Contents:

3………………Filmish (preview)

EdwardRoss

6….………….The Perfect cheese on Toast

JamesHarris

8.….……………….Period Drama,JoeBaddeley

9……………………….Waltz No. 7

HarryNordlinger

10………...Michael is that you?IainLaurie

14…………………….Neanderings

ChrisGeary

15…………….The Adventures of Racist Jim

JoeBaddeley

16………………..The Whispering Gallery

DanBloom

29…………..Things that are not correct #26

JoeBaddeley

Editors:England/LeahyDesign:England/BradfieldCover:FuongMaiNguyenMSPLogo:LukeForward

Mallard 7: July2010

Allcontentcopyright©MallardSmallPress2010ortherespective

authors.PrintedintheUK.

mallardsmallpress.wordpress.commallardsmallpress@hotmail.com

47fParkhurstRd,LondonN70LRUK

Editor’s Note: WhenwejointlylaunchedMallard 6andFragmentslastsummer,Iliketothinkwewereworkingataprettyprolificrate.Inourfirsttwoyears,weprinted(andsoldoutof)tendifferentpublications.Thistimeit’sbeenatrialtoorganisejustone.Withkeycontributorsfindingthemselvesgraduatingfromuniversityandhavingtogetajob,puttingMallard 7togetherturnedintoabitofalengthyprocess.Butanyway,hereitis.

Sohowtointroducethis,theseventhissueofMallard?Well,it’sprobablysignificantthat,forthefirsttimeinMSPhistory,neitherChrisnormyselfappearinthisissue.Instead,Mallardhassortofdoneit’sownthing,turningintowhatwehopeditwouldbeonitsown.

I’mproudtopresentsomegreattalentthatMallardhashelpedintroducetothesmallpressworld,alongsidesomebrilliantworkbythelikesofEdwardRoss(whohascontributedapreviewofhisupcomingcomicFilmish)andpreviouscontributorIainLaurie.

Hopeyouenjoyit.

TE

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The Perfect Cheese on Toast James Harris

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He gently set the stricken Jumbo Jet down onto the runway, and,leaving the passengers and crew none thewiser as to how they hadpulledoutofthenosediveatthelastminute,hecheckedthegrillagain.Brown.Bubbling.Perfect.

The perfect cheese on toast. He got a plate from the draining boardand,withthumbandforefingermadeheatproofbyexposuretoyellowsun radiation, delicately lifted the toast from the grill. He smiled. Heheardthesoundoftyresscreeching,andachildcryingandshoutingforalostcat.Helookedatthetoast.Hewasn’tacatperson.

Johnny happily reunited with Tintin, and aware of the dangers ofleaving the front door openwhen you own a cat and live on amainroad, he flew through his kitchen window and tipped the cold toastintothepedalbin.

Heopenedthepacketofbread,andreachedpastthecrust.

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The Whispering Gallery Dan Bloom

OCTOBER

There’saholeinthegreyingplasterofmyceilingwhichIpeculiarlydislike.ItsitsjustabovewhereIlaymyheadtosleep,andIcanliebackandlookatitandwasteawayhouruponhourwhileItrytoavoidmydissertation.Ilie,andIthink,andIflickabluntpencilbetweenmythumbandforefinger,andIcounttherotationsuntilthemovementhypnotizesmeandsendsme,eversosoftly,tosleep.Thework’sdueinacoupleofmonthsnow,andIdidn’tputinasmuchhardgraftoverthesummeras,now,IsometimeswishIhad.Younevercanatoneforlosttime,sotospeak,butyoucandoyourbesttomakeupforit,andthat’swhatIplantodonow.

IfonlyIcouldatoneformakingtheceilingholebeforetheytakeawaymydeposit.Ithappenedinastupidmoment.Lasttimeaflywasinmyroomitskittedontheceilingabovethebed,dartingfromperchtoperch,anunsightlyspeckinthecornerofmyvision,untileventuallyI’dhadjustaboutenoughofthebuzzing,soIsquareditupwithahardbackbookandthrew,up.Theflygotawayasdidamodesthunkofplaster,sothereyougo.AndnowifIsquinthardenoughandlongenoughattheceilinghole,itsedgesstarttoblurandfade,andwitharushofstarsitchangesintoallkindsofwondrousblackshapes,shrinkingandbloomingcloseandfarawayatonceuntilIblinkandsnapoutandrealiseI’veactuallybeenasleepforhoursonend.

