Yours is Here
All the King’s Horses
~ an expression of depression volume 3
Edited by
Nina Antonia
Designed by Chris Colston
LE
Little Episodes Publishing
All the King’ s Horses
~ an expression of depression volume 3
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.
The right of the authors in this book to be identified as the authors of their work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
N Antonia is hereby identified as editor of this work in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Any dialogue or behaviour ascribed to the characters in these stories – those who are real people as well as the characters who are imagined – is entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright owner.
Little Episodes Ltd, No. 7005436
www.LittleEpisodes.org
Design by Chris Colston, London, UK
Little Episodes Publishing
Copyright @ Little Episodes Publishing, 2011
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Little Episodes Publishing.
Edited by Nina Antonia.
With thanks to Nick Ross and Antonia Hodgson at Little, Brown Book Group, Michaela Turner and to all the contributors.
Editor’s Preface
2010 was a vicious year. I got whipped by the tail of the Hydra; bereavement, mayhem, hardship. Barely able to stand upright in the maelstrom, a well-meaning soul with mental health training told me that not everyone suffered from depression. I found this very odd. Anyone in their right mind would surely find the world a twisted, difficult place, rife with sorrow. Happiness has always been a fleeting concept, but not for some it would it seem. Those that never doubt their sanity, the rock solids and regular folks, are by and large, dull. Creativity is not wrought from reasonable outlook. It has always been for me something of a blood-letting ritual, a shedding of skin and an escape. In a state of near desperation, I submitted one poem and a prose piece to Little Episodes. Yes, I’d had a career in music journalism and gained more than a little notoriety for chronicling the misadventures of rock n roll drug fiends, but this time it was different. Not a guitar in sight, even if the riffs were still there. I sent the work out into the ether as one might throw a paper plane from a window, expecting no return. And yet, it came several months later with an acceptance note. One overcast Portobello evening, I met with Little Episodes’ founding light, Lucie Barât. Over a glass of wine, teeth chattering as we smoked outside The Duke of Wellington, she gave me the keys to the kingdom, the directions to a vision that had been borne out of experience.
I hate the word ‘Community’ it smacks of alfalfa and Birkenstock. I much prefer ‘Resistance Movement,’ for this is what Little Episodes represents, an artistic platform that raises awareness of addiction and mental health with none of the ‘I’m well, you’re ill’ imbalance of traditional systems. Anyone who doesn’t recognise the maladies within themselves is less of a human being for it. I am immeasurably grateful to Lucie and Little Episodes’ designer, Chris Colston, for giving me the opportunity to be ‘Editor In Chief ’ of ‘All the King’s Horses’ and to Jerome Alexandre for his encouragement. The quality of submissions was extremely high and the pleasure of sorting the rubies from the dust, all mine.
Nina Antonia—February, 2011
Accolades for LittleEpisodes.org
LE, a buzzing hub indeed. I have written on a few other sites, and most of them you wade through blatant bashing and teen angst before you got any good material or good feedback (praise or honest criticism). I would take this moment to thank everyone here for contributing material, so my broke ass doesn’t have to go buy books to find good reading material...and we’re saving trees in the process. ~ David Paul Gessner (LE Member)
Thank you for the kind words on Paradise Cove. I am honoured to be part of such an important movement. LE inspires me to write daily, free to continue to explore the artistic journey, breaking all boundaries. Thank you for the raw source of talent and energy you bring together as a collective group. ~ Jacqueline Cioffa (LE member)
It is indeed an honour to be associated with this site – worthy in so many ways, with talented people. ~ Diane Nelson (LE Member)
This is like a head clean Bohemian dream. I know I’ve found more inspiration here than I ever did at the bottom of a bag or bottle. I may be the least of the brilliant talent pool here, but I am number 1 when it comes to appreciation of what’s offered here! All the best to all of you! ~ Rolf Ocale (LE Member)
Expression of Depression Anthology Series
I would consider myself to have been lost. Perhaps I provoked myself with persistent existential angst, or perhaps I just struggled with life and finding my place in the world. I have spent time on psychologists’ couches and I have resided in various institutions, and in the end, I believe I became ‘found.’ On my journey, I read empathetic accounts of other people’s experiences. It helped to lift the ‘bell jar’ a little when I felt imprisoned in the battleground of my mind and when I felt most alone on the edges of society.
