Drifting

Emmanuel pulled his mask back over his nose and mouth, having briefly lowered it to take a sip of the bitter filter coffee, its smell acrid and affronting in the recycled train carriage air. He’d never got past the mask thing. Not getting sick somehow only made him worse. The healthier he became, the more fastidious he was. I know he considered me slovenly, not just by comparison, but in general. I could feel him roll his eyes behind me whenever I didn’t wash my hands for long enough, or if I touched a cashpoint.

“What do you need cash for anyway?”

“It feels more real.”

He checked the time on his phone. Our train had stopped in the hills, the announcement said there were ponies on the track, something that filled me with a childlike joy, and Emmanuel a pedant’s panic. Before the train set off again, we saw a man in a tweed flat cap ushering three horses up the hill to our right. “That’s one for your journal,” I said, and he looked at me, expression neutral, but his extended gaze made it a glare.

“We’re going to be late.”

I was disappointed too. I’d gone against my nature and planned this journey to the second. It was five trains in all. I scoured Twitter to find the truth about the interchanges - could you really make it from platform 1 to 10 in less than a minute? Were stairs involved? Would tourists or commuters slow us down?

“Normal adults would hire a car,” he said.

“When were we ever normal?”

The service was at 1pm. The idea of being late had seeded in my head and was making me itchy. I could feel Ms Robbins trying to bring out my better qualities, punctuality was one of the things she had tried to impress upon me.

I’d learned she’d passed in a Facebook group for Coombes School leavers. The school had long since closed, any straggling students matriculated to other schools around the borough. There’d been a campaign, a sort of half-hearted protest outside the town hall towards the end. I’d asked Emmanuel if we should go and do our bit. “If we were doing our bit we’d burn the place down.”

He hadn’t wanted to come along today, either. I’d begged him. It was undignified, but dignity was more his thing than mine. “She was good to us Emmanuel. Nothing else matters.”

On the odd occasion I did catch up with the others from our year, they never asked about Emmanuel. I always brought him up as soon as possible, that we lived together, before anyone could gossip about what happened to him. People would go quiet or get confused. “I didn’t know you were friends,” or “nice to have someone familiar nearby when you’re not close to home.”

When we moved I learned that people mourn you when you die, but if you leave the city, people just go about their lives like you were never in them. Giving precious weekends to go over the border, paying for hotels because our house was too small for guests, it was all more effort than a simple, effective silence. That’s why Facebook was so important to me, It gave people an avenue to passively love me.

We hadn’t moved so far away on purpose, once we left it became easier to edge a few more miles every so often, chasing a better-paid job or quieter village, avoiding neighbours with something to say who wouldn’t say it to our faces.

Finally, Emmanuel suggested that we buy a house. For most people, the first house cemented growing up, for me, it showed me that he wanted things to stay the same as much as I did. He did all the paperwork, occasionally asking me for a signature, some ID, and my bank statements. I paid my half of the deposit, and then we were stable, stuck. I wanted a bit of ceremony, to smash a bottle of champagne against the front wall perhaps, but Emmanuel said I was being ridiculous.

We pulled into Euston at around 12. Enough time to make it to the church, but not enough to go to the hotel to change. We crammed ourselves and our suitcase into the accessible toilet in the station and hung the suit carriers on the low hook on the back of the door, the bottom of the plastic brushing against the stained floor.

“You look handsome,” I said, looking at his reflection in the scratched-up mirror, his face partly obscured by an artless graffiti tag, his hands clasped around his tie knot, adjusting it a few millimetres to the right, then to the left.

“I look like I’m going to court.”

We paid to store our luggage at the station. We navigated the journey to the church through muscle memory - years of attending hymns on a Friday morning. She wouldn’t’ve wanted to rest there, but the choices people make about your death are always about what makes them feel better, not what you would have wanted.

We touched out at the barriers and took the escalator to the exit, the same one where we’d met when Emmanuel was first released. I'd tried not to stare at how he’d changed. He was longer, leaner, his face drawn. But despite all of it, he didn’t look any older. If anything, he looked more like the little boy I’d sat next to when I was 7, a yellow hue to his skin, who was scared to talk to anyone and once wet himself in a school assembly because he was too shy to raise his hand whilst the headmaster was speaking.

We were in school together from as early as I can remember, right up until it happened. We weren’t close then, though sometimes when he looks at me, I wonder if we’re close now, or just the strange equivalent of a marriage of convenience.