WhenIwakeupfromthiskindofdozeIhavecuriousmixedfeelings.I’mirritated,notangry,butannoyednonetheless,forallowingmyselftoslipintoamindlessreverieandabandonmywork.HoweverhardItrytomakeupforthelosttime,it’llinevitablyfail.I’llsitatthedeskandlookoutofthewindowattheslowlydarkeningskyandslipintoanevendeeperdaydreamthanbefore,countingthebirdsastheyflypastthewindowagainsttheindustriallygreybackgroundacrossthequad.WhenIwakeupfromadaydream,I’mtoosleepyeventoreprimandmyself.Sothere are two things I usually do.

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Ihaveashower,orIcookmyselfameal.ThatwayIwakeup,performausefulfunction,andbythetimeI’vestuffedordriedmyselfI’mreadyoncemoreforaction.

Thishappenednotlongago.LikeAlice,Ifoundmyselfplummetingdownintotheceilinghole–orup,asIsupposeitcouldbe–lateyesterdayafternoon.Iopenedmyeyesonlytoseetherealvoidabovemyhead,leeringatmeandmockingmyeyeswhichwereallbloodshotandcrusted‐over.Iblinked,anditwasstillthere.IgotoutofbedwithagroanofspringsandmusclesandIwokemyselfbyjumpingthroughthearchofclearperspexinthenextroomintotheshower.Igaspedastherushofcoldwaterhitmybody.Ihadforgottentoallowtimeforthepipestoheatup,butIwasinnow,soImadedo.

Asthewaterbegantopourintomyhairandtrickledownmychest,Ipickedupthelightweightoftheshampooandgaveitafirmpunchagainstmyoutstretchedpalm.WhilethelastdropinthebottleranintomyhairIcataloguedmyvariousbodyparts:thedirtbehindmyears,thehairsundermyarmsandinmynavelandinmybehind–thesleepinmyeyes,thewhitescumofdeadskinonmyheelsandalongmyarms,thespotsonmyface,flecksofskinallwashingcleanawayandbreathingagainwiththerushofclearwater.Ilookedacrossandcouldseethemirrorbeginningtosteamup.Intothegrey‐whitewasdisappearingmyownreflection;myhairwasgettingalittletoolongnow,andtheblondstreaksthesunhadimpartedoversummerwerebeginningtofade.Myfacewasmorespottythanbefore,too,andmypaleskinwasflayedredbytheblanchingeffectofthewater.Itensedmydiaphragmeversocarefully,asalways,andIcouldmakeoutcontourswheremytorsohadjustbeen,givingtheimpressionofmusclesanddefinitiononmyotherwiseflat,blotchyframe.Igaspedforairandthemusclesvanished.Thehumanbodyisnotanaltogetherunattractivething,Ithought.IsmiledtomyselfasIvanishedunderalayerofcondensation.

WhenIcameoutofthebathroomtheclockonmywallreadnearlyhalfpastsixanditwasgettingdarkinthequad.Thestreetlightshadclickedonandtheirpaleyellowglowwasglimmeringontheceiling.ItstruckmethatIhad

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wastedmostofthedayagain,andIthoughtwithashudderwhatwouldhappenifthiscyclerepeateditselfforthenexttwomonths.

‘Gottomakeaplan’,Ithought.Imadeamentalnotetodrawupaschedule,gotdressed,cutmynails,andthendrewoneup.I’veallottedthemorningsforresearch,whiletheafternoonswillbeforwritingandalltheotherthingslikecheckingemailsandphoningtutorsandfamily.IfinisheditoffusingajumbleofcolouredpensIfoundinthechestofdrawers,thenstoodbackandadmiredmyhandiworkforafewmomentsbeforegoingtoforageforsupper.

