“My clothes feared nothing,” wrote the author George Sand, reflecting on masquerading as a man so she could freely explore the nineteenth-century city, “no one paid attention to me, and no one guessed at my disguise…I was no longer a lady, but I wasn’t a gentleman either.” It is staggering to think that in the twenty-first century women share similar concerns to Sand regarding their visibility on the street. The tragic death of Sarah Everard has prompted thousands of women to share their experiences of public harassment and has exposed deep social flaws that must be urgently addressed. Approaches to policing the streets need to be re-examined, but a significant emphasis must also be placed on respecting women. Wolf-whistling and cat-calling are acts that some men pass off as being ‘harmless’ but they are predatory in nature and create an immediate sense of unease, where the victim is fearful of what will happen next. They are of course unacceptable. However, I believe that all men must reassess their behaviour in public. This starts by discussing in depth what men can do to make women feel safer when walking. Particularly in deserted spaces or at night, all men are viewed as potential predators because of the past actions of other men. Men need to learn to be more aware of the threat that they pose and consciously mitigate it by giving women who are walking alone the required space and respect for them to feel comfortable. George Sand lived in a misogynistic society where women felt excluded from public life. In 2021, no woman should be denied the joys of walking because of fear. Things must change.

In the ten years since StepAway Magazine was first published, we have shared the work of many a great flâneuse, and numerous talented flâneurs to boot! It is a true joy to publish this tenth anniversary issue. Over the years we’ve published thirty-six issues, including two pamphlets celebrating the North East of England and Fitzrovia, and special editions examining voice hearing and the Covid-19 lockdown. We’ve collaborated with Durham University, the University of Westminster and Newcastle Centre for the Literary Arts. We’ve also co-hosted an event at the Durham Book Festival. And we have made some great friends along the way.

Given the tumultuous time in which we are living, I am curious about what the next ten years will mean for StepAway and hope that our humble publication will reflect a world that is changing for the better. The tenth anniversary issue is a treat, featuring twenty-three writers, some who have featured regularly and others who are new to the magazine:  Tina Barry, Bob Beagrie, Lorraine Caputo, A C Clarke, Maria Castro Dominguez, Kitty Donnelly, Berni Dwan, Janet Hatherley, Julie Hogg, Jayant Kashyap, Tom Kelly, Hanja Kochansky, Marilyn Longstaff, Ilona Martonfi, Lisa McAree, Eva Michely, Ilse Pedler, Anne Peterson, Lesley Quayle, Rouchswalwe, Margarita Serafimova, Ross Walsh and Angela Wray.

Thank you for ten years of support. As always, I hope that you enjoy the read.

Darren Richard Carlaw
editor@stepawaymagazine.com

Lamp-posts raise slender stems:
their rows of lavender-grey
painted to make you forget them.
Mauve-cheeked litter-bins

declare People Make Glasgow.
Ripped packaging
from a milk chocolate bar
tells its own story;

A Cadbury’s awning on the cornerstore
matches exactly.
There isn’t much that’s living colour.
Even this hydrangea

whose head of flowers stands out
from its rain-stunned
foliage has mostly gone to rust.
As for the rest

their summer show has brought
its curtain down.
Only a few stragglers who hadn’t seen
the lights dimming hang on.

At peak season the flowerscape
was hardly a draw.
On a dreich autumn day
it’s the ghost of the ghost of a ghost.

A C Clarke

Julie Hogg

Maria Castro Dominguez

Gold light spins out, flows molten
along four rails towards me,

my feet on the platform fixed tight
with foreboding.

In the tunnel, way back,
the driver’s lit like a charioteer,

his silhouette standing and swaying.
One hand reaches up.

The face of the tube rushes nearer
in a brilliant smile.

Two white eyes burst out in a screech.
The driver sits down, brakes to a halt.

A flash of awe in the underground.
I find a seat.

Janet Hatherley

I pause at the door, hand back the key,
launch down steep steps, juggle handles
cling to my mob torch, trip,
recover, rattle over rough cobbles
measure my path under meagre street lights
shaded by fleshy-leafed trees.

