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Yellow Rat - Tamusz

Introduce Ourselves 4.
Interview - Paul Tinworth 6.
VelvetLungs 10.
Stills Competition 12.
CheekyChen 16.
Videos Competiton 18.
Story Board - Animuser 20.
Music Competition 22.
Robyn Jones - No Sun to Warm Our Hearts 24.
Daniel Grosvenor - Don’t Drink The Water (Chapter) 26.
Tade - Bone Fragments 28.
Syd - Reflection: A Novel (Chapter One) 32.
Taymaz Valley - Butterflies 36.
Pete - When I am Tired 40.
Applause-Junkie - Topaz Prologue 42.
Wirrow - Some Late Night Thoughts 44.
Fern Yates - Teddy & Francis 46.
Rosiemarie Short - New Forest 1992 52.
Luke Rowett - My Legacy 54.
Haiku Off 56.
Robyn Jones - The Writer Back

You I Know The Reason Why by LoveWhenYouLove - Megan 3.

Introduce Ourselves

Pete Oli Jon CheekyChen

Welcome to the first edition Tailspin, the monthly magazine for the online
community for artists at tailcast. This month’s Tailspin features some of
the best work from our writers, musicians, video makers and artists in
March & April 2008.

Tailcasting is all about throwing out your creative work and seeing what
happens. As the site develops we are looking forward to getting to know
you more and letting you know a bit about ourselves (we have to throw it
out too!). The Cast comprises Jon, Olli, Paul and Pete (see mugshots). You
can get a bit more info on each of individually here.

Our goal is to create a brand new community site where you are defined
only by what you do (and not what you say or think about yourself). We
want Tailcast to be a shiny new playground for you creative people to
hang around in, publish your work, collaborate on projects and create
your own communication channels (much more on this in the future...)
and generally have fun whilst making some money from your creative
Last month we decided that it made sense to have one site for writers,
musicians and artists and so it has been a bit of a wrench for our writers
who were on a different site. Thankfully most of them are really pleased
to now be on tailcast given the quality of the community here and it is
great to see the interaction between artists and writers. Watch out for
June’s special Collaborate competition where we will be looking to pair
up artists, musicians and writers to create new videos (with some prizes
thrown in of course).
Beach Kissing - Oliver Day
Competitions - Introduce Yourself
We are giving away a total of £500/$1000 to winning members who
upload a short video about themselves and their work as an artist,
animator, photographer, musician or writer. Make it smart, honest,
touching or tortured.. as long as it is creative. Entries in by 25th May.

News - Coming Soon

We are currently redesigning the website to make it easier for artists
to share their work and for their fans to follow it.We have set up a
forum where we ask you to leave your suggestions for features you
would like to see. Drop us a line there as we will try to build what
you would like to see...:)

The new platform is not likely to be ready till July but we will upload
some images from time to time to see what you think.

When the new site launches there will be much more space and
attention given to music, art and writing (each will have its own mini-
site). As the site grows we will need help to ensure the best new
content gets featured and therefore gets a chance to be seen. If you
are interested in helping us in this we are looking for volunteers. The
role will involve receving email updates in categories which you have
an interest in, coming up with cool competitions, suggesting which
content should be featured on homepages, subpages and in the
magazine and generally helping us ensure the site develops in a way
that maximises promotion of our member’s great work. More info to
follow, in the meantime if you are interested please ask to join the
“Theditors Group”.

Finally, if we have missed featuring your great work we apologise in

advance. To err, is human; to forgive, is divine.

Hasta Luigi
the Cast

Paul Tinworth
Ramblings of a Lightstalker
Name/screenname … Paul Tinworth
Born/Home … Born in Essex, currently living between South Wales
and Cornwall (United Kingdom)
Career/about me … Undergraduate student, former sailing
instructor, and amateur photographer

Who or what have you sacrificed for the sake of your art?
Time! Always make time for the things you enjoy. (I’m fairly certain
money comes into it as well...)

What was the last arts event you enjoyed?

Seeing Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and Gilbert and Sullivan’s HMS
Pinafore in an open-air theatre. Theatre isn’t normally my thing, but
I loved it! I’m afraid I haven’t been to any photographic exhibitions
yet, but I plan to change that soon.

What’s the greatest threat to art today?

I’m not sure what applies to art in general, but I share the concern
that photographers and enthusiasts are being discriminated
against by those paranoid about terrorism. I haven’t been affected
personally yet, but I’m not looking forward to the day it happens.

Who would you most like to work / collaborate with? (tailcast

member or otherwise)
There’re so many people joining Tailcast that I can’t really do all
of the good photographers justice, but just off of the top of my
head, I wouldn’t mind if Amy Jenkins taught me something about
off-camera flash, SR took me to some of his fantastic locations,
and Carrie and Trisha Rolph showed me how to make the most of
capturing animals!

Is there an art form you don’t enjoy?
In all honesty paint has never has any effect on me. I have respect
for those who paint, but I just can’t get excited about it. Different
strokes for different folks (pun intended).

What would you like to see in the future from Tailcast (on a broader
note, what are your thoughts on social networking sites for creators
in the arts?)
I’m looking forward to a more intuitive, social Tailcast that’s slightly
more friendly to the eye and cursor, but my main concern is
devolving the ‘stills’ category; there are so many talented folks here
that it just doesn’t seem to do them justice to lump all the aesthetic
arts under one heading.

I am a fan of social networking as a whole; I think it’s possibly one

of the better inventions the internet has spawned in the last few
years. I am an avid Facebook-whore, but I really do want to see
niche networks for the artistic community. Hopefully Tailcast will
spearhead the charge!

