Noon E-Book

• Herausgeber: Arachne Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 67

Beschreibung

Everyone thinks of noon as being a split second as the clock's hands draw together, the bell tolls twelve times - but there is so much more to it than that - Solar noon happens as much as half an hour either side of what the clock tells you, deadlines are met, or passed, shadows vanish, vampires hide - or do they? Stories and Poems from 2018's Solstice Shorts festival, read live in Aberdeen, Edinburgh, Ynys Mon, Carlisle, London and Cork on the stroke of... or nearly, Noon. Featuring stories from Barbara Renel, Clare Shaw, Diana Powell, Elaine Hughes, Karen Ankers, Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier, Liam Hogan, Lily Peters, Marka Rifat, Patience Mackarness, Roppotucha Greenberg, Su Yin Yap; and poems from Alison Gerhard, Alison Lock, Anne Elizabeth Bevan, Catriona Yule, Elinor Brooks, Gareth Culshaw, Graham Burchell, Ian Grosz, Jane Aldous, Laila Sumpton.

Leseprobe

First published in UK 2019 by Arachne Press Limited

100 Grierson Road, London SE23 1NX

www.arachnepress.com

© Arachne Press Limited

ISBNs:

print: 978-1-909208-69-8

ePub: 978-1-909208-70-4

mobi/kindle: 978-1-909208-71-1

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Except for short passages for review purposes no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of Arachne Press.

Thanks to Muireann Grealy for her proofing.

Printed on wood-free paper in the UK by TJ International, Padstow.