I wanted to create something that might provide light and understanding to other sufferers of depression, mental illness, or just people struggling. I also wanted to provide a platform for talented artists who have never had a ‘break,’ as it’s well known that most artistic industries can be harsh on even the most happy of personalities. Plenty of talented people fall by the wayside simply because they don’t have the fight or the thick skin to keep playing the artistic lottery for a chance at success. Both Little Episodes Publishing and Little Episodes Productions feature work from successful, as well as unknown, talent.
Most of all, I wanted to help de-stigmatise depression and promote compassion and understanding rather than fear and embarrassment. I also wanted to dispel the notion that depression is in any way cool. I wanted to express the belief that romantic dead poets and the image of sultry, tragic heroines are just a dangerous mirage. If you flirt with a glamorised dark side, you could fall through, and contrary to popular belief, you will not discover a font of creative inspiration, but quite the opposite: a dull, flat hell land.
Lucie Barât 2009
Contents
Yours is Here ~ Chris Colston
Accolades for LittleEpisodes.org
The Bang Beat ~ Lucie Barât
Junkferatu ~ Eva Destruction
Jesus Loves Me in Mandarin ~ Helen R. Peterson
Oft the Road Most Travelled ~ Iain Pettitt
7 ~ Beri Ann Miller
I Learned Crazy from my Cousin John Edward ~ James Cagney
Balcony Scene ~ Sarah MacManus
Frozen Lace ~ Ann Tinkham
The Audition ~ Caroline Ryder
The Absence of Life ~ Michaela Turner
Invocation of My Demon Sister ~ Nina Antonia
Reflections ~ Michael Butler
Dad’s Nose ~ Sadie Frost
Locked in ~ Lucie Barât
The Next Thing to Go ~ Colin McKay Miller
12 ~ Beri Ann Miller
New Year’s Eve ~ Danny McCosh
The Fool ~ Federica Frezza
My Confession ~ Dave Vegas
Virgil Navigates Hell ~ Fran Lock
Drought Season ~ Jerome Alexandre
Sorry ~ Nina Antonia
All Hallows Eve ~ Nadia Khomami
Libertine ~ Ciara Burke
RIP ~ Colleen Allen
Wholesome ~ Anna Kirk
Self Portrait at the Lowry ~ Eilidh MacDonald
This is Gregory Sampson ~ Isaac James Baker
The Person Opposite on the Train ~ Dominic Stevenson
Flashes ~ Jack Varnell / the emotional orphan
The End of the World Is Nice ~ Nina Antonia
Upstairs ~ Jack Cooper
Me, twice ~ Lucie Barât
I Got A Balinese Dancing Girl Tattooed Across My Chest ~ Kjersti Furu
Bowing Out in Bow ~ Danny McCosh
Feme Sole ~ Fran Lock
A Letter to My Little Brother ~ Rhiannon Williams
A Riddle ~ Michaela Turner
Tell Me About Your Father ~ Emma Jones
Little Episodes Mission Statement
The Bang Beat
It’s the dirty end of the day, the interval between the fiery footed steeds
and the cloak that makes immoral acts more wholesome.
Lazy light and seedy exchanges
go together penis in hand, so to speak.
An extra rent boost before the night shift—
when I work harder than
a cat covering crap on a marble floor, as it were.
I’m perched against an open door on Peter Street, thinking that
if I can catch myself a suited trick from the Soho flow
short cutting from commuter street, I can catch
myself a treat from G Man while his batch is fresh.
When he first stands out on his piss-marked patch, like a
crack riddled Pied Piper knowing his Toms will come,
like a nose following Bisto...
But there’s junk among the trade during this arse end of the day,
and no one ever seems to mind yesterday’s puke
splattering the concrete. Faceless, casually clad tourists
wonder through in their oblivious
bell jars.
They smile and stop to commit me to a Kodak moment,
like I’m a mirage, like they’re considering an art installation,
like they’re enjoying a piece of street theatre, like there
won’t be blood and cum and a down-and-out cheek on that spot
later on, where they stand with leisure-footed feet,
and I have to say,
I feel violated and abused. I feel sold short and used
while I’m just waiting, minding my own business
looking for an extra-curricular trick to fund me a little treat.
