The Midnight Lane

 

1.

The city clock struck the bell, loudly announcing that the night had crawled past midnight line and begun counting time for another day in its relentless journey. It was the time for the dwellers to be already in their dreams of the earlier hours of deep sleep; quite unusual for the city life, but, it was just like that for the old township called Nature’s Nest. And it was more than unusual for a lone traveler to be at its Metro Station at this hour of the night. 

Nature's Nest is a remote and cornered city bordering a long trail of mountains and an almost impassable forest line that failed to offer any reason to be bisected by an interstate and which is the reason why the small township lying on the lap of nature remained unexpanded in decades with hardly any changes in the number of its population. And more interestingly, the city people are always reluctant to move out of the town to try their luck elsewhere. They just live on with the limited resources without making any complaint. The kids do their schooling, grow up to go to the high schools and colleges established in the town, take up family businesses or other available jobs that neither require higher university degrees nor promise of a bright and upscaling career. Of course, there is a small percentage of youth who move out of the city seeking better education and a rather fast-paced life. A few among them return with the life growing older and the ambition getting lighter. 

     

Robin had a different reason to move out of the city. But he has been maintaining the balance somehow in keeping in touch with the city he loves the most after his loving younger sister.

 

2.

Robin could hardly remember if he had ever wandered about the city anytime closer to midnight. Even at 10pm, the city looks like a fairy land buried deep down the night without any sound caused by human habitations. But it was a different night. He was on his way back home from the Metro station. He was supposed to be here by 8pm, but the train was delayed by 4 long hours. And he was the only one to have got down from the train. It has never been a busy station though. He stepped out of the already deserted station gate.

 

But the scenario seemed to have changed dramatically, with a magical touch by the crafted hand of the most powerful wand. Everything seemed to have flipped over from the real one to a dreamy version of the same street with some shadowed figures aimlessly strolling around on the dwindling traffic under the magical flow of the showering Moon beams. An enchantingly sweet smell started floating over with a gentle breeze flowing in from the forbidden part of the town.

 

The Moon was shining bright but the street lights were shrouded by light white clouds and a mysterious mist amidst a gripping silence. However the streets were not what they were supposed to be. This was the time of the night when the city dwellers stay indoors, having already spent the first couple of hours of their sleeping schedule.  But the streets were not deserted in any sense. People were seen walking along the streets in silence either in couples or in a line. Everyone seems to be in a group and again seems like all alone but in a balanced rhythm; neither looking chaotic nor in queues. A few couples seemed to be holding each other’s hands, sharing thousands of untold things to one another, but there was silence all around; a painstaking silence. No one was seen to ever miss a beat or stumble down on the way. They were spreading all around the place like a blooming night queen, but never in a hurry.

 

It was a few minutes past midnight but Robin was not a bit worried. He was not even concerned about the time anymore. Nor was he aware of the fact that he was the only one to have got down from the train and walked out of the station exit. He was just excited about the surprise he was going to give to his little sister on her birthday. The street lights were on and the road was straight from the right turn off the Metro Avenue; just about 30 minutes of walk was all he needed to get to his home at the end of the Rose Valley. But he never looked puzzled even after crossing past dozens of people on the road at this time of the night. Nor was he aware of the fact that he was walking along the opposite direction to the one he was supposed to take. And the road leads to the Howards End, the end of the unmarked border for the city dwellers.

 

3.

Nature’s Nest is definitely not a night town; there are no night pubs or bars or the night clubs which remain open all through the night like in any other dazzling avenues or squares of the mega cities. The entire city closes at 8pm maximum and people leave the city to the care of Nature and probably which was how the name Nature’s Nest came into being. Peace, calmness and daylight activities in full vigor and jubilance and the social gatherings at the early evening and family time at the dinner table at home are the common things practiced by the residents.

