Between waves and the marram by Adam Power

The waves lap around my feet as I curl my toes into the sand. It's cold but soothing, relieving. I feel a mess of thoughts escape me, for what seems like hours, as I watch the symmetry of the water around my feet and the indentation they leave in the sand. There's something about these moments that I seem to value over anything else; feeling so much clarity, yet so detached from everything outside of my direct attention. Waves. Sand. I'm amazed at the sight of the movement of my toes, gripping the sand then releasing, like a lazy fist. It's as if I'm not inside my own body at all, but viewing it from the perspective of someone, or something, with no knowledge of how people function. I'm vaguely aware of the tide dragging me farther down the beach as I stand motionless in the wash. I haven't felt that drift since I was a child. It perplexed me then, but only startles me now. A gull calls out from above,drawing me out of my trance.

I remember why I came down here in the first place. The last of the evening sun looked beautiful over the ocean, dyeing the horizon an aggressive red. I felt the need to come see it, but she just sat there and smiled, the most genuine and sympathetic smile I've ever seen. With her bottle of wine clutched in two hands, she gave me that understanding look of hers :

"If you want to, go ahead; but I'm not getting up".

It felt slightly disheartening, but if our positions were reversed I can't say I'd have acted any differently. Besides, I know she'll be there when I return. I could tell how damned cold she was just by looking in her eyes, and that's not something she had ever been above complaining about before. She must have had as much flowing through her mind as I did, but we both understood they were things we couldn't discuss. Not yet.

Being alone, together. The thought seems both absurd and a little comforting. She needs to be up lying amongst the marram as much as I need to be here standing in the surf. That has to count for something, right?

I hear the wind rattling through the dunes as I stare out over the seemingly infinite waters. A sigh escapes my barely parted lips, born of a mind clouded with drink, nostalgia, thoughts. Only pushing into adulthood and already I feel weary of life. A lazy smirk graces my face, as I realise the dissonance of my thoughts. If something as simple as my feet in the sand can grip me so wholly, how can life seem so laborious? Just as the humour sinks in I hear her footsteps in the shallow waters behind me. Her arms wrap around my waist, her chin rests on my shoulder. My train of is lost as I sense her breath on my neck, her aroma in the air.

"You think too much", she says.

I can tell that she's smiling from the inflection in her voice.

"Yeah", I mutter, my mouth spreading into a smile of my own, "I think I do."

My Creation By Rob Billington

My eyes strained to take in my surroundings, the view was one I have seen millions of times, one bright light forever burning my face and complete darkness surrounding that ever scorching light. I cant escape it and yet I have tried so many times. Where I am has no sound, only faint groans which come and go. It is complete solitude and I crave company, “too much thinking” “I’m so lonely” “please help me” these are the thought’s I’ve uttered to myself over and over again and even though I decided years ago that I couldn’t go on I am still here. “why is that?” I hear you ask, Well the reason is because my self inflicted exile has allowed life to flourish and create absolutely beautiful things beyond my wildest dreams. There where great times, when I was in harmony with my body as well as my mind, but gradually those times have disappeared.


I have tried multiple times to end my life, and my body carries the scars. I can feel them every day and they mock me, why? Because I have never done it right, they mock my immense failure. I am being so selfish but I don’t care anymore, I have spent what seems like centuries creating a cancer to kill myself, one that will slowly strip me of my flesh from the inside out and drain me of my very life force. It is beautiful, almost perfect, it will spread quicker than plagues of locust and consume everything healthy in my body until it has taken all my life, once it has finished it’s task it will fade without a trace or a memory, a scream or a sigh.


The cancer has begun to spread, I feel myself growing ever weaker, It is now almost absolute. Quite poetic in a way, As I get weaker it gets stronger yet when I die it die’s too. As I have grown older my sadism has grown more wicked. I’ve often laughed to myself thinking about my cancer consuming me, Growing more and more confident with every space it takes over, probing into new unknown territories with great satisfaction at the ripe pastures it see’s. Little does it know that this will end, It’s conquest will be over before it has time to rejoice over it’s spoils, The stupid thing. It can be clever at times I must say, It targets and desecrates my organs with pinpoint accuracy and lets no good go to waste, I feel it everyday. What a beautiful creation.


“A name, That’s it! I need a name for this magnificent disease….“ Ok I’ve got one, One that is as twisted as my mind But allow me to introduce myself first, I have been so rude. My name is Mother Earth and I shall call my disease Mankind.