How did you discover your talent for art, what do you enjoy about it?
There’ve always been cameras in the background for me, but
it wasn’t until a year after I bought my first digital and film SLR
cameras that I really began to appreciate photography. At the risk >>

The Red October @ Cardiff Barfly I - Paulish

>> of sounding vain (despite the fact I don’t own a comb), I am extremely
driven by aesthetics, and to have a medium introduced to me where I could
record and manipulate the way things appear to me was – and still is – very
seductive. Going shooting throws me into such pleasurable concentration that
it becomes a form of escapism for me. Event photography especially makes
me excited because it exposes me to challenging environments and people,
and while I am very shy and usually too polite to push about at a noisy gig, I
don’t think I would enjoy it as much if I didn’t have my camera on hand.

I could mention the clichéd drivel about capturing Cartier-Bresson’s decisive

moment, which by all means has its own appeal, but I honestly just enjoy
taking photographs. Whether I have talent or not is debatable, but I certainly
have no intention of giving photography up any time soon.
You’ve mentioned Cathal McNaughton, an award winning press
photographer on your Tailcast homepage…What is it about his work
that appeals to you?
Truth be told I know very little about the man, but I stumbled across
a small selection of his work on the BBC News website and instantly
liked it. It amazes me how he manages to bring such vivid artistry
into a profession dominated so fiercely by objectivity; two particular
shots in my mind are of a group of three soldiers silhouetted by the
sun and the reflection of Big Ben in a puddle, naturally framed by the
legs of two walking Londoners. I admire the fact that he manages
to bring a great deal of taste into potentially touchy subjects,
which I feel is hard to come by with the prevalent nationalism and
Islamaphobia in the UK.

Patriot - Paulish
Jabez and the Grocery Store Popstar

I don’t know
I don’t know anyone here
my lips are bright
I can only feel the weight of color all around me
ribcage, soul suspended in the space between
a liver soaked in alcohol and lungs
on the baptism list
signed, mr. and mrs. applicable.
forget me. forget the stinging hazel/curtain lashes
batted/batting/playful/de sperate
theres a hole that drains the tiger and clover fields
with an assertive, no, thank you, young girl in my bed,
clothed only in the static of her hair.
river of blonde girls,
skin ripening and spoiling in a florescent merciless haze.
prayer and worship and bake and self-mutilation
this unknown omnipotent God in a bottle of tanning oil.
I want to snow on you. a painless, quick frost
pale pink and shimmering on a tree that sings for you.
blood whispers, disease embedded, ready for child.
motherless, you were an idea.
you were my caption for twelve seconds
I want a God who writes me lullabies to the rhythm in my veins.
Collaborate, procrastinate, impregnate the soil with times new roman, extra-bold
who circumcised my roots?
lay with me in april grass.

Left - Lazersnow - Velvetlungs 11.

Right - got a light? - Velvetlungs

New Stuff 359

Elliott Boswell
what colour are you?
Video - Make Art

Here is the final edit of the open

collaboration I organised a
couple of months ago over on
YouTube. I started the project
because YouTube fail to have a
video category dedicated to Art.
To me, this is just plain ignorant,
as Art has such an impact on
every one of us, whether we
realise it or not. It is so deeply
rooted in all of our cultures, that
to ignore it’s existence on such
an influential website is actually
suppressing Artists and making
it a lot more challenging for us to
connect with our audience and
meet other Artists.

So I recorded and posted [a very

dodgy] video on the spur of the viewed over 100,000 times to date, yet still YouTube haven’t given us
moment, inviting everyone and our category.
anyone to make a one minute
video clip that incorporated Luckily for me, [and other Artists], Tailcast came along to fulfil all
the words ‘MAKE ART’. I was our needs, and as soon as I found the site I had to get involved. I
completely overwhelmed when emailed Pete with a whole load of feedback on how I’d like the site
I received over 350 videos, and to function, and two months down the line, here I am heading up
ended up leaving my job to put community and running various creative projects with you guys!
the edit together. It took me a So I guess what I’m trying to say, is that this video has had a
week, and I managed to include massive impact on my life, and will hopefully be a seed from which a
102 video clips. The video got mighty Tailcast can grow!
featured on the homepages of 4
different countries and has been Much love, cheekychen x

‘Gobblynne’ - Gobblynne Animation

2D mixed media animated music video about a small girl who wants
a more colourful life than routine and work. Created at Norwich
School of Art and Design as my final major project. Music by Tim

‘art vlog’

‘Painting a Painting “Salt Water”

Micheal Shapcott

Story Board
Flies are ace!


Elora Dannon
Elora Dannon is/are Tommy and Steve... They have
been writing songs together since 2003... They
have compiled 4 albums to date, with another in
production... Tommy currently lives in New Zealand,
and Steve in Mexico... Thanks for listening...
My Name is Robert Waddell, formerly Pyatt. I am
a 40 yr old, Singer Songwriter, Musician, Amateur
Photographer,Artist..Father, Grandfather, Husband,
Brother, Cousin, Son,...I am a father of a 16 yr old girl
and a 11 yr old boy and a 10 yr old boy and a 23yr
old man now.I am also a grandfather of a 1yr old boy
named Jordan..

40 yrs old...I have been playing guitar and writing

songs for about 30yrs.

Elliott Boswell
You don’t have to have a background in art history or
formal training to appreciate art, I says Elliot Boswell,
Boswell Gallery owner in Decatur, Ga . Making art
available to all is central to his philosophy on sharing
the beauty of art.

