Dear Reader,

Unease runs like a poisoned vein through this, our nineteenth issue of StepAway Magazine. This is, perhaps, no coincidence. On the evening of 13th November 2015, a series of coordinated terrorist attacks were carried out in six locations across Paris.

Paris – a city that urban walkers hold so dear, the birthplace of the flâneur. It is with a sad irony that on the very streets where the joy and freedom of walking was first championed in literature and art, an unthinkable event occurred that would ask us to reassess our safety as urbanites.

The victims of these attacks were cut down in the midst of doing the very things that we love – wandering the streets at night, lounging in cafés, indulging in the spectacle of city life. In their innocence they were unprepared for what would follow.

Those orchestrating the attacks intended to bring terror not just to Paris, but to all cities. The intention being to make us live in fear, to feel vulnerable, to think twice about doing those things we love. Yet, as the people of New York rallied themselves in the days and weeks following 9/11, Parisians took to the streets of their city the very next day in an act of defiance.

Great cities of the world can never be halted. Unease and vigilance has always been part and parcel of urban walking. Whether navigating nineteenth century London or twenty-first century New York, the savvy pedestrian was always required to pre-empt and accept threat. The nature of that threat may change from decade to decade, and location to location, but it does not and will never stop us walking and revelling in the pleasures of our cities.

The lifeblood of a city is its people. As I write this, a crowd is surging through the major arteries of Paris, London, New York and every other city that has suffered at the hands of terrorists. This footfall, this momentum is immense and unstoppable. The terrorists can never win.

It is therefore an even greater pleasure to publish Angel Ackerman’s “This Paris”, a sensory celebration of the city which was written before the attacks.

The opening story of Issue Nineteen, is entitled “Distagon View” by photographer Jonathan Bradley. Jonathan is the Newcastle City Council’s Artist in Residence for Byker Old Town, a neighbourhood located in the Byker ward in the east of the city. I volunteered to accompany Jonathan on his photoshoots with the intention of writing walking narratives that would accompany his work. The experience has been incredibly rewarding, and we have built up a significant body of material documenting the area. Jonathan offered to write his own walking narrative as a response to our walks, the result being “Distagon View”. The story is written ingeniously from the point of view of a camera, in this case a V System Hasselblad. “Distagon” refers to the 9 element Carl Zeiss lens that Jonathan frequently uses.

Jonathan is also the contributor of our stunning cover shot, which was taken at Clapham North Underground Station in London. He has spent over eight years working on a project named People : Space, the exposition of humans and their surrounding environments, how our environments around us make us feel. His website can be found here.

We also have a fantastic line up of writers including: Raef Boylan, D. Othniel Forte, Joachim Frank, James Gabriel, Grant Tarbard and Steph Thompson. I leave you in their most capable hands.

Wishing you a peaceful, prosperous and perambulatory 2016.

Happy holidays!

Darren Richard Carlaw

editor@stepawaymagazine.com

Equal, no judgement, impartial. Nine pieces of glass, an aperture, two shutters and silver halide that will only see the light of day for about 1/250^th of a second.

12 frames, 12 chances, 12 hopes – 12 square views of this world. Two flags to white.

This world is a mirror of reality. Everything is back to front down a groundglass that never perceives but only witnesses. But is this reality back to front?

The deserted Scarborough Road but the fragile light of people past penetrating my mind, my thoughts. Voices scattering but unheard on the mute film that only registers a scene.

A burnt down fence with the abandoned children’s toy grinning at me through the conflagration. Voices – children’s laughter, the warm embrace of a parent now cast to the ashes, the Phoenix gone.

A dog meanders down a lane, worriedly he looks behind to see the Distagon stealing a fraction of his light. Reality diverges as dog walks crookedly down the opposite road, the film compartmentalised in the dark.

Fallen autumn leaves lie as yellow tears shed from the trees in mourning of the past summer, winter approaches with a familiar icy grip in the air. A street cleaner brushes the raw grief away with uncertainty.

The stoic terraces, row upon row, street upon street unerringly and unsympathetically paint the constant reality of what seems the forever and the inescapable.

Many other eyes stare inquisitively but the Distagon never answers. It’s grey aperture narrows occasionally to judge the depth of its surroundings. Done silently while others narrow their eyes judging the Distagon. Why? Who?

The old cigarette factory sleeps with shuttered, tired, heavy eyelids for shuttered doors, seemingly comatosed from a nightmare. They will never open again.

