Issue #1: Autumn Shifting
- The Flock
- Dec 23, 2024
- 27 min read
Updated: Mar 21
A Note from the Editors…
This time last year the first meetings that would end in us establishing The Flock Literary Magazine were happening. Our goal then was simply to revive DAPS, an annual student anthology publication which provided practical experience for aspiring publishers and visibility for aspiring authors.
However, we quickly learned that this would not be as easy as we thought. Most of the resources and internal documents that described how exactly DAPS ran were gone, leaving us with nothing but a skeleton to work from.
But if we only had bones, so to speak, they were good bones, and we knew we wanted to keep them intact even as we chose to expand and change. The amazing opportunity that the internet had provided for those in the literary space had not been fully utilized by previous teams, because that just wasn't how DAPS had been designed to function. We, on the other hand, had the opportunity to build from the ground up.
We came to the conclusion that the digital issues were a crucial evolution. Through these, our work reaches further. We can take submissions from down the street or from across the ocean, we can garner readers from anywhere with an internet connection, we can integrate as much accessibility as possible from day one... the list goes on.
So Issue 1 is a first for us in so many ways. It's been very new, and in some ways difficult, but the reward of watching it come together has been worth it all.
Our intention for this magazine over the past year has been to take the core principles and the legacy crafted before us and incorperate them into something entirely new, a collection that reflects our dedication and passion for the craft. We hope we have begun to achieve this with Issue 1.
Our overarching theme for the year, ‘Seasons’, is defined enough to fit into a simple single-word prompt, but still contains enough breadth and multitude for a billion unique artistic interpretations. In many ways, this latent possibility represents what we have faced as a new literary magazine, and what it means to encapsulate and organize such a wide variety of responses, experiences, thoughts, words, into one final collective work.
This issue focuses primarily on Autumnal imagery, though within you will also find hints of Spring and Summer, or of seasons that are not so easily defined, as both time and nature do not come in chapters, but in one continuous circle.
We have tried to focus on the ideas which Autumn allows us to explore in the literary space. We have pulled into emphasis ideas of change, of admiring beauty as the planet lights up in orange flame one final time before burning out into winter, of that strange proximity to death we assume only temporarily, with the reassurance that the cycle will continue with rebirth in the Spring...
The support from readers and contributors alike that we have received in the lead up to this issue has been overwhelming and we would like to extend our gratitude to you in helping us sculpt and produce our final issue.
We would also like to thank our lecturers, Barrie Llewelyn and Collum Sanson-Reagan, for their endless support in helping us get The Flock off the ground. This thanks is also extended to the rest of the staff, who you will find recognized in full at the bottom of this issue. Without your hard work, we quite literally would have been able to do this!
We’re proud of what we’ve been able to do, and we’re excited for everything that will come after. We hope you enjoy it just as much as we do.
Chantae Davies and Jamie Vincent
Editor-in-Chief(s) for The Flock
Contents…
Atgofion Melys / Sweet Memories By Laurie Elen Thomas
The Turning Year By Anais Brimble
The Wold By Dakota Naylor
Après-Midi By Niall Moore
Iowa Pantoum By Nicholas Urich
My Erratic Nature By Anodiwa Sadomba
The Tale of the Haycock Witches By T. Stanley Smitten
Autumn By Zoe Scott
4th of November By Dragon Roberts
Adore By Tushar KS
On the Eve of St. Valentines Day By Frank Dullaghan
A Small Fellow’s Spring By D. William Walmsley
Just Nipping Out By Molly Treweek
Featuring Photography By…
Sam Scurlock, Autumn in Bute
‘I’m Sam Scurlock. I was born in Penarth but I’ve moved around a lot since then. I first started getting into photography a few years ago, around 2021, when I began producing artwork for my music projects. Music artworks and videos are my primary inspiration, specifically the work of Brian Griffin and Vaughn Oliver. I also draw inspiration from surrealist photography and interwar futurist art I.e. El Lissitsky, Anton Bragaglia and the aesthetics of the Bauhaus movement.’
You can find Sam on Instagram @deux_ombres_photography_
Leon Morgan, Escher Puddle and Riverside
‘Hi there, my name is Leon, I take photos. I'm interested in Grandmasters, Quasars and Malkovich; in police kicking kids, the suffering of light, and the decisive moment.’
You can find more of Leon's work on Instagram, @le.on_photos, or on his website, Newplace2frown.com
Hayley Thomas Autumn Stream
'Hi, my name is Hayley Thomas, I am a 3rd year Creative and Therapeutic Art student at USW Treforest.
