Aims and Principles - point by point Translations of our Aims and Principles and other AF texts are available in: Français/French, Deutsch/German,Español/Spanish, Português/Portuguese, Greek/ÅëëçíéêÜ. Hollands/Dutch, Russian, Gaelic/Gàidhlig, Welsh/Cymraeg, Esperanto,Turkish

1. The Anarchist Federation is an organisation of revolutionary class struggle anarchists. We aim for the abolition of all hierarchy, and work for the creation of a world-wide classless society: anarchist communism.
2. Capitalism is based on the exploitation of the working class by the ruling class. But inequality and exploitation are also expressed in terms of race, gender, sexuality, health, ability and age, and in these ways one section of the working class oppresses another. This divides us, causing a lack of class unity in struggle that benefits the ruling class. Oppressed groups are strengthened by autonomous action which challenges social and economic power relationships. To achieve our goal we must relinquish power over each other on a personal as well as a political level.
3. We believe that fighting systems of oppression that divide the working class, such as racism and sexism, is essential to class struggle. Anarchist-Communism cannot be achieved while these inequalities still exist. In order to be effective in our various struggles against oppression, both within society and within the working class, we at times need to organise independently as people who are oppressed according to gender, sexuality, ethnicity or ability. We do this as working class people, as cross-class movements hide real class differences and achieve little for us. Full emancipation cannot be achieved without the abolition of capitalism.
4. We are opposed to the ideology of national liberation movements which claims that there is some common interest between native bosses and the working class in face of foreign domination. We do support working class struggles against racism, genocide, ethnocide and political and economic colonialism. We oppose the creation of any new ruling class. We reject all forms of nationalism, as this only serves to redefine divisions in the international working class. The working class has no country and national boundaries must be eliminated. We seek to build an anarchist international to work with other libertarian revolutionaries throughout the world.
5. As well as exploiting and oppressing the majority of people, Capitalism threatens the world through war and the destruction of the environment.
6. It is not possible to abolish Capitalism without a revolution, which will arise out of class conflict. The ruling class must be completely overthrown to achieve anarchist communism. Because the ruling class will not relinquish power without their use of armed force, this revolution will be a time of violence as well as liberation.
7. Unions by their very nature cannot become vehicles for the revolutionary transformation of society. They have to be accepted by capitalism in order to function and so cannot play a part in its overthrow. Trades unions divide the working class (between employed and unemployed, trade and craft, skilled and unskilled, etc). Even syndicalist unions are constrained by the fundamental nature of unionism. The union has to be able to control its membership in order to make deals with management. Their aim, through negotiation, is to achieve a fairer form of exploitation of the workforce. The interests of leaders and representatives will always be different from ours. The boss class is our enemy, and while we must fight for better conditions from it, we have to realise that reforms we may achieve today may be taken away tomorrow. Our ultimate aim must be the complete abolition of wage slavery. Working within the unions can never achieve this. However, we do not argue for people to leave unions until they are made irrelevant by the revolutionary event. The union is a common point of departure for many workers. Rank and file initiatives may strengthen us in the battle for anarchist communism. What's important is that we organise ourselves collectively, arguing for workers to control struggles themselves.
8. Genuine liberation can only come about through the revolutionary self activity of the working class on a mass scale. An anarchist communist society means not only co-operation between equals, but active involvement in the shaping and creating of that society during and after the revolution. In times of upheaval and struggle, people will need to create their own revolutionary organisations controlled by everyone in them. These autonomous organisations will be outside the control of political parties, and within them we will learn many important lessons of self-activity.
9. As anarchists we organise in all areas of life to try to advance the revolutionary process. We believe a strong anarchist organisation is necessary to help us to this end. Unlike other so-called socialists or communists we do not want power or control for our organisation. We recognise that the revolution can only be carried out directly by the working class. However, the revolution must be preceded by organisations able to convince people of the anarchist communist alternative and method. We participate in struggle as anarchist communists, and organise on a federative basis. We reject sectarianism and work for a united revolutionary anarchist movement.
10. We oppose organised religion and cults and hold to a materialist analysis of capitalist society. We, the working class, can change society through our own efforts. Worshipping an unprovable spiritual realm, or believing in a religious unity between classes, mystifies or suppresses such self-emancipation / liberation. We reject any notion that people can be liberated through some kind of supernatural force. We work towards a society where religion is no longer relevant.

