Dear Reader,

Welcome to Issue Fourteen of StepAway Magazine

This issue was published on a momentous weekend for Scotland.

The decision to remain within the Union has provided a political platform that the Scottish people can surely build upon. Being based a stone’s throw from the border here at StepAway, we had mixed feelings about the referendum debate. There was a distinct feeling of unease about a hard international border being drawn a mere seventy miles north of us.

In many respects we felt a closer connection and kinship with Scotland and Edinburgh than, perhaps, with London. With all of our fondness for our northern neighbours, a yes vote would surely have us feeling left out in the cold. And yet, something in us wanted Scotland to go it alone. Since the dawn of time, blood has been spilled for the gain of territory. In this one moment, Scotland could have gained independence without a rifle being raised, or a bomb being dropped. An inscription at the entrance to the Culloden Moor battlefield reads:

‘S i ‘n fhuil bha’n cuisl’ ar sinnsreadh,
‘S an innsgin a bha ‘nan aigne…

Our blood is still our fathers,
And ours the valour of their hearts…

These few stirring words alone could surely mobilise hundreds of thousands in support of the Yes vote? We were almost certain that we would wake up on Friday morning to news of an independent Scotland. And yet, to our utter surprise, the opposite occurred.

We’d like to celebrate Scotland’s decision by linking to John Stock’s poem Edinburgh, a nocturnal wander in Auld Reekie, first published in StepAway Magazine Issue Twelve.

Meanwhile, our autumn issue showcases another dazzlingly talented set of writers, including: Jon Backmann, Adam Berlin, Michael Duggan, Joachim Frank, Rayon Lennon, Ilona Martonfi, Natalie Shaw, Ana C. H. Silva, Laurie Stone and Norman Waksler.

Our striking cover art comes courtesy of Sarah Symes. To create her art, Sarah uses a unique self-discovered process using hand dyed fabrics. She aspires to recreate the internal experience of places and people through her work. The result is “an abstraction of real life, infused with memories and ideas evoked by the subject”. Her artwork “conjures emotion through color and manipulates composition to suggest familiar forms and landscapes.” The piece showcased on our cover is entitled “Havana Streetscape No. 3″ and is inspired by the artists time spent in Cuba. She writes: “Havana left me with a lasting impression of spectacular decay. Its ancient core is a half-crumbling, half-restored patchwork of colorful streets dating back to the origins of the new world.” To view Sarah’s stunning portfolio and purchase her work please visit: www.sarahsymes.com

Finally, I’d like to take this opportunity to congratulate StepAway Issue Eight cover artist Sherry Karver on her current exhibition at the Rebecca Hossack Conway Street Gallery in London. Running until September 27^th, this exceptional collection of artwork is well worth a look. My article on Ms. Karver’s work is the final installment in this issue.

I hope that you enjoy reading this, the fourteenth StepAway Magazine

Yours faithfully,

Darren Richard Carlaw
editor@stepawaymagazine.com

three beers in me and a walk across town
on flat city streets like a ride like a slow
roller-coaster with sweet alcohol-dips
of too little food and too much in the sun
and I lean in and say
Breathless.

Have you seen the movie when he
moves thumb over lips like this,
the one with Belmondo,
the original?
Even when you eat your soup

              My eyes past clear
              from last night’s drinks
              and my voice like beer
              piss heavy and thick and
              my body play-poised
              without the grace
              of simple gestures.

              She puts up with me and
              I could love her but going in
              I knew it would only take a moment
              between spoonfuls.

you do it—
and I lose the word.

Breathlessly, she says.

A few drops in the ear
was all it took to kill
the king.
Remember me.

Adam Berlin

The debut issue, which had featured on its cover the 3-foot footprint of a –saur of some kind found in the Gobi Desert, was sold out. It had been a small print run; his friend had failed to foresee the pull of paleozooic beasts. The unintended transformation, that was the word to use, of a footprint into a diminuitive public puddle was right down his friend’s alley.

His friend would be hooked. But here and now, without a GPS, without a smart phone, he couldn’t even record the position of the puddles within the framework of the earth. He wrote down the names of the intersecting streets on the back of a crumbled ATM receipt. He made a mental note not to throw the ATM receipt away. He would need to come back on another rainy day for a shoot. But puddles and birdbaths were forbidden in all five burroughs because of the moquitoes carrying the plight of West Nile. By extension of this rule, stepping into wet cement with one’s shoes was strictly forbidden as it created indentations waiting to be filled by the inclement elements.

