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2/3 Cartoon by Calum Rex Reed
5 Photographs by KB
6 Drawings by Eibhlin Cassidy
7 Drawing by Ailie Rutherford [email protected]
8 Photograph by Helena MacGilpwww.helenamacgilp.co.uk
9 Illustration by Aaron [email protected]
11 Photograph by Katy [email protected]
12 Photomontage by Mikel Kruminswww.fishywives.com
Drawing by Raymond Wilson
13 Montage by Jenny [email protected]
14 Cartoon by Malcolm [email protected]
15 Tapestry by Kate [email protected]
16/17 Drawings by Kirsty [email protected]
18 Drawing by Catherine Street
19 Image by Anna Copeland
20 Photograph by Rune Martinsen
Contents
front cover drawing by mary trodden, back cover photograph
by rune martinsen
Iwas shocked to find a hip Bongo Club crowd drinking,laughing, and full of shenanigans. I was criticallyprimed for a so-so night at a dying venue. I was
prepared to sarcastically trash the event with my reservoirof pithy comments. I was ready to sink my teeth into therotting belly of the Smallfry. Even current Editor Ryan VanWinkle agreed, We didnt think people would come.Smallfry three was an absolute tragedy. In order to save ourdignity we burned most of the 2,000 copies at a drunkenquarry party. We promised issue four would be better and,thankfully, people came.
Van Winkle was an asshole but in the back roomHoward Booker Bridges (the second) got the simmeringplace loved-up, ready to boil and I began to melt. The backroom was crowded with equipment and the orgasmicsounds of women being head massaged. I freaked out. I raninto the main room in time to catch a glistening set fromVirgil Kanes. They were new, young, fresh. I got a bonerand had to leave. Back in the rear room Artic Circle wereprojecting huge images taunting and amazing my senseswhile playing funky live electronica, without robots. I loveRadioheads Kid A, I shouted. They ignored me.
How much are you paying these guys? I askedMary Trodden, one of Smallfrys co-editors.
No, they play for free, like, she smiled; herbrown eyes sensual pools of milky suns. Smallfry! Bongo!she muttered before explaining that Smallfry the magazinewouldnt exist without the generosity of strangers.
Free? I was intent on rubbishing the rest of the
night. In the main room I watched Cruiser with steelyhatred, clutching my biro like Bob Dole and again I wastorn. I loved them; the ethereal cello and harmoniesthrowing me. I was confused, haunted, hurt. The playfulend of Artic Circles set made me feel like a child enjoyinghis first taste of milk. When I caught the metallic Dawn ofthe Replicants I almost wept. My heart couldnt take it. Theenergy, Ahmeds break dancing, the hysteria of the crowd.I... I wanted to go home and write about how miserable mylife had become. Ive wanted to play a keyboard my wholelife, control a crowd, be a part of something. All I could dowas watch, broken by jealousy, with no gods left to save meand only my dog to love.
James DRyanCritic, CIANights
Smallfry Presents... Review
The team: Ryan Van Winkle (text tile),Mikel Krumins (propaganda yak), MaryTrodden (art mesher), Jess Wood andSteve A Martin (The Good Guys Inc.),Fiona Scroggie (print panther), Lee PaulVickers (layout warrior). All praise to:The Bongo, Forest, Mr.B, Two Strokes,Djiniditto, Alun Thompson, Andy Anderson,all the bands, and the omnipotent SophieNaftalin. Many thanks to everyone whohelped make this issue of Smallfry a reality.
drawing by calum rex reed2
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Sitting in a soft corner of my neighborhood bar; taking in late afternoon honeycombsunlight, I found myself wishing it felt like home. I sat there wishing away the long day likean insomniac wishes away morning. Resigned, tired and wishing that the only-sometimesspells of this self-inflicted forgetful and numb werent such a personal vice.
Sipping cool pale-ale; needing all these forty-something simply-alive and getting-by menand women, shrouded in their just-off-work disguise complete with finally-time-to-be-memasks that hearkened aging clones of Miller ads to snap back those old plastic shells ofmake-believe and reveal new souls defiant of dying.
And on our porch that night, my clan of young-twenty-somethings found themselveswaning nostalgic, reminiscing over those golden days of careless, young and wasted, pukingand passing out in someones parents bedroom, and drunk-driving to Taco Johns toconsume mass quantities of poorly made food to always waking up mid-to-late afternoon.And we didnt look like a beer ad. No, not pretty, but more like goofy and biliousrenderings of youth.