I heard a change in his breathing, he started doing it consciously, like I’d taught him to help with the panic attacks. In for 7, out for 11, in for 7, out for 11, in for 7, I grabbed his hand, out for 11, he squeezed mine and let it go.

We sat near the back of the church. Not much had changed since we were last here, near 20 years ago. We squeezed into the wooden pew, sitting and standing at the appropriate times, mouthing the words we sang together as boys, how great thou art, how great thou art, not needing to consult the lyrics in the unprofessionally printed pamphlet with an out-of-date picture of Ms Robbins gracing the front. The pastor spoke;

“I had a great deal of time to get to know Sally over the years. She kept to herself but gave selflessly to the church. Though she had no family of her own, she was a child of God who will find her kin in heaven.”

Emmanuel snorted, not loud, but loud enough for one or two people to turn and look at us. I bowed my head, embarrassment dressed as prayer, and Emmanuel covered his eyes with the heel of his hand, drumming his fingers on the front of his hairline.

“We have to go,” he said, as people lined up at the casket. “I don’t want to see her.”

“ I do, we’ve come all this way!”

“You’d better get your money’s worth then,” said Emmanuel, turning towards the light emitting from the semi-circular wooden doors.

Emmanuel was waiting outside when I came out, leaning against the back of the church wall standing in a patch of uncut grass, dew drops pooling on his meticulously polished leather shoes. If I ever lost him, I just headed to the quietest corner. He was never gone, but always hiding.

“How was the corpse?” he asked.

“Don’t call her that!” I protested, stifling a laugh, something about the trauma bringing out the worst in us. “I don’t suppose we’ll go to the wake then,” I half asked, half answered.

“Not on your fucking life,” Emmanuel said quietly, pushing off the wall with his shoulders, righting himself and heading out towards the black gates.

We found a table at the back of an empty pub that smelled like furniture polish and spilt pints. Drinking whiskey seemed the grown-up thing to do, so I got us two cans of Red Stripe. I looked Emmanuel in the eye and raised my can in a toast, “To Mrs Robbins, she finally got out of this shithole.” Emmanuel humoured me, touched his can against mine, honouring her with more of a slosh than a clink.

When I returned from the toilet, Emmanuel was crying noiselessly at the table, he made no effort to hide it. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and then cleansed it with an antibacterial wipe, as though he was allergic to his own tears.

“She was good to us, you know?”

“I know.”

When Emmanuel got out, she collected him. I’d promised in my letters that he could stay with me. I had a big room in a run-down HMO where nobody cared who came and went. I’d spent money on a blow-up bed, but once I got it inflated, it seemed immature, impermanent, so I took it back. I found a single divan bed frame in an alleyway, slightly damp from the rain, and put £5 on the electric so I could dry it with my housemate's blowdryer. I got a second-hand mattress from the Salvation Army, dressed it with a set of sheets I got from a jumble sale and cleaned at the laundrette at the top of the road. I split the room into zones like I’d seen Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen do on Changing Rooms, differentiating his side from mine using a bathmat as an area rug.

We all knew that Emmanuel hadn’t done anything, let alone what they accused him of. We’d all been told “you fit the description,” at one time or another, walking home from school or getting off the tube. The ones of us that were called to the police station told the police that it couldn’t have been him, at least we told each other that we’d told the police that. Ms Robbins spent hours in and out of interview rooms with him - he was too young to be alone.

When he first went away, I asked her about him often - unsure if it was concern or morbid fascination. One day, after class, she said to me, “He’d appreciate hearing from you.”

She mailed the letters for me every week, and when the replies came we sat inside at break time and read them together.

I was afraid to go and visit him, she never encouraged me, and he didn’t ask. I think we all agreed that it was enough for one of us to see the inside of a prison.

Emmanuel never answered any of my questions or asked anything about back home. He very rarely asked if we could get something to him - a notepad or a thermal vest, I could tell it pained him to do so.

Dear Emmanuel,

Ms Robbins said you will be out in two weeks. I would like it if you came to stay with me. I live in one of those big houses on Bird Street near where the old warehouses are. There’s enough space for both of us to have a single bed and I’m doing my apprenticeship so I’m not home during the day. You don’t have to pay any rent but if you could chip in for a bag of pasta and some cornflakes now and then it would really help. 