Strictly speaking, he was required to make a report to the Department of Sanitation, Birdbath Division, but that entire department had fallen out of his favor when his car was towed on account of a 12 inch infraction into a no-parking zone, posted by same Sanitation. One whole Saturday morning had been lost at Pier something or other. On account of his age, four hours amounted to a significant percentage of the time he had left. He would certainly not resist a subpoena to testify in court about the discovery of the man-made puddles, but he saw no reason to volunteer this information either.

Actually, nobody had observed him discovering the puddles, this much he knew. He made another mental note, this time to ask his friend, the publisher of Tracks, to publish the picture he was going to take under a pseudonym. Safe is safe, this was a safe motto to live by.

Joachim Frank

How long since he’s been touched in a way that matters? The funeral he’d say. Since then, handshakes —formal; pecks on the cheek — meaningless. How do you know you’re alive if no one touches you?

Brooding he nearly bumps into Vincent Zinck, brown fedora, heavy camel’s hair coat against the feel of winter already in the air. Zinck’s one of those people he’s know forever without knowing him, an old neighborhood, local tavern, barbershop acquaintance, married still, Spiegel thinks, newspaper and magazine distribution once, small timer.

A quick handshake. “Spiegel. How are you? You’re just the man I was hoping to see.”

“I’m OK. OK. Good to see you. What have you been up to?”

“You know. This and that. Look, Spiegel, I have to ask you. Do you think you could let me have twenty till my Social Security check comes in?”

For years Spiegel had a successful business, plumbing supplies to the trade, practically ran itself once he became known for fair prices and fair dealing. He’d sold up without a qualm, lives off  the interest, spends next to nothing on himself these days, food, underwear, cable TV. He can’t think of a reason to say no to Zinck, pulls out his wallet, hands him a twenty.

“Thanks, Spiegel. You’re a champ.”

No, Spiegel feels a chump, knowing he’s nothing to Zink but someone he can hit for a double sawbuck.

“Believe me,” says Zink, “I’ll pay you back as soon the check come.”

“Sure, sure. It’s fine. I’ll see you.”

Spiegel likes his constitutionals, doctor’s orders or not, but nearly always something happens to disturb him, drivers cutting the lights at an intersection, a runner forcing him into the street, someone with a cell phone bumping into him. Now, soon after leaving Zinck, it’s a figure on a bicycle, male or female he can’t tell — the helmet, the puffy jacket, the jeans — speeding on the sidewalk, the handlebar skims his sleeve. “Schmuck!” he yells after the ears already too far away to hear. Doesn’t that person know you knock an old person down, they break a hip, go into the hospital, catch pneumonia, die?

But he’s happy to see his old friend Lippman in the oncoming crowd. Lippman will understand. Except it’s not him, it’s some other guy not nearly his age, and anyway, what am I thinking? Spiegel asks himself, I must be a little nuts, or it’s a bit of sun, Lippman’s been dead for years.

Spiegel needs a break, Kiley’s is up ahead, one of the two or three real railroad car diners left in the region. At the counter, he says, “Coffee.” “Cream?” asks the young waitress with the amusing purple hair. “Just a bit,” thumb and forefinger apart about that much.

“Want a blueberry muffin?” she asks. “We make them ourselves.”

“No, darling. Just coffee.”

Dribbles half a plastic creamer into the cup, watches the black turn cordovan, sips, sips again. Spiegel sighs, he’s always amazed  at what coffee can do, how quickly it puts a finger on the spot that livens him up. “Maybe I will have that muffin.”

“You won’t be sorry.”

He’s not, leaves a large tip, resumes his walk, less than march step, more than shuffle, that takes him around an oblivious texter, until he’s opposite Carl the Cobbler’s, the only shop left in Carbury to bring your shoes for re-soling. Spiegel peers in to wave hello, Carl motions Spiegel into the shop. Wide, bald, and brawny in his cobbler’s apron, Carl says, “Mr. Spiegel, what can I do with this guy? He won’t leave.”

On one of the chairs of cracked leather seats and metal arms is a guy Spiegel sees around town; tall, alcoholic thin, pitted face, he often has a brown bag with a six pack shape, frequently wears those little ear things listening to music, generally has a sway to his gait, plugged in or not.

He’s got the ear things now, sprawled lengthily on the chair, eyes closed.

“Call the cops,” Spiegel suggests.

“Aw, Mr. Spiegel. That wouldn’t be nice. He’s harmless. I just want him out of the shop.”

Spiegel’s moved by Carl’s kind heart. He taps the guy’s shoulder. Moist eyes open. “What?”

“It’s time,” says Spiegel. Shows his watch face.

The guy unplugs one ear, thin music seeps. “What?”

“It’s time for you to buy your six pack and go home.”

“It is?”

“It is.”