Real, legal and reluctant members of the all-grown-up drinking and smoking on the porch,abnormally subdued at three a.m.
Girl, youve been draggin those loose threads it seems for years.
Yeah, I see them hangin over those strong shoulders, diggin into your sanguine skins.They meet at a knot between those sharp bone blades of yours; those loose threadsdragging in the sands.Its like you pulling life and death and there behind you scattered your fathers tearsand all the feathers that you gathered from the bottom of your mamas cage.Its best you decide, girl, which way your angel faces and whether you keep the sun atyour heels or blinding them eyes.Best you decide, girl, if you should just drive and drive and drive.Best you face your angels and lay your demons out to tide.Those towers, they just crumbled.Those loose threads, theyre dragging in the sand, in the dust, in the rubble of it justseems like sadness aint never gonna end.
Dipsomania
when all this glory goes whiteI will pull out the blankets from under the stairsand guide you in from the gathering ceremoniesthat have turned your bones all feathered and dustand during winter nights we will grow centuries old togetherwatching the world around us s truggle against the melancholyof slumber and dyingwith our fingers lacedand clouds of our breath caught on the windowpane
Pastoral Love Letter
poems by Shannon Allen, photographs by KB
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Waiting for the butcher,I dont claim to love you.Youre just my best illusion.
Ive walked a lot through the South townand I suppose,
because of that song,my favorite street is Merien Strasse.
I dared to begina new search for sense(Better to say a new searchfor new senses.)and Ive discovered that towns are not unconquerable.
An old belief falls silent into the water.Towns are now bright spotswhich mark, like cattle-brands,the maps of my fantasies.
Defer your obligations.Let the phones ring.Ill give you back the kindness that they gave mein Hamburg, nineteen-ninety-eight.Im waiting. Forget plans,come to the city wherethe whole world is.Ill give you the keys to new shelters.Dont think of loneliness tonight.
Just knock on the door of my flatand cleave the bed that I sleep in,show me your thighs and breasts.Dont think of loneliness.Its not a problem anymoreShes a lady just like you.Waiting to be entertained.Yes, Ill be your clown, just like before,And youll both be laughing at the same motions of the fool.Prove your existence;rap the receiver on my door,
breathe into me the prayers Ive prepared my whole life for,begin speaking with my silence.I disown my modesty.
BecauseI am your man.Because I?m the best in the world.As I wait for the butcher I disown my modesty.
As I wait for the butcher I disown my modesty
Todays rain is never ending.
Todays rain has lost its beginning.
Im walking towards you thinking about how many daysweve been meeting like this.
And talking
Wetalk as usual, slow and smart.
Everything that I see now reminds me of that city
which waits for our kind at the end.
Our kind love old-fashioned films. They
feed our adopted vanities.
Your silence clears my thoughts again.
When it passes I will give you mine.
Let them make love the way only silences can.
In an insignificant pause of Everything, I tell you
what I wanted to say tomorrow
and yesterday
it rains more and it isnt cold.
The coffee waits patient in the cups, obeying the tapping of our longing. I love rain thats
not cold and drinking coffee where the musics no good and the staff dont like their guests.
We go to these places more and more
especially when,
like this,
rain falls.
I ask myself if, in another city, will I have a place
and someone like you
filling the afternoons of wet
Thursdays, Wednesdays, Mondays
and the rest?
I worry a little bit not because of me. Already, because of the silence,
you know already I know that you know.
Pause
In the year that I liveromance is perverted. Transformedinto habitwhich is why,almost cold,I want to knowwhy you remind me ofold-timeBrigitte Bardot.
If I was braverI could distil poetryfor you.
Im not crazy.Dont leave.
I dont think muchwhich gives me time to watchwhile you moveinto my fantasy.
Look at me.Stay as you arent.Come closerso we can love.We will hazard the highwayspretending that we havePlans
CashCadillac.
Fantasize, we are leavingLas Vegastogether.
American action movie
drawings (this page) by Eibhlin Cassidy, (opposite) by Ailie Rutherford, poems by Mehmed Begi, translated by Jack Richold
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Her mouth was filled with honey, Ifeeling just like Pooh. Unstoppable fora bit o the sweet stuff. We had been together fora while. The beginnings of who knows what. We were
both young and inexperienced. Thinking that making outwas serious. Thinking that kissing meant you were inlove. Knowing that I was in love with her. Positive thatshe was overwhelmed with me, overwhelmed in a goodway, that is.