Venomous shouting in the next street, fury, hatred, envy and anger boil over in the soundscape yet all the Distagon sees is another overflowing bin, spewing its contents like the vitriolic exchange not more than a few feet away.

Without emotion, it registers the broken, smashed up television somewhat maternally swathed in videotape, destroyed, unwanted and soon to be forgotten.

The lonely alleyway is punctuated with some teenagers who blur to nothing. They walk quickly with intent, purpose but they pass through whimsically, carefree, concentrating on the ground underneath them. It is cruel and hard.

These streets only hold memories now for people no longer amble. These streets hold phantoms of people who thrive but are forgotten.

As the sun sets behind the new church, a red flag appears. 12 frames, 12 chances, 12 hopes – 12 square views of this world now chemically committed to eternity.

Nine pieces of glass, an aperture, two shutters and Silver Halide that has seen the light of day for about 1/250^th of a second.

This is the Distagon’s View.

Jonathan Bradley

Arm in arm they went down the lamps of youth,
these dazed boys glazed and in a blunt toothed eye
swayed the sunlight to sleep, red as Vermouth.
Their clothes were spindrift, tied up with belts. Cry
thistles in beauty of midnight’s bundled
cold tones, still as a gag, dead as Christmas.
Snow swam, ghosts on strings as the boys trundled
home in a soaked canvas, clogged blue litmus
pale, plate still street under the whiskey haze.
A stubborn soberness gripped them, a fold
of a room beyond frosted double glaze,
was that a woman dead as a black duck?
She had two vampires lingering over
her slumped, drained body, as white as clover.

Grant Tarbard

Emerging, damp silk and cotton clinging to
my skin, my body threatens to fail as I
pray for her acceptance. The station
breathes mechanical three-tone chimes
delineating each train.

Simplicity of metal, glass and concrete,
the station does not yield to the sway
of engines and cars. This canopy
protects me from the elements and her gaze.
My reluctant shove opens the door.

I cascade into a surreal apertif of
flowers, perspiration and urine,
cigarette smoke and inexpensive red wine
skimming her flesh. The olfactory assault awakens me
and mocks my freshness.

Redolent of yeast, her warm body embraces
me. My mouth lusts for her breads and her
sweets, grime overshadowed, but my first
need is revival brought by strong coffee
in tiny cups.

At the hotel, I climb a vivid pink and
worn brown spiral of 85 stairs to a
corner chamber where imperfect sheets
remain suspiciously mussed from the
bodies preceding us.

I step to the balcony, fingers of wrought iron
restraining me as I stand with no destination
sandwiched between opposing stations.
In this space, I taste her earnest
poignancy on the breeze.

From this narrow ledge, she dances
mesmerizing me with her softness, her angles;
her age versus her timelessness.
Her caress reaches me and transforms the American
tension that defines me.

Transfixed, I freeze. Every murmur against
neighboring tracks rocks my core, screaming of my
transience. Every siren from the streets below
thrills me, a tremor for each pin-pon that pierces
my overconstructed fugue.

The passersby below my balcony continue their
departure, trajectory focused on a shortcut to the
train. Their nonchalance boggles me. Her touch
forces amnesia, the mundane discarded in her kisses.
We descend into her streets of rapture.

She leads me through her neighborhoods
into her flavors. She is not the girl I once knew
but nor am I the same. I desire more than I did in youth
so I chase her as I will chase her for days
begging for our merger.

The ideologists mandate her purity, concocting paltry laws
while she feigns aloofness. The natives ignore her
everyday charms but bristle when she shares
her ardor with Africans, Muslims and other dark faces
as readily as White skins.

She absorbs the choppy resonance of the Arabic
laid at her feet and stares at the strange letters
she cannot read, because language constantly
mutates. She can only preserve her heart and not what the
populace layers upon her.

My feet blister keeping pace, just the endorphins
propel me. My mood turns uneasy as she continues beneath
me, urging me onward into her pleasures. With fats from
her table and easy-flowing wine, she satiates, sullies
and corrupts me.

Under the haze of alcohol with a belly full of frog,
snails and rabbit, she lures me to the river Seine,
tourist-laden boats driving its currents,
its banks flooded with the silhouettes
of lovers entwined.

When exhaustion lands me in my bed, I never
close the window. The bugs nip my soiled flesh
but I continue to expose myself to her.
How else could I monitor her nocturnal movements?
Never have I felt so dirty and free.

