cleaning under the bed she found
a stack of notebooks, and dust enough

to build a continent. she built a city
instead, named it backwards to spell

the tree seen from the window. she turned
to page one where she found another name:

phantasmagoria. a mansion in block letter
columns, shaky from a graphite earthquake

the epicenter: a twelve-year-old writing
on a white page. this house was in the outskirts,

of the city where the inhabitants were part animals,
and drank the water of twin rivers. Old names

floated in, cryptic codes to decode dreams of
afternoons spent alone watching cats, making

story-people who never grew up. Fysti, Russet, Evol
turned into nobodies, having never seen the tail of

the end. it began raining and she realized that
these slumbering stories would not erupt like

volcanoes, layer a sleeping city with ash. as
hail stones made the rain louder, she shivered,

looked outside to find sparrows sheltered in the
old bougainvillea, and wondered, for all those years

if she ever was home/ alone. seeing the windows
open still, the rain lurched indoors, throwing in

hail stones, and she sat by her city of dust, watching
them melt into twin rivers that she would name.

Glowing

this time she found dead moths

under the bed, lying, dying,

next to the city she built. not

whole moths, but bits of sand

paper thin wings disintegrating

into whispers that resemble

voices of ancient books with

rough tongues and magic spells.

it was april, but the march wind

was still blowing. she thought of

many metaphors for the night sky,

opened her laptop, and typed out

a constellation. seeing the window

open, she lurched to shut the panes,

in case the lit-up screen summoned more

moths from the darkness to die

at the feet of her words.

Sohini Basak is currently in her final year of B. A. English Honours course at St. Stephen’s College, Delhi. In October 2011, she won the first prize for poetry-writing in the Unisun-Realiance TimeOut Writing Competition 2010-2011 and four of her poems, including the winning poem ‘Attic’ feature in the anthology Songbook Circa 2011 published by Unisun. Her works have also appeared in a couple of Indian online magazines.

One of the shadows shifted and she lay back on the bed, the old half collapsed mattress with the sleeping bag and the skinny pillow on which her head fell, beside the phone and the screeching synths grew loud and rasping and she closed her eyes against the sound and flicked her fingers at the phone till something hazy and syncopated appeared and crawled slow and cool across her face. She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling running with cracks and all grey. We’re not pretty enough for all this she said.

He moved up and sat over her and looked at her, earnest with big shadows beneath his eyes picked out by the phone light. The tattoos on his chest that were in the sunlight faded and old looked in that moment stark black against his pale skin lit from beneath. Misguided things from a little too long ago. He said I don’t think that’s the point is it.

Maybe not for them. She tilted up her head to point her chin towards the door where still the sounds of voices raised too loud to be relaxed could be heard then let it fall back down. But it matters to me. She shrugged her shoulders. I don’t want to look like an idiot.

He lay with his head on her abdomen looking sideways up across her body at her face and she moved her fingers across his old ink stained scars. I think you’re pretty he said and his voice vibrated up inside her.

She flicked at his skin and it sprang back elastic. I know you do she said. I am not worried that the boy with his head on my naked torso doesn’t think I’m pretty. She inhaled long through her nose and crushed her eyes tight shut again and chewed the edge of her little finger and when she opened her eyes again they were back pointed up at the ceiling. It’s everyone else.

He pushed himself up on his elbows and moved up her body and moved her hair across her forehead with his forefinger. Well you’ve got the fringe he said. And you look good in aviators. You’ve totally got the whole classic thing down. He lay down beside her and she shifted her body across and threw the unzipped sleeping bag over then moved back, rolled to her side to bring her body up to his but he stayed on his back with his shoulders straight. I mean you got it lucky he said. You’re a girl. I’ve got nothing going on.

She smiled with her mouth closed and danced her fingers down his chest again but she slid her eyes back across to the light beneath the door. The footstep shadows were stilling. Whatever. You’re you and you know that means everyone’ll like you no matter what you do.

He laughed. It was low, quiet and cynical and it reverberated deep somewhere in his chest. I don’t think everyone will like me after tomorrow.

She kissed his jaw and his cheek till he turned and she found his mouth. Well she said with her forehead on his and her eyes closed. I will. And even when they hate you they’ll like you. Just how you carry yourself. Me, I can dress the part and maybe I’ll look okay in some aviators and boots and an army jacket. But even in a mask man they’ll all be watching you.

I’m not anything.

She grinned. I know that.  It’s everyone else you got to worry about.

He kissed her back and outside the strip of light vanished from beneath the door and the voices dropped to a low murmur. Hushed and tense and with the stink of skunk creeping into the room after them. He smiled, stretched his mouth at the sides and let his eyes flick away from hers for a second and the music from his phone kept rising and falling in slow off-beat rhythms and finally he turned on his shoulder, eyes wide and pupils big in the half light and he looked at her face. She had her eyebrows raised and her mouth closed and some fixed confidence way back in her head.

The next day someone in a balaclava and body armour drew a line through a window across a street and through another window this one closed and an interior door left open to her and fired a bullet along it; and the bullet drew its own line that didn’t stop at her collarbone but went through, down at an angle cracking bone and bursting a lung and pushing a big messy edged round hole in her back and dragging her blood with it into the floor. He was standing on a desk and he jumped down as she fell, cracking his head on the low hanging strip light and sending shadows whirling in hard edged shapes across the room and he ran and got the door shut and another bullet opened a big hole in it and splinters rained down on his hair and fell between his mask and his face. He pulled it off and crawled across to get away from the door and stood and ran to her.