My principle creative flair is textiles, but I like nothing better than being out in nature and capturing snap shots of the incredible beauty that is all around us. I use my mobile phone camera and do minimal editing, respecting the capture in that exact moment to speak to the viewer.'
You can find Hayley on Instagram, @rhonddagirlreturns2
Atgofion Melys / Sweet Memories
By Laurie Elen Thomas
Daisy chains and
Buttercup chins
Grass fights and
Paper plane flights
Tree climbs and
Lemonade cups
These are the sweet
Summer things
That we forget in
The frosty days of aging
‘I’m a poet and writer from wild West Wales who currently works backstage in the Welsh language theatre world. If I have time to spare, I can generally be found writing about pigeons, women or the sea. When possible, I enjoy a bit of film photography due to an apparent love for gambling on potentially awful shots. I’m also a USW alumni with a fierce passion for (oat) milkshakes, mythology and archery. If the time is right, you can sometimes find me reading poetry to the wondrous void of the Porter’s open mic.’
You can keep up with Laurie on Instagram @laurie.elen.t and through their Beacons page.
The Turning Year
By Anais Brimble
It begins in Spring, a trembling bride,
Her fingers green, frost died.
She stirs the earth with breath so faint,
A fleeting hymn no poets would paint.
Her blossoms plead, her roots entwine,
A tender ache, a fragile vine.
Still I cradle hope in petals light,
Yet shadows grow to dim the sight.
Then Summer storms, she a molten flare,
A sovereign wild with blazing hair.
She sears the sky, her lips ignite,
Offering a poisoned kiss, a daring plight.
I chase her light, though embers warn,
A faint chill coils where Love is sworn.
And so her fervour wanes, her edges fray,
As I helplessly watch her golden crown decay.
In Autumn’s grip, a sorrow thrums,
Speaking eulogies of us within her brittle drums.
The trees release their fiery cries,
Weeping gold from ashen skies.
I clutch her remnants, burnt and dry,
Their warmth a ghost, their colours a lie.
Her beauty folds, a mournful succumb,
To the wind that unravels all of them.
And then Winter comes,
She a specter bare,
Her breath a blade, her voice despair.
The trees stand gaunt, their shadows lean,
Skeleton sextons digging in white obscene.
The ground is steel, the sky is stone,
A silent vast,
A land alone.
Yet buried deep in frost’s domain,
A seed still dreams of Spring again.
The seasons wheel, their endless thread,
A song of life,
Of Love long dead.
And here I wait at every door,
To greet a Spring I can never thaw.
And her hands will shake, shy and raw,
And I will follow, obediently,
Blinded by Love’s call.
You can find more of Anais' work on her Instagram, @anais_brimble_writing
The Wold
By Dakota Nayler
‘Old girl, give me some of thy wood and I will give thee some of mine when I
grow into a tree.’
…
When I was little, in the years when I and others would dance around the
maypole, Harvest was more beautiful than Christmas. Wold comes to life when
Harvest is near. For weeks beforehand, Dad brewed Elderberry wine and Mum
crafted wreaths of white flowers. As the full moon approached, our concrete estate is
flush like a forest. Nameless neighbours would approach me with gifts of food and
would share in the joy of the festival.
But then I got older, schooled outside of Wold, and forgot about the Harvest.
Autumn would come, and new friends would know nothing of our festival. I became
busier, more social, and by the time I had grown up, my family had stopped
celebrating. For a time, I even grew suspicious that my memories of Harvest weren’t
real and were instead childish hyperbole of my family’s oddities.
…
But they are odd. I always have to remind myself. I sit in a kitchen telling a
stranger how when I was sick, my mum would bring me into the woods. We’d sit
cross-legged under the bony branches of an Elder Tree and speak some odd rhyme
and then with great care would remove some of her bark and flowers. Then I was
told to chew on the bark and the next day I’d be cured. The stranger gives me a look
that tells me I’ve just said something greatly weird and hard to understand, then
feigns a laugh and searches for a way to end the conversation.
It’s been like this every day since I left Wold. Mum dropped me off in a city full
of strangers, and even those I’m friendly with, those I have drank, and laughed, and
cried with, will never stop being strangers. Even friends I made in high school have
become strangers to me. There always existed some abstract difference that
prevented us from knowing one another truly, my idea of an estate was very different
to theirs.
