Contributor: P.A.Levy

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the great outdoors isn’t that great if the outdoors is a council estate a bomb city with some of its glass panes still intact where grey scratches on the grey landscape to form into rectangular outlines of washing machines left to get a rinse in the dirty acid rot not trip rain and under an orange glow of city echoes fridges are left out freezing their nuts off in the cold as creeping rust begins to accumulate and spread across the incinerated carcasses of exhausted cars whose final act of exploding into flames provided entertainment for several minutes of wild jubilation as if worshipping some heathen god to free the world of boredom and the bass and drum of drum&bass mashed with dubstep follows you like radar trace orchestrates skank in yer gait shuffling in the shadow of a high rise where the junkies crash on the top floor getting as close to heaven as they dare YOU DON’T GO ON THE TOP FLOOR in fact don’t go near the underground car park either STAY IN THE OPEN STAY IN THE LIGHT but don’t take that as a metaphor for god ‘cos it ain’t it’s survival tagged on the shuttered shops of the cctv parade like a holy scripture for an underclass but then being as low as that the only way is up lifts are smashed plod each stair until yer muscles ache too far to turn back now straight up darkside with the top floor about to greet you


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Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, both on line and in print, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’. He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective.

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Author: P.A.Levy

Contributor: Simay Yildiz

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''Fuck off,'' I hiss between my clenched teeth, staring inside the eyes of the boy who came up from behind me and is still holding a supposedly-dead, plastic mouse in front of my face. As I stare and state into his eyes grinding my teeth, I can hear the other boys whispering, “She’s not scared…” My stare-boy turns away when I pull the toy from his hand in full force. Facing his friends, ''She's a witch,'' he shrieks with his hands up in the air, and with the blink of an eye, there are no more boys in sight. I throw the mouse into my coat pocket and check the time on my cell phone: I don’t need this on an empty stomach…

The food is an hour away from where I get on the bus, so once I find an empty seat, I sit down and open the book I've been trying to read for a week. The driver's deep, loud voice distracts me. “You again? Once again you don't have any money, do you? Why you always gotta pick MY vehicle?” I sit up, thinking there'll be a fight and I'll have to spend the night with this leather seat grabbing my ass. As I think about the burgers and the beer I could be filling my stomach with, I turn to see who the money-less person is.

The bus starts moving again, and the driver is giggling: it's a 15-year-old boy with the biggest and warmest smile I've ever seen. It takes me quite a while because he looks very different under the lights, but when I realize it’s the same boy who pulled the plastic mouse trick on me, I listen in closer: he never could learn how to read ''all the confusing'' letters, but he's good at counting money when he has it. He has his dead mother's ability to shape unshapely things, so his father found him a job at a barbershop.

Thinking to myself what someone might call a cute face like that, I try to catch his name. As I listen more, staring at my hands, I realize I really just want to pinch his cheeks and squeeze him until he giggles so hard he can’t breathe. I laugh a satisfied laugh, the booze I haven’t yet consumed already kicking in.

''Whatcha laughin’ at?'' asks barber-boy as he sits next to me. ''Nothing,'' I say and turn to him, which makes him jump out of the seat and get on his knees: ''Oh, please, the beautiful witch of the town,'' he says, ''please kiss me and make me immortal – I beg you.'' I catch the driver's eyes on his mirror, and I mouth WHAT THE FUCK? ''Never mind him,'' he says, ''he's got a few loose screws.''

Whenever the bus stops to pick someone up, the driver threatens my barber-boy, saying he'll throw him out for not having the fare. He's joking, but barber-boy doesn't understand; he gets on his knees, trying to hold onto the side of the vehicle, ready to cry. This happens a few times, and I can't take it anymore. ''Quit it,'' I say to the driver as I walk up and throw at him whatever change I have in my coat pocket.

With the change flies out the supposedly-dead, plastic mouse and the lady sitting in the front starts screaming as if she saw her dead husband’s ghost. The bus stops all of a sudden; I can't catch the railing on time and fall on the screaming lady. When I hear barber-boy laughing his ass off, I can't help but join in. ''GET THE HELL OUT," yells the driver, "BOTH OF YOU – NOW!" We jump off, still laughing, and the screaming lady throws the mouse at me, but I catch it before it hits my face, which makes barber-boy go, "Woooooooow!"

"Guess ya gotta go naw," says barber-boy when we cool down. I motion him to get closer and give him a kiss on the cheek. Holding my palm in front of his face, "You're immortal now," I whisper, and watch him skip as he walks down the side street. "What's your name," I yell after him, but he's already lost in the dark.


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Simay lives and works as a copywriter in Istanbul. She likes reading thankyous in CD booklets, dancing in the rain and staying up all night to read. She might burst into song at random times.

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Author: Simay Yildiz