But finally, I return to that station, with more
song in my voice. I laugh and weep as the
RER dashes into the suburbs. Tunnels ascend
into daylight, sun falling on graffiti, the message too real.
Disconcerting.

My tears draw attention from a tall
Black man with dreads whose gentle French comforts
my sorrow. I can only pray that he will
care for her, as I do, and stay with her
with a permanence I cannot.

Angel Ackerman

Joachim Frank

I gain on the famous glass-skinned hulking bar, spilling out drinkers over the pavement so slickly kissed by a shower light as mist. A boy, way past his bedtime, climbs the river-railing, curling his body over the top bar to watch a gull floating on a rocking lump of weed and plastic. His father, beery and arms dark with ink peels him away, the child shrieks and the bird echoes, as though in sympathy.

Dying away, the sounds mingle with the slightly flat chords of my favourite busker, who dresses too young and plays too old. At his back, a soft spectrum offsets his music because the glorious eye shaped bridge is melting through its cycle of colours. Five years now, and never once seen it open.

I slow, and give up, tempted by the sweet yellow sharpness of onions. Push to the front of the jostling students at the burger van. A tight skirted grandmother shrieks, mustard dropping into her cleavage as she balances a cigarette and hot dog in one taloned hand, mobile phone in another.

Now I stroll, dripping, and my path is cut across by sexless goth teenagers, skateboards like scissors on rumbling wheels. Pale delicate faces beneath identical dark fringes, stumbling, picking themselves up and embracing, tic-like. The light bending low above the river hangs on by fingernails, will not yet let the signs of the pubs, packed tightly as cards, see it away until the morning.

The bridges continue, mismatched, too many, like a toddler showing off with a lego set. The favourite one is up ahead, darkest green, splattered with pats of white bird dirt, like the Tyne itself, dressed in torn netting and curving into two perfect arcs.

Bleeding down from the road, cars punch brief bullets of music at the crowds on the pavement, each one a new overloud wound. Onions are replaced by a miasma of cheap aftershave, good perfume, and hair products, tipsy sweet. Identical blonde girls sway to their next love-portunity, linking arms, screeching, one uncaring until the morning that she is a bride-to-be.

Steph Thompson

Monrovia was crowded this time of the year. Chaos! People rushed by, bumping against each other in Waterside market. It was the best and worst place shop. On the one hand, one found everything for bargained prices. On the other, the best robbers operated in that zone.

The old man struggled through the throng of people. He looked left and right every few paces. He seemed scared and watchful for something, anything to happen. He pressed on. The cane supporting his weight nearly broke with each step. He barely progressed. His old briefcase and even older coat confirmed to Oldpa and Papee that they had found their perfect mark.

Their plan was simple- Oldpa would distract while Papee snatches and flees. Oldpa signaled after snapping on his black waist bag containing all their hustle money since morning. Slowly, they approached and made their move.

“Dam!” Oldpa blurts out as he stumbles and knocks the old man who tumbles over. He bent, and helped him off the ground. “Sorry,” he says.

“Thank you son,” he replied in a feeble voice. He steadies himself only to be knocked over again, this time by another young man who snatches his briefcase and runs off.

Oldpa turns abruptly in pursuit of the thief. The Oldman slowly lifts his cane to intercept but he was too late. However nearby, the girl selling imitation children’s dolls yelled, “Rogue, Rogue! Thie-fe Thie-fe!” People around jumped into action looking for the rogue.

Oldpa echoes it, “Roo-gue!” The crowd followed him although, no one sees the thief. In fact, no one else is running but him. Some boys who saw a man run past and vanished in between some houses on Front Street, joined in. The terrain was rocky so only few ventured in; they chased, still shouting “Thief!” Eventually the noise faded. They all stopped after Papee entered the gang owned area and jump into the river under the Old Bridge. Beyond this point was dangerous. No one chased after culprits past that point.

Back on Mechlin Street, the Oldman wept upon hearing that the rogue had made off cleanly. One woman inquired about the content of the briefcase. He mentioned some documents and his recently cashed pension check of $673.28. He pulled out his wallet and handed her a few old pay slips. She quickly scanned and verified the amount. She hissed her teeth, reached for her purse, removed $125, and gave it to him. Others followed suit- a five here, twenty there, a few fifties.

Thus, in no time, he collected thrice more than he’d lost. He thanked them and went on his way.

