Dear Reader,

Welcome to Issue Five.

I am proud to announce that StepAway Magazine is one year old today.

Twelve months ago, we made our first tentative step into online publishing. We were excited by the concept of our magazine, and yet, uncertain as to how many others would share our vision. Were we alone in believing that by breathing life into the dusty corpse of the nineteenth century literary flâneur we could inspire a new generation of writers to wander the streets and alleyways of their chosen cities, and seek out inspiration from each and every footstep?

Following the launch of our inaugural issue, the response from readers and writers alike was truly overwhelming. In our September 2011 issue, I reported that within three months we had reached an all time high of 115,000 hits. By December, we were looking at almost 200,000 hits.

In terms of submissions, we now receive a minimum of between 40 and 50 per month. This in turn allows us to publish only the very highest standard of work, by selecting 10-12 pieces from a stack of around 200 submissions.

Many online literary magazines are shy when it comes to discussing statistics. However, I feel that these figures are an indication of how healthy our industry is as a whole. Writers are eager to see their work published, even without monetary reward. Of equal importance, there is a sizable readership that is hungry to return to websites such as StepAway on a regular basis to read their work.

At this point, I feel that I owe our writers and readers a vote of gratitude for making StepAway Magazine a true success. After all, running a literary magazine is never really about statistics. In the past year we have showcased the work of established authors and poets, those currently making their mark on the industry, along with previously unpublished writers. Each offered a unique and important vision of the cityplace. I feel that it is an honour to correspond with such talented writers on a daily basis, read their poetry and prose, and provide them with an international platform for their work.

I am also pleased to report that our Northern Wanderer supplement, which looked at walking in the north east of England, was also well received. Following its publication, we were asked to participate in the NCLA Festival of Belonging, a week long literary festival which will take place in Newcastle and Gateshead featuring writers such as Hari Kunzru, Tahmima Anam and Sapphire. StepAway Magazine is currently collaborating with Trashed Organ to organize a poetry reading given by our Northern Wanderer contributors. The reading will take place on Tuesday 1st May, 8pm, at the Bridge Hotel, Newcastle upon Tyne and will feature Ira Lightman, Bob Beagrie, Keith Parker, Ian Davidson and Lizzie Whyman. We hope to see you there.

Issue Five is another rip roaring issue, fronted by a stunning shot from the German photographer, Oliver Fluck. Mr. Fluck wandered the streets of Manhattan in hope of capturing an alternate view of a New York landmark. The result was this ‘gutter to stars’ landscape of the Chrysler Building at night. Many thanks to Mr. Fluck for accepting our offer to feature his work, and I urge our readers to explore his portfolio further.

Issue Five opens with “Pioneer Valley Trial”, a poem by Maryam A. Sullivan (Umm Juwayriyah). Ms. Sullivan’s award winning novel, The Size of a Mustard Seed, was hailed as the first Islamic urban fiction title by a female author. The novel’s publication in 2009 marked an important stage in the evolution of urban literary fiction. Ms. Sullivan is currently working on a set of children’s books, the first of which is entitled Hind’s Hands, about an American Muslim girl with autism. She is also in the process of writing her second novel, an urban fiction romance.

I am an ardent admirer of Ms. Sullivan’s work, and was delighted when she accepted our offer to feature as a guest author in Issue Five of StepAway. “Pioneer Valley Trial” is a powerful cri de coeur on behalf of America’s oppressed and excluded urban minorities, which resonates through the city’s canyon-like streets.

This is followed by “The Way It Used To Be With Espresso” by Mary Shanley – a jittery, caffeine fueled strut around downtown Manhattan. Meanwhile, “After the Hospital” and “Borges’ Tiger” are both poems by the Paris based American poet Alexandra Ernst. The first recounts a mysterious, watchful encounter on the Pont Saint-Michel, the second examines the predatory element of flânerie.

[bridges] is a poem set in Caloso, a neighbourhood in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, where the poet Rose Hunter lives and walks. Followed by “The Flâneur” in which Christina Murphy observes the urban observer. “A Morning in Harlem” by Elves Alves makes sacred the streets and alleyways of the uptown neighbourhood, whilst underlining the precarious and fragile predicament in which its residents are held. And “Sweat Street” by DJ Swykert reveals the many configurations of urban watcher which develop in minatory spaces, from police street surveillance, to criminal street smart.

“A Casual Stroll Down St. Marks” by Patty Scull is a gaudy promenade through Manhattan’s phantasmagoric Lower East Side. “The Plateau Revisited” is Reed Stirling’s flash fiction meander through Montreal. “Nobody’s Home” is a stark vignette of urban homelessness by J.D. Blair. Finally, Robert E Wood’s “Oxford in July” is a sleepwalker’s wander thorough the city as it awakes.

Far be it from me to stand in the way of our writers. So, without further ado, I implore you to put all discussion of statistics, hits and submissions to the back of your mind, and simply enjoy our fifth issue.

Thank you all, once again, for your support over the past year.

