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James William Boland What idea hasn’t been over written about? None. And yet, And Yet I still write, I’m compelled to. For luck, Loves flows in circles. This is for my father. MySpace

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Rob Miles Rob is a Co-Founder and part-time Designer of Platforms Magazine.

I know this because it must be true and because of the look of your face when you catch me looking. When will I catch you? I could be wrong. I can’t be. This shouldn’t be so secret, so confusing. But it is, it is. Lovely run your eyes down me.

I saw you walk by. You saw me see. A doe I became after your gaze flipped my stomach, squeezed my waist. I ran as if your eyes widened, gleamed, into headlights that would have shined through everything if I didn’t escape, leave.

You said ‘oh’ and I do not know what it means. Oh it means something. It means come here darling. It means lets tussle, fumble, undo the meanings said to people who aren’t you, who aren’t me. Lets make believe she never existed. Lets make believe this downpour is just a mist that washes away the empty places that you miss because I was not there, not in them. Lets pretend you never forgot, never will forget, all you promised you would give. You promised with your lips. They parted quick and the air between them fell between my fingertips.

The truck door slammed slowly, surely speaking to me in a language only left behind in the dust lining our meetings. They are fleeting for in the open no one can know. In the open you pass a hello in an invisible note. I see l-o-v-e spelled out in your shadow.

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Karissa Satchwell I’m 17 years old, and am currently putting together a manuscript of poems that I hope to find a publisher for. I am an active daydreamer. I have a love for independent and french cinema, coffee, trees, cold weather, late nights, and music, lots of music. I am inspired by ee cummings, Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac, and by fairy tales.

Today is Wednesday and I am on my way to retrieve the clean jacket. It’s real sunny and I’m not sure I even need the jacket back. They can have it and the seagull poo that adorned it. I don’t care. All I want is to go to the seafront, drink an Innocent smoothie and relax into some Sufjan.

It’s a long walk to the dry cleaners and there’s nothing much to look at, just shops. There is a girl walking in front of me. She’s very pretty. Nice legs. She’s carrying a trolley bag and it makes an annoying whir as it whisks along the pavement. She must be foreign or from far away. Otherwise, she would just be carrying a purse. She’s listening to music on her iPod and she looks relaxed. She could be listening to Sufjan. I look away but there’s nothing more interesting than her to look at. She keeps on walking and I wonder at what point our directions will part. She can’t be going to the dry cleaners, surely. Maybe she is. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to happen. Maybe that seagull shitting on my jacket is an act of fate, meant to bring us two together. They say that being soiled by birds is a sign of good luck. Maybe this is our luck. Maybe this is it. At dinner parties, we would share our seagull woes. I would tell of when they shat on my jacket, she would tell of when they snatched her sandwich. Our grandchildren would owe their existence to bird poo and we would make a point of telling it to them. It would be our story. Our anecdote. Our song will be Bird Gerhl by Antony and The Johnsons and we will hold hands every time we listen to it, softly. Every word will have extra-meaning invested in it. We would look into each other’s eyes and we will know we were meant to be. That it was bigger than us. That the universe shat on me from the skies because it wanted us to be together.

She continues in the same direction as me. Crossing the same roads. I am being dragged after her, like her trolley. Walking in the same pace. Her cardigan falls off her left shoulder, revealing a black strap and a tanned back. She must be foreign, it’s only been sunny for a few days. What if she doesn’t know English? I’m hardly great at charming girls in English, let alone other languages. I hope she’s from Australia or Canada or another English-speaking country. We would make fun of each other’s accents.

One of her shoes slides off and I really want her not to notice. I could pick it up and bring it to the police and they will send messengers all over the country, to find the girl whose shoe this is. I will be the prince and she will be Cinderella. I bet she has evil sisters who will try to get their dirty paws on me but I will not give in. I will find her.

She stops. What do I do? Do I stop too? That would make me look like a stalker. Shit. Fuck. Crap.
I don’t stop. I continue walking. Past her. Leaving her behind. What would I tell our grandchildren? That I never met their grandmother because her shoe slid off? I slow down. I pretend to read a non-existent text message on my phone and she’s back in front of me. Phew.

We are almost at the dry cleaners. I can see the sign. She reaches the entrance and stops outside. Looking at the sky. Checking what Fate thinks, listening to the wind’s advice. I go in. Hoping she would follow. Hoping I could drag her in. Even if she doesn’t need the dry cleaners. Just so I could say hello. We would talk and I would charm her in French or German or Dutch. I’ll stumble with words but in an endearing way and she will toss her head laughing. I bet she has a nice infectious laughter. Every time she would laugh, I would laugh too, even if I don’t get what’s funny.
I turn around and watch as she continues walking. Into the distance. Into a life I’m not part of. Fate must have changed its mind. Goodbye.

Sir? Sir?

I hand my slip to the dry cleaning lady.

She hands me the jacket.

That would be four pounds fifty.

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Roy Marmelstein Roy is the Editor and Founder of Platforms Magazine.