Iusuallyheaddownstairstothecanteenwitheveryoneelsefromhalls,butlatelytheworkload’sbeensogreatI’vedecidedtosavetimeandbemoreflexiblebycookingformyself,upinthekitchen.It’snotsobad.BecauseeverybodyelseonthecorridoreatstogetherImoreorlesshavetherunoftheplace,whichisnice,andIprettymuchneverbumpintoanyofthem.They’resoinvisible,infact,Ikindofwonderwhattheyallwhileawaytheirdaysdoing.ButlastnightImademyselfabrilliantmeal–boughtinsomeingredientsandimprovisedacarbonara,justacarbonara,butareallygoodcarbonara.IttookagessoIcrackedopenthebottleofwineBethleftlasttimeshewasroundandIhadaself‐involvedgourmetexperiencebackinmyroom.Ifeltbadforabandoningmyworkforsolong,soobviouslyItriedtoworkonthedissertationforabitafterthemeal.ButbythetimeI’dfinishedcooking,eating,washingandwiping,itwasalreadyfairlylate,soImanagedtoploughthroughsomeofit,butbeforeIcouldgetveryfaritwasalreadytwointhemorningandIcoulddonothingbutcollapse,exhausted,intobed,whereIstillamnow.

I’mnotunhappy,really,butatthesametime,Ican’thelpthinkingthatmylifeisturningasmaller,tightercirclewitheverypassingday–asifthewallsareclosinginaroundme,toputitrathertoodramatically.Maybethey’rebeingsuckedinbytheceilinghole.

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NOVEMBER

Idogetoutsometimes,unbelievablejoythoughitmayseem,butI’llbethefirsttoadmitthattonightwasthefirstinalongwhile.Theworkhasbeenboggingmedownnoend.It’sbeensolonginfactIhadtorenewmybuspass,slumpingdownthefourflightsofstairstoreceptionandscribbling‘Maryus,P.’threetimesbecausetheydidn’thaveanycarbonpaper.Itookthe507towardstownandgottoBeth’ssowellintimethatwhenIclimbedthestepstohersecond‐floorflatshewasstillgettingready.

Iwascompletelydriedoutfromthelongbus‐rideandthecoldairsothefirstthingIaskedforwhenIwalkedthroughthedoorwassomelipbalm,whichshetossedmywaybeforevanishingupstairsagaintoputonherface.Iwasgratefulforthelipbalm,applyingitonceandonceagainlikeacoatofpaint,andasshebegantotakeforeverIfoundmyselfamusingmyselfbyscrewingandunscrewingthebase–firstintotheopenair,thenintotheemptyplasticcase,andthen,withoneeyeclosed,IcarefullycoordinatedmymovementssothatIwasmovingthebaseofthelipbalmbackwardsatthesamerateasIwasunscrewingit,andsothetipofthewaxstayedlevelwiththesamespotonthewallwhilethecasingandtherestoftheworldmovedaroundit.Ifoundthemathematicsofmyownmovementstotallyhypnotic,andBethtookforeversoIwasabletocarryonforquitesometime.Butbeforetoolong,thedistantspotontheyellowliving‐roomwallpaperonwhichIwaschannellingallmyenergysuddenlymorphedintotheout‐of‐focusthreadsofBeth’sgreenskirt.Ilookedup;shewaseyeingmecoldlyandwaitingtogo.

Thestarswereoutandtwinklingjustoutofreachwhenweheadedoutofherflatanddownalongthecanal.It’sthewaywe’vealwayswalked,anditwasabeautifuleveningtonight.Iknewmoreorlesswherewewereheaded,butavaguenigglekepttellingmethatIwassupposedtohavechosentherestaurantinadvance.Iwonderedwhichwouldbebetter:toofferBeththechoiceofvenue,ortoturnupatonenonchalantlyasifIhadmarkeditoutweeksago.Itwasadifficultone;Beth’salmostasbadatchoicesasIam.Rightnowshewasstrollingafewfeettomyrightandtalkingabouther degree.

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Besttoleaveheroutofit,Idecided.Bestnottomakeherthinkabouttoomuch.IwouldjustturnupsomewhereIcouldguaranteewouldn’tbefull.