She moved in with me and we would sit up allnight talking, kissing, then talking some more.Kissing/talking/kissing/talking/kissing/sleeping. Justsitting next to her was enough to float my boat. Strangethat going on to other levels never occurred to me.Kissing and talking was enough.
Then a strange thing happened. I came homeearly from work and walked in on her just out of theshower. Standing in front of the heater, letting the hot airdo the job of the towels folded neatly in the closet.WOWIE ZOWIE. Now this was something new.
Within seconds I was touching her like neverbefore. The smoothness captivating me. Shoulders toankles. Lust blooming the desert into wildflowers, carpetthick. So this was what all the hub-bub was about.Fucking. Sex. Making love. It didnt take as long as Ialways thought it would take, but it was amazing for
both of us. Really.So, it must have been about eighteen minutes
later, we were just lying there still in a state of exhaustedshock. Worked over. When the smell of chocolate was
everywhere. Floating through the air, picking us up likepixie dust. Then before I knew what was going on, therewere cookies everywhere. At least a dozen of them.Warm, sticky, delicious steam still rising off of them.Where did those come from? I asked.
She was just lying there, next to me, covered innakedness, mouth opened in surprise.I think they came from inside me. She replied.
I picked one up, looked at it up one side anddown the other, smelled it, then took a bite.
Its a chocolate chip cookie alright. The best Iveever tasted. Go ahead, take a bite, youll like it.
So she took a bite.This is the best cookie Ive ever made. She said.After that, we gathered them up, put them in
Tupperware, and went to bed. The next day wasSaturday and you know what that means, no work. Weslept in and had plans to go to the park for a picnic. Itwas what we did on Saturdays. But the sex. The sex waswhat was on my mind by the time the alarm clock wasringing.
I rolled her over, touched her down there,thought, Geez, its awfully hot, then went to town.Again, paradise found. And again, eighteen minuteslater, cookies everywhere. This time with pecans andchocolate chips. We ate them for breakfast with strong
black coffee, then out for a walk around the pond.This became our routine. Sex and cookies. Weeks
went by and I had to start working out to keep my bellyin check. Thats how good those cookies were. One day
peanut
butter, another day sugar. And it seemed that Sundaysafter five, but before midnight, would yield oatmealraisin.
After a three day weekend early in March, I tooka batch of cookies to work. It would have beenimpossible for us to eat them all by ourselves. We hadeven taken up leaving care packages on our neighborsporches. So the crew was sitting around the break tableraving about my wifes cookies when I asked how theirwives were at baking.
Most of the guys had never had their wives bakethem cookies.
Does that make it hard to stay together? Iasked.
The general response was no. They had otherqualities that more than made up for their lack of baking.I wondered how I would feel if Maria ever wanted toquit baking. I figured that was a bridge to cross if weever came to it and put those thoughts on the back
burner.Time went on and we started to experiment more
and more. One night, we had had a few drinks and werefeeling particularly adventuresome. We were flippingand flopping head over heels and backwards. I finishedlike a racehorse.
Danish.This got us to thinking and pretty soon we were
making what ever we wanted to. Bear claws, lemonmeringue pie, cookies in the shape of hearts, dinosaurs,and the occasional batch of brownies. Then the nearly
impossible, yep, chocolate covered eclairs. I put my backout the first time we baked those.By this time, we had both quit our jobs and
opened a bakery below our studio apartment. It was a lotof hard work, but the business kept growing, ourcustomers refusing to go anywhere else for pastries,cakes, or other delightful treats.
We were becoming famous and only too happyto keep the business going full steam ahead. We weremarried on a cool July day and served everyone with themost delectable cake ever. Vanilla pound cakes stuffedwith strawberries and whipped cream. The crowdscouldnt get enough.
On our honeymoon we decided to get out oftown for a while. Flew down to the sun and sand ofMexico for a real deal beach vacation. We layon the Pacific and drank pina coladasthrough the lazyafternoons. Thedolces wereuntouchable.
Yearspassed. Wewere happy,fat, and sassy.Living on the
buttered lovewe loved toshare. Did Imention our
Cookies by Eric Brooks
On the balcony he peters and totterstoo close to the edgefor the mother with two grown kids.