Dancing Feet - Annie Taylor

No Sun to Warm Our Hearts
Robyn Jones

We are cautiously stepping across the arctic glaciers. The rocks

in the sea capped with ice make a passage- where to, none of us
know. We just understand following the path is right, why we exist.
We climb over them, concentrating on the rock before us. Small
steps or we will fall into the freezing water around us. As we pause
for breath, and look around us. Ocean everywhere, deep blue,
almost black. The sky is frost white, cloudless and bare. No sign of
the sun to warm our cold hearts. No life except ours. We have been
stranded, forgotten. I smile. Forgotten. Hysteria sets in, as the cold
and the emptiness of our surround close in.
My school friends are frozen still, their faces showing a dreamy look.
Their minds are far away, no longer conscious, yet in the positions
they were before. I am the only one who watches as the dark water
begins to stir in the distance, and I turn to watch. Rock rises from
the water, higher and higher it reaches. A mountain-like collection of
stone has appeared, now bold and solid. Behind a grey and brown
boulder, three boys appear as specks, scrambling to reach the
other side. My friends unfreeze, and stare at the boys. They are not
shocked or surprised; they have a glazed look on their face, almost
bored. The silence is piercing, ringing in my ears. The boys turn and
see us. They wave, and swim across the water to reach us. They
climb the rocks on which we stand, and join us as we travel.
As we clamber up the jagged stone, we see a wooden cart on tracks

and a tunnel, like a mine. We approach it and the arctic scene fades
away. We are in darkness. The only thing illuminated is the tunnel
and cart. Now we are closer, it takes the form of an old fairground
ride, a ghost train. The tunnel entrance was an arch with a painted
sign. The paint had faded, and the sign looked at least fifty years
old. The ride was clearly abandoned, dusty and in need of repair.
We felt drawn to the cart, and without thinking, we boarded it. As we
did, it began to move. It started slowly, and then gathered speed.
We moved in darkness, the dust overwhelming our senses. There
was a smell of burning, but no fire. As the cart twisted out of control
ricketing down the never ending tunnel along the wooden track,
the darkness was softened as a candle-like light spread around the
tunnel. We watched as old paintings of clowns and circus animals
appeared on the walls. And a slow, steady tune grew into the scene.
It was striking-pipes played a fairground tune. And the cart went
faster, the lighter flickered quicker, the song gathered pace. And
the cart grounded to a halt. A boy with a mans face stood holding a
torch. His monotone voice filled the tunnel.
‘Thank you for riding your soul. This way please.’
The ghost walked towards a ladder. We climbed obediently. As we
reached the top, a blinding light surrounded us. And then we were
falling. Falling.

Pier - Daniel Tyrell

Thailand: Chapter 1
(Intro/Don’t Drink the Water)
Daniel Grosvenor

“Don’t Drink the Water”

My mother’s voice echoed around my head.

Whatever you do, don’t drink the water. It’s the single most
dangerous thing out there.

We weren’t sure why, but we were being chased by men with guns.
Fresh-faced backpacker virgins, clutching everything they own
in easily stealable rucksacks, are easy prey in any country – and
robbing tourists is a first-come-first-served market. They’d spotted
us getting out of the cab and had given chase before we’d closed
the door. There were around twelve of them: drunk, frenzied Thais
in masks, their dress a menacing amalgam of tribal warriors and
Calvin Klein models. Designer jeans below mud-spattered bare
chests adorned in hand-crafted jewellery. If it had happened to
someone else I would have stopped and stared at these artistic
madmen, but as it was, they were clutching weapons and heading
straight for us. Realising we were about to be beaten and robbed,
we grabbed our backpacks and ran out into the road. I’d been in
the country thirty minutes and had already done enough to give my
mother a seizure.

Organic stairwell to Infinity - CheekyChen Waterfall, Scotland - Lucy Rolph

Weighed down by our luggage, we were pursued easily and would
probably have been caught had they been sober. We ran right
out of Khao San – the backpacker’s safe haven – and into the
dilapidated streets of the outlying unknown: an area without police
or fellow travellers to bail you out of a tough spot. A car’s brakes
let out a piercing screech as we cut across its path and dived
down a cluttered, dead-end alley between two houses (which,
in retrospect, wasn’t a great move). Thinking the wall of traffic
would keep the mob away, we stopped to catch our breath. I
turned to Austin, his eyes nervously darting back and forth beneath
his ‘Canada’ cap and eventually settling on me:
“How... how far’s the hotel? We should... make a run for
it,” he panted.
The map had been in my hand as we’d got out of the
taxi. I’d cleverly thrown it on the floor the moment the gang had
“Beats me; you have the map,” I lied. “Let’s ask for
Austin frowned, regaining his posture. “I gave it to you.”
To feign sincerity I lifted my shirt, revealing my travel
pouch, and opened it in front of him. “Passport, tickets, money…
no map. You have it.”
It must’ve worked as Austin’s head tilted down, his face
disappearing beneath the visor of his cap so that only his chin was
visible – a sign I later learnt meant he was thinking.
We spun around to see a topless figure in a Scream mask
running towards us with flailing arms. Behind it an array of voices
began to echo down the alley – shouting things in both a pitch and
language we couldn’t comprehend: Thai always sounds fast and
excited to a Western ear; the difference between joy and seething
rage is generally indistinguishable. As we did our best to look like
third-dan black belts, ‘Scream’ strutted forth and, with a sharp
movement of his hands, slapped us both in the face.

Continue reading >>

Bone Fragments

I used her brand new kitchen set, except it was not brand new. It
was forty years old.

It was new forty years ago, a wedding present that Clare and I
decided not to open until we moved into a ìproperî house, one that
had a ìproperî kitchen. The kitchen set knives

were stainless steel, high gauge, powerful grips, shiny. They had an
electric sharpener and magnetic rack. Youíd think for the work at
hand the meat cleaver would be best. It was not.

There was only one bone left. It was twenty-two centimeters long,
which, from my studies, was just below the average length for a
right humerus. The left humerus had gone 153 days ago. I could
now comfortably say that a murdererís carcass takes 402 days to
dispose of.

It was tiring, frustrating work when I started. At first I tried the meat
cleaver, but it wrecked my shoulders and elbow joints, me not being
a professional butcher. Then I tried one of those electric blades with
two serrated edges and a vibration that rivals the highest setting on
the spin drier. Good for soft tissue, but useless on bone.

I never remarried because who do you marry after Clare? She was
light and darkness in equal measure, the embodiment of that Yin-
yang symbol you see everywhere. I lived with her for three weeks,
and that wasÖwell, that was enough.

A cut along the head of the humerus opened the cavity, where the
bone marrow used to be, which was now home to the foulest of
odors, swiftly yanked upwards by the extractor fan in my kitchen.
There were probably easier ways to have done this, but none that
would give me half the satisfaction. Somewhere in the aether this
manís soul wafted back and forth, or he was in hell or purgatory or
wherever putrid lives went in his chosen religion. I often wished he
would come back as a ghost so that I could torment him.