Eva Destruction
In the tabloid imagination, there is no creature lower than Junkferatu. It will come for your children, taint the neighbourhood, and destroy communities. Recently a government minister, tie as tight as a noose, announced that under alliance rule, Britain will soon be a drug-free nation. The bogey-man stalks the shadows of Whitehall, not the streets of the UK. It is the junkie’s own body that is his foe, with its eternal cycle of need, rather than a society that judges him a penny-dreadful caricature. Nonetheless, plans are afoot to sanction the benefits of anyone who admits or is suspected of getting high. People who may never before have thought about stealing may be left with little choice. Alternative prescribing is to be phased out, robbing thousands of fragile stability. Across Europe, Latin America and the US, moderation and even decriminalisation are being considered, but in Blighty, we tighten the screws. Before his rise, David Cameron appealed to the UN to legalise drugs, now he panders to tabloid-generated moral panic. Theresa May launched the latest drugs strategy in December 2010, peppered with feisty rhetoric of the ‘Hunt ‘em down, smoke ‘em out, place garlic at your windows’ variety. Round up the hags, whores, skid-row scumbags, shiv-wielding somnambulists who constitute Junkferatu’s ragged legion. It never used to be this way.
Just how did the junkie stereotype evolve into a figure of contempt? At the root is class. Yesteryears vamps and fops, Crowley, De Quincey, Coleridge, Baudelaire, the fab four of opium reveries, were educated and of means. Well-bred aesthetes were pardoned for their trespass on the grounds of creativity and breeding. The first casualties hailed from the Jazz realm, real gone cats, Charlie Parker, Chet Baker, yet still the élan of style and mystique lingered, for these were blue note Gods, at least for awhile. Lenny Bruce was the warning shot, although British intelligentsia welcomed him with open arms because ‘dirty’ Lenny was hipper than hip. Hip was originally opium den terminology, a reference to the sore spot one got from hours spent in sideways repose, chasing clouds. And who didn’t have a copy of Burroughs' Junky and the Stones' Beggars Banquet? Twin pillars of stone cold cool. It wasn’t until the 1980’s, when cheap heroin became widely available to any old Janet and John that politicians started to get fussed. Opium for the people just wasn’t on. Even then there was a modicum of sympathy. That is until the tabloids headed up the witchhunt and fanned the flames. I smell the kindling in town squares and job centres. Billie Holliday’s gardenias, the golden scent of Xanadu, gone forever.
Jesus Loves Me in Mandarin
Listening to the Chinese church sing “Great
Is Thy Faithfulness” in the lower room
while trying to keep my mind on Bible
study and the baby off the table, feels
like Jesus is tired of my West Hem. posturing,
my whine, my cheese, my pretty please
says don’t tell Me about pain, try a spear
in the side, girl, your sister texts
you in the middle of the night,
My brothers called me crazy
you sitting around singing empty bed blues?
My friends couldn’t even sit up one night
For Me, denied Me, and here I was, cat o’ 9
up the behind, thorns crammed in My skull
for their sorry asses, and yours—
Iain Pettitt
‘Oft the road most travelled, will be yours,’ my mother used to say to me. She was an ambiguous figure, and so every Friday, I would sit in my armchair and muse upon her philosophies. Alas, it was Thursday, and I must go to her grave for afternoon tea and the ritualistic bringing of flowers. Bucky drove me there, like he did every Thursday afternoon, and he was almost as ambiguous as my mother, except he was a man, so his ambiguousness was less of a mystery to me and to everyone he ever spoke to. A large chap, but thin as a rake, and as enthusiastic as one too. I always stare at the grey hairs on the bottom of his neck that slowly run their way, streaking through the furrows of a gorgeous mane. I have never seen his face, and I wouldn’t like to, either, because you can always tell a man’s face from his voice, and he spoke gravelly words that sputtered into my ears, and gave the whole trip to my mother’s grave a certain—
I called him Bucky because he reminded me of an old Alsatian I used to have; he was grey from birth and always walked with a limp. Bucky had a limp, but only in my head.
‘I say, Bucky, could we drive a little slower today, please? I feel a little queasy in the sunshine, Bucky.’
‘As always, sir.’
The drive took much longer than I intended, but I suppose seeing all the weeping willows between my house and the graveyard is a splendour. Sometimes it’s just nice to put your hands out and brush against the trees; it’s almost ethereal.
‘Do you like Willows, Bucky? I find they have a morbid feeling, Bucky. What’s your favourite tree, Bucky’?
‘Trees are good, sir.’
‘Yes I know, Bucky, but what’s your favourite? You have to have an opinion, Bucky, life demands it.’
’Lemon trees, sir.’
‘No good, Bucky, not for your nature. You need a mellower tree. How about the oak, Bucky?’