We lived in a curious sort of harmony, never talking about the future. I quickly learned that life is more like being carried out by the tide than climbing a mountain. We drifted together for a year, two, then a decade, then two. When we bought our house together, my mum cried. “Don’t you want to get married?” she asked, reaching for my hand across the kitchen table. “Don’t you want to be happy?” I didn’t know how to explain it, I went too dramatic, telling her it wasn’t in my destiny. Emmanuel never mentioned women, or men; never pointed at someone on the TV and said they were attractive. I don’t think he cared for other people enough to be in a relationship. Sometimes I felt like if I disappeared, he wouldn’t react, just keep his routine, spending less time vacuuming the kitchen because I wasn’t there to drop toast crumbs.

We drank three more red stripes each and headed to the hotel. As we rounded the corner I saw a man leering towards us, his steps drunker than ours, his face familiar but not, street lights casting eerie shadows across his face. He blocked our path. “You got a lighter?” he asked. Emmanuel tried to keep walking, I apologised, said we didn’t smoke.

“Wait a minute!” said the man grabbing Emmanuel’s wrist. “Wait. A. Minute!” he said, his watery voice rising with every word. “It’s you isn’t it, it really is you!”

Emmanuel wriggled free, knowing that the volume of alcohol consumed between the three of us could take this conversation somewhere bad, quickly. “Sorry mate,” he said, in a voice that didn’t sound like his own.

He sped up, and I trotted after him. The voice called after us, not following, but finding us anyway.

“Psycho Sullivan, I knew it was you! Can’t believe you’re back after what you did!”

I wanted to defend Emmanuel, to tell this leering stranger that he didn’t do it, and even if he had, that’s no way to treat a person. He’d served his time, and anyway, it was twenty years ago. I felt my shoulders draw up to my ears, my feet fixed to carry me back down the street. I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t,” Emmanuel said.

As we lay in the hotel bed, a pillow’s width between us, I heard Emmanuel breathing, in for 7 out for 11. I turned to say something, but after so long, I still didn’t know how to talk to him about it.

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what?” I asked.

“For all of it,” Emmanuel said, turning towards me. “I don’t say it enough. Or at all.”

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine our future, beyond us boarding the train and going back home. I imagined us drifting, taken by the sea, climbing to the tallest mountain, living there together, only coming down once a year to refill our log store and kill a deer or two for meat, tanning the hides for our clothes. I imagined twenty more years together, thirty, forty, fifty. I imagined taking my last breath with Emmanuel at my bedside, him digging a hole in the garden for me to rest, planting an apple tree on top. I imagined Emmanuel’s face at my makeshift graveside. He was on his knees, smoothing out the dirt. He was crying.

---

Jade E. Bradford (she/her) is a Black British Caribbean short fiction writer and communications and engagement professional. She holds a Masters Degree in Creative Writing and has had her work published in Wasafiri, featured in Photoworks’ Festival in a Box, and showcased in several online outlets. In 2023, her short story An Embarrassment of Janets was highly commended in the Fab Prize. Jade has been recognised as part of Literature Wales’ Representing Wales cohort (2023), the Black British Book Festival’s Writers on the Rise (2024), and Babes in Development’s Literary Brunch for emerging writers (2024). Jade is passionate about social justice, housing equality, and representing marginalised communities. She is committed to writing literary short fiction for all ages and championing authentic, nuanced portrayals of Black women in her work.

Website: www.jadeemilybradford.co.uk

Instagram: @jadebradforduk

Looking Into The Window & The Card

Looking Into The Window
Sea, seascapes, mountain ranges and forestry
Exiting the marketplace of fear
Into the wilderness of “Who knows what is going on?”
And
“Darling please make me a coffee for the road trip”
Oh those endless late summer evenings
Stretching out into the plane of existence
I can’t find my car keys
I can’t find my morality 
I can’t find my ability 
I think I’m losing it

Yesterday I pointed at myself 
I pointed to my reflection in the mirror 
A window to my soul
And
A discussion on what I should wear
And who I should be 
And how to live
And how to surrender
The conversation has ended sour
My phone call with him was a fight 
I am not a saint or a sinner
I just 
Am 


The Card
The truth feels lighter now that it’s over
Done and dusted
Fickle and Fermented 
Wounded no longer 

I travelled far and wide with only a card
A masterpiece crash course in how to love 
And how to grieve the loss of my dignity 
I wandered for hours and sought out those flowers
And I sat on that cherry-wine bench waiting 
For you 
That sigh, that moment when you know you’re over it
But it never came
It never came because it is already here

Push me to my limits
And watch me falter and fly and flame
But watch me pick up the fallen pieces
Patch myself up like a quilt 
Stitch together the memories, the feelings
I am better now.