I had assurances about that; the living can torment the dead.

We did many things, Clare and I. What I missed the most was her
nuzzling my neck from behind while I cooked.

I imagined she would have done that while I created bone


heartache - horrorshock666 29.

Kiing - Reid Sumner
Reflection: A Novel (Chapter One)

I took a deep breath, taking in the fresh air of the early morning. The
bright sun had barely peeked over the mountaintops and I did not
have to use my flashlight anymore.
Every morning I got up around five and walked about a half a mile
behind my house to the Magnolia Grove (I just called it the Grove).
Magnolia trees were lined up in countless perfect rows. This was
the best time to go…in the very early morning, when the first rays of
sunlight shone between the thick, mysterious branches and through
the translucent, bowl-shaped leaves. So beautiful was the sight, it
nearly cast an eerie feeling.
As I thought about the strange dreams that haunted me almost
every night, I racked my brain for something to write about. As I
realized I had nothing to write about, my poetry journal fell from
my hands and tumbled to the ground. Everything had already been
written by others before me.
Things unknown to man… I tried to give myself a boost. Unknown…
what do we not know about? What do we not see?“We do not
see…” I whispered to the tree, “Air. Air cannot be seen by anyone.”
Suddenly the urge to write the poem overcame me, so I swung
onto another branch protruding from the one I sat on, and dropped
to ground eight feet below. While I climbed back up into the tree I
thought about the words that would be on the paper as soon as I
pulled the pencil from my sloppy ponytail.
I situated myself on another branch, higher than the first time, and
this time about halfway up the tree. My poem-tree, I thought happily,
leaning my head back on the smooth bark of the Magnolia. “Do you
give me the power to write?”
More questions hit me. I’d have to make a list.
“Magnolia, who has sat upon your branches?” I jotted it down on the
pad. “What words have been exchanged here? Has anyone cared
about you as I have? When were you planted, and by whom?” The
words couldn’t get onto the paper fast enough. “Are there carvings
beneath your flesh, perhaps put there by lovers who spent their last
moments here? Has anyone or anything fallen from your limbs?”
I grinned to myself. This was brilliant. The series on the Poem-Tree.
The Magnolia. And it was all mine.
Then I laughed. Not a chuckle or a giggle, but a loud, joyful, musical
laugh that echoed around the Grove and resonated through the cold
air. This was all too good to be true. The trees…they had a power of
their own!
“The power of trees,” I whispered, and added it to the list. “These
are all unknown to man. But what of nature? What have we not
discovered?” I contemplated this thought for a few minutes, and
when I was unable to come up with an answer, I simply added
it to the list written in my brown leather journal. The questions
and poems on the pages inside were my life. They contained my
feelings, my stories, my past, and hopefully my future.
Yet I had no one to share them with but the trees.
I sighed sorrowfully, wishing there was someone here with me, to
share dreams with and talk about other things. But since there was
no one, even at school, I took in the cool air and made a mental list
of the small things I was thankful for.
I must make the best of things.
This is what I would do.
And I laughed again.

My mind still in the Grove, I slammed my locker shut and dropped

my science books. I knelt to gather them and when I came back up,
a girl was in my face. It took a moment for me to realize it was the
class “weirdo,” Jewel.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hi,” I replied, a bit confused. “How are…you…?”
“Good. Great. Better than ever, since I finished my book last night. I
wasn’t reading it. I was writing it.”
“Oh…good.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. >>
Hiding Tree? - Syd 33.
>> “Yeah. Guess how long it is? It’s 302 pages long.”
My eyes were the size of plates probably. “Seriously?”
She nodded. “You can read it if you want.”
Jewel didn’t sound weird when she said that. I saw past her green
color contacts, frizzy brown hair, and somewhat baggy clothes, and
saw a caring fourteen-year-old who, like me, had nobody to talk to.
“Sounds great. What’s it about?” I hoped it was the kind of books I
read, and not an autobiography or something like that. We began to
walk down the hall.
“Well, there’s this girl who’s about our age. She almost dies in a
fire, and all her siblings and parents die, so she’s the only one left.
She has burns (like third-degree ones) all over her, and she has no
idea how she survived. She can’t let anyone see her, because she
doesn’t want anyone to ask her questions or arouse suspicion. Then
she figures out she has fire powers. So long story short, she finds
out that someone purposefully set the house on fire, and she goes
to a school for people like her to train, and she goes off to find this
person and kill them.”
That sounds really good. “Wow. That is so cool. When can I read it?”
“I can bring it tomorrow.”
“Great!” I wondered if I was actually getting excited. “We can meet
out front after school?”
“Sure. I never do anything after school. Nobody, well…everyone
seems to always be busy.” Was it my imagination, or did she sound
“Me neither. I usually go to…” No. I can’t tell anyone about the
Grove. “Well, I usually just write poetry and do boring stuff.”
“No way! I love to read poems,” Jewel exclaimed.
“Awesome! We can trade?”
“Definitely. Hey, I’m at my class now, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay, bye Jewel.”
She smiled. “Bye Rose.”
I have made my first friend since we moved here, I thought happily.

Cypress Creek, Land O’Lakes, Florida - Armida
Short Story - Butterflies
Taymaz Valley

I was sitting in my badly lit room, with a glass of red wine, smoking my tenth cigarette of the day. I
had already finished a bottle, and I was into my second bottle of Pinot Noir. Jean-Dominique Bauby’s
celebrated novel was in front of me half open, half read. I wanted to savour every word of that tortured
man, so magnificently written, so immaculately described. In my drunken haze, I had let my mind wander
off to that great city of lights Paris, picturing Seine, strolling around the Luxembourg Garden, visiting
Oscar Wilde in Pere Lachaise Cemetery and telling him that he was right about Love; when all of a
sudden, out of nowhere, appeared this small butterfly, coloured with the same splendour of a rainbow. It
circled my room a few times, getting a feel for the place, seeing everything so familiar and unbearable to
me, anew and fascinating. I watched it in amazement, bewildered by the fact that no window was open
in our small house, and I had the curtains drawn as I had come to despise sunlight.