‘Very good, sir.’
The gates to the graveyard are my favourite gates in the world; they are rusty, but you can see the splendid jet-black paint that used to adorn it, scattered on the floor in little flakes. There were less flakes than the last time I came, but jet-black flakes can be rather tasty.
Mother’s grave was a statue, but it didn’t depict her. It was a statue of Zeus, sitting on his throne on Mount Olympus. Mother always used to say, ‘A grave is your life, make it splendid.’ So, when she finally kicked the bucket, I had it made for her. I know mother would be proud. You can see why Zeus was the chief God in Greek times; his genitals were massive, protruding from his body like a fist, ready to thrash Hera to oblivion.
‘Oh Mother, why did you leave me? Was I a bad boy? Did I not feed you enough tuna sandwiches?’
She never answered back, but I knew it was because of the sandwiches. She loved to snack on them, sometimes fifty rounds of sandwiches a day, and she got bigger and bigger, until one day she stopped eating sandwiches altogether. I think it was then that she died, for she got thinner and thinner until she withered to nothingness and slipped into her grave.
Bucky gave a loud honk on the horn, loud enough to interrupt my thoughts, but quiet enough to keep mother calm.
‘Yes, Bucky! Coming, Bucky!’ I howled at the top of my voice, shaking the flakes a little with my tremendous, booming voice
I sat in the seat at the back of the car, leant down and picked up a few flakes from the ground and put them in my pocket for later.
‘Drive me home, Bucky.’
’Very good, sir.’
There are no willows on the way home, just a bland, brown wall that I can barely trace my fingers along, the soggy moss sticking to the tips of my fingers and remaining there until my afternoon tea break.
‘I say, Bucky, could we drive a little slower today please? I feel a little queasy in the sunshine, Bucky.’
‘As always, sir.’
7
As I turn away
my scuffs align
creating a caped giant
leaning over me
my cut finger follows the
path formed by cracks
leading to a heart
belonging to a man with a key
though the whispers from
the cobble stones
imply there's no finding it
my breath has nowhere else to waste
its time
other than in the back of my throat
waiting
My dress of wire twigs and nails
rubs at the exposed muscle of my thigh
my body is too exhausted to
bleed
children skipping along my skin
yawns of trees clinging to my skull
scars up my back forming a
zipper
how you unzip so secretly
sends chills through
my force field
strapping mirrors to my split feet
with my eyes closed
I can still feel the ache
in my spirit
my hair laced with
illness
pain
and poison
Teeth ground down
by
too many tastes
of black silky
sleepy permanence.
I Learned Crazy from my Cousin John Edward
take your aunt for a substitute momma
she’ll help you get new apartments every year
be your only visitor in art deco hospitals
that serve hypodermic lunches
know the police by name. know god by name.
know the devil by name—but get them confused
sleep in the park when the walls
start closing in. be polite to birds
sprinkle lithium on your breakfast cereal
draw perfect freehand apostles and arch
angels drifting down like puppets from orange
and yellow heavens. misquote parts of revelation
that best articulate your case
sit at bus stops and stare wide eyed
at the hot bowl of the sun. burst
apartment walls open with your heart
keep secrets that would blow up the earth
but let no one forget you have that power
talk shit to demons and pick your afro
with the rib cages of angels
get drunk and become angry moses
use furniture for tablets. warn the voices
partying within the nature of god’s wrath
use malt liquor for holy water
crucify yourself know everyone
awaiting your second coming is dead
Sarah MacManus
Little brother,
that spark behind your eyes
that beats on the walls
and screams bloody murder;
it got caught in my throat, see?
Hammers against my chest
and rattles my bones
Take my hand,
we’ll scream together.
Little brother,
that catch in your voice
that swallows the pain
and smashes the glasses;
I got drunk on that, see?
It spins my head
and pounds in my ears
Take my hand,
we’ll smash them all.
Ann Tinkham
As I sit on the bathroom floor, a deflated parasail, all I can hear is the drip, drip, drip of the almost overflowing claw-foot bathtub. I picked this place because of its Victorian-era charm, and now I realise it was a genius move because the bathtub is so deep. The new-fangled hotels have shallow tubs. That just wouldn’t do.
I should mention that the drip, drip, dripping is interrupted by Sidney’s snoring. Forget sawing logs; he sounds like a chainsaw.
