eagle' asserted to Operative 'Dog' that he was a trained physician (a "noxious stimulus simulation specialist" - SIS, SEB is still waiting for relevant paperwork).

16 Such interrogation-aversion techniques have been documented by SEB, SIS, CT and NSA.

17 Operative 'Dog' would like to note that Operative 'Eagle' frequently became concerned/violently frustrated about the location of his Standard Issue Water Canteen and frequently accused of Operative 'Dog' of stealing/hiding Operative 'Eagle''s Standard Issue Water Canteen.

18 When Operative 'Dog' questioned Operative 'Eagle' as to why he was bathing his hands, Operative 'Eagle' revealed that his knuckles and the back of his hand (dorsum) were violently red from what Operative 'Eagle' claimed was "sunburn".

19 Other information rendered from Doctor Abdulaziz included: the 'Asir weapons facility obtained power from solar panels, wind turbines and biofuel; and the weapons facility had an on-site cafeteria.

20 A joint agreement by NSA and SIS, made in light of Operative 'Dog' and 'Eagle's ethnic background (Tunisian and Mexican respectively).

21 OO29 \- O288222 - SEB - ID 'LUKE WARM HARDING'

22 1GB Memory Jefferies' Windowed Fibre Optic L.B4591.

23 Operative 'Dog' would like to note that, at the time, neither Operative 'Dog' nor Operative 'Eagle' were aware that the Arabia Café proprietor, one Mr Muhaya Bizzi, was a Arabian Intelligence Officer (suspicions were not aroused due to Mr Bizzi's accommodating nature, eg. bestowing the nickname 'Big Man' on Operative 'Eagle', offering "some fun with good, young Nigerian girls", etc).

24 eg. Scowling, elaborate hand gesture, Arabic curses, crying etc.

25 Two Tabuk Short Assault Rifles.

26 After comparing sizes and comfort levels, Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' agreed to exchange uniforms.

27 Operative 'Dog' would liked to note Doctor Abdulaziz and Operative 'Eagle', who were not wearing the jeep's safety belts, suffered slight whiplash during a minor collision with another vehicle: approximately 23 minutes into the journey, Doctor Abdulaziz requested to smoke, and Operative's 'Dog' and 'Eagle' permitted Doctor Abdulaziz to smoke. Doctor Abdulaziz offered Operative 'Dog' a cigarette, at which point Operative 'Eagle' became extremely suspicious of underhanded tactics on the part of Doctor Abdulaziz. An altercation ensued, leading to a collision with another vehicle. Operative 'Dog' would like to note that he is on an SIS programme to quit smoking and drinking (HRC - 299OO11). SIS would like to note that Operative 'Dog' has not attended the SIS sponsored Operative drugs and alcohol rehabilitation group ('Just Say Negative' - Registered Charity Number:1035072) for six months.

28 Locally, the foothills are called the 'Legs of The 'Asir'.

29 Since Operation completion, reconnaissance has revealed the 'Asir Weapons Facility has been abandoned and partially dismantled. It is highly likely it has been relocated (199 - 1 - WF - 299088610OR).

30 Operative 'Eagle' described the hue as "bubble gum". Doctor Abdulaziz described the hue as "cherry blossom". Operative 'Dog' would like to note that Operative 'Eagle' and Doctor Abdulaziz reached a consensus with "flamingo".

31 Operative 'Dog' would like to note that Doctor Abdulaziz affability with the facility guards and technicians (eg. Smiles, handshakes, head nods, well-wishes, back-pats, offers of cigarettes, humour regarding Yasna/Al-Zarqaqi etc.) decreased suspicion of Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle'.

32 Photographs: See attached, or request 199 - 1 - WF - 299088640ORF1.

33 Photography of Doctor Abdulaziz's office was hampered by complications with Operative 'Eagle''s Jefferies' Windowed Fibre Optic L.B4591; the complication being that Operative 'Eagle''s Jefferies Windowed Fibre Optic L.B4591 had not been adequately charged.

34 Operative 'Dog' would like to note that Operative 'Eagle' noted that Koltan is also an Alaskan Glam-rock band (Full name "Koltan And The Lords Of The Cosmos", latest hit "The Countdown Has Begun!", #119 US Rock Chart, 18th March, 2009; Operative 'Eagle''s son being a "very big fan"). Subsequent investigation (199 - 1 - WF \- 299088640OR-F1) has revealed that 'Koltan' is an Iraqi shoe manufacturer (Koltan ltd, Bagdad based), a genus of Afghan Gibbon (Hylobatidae Koltan), and an Indonesian town (Kol Tan, West Kalimantan) with the 118th largest mosque in South East Asia . SIS has begun an investigation and has requested CT and NSA files.

