LampLight: Volume 7 Issue 1

By Jacob Haddon

Fiction from A.L. Kersel, Jamie Lackey, Margret A. Treiber, Cameron Suey, Robin van Eck

Fiona Maeve Geist discusses the translated works of Nelly Arcan and Yumiko Kurahashi

And a classic take from Edith Nesbit, the Man-sized Marble!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Apokrupha LLC
• Release date: Oct 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463725009

Book preview

Apokrupha

All Rights Reserved

LampLight

A Quarterly Magazine of Dark Fiction

Volume 7

Issue 1

September 2018

Published by Apokrupha

Jacob Haddon, Editor

Paula Snyder, Masthead Design

All stories copyright respective author, 2018

ISSN: 2169-2122

lamplightmagazine.com

apokrupha.com

Table of Contents

Fiction

Barefoot Island Girl - A.L. Kersel

The Needs of the Many - Jamie Lackey

Atmospheric Pressure - Margret A. Treiber

The Green Tunnel - Cameron Suey

Unspooled - Robin van Eck

Article

Lost in Translation(s): The Works of Nelly Arcan (1973-2009) and Yumiko Kurahashi (1935-2005) - Fiona Maeve Geist

LampLight Classics

Man-sized Marble - Edith Nesbit

Writer Bios

Subscriptions and Submissions

* * *

Barefoot Island Girl

A.L. Kersel

I appear in all the songs, you know. All the centuries of songs sung by the bonnie blue-eyed boys about their cherished, lost, and forsaken blue-eyed girls. I dance at the sunset, feet flickering in golden ocean foam as the last light dips beyond the Hebrides. As the light departs West, I claim the night as my own, and I give it to you, my blue-eyed boy, and with it, everything that love entails. When you leave behind the sand and the waves and the sweet smell of heather for more solid, concrete places—Glasgow maybe; Sydney; Vancouver; San Francisco, you’ll remember me when you drink a whisky in a themed pub or see a vivid huddle of Irn Bru, peeking coyly from behind the ubiquitous rows of Pepsi Max. You’ll remember my long, dark hair and pale skin freckled in the sunlight. How I laughed when the raindrops landed on my face and could drink my weight in whisky, yet still dance until the dawn. You’ll see me in errant daydreams, a silhouette on the waves as you snapped Polaroid after Polaroid, believing you were the luckiest man alive.

What I really was never mattered.

I arrived off the ferry at Tiree and then sat down, waiting for Donald to finish an early lunch before he would ship me across the small stretch of water to Ellenshee. His bearded mouth clamped down again and again on soft, white bread and cheese, interrupted at regular intervals by the stain of Heinz tomato soup, the way it did every time we took the boat across during my childhood, and the way it is surely destined to continue until the end of days. It took him fifteen minutes to finish his soup and a further ten to drink up his tea. I waited patiently, stretching my legs and flicking idly through my phone; a message from Olivia, some stupid video that made me laugh, but that was it. Finally, Donald stood up, brushed the crumbs from his shirt and summoned me to the jetty with a wave as solemn as any ferryman of the River Styx.

How’re you keeping, Lexi? the ferryman asked as I huddled myself and my bag on the plastic-cushioned bench. I reached into my pocket to pay my tithe. Long time.

How much these days?

Two quid.

Ta. I dropped the coins into his hand, and he deposited them into a small, orange box, locked with a key that hung on a grubby piece of string. The motor choked and coughed, expelling salt water and clouds of fumes. Brine and petrol. Brine, petrol, rotting seaweed. Rotting seaweed, wild flowers on the machair, sheep shit. Sheep shit, Gran’s talc. Damp wool. Grandpa’s jacket. How long had it been since I’d been here? Five years.