“Oh.” Plugs the ear, stands in loose limbed sections, sways out the door.

“Wow,” says Carl. “That was brilliant. Thank you.”

“Ahh,”  Spiegel hides his pride, pleasure his mind’s still active. “That’s OK.”

On toward his own home, around the corner sees Mrs. Vilma in her white wicker chair on her tiny front porch. Ninety years old, withered, nearly invisible in her very late husband’s giant black overcoat. “Hello, Mrs. Vilma, lovely day, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Vilma who never speaks, raises a hand that seems to say hello and I’m still here, which, as always, gives Spiegel a wisp of hope. Who knows? he thinks, Maybe he’ll even live long enough for Zinck to pay him back.

Norman Waksler

The woman writing prizes said she taught yoga. She looked calm. Yoga doesn’t care why you need to be calm. You could be calming yourself for a murder. I was wearing flip-flops, and the soles of my feet were black.

A crowd gathered in front of the yoga teacher like the birds on telephone wires. The yoga teacher made a show of looking out then took my arm and said, “You spin first. You have waited patiently.”

I had done no such thing. I had kept looking at my watch and returned stingy, little answers to her questions. I didn’t want to work for a water bottle or a pen.

The joggers and floaters wanted the shoes. People in wheel chairs wanted the shoes. The yoga teacher noticed the rubber stopper was missing from the wheel. People searched for it, but it had disappeared. She looked worried and said, “Spin, anyway.” I said, “Whatever stops at the top will be the prize.” She said, “Yes!”

I gave the wheel a tug, and around it flew. Everyone watched. The shoes soared to the top and plunged to the bottom, then up again and down. The wheel didn’t slow. After a while the yoga teacher whispered, “I want you to win,” and I wondered if she took me for one of the entrepreneurial, street people who had lately set up shop along Broadway. They camped on the sidewalk, writing in notebooks and pouring over novels behind signs that asked for donations while they weathered a rough patch. Every so often they looked up blankly at passersby in suits. My life wasn’t that different.

The yoga teacher was holding a shoe she used to stop the wheel, calling out, “You win!” It was as if the universe had rolled toward me, even though I don’t believe in the universe. To a colleague, she said, “Bring our winner some shoes.” I said, “Thank-you,” and gave the colleague my shoe size. She returned with a box, and I slipped on silver shoes with hot pink soles and iridescent, green stripes. They were ugly, but what can you do. Other members of the team snapped pictures with their phones, and I wondered where they would be posted and if people would notice my dirty feet.

I smiled. The shoes were springy, and I remembered being 10 and chosen to perform in a promotional film about the new library at school. There I was with my pigtails and eager face. My mother had been a shy, aloof person who didn’t want her emotions read. She was dead now, and I wished I could show her the shoes. She would have said, “How did you win them?” I would have said, “Pity.” She would have said, “There’s the catch.”

Laurie Stone

they keep the pedialyte and infant formula
behind sliding locked plexiglass
or they will be stolen by people who want
to keep their babies healthy
but don’t have the money

Dollar Store

that dollar store was a theatre once
foraging for table cloths I saw in the back
red cinema seats of the upper circle
no people sitting there
just cardboard boxes filled
with mop parts and chipboard
quietly facing a frayed curtain
pressed tin ceiling
I like that store
I get our shower curtains there

Cats

chicken wire around an empty lot
sleek stray cats
look like convicts or dancers
according to my mood
sometimes they leave to walk through the hole in the Sandy-crashed fence
                                under cars
                                                                 or go where they go

Yellow

in the spring banana yellow
bandeau tops set off brown skin in every tone
but it’s a special yellow:
not mustard not daffodil not Hamptons yellow
a yellow with a sharp glow:
mangoes and bananas sold off carts
plus a dash of neon

Tree Pit Garden

pick out crushed cigarette carton, burned butts, plastic and metal bottle caps
bread crust, pink and blue chewed gum wad, delicate green weeds
pour extra dirt from plastic bags you rip open yourself
make a hole with your hand if you don’t have a trowel
hold flower roots lightly, suspending in the middle of the hole
while you fill with dirt
bring buckets up the stairs
heavy with water as you go down and wrestle out your building door
cast a circle of water around each flower
without taking their petals off
take advice from a grandmother walking by translated from Spanish
by the granddaughter holding her arm
she says you should pinch off the flower so those leaves grow better.
Do that.

Luggage

when I come back from a trip I don’t carry my own luggage
up the subway stairs because a quiet man
not sure I speak Spanish
lifts it without a word
all the way
to the
top

Starlings

a thousand starlings occupy a tree outside our window
our daughter Alice says they
say Jayson Jayson Jayson
at night the flat street echo
of half drunk arguments
goes wide and high into living room windows
that face the street.
The actual words are hard to make out
through thin screech, low booming swear
but it’s always about heart break, heart break,
this heart breaking right now
and how dare you not care about me?
I might turn the TV higher
or go to the back bedroom
to try and fall asleep.