But Dad just cackles and the dodoturns.All beady defiance.Andhalf spasm, half shrughe fucks offinto the Autumn sky.
When he flew
poem by Jack Richold, photograph by Helena MacGilp, illustration by Aaron McClusky8 9
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As Father Mallon faced the alter, a shark
suddenly fell upon it, knocking him over. It had
evidntly come from the belfry above the alter.
He got up and began to speak but as he did so
a glass marble wizzed into his wide open
mouth. David Seagrave
Tissue Paper (Im Not Crying Here)
She says she smokes
because she has nobody to kiss.
Im not one of those, well, why dont you kiss me, guys
So I dont say it.
(But I think it)
She sinks
down to my level.
Says, Lets talk.
I am happy listening. I am happy
with the way cats purr. I am happy here.
Her lips move like a ballet so beautiful
that decent men turn to lives of crime. Her voice
sounds perfect enough. In an exaggerated way
it could remind us why we have Hi-Fi stereo equiptment.
She says, Lets kiss. For some reason,
my toes smile and typing paper falls.
We kiss. Nicoteine. I am not good
at this. I am not a power. I feel
like France durring the second world war.
Run over. Mon Cuore.
I am not good at this. Softness.
She wants to be hard. Shes sure
she has to be. Hard.
The bones inside her hands. Hard.
Im not talking physically here.
She is obviously an advertisment for very expensive
tissue paper.
Im speaking metaphoricly. About spirits, I mean.
She is making a wooden tear. Ive done this
though I know it is not my fault.
I just brought her a reason. I was just a guy listening.
She told me what she knew
She told me
I had to go. She knew I had to leave
for London by Tuesday.
We both knew her arms would not be in London.
We both knew
that London was not in that room. I wanted to call her bed
London. I, of course, couldnt speak or even think that.
Until now. Too late. Even for small bits of wit.
I didnt argue. I had a ticket. I knew why I was going.
I wanted to stay and watch autum from her window.
I wanted to stay and say things like, Your architecture
is much more beautiful than Europes.
I wanted to stay and make her feel like, All the tea in China.
I wanted to pick up those wooden tears and turn them into something
usefull.
I wanted to make an oak dinner table for entertaining, a rocking chair
for lemonade, a swing to hang
from a tree, a porch for 1,000 sunsets.
But, my hands were too soft.
You were a black ball ofhate.You were an oil spill hidingin the palm of my hand. You werethe worst smelling flower in the world. Youwere dirty lake mud leaking through my fingers.
I rubbed you all over her party dress.She was from Woodstock, NY, vowednever to talk to me again,
thank christ.
Last Night
Theres been a murrrrder
A guy walks into a bar and says Get me awhisky. Barman says But inspector Taggart,you... youre on duty! Oh, says Taggart, bettermake it a double then.
Like most of the worlds population, I was beyondbemused when after the death of the maincharacter, someone decided to carry on thepopular television detective series. Taggart hasalways been a good laugh for us native Scots,particularly ones in Glasgow, who are instantlyimpressed if they see something they recognizeon telly. Ooo, I once ate a kebab there. Or Hey! Ionce got off with that cult member.Televisionwas coming home.The main problem was that the people who wroteTaggart went insane. When Mcmanus, thehardened Glaswegian playing inspector Taggart,was alive the location of the series was one of itsmajor characters. Gritty, bohemian, dangerous;Glasgow shone through as a remarkable city.After he died, the series writers started basing the
murder cases on Hansel and Gretel and TreasureIsland. I kid you not. From Govan to Gretel, fromBuckfast to Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.The producers answer to losing the title characterseemed to be: make the stories weirder andJardine grumpier. Jardine was originally the nerdsidekick; straight-laced and, well, dull. This nerdwas supposed to take over from Taggart? Theymade him grumpy but then he was just a grumpynerd. No one could out grump the originalTaggart. He was the grumpiest cop ever. It waslegendary.Thankfully, some bright spark took overproducing the flagging show and killed offJardine in spectacular way, announcing in nouncertain terms that grit was back. Glasgow wasback. The new inspector is hard. He even eats icecream, which in Glasgow has all sorts ofconnotations since all their famous gangsters havebeen ice cream men. He is a strong protagonistwho has all the best elements of the originalwithout mimicry. Roll on the next episode andmake it a double.