Oldpa met Papee bending over a briefcase stuffed with old papers and some stones but no money. He inquired but Papee claimed that the case was exactly as it is now. Oldpa, determined to recover his losses from Papee’s share of loot, reached under his shirt but could not find the black waist bag. “Perhaps it fell during the chase,” he thought. He began a frantic search. When Papee determined that the bag with their day’s loot was what Oldpa was searching for, he became suspicious. Both believed the other had cheated. They had a terrible fight.

New Kru Town:

“Grandpa! Grandpa!” The little boy shouted as he ran towards the Oldman descending the taxi. They hugged. The Oldman gave him Monrovia Rock, his favorite sweet. He walked the short distance to their house, sat and allowed the boy to jump on his lap, still licking away.

“What is this Grandpa?” the boy asked, pointing to a black waste bag.

“It’s yours,” said the Oldman as he broke a smile. He’d removed the contents from it. What a catch it was. This day had turned out well for him.

D. Othniel Forte

An anthem of his doomed youth shuffles sneakily into Mark’s ears, a track he hasn’t heard since leaving school. Energy overwhelms. Pumped up and grinning, he struts, he punches the air. He’s practically skipping up the street. Hey, he was wild and free once, same as anybody. He can’t go home for hours; will have to time it so they’re all upstairs snoring, avoid another confrontation. The MP3 player’s battery will last a little while longer. Screw the world – forget the stuff his dad said, the stuff everybody says.

Yeah, he’s a loser. So what?

Screw that whole scene, thinks Darren. Fuck their paper plates of sausage rolls. The second cousins like lager-breathed buzzards rifling through boxes of Donna’s make-up and CDs, negotiating tops, dresses and shoes that she’ll never dance in again. Had to break out of there, find his mates. They’re the ones who matter. Nan and Tracey will look after mum. Cider and vodka making the rounds, bit of spliff will put him right. Got to keep walking, that’s important. Pacing up and down his own brain like a tiger in a zoo, throwing himself against the bars repeatedly in wordless frenzies of rage. Empty bottle of pop on the pavement, send it flying. KA-POW. Sleep tight, motherfucker. Not enough. Bin stapled halfway up a lamppost: lay into it with fists, tear it down, stamp dents into it, send it skidding into the road. Cans rolling in a tinny parade of tattered confetti of crisp packets, bus tickets and stiff balls of crumpled tissues.

Still not enough.

Darren forces smoke from lungs like the Big Bad Wolf trying to huff apart the sky. It would normally chill him out but tonight not even weed can calm the certainty that the whole world is against him. Why did she have to die? Got any answers, god, you bearded prick?

His mates are stoned, falling against each other and spluttering laughter. Only Paul still remembers what day it is, the day the world officially ended; continuously passing him cans and joints, patting his shoulder, intense sideways glances. The streets are abandoned as if the whole city’s done a runner, except for the blue flicker of flat screens pulsating through the gaps in each curtained window. Nobody here knows how he feels – it’s alright for them, chilling on their sofas. His little sister is dead and he can’t channel the sadness, can’t command justice for Donna, can’t batter down the killer’s door and jam a screwdriver through his throat.

Leukaemia doesn’t have an address.

Hello, weary cleaner on her way home from work. Hello, old man taking his whippet for a walk. They are all comrades, the Night People. Mark is approaching the strip of shops; only Bargain Booze is still open. Passes the pond, thinks how the gnarled tree is leaning over to whisper secrets to the swans. There is an eerie glow over the water. No geese in sight. He turns down a side street beside the chippy, treats himself to a chuckle over the weird fake grass lining the butcher’s window display. What’s that all about, who wants a steak that’s been lying in the grass? Or is it a tribute to the cows and sheep themselves?

A figure up ahead passes under the streetlight beside the butcher’s, so that Darren gets a glimpse of the guy’s face. Who does Mr Happy-Go-Lucky think he is, laughing at them? Wearing a leather jacket and strutting like a hard man, thinks he owns the streets. Darren can’t hack the merriment – shakes Paul’s arm to get his attention.

Mark has been alerted to the group further up the street, is aware that their voices sound male and drunk. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and thumbs the volume a little higher; hooks his concentration onto the drumbeat and lyrics, determined to ride out their abuse in ignorance. Best not to attract attention so he drops his gaze to the veined paving slabs, haphazardly portioned into sections like nations on a map. Dad’s right, he’s weak; too pathetic to even stroll past a bunch of other human beings without getting tense.