Ellenshee lies across the narrows to the south west of Scarinish, a thin, flat sliver of sand, stone, and the wild, ankle-high tangle of moss and sprinkled flowers surrounding a centre cropped bald by centuries of grazing mouths. The island is three miles along and only one across and often overlooked by the casual observer, shrouded as it often is in a veil of cloud or the sun’s mirage. A ripple on the horizon, nothing more; a scarce visible fable rising slowly from the seabed in shades of steel grey through turquoise, silver, gold, and green. It was just after midday and the sea air was lit with the buttery richness of a promising summer. The glimmer of the beach grew closer as Donald’s boat cut through delicate waves and the lace of ocean spray, leaving a guttering trail of fumes, and a foamy massacre of churned water in its wake. As the island grew present, emerging seemingly from nothing in front of us, I felt myself being drawn into the fable, captured by the memories of my past and the legends of my family, distilled from ephemeral thought and chance occurrence into the songs of my Grandpa, and Gran’s glib, dry anecdotes. A box of albums; some dusty pictures in old frames; a teenage diary of my mother’s…how embarrassing. She had snatched it away before we could read it, but later, we snuck back in and discovered the words, Martin + Laura forever, inked in childish writing inside a little heart. Martin, Mum explained, was a boy she met at high school in Oban. He took her on her first date to the cinema, and they went off each other after that.

It’s funny how we capture our past loves, trapping them in notes, doodles, and bad poetry as their eternal teenage selves. As soon as I saw that heart, Martin sprang abruptly to my mind as a boy of fourteen, too tall for his slenderness, still too childishly pretty to match the roughness of his voice and the fuzz above his lip. Laura, my high school mother, was petite, dark-eyed, with the over-plucked brows of a girl trying to emulate adult expertise; lipstick stolen from Gran that was only supposed to be worn on special occasions, carefully applied in shade that didn’t suit her.

Martin and Laura. I don’t know who the real Martin is now; a doctor or a bus driver…an accountant or a fisherman, but part of him will always exist as a teenage ink stain etched on a page amongst the heartfelt confessions and trials of a young woman who grew up to be far more elegant and put together than her school photos promised.

A cloud dipped for a moment over the sun, bringing goose bumps to my bare arms, and Donald nudged the ferry up against the weed slicked jetty. I caught sight of Grandpa and Gran waiting up at the road and waved. They waved back, Grandpa, wry and quiet, and Gran grinning like a split apple. Donald swiftly secured the boat with a quick twist of briny rope to a rusted hoop and hefted my bag onto the concrete.

Cheers, Donald, I said, holding his arm as I hopped ashore. See you later.

Aye, cheers now, Lexi.

Gran! I left my bag where it was and flung myself into my grandmother’s arms. She was shorter than me now, and I heard her laughing into my ear as I hugged her, an overjoyed hoot tinged with the creak of a cackle. Meanwhile, Grandpa had crept around and was attempting to lift my heavy bag without anyone noticing.

Grandpa! Mind your back!

Och, no, lass, he mumbled. It’s no bother.

Well, put the bag down and give me a hug at least. He did so, and I smelt smoke, damp wool, and soap from his daily meticulous shave, just like I remembered. "Ciamar a tha sibh?"

"Oh, ceart gu leòr, no bad."

A man of few words but many songs was my grandfather. Reticent, dry, with the romance of his Hebridean heart and bones kept well hidden beneath a weathered skin and mild, unassuming face.

Nothing’s changed, I observed to Gran as Grandpa heaved my bag into the back of the pickup. The two dogs clamoured in the trailer, wagging like mad things. They were grey about the muzzles now. I could remember them as pups, small and clumsy, with tiny, peeking eyes and soft pink tongues nuzzling into any warmth with the hope of milk.

The stone house was just the same too; an old croft that had withstood three storm-battered centuries, and a modern extension erected at some point during the eighties. I unpacked my things in the bedroom that I used to share with my sister, back when we lived here and went to primary school on Tiree before Mum moved us to the mainland when I was eleven. I lifted the pillow to see our initials, scratched into the bunks: LM and HM. Lexi and Helen MacLeod. Probably aged around eight and six

I dance to the sound of the whistle and the clap of your hands. The faster you clap, the faster I dance. The wet sand spatters my legs; the sea is cold. The sun has dipped, and the tide is coming in.

Lexi? Gran knocked at my door. Have you eaten yet, love? I’ve just put the kettle on, and there’s soup and rolls if you’re hungry.

Thanks, Gran, I called back. I’m just unpacking. I’ll be through in a minute.

Will you have a cup of tea then?

Aye, go on.

Will you have a bit of soup?

Um…yes, please.

And a roll?

Thanks!

One roll or two?

Eh…just the one, ta.

D’you want butter?

I’ll be through in a sec, Gran.