What Ifby tom freeman
cinnamon rolls? Nothing else like themin the world. Finally,
it came time forus to retire. To
let the nextgeneration,whereverthey hadcome from,
take our place.We put our life
long nest up forsale to everyones
disappointment.
The first day the ad ran, abeautiful young couple showed upwith smiles and promise.I only had one question to ask; Doyou know how to bake?
Yes sir. Sallys mother was amaster baker down in Virginia. Ilearned how to bake from my fatherwho worked over the mountain atOCallahans. This is the exactopportunity we have been looking for.We even have the money saved up toget started. Please, let us do whatwere best at, let us take over your
bakery.All right then. The place is
yours. We couldnt have been happier
to let them have it.We shook hands all aroundand then had coffee cake and tea.
They wrote us a check and wemoved out to our new castle acrosstown.
The sad part is what happenedto the business. Those sweet kids triedand tried to make a go of it, butsomehow ended up with a new babyevery year. It was impossible for themto get on their feet with all of thosemouths to feed. It wasnt too long
before they went bankrupt.The only part that Maria and I
could never fully understand was howthey could let that happen. I mean,shoot, we even left our recipe book forthem. Propped up on the kitchen table,opened to, HOW TO MAKE APERFECT MACAROON
poems by Ryan Van Winkle, photo by Katy Wilson
Glory
was
yours
and
yours
alone.
Until
someone
dropped
part
of
it
in
the
bath.
It
had
been
a
pink
ba
th.
Amy
Reed
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(haiku for the guy whos walking directly at me with no sign of diverting his path)can you see me siror shall I move to suit youmotherfuckingbitch
(boring haiku)double dog dare youto bore me out of my witsshit you win, you bore
(iii)pardon me for thisbut theres no mistaking mefor richard nixon
(covertly sexual haiku)three balls and two hands
juggling never felt so goodcan I keep it up?
(haiku for the serious fellow)i smile. he does not.he has passed his anger on
jesus forsake him.
He had robbed over a dozen Jewellers.And poisoned ink had run amuck in the tsarspalace all EasterHe lacked a noticeable grip on reality; had a thickskin and pig-like eyes that always forced a reaction.But now he was stood bolt upright inside Leninstomb on Red Square laughing like a blacksmith at aflint-lock fair.As the tanks surrounded the tomb, he started to whistle.His Iron bucket helmet and course fitting body bracecomplimented his whistle, with a low drone.
What fate was to challenge his body armour?Sustained fire for over half an hour perhaps?Which maybe would give him enough time to massacreat least half of the enemy.He fantasised about picking the soldiers pockets, heimagined theyd all be rammed with ammo andpriceless rubies.He could just about see their glaring eyes peering fromtheir tin box cannons.Then he ran like a light-footed goose out into the open.Shouting give up your weapons and dont get lippyAt first there was silence.Then one of the 12 awaiting tanks was ordered to fire.As the bombshell hit his armour, it sent him flying overSt. Basils church, to the outer reaches of Siberia.Where, it is said, he survived for five days on lankyapples and liquid metal, before falling, with a clunk into
an early grave.His famous last words,Overheard by a nearby Eskimo,Were said to beLet me at em..
The Outrageous Ned Kelly ofMoscow.
(this page) collage by Mikel Krumins, cartoon by Raymond Wilson, (opposite) montage by Jenny Triggs, Haikus by Craig Deardorff
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The French Market
be sure to wait for my return.I spend my daylight hoursat the railway stationreading every face.
I think its now about timeto admit to myselfshe was having me on.
In the flap of lifethere is a tear
Ive climbed through.
See how the roads run awayover the brow of a hill.
See the pylons and billboardsand all day parking.
See the mossy railway sidingsand derelict outbuildings.
If you squint at the hinterlandyou too may see the tear.
Climb through and be sureto ask for me by name:
Sydney. Sydney Kingsford Smith:Ill be wearing the city in my buttonhole.
Over Fifty and Looking for Love?
It was fish soupand you would not eat it
even though you were Frenchthere was some knowledge
you refused to share.
Instead you slumpedagainst the tumble dryer
eating Greek yogurtwith a plastic toy
from a Kinder egg.
Two weeks later the art schoolin St Etienne took you away
and I let the fish soupslowly go off.
I never forgave myself.
My name is Kingsford Smith.
I sit alone and jaded.The slightly over fried potatoesswim in ketchup, and my goldfishsees the world with murky eyesand trails its shit through the water.