Yet, this papillon had appeared in my room. In my room which smelt of melancholy and despair, in which
I had been imprisoned by a self convicted solitary confinement sentence, enforced by my own sense
of contempt for this wretched, unfair world, occupied by uncouth, conniving men. The butterfly finally
and nonchalantly landed on my half open copy of “The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly”, and at first the
importance of this ironic coincident was lost on my then numbing mind, full of sorrow and self loathing. I
stared blankly at the scene for a few minutes, in trance. In transit from Paris. And, finally a knowing smile
found its way across my lips. For you see, that butterfly had reminded me of she.

She, who had been part of me for a short period of pure joy and happiness. She whose body I made
inseparable from my own for as long as I could. She, who had made my life meaningful, even for a short
while. She who by leaving had made me attempt my own death, as the idea of being without her had
driven me insane. I shall not tell you her name, simply because her name would not inspire the same
emotions, lest you have experienced her love like I have. She does not belong to this world with its
benighted worldly problems. What importance is a name, unless you are able to catch her attention,
so that you could at least find a meaning to this insignificant life. No, she shall remain nameless, for
you see, her name meant much more to me than just a meaningless unappreciated label. It would be
wrong and dirty to separate her from my own thoughts. And now, even though she has gone, and we
are physically apart, her memories and sprit are still one with my own, and I am going to try and put to
words the significance of that spring day.
I met her, like many meet their love, by chance, and in the most unexpected way, in the most unthinkable
place. I met her, walking down Boulevard St Laurent, downtown Montreal in a hot summer day. I was
looking for a friendly face to direct me to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, when I saw her walking
away into the distance. I noticed the butterfly tattooed on her shoulder first, and as if under a spell,
I was pulled toward her, unaware of my feet, which as far as I was concerned were walking mid air.
I reached her, and felt for the first time that soft perfect skin. I had touched her on the shoulder. She
turned, and I was happily lost in depth of that hazel labyrinth of her eyes, swimming in a sea of emotions
and wonderment. She must have felt my total surrender, as she smiled, and I shan’t forget her lips so
enchanting and bewitching. I managed to utter some words unconsciously, and I was then asked to
follow by her. We flew like two doves, never taking our eyes off each other, till we reached the Museum.
At the foot of those marble steps, I panicked for the sake of losing her, and begged her to join me for a
tour of the galleries, which she agreed upon.

We walked down those gallery corridors, surrounded by past’s great masterpieces, yet the only fine
work I was interested in was the contemporary beauty walking beside me, whom could have only been
created by the Gods themselves. After we reached the end of the gallery, I asked her to join me for
hot beverage, which she accepted. At that cafe we sat, looking at each other with affection, talking
and laughing like fools in love. I spent the next nine month with that splendid creature. It was truly the
happiest time of my life. We were content together, full of comfort jut being. Days past, with I at my
writing desk watching her lying half naked on the bed reading Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Eliot and Plath,
smiling sometimes, trying to share their genius with me; and I would smile back in incantation and tell
her she was delightful. The mornings she had to leave to attend her classes at the University, left me in
despair. Depression would take a hold of me, and breathing would become a chore. I had memorised
her timetable, so that I would know when her classes would end. I would add around half an hour to the
final minute of her class, and wait for the sound of her footsteps, which like a hard drug would bring me
instant pleasure. I was addicted to her, and just like an addict I would crave her presence and her touch.
If she was late coming back, my mind would wander to the darkest depth of fear. Fear of harm having
befallen her; fear of abandonment; fear of solitude. But she did return, and with each return she made
that day glorious. All I wrote in my time with her were love poetry. Line after line I wrote her name. Her
name had become my escape from the world. Those letters, so fine and poetic had formed a rope which
tight around my waist, pulled me away from this abominable world, and carried me to safety, away from
the dangers of loneliness.

We lived humbly. She, a student, and I, an unpublished writer. We would stroll down the Port of Old
Montreal, feeding birds. At nights, we would visit a small family ran bistro, and order the cheapest bottle
wine. I had started learning French, and could comfortably pronounce and order food from the menu.
I had even attempted reading Baudelaire and Hugo the way they were meant be read. Montreal Cafes,
with their wooden chairs, and their flavoured coffees are made for lovers. Life came easy to us, and we
embraced it with open arms.
No one had prepared me for such heart wrenching experiences as endings are, and inevitably all good
things must end. Our ending began with a letter which offered an opportunity to work alongside some of
the great minds of the twenty first century; something which was everything she aspired to. Something
that an ordinary, inadequate mind like mine would never comprehend. This was a chance for her to be
somebody, who is admired by many successful men; and my dreamy beggared admiration for her was
just too insignificant at that moment, and it did not suffice. I begged her to stay, knowing deep down she
should be more. I knew I could not give her a life befitting an angel. I knew then and know now, that I will
never be able to live a comfortable life, and be able to easily provide for another.

So, I had to let her go, whether I liked it or not. I was ended with. Tossed aside, and buried miles under
the clouds where I had been so bold to reach. I was once again where I belonged, down on earth with
other mortals, some of whom I dare not call human. Down in the mud, tasting dirt, crushed by the weight
of daily struggles. She was gone within a week, leaving me in charge of our small flat. The place became
a nightmarish space, with bare walls and haunting memories. I drank myself to sleep every night for a
week. Refusing to eat, refusing to go out. Bitter tears fell from my eyes. Sadness engulfed my body,
gnawing at my flesh till solitude filled me in.

After a week, I could not recognise myself in the mirror anymore. All that was left of me was a blurred
image of a broken man. I decided that I did not want to be part of this world anymore. I could see no
chance of improvement, no light in the distance. My purpose, so bound to her, was then pointless and
insincere. How could I live knowing that I would never be happy, never feel the same. So, I decided to
end my life; end it with extreme prejudice; end it as easily as she had ended with me.