Weroundedacrumblingfencepostinthedark,andBethmovedontotalkingaboutherfamily.Shewasmethodicallyupdatingmeontheirmovements.IcaughtthroughthebreezethatPaulwasdoingwellattheshop,andhermumwasveryproud;alltheusualstuff;somedistantrelativehaddied,andeverybodywassad.Isighedmoreorlessinaudibly.I’mnotafanofsmalltalk.AvagueirritabilitybegantofallonmewhenIrememberedBethknowsthat.Ididn’tstopher.WewerejustcominguptoRina’s,anyway,anicelittleItalianwhichIknewwouldn’tbeovercrowded,andthehassleofgoingthroughthedoorandwaitingtobeservedwasamplereasontostopspeakingtooneanother.

I’vealwaysbeenafanofRina’s.It’srightinthecentreoftownsoit’sconvenientforpubsandbarsafterwards,andithasthesweetestdécorinside,allredandgreenandshadesofproudItalianasifit’sChristmasallyearround.Thewaitingstaffarerude,buttheyalwayshaveexactlyonefunnythingtosay,whichagainsttheoddstheymanagetosomehowsqueezeoutbytheendofthenight.Icouldn’trememberwhetherBethlikedtheplace,tobesure–Iremembersomebody,longago,sayingthattheyfoundthedeephuesoppressiveandstifling,butIdon’tthinkitwasher.Inanycase,Iknewshe’dbeabletomakedo,andbesides,Iwastooexcitedbythearbitrarythrillthatalwayscomesovermeonaneveningouttocare.

Bythetimemybeerandmysoupstartercametothetableshewastalkingaboutus.IrememberedfondlyasshespokehowIusedtoputonahigh,huskyvoiceandgrunt“GreatMysteryinBethis!”whensomethingshesaidonoccasionslikethisusedtogoovermyhead.Iusedtoputmyarmroundheranddrawhercloser,kissinghersoft,downybrownhairwhileshelaughedandIlayinaweofthesecondsex.Sittingatthetabletonight,though,Ibegantowonderwhetherwhatshesaysactuallydoesgoovermyheadthesedays.Therecomesapoint,Ithought,intime,whenthemysterygoesoutofthings.AsIavoidedhergaze,glancingarbitrarilyonmyfork,whichhadanickhalfwaydownthesecondprongfromtheleft,Isupposedthiswasagood

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thing.Itmeantthatpartnersunderstoodeachotherbetter–listenedtowhattheotherhadtosaywithoutspendinghalfthetimeduckingouttoconsulttheproverbialphrasebook.Oneday,I’veoftenthought,I’lltryitwithsomeonewhohasEnglishasasecondlanguage,maybetheirthird.Itwouldreallyputlife’spettymisunderstandingsintoperspectiveandallowpeopletochuckthephrasebookoutthewindow.ButmaybeIwon’thaveto,becauseforme,that’ssomethingIneverhavetodonowadays–‘checkthebook’.IinstinctivelyknowwhatBethissayingatanypoint.Shecancommunicatethingsinfinitelysubtleandmanifoldwithoutevenopeningherprettymouth.

IhadnearlyfinishedmysoupbythetimeIhadentertainedtheserathergrandthoughts,andIbeganwishingIcouldbeasintelligentasthiswiththedissertationsittingonmydeskbackhome.ForwhenIgotbackthreehoursagoIrifledthroughthestackofpapersandthroughmydreamy,half‐closedeyesIbecameJackNicholson’shorror‐filmwife,riflingthroughstacksoftypescriptwhichallsaythesamething,All Work and No Play Make Jack a Dull Boy,fasterandfasteruntilIfellstrewingpapersthroughthegapingholeintheceiling.Itswallowedmewholeandwithadeep,boominglaughbegantospiralandswarmroundmybody,envelopingfirstmyarms,thenmylegs,andcreepinginexorablyitatlastclaspeditsblacknessaroundmyneck.Myworldshrankdowntosubatomicproportionsandmeltedandswambeforemyeyeswhichboggledatthesightand,withgreatforce,tearingmyselfawayfromthescene,wrenchedthemselvesopentoseeonlytherealholemotionlessontheceiling.

Ishookmyheadtorelievemyselfofthisterror,anditdisappearedforawhile,butnowtheimageoffallingupwardsthroughspaceisrunningthroughmymindagainandIcan’tsleep.Inanycase,thewholethinggavemeatasteforafilm,soIslitheredThe ShiningintotheDVDslotandnowI’mhalf‐watchingJackwreakdisproportionatehavocuponhisfamily.Aroundthetimehiswifedragshimintothedeepfreezeitdawnedonmethatmyphonewasintheotherroom,butbythetimeIfoundthemissedcallsandtextsfromBeth,whichwerenumerous,itwasfartoolatetoringherback–Ishallcontactherinthemorning.