#Noon © Su Yin Yap 2019

A Vampire at Noon © Patience Mackarness 2019

After Hours © Stuart McKenzie 2019

An Autumn Noon © Ian Grosz 2019

Angelus at Noon © Patricia McCaw 2019

Arthur Streeton Advises his Students © Mandy Macdonald 2019

By the Obelisk Sundial, Drummond Castle © Jane Aldous 2019

Farewell my Father © Anne Elizabeth Bevan 2019

Fire at Midday © Susan Cartwright-Smith 2019

High Noon © Marka Rifat 2019

I am not Beautiful at Noon © Elinor Brooks 2019

Jackdaw © Elaine Hughes 2019

Mad Dogs and English Men © Laila Sumpton 2019

Moon Jellyfish © Ness Owen 2019

Mother Hand © Karen Ankers 2019

Noon Child Unknown © Diana Powell 2019

Noon Son © Alison Lock 2019

Noon Talk © Graham Burchell 2019

On Kings and Falling © Roppotucha Greenberg 2019

On the First Calculation of the Circumference of the Earth

© Alison Gerhard 2019

Pocket Watch © Catriona Yule 2019

precarious © Michelle Penn 2019

Still No Name © Marika Josef 2019

Sun Beats over New Orleans © Natalie Gasper 2019

Toast Crumbs © Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier 2019

Twelve o’Clock from the House © Nicholas McGaughey 2019

Under the L © Liam Hogan 2019

Unleashed © Paul Foy 2019

Up on the Roof © Lily Peters 2019

Veranda © Clare Shaw 2019

Winter Ritual © Sara Elgerot 2019

Winter Solstice © Gareth Culshaw 2019

Woman and Child © Barbara Renel 2019

Contents

Poems

Farewell my Father

Anne Elizabeth Bevan

I am not Beautiful at Noon

Elinor Brooks

Noon Talk

Graham Burchell

Fire at Midday

Susan Cartwright-Smith

By the Obelisk Sundial, Drummond Castle

Jane Aldous

Winter Solstice

Gareth Culshaw

Unleashed

Paul Foy

Sun Beats over New Orleans

Natalie Gasper

On the First Calculation of the Circumference of the Earth

Alison Gerhard

An Autumn Noon

Ian Grosz

Noon Son

Alison Lock

Arthur Streeton Advises his Students

Mandy Macdonald

Angelus at Noon

Patricia McCaw

Twelve o’Clock from the House

Nicholas McGaughey

After Hours

Stuart McKenzie

Moon Jellyfish

Ness Owen

precarious

Michelle Penn

Winter Ritual

Sara Elgerot

Pocket Watch

Catriona Yule

Mad Dogs and English Men

Laila Sumpton

Still No Name

Marika Josef

Stories

A Vampire at Noon

Patience Mackarness

Woman and Child

Barbara Renel

#Noon

Su Yin Yap

Jackdaw

Elaine Hughes

Toast Crumbs

Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier

High Noon

Marka Rifat

Veranda

Clare Shaw

Mother Hand

Karen Ankers

On Kings and Falling

Roppotucha Greenberg

Under the L

Liam Hogan

Noon Child Unknown

Diana Powell

Up on the Roof

Lily Peters

Farewell My Father

Anne Elizabeth Bevan

The voice of my father reached me

From the height of the salt water spray,

Glancing the rocks with his simple accent,

More distant now than in my childhood;

I listened with jaded heart to his tune

Swaying to the familiar melody. At my feet

A dog daisy reached from beneath a bolder,

Fairer than its sisters who dusted the soft sands.

Twice I tasted a salty drop, and knowing

It was not the wild Atlantic spray

That stung my lips, I accepted the daisy

Flourishing in a barren, faded life.

A cormorant straddled the rushing water,

Feathers fluffed to the western wind

And I felt a surge of life within me

That matched the bravery of the daisy.

On the wooded hill behind me, the church

Bell toned with noontime call to prayer

And I released your thrashing spirit

To the foaming winter water.

I am not Beautiful at Noon

Elinor Brooks

At noon you think you have me

where you want me

hold me at bay

high on the tips of my own spears.

I hang like a naked light bulb

burning my prisoner’s blinded eye

harangue and harry you

hot and angry.

Maddened I make you face

the white spaces of my ire

or flee into shadows

that dwindle to a dot and disappear.

I am not beautiful at noon.

But when the dark arrows of birds

pierce the hedgerows at dusk along the lanes

and you untie me from the sky

I run down the sloping fields

and launch myself out over the plain

beyond the reach of the children

and their handfuls of wet grass.

Glorious I slip beneath your horizon.

Noon Talk

Graham Burchell

is vulnerable, like December daylight.

There’s not enough of it.

On this shortest of days, it shows me a slant of fine rain

in the gap between my window and the wall of laurel opposite.

There must be a word for such a condition,

one more pewter than merely gloomy.

In Senegal where it is the same time,

There’ll be no talk of precipitation, of middays

compared with metals (except perhaps gold or copper),

or of it getting dark soon. In the city of Thiès

where it is also the shortest day, who will speak of it,

sat in the shade of a giant baobab tree?

They’ll have other things to laugh and cry about,

to string in sentences full of sand, pre-nasalised occlusives

and geminate consonants.

Noon is a Cangin language of Senegal spoken in the Thiès region

Fire at Midday

Susan Cartwright-Smith

We have built our solstice bonfire,

stabbing sturdy sticks into the pliant pile

to beckon back our god

with goddess waiting patiently – is she mother now or crone?

Does she lean upon an arm or link it rapturously?

This sun has weak fingers in the midpoint of the day

and the shadows cast are short.

We test for hedgehogs,

smell the autumn smell where once there would

be snow.

The tang of blood, wet metal, leaf mould, – gone

are days when blood ran on this ground,

gone the days when my blood ran: the ripening sun

like a swelling belly;

dormancy resurfacing – the wheel once stopped in motion

creaks, as all trees breathe…

As I shield my eyes against the sun; my son moves

from my shadow.

satisfied that the fire is free of hibernation, we bird

nest up the tinder, light the beacon, pass the mead.

Around this midpoint;

I dance like fire, know freedom as the year, the day,

my self; teeter on the wave, crest the dying.

This is the dead time of the year and I,

I am alive. My old self dead,

the next life opens up – I burn away.

By the Obelisk Sundial, Drummond Castle, 1653

Jane Aldous

Picking Camomile and Thyme,

she was out in the garden,

close to the Sundial,

when she heard a kerfuffle,

up at the Castle.

All the explosions and fighting

were over by Noon.

She knew this by the way

sunlight fell across the hollows

and dials of the Obelisk.

She’d never noticed before

how the carved hearts

and triangles held such deep

shadows and that the dials

resembled deadly swords.

Soon she’d have to return

to the kitchen but for now

she watched as Noon darkened

the sandstone and wondered