Paradoxical Being

Introduction (unfinished)

Who is this body that stares at its flesh in a mirror and curses its own existence, when the mountains of skin and bone are wholly self-inflicted, the only creature liable for its current subsistence in life lying behind its own weary eyes? The heart beating within its chest is feeble and weak, metaphorically speaking. If only that was literal, it screams, for what better excuse to die than an unfeigned glitch on a screen? No, the torment roils undetectable and malicious, within the contours of its own mind. 

Excerpts and responses to a contextual RP I run, called The Dystopian Wars

-As Caillech ran she thought of the city and all it held, the hearts within that she had plagued her life to keep beating, even if only for one more day. She tore through the rain, her face a mask of practiced nonachalance whilst a deluge of screaming water raged and wrought destruction upon the flesh within. Her body nursed the flames that burnt through the muscles of her thighs, her chest, whilst her soul threw back its head and roared for more, for pain, for the agony to rise into an unbearable heat. She cursed herself for being so weak, for desiring nothing more than to fall to the ground and quench the need to survive, to protect and serve. The wind howled, pushing the rain into great arcs as the darkened skies thundered above, raging a war that was beyond her comprehension, but a sign that the Gods understood and had unleashed a storm that would ignite the hearts of her pack into preparing themselves for battle, a battle of the likes that they had never seen before. She pulled back her lip, teeth exposed to the piercing rain, to better catch the scents in the air as she ran, the sound of the blood of her body singing powerfully in her ears. Caillech saw the crater despite the sheet of rain that fell so heavily from the sky and forced her body to brace against the the rocks as she skidded, in a shower of stones that fell to the waterfalls below, twenty feet to a stop. It was there she stood, her dark form visible on the precipice of Mactire's haven, with her eyes boring down upon the walls of the great temple as if for all the world a terrible and unyielding beast raged within.-

-As the Alpha considered Serra, a sudden bolt of sordid guilt flared in her chest; she should not have been gone so long. Admittedly the months apart from her pack and sanctuary had taken its toll on the both of them, and she now observed the changes in her Beta. The muscles of her body were refined to a new and terrifying extreme, a detail, while speaking volumes of the strain Serra had clearly gone through in her absence, that pleased Caillech greatly and her chin tilted upward in appreciation. Ever the Lycanthrope warrior, the woman that stood before her was a powerful display of superior strength and discipline, the power that strained against the skin of her body alone was impressive, and, coupled with her extraordinary height and size, she was a force not to be reckoned with. Something burned in Serra’s eyes, and Caillech wondered what the motive behind it could be, but as she looked upon the fighter that bore her neck in greeting, she knew an answer could not be given at such a time. The Alpha too had changed in more ways than one; her skin, though ever pale, was now wan and ashen. Two discoloured half-moons framed the lower rims of her eyes and the bones of her cheeks protruded somewhat further than before, a fresh blood wound forming a deep split on the flesh of her lower lip, purplish and swollen. Though her body was encased in a black suit, it concealed other injuries that she had neglected over the past months, refusing as was her adamant nature to acknowledge them until she had returned to Mactire and ensured everything was well. Despite these changes, she remained tall and formidable in her stance, and reached out a muscular arm that strained against the binding leather to rest a gloved hand on Serra’s hard shoulder.- Serra. –Her voice was low and rumbling, ringing with a mixture of controlled emotion, but above all a steadfast and required authority, for they were in the company of others.- It is good to be home. –At that, two lucent eyes, suddenly potent with the force of anger that betrayed her soulless facade, shifted to follow the scent of shame that spread from the skin of the Lycan as Serra’s kick connected with his body, sending him crashing to the ledge of the bridge. Shot with tendrils of blood, they widened fractionally to stress the rage that burned behind the cold exterior, but her expression did not falter; a mask of impassivity, only the slightest crease in the corner of her lip giving way as she watched his body convulse, blood pooling at his knees. For the moment she would let this pass, and instead felt the rising revulsion that had been festering within her at the sight of such a foul and despicable beast: the female.- ...Vampire. –The word shot through the silence, broke through the relentless rain, and ended in a feral hiss, her lips parting to accommodate the plosive and vulgar crash of a word that gave name to the creatures she so ardently despised. Her eyes slid, lingering for an excruciating length of time on the lips that veiled monstrosities capable of ripping soullessly into the flesh of innocents, across the contours of the Vampire’s physical existence, drinking her in for all she was before spitting on the ground at her feet. Caillech wiped roughly at the rivers of rain that cascaded from the sky, removing the water that stung her eyes, before stepping closer. Skin crawling, her fierce gaze bore down upon the female; the sickening abhorrence that tainted the ethereal hue of Caillech’s eyes, the disgust that writhed like a beast from the very pits of Satan’s hell, almost forcing bile to rise in her throat.- Do you think so low of me, do you insult my intelligence so, that you boldly slither, from the stinking hole that gave you birth, to my doors and expect me to open wide my arms and embrace you as one of my own? You soil the ground beneath your feet, my ground, the ground I of Mactire reign with the sole intent of ripping your kin from the shadows of the Earth with a force that will challenge even the Gods. –At that her eyes seemed ablaze, and a low rumble began to rise from the deep chambers of her chest. Her gaze shifted to the male, narrowing as she took in his large yet unmistakably youthful Lycan form, and wondered for a moment if this was some kind of pitiful joke sent from whatever deity she had inadvertently insulted. She had not travelled thousands of miles only to return to this. This, her citadel and safe haven, put into question by the very species that drove her kind back into the mountains from whence they were born. The anger that began to flare within threatened to crack the cold and unyielding nonchalance of her controlled expression, and she turned away from them, meeting Serra’s gaze.- An explanation, if you will.  