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Back,though,toRina’s,andawayfrommynightterrors.IhadbeentwirlingmyforkwhileBethtalkedandquitesometimepassedbeforemymaincoursearrived.Itwasfabulous.Isatforsomeminutesabsorbingitsfineaestheticqualities,andsniffingit,whileIwaitedforBeth’sfoodtocome.Whenitdid,itlookedevenbetter,andItoldherso.Forsomereasonshestartedattemptingtooffloadherdishontome–somethingsheoftendoes–buttonightIhadtodrawtheline;hermealwasjusttoogoodtoshare,nomatterthesizeofherappetite.Itoldhertojusteatandenjoyit.

Meanwhile,asIateandtherich,heavyflavourschurnedaboutmypalate,Itooktolookingoutattheworldoutside,andcountingthepatternsmadebyallthestrangerspassingbythewindow.ThepedestriansmimickedthelittleIknewofbinarycode:Isawasolitarystickfigure,1,andthenmilesofemptyspace,0000,thentwostickfiguresatonce,11,andthenasmallgap,00,thenthreestickfiguresinagrouptogether,alllaughingatsomesharedjoke.Someofthemwerewomen;mostweremen.Occasionallytheywouldbeblackorbrown;mostlytheywerewhite.IsawaChinesegirlandmyeyeswidenednoticeablyinmildsurprise.Thecars,astheypassed,madeamoresteadyrhythmthanthepeople,thump,thumpthump,asIsawit,thumpinglikethebeatofaheartwiththelateeveningrushhour,buteventheywereinterspersedwithwhitevansandmopedsgoingabouttheirbusiness,breakingupthepatternandmakingmydaydreamingeyesblink.Ihadimaginedthateverycar,everythumpwasanewletterfromthekeyboardintomydissertation,whilethewhitevansweremistakes,andthemopedsweremyclicking‘delete’.Ismiledvisiblyatthethoughtofthisgrandmetaphorandatmyobsessionwithwork.Then,asifbymagic,Ilookedupandheardmycoffeebreaks:thefaintroarofaeroplaneseveryfifteenminutesfromthecityairport,thelightsblinkingoverthefrontwindowofRina’sthenfadingbackintothenightsky.

InthatmomentIrealised,atleastpartly,justhowbeautifulandperfectitallwas.Itdidn’tmatterwhatIdidorwhatIrefusedtodo,thegreat,structurelesscomingsandgoingsinthestreetandintheskyandintherestaurantwouldremainconstant,reliable.Itdidn’tmatterhow

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longIabsentlytwirledthelastscrapofcannellonionmyfork;Iwouldstilleithereatit,oritwouldbethrownaway,andnobody,anywhereamongthebillionsonEarth,wouldevercastathoughttoitagain.AndifIdidnowork,everagain,Icouldhidefromtheworldformonthsandmonthsandneverbefound,becausenobodywouldeverfindauseforme.Andatthesametimeasallthis,Iknewmyworldwasshrinkingtoanalmostinscrutablevanishingpoint,wherenobodywouldcastathoughttome,andIwouldn’tnotice,butitwouldn’tmatter,anyway,becauseitwasallsobeautifulandsoperfect,andIwouldsimplydisappear.It’shardtoexplain,butthepowerofthisthoughtshotthroughmesohotlyIlosttheabilitytospeak.