Nights are special for me.Ive been unable to sleepfor nigh on thirty-two years,
no more than two hoursin any one night.I walk.I tread on the eggshellsof the early hoursand hunt with the catsfor baby birds that have tumbledfrom the safe canopyof the trees.I watch.I enjoy wading in the Wensumat five in the morningpicking jewels out of the bedand understandingthe languageof shopping trolleys.I wait.
My dead wife used to say:If I go before you Syd,
Raped
by
the
pigs
In
my
account
of
this
let
there
be
some
focus
on
the
programing
of
the
brain.
This
is
the
most
scientifically
inter
esting
aspect
of
the
lone
(and
false)
arrest
this
reporter
has
suffered.
David
Moncoeur
cartoon by Malcolm Duff, tapestry by Kate Owens, poems by Andrew MacDonnell
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term projects. It is apparent to those inthe charitable sector that they must becompetitive since the government nolonger takes responsibility for assistingcharities. This means confrontation onthe street, explaining what a regular
donation of a few pounds a month cando for others to random passers by.Bombarded as we are withadvertisements, we cant complainwhen the most worthy oforganisations are asking us toengage and listen for a fewminutes. Some may call this aninvasion of personal space,
but billboards and advertsbefore films are far moreinvasive. You can alwayswalk away from a canvasser.The very fact that charitieshave to employ people to raisefunds for them on the streetshould make us stop a couple
of minutes and listen..
NO:These businesses employyoung, idealistic people whowant to work in thevoluntary sector. These peopleare the traditional volunteer
base for charities, but now theyregiven wages while still being told theyare helping. Its natural that they willtake the street fundraising option. So,smaller charities find their volunteer
base shrinking and are folding atunusually high rates in the areas thatthese companies work.The issue here is not whether peopleshould be paid to raise funds forcharities, but whether those fundsshould go to carry out the charitieswork, or whether massive amountsshould be skimmed off donations tomake profits for big corporations. Theup-front charges for streetfundraising are so high that only bigcharities, with loads of reserve cash, canafford to hire them. This competitiveatmosphere ensures that only big,multi-national, charities survive.Currently, 85% of alldonations go to only 5% of charitiesthanks in part to the selfish corperatesrunning these bussiness.
I
felt
m
ym
orales
m
ugged!Kevin
Murray
A debate between EllieMaxwell, director of FireflyYouth Project and Jess Wood.
Can you spare a minute for?NO:
Ellie: On the street fundraisers are destroyingthe charitable sector while earning massive
profits for private companies. Firefly askedsome of companies to send us details
about their fees. It turns out that the
charge for each recruited donor isapproximately 2 years of monthly
deductions. I know 3 people whoasked on the street if it would
help the charity to sign up onlyfor a year. They were told that,
yes, all the money would goto the charity and every little
bit helps. Actually, everypenny given would have
gone to the fundraisingbusiness. Lying gives all charities
a bad reputation. Furthermore, streetfundraising is effectively illegal.
Councils only allow charities to collectmoney on the street once or twice a year
allowing even the smallest charities an
opportunity to raise funds. However, streetfundraising companies exploit a loophole in thelaw. Asking for debit card payments is notconsidered the same as asking for cash and is,therefore, okay. As large organazations collectdaily, smaller charities are cut out of the market.One company we spoke to said bluntly, Were a
business, not a charity, were here to makemoney. Theyre effective; one company is makingprofits of over 300,000 each week, in each of the5 towns they work in. Thats 76 million per yeartaken from donations!
Can you spare a minute for... YES:Jess: Before anyone starts giving out abuse itshould be considered what on the streetfundraisers are actually trying to achive. Thistype of fundraising has become a vital source ofincome for many charitable organisations. In thecompetitive, corporate world which charitieshave had to become a part of, on the streetfundraising is an essential way of raisingawarness and gaining support. It appears thatcampaigning, and even the more obvious formsof advertising no longer bring in long termsupporters. The more traditional leaflets thatcharities post through our doors do not raise as
much support as the on the street fundraisers.Unless asked to help the majority of people donot. We may put money in a collection tin or give
bits and pieces to the charity store but these typesof contributions do not gaurantee long term
support, leaving charities unable to invest in long
Can You Spare a Minute?