-Two lucent eyes, potent with the force of anger that betrayed her soulless facade, shifted to follow the scent of death that spread from the skin of the Vampire. Shot with tendrils of blood, they widened fractionally to stress the rage that burned behind the cold exterior, but her expression did not falter; a mask of impassivity, only the slightest crease at the corner of her lip gave way to the revulsion that festered within her at the sight of such a foul and despicable beast.- ...Vampire. –The word shot through the silence, broke through the relentless rain, and ended in a feral hiss, her lips parting to accommodate the plosive and vulgar crash of a word that gave name to the creatures she so ardently despised. Her eyes slid, lingering for an excruciating length of time on the lips that veiled monstrosities capable of ripping soullessly into the flesh of innocents, across the contours of the Vampire’s physical existence, drinking her in for all she was before spitting on the ground at her feet. Caillech wiped roughly at the rivers of rain that cascaded from the sky, removing the water that stung her eyes, before stepping closer. Skin crawling, her fierce gaze bore down upon the female; the sickening abhorrence that tainted the ethereal hue of Caillech’s eyes, the disgust that writhed like a beast from the very pits of Satan’s hell, almost forcing bile to rise in her throat.- Do you think so low of me, do you insult my intelligence so, that you boldly slither, from the stinking hole that gave you birth, to my doors and expect me to open wide my arms and embrace you as one of my own? You soil the ground beneath your feet, my ground, the ground I of Mactire reign with the sole intent of ripping your kin from the shadows of the Earth with a force that will challenge even the Gods. –At that her eyes seemed ablaze, and a low rumble began to rise from the deep chambers of her chest. Her gaze shifted to the male, narrowing as she took in his large yet unmistakably youthful Lycan form, and wondered for a moment if this was some kind of pitiful joke sent from whatever deity she had inadvertently insulted. She had not travelled thousands of miles only to return to this. This, her citadel and safe haven, put into question by the very species that drove her kind back into the mountains from whence they were born. The anger that began to flare within threatened to crack the cold and unyielding nonchalance of her controlled expression, and she turned away from them, meeting Serra’s gaze.- An explanation, if you will.   