Sometimes, I’ll sit in front of the mirror in my new bedroom and hold in my lap
a little plant pot. I’ve kept her alive for so long. Every summer she sprouts such
delicate white flowers. On nights when I miss home, I will pluck her buddings, the
few she can spare, and place them in my hair. It is only on those nights that I do not
feel alone. That my evening isn’t spent with a stranger but with an old friend.
…
Annie was my only friend from Wold. We went to the same primary, shared
the same Harvests, and we should have left Wold together. Annie was kind and
funny, and at night, we’d both sneak out of the house to walk around the village
together. For hours we would talk about anything that we could.
It was our last Harvest that I can remember, the Autumn when we had started
high school, and after the village had gone to bed, we snuck out. I stole a bottle of
my dad’s Elderberry wine, met Annie on the estate, and then we both hopped the
stile that separated our homes from the forest. In the dark, we found an Elder Tree
that had been planted a few Harvests before and sat under it to watch the stars. We
talked, and drained the sweet wine, and laughed as the world became smaller. The
stars turned overhead, and the finger-like branches of the Elder Tree parted to allow
us such beautiful views.
Night went on and Annie became quieter. She lost focus, gazing into the Elder
Tree’s branches and reaching out for the Elderflowers that adorned her. She couldn’t
reach and began to climb, clumsily grasping onto the tree’s gaunt form and trying
desperately to gain some sort of leverage.
All of this escaped my concentration as the grass under the tree had gained
strange sensations. My hand couldn’t help but lose itself within the blades. But these
were feelings, not sights, my eyes had been taken in by the stars. They outlined a
figure. Brittle arms and hooked nose, with an astral cloak draped over an elderly
frame. She emerged from the star’s formation and seemed to approach us.
Annie made it to the top of the tree, loosely hung from a higher branch, and
reached out to pluck one of the Elderflowers.
The figure got closer, and a great anxiety took me. My hands got quicker in
their survey of the grass; they reached out wildly for something within to give them
comfort. What they found, instead, was hard and ridged. Dusted in the dirt that it had
recently escaped from. My pointer finger had found a skeletal equal.
The anxiety was broken in an instant. A quiet, short snap of a twig being
taken, followed quickly by a much greater snap and scream. I felt sense return as I
looked at Annie in a heap on the floor, clutching a flowering twig in her hands and
pushing a much larger branch off of her body. I helped her to her feet and saw that
she was crying softly.
We embraced under the Elder Tree, and when the shock and tears had
subsided, Annie placed the little white flowers within my hair.
…
I spend more time on Dover than I care to count. I want to wait for my heart to
calm, but it won’t. I can’t pass into the village until it does. Instead, I go into my car’s
boot and retrieve my little plant pot. Gently, I carry her with me onto the bonnet,
where we sit together.
As the early morning darkness lifts, the village looks as if it’s waking up for the
first time in years. Wold looks older than I remember. Elder Trees haven’t been
planted in the forest since Annie left. The barley fields that surround the village have
been neglected and overtaken by weeds and aberrant growths. The full moon
passes, the neighbours don’t celebrate, and it’s like some nutrient has been taken
from the very roots of Wold.
But today is Harvest. The first full-blooded Harvest in a long time. The first
new Elder Tree, the first new meal for starving earth, the first sacrifice for Elder
Mother in a very, very long time.
…
‘You didn’t ask, did you? You selfish little shit for all we do for you. For all she’s done
for you. You just took it, didn’t you? Don’t just stand there crying, tell me.’
‘I’m sorry, mum.’
‘You’re sorry for what?’
‘I took the wine, I’m sorry.’
‘What else did you take?’
‘Nothing, I promise.’
‘Don’t lie to me.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You know you won’t see that girl again? Her parents are very angry. I will be too if
you don’t tell me what else you stole.’
‘Annie didn’t steal anything, only I took the wine, it was my idea.’
‘You didn’t take anything else? You promise?’
‘I promise, mum. I’m sorry, I promise.’
…
Under my breath, I whisper my mum’s odd rhyme and pluck a white flower
from my little tree. I hold it gently in my palm and raise my hand to the hillside. I wait
there, offering the little flower to the sky and allowing the wind to take it from me.
The flower fights against the current, twisting wildly and violently in the air, but
despite its resistance, it is dragged downwards. It doesn’t take long before it’s out of
my sight, lost amongst the trees at the hill foot. There, it will find a kind patch of
grass and wilt into the mud below.