---

Amy Alexander (she/her) is a writer, podcast host, and a recent International Relations graduate from the University of Portsmouth. Currently, she is a freelance writer for several women-led and cultural magazines and publications, as well as self-publishing works on Substack. Amy wishes to pursue a career in diplomatic and foreign affairs, as well as write poetry and creative non-fiction for the heart and soul.

Website: www.theamyalexander.substack

Instagram: @amyalexander__

Tings & Need to Know Basis

Tings
I have mouthwash instead of a dad
I have a high definition 60 inch TV instead of a dad
I have West Indian hot pepper sauce instead of a dad
I have Heinz baked beans instead of a dad
I have a Manchester United jacket instead of a dad
I have a black tie instead of a dad
I have binoculars instead of a dad
I have a bottle of Vodka instead of a dad
I have 4 x 500g tubs of Vaseline instead of a dad
I have I have I have have have instead of a dad
Tings tings tings instead of a dad
Tings tings, instead of
Tings instead
Tings

Need to Know Basis
Daddy don’t want ma poetry
He wants my life to be
Streaked with conformity
Bills paid on time, you see
Swilled clean of sweet pipe dreams

Don’t tell me don’t tell me don’t tell me

Daddy don’t want my poetry
Light beam on privacy
Reel to reel movie scene
Pride not alacrity

Don’t tell me don’t tell me don’t tell me

He na WANT DEM. He na WAN see. HE na GWAN fi see
ma poetry

---

Emma Conally-Barklem (she/her) is an author, poet, yoga teacher and grief worker based in Yorkshire. Emma was a lecturer in English Literature for thirteen years and has an MA in Victorian Literature. She was named one of Ilkley Poetry Festival’s New Northern Poets 2023. Her first poetry collection, ‘The Ridings’ Written Off Publishing was curated into her first photography and poetry exhibition, ‘The Ridings: Bradford Working-Class Family Life, Loss and Landscape 1970s-1990s’ at South Square Gallery, Bradford. Her second collection on the Brontë sisters, ‘Hymns from the Sisters’ is out now at Querencia Press. Emma won the Black in White Poetry competition 2024. She has been chosen as a core poet for the BBC’s Contains Strong Language flagship poetry and spoken word festival which will be part of the Bradford City of Culture 2025 TV, radio and events programme. Most recently, Emma's first novel 'Yoga Homicide' was shortlisted for the Book Edit Writers' Prize 2024.

Website: www.emmaliveyoga.com

Instagram: @emmaliveyoga

Fake Friends & Where My Heart Used to Lay & COVERED

Fake Friends
It was all a game to them 
I condemn because of loneliness 
I gave myself to them like a sacrifice,
as I sit around the table with them 
the air starts to choke me with revenge,
I weep, silent cries behind my mask 
they stare and smile at me as if that would help me 
my breath starts to shorten, and it becomes hard to speak
it becomes too much, and I have no choice but to reveal myself to them,
I take my mask off so they can see the real me 
the pain, sadness, and fear,
I sit there hoping that they will give me a hand, but instead 
those smiles turn to grins 
and I have found myself around a table of fake friends.


Where My Heart Used to Lay 
You hold it so carelessly.
As if it means nothing to you, and it just doesn't make any sense to me.
It is a gift from me to you,
it beats anxiously in your hands.
we both know what's to come.
This could be a night for a broken heart.
How am I supposed to experience love?
When the home where love lies has been demolished?


COVERED
The ground is below zero,
She lies there restfully, 
Her form gently pressed against the earth.
She finds peace in her tranquillity,
Even in the presence of her enemy.

Brisk air mending her open wounds,
Her tears from her swollen eyes watering the soil between the footpath,
Total darkness draws a veil over her bruised body,
Hiding with it: The Bloodbath.

This occurred too often,
It became her norm,
Guardian: A person who guards, protects, or preserves.
She is aware of this word, but the meaning to her is misleading,
She quickly discovered that all her “Guardian” did was perform.

A performance to those around them,
More like a puppet show,
Strings attached to this little girl’s shoulder,
Mouth covered,
Making sure nobody will know.

---

Siobhan Cunningham (she/her), also known as Siobhan Alexandra, began writing poetry in earnest in 2021, using it as a means to process and express the personal challenges she was facing at the time. Her understanding of poetry deepened through a module in her Creative Writing and English Language course, which inspired her to consider sharing her work more widely. She started an Instagram poetry account to showcase her poems, but after a few months, she realized she was writing more for others than for herself, which ultimately felt inauthentic. Though she continues to write for personal expression, she remains eager to share her poetry and art with the world, staying true to her own voice and vision. Much of Siobhan's work explores themes of depression, the pain of family and friendship breakups, heartbreak, and the complexities of being a Black woman. Her poetry delves into these deeply personal and emotional experiences, offering a raw and honest reflection of the struggles and resilience that shape her identity.