-Shifting the rifle higher, Caillech turned away her head pithily. She had lived over four thousand years, and in that span of time she had mastered the vital control of all sentiment, and though she had certainly found the frequent occurrence of emotion to be a dangerous inconvenience on more than one occasion, it was in these moments that her tolerance ran thin and dry. It often surprised her that she felt vulnerable to them in situations that did not pose any extreme physical exertion to her mental frame of mind, like the simple matters of negotiation rather than during battle when will power alone was the key to survival and it would only make sense for one’s mind to thrive and proliferate violently in such a time; then again, she had not been born and raised accustomed to the acknowledgement of emotion, and therefore she grudgingly admitted that this was a field she was not and would never be an expert in handling, other than to numb herself temporarily to the torrents of invoked feeling and have done with them later. As her eyes closed briefly to the sound of Serra’s acquittal, it was this reason alone that forced her to take a moment of controlled silence to consider the circumstances she had returned to. If she were to allow entrance to the female, simply put it could turn around and bite her in the ass; who was to say this vulgar creature was not simply playing on their hospitality, only to disappear later to inform others of the strengths and weaknesses Caillech’s pack possessed, or worse, what if it prayed on the more vulnerable of the family with slow, calculated deliberation? Anger flared behind the veined lids of her eyes, and she effectively doused the compulsion to rip out its jugular and feed on its flesh. The fiend would be dead at the slightest inclination of duplicity, and in the confines of her mind she spat into the void with disgust. Regardless, Serra would have eaten the distasteful little imp if she believed it posed even the slightest of threats, and Caillech trusted her Beta to the bone. The Alpha stood as the moments passed as if for all the world she were frozen in time, knowing that an answer she did not enjoy was rising from the darkened corner of her mind that she despised, and had trained herself vehemently to ignore, for its unrelenting sentiment, however undeveloped and chastised such a weak defect in a creature was. The female in question’s own words were not lost to Caillech either, if not for its insubordination in the presence of what will become her Alpha more than anything else. This she chose to ignore; it would not do to have another injured addition to the pack of Mactire, they were already vulnerable enough with Hunter gone, she deduced from the almost nonexistent scent of him that inferred a long period of absence. Opening her eyes, Caillech turned once more to the pitiful form of the male Lycan, her forceful gaze ever austere in its scrutiny. And what, she wondered, was a young pup doing so far from his territory of birth? The mountains that loomed forlornly around her city, cradling it in an unforgiving and perilous embrace, were unsafe to those who did not know them well, inviting only injury and starvation from their vindictive planes, as food was hard if not impossible to come by for several hundred miles in every which way. The Vampire’s fate decided, and Serra’s account completed, Caillech strode towards his paltry form and took him roughly by the jaw.- And to what do I owe this pleasure?

- Entrance to the underground Lycanthrope city of Mactire 

-Caillech inhaled, her chin lifting only slightly as the white lids of her eyes closed. The scent of Mactire and all it held filled her lungs, the howl of their Beta turning her skin to gooseflesh as the sound resonated powerfully against the bones of her chest, a welcome home. Her face momentarily turned to the sky, Caillech’s skin was slick with rain and shone in the pale light of the monstrous clouds; a flare of thunder followed suddenly by spears of light scorched across the darkened gorge that lay like the yawning mouth of some terrible beast beneath her. The white of her lids, shot with the pale of blue veins, withdrew to reveal the shock of silver that burned with an obstinate fury as they gazed upon her home. Here lay a powerful species that would fight to the ends of the Earth for ultimate survival, and the rejuvenation of all that had been devastated under Man’s greed, and Vampiric vehemence. Throwing back her head to expose the great muscle and vein of her throat, Caillech roared in answer, a crash of lighting illuminating her powerful form as she stood strong on the canyon precipice, allowing the sound that ripped through her throat to pierce through the howling winds and carry deafeningly towards them. Head snapping forward to cut short the guttural cry, she watched for only a moment more before turning, her silhouette disappearing behind the unforgiving crags of rock and stone. She leapt into the rain from the dark heights of the ravine, arms thrust outward as she fell, to land hard against the rough grounds below, brought down to one knee in a shower of rain and fragments of rock. A rumble issued from deep within her chest as she rose and approached the bridge with a cold, calculating gaze. Her eyes sought Serra through the rain and, licking her lips to expose two terrifyingly large canines, they spoke volumes; before her stood Caillech’s most powerful warrior, the woman who had fought beside her in the Great Wars, a terrifying Lycanthrope that could tear the very flesh from a beasts bones with an single blow, who had remained loyal for countless years. Here stood a true Lycan. Caillech’s voice was a formidable growl, deep and rumbling from many months of silence and solitude, but the acknowledgement held a softness that was almost imperceptible, and would be understood by the Beta and the Beta alone,- Serra. –The name sung through the air and held there, broken only by the sudden roar of thunder overhead. She did not react to the others just yet, so intent was her focus on the woman that stood before her, second to none.-