Dakota Nayler is a writer and filmmaker from Gloucestershire, one of three Film Reviewer of the Year nominees at the 2020 Into Film Awards, and a wannabe mix of Edgar Allen Poe and Percy Bysshe Shelley wearing a Robin Hardy coat.
You can find Dakota on his Instagram @kotinayler
Après-midi
By Niall Moore
I would be an Autumn afternoon,
When the wind drops below the trees
Fallen leaves, crunching below those feet
The slipping through clouds, envelopes of light,
Sun puddles she would suggest,
Angels splashing in boots made of marble,
The sun drops lower, and sooner, for today it is night,
Pumpkin spice, and froth, narwhal
An evening in Dumballs, where she rests
The moment she wakes, the time that lapses
For today was forever, and tonight we capture,
A breeze worth catching, a song worth humming
Birds that struggle, before winter snow comes flowing.
Niall Moore is a new writer looking to build a community within his respected field. He mainly focuses on the journalism side of literature. He enjoys pop culture and gonzo writing, but isn't one to shy away from some contemporary poetry. He currently oversees the events side of The Flock and furthers his involvement in anyway he can!
You can find more of Niall's work on Instagram, @WayWard_writing
Iowa Pantoum
By Nicholas Charles Urich
I want to be good for her.
I want to be good this time.
There is nothing I can do.
I'll always get nauseous on car rides.
I want to be good this time, maybe I'll be
strong enough but I'll always get nauseous
on car rides even when I hang my head out
the window.
Maybe I'll be strong enough but the corn
fields are always severed, even when I
hang my head out the window.
Who lives in these fields?
The corn fields are always severed in
the growing season, at the harvest.
Who lives in these fields?
There is the fire, the mourning guitar.
In the growing season, at the harvest,
I twiddle at tomorrows, phantom's now.
There is the fire, the mourning guitar:
maybe a daughter, her laughter?
I twiddle at tomorrow's phantoms now.
String beans, canned foods, lamb's heart,
maybe. A daughter—her laughter:
I want to be good for her.
‘Hi. My name is Nicholas Charles Urich. I write poetry and study philosophy and religion. I'm from Kansas, but currently live in Illinois. I graduated summa cum laude this May from Lake Forest College. You can find more of my work on my blog, The Philosophy Club, where I write on ethics, political philosophy, the history of philosophy, and whatever else tickles my fancy.'
You can find The Philosophy Club here. Nicholas has also released a poetry book, Dogshit, which is available here.
My Erratic Nature
By Anodiwa Sadomba
New days come with new struggles
Like new seasons come with various troubles
The rain that washes it all away
Replaced by the wind that brings it back to stay
I crave the sun that hits my skin
Until it burns. Then I yearn for the cool breeze with the sky’s so dim
Erratic weather, we’ve started having
Erratic mood swings, I’ve always had
Are we crazy or misunderstood?
Is it our fault or is it the moods?
When does accountability set in? So many ask
Accountability sets in with us, when we aren’t trying to mask
So many emotions all at once
Are you sad, are you happy?
Never knowing what you want
Everyday, constant battles
Will you be warm and bubbly or standoffish and cold?
Will you smile at me or have a silly grudge to hold?
Voices and thoughts consuming your head
You don’t wanna be angry or relive what they said
You want to live, laugh and love and yet something stops you
From fulfilling the potential that so desperately wants to come through
Will I ever be cured? One can only hope
Until then I have to deal with sometimes going rogue
I find so much comfort in knowing what’s wrong
So much so that i hope my hypomanic episodes are eternally long
The storms I’ve had to weather
Only few understand
I wait patiently for the sunny days
For someone to finally hold my hand
There’s no such thing as a bad season
The beauty in its essence
Is beauty I wish to find
In the erratic nature of my personal seasons
Where I slowly drown inside
‘Born and raised in Harare, Zimbabwe, I navigate life as a 20-year-old psychology student, seeking to understand the human mind while grappling with my own complexities. Poetry found me when I needed it most, becoming my sanctuary amidst personal storms and mental health struggles. It’s been a gateway for me to transform my darkest thoughts into something beautiful, giving voice to emotions, even I didn’t know were there. Each poem for me, is a step toward healing, a bridge between pain and peace. In this unexpected artistic journey, I've discovered more than just words, I've come to understand myself in ways I never imagined, and I give myself grace because of it. I am in no way an artiste of note, but I hold my poems very close to me, because they hold my essence.’
The Tale of the Haycock Witches
By T. Stanley Smitten
This, my friends, is a bizarre tale for me to tell, although it is not one I experienced myself but rather one told to me by my old friend Edward Haycock. Me and this man go back decades to the days of our mischievous youth in the countryside.