Yours faithfully,

Darren Richard Carlaw

editor@stepawaymagazine.com

Maryam A. Sullivan

The exciting combination
of macchiato rituals:
the journey to the
coffee bar,
watching the barista
pour my triple shot,
finding just the right seat
where I won’t be disturbed
as I concentrate on the
espresso drink,
were all preparations
for the payoff:
my sensitivities
heightened;
a heartswell of energy
from the core,
elevation of mood
and acceleration
of mindspeed.

It has been an intense
two minutes as I finish
my seductive morning elixir.
I toss my paper cup
in the recycle garbage can
and take my daily walk
past the Robert Johnson
woodblock print hanging
outside Amy’s Bakery.
I dig this artist’s work;
there is a primitive,
outsider feel to it.

Fast stepping past
the fake waterfall where I once
had a very chipper conversation
with Norman Mailer.
He signed and dated the back
of an olive oil sale flyer:
To Mary Shanley,
Cheers, Norman Mailer,
July 16, 1998.

Push through the door
and I’ve returned to Ninth Avenue
where I feel the pulse of blood
racing through my veins.
I flash past the Old Homestead
and recall the summer day
Lisa and I saw Mickey Rourke
sitting outside the steakhouse,
eating lunch with a
good looking blond.

Mickey’s appeal is lost to me now.
Although I watch his old movies,
Rumble Fish and The Pope of Greenwich
Village, like a schoolgirl with a crush.
Mickey was so cool. Why did he
have to go and get his face bashed in
while boxing in Miami, anyway?
This along with hundreds
of opinions and ideas
speed through my highly
caffeinated brain.
I ride the macchiato tiger
for two hours,
feeling ebullient and exalted.
When I return to the apartment,
I think I will sit down and
write something brilliant.
I think about this
until the first sign
of anxiety strikes.

Here comes the espresso crash.
My body is suddenly atremble,
my nerves are rattled and twisted
and my brain hurts.
I drink a cup of kava root tea
and sweat it out while I wait
for the calming benefits to kick in.
I have knocked back
macchiato after macchiato
for days, weeks, months on end
bragging to my expresso cohort,
Delphine, about the superior quality
of the Ninth Street espresso blend.

But the fact that I always crash
after my ecstatic coffee bar experience
is causing me to call into question
the reason I continue to drink espresso
in the first place?

I am an addict.
That, for starters,
is the main reason,
right there.
The trick, when being an addict,
is to avoid the substance
one is addicted to.
Such deprivation seems
impossible, at first.
But then one day
without espresso,
then two days without espresso
and suddenly it’s five days,
a week, two weeks
without espresso and
I begin to compensate
for the loss of my caffeine rush
by eating apple walnut muffins
from the Irving Farm coffee bar,
where I used to take advantage
of their espresso happy hour,
between four and six in the afternoon,
where I happily bought
two shots for a buck fifty.

Just for today, though, no shots of espresso.
No racing thoughts. No sweaty palms.
No imagined life for hours on the couch.
I’m currently jazzed about going to
The Patti Smith Show
at the Robert Miller Gallery
on 26th Street.
Yes, feeling jazzed
without espresso
is possible.
Today I am living proof.

Mary Shanley

Alexandra Ernst

As night weaves its darkness
my eyes brim with distant stars.
In stalking man,
I have become prouder
but no less cunning.
Crouched low all evening,
I prowl past deserted courtyards,
the iron gates of the garden.
I have seen fountains that appear
to multiply as I approach them,
innumerable alleys
winding through to broken places.
Under the incandescent street lamps,
I have begun to dream of other faces
in a language that I do not speak.
My stripes align with the crosswalks.
I sharpen my claws on pavement.
Prisoner to these nocturnal wanderings,
I brush my whiskers against the sky
that, in time, devours everything.

Alexandra Ernst

how i went down not to the river but to the bridge
stepladder bridge                              and if they called it suspended
they called it ground to a halt
abandoned and no matter                              imagine it
one of those dead days but no one had to slaughter it

Rose Hunter

into whatever moment of tranquility the flâneur
shall stroll or wander, promenade or amble
there shall be the interruption of the morning
in sunset and city movement frenetic and measured

such is the portrait set against a sky painted in
stick figures blushing against memories and sorrow
Susanna’s naked body as sunrise awaiting the opening
of sight and insight to appear more than streaks of light split

oh flâneur, know that what you see is more illusion
than the promise of heaven and immortal grayness
as the soul waits for illumination in the mortal struggle
where mercy is a good-bye, good-bye, and all else is silence

Christina Murphy

Old men, one with a dog in tow,
hug palatial corners and talk
politics because they are politics

No rain or water can wash
the history of your hallow grounds on
which names are written with the stain
of progress in process

Young and old walk boulevards and
avenues, a world colored by the beautiful
sons and daughters of Isis

Ethiopia’s out-stretched hands have found
a home in your warm bosom as a spark
awaits to catch fire against injustice and wrong

The voices of your prophets ring true, and
poverty’s reign is threatened every
morning your domicide is
incomplete

Elvis Alves

DJ Swykert

Patty Scull