I opened the flat window, and stepped onto the edge. I lit my cigarette, and inhaled as hard as I could,
letting those smoky fingers caress my lungs. I dropped the cigarette, and watched it make its freefall till
it disappeared from my vision. Tears gathered in my eyes, even though I tried to resist it. My mind started
wandering off. I started picturing her and me, just being together, and my body let out a cry previously or
since unheard. In that moment, nostalgia took a hold of me, and all I could do was to picture London, my
home. I could see the street that I had grown up in, with its shops and houses. I could hear sounds of
laughter and birds. The sun had come out, and its heat warmed my battered face. I thought it wrong to
end my life in that strange city. I did not belong there. It wasn’t home. So I climbed back into the room,
and sat on the floor, wiping the tears from my eyes. I came to the conclusion that I should return to
England, and let my fate be decided.

That spring day, was four years and three month after I had returned to London. And I had spent it
thinking of her. I used to walk around London, just watching people. I used to see her face reflected
on others. I would walk up to strangers and asked them whether they had seen my love. I spent hours
feeding the swans, so that perhaps I would feel her presence again.
I missed her dearly. Day after day I felt worse. Whomever said that
time will heal all, was never in love. I would read the classics so that
maybe I would find some advice for my broken heart, but alas, all
that I read would bring me more alienation from the world. I was
incomplete without her. I missed her with all my being. So I withdrew
from the society. I stopped receiving visitors, and stopped writing. I
drew my curtains, and stopped the sun shining into my life. The time
stood still for me, and day and night lost their meaning. Till that day
in spring.

The butterfly, which had ventured into my room, finally brought

meaning to my thoughts. It stood for something greater than my
sadness. It stood for love, and I finally understood it. My passionate
love for her was just like that glorious butterfly. It had appeared by
chance, and now it was stuck in my room. The choice was mine, to
let it die in my presence or let it fly free. I understood that I was lucky
to have seen it, and it had favoured me by its visit; and even though I
shall never see another like it, I could always cherish the experience
as mine. All butterflies have short lives, some longer than others, but
what’s important is that they are there to be enjoyed by all, only if we
let them. And like us, they will perish one day, and all that will remain
will be their myth, which shall inspire many greater than I. It was time
to let the butterfly free. And I was ready.

I gently trapped it inside my hands and open the curtains, and then
the window. I took a last look at it, and let it fly out into the distance.
The curtains shall never be drawn again. The butterfly of my love
had lived its short life, but I take comfort in the fact that there will
always be butterflies for all, as long as there are springs to come.

Poem - When I am dead
When I am Tired Bury me
Beneath a tree

Then shall my soul

At last take root

Keep most people

Away from me

Just a clearing

Where the wind

Will whisper

And the rain

To cleanse me
& befriend me

I will eat
The sun

And be full
With my breath

And the earth

Beneath my feet

Just let me sleep

Such blessed relief

40. Atsocstretch - Rhonda R. Carpenter

Swing - Constance Wolf-Licking Red - Amy Abbott 41.
Chapter - Topaz - Prologue

A cold wind surged up to greet me as I teetered over the edge of

the icy stone wall. I shuddered, but embraced the cold. The altitude
was dizzying, but all fear dissolved as I surveyed the terrific beauty
of the wilds of Navé below me. With its sloping green hills and gently
trickling streams, like slivers of the purest silver from my place on
the ledge, it appeared to be a place of the greatest harmony. I could
see far beyond the confines of Ellemera Academy, as far off as the
dense, menacing splendour of the notorious Monsoon Woods.
The piercing cry of an eagle sliced through the deafening silence,
almost knocking me over.
But as I stumbled, my heart remained still. There was nothing to fear
from the altitude. I gazed up into the azure skies above me, clearer
and more vibrant than I had ever before witnessed, and knew that
that was where I belonged.
The eagle screamed again, and I saw its black silhouette cut through
the air. I envied its grace, its fearsome beauty. To fly, to roam the
everlasting, unchanging expanse that stretched over and above all
else, would be an honour.
I glanced behind me, and thought of the small stone room where I
had spent my last eight years. Imprisoned. I was meant for more…
So much more. The sky seemed to call out to me, pleading with me
to spread my wings and escape the boundaries that had gripped me
almost all my life.
A figure shot into the sky from the density of Monsoon Woods, Too
human to be a bird, yet with two majestic wings of the deepest
ebony. The figure soared towards me at an amazing speed,
unflinching. I wanted to join it – leap from the balcony and soar, but
something was holding me back. I had to break away. I had to.
Another gust of wind surprised me, knocking my off my balance.
But this time came a fear. The very real fear of falling from the sill,
plummeting down past the electrifying beauty of Navé to land, a
crumpled pile of broken bones. I couldn’t fly. Deep down in my heart
I knew I couldn’t.
Desperately I scrambled to regain balance, but it was no use.
In an instant, my feet left the safety of the stone window ledge, and I
began to fall. Icy wind rushed by my cheeks, as adrenaline pumped
through my veins. The insurmountable terror building, the earth
below was drawing closer by the second. I could almost hear the
inevitable clunk as I hit the ground…
But still I fell, further, faster, until…

Gulls Waiting - Craig Carter 43.