Regardless, Edward’s family was one of old, modest prestige, for their family had owned, and protected, the nearby Haycock Forest for centuries and it is this forest where our tale originates from. In one of our annual meetings within the local drinking hole, we regaled each other with our exploits of that year, as we have countless years before, and after a few delightful pints he turns to me and asks a rather peculiar question, of a type I’ve never known him to ask.
‘Now, tell me,’ he began, swirling his half empty glass in his hand, ‘do you believe in witchcraft?’
‘Witchcraft?’ I repeated sarcastically.
‘Yeah. Witchcraft. You believe in it?’ He looked me in the eyes with a rare seriousness.
‘What like, flying brooms, boiling cauldrons kind of thing?’ He nodded, although rather unenthusiastically. ‘No. It’s just kiddy tales.’ I took a big gulp of my pint after my answer, unsure as to where he was going to take this line of questioning.
‘You’re wrong,’ he said, leaning over the table, glaring at me with a steel expression. ‘I’ve seen them. They’re real.’ I stared at him with an eyebrow raised and a disbelieving smile. At first I thought it was the drink talking but seeing his stern face and stiff body language I knew this wasn’t the case.
‘You’ve…seen…them?’ I repeated, straightening up in my chair.
‘Yes. In our forest.’
‘Bah!’ I exclaimed, throwing my hands loudly upon the surface of the table, ‘You were drunk weren’t you? Too much whiskey again?’ I laughed to myself as he violently shook his head.
‘No. You know I only travel through our forest sober.’ He leaned back in his own chair, still resting his hands on the table. ‘I suppose you don’t believe me do you?’
‘That depends on how ridiculous the story is, which I know you’re itching to tell me.’ I responded, instantly seeing a small hint of excitement slowly grow on his face.
‘Then let me tell you so you can make up your mind.’ He carefully picked up his glass, eagerly drank some of its contents and returned it to the table as he continued. ‘This was back in the spring, the grass had pierced through the soil of the forest floor, enveloping all in a bright green blanket that you know I love. There was the scattering of wildflowers popping too, although there were far less this year, and the trees swayed in their green glory once more. Now the day of work was rather uneventful and as I’d returned home at dusk I hadn’t yet taken the dogs for a walk so I did as I have done thousands of times before: I took the dogs through the woods. Now for a time nothing was different and there was nothing unusual whatsoever, but it was when I reached the thickest part things changed. The two ran off ahead, disappearing behind a bush I had never seen before and as you know I know every part of these woods by heart, all my family does. The weirdest part? I could hear voices behind it. Chanting, rhythmic voices.’
‘Voices?’ I instinctively asked, my curiosity in his tale peaked, regardless of the extent to which I believed it.
‘Oh yes. Feminine ones too. I rarely see others in our woods, let alone at this hour so naturally I wanted to investigate and since the dogs ran off that way too, I had a perfect excuse to do so. I tried to keep quiet as I pushed through the bush, the spiky twigs doing their best attempts to pierce my skin. Eventually, after a lot of quiet struggle, I ended up at the other end of the bush, concealed by it as I peered out at what lay behind it.’ He paused a moment, his eyes drifting to his hands, hands I could see were ever so slightly trembling. ‘I have never seen such a sight in our forest before.’
‘What did you see?’ I said , now thoroughly invested in where this tale progressed to.
‘There was a wide hole sunken into the ground, like one of those craters where the German's bombs went off. Inside, three tall jagged stones, over twice the height of a man, set equally apart. Each pierced above the surface of the crater and each was widest and thickest at the bottom than at the top. There were sticks and leaves weaved between each of these stones, forming an unwelcoming canopy over its top. The bizarre thing about all this? There were leaves strewn across the top of this canopy, with gaps to reveal the business below, some were an identical green to those on the trees around me, others were a fresh, deep brown, like those that fall in the Autumn and even more bizarre some were covered in snow.’
‘Snow?’ I spat, droplets of lager drizzling the tabletop.