The town was in deep sleep at half an hour past midnight. But Christie couldn’t sleep even after switching off the bedside lamp at about 10:30pm. She was of course excited for her party the next evening. They don’t celebrate the day in a lavishing grandeur. But lots of happy moments with the neighboring friends and her favorite dishes cooked by her mother and aunts are the things she used to enjoy the most since her childhood. And unlike many other girls her age, she kept counting the days, months before her birthday. The excitement was still there; not the reason. For the last couple of years she eagerly waits for her birthday for the presence of her only brother, Robin who she really misses a lot. And he was the reason she was not feeling comfortable for. She knew Robin was coming home next noon. But she just didn’t know why she was feeling so anxious for his loving brother, like she didn’t know why her eyes were full of tears.    

 

4.

It’s been thirty long minutes since Robin started walking along the Metro Avenue. He was supposed to be at the gate of his home by now, but he was nowhere near and he was not a bit concerned about it. In the dimming street light and the shadowed moonlight, the dark forest line was coming into view. But he was not aware of it either. But he had to stop all of a sudden with a sweet scent of body spray, and a clear voice, both so familiar to him.

-Robin, what are you doing here?

He seemed to have got back to his senses and his look went straight to his very familiar and dear face standing just a couple of yards from him. It was his brave, adventure-loving and favorite most, Rayan uncle, in his favorite white tee-shirt. He now knew he was not supposed to be here at this hour of the night; he was not supposed to be anywhere close to the Howards End in a moonlit night. People didn’t even dare to come this far even in the broad daylight. But he wasn’t feeling afraid; his favorite Ryan uncle was there.

-Oh, uncle, how are you? I think, I took the wrong turn after the Metro Avenue. I wanted to give Christie a surprise, so I took the afternoon train. But, there was a problem in the rail line and our train got stuck in the South Dale station for 4 long hours.

-Hum, I know about the line derailment. Now follow me, we get to hurry.    

Robin’s eyes got wet in extreme joy just at the sight of his uncle after so many days. He used to accompany his uncle on many adventurous trips along the hilly treks with their bicycles. The memory lane of his teenage days is crowded with all those sweet and thrilling moments they spent together over the dangerous mountainous treks or on the boating trips to the far east corner of the swamp forest after crossing the Crescent Lake, which were of course unbeknownst to other family members. In fact, apart from the school hours, all his outdoor activities revolved around Ryan Shaw. Instead of playing football with classmates he would prefer going out on a biking trip to the wilderness with his bohemian uncle. 

And now he started following his uncle like those old days. His uncle used to tell him lots of stories but now he remained silent most of the time. But, it was Robin’s turn now. He had so many things to share with his uncle. He kept telling him about the beach close to his university campus, about his new friends in the new town.

It was a long walk home, but to Robin it seemed like just a few minutes. He could see the gate, the high-powered bulb to light the entire lawn. He sped up and stepped inside the gate and suddenly felt a change in the entire atmosphere. He was walking side by side with his uncle and now his eyes caught sight of an old bicycle leaning against a wall of the garage. It belonged to his Ryan uncle. He was on a solo trip to trek the mountain at the Howards End, where he met with a fatal road accident a decade ago. An untimely death at just 30. And it was the reason why Robin had to go through a mental trauma which took months to recover from. And his family had to relocate him to the nearest city, 200 miles away off the Nature’s Nest. 

With all his energy suddenly got drained out, Robin kneeled down the dewy ground, heard the main door creaked open and saw his sister running towards him.

© Atique R.

The Walk Home, Late at Night

                                                                                                              By John Grey

You lived in the abandoned tenement,

behind the store window,

in the dumpster behind the bar.

 

Walking the city late at night,

I could never part ways with you.

 

Not when you were underfoot with the weeds,

or gleaming from the empty lot

like glass shards in the moonlight.

 

That was your face above the neck

of the woman wanting to be paid

for the use of her body,

and behind the wheel of the car

with the tinted windows.

that drove slowly by.

 

My shoes clip-clopped as I took

that short cut through the square

but the echo was all yours.

 

I was vulnerable, ready to be taken.

On the church steps, down the alley,

you could have had me anywhere.

 

For that was you on the rooftop,

and with the rats that scurried across the floor

of the shuttered vegetable market.

 

All you needed was your knife, my chest,

and the plunge of the blade

would have been quick and merciful.

 

But you didn’t strike.

Maybe you figured, the fear, the tension,

would be so much greater the next time.

