Dear Reader,

Issue twenty-three celebrates six years of StepAway Magazine. When we first came up with the idea of creating an online literary magazine devoted specifically to urban walking, we had little idea of the response we would receive from writers. In the beginning, it was a slow-drip processes. We placed calls for submissions anywhere we could and hoped for the best. Our first ever submission generated considerable excitement, followed by an equally considerable concern that it could also be our only submission. Then came the flood. We were amazed, no, astounded at the limitless number of ways writers succeeded in capturing the feeling of walking in the city. Submissions poured in from across the globe and continue to do so. Six years on, we no longer require to put out a call for submissions. Writers seek us out, and, for us, this reflects our growing reputation in the literary world.

Working with Durham University to publish Voicewalks and Westminster University to produce Fitzrovia Atlas, demonstrated to us the infinite potential of the walking narrative – specifically its power as an analytical tool. We have a number of exciting new collaborative projects in the pipeline that we will share with you soon.  And, of course, receiving a Walking Visionaries Award in Vienna, was one of many events that make publishing StepAway Magazine thoroughly worthwhile.

To mark our sixth birthday issue twenty-three showcases the work of nine alarmingly talented writers: Miki Byrne, Quinn Byrne, Michael G. Casey, Ceinwen E. Cariad Haydon, Monique Kluczykowski, Ilona Martonfi, John Richmond, Nevin Schreiner and Rachel J. Turpin.

Our cover art is courtesy of the photographer Jo Teasdale, and is part of a new series she is working on. Taken in Brighton Station, the image is a departure from her usual shooting style. It vividly captures the changes in light and shadow when moving through a crowd, and the manner in which individuals are often transformed into indistinct shapes as we walk absent-mindedly or at pace. There are many correspondences between Ms. Teasdale’s work and StepAway, specifically the manner in which she captures the essence of the urban observer. Her excellent portfolio can be found at joteasdalephotography.com

I hope that you enjoy reading this, our twenty-third issue, and may I say a heartfelt thank you to our contributors and readers for your continuing support.

Yours faithfully,

Darren Richard Carlaw

editor@stepawaymagazine.com

The neighborhood- for a long time- had been relatively health conscious with quite a few people jogging and cycling, so, it came to be that almost no one paid any particular attention to a man walking.

Well, at least, not right away.  He first appeared at the beginning of summer- three years ago- simply walking- though intently and purposely- but, still, just walking down the street.

He was older, wore a faded baseball cap, walked with a forward-leaning sort of stoop- and he carried a small bag in his left hand- always.

No, it wasn’t until that first summer turned to fall and then to winter, and the weather went from pleasant to rainy and then to snowy and cold, that his habit- his behavior- came to take root in the minds- and especially the imaginations- of the neighbors.

To a person, they all attested to having seen him on a fairly regular, but not necessarily predictable, basis.  Yet, beyond everyone having seen him traversing the cross street- near where they lived- each of these same neighbors recounted sightings in places and locales both near and far from the street that they shared.  It seemed that- somehow- this “walking man” was practically everywhere.

Naturally, this realization led to questions.  The most obvious- and immediate- one was- “Why?”  Why was he walking every day, regardless of the weather, the temperature or the road conditions?  This question was then followed by the after-the-thought-question- “What was in the bag that he was carrying?

It looked like a brown paper bag, rolled down at the top, so as to fit easily- and comfortably- in his grip.  From the way that it appeared and the way he was carrying it, the volume seemed way too small to contain a snack- a lunch- so small, indeed, that most neighbors guessed it contained a small number of belongings that were- in some way- important to him- or maybe to someone.  Somebody he lost; someone who left him or he left- a death, a disappearance- an accident?

However, beyond these relatively “obvious” questions, there were also questions of a deeper and more profound nature.  Questions like- who was he; where did he live- where was home; how far away was his home; was there a home; did he have loved ones- a family; does he carry I.D.; does he know who he is; do the cops and social services know about him- should someone report him for his own sake?

Question after question after question- all of them unanswerable, though, over the years, various neighbors tried to find out something- anything.

At first, they approached the man, not in an intrusive- “in your face”- sort of way, but with an air of caring and consideration.  A bottle of cold water in the summer; a cup of coffee in the winter; fresh baked cookies at any time.

Of course, there were attempts at small talk- not conversation- but “starter talk”- “How are you, today?”  “Hi, my name’s Paul.  I live four houses down.”  And on and on.