LinkedIn: @SiobhanC

Wicked and Bad & Amina & Made of a Million

Wicked and Bad
“Wicked and bad” were your words when I didn’t clean up your mess.
Laying your traumas as I rest.
I’m wicked and bad for not being the sacrifice. 
I leave swines to squeal and beat down at their own demise. 
Leave your troubles at the door, on with your shoes, she has no more.

Wicked and bad, yes the saviours dead and gone.
She is not carrying the world on her back like the women we mourn. 
Walking a fictitious path to glory, they were unrecognisable come dawn. 
To the women who had to, I say thank you. 
But I’m wicked and bad through and through.

Heartless creatures like me dance under moons. 
Build worlds to set ablaze. Can’t call her bluff, so call her Sovereign. 
Wicked and bad asoebi queens are soaring. 
Sun-kissed with her sun hat, down they fall like lost fables.
Wicked and bad was once your sweet angel.


Amina
Original lover girl, I love love. 
No matter how many times I get it wrong.
Love is my big cookbook, one hundred recipes all I have to do is get one right. 
Akara, egusi, fufu and tola 
I put my heart and soul into every cuisine I’m making. 
Every relationship is a new recipe I bleed to perfect.
I’m no culinary queen. Some would say I’m not very good at all.
But guys still want to taste what I’m serving, knowing they don’t like the way I make my yams. 

They just like seeing how hard I’m willing to be of service to them.
So I whisk, cream, and season for a chance at love.
Eventually, they leave, and it breaks my heart. 
But stupid fellas don’t get it. 
It’s all for me. 
Every new recipe I work on I learn new cooking tips, new tricks.
I study that dish to figure out where I went wrong and get back at it all over again.

This is not a joke it’s my act of service. 
And one day I’ll put down the plate having mastered the art of love.


Made of a Million
Made of a million, I see the women that have come before me. 
Made of a million Black Women in antiquity.
Who walked the Earth, I feel their spirits saying yes to me. Her seed pressed on the ground, covered and a million after her nurtured it to grow.
Made of a million mothers, a million souls. 
Made of a million girls who were afraid to say no.
But said it anyway for my light to be shown.
The women who moved mountains to the girls who touched the sea. 
I am She.
I am made of a million girls you will never see. Lost in time, no photograph, no memory.
I honour you, I hear your call and I set you free. 
Made of a million and a million will be made out of me.

---

Christie Fewry (she/her) is a multifaceted creative, actor, writer, and poet. She is a recent graduate of Rose Bruford College with a BA in Acting and the creator of the award-winning short film Amina. In 2024, she made her stage debut in the world premiere of The Great Privation: How To Flip Ten Cents Into a Dollar at Theatre503. Beyond acting and filmmaking, Christie delves into her spiritual experiences through her writing. Her poetry often centres on the African woman’s relationship with life and love.

Instagram: @christeefewry

'The Cowboy’s Girl'

Fuck London. Here’s to new beginnings! Seeking a fresh start, Shiko runs from London to a Wyoming ranch, where she falls head over heels for a very hot and very rugged cowboy – only to discover he’s engaged to be married?!

Drama doesn’t follow Shiko, Shiko is the drama.

---

CHAPTER ONE

“Consider this: I either go to Wyoming or lose my fucking mind,” I spit out at the Terminal 5 check-in desk. 

“Language, Shiko!” Mum snaps.

The lady behind the counter keeps her head down, rereading my passport details, refusing to get involved.

Mum didn’t want me to go and I really shouldn’t care what she thinks, I’m 27 for goodness sake! I have an impressive banking career, I have my own money, own flat, own car… but still, she’s like this annoying voice in the back of my head, always questioning everything, always worrying. It’s half to do with being Kenyan, half to do with being her eldest daughter I think.

“You’re doing this to spite me,” she says rolling my hand luggage away.

“Not everything’s about you!” I groan, snatching my boarding pass from the check-in lady. I hurry after her, weaving through the madness of Heathrow, bumping shoulders with strangers.