 

For the next time is your most insidious weapon.

It continues to be my weakness.

About the Author:

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, California Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, “Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside the Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.

There Will Be Always a You

 

There will be always a ‘you’;

There will be always an ‘I’.

You will show

The poetic dictions and definitions,

I will go on with Wordsworth and beyond:

With the spontaneous overflow

Of powerful feelings

But not limiting the emotions

Recollected in tranquility

Like in the wilderness,

The land of the solitary reapers;

Rather in the chaotic coffee shops

Or in a station of metro.

 

You will be giving us meters,

Iambic pentameters,

I will be going straight and simple

With unrhymed verses and beyond.

 

You will be looking for well-set

Similes and metaphors,

I will mirror my heart the way I feel:

Like April

Is the cruelest month breeding lilacs.

You will be giving us rules

And I will always be the rebellious one.

 

© Atique R.

A Green and Pleasant Land

                                                                                                     By Sarah Das Gupta

The chalk downland which stretches from Farnham in the north to the cliffs of Dover in the south was where I played, went to school, rode along its bridle paths, harvested its fields and foraged in its woods. It is an area of natural beauty with a great variety of wild life both animals and plants. An ancient landscape, it has inspired famous writers, artists, musicians and also national leaders.

Once again, the time had come around for haymaking. The grass in the one-hundred-acre field was well over knee height. The scent of poppies, cornflowers, vetch and trefoil blended with the meadow grasses. Butterflies drifted in the June sunlight and bees foraged among the flowers. This was an important time of the year in my childhood. The thirty horses we kept depended in the winter on the hay we cut in early summer. If our crop was poor, it would be costly buying supplies from other farms.

That summer, it looked as if the weather was settled and we could expect a good haul. The hayfield itself was one of the few surviving unploughed pastures in our part of the North Downs. Walking over the field, was like walking on the most luxurious Persian carpet.  You could feel history beneath your feet, the hundreds of years of undug turf and the rainbow display of wild flowers. The first stage was to cut the long grass. In a sense there was a certain sadness, watching my father driving the old Fordson tractor pulling the mower in his wake. Swathe after swathe of grass with all the jewel-like flowers, fell to the executioner’s blades. The sweet smell of the drying hay was some compensation for the sense of loss which midsummer inevitably brings. Half the year passed, the days imperceptibly shortening.

The final phase of haymaking was very much a community effort. Our family was joined by various people we only saw at haymaking time. As the local school master and referee of the village football team, my father was a well- known figure. His many ‘acquaintances’ would appear on the hayfield, helping to load the trailer when the hay had been baled or later when we were building the hay ricks.

One of the best ways of seeing the landscape is from the back of a horse. This is particularly true of the downlands of Southern England. Some of the most memorable sites are only accessible through networks of ancient footpaths and bridle ways. In summer the woods are a forest of different greens, from the emerald of the beeches to the dark, sombre green of the pines. The splendid colours of the cock pheasant contrast with the slightly sinister black of the rooks and crows. The steep sides of the downs are grazed by sheep. I remember a conversation with an old shepherd on the top of a high ridge who told me that they had tried to plough the land in the War when food supplies were under pressure. A farm worker had been killed when the tractor he was driving, overturned and rolled down the steep slope. ‘Yes, this has been sheep country for hundreds of years,’ was his parting remark.

As summer gives way to autumn, in the early morning there is a mist over the heath and as locals say, ‘the first nip in the air.’ The fields are being harrowed to pull out the dead grass and leaves. Out riding, you get a sense of the shape and sculptured nature of the downs. The lines left by the harrow, are like green contour lines, a living map of the landscape. This is also a heavily wooded area, seen at its most colourful in autumn. Riding through the autumn woods, surpasses any painted landscape. The trees are on fire, flaming red, orange and every shade of yellow. Rich, chocolate-brown conkers litter the bridle paths, blackberries shine darkly in the cold sunlight. At the medieval church of St Leonard’s, a magnificent avenue of mature beeches, like burning torches, leads to the main door.