drawings by Kirsty Whiten
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the house.Are you taking a break, Dad? Tom yelled, praying for acheerful wave in reply; his muscles ached with the effortof prayer.Of course he isnt, you spaz. Hes given up. He cant doit, you know he cant, he cant fucking do it. Viv mouthedeach word carefully, the sounds popping inches awayfrom Toms face. He was too broken to cry, the pain wentdeep and kept on sinking, spreading through his limbslike frozen glass. Viv had made him pity his own father.She was the Snow Queen pushing splinters into his heart.She was beautiful.Tom stored her words, her ideas. She was his oracle. Hecould trust her to tell the truth, she never wanted to soften
the blows for him. She never made allowances.He did not understand how unique she was until he
joined her at secondary school. There, her honesty, hergrace, her curiosity, her vitality were warped by thearbitrary judgements of her peers. Like someone blowingglass, the air and pressure of the school-yard pushed Vivout of shape. All that could survive were the hardest parts,the cruelty, the ego, and the granite-like determination tosurvive. She wore her school skirts short, her grey
cardigan hooked over her elbows, holes picked into thecuff, like a prostitute or a martyr. She walked alone alongcorridors, past nests of hairsprayed girls, leaving theirwhispers in trails behind her. Tom could hear the whisperstoo often; slag, slut, whore. He learned that his sisters
body was open to all, her mouth, her breasts, her cuntcould be picked up and used and thrown down by anyonewho had the courage to ask. Tom was, once again,crippled by his sister. Athletic, clever Tom had his throatcut and his ankles smashed by shame.Older boys cornered him at lunch times, they seemed to
be twice his size, but their words were the real torture;Have you fucked her then, Tommy-boy? Did she moan?
Whats it like to live with a slag? Does she keep youawake at night, banging all hours?At home, Viv didnt change, she just became more of whatshe had been, more concentrated. Once she had said tohim, when they were alone in the living room;It cant be helped, Tommy. It cant be stopped. The onlyway to get through is with your eyes wide open. I am no
better than any of them, but Im no fucking worse. I knowthat, because Ive always got my eyes open.Tom had eventually assimilated the knowledge that Vivwas sexy. Not cleanly sexy, the shaved, waxed sexy ofporn. She seemed to fester. Her hair was usually greasy, onhot days she had dark circles of sweat under her arms. Sheappealed directly to the hypothalamus, the lowest hunk of
brain; she was a depository of sexual smells that triggereda reaction in every man. Viv was always itchy; she hadthrush often. Tom had seen the creams and the vaginalsuppositories thrown down next to her bed. She wore her
jeans too tight. Sometimes, Tom would notice her pressingher fingers down hard against the zip, unconsciouslytrying not to scratch. Viv carried herself with contempt,
but it wasnt contempt for herself.On the day that he had seen Viv on her knees, being
fucked in the mouth by a boy not fitto even look at her, Tom had finallyturned to stone. He learned thelesson she had been trying to teachhim all along; when you havenothing, they cant take it away;when you respect nothing, they canthurt you. The boy had been holding
the back of Vivs head, his fingerspressing into her skull. His eyes wereclosed, but his mouth was open ashis pelvis jabbed into her. Viv hadnt
been moving at all, but Tom couldhear her gagging, trying not tovomit.He had never told Viv what he hadseen. He rarely spoke to her now,there was no need. He came to herroom like this to pay silent homage,to thank her. Vivian had given himeverything he needed survive.Tom spat onto Vivians pillow, not aforced spit, he just opened his mouthand let the drool slide down,spreading in bubbles over the cotton.He undid the button of his jeans andran his fingers through his reddishpubic hair. He looked at his fingers
and saw that three hairs had curled themselves around hishand. He picked one and laid it carefully in Vivs bed,another he dropped into a glass of orange juice on her
bedside table. The third took a little more thought. Hestared for a while at the unlidded bottles and blunteyeliners next to her mirror, he picked up a lip-balm andtwisted the end until the whole length was showing. Hewrapped that hair around the shaft, pulling it slightly sothat the hair cut into the fat. He smoothed the balm withhis thumb until the hair couldnt be seen, then replacedthe lid.Tom hoped that this wasnt an act of worship, Viv was acomplex god.