She doesn’t let up. “You’re running away. I told you, ignore the headlines, what’s done is done. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”

My stomach knots. I glance around, paranoia creeping in. I swear everyone is watching me– listening, eavesdropping. They know, don't they?! They've read the articles about me! I can feel their eyes on me, judging.

“I’m not running away,” I mutter, but my voice cracks, betraying me. I am running away. I’m tired of the press reminding me about the worst day of my life!

Mum comes to an abrupt stop and I crash into her, the documents in my hands go flying.

“Now look!” I huff, dropping to my knees. When I’m back up, she’s frowning, arms crossed.

“If you insist on putting yourself in harm's way, so be it. But you need to be careful who you make friends with-- where you go out!”

She’s referring to the racists. Mum’s bombarded me all week with news reports, viral fights in supermarket car parks, and even dodgy WhatsApp University stats claiming that Black people working on ranches have a shorter life expectancy– like what?!

“Can you stop?!” I snap, stuffing my paperwork into my bag. “Do you know how many Black people safely live there? Spoiler alert: lots!”

“Still, nice people can be horrible and you don’t always see that.”

“It’s only six weeks!” I shoot back. Heads swivel and the heat of embarrassment rises in my cheeks. It’s only now that I clock we’re standing in everyone’s way, in the middle of the security entrance, slowing down the flow of people rushing to get in line. I pull her aside.

“Just promise me one thing?”

I try my hardest not to roll my eyes, “what?”

“Whatever you do… you have fun,” she sighs, her shoulders dropping.

Her words disarm me. I quickly throw my arms around her, squeezing tight. Even though Mum drives me clinically insane sometimes, she's the best thing about London.

“I’ll miss you,” I say pulling back, taking my hand luggage from her.

“Be safe”

We don’t cry. We’re not a crying family, so instead I wave a final goodbye and join the security line.

It’s only when I settle into my first-class cubicle– shoes off, seat reclined, the hum of the moving plane filling my ears– that the anxiety comes flooding in.

Wyoming?!

Like cattle and horse poop, Wyoming??

I yank my seatbelt off and leap out of my seat.

Mum’s right, I can’t do this! I’m a soft-life babe. I won’t survive the Mosquitoes and mud!

I go to shout at the flight attendants, 'stop the damn plane!' but we jerk forward and I’m thrown back into my seat as London shrinks to ant-size below us. Guess there’s no turning back now… 

*   *   *

I lean my head against the Greyhound window. The rugged mountains and endless fields feel worlds away from stuffy, concrete London. But even after a thirteen-hour flight and four hours on the road, I feel like I’m going to blink and find myself sipping overpriced coffee in some sterile café, watching someone get their phone jacked.

The bus turns off the highway and shudders to a stop at a small gas station. I bolt out to stretch my legs, the fresh breeze hitting me like a wave– crisp and sharp. If it had a flavour, it’d taste like drinking ice-cold water after running a marathon in the sweltering heat.

The driver helps a small Chinese group pull their luggage from the boot. They’re getting off here but I’m the last stop, which according to my watch is like another hour away.

I’m so fixed on the view I don’t notice one of the men come up to me with a nervous smile, not until he’s inches away.

“Um… we, uh, grab your bags?”

I shake my head, “it’s okay. I’m getting off at the next stop.”

He nods slowly, half-understanding, before shuffling back to his group.

I return to the view, savouring the fresh air but he’s back seconds later, rolling my suitcase in front of him, beaming.

“Oh, I said no.”

“You… uh… say is okay.”

“Yes, I said ‘okay,’ but I meant no.”

“Yes!”

“No!”

I reach for the handle, ready to take it back myself, but he pulls it back slightly, determined to understand me.

“I… get off… next stop,” I gesture.

“Ahhh. Next! Yes!”

“Yes!” I sigh.

I watch him return my suitcase before quickly rejoining his group, loading their bags into a tourist minivan parked next to the bus. Some wives snap photos of everything, mostly aimed at me, which feels… never mind.

A different Chinese man drops my suitcase back beside me. “Here," he huffs.

I gesture slowly, “No… I… no… bag!”

“I’m not deaf,” he snaps, narrowing his eyes.

It’s only then I notice his Greyhound uniform. 

“Wait, no! I didn’t mean–”

“Take your bags and go.”

“But I still have one more stop.”

“Darlin’ look around. This is the last stop!”

I turn to scan the area, confused.

“This can't…” 

I follow the road running into a dusty town with crumbling buildings: the motel's neon sign flickers like it’s on life support, the grocery store has cracked, grimy windows and the diner has a sun-faded "OPEN" sign, swinging on rusted hinges. The town feels abandoned, like it gave up on itself decades ago.

