By Yvette Chan Continue reading Bearer of Sorrow
Blue as the tranquil water of the lakes, or of the unseen breeze, or flying kites. Or of ink pens that stain our hands and smear all over the white of the table beneath our weight. Blue as the rising tide, the falling rain, the last crayon in the box that day. Blue as the uniforms we grew up in, and the highlights in … Continue reading Blue
Jacksie wakes abruptly, eyes snapping open, immediately on the alert. He strains to see in the darkness and stretches carefully. The space is surprisingly large despite all the boxes and – thanks to the trench coat he found upstairs – he’s warm and dry. He’d come across the stone-built cottage while wandering through the woods, searching for somewhere to doss down. Some old biddy had … Continue reading The Perfect Guest
That she loves you with a full heart, There is no doubt. That she will never leave – And instead will always stay – There is no breath of doubt. And that you know her well – Like the ripe veins on the backs of your hands, And the frayed spine of your favourite book: Like the way she smiled the day you re-met her, … Continue reading Secret Songs
Editors Note: Kamena is pleased to publish the winning piece of this year’s Transformation programme, a widening participation scheme at the University of Warwick that takes Warwick undergraduates out to schools in Coventry to teach about Literature and Creative writing. This year the winner is Caitlin Hoyle, a year 9 pupil from President Kennedy school in Coventry. Linda Patterson awoke one sweltering morning, … Continue reading Linda Patterson Awoke
There it is again The silence So big it creates a physical presence in the room She feeds silence her cup of tea She sits on her bed and they converse, As she stares at the ceiling. Silence strokes her cheek and gathers her tears. It whirls around her like a hurricane. Somewhere there is more than this. There is noise There is … Continue reading All The Time There Are Things But Not Here
And yet –
cool lips press to colder ivory
as though to bestow
a sweet benediction;
Slippers, apple cores
Plump, warm – her brown eyes sparkle
My pillar of strength.
Mum had a habit of eating the entirety of an apple. The peel, the fruit, the core; all the apple would disappear. The first time I saw her leave an apple core unchallenged, Henry had made a comment, a jibe trying to be a joke that didn’t quite pay off. Henry was always doing that – trying to challenge my mother, to unsettle her. But in his passive aggressive cunning, he didn’t notice the way her eyes glazed over, and how, like hitting restart on a computer, she’d shut down for a short time before putting her face of normality back on and delivering a similarly sharp retort that snapped his neck to the ground with embarrassment. Mum was always doing that – trying to put him in his place, pushing him out of our circle.
By Camille Fattal Continue reading Ghost Train