I’m wondering how to arrange myself—wedding gown and all—into this 1920s-era tub. When I shopped for my gown with the mother of the bride (aka my mom) and we both fell in love with the train, who knew that the train would trip me up in my final hours.
I’m not sure what happens once I submerge myself and the gown. It will be like holding my breath under water, but when I start to gasp, I’ll stay down there. Then I’ll start taking in water like an ill-fated ship at sea. Finally it will be ship ahoy, mate overboard, sunken mermaid, and slimy seaweed hair. At what point will I know the job’s done? I guess that’s the point. I won’t know.
Bride Drowns in Gown. At first they’ll suspect foul play. Then Sidney will have his alibi—drunken stupor—on his wedding night. No need for a note; the world will know why.
I’m in and under but every time I start to breathe in water, I choke, cough and surface. The human body is hardwired against this stuff. I’ll try again. I’ll imagine the water is air and inhale deeply—deep sea kundalini. This time, water is going into and out of my nose and making me cry.
And I can’t stop crying. Tears are welling up and trickling down my cheeks, my mouth, my chin, now pouring into the bathwater. I can taste the saltiness of my tears.
Then a strange thing happens.
The salt makes me want to live. Not because I’m a big fan of saline. The tang of salt on my tongue makes me hurt for myself.
I grab onto the red porcelain sides of the tub and push myself up; the water level drops dramatically. I catch my image in the mirror. I look like the drowned Bride of Frankenstein with blackened rivulets of mascara cascading down my cheeks, my French roll drenched, bloodshot eyes under blue eye shadow and a mid-scream horror movie mouth that scares even me.
I don’t recommend bathing in a wedding dress, in case you were considering it. As soon as I feel the drenched satin and lace against my skin, I’m sniffing and shivering. Even so, I slip into my ivory bridal pumps and scurry/tiptoe past the human chainsaw, who would have slept through my drowning incident and woken up to coffee and a bloated bride. That would teach him to not drink and wed. Save the lesson for another wedding day, another bride.
I’m out the hotel room door in a soggy flash, my dress dripping and the train leaving a damp trail on the carpet. Lucky for me it’s lights out at the bed and breakfast; otherwise, soggy bride leaving hotel alone after midnight might send the wrong message.
The other thing I don’t recommend is getting married in New England in December, just in case you decide against drowning yourself after submerging in your gown, and then flee the scene.
Once I’m outside in the single digit temps, it takes all of a minute for the satin and lace to freeze into a leaden gown-shaped snowflake with me as a human dress stand. But if there is pain due to impending frostbite, I don’t notice. My eyes, which moments ago would have become water-logged orbs, are turned upward toward the spiralling snowflakes, coating the bed and breakfast’s lamp post and rod iron fence. My fingers which would have become clammy, blue digits are being tickled with flakes and melting them into moisture droplets. My feet nearly swollen and limp are carrying me across the crunching, crystalline snow to the highway.
As I approach, a 1950s Cadillac pulls over. I do a double-take. Is it actually pink? A man’s face appears as his window opens. If I didn’t know better, I’d have guessed he was the ghost of Elvis.
‘You all right, miss?’
‘Where are you headed?’
‘Memphis.’
‘Me, too!’
‘In a frozen wedding gown?’
‘And you in a pink Cadillac?’
The Audition
It was 113 degrees in downtown Los Angeles, and hotel parking attendants stuffed cans of ice-cold Coke Zero in their jackets and pants, cursing the uncompromising calor. A few miles northwest, in the shimmering hills above Hollywood, Desmond Furie masturbated alone by his infinity pool. In his head, he relived the best scenes from the heat of his own adolescence, weaving them with the most outré storylines from his films, a slimmer version of himself in the starring role. It was the most oppressive day in the city’s meteorological history, and the air smelled like black sage and dust. It was also his birthday.
Desmond dumped the dregs of his rooibus tea into the pool and pulled himself off the sun lounger, his skin coated in sunscreen and lube. The view from his 1938 estate was magnificent, and in the distance, the smog hung low over downtown, a thick layer of green mist layered with orange and dirty white, melting into a rapidly dimming sky. Inside the house, Desmond ignored the empty tubs of medical marijuana that were scattered on the granite kitchen counter—the housekeeper would deal with those later. He took off his silver locket. Once upon a time it would have been filled with cocaine in wry homage to Weimar Era slut Anita Berber, whom his girlfriend more than resembled. Today it held a blend of pure, high-grade valerian root powder, ‘nature’s downer,’ his healer had told him.