Pre-dawn drizzle dampens my face,
clammy air cold on my skin where
my jacket stops short of my jeans,
I crave warmth, light, not these deserted
warehouses, skeleton fence of the old
cattle market -
                       I shiver, walk on,
the coach station should be near.
If not, my whole Bulgarian trip collapses.

Am I alone – not quite – ahead a human shape
dwarfed by distance moves along this dismal
path to the unknown until my feet recognise
the cracked and jumbled footpath outside a closed café,
and I see the station’s tarmac field.

Faces emerge from the shadows
people stand, shuffle forward, a coach pulls in,
its radio punching the silence. A workman,
rucksack weary, asks me a question
in a language I cannot answer.

I climb aboard, settle into a body-worn
seat and sleep.

Anne Peterson

I can see clover —
I know what that is —

and some little yellow flowers
I’ve looked up before.
A multitude of different grasses,
all very long, make a satisfying slap
against my calves.

A few golden cows, lazy, across
the other side of the low river.

Bare earth on the path is deep-cracked,
no rain for a month,
barely any since February torrents,
when all these meadows were underwater,
the clue, in their name — Water End.

It never rains but it pours,
feast or famine, plague.

Riverside terrace foundations shift and settle,
move with the water table;
it was ever thus,
more so before flood defences.
Jimmy Mack the joiner tells us,

when I was a lad, these houses flooded
every year — the houses of The Railway Poor.

And as for the flowers,
like viruses, we name, we classify, we quell.
My Dad could name them all,
but I never listened, more interested
in shops and streets and towns.

And would I like them more if I knew their names:
the ones we give them,

not the names they give themselves.

Marilyn Longstaff
This poem was first published in Dreich Xtra

The shopkeeper places a vintage chalkboard scrawled with the words “Cat Performance: $1″ on the street in front of her boutique and goes inside. Tourists up from the city gather near the sign. One woman mentions a screeching feline sonata from the Little Rascals. Another imagines a kitten in costume, perhaps a ruffled bonnet. Too hot to linger in the sun, a man breaks from the group and enters the shop. The owner, dusting a three-tiered glass case lined with rhinestone brooches, answers his question: “Oh,” she shrugs, pointing to a framed photo of a tabby. “If you put a dollar in the basket, sometimes she shows.”

Help Wanted. Again

The new guy behind the counter tells the waitress how cool his band was the night before: “They so rocked.” She’s a spinning exclamation point, cajoling regulars: ZZ Top’s twin brother must try the awesome Tempeh Reuben. Rick, who’s lingered over his croissant for an hour, needs to go. Like right now. She won’t tolerate him hogging the coveted window seat a minute longer. “Where are the eggs? Where    Are    The   Eggs?” she yells to the cook, who’s stopped plating food, and stands, mouth agape as the new guy, fingering an imaginary guitar, describes his 20-minute solo: “I was, like, every bit as hot as Hendrix.” “Dude!” the waitress shouts, pointing to the new guy then jerking her thumb toward the door. Head lowered, he grabs his jacket and, reaching into the pastry case, a brownie. His last free bite at The Last Bite.

A Different Happy Ending

Penny reigns in the center of Bill’s Barber Shop, a tattooed beauty with an asymmetrical blonde bob. To the folks in town, Penny is more sorceress than stylist: caressing a customer’s head as if it needs healing; transforming a few errant strands into a youthful mane.

While Penny’s admired for her looks and talent, it’s the way she concludes a session that lures customers to her cracked vinyl seat. After the last snip, Penny reaches beneath an ancient Formica counter and, grabbing a large, canister-style vacuum by its plastic handle, wrestles it free. Faded to pale aqua, the appliance wobbles and clangs across the sloping wooden floor.

Customers have professed love as she glides the hose from hairline to nape over their newly shorn heads.

Tina Barry

Tom Kelly

Bob Beagrie