‘Oh, it gets weirder, trust me,’ he assured, not taking much notice of my spilled drink. ‘I leave the bush, slowly crawling to the edge of the crater, the sounds of these feminine murmurings only getting louder and louder until I finally see them. There were four women unlike any I’ve ever seen. The first had skin of a pale white with frost coloured hair and eyebrows. She wore a lengthy, flowing dress that seemed to be weaved from some bizarre white silk. She was stood barefoot on the grass in the crater but for some reason the grass surrounding her was covered in snow. Thick, fluffy snow that displayed no signs of melting. The next had white skin darker than the first, bright blonde hair and was wearing a shorter dress, weaved from bright green blades of grass and wildflowers, that revealed her legs. She too was barefoot yet the grass at her feet was a brighter shade of green with daffodils and buttercups piercing through. The next woman was a similar skin shade to the second, had fiery red hair and was wearing a dress formed from interwoven roses, both red ones and white ones. She also wore a crown of roses, that delicately nestled on her hair. The last was much different than the rest: she had skin like the last two yet it was smothered in a heavy coating of mud, her hair was a jet black and her dress was woven from fallen brown leaves. The grass beneath her had withered away, leaving only the dirt and rotting leaves beneath her feet.’ He paused in his explanation.
‘They were all chanting in unison, raising and lowering their arms in their circle whilst facing another smaller rock in the middle of them. On top of that there was a rose, a leaf, an ice cube and a daffodil. I crept closer to the edge, watching as the items were quickly surrounded by what seemed like a swarm of minuscule bees until they began floating in the air. They continued chanting and the items began spinning. I crept closer and as the items vanished in a poof, the dirt supporting me gave way, dropping me down.’
‘You fell in?’ I cried. ‘With them?’
‘Yes. Rather loudly too.’ He finished his drink, placing the empty glass between us. ‘They all turn to me. Their expressions were blank and their voices silent. The items appeared again and dropped on to the stone, the little bees flying away.
"An intruder?" the dark one said first, her voice raspy and bitter.
“No,” the one in white added, mist leaving her mouth with every word.
“A protector,” the one in the green concluded.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the one in the roses announced, stepping past the others towards me. “Our deal does not permit this.” I stuttered, trying to think of a response.’
‘And what did you respond?’ I asked him, finishing my own drink. He looked at me blankly.
‘I don’t remember. I know I said something because she handed me this.’ He put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a bright red rose. It was snipped at its end in a manner that formed a triangular cut, its petals were thick and full of life. It had four thorns along its stem, one its natural colour, one stained a snow white, the other a blood red and the last an earthy brown. He placed it on top of the table as he continued. ‘She knelt down in front of me and grabbed my palm. Her touch was strange…like touching a flower petal but…softer? Anyway, she placed that in my palm and said to me:
“Continue to protect our forest until that rose withers and dies. Then our deal is complete.”
I said something else, this I remember: ‘Deal? What deal?’
She gave me the warmest smile I’ve ever received and closed my palm
around it. “One your ancestors made long ago. One you still uphold without knowing why. One your children will inherit.” She placed a finger on my forehead as she then said, “And a deal we greatly thank you for.” I then felt a wave of exhaustion blast over me and everything went black.’ He grew silent, staring at the rose on the table.
‘What then?’ I asked, desperate to learn more.
‘I woke up in the grass with my dogs licking my face,’ he answered.
‘What about the crater?’ I said , not satisfied.
‘Gone as if it was never there.’
I thought back to his story and asked another question, ‘What of the stones? The three that stuck above the crater?’
‘Oh, I found them. They were barely sticking out the mud but I knew it was them.’
‘And?’ I tried to push him for more.
‘There’s not much to tell really,’ he admitted with a glum face, ‘they were covered in moss, sticks and surrounded by grass, barely an inch tall. If I didn’t see all this Id’ve assumed they were normal rocks.’
‘This…is a bit far fetched don’t you think?’ I said, collecting the two glasses in preparation for another round.
‘I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.’ He joked, collecting the rose from the table and returning it to his pocket.
‘Were it anyone else, I’d tell them to sod off but I know you,’ I said, standing up with my wallet in hand, ‘you don’t have a good enough imagination to come up with all that.’ We both laughed as I departed to the bar with the empty glasses t o buy the next round of drinks for the next round of stories.
He shared this tale with me during our last annual outing and frankly I considered it to be nothing more than the ramblings of a drunken fool. But, something about his tale drew me closer. I’ve made the concerted effort to appear to him more frequently since.
I quickly noticed how he placed that very rose on his mantlepiece and noticed how it failed to wither through winter. It stayed vibrant in spring, thrived in summer and peacefully bloomed in Autumn. Part of me still believes the man needs to drink less and this was all because of his drunken imagination, but the behaviour of his new enigmatic rose makes me wonder:
Perhaps his tale was true after all?