As November begins, Guy Fawkes night approaches. The fifth of November marks the anniversary of the Gun Powder Plot when Guy Fawkes and his fellow conspirators were accused of plotting to blow up King James and Parliament. The history of this episode has been revised and re-interpreted but the tradition remains. Long before the Fifth, bonfires appear in fields and commons; piles of brushwood and rubbish are collected. Children make a straw-filled effigy of Guy Fawkes, to be burned on the top of the fire. This is an excuse for firework displays, barbecues, hotdogs and a community celebration, before winter sets in.

Winter brings its own beauty and changes to the landscape of the downs. On frosty mornings the field hedgerows glint as the winter sun catches the spider webs, fine as gossamer, touched with dew. The frost is stretched, a white carpet, over fields and hills. Looking from the top of the downs, it creates a patchwork, ranging from the whiteness on the high ridges to the sparkling green of the sheltered valleys. The landscape is at its most spectacular after heavy snow. One of the best views is along the Pilgrim’s Way, an ancient path which leads across a ridge of the downs towards Canterbury. Riding there after heavy snow, I would think of Chaucer’s pilgrims on their way to visit the shrine of Thomas Becket, the murdered eleventh century Archbishop of Canterbury. I would imagine the red stockings of Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, the greasy hair of the Pardoner with his phoney ‘holy’ relics and the Miller’s bawdy tale! My pony stumbling through the snow drifts, I would look out across the valley to the scarp slope. The landscape has hardly changed through the centuries, apart from the main railway into London and a golf course in the valley. Snow is a good leveler. My view from my dappled grey pony would have looked much the same as that of those travelers nine centuries ago.

The villages and market towns of the North Downs have played their part in history and legend. In the Kent town of Westerham, General Wolfe’s home at Quebec House looks much as it would have done when its owner died in 1759 at the battle of the Plains of Abraham, an important moment in Canadian history. Half a mile away, Pitt’s Cottage, has been restored, the country retreat of Pitt, the younger, the youngest ever British Prime Minister at the age of twenty-four who has the dubious distinction of being the first to introduce income tax. This small Kent market town is also close to Chartwell, the home of Winston Churchill. There must be something in the North Downs air!

Church graveyards reveal much of the history of the surrounding area, as well as providing a gothic atmosphere. The thirteenth century church of St Leonard’s at Chelsham, is a case in point. Standing on high ground, overlooking farmland, paths and lanes all lead to the church. Up until the late 1940’S, most local farms employed farm workers and their families. In the cemetery is the grand tomb of Sir Thomas Kelly, a local boy from a poor family who made a fortune in the City of London, even rising to the position of Lord Mayor. He did not forget his origins. On his death he left money to provide bread to the poor of the parish. He must have left a generous bequest as on the first Sunday in July, Kelly’s bread is still distributed. The congregation even have a choice of white or brown. I last visited the churchyard two years ago, late in the evening. The sun setting behind the church was blood red and the air strangely still. I felt it was more likely I would see Kelly’s ghost than his bread!

The landscape here has also inspired many writers. Jane Austen visited the village of Great Bookham where her godfather, Samuel Cooke was the local vicar. Perhaps it was then that she climbed Box Hill, one of the highest points on the downs. This is the setting of that disastrous picnic in ‘Emma’, surely one of the greatest of comic novels. There must be something in the local water conducive to literary inspiration. Arthur Conan Doyle created Sherlock Holmes while living at Hindhead and EM Forster, James Barrie and Huxley also lived at different times in the Surrey Hills.

All the seasons have their own particular beauty in this landscape but over the centuries, men have longed most for the rebirth in Spring after the long, dark winter days. Hedges are flecked with green, grass begins to grow, in the woods, seas of bluebells create waves of blooms every time the wind blows. On the slopes of the hills, the lambs gambol and the ewes graze on the new shoots of grass. The horses have done well through the winter on the store of midsummer’s hay. On the farms, men are oiling the mowers. From the Tabard Inn in Southwark, the ghosts of Chaucer’s pilgrims are already setting off.

About the Author:

Sarah Das Gupta is an English Teacher from Cambridge, UK who has lived and taught in India, Tanzania and UK. Her work has been published in US, UK, Canada, Australia, India, Germany, Romania, Croatia, among other countries.