“I’m supposed to be here…” I mutter, scrolling through the photos I saved on my phone– bright Google images of lush rivers and sprawling woodlands– exactly the kind of place one would abandon London for.

I glance at the driver, but he’s gone. The Greyhound doors hiss shut and it swerves back on the road.

“Hey! Wait!”

The bus kicks back a cloud of dust.

“Where the hell am I?!” I cough, swatting the air.

As it clears, a weathered sign across the road comes into view: WELCOME TO KAYCE!

The black letters have faded and someone's crossed out 'KAYCE' in red spray paint, correcting it to ‘NOWHERE.’ They topped it off with a giant penis in the corner. Classy.

“Welcome to Nowhere. Population… well, me.”

My phone PINGS in my hand: 5% Battery Left.

“No, no, no!”

I try to order an Uber but the spinning "loading" wheel taunts. No service.

“Seriously?!”

I wave my phone around, desperate to summon the Wi-Fi gods. Add the heat, the exhaustion, the isolation… I finally snap.

With a guttural scream, I kick my suitcase, sending it skidding through the dust, “fucking– fuck– fuck!”

“You kiss your mama with that mouth?”

I jump back and notice a Native woman strolling out of the gas station, a red dragon tattoo winding down her arm.

“Hey, no judgement. This place can be intense if you're not used to it,” she says breaking open a pack of Twizzlers with her teeth.

I retrieve my suitcase, still a little frazzled and fish for a crumpled piece of paper in my purse, “I'm trying to get to Devil's Creek. Know it?”

Her face flickers a moment before quickly masking with a tight-lipped smile. “Hard not to. It's only the second-largest ranch in all of Wyoming. Employs half the town.”

“Is it far?”

“About a 30-minute drive that way.” She points in the direction of the run-down town.

“Where can I grab a taxi?”

“You're lookin’ at a 20-minute walk that way.” She points in the opposite direction.

“Perfect,” I groan.

“I can give you a lift if you like?”

I hesitate, eyeing her beat-up truck parked nearby. Stranger danger crosses my mind, but so does lugging my suitcase down the road for 20 minutes… I’ll take my chances.

“You sure? I don't want to trouble you.”

“Not at all. I can't leave a woman stranded, it's getting dark. Hop in.” 

She tosses my suitcase into the back of her truck with ease. When I open the passenger door, I freeze. The inside’s a mess– empty coffee cups scattered across the floor, crumpled snack wrappers sticking out of every corner, and the faint stench of stale coffee lingers in the air– eww! I awkwardly perch on the edge of the seat, trying not to touch anything.

She starts the engine and glances over, “I’m India, by the way.”

“Shiko.”

“Beautiful name.”

“Thanks. You t–”

“Don't do that.”

I break a smile, “but I mean it.”

“I won't believe you anyway.”

India shifts into gear. “You might want to hold on tight.”

“Hu?”

*   *   *

India drives like she owns the road, zooming and swerving around cars while belting along to country music on the radio.

“So what brings you to Nowhere?” She shouts over the noise. 

“You guys really call it that?”

She lowers the volume.

“Some kid wrecked the sign a couple of years back, guess it kinda stuck.”

“I needed a change, London was getting depressing,” I keep it vague. “What's this?” I ask, quickly changing the subject. 

I pick up a cassette partially buried under empty coffee cups by my foot. I brush off the dust. “I haven’t seen one since I was a kid.” I read the label, “to the love of my life.”

India glances over and cringes, her grip on the wheel tightening. “God, I thought I tossed that. My ex made it for me. Valentine’s Day. Years ago.”

“Romantic.”

She leans over and fumbles with the glove compartment, one hand on the wheel.

“There’s a Walkman in here somewhere…”

The truck drifts to the right the more she stretches.

“Eyes on the road!”

A car in the opposite lane HONKS, its headlights glare as it speeds toward us.

“Car!”

She jerks the wheel back, narrowly avoiding a fatal collision. 

“Relax, we're good.” She casually tosses the Walkman and headphones into my lap. 

I glare so hard my eyes might pop out of their sockets.

“Pop it in then. Let’s see if it still works,” she urges.

“I think I need a moment to recover first.”

“C’mon, London. You're gonna need tougher skin to survive out here.”

I reluctantly insert the cassette and press play. A painfully off-key country song crackles through the headphones, the lyrics melodramatically romantic and painfully cliché.