Ana Silva

Red lights like a three-eyed monster
over traffic in the sooty dark, red everywhere
in memorials around keeling light
poles, desert wine bottles, flowers dried up
like love, teddy bears lounging like deadbeat
fathers watching TV as life huffs by, sneakers
hanging from live wires like men in Jim Crow. Red
cries. Who I am but black
and alive tonight? My Sentra is not quiet,
not quite blood red. Poverty shot
another brother. The news says
the victim was the suspect. I mean a black
man shot a black man shot a black man, probably
over coke, the drug not the drink. And you think
of death and look at the sky which is all
smiles because the moon is naked again
tonight, no clouds, no clothes, no way
to hide that we are hurting so we extinguish
ourselves and each other. These houses
live across from a cemetery, from death,
heaven or hell. And you think happiness,
so vague–what does it really mean
to part the Red Sea of oppression?
To drive and wear red, feeding on pain
and power as boys basketball in old snow by
sputtering streetlights. I bump up the music
to cheer up the hood. Kids shake as my car
crawls around a liquor store. The lyrics, poison,
the beat, the cure. Business is booming
for funeral homes too. Men swagger
with brown paper bags or yell
as they whisper to a strutting
black woman so beautiful you want to be
more than you are. She’s decked for the club
all heels. And legs and a red dress so tight it boils
your blood and overheats your senses.
You want to stop but you do not stop.
Her natural hair like something out
of your garden.

Rayon Lennon

Natalie Shaw

The back streets of Convent Garden have a respiratory quality about them as they draw people in and out like heavy breaths. The streets are void one minute and full the next. With this comes a sensuous temporality, which I have come to know, and enjoy. Each time I weave through the streets I enter familiar, and yet ultimately unique sensescapes created by mine and other’s presence in this space. I become part of a fleeting sensescape that I will no doubt recognise in the future but momentarily forget once it is gone.

Freshly brewed coffee wafts my way as the cobbles beneath my feet play subtle havoc with the folds of my shoes. The unmistakable pulse of a near-by black cab begins to judder over the stones, alerting the street of its passing. Those made unaware by the sensory distractions of engaging phone calls or pulsating earphones, are immediately caught out, only to be subjected to a short, and not necessarily sweet, beep of the horn to which all but the most obtuse of bodily receptors could not ignore.Sharp gusts of wind funnel through these streets, carrying with them snippets of amalgamated sound to which the origin is impossible to properly identify. It is only with knowing what’s round the next corner, from having regularly walked this route, that I can guess; the clanging of pots and pans, the unheard shouts of a big issue vendor, and the underlying thud of techno music oozing intermittently from the open doors of near-by trainer retailers.

Although the abrasive nature of the wind reminds me it’s still winter, I’m still thankful it’s not raining. At times, the rain has a habit of taking precedence, seemingly washing away all other sensorium. In truth, a downpour would enrich the experience, creating or reawakening previously unfelt textures. Unfortunately these textures are rarely felt positively; particularly on a cold February evening.

I take this way to avoid the majority of the crowds. Visible to see two streets down, they funnel through the city like disobedient ants, darting into shops and stopping wherever they please. This route, for a time at least, distances me from that sensory overload. And yet, this being London, seldom do I find myself alone. I am amongst the adventurers of the pack; those bored by the beaten track, curious for the next corner. Charging on, I convince myself that I am not one of the touristic voyeurs paying to be here; I am a Londoner and these routes are for me.

After the knowing buzz, I almost fall flat upon the cobbles in an attempt to read an email on the go. I react by not reacting. Don’t make a scene I think. The girl plotting her own way to the left. She senses the fall, anticipates, and maybe even encourages it. I hear her giggle and exchange an uneasy smile. It’s apparent that I sense the world as it senses me. My actions are not my own but part of something larger; one strand of thread constituting a tiny stitch of life’s sensorial web.

Michael Duggan

Two pinewood crates.
Name painted in large block letters.
The Arosa Kulm sailed Bremen – Quebec.
Immigrant “Landed” —1954.
Father and mother. Five children.
“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht”
Candles and silver icicles on the branches.
All the presents placed round the tree:
the tall balsam fir
gingerbread, foil-wrapped pralines.

One year later,
blond, blue-eyed, cousin Edith died in Toronto,
run over by a garbage truck.
A child playing with a red ball.

Ilona Martonfi