Motif Romanesque

 

                                                                                         By Ben Nardolilli 

It is important to let the girl pick the flowers,

after all, she is by herself, who would be tempted to follow her

as an example and seize all the petals and leaves

for a little bit of color temporarily soaking in a bedroom vase.

 

It is important to let the girl pick the flowers, 

there is no wilderness here to ruin, if nature was actually working,

the trees would be everywhere and this sunlit glen

filled with flowers would be foreclosed and abolished by the shade.

 

It is important to let the girl pick the flowers,

without her hands, these fields would start to fade together, 

the champagne bulbs dissolve into a foggy mass, 

but picking brings out a distinction for the flowers as living or dead.

 

It is important to let the girl pick her flowers, 

after all she is by herself, except for me, and my hands are busy

writing poetry, not harvesting the things spouting

and blooming without my prompting over the face of the earth.

About the Author:

Ben Nardolilli is a theoretical MFA candidate at Long Island University. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Door Is a Jar, The Delmarva Review, Red Fez, The Oklahoma Review, Quail Bell Magazine, and Slab. Follow his publishing journey at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.

Longing

 

                                                                                         By John RC Potter

Longing...

               With longing...

                                      I’m longing...

Sad...

        With sadness...

                               I’m sad...

 

But I know something:

God gives snow according to the mountain!

I only love you,

Without you, just lonely.

But who knows about this situation?

 

Cold water flows from the mountains,

Gives life from the sun,

Flowers grow from the soil;

Nevertheless...

Everyone comes to the ground at last.

 

Birth. Life. Death.

It passes like a minute.

Love. Passion. Loyalty.

We say “In the Name of God” together.

 

But at night I’m alone,

I hold my pillow very close.

In the morning I look at an empty place;

But you are always in my soul.

 

I’m sad...With sadness...Sad...

 

Longing...

               I feel longing...

                                      I miss you...

                                                         My longing...

 

 

About the Author:

John RC Potter is an international educator from Canada, living in Istanbul.  He has experienced a revolution (Indonesia), air strikes (Israel), earthquakes (Turkey), boredom (UAE), and blinding snow blizzards (Canada), the last being the subject of his story, “Snowbound in the House of God” (Memoirist, May 2023). His poems, stories, essays, and reviews have been published in a range of magazines and journals, most recently in Blank Spaces, (“In Search of Alice Munro”, June 2023), Literary Yard (“She Got What She Deserved”, June 2023), Freedom Fiction (“The Mystery of the Dead-as-a-Doornail Author”, July 2023), and The Serulian (“The Memory Box”, September 2023). The author has over a dozen upcoming publications in the coming months, including an essay in The Montreal Review. His story, “Ruth’s World” (Fiction on the Web, March 2023) has recently been nominated for the prestigious Pushcart Prize.

Keatsian Mimicry: Fine Fall Feast

 

                                                                                              By Gerard Sarnat 

 "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness..."

                      -- John Keats, To Autumn

 

If nice to elope during frigid winter

then spring is the time cantaloupe peaks

plus, summer for sumptuous watermelon.

 

Autumn’s when you and I get best honeydew

that results in oversized, slightly overripe fruits

which ooze sweet juice – unless like me, eagerness

 

overcomes prudence to wait just another hour or two…

so as even though well-seasoned, we cut into our not quite yet

ready for primetime’s unseasonably cheap, lovely, mellowest most verdant meat.

 

 About the Author:

Gerard Sarnat has won prizes and is a multiple Pushcart/Best of Net Award nominee. Including four collections of poems Gerry's works have been widely published by Brooklyn Review, Tokyo Poetry Journal, Gargoyle, Buddhist Review, New York Times; Oberlin, Northwestern, Yale, Pomona, Harvard, Stanford, Dartmouth, Penn, Columbia, Johns Hopkins, NYU, Brown North Dakota, McMaster, Maine, British Columbia/ Toronto/ Chicago and Virginia university presses. He’s a Harvard College/Medical School-trained physician, Stanford professor, and healthcare CEO. More details can be found here.