Blog - Some Late Night Thoughts

pieces of a shattered object

coming to life for revenge,

peoples private thoughts

appearing in bubbles above
their head,

random 3d geometric shapes

floating through a forest,

butterflies misguidedly falling in

love with fluttery bits of paper in
the wind,

tiny people inside my tv,

vomiting actually being an

occasion of splendor and beauty
and is received with applause
like a well played point in tennis,

cloning myself a hundred times

and killing them in all the violent
ways like in video games,

god actually being a bunch of angels raining down on me to
people in suits around a large the sound of cathedral organs
desk all shouting out ideas and adopting a pose like the
to one guy with a typewriter, shawshank redemption poster,
like the writers of an american
comedy show, the president sneezing halfway
through addressing the nation
being too scared to kill a about some global catastrophe,
fly incase its a reincarnated
friend desperately trying to raining upwards,
communicate with me,
if everything floated,
fields of rusty old radio antennas
receiving all the celestial signals opening an old chest and bats
of our solar system, fly out,

being chased but forgetting how taking a nap on the couch and i
to run, wake up floating through space

forgeting to breathe,

parents casually revealing that

they are vampires and my time
has come,

Scatteredlightstill - Wirrow 45.

Short Story - Teddy & Francis
Fern Yates

He tottered. He stumbled. Landing heavily on his chest with a loud

“Oooooophf.” He lay still at last, panting heavily - tiredness was
winning this battle. He had to make it to the lake. The sun was going
down. Soon neighbourhood cats would be gathering in the park. At
least on the water, he had a chance.
The bull rushes had turned a fiery red and poker orange in the
glorious summer sunset. A cool breeze touched his feathers snaking
its way over his body around his beak where a piece of glistening
fishing line dangled.
Three days had gone by. Three days since Francis had dived for a
beautiful looking fish on the lake floor. Three days since he had felt
the cold metal hook lodge itself in his mouth. Three days since he
had last been able to eat. Three days of falling on his chest because
of fishing wire tangled around his feet. His one foot was swollen
now, red and sore. But… he just had to make to the lake.
Weakly flapping his wings he managed to stand on his one good leg.
The water was so close, he could smell it, and he could see it.
He tottered. He fell. Landing heavily on his chest with a loud
The bush rushes near him rustled then parted.
I’m done for, thought Francis as he saw the large silhouette emerge
from the plants.
“Hallo,” barked the new arrival. “My names Teddy and I’m a Husky.”
He lowered his front paws as he looked at Francis, his bottom
remained in the air as he wagged his fluffy tail in the air. “Wanna
play? Huh? Huh? Huh? I’m a puppy and I love to play?”
“No,” whispered Francis, his throat and mouth was so sore.
“Why’re you lying on the ground? I’ve seen your kind before on my
walks and they’re always on the lake. What’s your name?”
“I’m hurt, can’t you see?” Francis glanced down at his webbed feet.
I’m trying to get to the water, I’m Francis,” he rasped.
“Oh I can help you with that,” Teddy walked around to Francis’s feet
taking hold of the tangle of fish
wire around his feet.
“What’re you going to do?”
Francis’s eyes widened in fear.
“Don’ worr-ee,” Teddy spoke
between gritted teeth. “Uh’ll
jus’ hull yoo to the water.” He
yanked Francis by his feet.
“No!” quacked Francis. “Ouch!
“No’ ‘uch fur’er,” Teddy growl
with determination. Reaching
the water’s edge Teddy released
his hold. “So how’s that?” His
tail wagged furiously with pride.
“I told you I could do it. Wha-
what’s wrong?”
Francis had begun to cry. Big
tears ran down his beak onto
the ground. “Thank you.”
“If you’re so happy then why are
you crying?” Teddy cocked his
head to one side.
“I’m still trapped in this wire and
I can’t eat. I can’t walk!”
Teddy sat down next to Francis,
a slight scowl on his forehead. In
the distance a man was calling.
“Teddy! Teddy where are you?
Come here boy.” A high pitched
whistle reached them both.
“I know,” Teddy jumped up, tail
wagging once again. “I’ll get >>
Robot Dreams - Jessica Donofrio
>> my owner to help you.”
“Wait!” shouted Francis. “I’m
scared of your owner types.
They are the ones that left this
stuff I am tangled in now when
they have been fishing?”
“My owner’s different,” Teddy
called over his shoulder as he
disappeared into the bull rushes.
“He’s an animal doctor.”
The sounds of the lake
continued – Francis lay back his
hope restored by Teddy.. Ducks
called to one another on the
lake, the breeze rustled the bull
rushes and the light got dimmer.
Francis sighed - this was usually
his favourite time of day. Then
he smelt it. CAT!
“Well, well what have we here?”
The low voice purred. “Dinner,
“Who are you? Get away from
me?” Francis weakly quacked.
“Sorry, I can’t hear you.” The
Siamese cat placed its paw next
to its ear. “Cat got you tongue”
“Please, leave me alone,”
Francis begged.
The Siamese laughed at her own
joke. “Yeeees! Well maybe not
yet but very soon I will have your
“Who are you?”
“Who am I?” The cat placed
his paw against his snow white
chest. “I am Ming.” She showed
off a paw full of razor sharp
Brian the Hawaiian Lion - Kosta
claws then smiled at Francis.
“Teddy!” he choked. “Teddy.”
“I’m afraid your dear sweet Teddy is half way across the park.”
Francis’ eyes grew in disbelief. “Yeeees! I’m afraid so, what do
human’s say, out of sight out of mind. He’s on his way home to have
din-dins. Speaking of which I’m rather hungry myself. Oh well, it was
nice chatting to you, sorry to be a kill joy but conversation is highly
overrated at dinner time.” Ming placed her paw on Francis’ chest,
closed her eyes and bowed her head. “For what I’m about to receive
may the Lord may me truly Thank – MEIOW. OWOWOW – Miaw.
Ming had grown to twice her size at the re-emergence of Teddy.
“Go on, run you fur ball,” he barked. “Here he is. I told you, I told
you.” Teddy jumped circles around his owner’s legs.
Francis looked up into the face of a kindly man. “Well done Teddy.
What have we got here boy. Oh dear, you need some tender care.
He gently lifted Francis into his arms.
“Teddy, where is he taking me,” Francis began to struggle.
“Calm down there,” the man crooned. “We’ll just get you sorted out
and then we’ll put you back on the lake. Its okay, no one is going to
hurt you, you’re safe now.”
Teddy ran at his owners heels. “Maybe we can be friends and play
together when you’re better. Hey, hey, waddaya say?”
Francis sighed. He felt safe and knew all his pain would soon be
gone. “I guess so Teddy, I owe you big time,” he whispered as he
nodded of to sleep in the cradle of the man’s arms.