Ilookedupattheslender,rose‐colouredcandlethatsatinthetopofanoldwinebottlebetweenus.Ithadburnedhalf‐waydownbythispointandwasbeginningtodroop.Iwatcheditweakenatthebaseuntilaslightcrackbegantoform,andIwatchedthecrackgrowbiggerandbiggeruntilitswallowedmeandtherestoftherestaurant,andtheceilingholeandmydissertationandJackNicholson’swife,allintothegreatabyssforeverandeverandever,andthentheceilingholeclosedup,plungingmeintodarknessthatwasatonceenormousandmicroscopic,andIknewthatIwouldbetrappedinthetiny,hugedarknessforeternity,nevertowakeup,shakingwithterror,andthat’swhen,atthelastmoment,Ireachedoutandsteadiedtheunmovingcandle,andIrealisedthatmybreathwasshort.Ipantedslightlyfromthementaleffort.AsIcontrolledmybreathingandsteadiedmyself,Iranmyfingergingerlydownthelengthoftherose‐colouredcandle,andmyeyescollidedintoBeth’sforthefirsttime.Ifoundmyselfrealisingthatshehadbeentalkingtomeforthewholemeal,andthatshewasstilltalkingnow,lookingintomyeyes.Infact,shewascrying.Suddenly,IbecameawarethatIwascompletelyarrestedbywhatshewassaying.

“Crawlingback,Phil.I’mcrawlingback.”

Shepaused,andthetearthatIhadseeninhereyewelledoverthebrimandbegantotrickledownherleftcheek.

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“Ihopeyou’rehappy,becauseIhopeoneofthetwoofusishappy,andI’mdesperatelyunhappy.”Shewaited.“Can’tyouseethatI’mdesperatelyunhappy?Iwasdesperatelyunhappywithyou,andI’vebeendesperatelyunhappywithoutyou.”

“I’vechanged,Phil,somuch,andI’verealisedthatIneedyou,so–very–much.SoIdon’twanttosplitup,now,Phil,okay?”Shebreathed.“I’mcrawlingback–okay?I’mdesperatelyunhappy.Willyouletmecrawlback?Iloveyou.”

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DECEMBER

Iansweredherquestionintherestaurantthatnightusingarelativelystandardmethod,onewhichI’vehadcausetousemanytimesinmyshortlife.WhatIdidisIthought,‘IsthereachancethatI’llregretthis?’,anditdidn’ttakemelong,ofcourse,torealisethattherewas,indeed,agreatchanceIcouldhavedone.So,naturally,Igotbackwithmygirlfriendanditalmostfeltlikewe’dneverbeenapart.Idon’tthinkI’vehadcausetoregretmydecisionsince,andI’msurethatshehasn’teither.Inanycase,themethodIused,ofconsideringthingsintermsofregret,whichI’mquiteproudtohavethoughtup,isoneI’veexploitedbefore.It’sthereason,forinstance,thatI’veneveroncesmokedacigarette.Iusedtotellittotheolderboysinschool,andthey’dbedisgusted,andthreatentoputitinmymouthandpunchmeinthestomachandforcemetodrawbreathuntilIbecameaddicted,orsomething.Still,Istoodfirm,andnowI’venearlyfinishedmydissertationandI’mnearlytwenty‐oneandIstillhaven’tdrawnasingledragofnicotineintomylungs.

Yet,I’vealmostbeentemptedtotakeitup,smokingthatis,inthelastfewdays,thedyingdaysofthisdissertation,justforsomethingtodo.It’snotlonguntilthedeadline,notlongatall,aworryinglyshorttimeinfact,yetIstillfeellikeJackNicholsonputtingaterrifyingholeinthedoor(exceptmyhole’sintheceiling.Maybeallmyideasarefallingoutthroughit).Yesterday,whentheweatherwasagreeable,foronce,Iwentoutside,carryingatextbook,andnestledtheseatofmyovercoatintothebaseofthelongwallthatrunsallaroundthehalls.

Ihaven’tbeenoutsideorseenanyone,exceptBeth,fordays.Itfeltsnugandprotectedreadingthere,moresnugthanI’vefeltforalongtimewiththewindwhistlingoverthetopofthewall,andthechangewasawelcomeone,eventhoughIcouldbesureIwasbeingwatchedfromthecriss‐crossofwindowsrunningupthebuilding.Eventuallyitgottoocoldtoreadeveninthelowwintersunlight,andsoIstoodupandwalkedalongthelengthofthewall,runningmyhandsalongtheconcreteandfeelingitssurface’s

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surface’ssmooth,comfortingshine,newandfreeofanyweatheringcracks.Ilookedoutalongitsslowinwardcurve,goldeninthelateafternoonsun,andIwasremindedofonce,longago,whenIhadvisitedtheWhisperingGalleryinSt.Paul’sCathedral.WithBeth,Ihadjoinedthethrongsoftouristsinstandingatoppositesidesofthegiant,circularmarblewallandwhisperingagainstitinthevainhopeshe’dhearontheotherside.She’dputhereartheatricallytothemarblesurfaceandgiggledasI’dreeledoffdeliberatelymundanethingslikeourweekendplansandmyshoppinglist.I’dthenmadehergaspingenuineshockasIthroatilystage‐whisperedallkindsofdirtythingsforallthetouriststohear.AnAmericanmotherhadpulledherchildfromthewallwithanangrylookandBeth’seyeshadsparkledacrossthehallatme.