Leather Jacket hasn’t even the sense to look up, can’t make eye contact, thinks he’s better than them. With a full cider can in hand, one surprise smash to the head sends him staggering backwards, earphones leaping into the air like tiny bungee-jumpers. Unity of the pack: they rush him, pass him back and forth bouncing off knuckles, knock him to the floor and commence kicking. Craig and Dan back off after a few brutal stomps, start scanning the street for witnesses.

Tenderise the meat until its face is covered in ketchup.

And then they’re running, Adidas pounding the streets. Adrenaline screaming victory.

Raef Boylan

Ghosts rose never ascending from boxes carefully wrapped and tucked neatly away, hidden in corners overgrown with trees and weeds. Tied bows shook the dust from memories that writhe in the stink of must and decay. Knockers wailed names of those chosen to witness repercussions of unclean deeds, done in the stale silence and dead cold of ancient eves. Mice steeled themselves away in the glow of a nose that sought life for its own sake, ending the clank of monkey chimes and stopping the toots of trains as decorated bulbs quietly dim and fade to darkened colors of frozen glass.

The lights are off. No one is home. The house is dead.

Carolers do not sing songs having long departed deserted lanes. Footprint impressions fill with snow to cover jagged impressions with perfect sheets of white fluff, and hide the sharp edges in ice. Muddied prints tell tales of those passing on streets and footpaths leading to back doors locked and closed. Dwellings without lights of invitation are forced by the scavengers of Christmas present to aid the bells toll for occupants in residence, and release their last visage of frozen smoke into the air.

Grown out of fear on the eve, the crunching of boots signal danger and warns of an unfriendly approach.

It forces its way through locks and barriers of innocence once torn and left; now scarred and tarnished with the rot of a sacred trust betrayed. Faces rise, hidden behind wreaths of tinsel while the pine scratches away tears with needles that leave permanent lines.

It comes disguised and cloaked as memory both real and imagined, once upon a daydream vision of a nightmare happening. Splitting the frozen earth that trembles in the quake, it rises. It digs itself up with finger-nailed claws covered with the dirt and grime of the future gatherings, already contaminating past and present for all times.

And in the aura of its heat, children cry and bleed.

James Gabriel

Raef Boylan is a Coventry-born writer currently studying on the MA Writing programme at Warwick University. His work has achieved recognition in the Big Issue in the North Short Fiction Award, and in 2014 won first prize in both the Frederick Holland Poetry Award and Coventry University Short Story contest. In recent months, Raef has had work published in several magazines and journals, including Paper and Ink, Here Comes Everyone and CovWords. He has a strong interest in cynical, well-crafted poems and stories that burrow into the mundane and unearth poignancy.

Jonathan Bradley studied at the University of Newcastle and has been interested in photography all of his life. Taught by family, he has professionally ran his own photography outfit for fifteen years, with more than eight of those years devoted to a project entitled People : Space, the exposition of humans and their surrounding environments. He operates both film and digital cameras from 35mm to 4×5″. He has worked closely with and been commissioned by a number of organisations including: Newcastle City Council, Royal Mail, TfL, Nexus, Tyne and Wear Museums and Durham WHS/UNESCO. His website can be found here.

D. Othniel Forte is a Liberian, educator, folklorist and public speaker. He is one of the leading modern day Liberian folklorists. His works have been published widely in the academic setting and numerous social media. He is also an active social commentator. He edits the Liberian Literary Magazine and runs the indie press, Forte Publications.

Joachim Frank is a scientist and writer who lives in New York City. He has published short stories, flash fiction and poems in a number of magazines, including Offcourse, elimae, Cezanne’s Carrot, Eclectica, The Noneuclidean Cafe, Hamilton Stone Review, Bartleby Snopes, Red Ochre Lit, StepAway Magazine, Fiction Fix, Short Fast and Deadly, The New Poet, Rivet Journal, *82 Review, Conium Review, theeel, and Black&White. A more complete list along with a blog on the state of the world is found  on his website: franxfiction.com

James Gabriel is a writer and performer living in southern California. He is the author of ten novels and short story compilations many of which are available for download at Amazon. He is the creator and co-writer of the one person show Heavy Like the Weight of a Flame, winner of New York’s One Festival and has been performed all over the U.S., London, Scotland’s Edinburgh Festival and is still being performed today. He is currently working on a musical and a feature film script. His Amazon author page is here.

Grant Tarbard is internationally published. His chapbook Yellow Wolf, published by WK Press, is available now.

Steph Thompson is a teacher and freelance writer from the North East of England.  She loves live music, reading and animals. She is also an ‘out of the closet’ science nerd.   She has never been known to walk away from a real ale.