In due time, yes, the neighbors did learn something about the man, and that was that he was consistent- consistently silent.  There were no expressions whatsoever, verbal, facial, behavioral- in fact, throughout all the failed attempts at communicating- and true to form- he never stopped walking.

After that, the neighbors turned to a variety of more “exotic”- intriguing- hypotheses.  They wondered about the pattern of streets and roads he took.  Was he- in some way- tracing an oversized overlay that was associated with something- or things- in his life, past or present?  Maybe the outline of a room- or rooms- of a house; the travel route of a deceased loved one; an exact distance in miles that had a corresponding or an associated relevancy; perhaps his selection of streets, using a first or second or last- or whatever position- of letters to spell out a name; a place- maybe even a message- that he could “send” day after day?

The neighbors pretty much knew, almost from the start that their efforts- if not futile- were highly speculative and probably impossible to achieve or to verify, and although some continued to try, with each passing year the attempts became fewer and fewer until finally they ceased altogether, leaving the man alone in his walking.

And, so, over this time, once the neighbors returned home, stepped across their thresholds and closed their doors behind them, they were relegated to exist in a world that contained an uncertain limbo, perhaps not unlike “the walking man,” trying to get somewhere they will never reach, trying to understand something that is a secret and forever will be known only to “the walking man.”

John Richmond

The cobblestoned streets are treacherous
for jet-lagged ankles but this,
this is home: white-clothed tables,
white plates, wine golden in glasses—
even the house fronts gilded
by evening’s light.

I had forgotten the churches—
the Altstadter Nicolaikirche,
St. Jodokus—white-washed walls,
murals of stern angels, soaring
buttresses that draw the eye upward.
Every object gleams golden—
the altar from Antwerp,
the polished, upright wooden pews.
Stained glass saints look down
with sorrow, with understanding.

Familiar voices, my conference group,
ordinary language reduced
to whispers that fade in and
out as shoes scuff along the red runner
to the nave. We duck through
a narrow stone tunnel
where hooded monks once made
their silent way to the monastery,
to the inner garden, a bare lawn, walls
900 hundred years old, the tunnel lowering,
lower, falling…

I wake, startled, drawn to the window,
someone calling to a dog
barking in the street below,
while high on the hill, the tower
of Schloss Sparrenburg glows gold
in the dark hours before morning.

Monique Kluczykowski

Miki Byrne

because the days are grey in this thing
they call a summer town, in the middle of summer,
where the sunlight is but magic and rainbows
shimmering from every Tom, Dick and Sally strutting by.

            but, I suppose,
this is adulthood. And with it is an
oh so adult sadness and longing,
            I suppose.
Never would I had thought
my childish sensations would shatter.
To be replaced by
            alcohol
            coffee
            meaningless friendships
            minimum wage jobs

O the magic impending light.

Rachel J Turpin

emerge from a dream
chaos, unreal landscape, disorder
obsessed. Scaffolding. Jagged space filled
with absences. How do you look
past the gaps? Les petits rats—the little rats,
corps de ballet dancers. Feet raw and bleeding.
L’Opéra de Paris, rue le Peletier,
never alone in a crowd. Cabaret singer in black stockings.
Female nude taking her ablutions.
Is it capable of an answer?

Ilona Martonfi

Lost notes flutter
from pockets and handbags,
coins down drains.
Bonny lads taxi home in time
to face the music, if at all.
Hand-holding denied the
light of day, hidden under mobile lies
blanketed with blown kisses -
patted with I love you too hinny,
see you soon.

And rough sleepers clutch
dew-damped feathered bags
to their chins; Fed Up graffiti
benchmarks their beds whilst
blackbird notes compete
with cormorant cries, kittiwake
carols to burst the bridges into day.

Air split, lives lived,
on the banks of the Tyne – life
travels to a new day and songs
of drink and Geordie jeopardies,
generous with seasoning,
peppered, deepen the flow to the sea.

Ceinwen E. Cariad Haydon

Nevin Schreiner

He had come from a humble place
to this palace of marble; everyone
said he had arrived. But, soon, the vine
between those worlds began to fray;

the gold symbols of the beau monde palled.
He did not know exactly when the vine
gave way, or if he’d cut it in a dream.
There was no way back to the house

at the top of the lane and he would remain
an exile, separated from the boy who
ran through wooded fields to school,
gold lions snapping at his heels.

Michael G. Casey

Quinn Byrne