Now,absorbed,Iloweredmyheadtothewallandlistenedcarefully,almostexpectingtohearagainallthosetourists’livesplayedoutinthebusy,freneticfree‐flowofwhisperedinformation.Myearsprickedinshockastheymadecontactwiththegreyconcrete.Butofcourse,therewasnothing:onlysilence.Ispokeafewquietwordsandtheyfelldeadagainstthegreystone.Theairwascoldnow,too,socold,infact,thatafterstandingparalysedforamomentwithmyheadstillpressedagainstthewall,Iwasforcedtoliftmyselfup,shovemyhandsbackintomydeepovercoatpocketsandheadbackforthesafetyofindoors.

Ihaven’tmademuchprogresswiththeworksincethenbutmyideasaremuchclearer,andIknowthatwithtimeIcanknuckledownandmakesomethingoutofthem.

Thetemperaturesplummetedlastnight,soIknewthatanotherwalkoutsidewasoutofthequestionfortoday.Itwasagoodday.IreallysetmyaffairsinorderandIreallyamquiteclearnowwhatIwanttowrite.

Therewasalittleincidentthiseveningwhichbrokeupthemonotonyofwork,forawhile.Iwastappingthechewed‐upwetnibofmyinkpenontothebaseofmydesklight;oneofthosetouch‐lamps,soasIdiditthelightbecamedim,bright,brighter,thenclickedoff.Thenagain,dim,bright,brighter,off,dim

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again,bright,brighter,thendarkness,bouncingastrobeeffectoffthewallsthatwashypnotizingtowatch.Eventually,thisattractedtheattentionofasmallfly.ItflewinthroughthecrackofopenwindowthatI’dlefttoairtheroom:theyalwaysfindthecracks.ItbegancirclingthelampasIplayedwithmypen,andthewholetimeIwassecretlywatchingthemovementsofthecirclingfly;thisflywouldoccasionallyland,onthepilesofstrewn‐uppaper,sweetwrappers,dirtytissues,teabags,scratched‐offbeerlabelsandchewed‐uppensIhadgatheredaroundmeoverthepastfewweeks,butalwaysjumpoffagaintooquicklyformetotakeaction.Itwasasifitwasafraidtolandonthepulsatinglight,insteadspirallingcloserandcloserwithoutevertouchingit.Istoppedthecycleonthebrightestsettingandtheflylanded.Thehundredwattbulbblazedthroughtheshade.Isawred.Thefeelingwasbizarreandunexpected.Thiswasmychance.Slowly,agonisingly,theflylifteditswingsandhoppedtheshortdistanceontotheverytopofthelampshade.Therewasamutedechoofabuzz.Isilentlyliftedthetextbookinmyhandhighintotheairandwithgraceandstyle,atlastbroughtitcrashingdownupontheoffender.

Withasuddenflashoflightandadeafeningpopthelampshadecrumpledandthebulbexploded,strewingbrokenglassacrossmynotesandintomywashing,interspersingwiththepilesofjunkwithwhichIhadlearnedtosurroundmyselfandsprayinginglitteringshardsacrossmycarpet.Iwasplungedintoadarknessthatwasalmostcomplete,saveforthestreetlampsthatlitthequadcastinganorangeglowonmyceilingthatmyeyesgraduallyadjustedtosee.Thedustsettled,andIsawthattheflywasdead.Isatthere,andIlookedcarefullyatthemessthatIhadmade,inthehalf‐light,forafewminutes,andthenitdawnedonmethatIhadshardsofglassonmypyjamas.Iwentintothecommunalkitchentoclearmyselfup,and,sighing,mademyselfafreshcupoftea.Theoldoneprobablyhadglassinthebottom.