35 Photographs: See attached, or request 199 - 1 - WF - 299088640ORF1.

36 Operative 'Dog' would like to note that procurement of 'Orange Cake' was hindered by Operative 'Eagle''s initial attempt to operate the computerised workstation/an altercation between Doctor Abdulaziz and Operative 'Eagle', which led to the loss of power to Cylindrical Pump 2 and the short circuiting of power at the on-site cafeteria. Operative 'Dog' eventually facilitated - via the computerised workstation - Doctor Abdulaziz's procurement of 'Orange Cake'.

37 Operative 'Eagle' suffered a penetrating wound with minor lacerations and minor crushing (blunt force trauma) damage and a minor cavitation wound. Doctor Abdulaziz suffered a much more severe perforating wound, with a cavitation entry wound and a permanent cavitation exit wound, with the bullet expelling all crushing-damaged tissue.

38 Since this incident, Agent 'Dog''s hearing has returned to partially to his left ear, but not the right ear (request for hearing aid - HRC - 299OO11).

39 The size of the exit wound (a permanent cavitation wound that expelled approximately 60% of the back of the cranium) suggested a shot from close proximity.

40 Operative 'Dog' would like to note that SIS training methods were not applicable to the hostile's tactics; instead of engaging Operatives 'Dog' and 'Eagle' in a manner outlined by Manoeuvres: 897B - 199 - 1 - WF - 299088333SIST, the hostile's attack was erratic and seemingly uncoordinated.

41 Operative 'Dog' planned to request a JO Operative other than Operative 'Eagle' on his next JO assignment. Reasons given included: Operative 'Eagle''s anger management issues (eg. the complete destruction of Room 419's intermittently faulty shower head), Operative 'Eagle''s alcohol consumption (eg. the whiskey content of Operative 'Eagle's Water Canteen) and Operative 'Eagle''s intermittently lax professionalism (eg. describing the 'Asir Weapons Facility as looking like "a gay Pentagon"/frequently explaining and elaborating on his idea of a patented 'Monopoly of Evil' board game, depicting strategic locations in Saudi Arabia, for US troops to play should a theatre of Operations occur in the Islamic Republic of Arabia/explaining and elaborating on his idea of distributing chocolate models of senior terrorist officials to US troops should a theatre of Operations occur in the Islamic Republic of Arabia to celebrate the capture/elimination of the represented senior terrorist officials.)

42 Operative 'Dog' would like to note Operative 'Eagle''s extraordinary valour during Operative 'Dog''s successful escape from the 'Asir Weapons Facility. Despite receiving a bullet wound to the thigh, Operative 'Eagle' managed to run to cover, provide extensive, continuous covering fire and eliminate at least six hostiles. Using parked jeeps and flatbed trucks for cover, Operative 'Eagle' even began to flank hostiles attacking Operative 'Dog', much to the flanked hostiles' surprise. Despite heavy blood lose from the wound to his thigh, Operative 'Eagle''s decoy to draw fire from Operative 'Dog' was a textbook example of a successful distraction manoeuvre. Operative 'Eagle''s display of valour at the west exit car pool stands as testimony to his dedication to the Operation.

43 Operative 'Dog' would like to note that two days after the mission a public beheading of a woman convicted of Sexual Misconduct occurred in Abha square. Several days later at Arabia Café, Operative 'Dog' questioned a local female contact who verified that the woman was Mahta Abdulaziz.

Credits

Editorial

Sally Barnden, Kate Buckwell, Jess Cleaver, Christopher J. Fraser, Danielle Gagola, Caroline Hutchins, Katherine Jackson, Helen Kingstone, Sandra Klein, Richard Lemmer, Sharon Megson, Georgia Monroe, Rachael Sloan, Katie Williams, David Zendle

Design

Geraldine Xu, Gus Beamish-Cook, Frederick Botham, Caroline Hutchins

Publicity/ Marketing

Katie Rosenthal, Rebecca Appleyard-Kelly, Nick Baum, Oliver Belfitt-Nash, Charlie Monger, Sairah Rehman

Events

Lizzie Bartholomew, Anthea Gordon, Sian Hughes

Get Involved

Working on The Looking Glass is both fun and exciting, as well as great work experience. No matter what you'd like to do, from designing posters to organising socials to reading submissions, you'd be welcome here. Our team is diverse, and includes everyone from first-year students to those working at postgraduate level. If you'd like to get involved then feel free to e-mail us at yorkanthology@gmail.com

If you'd like to take part in one of our creative writing workshops, you can find out more at yorkanthology@gmail.com

If you'd like to submit a short story, a poem or a piece of drama for our next issue, submissions can be sent to yorkanthology@gmail.com

Further information is available from our website at www.thelookingglass.org.uk.

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