“Girl,” I say in a ‘he can’t be serious, this is ass’ kinda way.

“He wrote and sang them all.”

I burst out laughing, “oh to be young and in love.”

I turn it off when the laughter dies down and ask, “do you know the Washingtons? The ones who own the ranch?”

“Everyone knows everyone here,” she says taking a sharp left. 

My head wacks the window, “ow!”

“They're good people. They've had a rough couple of years though. Mrs Washington lost her husband– it hit the family hard, especially the boys.”

“That's awful.”

“They keep to themselves mostly. Her eldest son, Jackson, inherited everything. He works harder than anyone I know to keep that place running– a little too hard if you ask me.” India’s voice softens, a faint trace of something I can’t quite read.

“Her youngest, Eli, is allergic to getting his hands dirty but he's smart. Studied Accounting and Law so he helps on the business side.”

“Sounds like they've been through a lot.”

“Life isn't fair, even to the best people. You working for them?”

“Yeah. It'll be grunt work mostly. Shoving poop, bathing horses, stuff like that.”

“Any help is good help.”

India turns right when we pass a sign. The smooth tarmac gives way to gravel, crunching under the tyres. Lamps along the path flicker on, drawing swarms of insects. Ahead, a sprawling two-story cabin made of wood and stone comes into view. Its wide front porch is the only light for miles now that the sun has dipped below the horizon.

“Woah…”

India brakes sharply. I lurch forward.

“Well, here we are.”

She cuts the engine and the noise of crickets fills the silence.

“Welcome to Devil's Creek.”

---

Michelle Githua (she/her) is a bold, “the bigger the story, the better,” “twists that’ll make your jaw drop” kind of writer. This Kenyan-British talent started her journey at 18 when she was first published in Milton Keynes Literature Festival’s 2020 anthology. Since then, she’s been unstoppable! With over 4 years of experience shaping stories in high-end TV Drama and Comedy, Michelle is making waves in the TV and publishing industry! This year alone she’s been selected for Paramount’s prestigious Storyteller’s Summit, Babes in Development’s exclusive Literary Brunch ran in partnership with Bloomsbury Publishing, and awarded a coveted bursary for S&CO’s Writing Retreat in the Peak District! With her unique voice and unstoppable drive, Michelle aims to get more Black stories on our screens and bookshelves!

Instagram: @gxthoni

A Complicated History With Hair & The Sun Loves Me

A Complicated History With Hair

I once was a little black girl
Thick curls, tight kinked, sprinkle water they shrink 

Think think think
How in the next 5 days can these 5 inch curls
Miraculously turn into full length swirls 

Asian ginseng 
Rosemary oil
Little black girls know the toil 

My father and his razor
Head shaven
This little black girl paced down the street
As little kids snickered round her feet

My father and his razor
Head shaven 

It sickened this little black girl 

Each shave was a statement 

That the strands of my hair
We're better dead on the hallway floor 

Soon my mother starts braiding
In boxes we're tight tied
Turns of hair gasping for air 

How I would squeal and tear
With each squeezing of tight hair 

Hand over head as we lay into pillows 
Tossing and turning 
Little black girls know the burning 

And yet the story starts overturning
Soon this little black girl starts relearning 

Emancipated from feeling alienated 
Slowly baking is a self-embracing 

No longer a foe
Her hair retells her soul

Twists from Senegal 
Implanted with rings of gold 

Shells swimming in oceanbeds 
Plaited into hair of Chestnut red 

Oh She knows, how she knows
The beauty of every coil 

Shrivelled or distressed 
Frizzed like a nest

I'm still this little black girl 
Days of turmoil 
Days of feeling whole 

Learning to nurture my fro
Slowly healing my soul

The Sun Loves Me

Melanin skin makes the sun rise
She gazes down with loving eyes
It's as if we’re synchronised 
Feasting through flickering light
Hues of brown, dark and light 

As it feasts 
We feast
Beckoning vitamins we shall synthesis 

I can't help but sympathise 
With those who have never felt such heat 
From loving eyes 

75 degrees, I was a little child 
Smouldering under natures warming cuddle
She yearns to nuzzle

---

Lena (she/her) is a nonsensical storyteller, exploring the faculties birthing love and hate through her fondness of all things poetic, sonic and visually palpitating. Deeply rooted within her youth & blackness, she is woven by her obsession with undressing the raw beauty off the bare self. Playing with the juxtaposition that strains from the duality of life, with its indescribable joys and continuous pains.

Website: lenasiewee.com

Instagram: @cinnamoncasket