Brinkinfield

Othello’s Fowl Play

In the year of our good Lord 1936, down yonder at Featherstone Broilers, out westwards within the grand ol’ state of Georgia, near pine trees that perfumed the air and sang soft hymns when the wind blew just right, a tender-hearted young feller by the name of Othello (his mama, bless her heart, was downright smitten with the plays penned by one William Shakespeare) found himself in a real pickle.

To a family with deep roots (and let me tell ya, roots can hold you down as well as give you life), bein’ the only child to the late Mr and Mrs Featherstone, Othello ‘came as the sole beneficiary of what you might call a family legacy: his parents’ chicken farm, a stretch of land dotted with weathered red barns and chicken coops that had seen far better days.

Now, the rub of it was on account of him walkin’ the virtuous path of Veganism, a notion he’d cottoned to while still a wet-behind-the-ears teenager, navigatin’ the rocky terrain of growin’ up in the Georgia heat – a heat that can melt your worries or boil ’em over, depending on the day. Though it wasn’t no fashion trend back then. Mind you, he’d often say it was his mama’s lackluster cookin’ that pushed him that-a-way. If somethin’ could be burned, dried out like a summer creek, or rendered near ’bout inedible, well sir, his mama had a God-given talent for it.

On/Off-Grid

Davy is such an amazing, adaptable, able, and loving man. How many men would listen to their girlfriend talk endlessly about going off-grid, living in the woods, and building our own log cabin, with no utilities? I was all about it for weeks!

I’d done my research, made contact with people already living this life through their social media, and even created a project journal. I’d never realised the amount of sponsorship available to people who do this sort of thing! Sponsorship for clothes and such is abundant; you just need a good social media game. This comes as quite a relief, because I can’t sew or knit. The style coming through from suppliers is boho and rustic, but well, that’s fine.

Uncle Tommy

Mum and Dad argued a lot, so to help out, Uncle Tommy came along on holiday with us this one year, to sunny old Cornwall.
It was fun – because Uncle Tommy played with us and taught Rosie how to swim! Soon after we got back, Mum decided to leave Dad and went off to live with Uncle Tommy.
Dad got really mad and said he wouldn’t once speak to Uncle Tommy, ever again. And he didn’t, not even later when he found out he was dying from cancer.

Love Upgraded

Honestly, I had no belief in online dating. Previously, I had mostly met gentlemen psychopaths and vertically challenged, angry men. However, after one year and twelve days of time wasted, finally, with Roger, I hit bingo gold! He was Mr Perfect, remarkably handsome, always well turned-out in expensive fashion, and with immaculate hair. He had height, charm, fragrance, wit and intellect, all rolled into one.

Over the weeks following our first meeting, we dined and drank fine wine, seemingly sparing no expense, and enjoying the best table or seats in the house. We travelled abroad to some of the most romantic cities, indulged in high culture, and even found ourselves, on one memorable occasion, flying over the steeples and domes of Budapest in a gilded hot air balloon.

Chauffeured to our dates, I came to expect a gift awaiting me on the back seat of the limousine. I collected perfumes, breath-taking corsages made of fresh flowers and feathers, and gleaming jewellery. On each occasion, I would find a handwritten love poem rolled into a scroll and tied to the box with pink ribbon. I felt fêted like a royal princess in a heavenly fairytale.

Troubled in Eden

Born in the wake of the countercultural revolution, I was thrust into a bohemian environment that embodied the era’s most idealistic visions. The promise of a community living in perfect harmony drew my parents into the communal web that was North London in the mid-1970s.

From the outside, our commune, situated on Chalk Farm Road in a four-storey Victorian terrace, appeared to be a sanctuary for free spirits, artists, intellectuals, and pacifists living cohesively in shared spaces. It was against this backdrop that my formative years unfurled.

The atmosphere on the inside was so laissez-faire, it was impossible to remember which children belonged to which parents. Wives often confused their husbands, while younger brothers and sisters were in a constant state of uncertainty and confusement about their actual kinship.

The Final Grasp: The Rise and Fall of John Moses Gilmour-Parker

John Moses Gilmour-Parker (1863-1895) was, in his lifetime, both a city librarian and Delaware’s most illustrious arm-wrestling champion. His undefeated reign spanned nearly a decade and boasted over 2,000 matches. However, it was only in his final contest, against Mrs Gwendoline Sharpesworth, that Gilmour-Parker stumbled, losing 2-1. Devastated, he announced his retirement in the newspaper the following morning. When questioned, Sharpesworth attributed her win to a flexible wrist and extensive practice with her husband.

Lost Not Found

I lost your scarf. I left it in a quiet cafe, in a city I have no reasonable expectations to revisit. Not ever. I called them up the old-fashioned way, making use of a modern device. A calm voice answered, confirming the name of the café, then paused.
“I lost my scarf,’ I said. ‘I am confident thinking I left it with you.’ My own statement struck me as disorderly, but I left it alone.
‘With me, are you sure?’
I had felt pretty sure, although now a little less so, when compared to a few moments earlier.
‘Yes, I feel pretty sure.’
‘You remember having it on your person when you arrived and then noticed it gone, after you had left.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that sounds about right.’
‘Okay,’ the voice said, ‘I’ll go have a look around.’

The Weight of Leaves

‘I dae this a few times a year, ken?’ says George, his physique suggesting a man who enjoys hearty meals. ‘Wi’ the wind blowin’ aw sorts into the yard, it’s a must.’ He sweeps a soggy clump of leaves toward the mouldy heap next to him.

‘What’s next for all this?’ I ask, gesturing at the pile.

‘Ach, cannae leave it be, else the rats’ll hae a field day. It aw goes intae the cart, then oot tae yon woods.’ With a jerk of his thumb, he points to a small cluster of trees in the distance.

‘Can I help?’ Despite my best efforts, my voice betrays a hint of awkwardness. George scrutinises me, visibly weighing whether I’m up to the task.

A Woman of Interest

You reanimate the memory of a woman I once recognised, immortalised on an album’s front cover. Back then, I was an impressionable youth and you could’ve been old enough to be my mother. All mothers are women, this is true, but to me, you were a woman evoking deeper emotional consideration.

Romance Language Conundrum

Currently, Embry lives in Paris, identifing as non-binary and chooses to use the gender-neutral pronoun iel.

‘A few years ago,’ Embry tells me, ‘the most widely used French dictionary added the non-binary pronoun: “eil” to its online version.’

‘Okay,’ I murmur, while trying to fully process what I’ve just been told.

‘You see, it is a contraction of the masculine personal pronoun il and the feminine elle, il and elle: iel. Here, we use this to refer to a person regardless of gender.’ Embry is smiling, imagining the cogs in my brain whirring. ‘This means that the gender of the person being referred to can be masculine, feminine or undefined, But it is especially useful for those who call themselves non-binary, who do not identify as male or female.’