T. Stanley Smitten is an aspiring author and writer.. As a student in aviation and with a long appreciation with nature and classical literature, like the works of Edgar Allen Poe, he aims to blend the classical flair of sophistication and mystery with modern storytelling and enviro nments. With a deep connection to his hometown, Coventry, where he lives and writes, he currently follows theways of the old gentlemen in all he partakes in, including his more traditionally inspired writing style.
Autumn
By Zoe Scott
Autumn my favourite season of the year,
When leaf covered footpaths appear.
Colours so vivid and bright,
Makes for such a stunning sight.
The crunch beneath my feet,
Too much noise to be discreet.
Animals always hear me coming
Barely a glance before they start running.
The change of the weather to sunny crisp days.
Cold, frosty mornings on display.
As some life ends and new life manifests.
Nature’s beauty at its best.
A time that provides such sensory blessings,
From depression and overly stressing.
It’s beauty a great distraction,
Autumn my favourite season.
Zoe Scott is an artist and poet, originally from Essex, UK. Currently studying Creative and Therapeutic Arts at the University of South Wales. She takes inspiration for her creative work from her own personal experiences of living with mental illness and the therapeutic benefits of nature and arts.
You can keep up with Zoe on Instagram, @zoescreativecabin
4th of November
By Dragon Roberts
Tomorrow night,
They will lock me away
Hold my ears closed so I am not scared
The lights are back in the sky
Just like last year, and the year before
I will be startled by the foreign noises
I will scramble from their arms and scrape my desperate paws against the door
My beady little eyes will watch the blue and yellow fire light up the sky,
more beautiful than I can comprehend,
and far more frightening than I can anticipate.
But tonight,
it is quiet, as I am asleep safe and sound in the clutches of their arms.
Tonight, nothing can harm me.
‘My name is Dragon Roberts, though I also go by Adrien Roberts, depending on the day. I usually sign things with "Adrien and Dragon". I enjoy all forms of art, from getting my hands dirty with paint and clay, to writing poetry and fiction. I believe art is all about finding ways to express the way one views the world, as that is entirely unique to each person, and can be portrayed in so many different ways.’
You can find Dragon on instagram @TangyVanilla_ and their art @TangyVanillaart2
Adore
By Tushar KS
Like the child adored the Moon,
His eyes shined like glitter.
Entangled in the mesmerized loon,
For he enjoyed his warm nap in the chilling winter.
Like the couple adored the stars,
Lying under the bright night sky.
Cuddling each other on the roof of the cars.
For they fall into each other's beauty as they lie.
Like the hikers adored the northern light,
Glazed in the darkest hour like magic,
There was a tune enchanting the whole night,
For they heard it as a healing in a climb too manic.
Like the one sided lover adored his crush.
From the shadows behind a corner,
Admiring her mystical beauty in a rush,
Eager to meet her eye but stopped himself to keep her honour.
Like a brother adored his sister.
Fighting like cats and dogs,he always hinders.
Awkward to express his love gesture,
For he wouldn't tolerate anything against her from strangers.
From a butterfly to the milky way ,
Each being is adorable, I say.
All one needs is right vision on this blurry day.
‘I’m Tushar KS, an MSc Clinical Psychology Student at the University of South Wales. Mental health being my profession, Poetry is my hobby and passion. I believe joy lies is the pause, small moments that you capture for a lifetime. A beautiful poem is like medicine to the madness of a frenetic life. I like to pen down things into poetry that moved me, inspired me, something that makes me a better person. I believe imagination is the one thing that has no ends, even the sky bows down to touch the sea at a point. Love is the most passionate emotion there is, so keep spreading love and kindness.’
You can find Tushar on Instagram, @myscribbles8
On the Eve of St. Valentine’s Day
By Frank Dullaghan
We meet with Maura. She is ninety-seven years old.
She says she is astonished by this. She talks
about her small farm and the house
she will never return to. But not much. Mostly,
she has stories of the other old ladies
in this nursing home. She tells us she is trying
to keep as much independence and dignity
as possible – taking herself to the toilet at night,
getting herself dressed each morning.
But we can see the shrinkage, the reduced life.
And we know this may be our own tale soon enough
but can’t be sure we will fare as well.
Her husband left her a long time ago in the hospital
wing of this home. His mind had been losing itself
for years. He was already gone when he passed.
Still, she visited him, sat with him until the end.
There was love, surely, but no children.
There was the small farm that kept them
to their days, their parish, their own ways.