Ifeelsohelpless.ItlooksasifI’llhavetoworkwithoutadesklampuntilthedissertation’sfinished.Andthere’snotimetoaskanybodytofixtheceilinghole,either.Thenightmareshavebeengettingworse.ButI’mpouringmyselfintomywork,atleastfornow.Itseemslikethemostsensiblethingtodo

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underthecircumstances.Icanonlyfaintlytrustalargerhopethatseemssohopelesslyoutofreach:thatI’llfinish,andeverythingwillgetfixedandworkout,andI’llbehomeintimeforChristmassoIcancookandbakeandbreakbreadwithmyfamilyasifnoneofthistermeverhappened.Maybethat’salreadytrue.IfeellikeIcanhardlyrememberanyofitasitis.

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Mallard 6 (July 2009)

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- ComicBookBin.com 

SixthissueofMSP’sflagshipanthology.Feat.JoBillingsley,RobCursons,SimonEaves,JoeBaddeley,andothers.

The Kingmaker pt.1 – C.B.Leahy & Tom England

ThefirstpartofLeahy’sstudyofhumanpotentialwatchesabewilderedprotagonistslowlyrealisehehasnothingtolose.AlsofeaturesashortcomicbyTomEngland.

Fragments – C.B.Leahy & Tom England

Followingfrompreviouscollaboration‘TwoStories’,England&Leahycollaboratetoproduceaseriesofshort,reflectivepiecesbasedaroundandinspiredbytheRiverMersey.

“It’s very poetic… It’s all about rivers…” ‐ Rob Jackson 

 

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About MSP:

Mallard Small Presshasclearaims:

‐Tocreateaplatformforcreativity,enablingwould‐becreatorsanincentivetocarryonproducingcomicsandliterature.

‐Tointroducenewartistsandwritersintothesmallpressworld,bypresentingtheirworkalongsidecomics&literaturebymoreseasonedsmall‐pressers,intheregularanthologyMallard.

‐Tointroducecomicstonon‐comicsfans,bysellingthematawiderangeofvenuesandplaces.

‐Topromotethebestvaluesofthesmallpressworld,byworkingwithlocalgroups‐suchasthePaper Jam Comics CollectiveandtheAlternative Press.

‐Togivegoodvalueformoney,bynotwastingcashonproductionandkeepingcoverpricesascheapaspossible.

Wethink,poundforpound,we'rethebestsmallpressgroupintheUK.Ifyoudisagree,you'reprobablywrong.

Contributors: EdwardRossisanEdinburghbasedcomicbookwriterandcartoonist.Youcancheckouttherestofhisworkat100tinymoment.blogspot.comandedwardmaross.blogspot.comHarryNordlingerwaslastseenin‘Mallard4’.Moreofhisweird,wonderful,andpoliticallyastutecomics&artcanbeseenonharrynordlinger.blogspot.comFuongMaiNguyen:“I'verecentlygraduatedfromGraphicsDesignBA,currentlyIamafreelanceillustratoranddesigner.WorkingwithMSPissuchgoodfunbecauseIgettoalsocontributemyotherinterestofallthingscomical.”www.fuongmai.comDanBloomhassomehowfoundhimselfworkingontheKentish Express,coveringtheleastnewsworthyregionofGreatBritain,andlivingwithhisparents.Hehasnoopinionsorsenseofselfhood.ChristopherGeary:“Istartedinyourpublicationandthenbeganmyjourneyintosmallpresscomics,havedrawnforred letter comicsgraphicnovel‘BloodFeather’andIamnowworkingonan11pagezombiestripfor‘HallowscreamII’andlovingeveryminuteofit.”gearysworld.blogspot.comIainLaurie:AnEdinburgh‐basedcartoonist&illustratorlastseeninMallard6.powwkipsie.blogspot.com.JamesHarris:Jamesproducesacomedy/artzinetitled‘TheStoryofGrass’.ThisishisfirstcontributiontoMallard,butit’sgoodtohavehimonboard.JoeBaddeleyforsomereasonthinkshe’sprettyfunny.

“The rising stars of the comics universe may well be lurking in the pages of Mallard Press titles today.”

- Marc Schuster, SmallPressReviews