No one move he said to the people lying on their fronts in the middle of the floor surrounded by scattered papers and fallen computer monitors and broken glass, some bleeding from broken noses and cut foreheads and no one moved because that was who he was.

Her aviators were still on her face but she was dead already. He knelt down beside her and touched the hole in her and got her blood on his hands. He used to paint red messages and black swearwords on walls with her not so long ago and sit for a second when they were done, with coffee from a flask marked with red paint handprints and the phone paint marked too lying between them projecting some stupid synth-pop into the night through its little speaker. He moved her jacket out of the way and traced his fingers around the neat little hole in her front that had made the big tear in her back still leaking, soaking through into his jeans.

There was one other door in the room and it was glass and the wall it was in was glass too and on the other side servers blinked while they talked and air conditioners made their quiet rushing sounds and one of the others came through, wearing a red t-shirt and a gasmask and with a rifle slung across her back and a smartphone in her hand. She looked at the girl laid out with the thick spotted line of blood behind her and the new blood dripping down around the boy.

Fuck she said. Fucking fascists.

He didn’t say anything. He pulled the glasses off her face and pushed her hair out of her eyes and pulled the bandana off her mouth. Her irises were skinny. Tiny blue coronas around big black pupils.

The gasmask looked at her smartphone through her curved plastic eyes. We need to go she said. She pocketed the phone and swung the AK around and started shouting at the people in suits with her voice muffled and filtered and harsh like metal and they got up, did what she said and walked to the bullet-holed door.

Come on she said. She had her arm locked tight around the neck of a bald man in a suit and was holding him in front of her body. And find your mask.

He looked up from the unmoving face in his lap and at the cameras. Someone would have cut them or hacked them and made them dead. He touched her cut again and looked at the bright red drops clinging to his fingertips. He touched his face and felt the wetness there.

I’m not going to wear my mask he said and he laid the girl down on the corporate-grey carpet and he stood with the muzzle of his rifle swinging and bouncing off his back, and even when they hated him they’d like him. I want them to see me.

Patrick Ball is 23 years old. He was born in Sheffield and has recently graduated from University College London, where he studied philosophy. He has written prose for most of his life and has recently expanded into some poetry and drama, but he has only just begun seeking to have his work published. Two short radio plays he wrote while at UCL have been recorded and are to be broadcast on the college radio station soon.

The Cadaverine is a non-profit online magazine that specialises in promoting the work of people aged under 30 from all over the world. Initially supported by Arts Council England, we offer a continual stream of low-level support for young writers.  We have recently received a grant from NAWE(http://www.nawe.co.uk/) to continue to develop the work of The Cadaverine. We believe in showcasing contemporary, innovative and original new writing from the next generation of literary talent.

The role of the Poetry Editor is to read and evaluate poetry submissions, select suitable content for publication and manage the upload of this content. We are looking for someone with a passion for poetry, the motivation and enthusiasm to provide regular feedback to submitters and someone with a keen eye for quality poetry.  The right candidate needs to have an awareness of the potential of work from young people as well as quality. The role will also involve occasional working with the team as part of a project, such as event programming or assisting with improvements to the website and social media.

The role is expected to require an average of eight hours dedication per week, depending on the number of submissions received.  The chosen candidate needs to be self-motivated and able to work independently as this is a voluntary role and all editors work remotely. We’re not necessarily looking for someone with an established history of publication for their own work, though this would be beneficial. The most important element is that the right candidate has a passion for literature, the attitude to support young up and coming writers and the eye for what makes a good quality poem.

Essential
- Able to work on own initiative
- Able to manage own workload
- Access to a computer and internet to read and upload content
- An understanding of quality poetry

- A keen eye for editing
- Great attention to detail
- A passion for literature and contemporary writing
- The right attitude to support the development of up and coming young writers

Desirable
- Experience of editing a literature magazine
- Experience with WordPress based websites
- Familiar with Submittable system
- History of publication

All roles with The Cadaverine are voluntary and participants are expected to supply work from their own environment and use their own equipment. You will be joining a team of talented volunteers spread all over the country.

To apply for the position please send a CV including writing credentials and covering letter to Nici West on thecadaverine@hotmail.com.  Application should offer proof of knowledge of poetry and ability to edit poetry.

Main Prize Judge: Robin Robertson, Gaelic Prize Judge: Meg Bateman, Scots Prize Judge: Liz Niven.

Winners will be invited to read their poems at the Wigtown Book Festival 2013.  Winning poems will be published on the Festival website. 

For further details, rules and entry form, visit: www.wigtownbookfestival.com/poetrycomp

The Ofi Press and Cadaverine Poetry Magazine have linked up to share the work of four wonderful young poets with our readers. The poems, each written by Cadaverine published poets, were selected by Ofi Press editor Jack Little  and all have been translated into Spanish by Karenina Osnaya. The poems are featured in issue 27 of Ofi Press.

We’re very excited to be involved and please to show you the full poems along with further information about the authors: http://tinyurl.com/b3ajy6d. Please do pop over and have a look!