Chapter - Prologue
New Forest - 1992
Rosemarie Short
Her breathing was ragged. The shouts of the enemy were getting closer - and she’d run out of places
to hide. Backing away from the entrance of the wooden barn, she pressed herself against the farthest
wall, and prayed. Her heart hammered as she heard someone try to open the door. The tugging on the
handle soon turned into banging on the thick wooden door. It would offer her no lasting protection. Their
formidable numbers would guarantee their success in breaking down the door. It was only a matter of
Sliding down the wall, she clenched her fists, futilely trying to gather together any last remnant of power
from inside her. She knew it was hopeless. Her powers had long since been used up, towards the middle
of the battle. That had been nearly three hours ago now. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed herself not
to think about her husband. Blasted in the back with a bolt of Electric Fire. She had seen him fall, heard
his last whisper of breath…
A small spark emerged from her right hand. Barely anything. Despite the desperateness of the situation,
she allowed herself a small smile. For three years, she had been one of the best Casters in the entire
Resistance. She’d trained many young people in the art of discipline, the art of holding something back,
just in case. Now, because she had ignored her own most important lesson, she was going to die.
In the back of her mind, there was a small thought which wouldn’t go away. She would be glad to be
dead. To join her husband, and escape the hell that England had turned into. Hell on Earth. Yet there was
something which held her back. Something which she felt she had to live for. Her daughter. Alexa was
only six months old. She’d never know her father, and now, it looked like she were to become an orphan.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she tried to focus on the increased banging on the door, her final, failing
There was an enormous bang, and the door caught fire in several places. She’d wondered how long it
would take for them to use Electric Fire on the door instead of countless pointless Razing Curses. She
carefully pulled herself up from the floor. Her pride wouldn’t allow her murderers to see her exhausted
and defeated. She wanted to face them. The door blew off it’s hinges, weakened by the Electric Fire and
Razing Curses, and splintered into hundreds of small pieces. They whizzed towards her, many causing
small cuts all over her body. She didn’t flinch. For some reason, it was important that she seemed
Five men and two women poured into the barn. They formed a jumbled semi-circle around her, blocking
off the only exit. One of the men stepped forwards, his black eyes glinting with the reflections of the fire.
It looked to her as though he were filled with flames, and she clenched her hands to fight off the fear.
“So,” he murmured, his voice smooth and calm, “This is what the infamous Lianna Hawke has become,”
he let out a small snarl of laughter, and then continued, “I was expecting more. However, sometimes
the reputation of Casters is a mere… fabrication.” Lianna fixed her eyes upon his, and replied with a
fierceness in her voice, “You must be used to that kind of thing Aaron. You never were as impressive
in the flesh as your brother.” Immediately, Lianna knew she had struck a nerve, as she had intended.
Aaron’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he fixed her with a look of pure venom.
“My brother,” he hissed, “Was nothing. He betrayed his cause and showed himself to be what he truly
was. A coward. His death was no loss to me, and even less so to our parents.” He breathed carefully,
as though releasing his anger, and favouring it for the same cool, composed demeanour as before,
continued, “However Lianna, enough talk. You surely know you cannot delay your death? You chose the
wrong side and now you must pay the price for it.” He walked forward, and threw a bolt of Electric Fire
at her. It was strong, but not enough to kill her. Instead, she fell to her knees, biting her lip until it bled so
as not to cry out.
Aaron walked forward, and lifted her chin, so that she was looking straight into his cruel, hard eyes. “You
should have stayed, Lianna,” he whispered, “You should have married me.” She looked up at him, and
spat in his face. Aaron barely flinched. He merely raised his free hand and wiped his face clean. “You are
not the… man you were Aaron,” she gasped, trying as hard as she could to fight the pain, “You… died
the day you joined…. the Government, and… now I don’t know who you …are anymore.”
He looked at her for a moment more. Behind him, the men and women who had entered with him
were exchanging glances, and some were muttering excitedly. “Enough!” he shouted, ending all
communication, verbal or other, behind him. He pushed Lianna away from him, so that she was half
lying, half sitting on the floor. He stood before her, staring down at her battered and broken form.
“Goodbye Lianna.” he murmured. Aaron raised right hand, and from it came a bright light, so bright
those behind him shielded their eyes.
Lianna Hawke’s last thought was filled with wonderment. For a moment, she thought she had seen the
boy she had first met when she was eight years old. For a moment, his eyes had softened, and he had
looked as though he…felt something. Some kind of sorrow at her death. However, before she had time
to ponder this, her vision filled with a dazzling light, and she knew no more.

farm - Anirudha 53.

Silhouettes at a lake - Tim
Poem - My Legacy
Luke Rowett

My inch deep footprints

In sand still soaked
Stand unbroken.

My path- My long march

Drawn out to see

The sound of oceans

Still echoes, still
Braes for its fill

And my voice rises

And falls again.

But tides are still tides

Waves are waves and
Footprints can’t be saved.

Haiku off

Japanese dolls - NISHI

The finalists were John Woudberg & Chukwuma. Chukwuma won for the

“ ”
following Haiku on ‘Rain’:

He weeps so often,
this god to whom our lives are

Also notable was John Woudberg’s Haiku on Easter:

Born when Pilate washed his hands

Died when I washed mine
John Woudberg

and Luke Rowett’s ‘The Haiku’:

“ Cross legged, I sit still.

Haiku butterfly arc, twist,
Settle on the page.
Luke Rowett’s ‘
The Haiku’

The Writer by Robyn
I twist, I turn
I search your mind
For that strand of imagination
That spark of a dream
Which will shape your story
Make your mark on life

Billinge (my sister) - Robyn Tailspin is copyright of tailcast. All work herein is copyright of the respective tailcast
members. Commercial use, publication or syndication without consent is prohibited.

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