Neil Campbell
Viaduct She stormed out with the cans. The sun was setting as she crossed the road and walked past the boarded up pub where they used to go, and into the car park and then through the fence and up the embankment, ignoring the warning signs and stomping out onto the pile of stones by the side of the lines. She walked up a bit, towards the station, and then put the bag of cans on the wall and climbed up onto the wall and cracked open a can and watched the trains, and that’s all she wanted to do, watch the fucking trains, but no, not in this day and age, fucking Orwell and all that, and these dicks in high viz walked over, aggressive at first, but they soon calmed down when she threatened to jump. One woman stayed and they waited around for a bit and she thought she seemed alright but then this muppet rocked up, started talking to her, and this muppet, it was just his training talking, and then the trains started slowing down and all these clowns started taking photos or filming it and some people shouted out of the windows for her to just kill herself, jump, go for it, get on with it and there were others calling her a selfish bitch for fucking up the trains. And then they started stopping all the trains and all she’d wanted was to have a beer and watch the trains for a bit, get a chance to calm down for a bit but no, they couldn’t leave her alone, could they? She drank her cans and sat on there for hours and only got off the wall when the cans were finished. Trains had been in chaos, she found out later, but it hadn’t been on the telly or anything. Not in the Brochure James went to Scotland for a few days, campsite in the middle of nowhere, hardly anyone else camping except a German bloke and his Mrs. Ten quid a night but the showers were mint, really hot. Nobody told him about the midges. It was around dusk when he had the shower, and the hot water brought all the blood to his veins and when he came out of the shower block all the fucking midges rained down on him. He ran like a clown through the gloom, people in caravans smiling at his plight as he scratched at his head while sprinting across the grass to his tent, which he leapt into before zipping the door tightly shut. He understood now about the midges, and why Gunther and Aga smoked the cigars, retreating to their tent at dusk. James was finally relaxing thanks to the book he read, some self-help cobblers, and soon he switched off the head torch, had a quick scratch of his tackle and then settled down to sleep, thinking that the midges weren’t so bad after all. Just as he was settling down, he got a tingle in his bladder. He unzipped the sleeping bag and stripped off his undies. Then he unzipped the inner tent and sank to his knees, leaning back to spray across the grass then leaning forward to avoid any drips landing on the groundsheet. He zipped up the inner door, put his undies back on and climbed into the sleeping bag, scratching again at his tackle before turning onto his side to sleep. In the night he found himself scratching. He felt like maybe there was a spot on there or something. He put on the head torch to investigate, and saw the arse end of a tick, the rest of it having already burrowed into his cock. |
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Neil Campbell's third novel Lanyards is out now. From Manchester, England, he has appeared three times in the annual anthology of Best British Short Stories (2012/2015/2016). He has published three novels, two collections of flash fiction, two collections of short stories, two poetry chapbooks and a poetry collection, as well as appearing in numerous magazines and anthologies. He is currently working on new books
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Dan Lovatt
A Hunt for Hope
Part one: Revolutionaries believe that an idea lives on after the death of the liberator. But I’m not so sure that is our asset alone. Whenever these puppets of villainy retreat back to their lavish shadows, another simply takes their place. This impenetrable system spits out its cyclical gunk. In the dust of longing and despair, a new candidate emerges. So, what good would it do in the long run? To squeeze down on this trigger and give the bastard his recompense. Every atom in my body vibrating. Every blood vessel pulsating. Do it for the 50,000 dead. Do it for the NHS. Do it for the kids without milk and bread. Do it for the Windrush generation. The scope aligns perfectly with his belligerent grin then with a heavy breath moves in sight of a wild strand of blonde hair. No wind. If this bullet pierced his skull and flew through his brain, what would I see? The A violent splatter of countless broken promises? Or the spider within the host shed its skin? I adjust the position of the barrel and follow each step he makes and every hand he ignorantly shakes. I wonder if John Wilkes Booth suffered this moral crisis too? If he feared that Lincoln’s ideals would live on after he stole his breath away. My finger pirouettes on the now lukewarm trigger, it’s biting metal coat damp with beads of sweat. A starved bee in the court of nectar. He takes to the podium. A stern police officer on each shoulder. I don’t need to hear the speech; I know each note of its symphony of empty consolations. Under this leadership, our fantasies of a revitalised home can become reality. Our industries reborn and our people securely employed. The projected illusions of prosperity, what prosperity? As far as I’m aware, cash converter shops and food banks don’t constitute growth. Our city has been dead since the early twentieth century. As time passes, more cities and towns like ours are being drained and swallowed up. To save the mothership, which I would imagine is located in London, but the truth is its existence can’t be pinpointed geographically. The scent of money can only be traced with the nose of a bloodhound and the prestige of a surname. It’s certainly not pervading this air. Would this bullet sound the first clasp in a thunderstorm of change? Our wishes fulfilled without the pressed shirt and sardonic red and white tie. An eye for an eye. A debt that, if accumulated by people like us, would’ve seen our doors kicked down and all our possessions repossessed long ago. Part two: The irony doesn’t escape me. He’s killed in a town that has been systematically murdered for decades. From a bird’s nest in a factory bought and subsequently abandoned because the investors didn’t want to ‘take the gamble.’ It’s been empty for almost three years now. There’s plenty more like it dotted all around here. The totems of a once flourishing, self-dependent place. Yet, there’s hundreds of people sleeping in doorways. Good people. Honest people. People that have a right to shelter and could easily be temporarily housed here if adhering to the wishes of our governors. I heard somewhere that everyone is only three steps away from being homeless. Speculation that we assimilate but do not feel compelled to challenge. Precarity is security now, inhumane working conditions and threats to our physical and mental health gift wrapped in the ideological terror of ‘that’s just the way it is.’ Nobody is safe, we just live month-to-month and hope the Hydra devours someone else first. Well, he’s safe. Him and his chums. Their appetites satisfied by an endless banquet of blood, copper and bones. He waves to the soundtrack of a muted applause. Still no wind. He rears his head to greet the crowd to his right, revealing a tiny scar in the shape of a crescent moon. Maybe that’s for me, a trusty target. Perhaps deep down, beneath the venom and entitlement, he wants this. The guilt might be eating its way through his skin into the bitter air. That’s my duty, to rain down on him with the wrath of a broken nation. The muted freedom song of three generations. To rip up the slabs of this crazy-paving democracy and puncture the pathological lies and terror with truth. With the summer breeze of freedom. He’s shaking hands again now. My window is closing. I know I wouldn’t be seen. I could slip down the stairs, through the back door and vault the yard wall with minutes to spare. I’ve rehearsed it as I would wedding vows and lived it every night in my dreams. I’m the ideal candidate. No marriage or kids, nothing to lose. He steps down from the podium. As he cuts across the bottom of the stage, he pauses to wave again. The two officers are joined by another eight and they tighten the perimeter. I must seize the hopes of tomorrow now. It’s all well and good waiting for a brighter future if the seeds of revolution are planted today. Yet, they are not and each time we fail to deliver, the determination weakens. Here I am, readying the soil. When I shoot, the first shoot sprouts. He darts hastily to the car and ruffles his unkempt hair. Three officers dart behind him to block the advancing crowd. His scar exposed once more. I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger. Just for a moment, the world stops spinning. A perfect silence descends. In the silence, I feel victory take a hacksaw to its shackles. I reopen my eyes and look upon a dispersed crowd, darting around with their hands covering their heads. He has gone. I rip the barrel from the window ledge and urgently begin to dismantle the rifle. The silence is butchered by screaming. The sirens soon follow. |
COMMUNE FOR CATTLE
Flaunting logos not swinging dicks. A homeless man named Max stops me on the street and reassures me that the weather warnings are daunting, but it’s okay because he’s warm in the knowledge that he’s wearing head-to-toe Ted Baker and Diesel underwear. In work the following morning, the aisles are alive with the sound of browsing. I can’t help but think that with the expansion of the meat-packing industry, we no longer need to kill our food ourselves. So, we kill time instead. Killing time, beyond our means, inevitably costs money. The tribe could never leave one of its own behind. So, I stand and observe the night chancers fall helplessly in love with a Moschino jumper. The students who claim they can’t afford the weekly food shop, parading around in a Tommy Hilfiger jumper, to the applause of the inferior pack. £59.99? that’ll do just fine. It’s a hearty meal, after all. The conditioning of ‘paradise’, the pervasive, colourful ideology that we can never escape: Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry Fred Perry, Yellow Lorry Red Lorry, Fred Perry Armani, Yellow Lorry Fred Perry, Armani We must feed. We must feed. Feed me. Feed me. Fend for me. Haven’t you heard? Progress is no process. I clock out and passing through the automatic doors, the wind strips the light from my bones. The forecast for this evening claims that temperatures could drop to -2C. I hope Max survives the night. I hope the appetite of the beast is satisfied. Until next week at least, when the delivery of Karl Lagerfeld T-shirts is due. |
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Biography:
Dan Lovatt is a 23-year-old MA Creative Writing Student studying at Salford University, but born and currently living in Newcastle-under-Lyme. He is a novelist, playwright and freelance journalist, but is currently submerged in the grind of retail work whilst finishing my masters. He self-published his debut novel Hollow in 2018 and his first play Toxic has secured a three-night residency at The Kings Arms Theatre for Greater Manchester Fringe Festival 2021. He is currently working on his next two novels, Deliver Me and Universe(ity). https://www.instagram.com/thedanlovattwriter/ |