That too has passed. All she has now is herself.
It seems enough. She has accepted the extraordinary
fact of her own existence. Whatever purpose
she has now, she is keeping quiet about it.
She eases up the loose leg of her trousers,
shows us her thin, orange-blotched shin. ‘They think it’s
an infection,’ she tells us. ‘I’m on antibiotics for it.’
We nod. ‘But who can say if it will do any good?
Sure we’ll find out. Perhaps,’ she says and lets
the trouser leg slip back down
Frank Dullaghan is an Irish poet living in Essex. He has 5 collections published by Cinnamon Press and is widely published in international journals. He holds an MA Distinction Writing from USW.
You can contact Frank here: franktheport@live.com
A Small Fellow’s Spring
By Danny Walmsley
Beneath the moss, in small confine,
Something stirs below the pines.
Enclosed by frost through winter’s curse,
Now back to life the creature bursts.
Sounds of spells have made him wake.
Allure of slumber hard to shake.
At last, he rocks from mossy bed,
And dons a cap to thaw his head.
To the doorstep of this earthen den,
He walks more slowly now than when
The squirrels – beasts – hid away their goods
And humans – titans – stocked up with wood.
Time for rest is over, one must eat.
He misses the berries, those fattening treats.
But nettle leaves and burdock shoots
Are enough to fill his humble boots.
He scans for ‘shrooms in shaded nooks
Collecting food with patient look
He hums his tune, expects to hear
A neighbour’s voice to call from near.
But the paths are quiet, the woods are bare.
No neighbours pass, no kin are there.
A village bustling, now no more
How many lost? Five, six score?
From forest’s breath their lives depend
It’s bloom, their birth. Its fall, their end.
Bound to the magic, their fates entwined,
When the mana fades, so goes their kind.
This vital essence once ran deep,
In each hollow, through soil’s keep.
But now its feeling wanes, subsides.
His friends departed. No goodbyes.
I'm 23 and originally from Aberfan, Merthyr Tydfil. I am a PhD student at USW studying the impacts that repetitive head trauma in rugby has on blood delivery to the brain. I aim to write a nonfiction book based on my PhD research after I complete my thesis. Most of my writing is journaling, which pairs neatly with my fountain pen collecting. I'm a big fan of John Steinbeck's writing and particularly enjoyed Tortilla Flats. I love camping and hiking around Merthyr and Brecon, hence the many mentions of forests in my writing. I'm most pleased to have a piece accepted in the Flock magazine!
Just Nipping Out
By Molly Treweek
As Max’s wet nose dips down into the dewed spring grass,
Tail wagging, tongue hanging, neck straining, we break through,
Into a clearing,
You don't know that I’m between the Bluebells, or the purple Knapweed, not
Nipping to the toilet
like I claimed, you don't know I’ve taken Max from the car, begging him to not bark.
We walk a little further, onto the tops, through the sun streamed mists, all kinds of things
Sprouting up,
I let him off his lead and throw his ball,
he bolts, bushy tailed leaping, pointed ears
bouncing through the bracken
until he is a
small distant dot.
I shove my naked, white-blue fingers into my pockets. When that ring
Appeared in your bedside draw, I can't say it came as a shock.
But I’ve made my decision, and Max’s kind face comes to my side.
I let my hair out of my hood, It’s knotting
And
curling around
Itself in the
wind,
I think of you, wondering where I’ve gone,
And I run...
Molly Treweek, who grew up in West Yorkshire, will be receiving her BA Hons Creative Writing degree at Sheffield Hallam University. She writes literary fiction, poetry and short stories exploring ideas around nature, nostalgia, and sense of place. A piece of hers featured in a university-run zine, which was widely received by audiences across Sheffield.
You can find more of Molly’s work on her Instagram: @mollytreweek_writing
A Thanks to our Staff . . .
We would like to extend our thanks to everybody on our team, as they’ve made the creation of this issue possible. Even those in seemingly “smaller” roles have been invaluable, holding up crucial pillars.
This includes...
Olivia Williams - Secretary & Head of Communications
Benjamin Madhavan - Treasurer & Head Editor
Levi Moore - Editor
Mihaly Egeto-Szabo - Editor
Levi Ball - Editor
Harry McMail - Editor & Social Media
Isabella Evans - Editor & Events & Social Media
Niall Moore - Editor & Events
Lewys Evans - Communications & Website Design
Naomi Evans - Communications & Logo Design
Chloe Summers - Communications
We couldn’t hope for a better inaugural team.
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