B
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Toms sister, Viv, is three years olderthan him. He thinks about this as he lies on hisback, on her bed. When he was born, she couldwalk, she could look down on his squirming self and saywords like shit and orange. When he took his firststeps in the wild jungle of their garden, Viv hurtled
around his flapping arms on her tricycle. There wasnothing he could do that Viv had not done already. Hecouldnt resent this, Viv was older, that was all. If he keptgrowing fast enough, one day he would be the same ageas Viv, perhaps even older.Tom stretched himself. Viv never made her bed, so theroll of eiderdown was pushing into him. It wasntuncomfortable; her crumpled sheets just raised his pelvisslightly, like an examination table in a clinic. Even thoughhis parents are out - he is alone in the house he feelsexposed.He had told Viv, once, about his plan to catch up. Theyhad been eating. She would never eat vegetables; shehated the texture, the soggy mush of roots, the stringy,fleshiness of everything else. She would hide cabbage inher pockets; arrange mashed potato in two, thin linesunder her knife and fork; she would push all her foodout to the edge of the plate, like a brown, pulpy halo andannounce herself full. Their parents told Viv she wouldnever grow, she would stay at her nine-years-old heightforever. Tom ate vegetables. His own, Vivs, then hed askfor more. One time, Viv told him, scornfully,You dont have to suck up like that. If you have to be allgoody-goody just eat whats on your plate, you donthave to grovel for more. They dont want a pig for ason.Most of the things Viv said either made Tom cry or laughuntil he nearly peed. This time, he looked at her straightand said,If I eat all my vegetables, Ill grow quick and then Ill beolder than you.Viv laughed in the way that Tom hated then most, thewhooping, breathless laugh she saved for when she was
laughing at him.Tom could remember this now, on her bed, and smile.His anger had become so deep, so cold, that it didntneed to be expressed any more. He would never lose histemper, because his anger had ossified inside him. Underhis skin, there was a smaller, replica Tom, made from hispain. If he ever lost his temper, his skin would just splitand slither away in rags. All that would be left would bea stone statue. So he held on to his anger; those memoriesof mantelpiece-photograph Viv just made him smile.He loved Viv the best in the world, ever since he couldremember. Even when she had hurt him with slaps, slypinches, with scorn - he relished the attention. Shewould squeeze the back of his neck so hard that when
she let go, he was left with five round fingerprints. Redseals where horns might grow.He would watch her, moving about the house, classifyingand rearranging, imprinting herself on everything. She
brought the house down to her scale, the furniture wassubtly ordered so that nowhere was too high for her toreach, nothing was beyond her grasp. She could walkcasually along the back of the sofa, climb a bookshelf likea ladder. She had such grace that no one would evennotice the danger she was never told to Get Down,as Tom was when he tried to scramble in her wake.Her world had had to grow bigger, of course. With eachyear, the limits had expanded; the school-yard, thestreets, the town and with each new awareness, Viv hadlost a little of her control. Tom remembered a night whenthey had both been allowed to stay up longer than usual,long after dark. Their parents sat waiting, watching the
television. The news told them that they were at war. Vivrushed to the window to catch the first glimpse of thesoldiers, arm-swinging down their street.No, sweetheart, its not here, the war is a long wayaway.Where? Viv asked, show meTheir mother took out an atlas and opened it on the firstpage: the whole world.We are here and The Gulf is here, this is Iraq.Viv began to cry, her mother held her, thinking she wasafraid. Tom recognised the sobs, so similar to his ownsobs of anger; Viv was angry at the size of the stage shewas on, she was learning that perhaps she might never
be seen.Tom rolled over on the bed, now the thigh of the coverspressed against his groin. He wriggled slightly, his facerubbing into the dirty-hair smelling pillow. He loved tospend time in her room, thinking about Viv, because hehated her the worst in the world.Viv had given him gifts he had never asked for,knowledge he had no right to own. She was full ofpainful generosity.Their father had once decided to build a tree-house forthem. Dad was cracked from ear to ear with the joy of themoment. Building a tree-house with his children, his ownright of passage, he who had so recently been a boyhimself. Willing him not to fail, Tom brought wood,carried nails, nodded and laughed as best he could. Vivsat at the bottom of the tree, watching the planks onslender ropes being yanked upward, watching them fallagain as the knot gave way. After a few hours ofhammering and cursing, three planks were in place.Their father climbed down and walked quietly back to
Learning About Girlsby Elen Caldecott
images by (this page) Catherine Street, (opposite page ) Anna Copland
8/8/2019 smallfry #4
11/11
For Rune