-Caillech's footfalls pounded against the rock as she ran, taking great leaps over the dark almost obscure boulders that got in her way. The rain crashed down around her, soaking her hair into thick ropes that jolted behind her back, lighting illuminating the ground ahead. She kept her arms locked at 90 degree angles, pumping at her sides, her breath controlled, face impassive save for the crease between her dark brows. Thunder roared overhead in great resounding booms that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, as though commanding for all to yield beneath the monstrosity of its ethereal strength. As she raced through the dark mountain pass, the earth churned and spat beneath the soles of her heavy boots, coughing up a grim mixture of rain water and mud that had formed a fast-flowing river upon the face of the mountains. Caillech, her face slick with the beating of the rain, raced towards Mactire with news, her heart beginning to pound heavily in her chest. She leapt over yet another fallen rock and, hitting the ground in a cacophony of water, she growled as her boot snagged the roots of a fallen oak which brought her hard on one knee. For a moment she gripped the soaking earth, claws sliding from their fleshy sheaths to dig deep into the dirt in a sudden fit of frustration. Caillech never shifted. Not unless there was no other way. But the more she built her rage, the harder it was to control the monster she was born to be. She did not simply prefer to be alone when the anger became too much, no. It was mandatory. Far from the pack, far from the old walls she had come to call a home, they did not need to see the writhing beast that tore at its own bones and flesh, screaming as its limbs disjointed and snapped into a body that defied evolution, so great and so massive in size that, when her body was once more returned, Caillech would lie blooded and trembling upon the ground days later, weakened by the force and power of the beast that had rolled back its eyes and spread wide its jaws in guttural, terrifying howls. She shook her head, trying to clear the anger away as the rain beat at her back, and launched herself forward into a powerful sprint once more with a roar of irritation. Within the hour she would find herself at the height of the great gorge that cradled her city, and until then she would not stop until she could behold the site of it. As Caillech ran she thought of the city and all it held, the hearts within that she had plagued her life to keep beating, even if only for one more day. She tore through the rain, her face a mask of practiced nonchalance whilst a deluge of screaming water raged and wrought destruction upon the flesh within. Her body nursed the flames that burnt through the muscles of her thighs, her chest, whilst her soul threw back its head and roared for more, for pain, for the agony to rise into an unbearable heat. She cursed herself for allowing her exhaustion to slow her stride; nothing held such heightened importance than to survive, to protect and serve. The wind howled, pushing the rain into great arcs as the darkened skies thundered above, raging a war that was beyond her comprehension, but a sign that the Gods understood and had unleashed a storm that would ignite the hearts of her pack into preparing themselves for battle, a battle of the likes that they had never seen before. She pulled back her lip, teeth exposed to the piercing rain, to better catch the scents in the air as she ran, the sound of the blood of her body singing powerfully in her ears. Caillech saw the crater despite the sheet of rain that fell so heavily from the sky and forced her body to brace against the rocks as she skidded, in a shower of stones that fell to the waterfalls below, twenty feet to a stop. It was there she stood, her dark and arresting form visible on the precipice of Mactire's haven, with her eyes boring down upon the walls of the great temple as if for all the world a terrible and unyielding beast raged within. Below she saw the hazed impression of Lycans, and tasted the unfamiliar scent of a foreigner on the furious winds, but the all too proverbial air of Serra provided enough information to calm Caillech’s sudden fury; she did not appear defensive towards the male, and must therefore be already acquainted, the presence of the Vampire Lynx was also not one to cause alarm. In the darkening radiance of the thunderous skies, the Alpha’s silhouette was terrifyingly still as she observed from the precipice of the great gorge, a fearsome sight to any who happened to turn their eyes to look.-

-Caillech did not incline her head in return, but paused instead, her eyes locked on Serra's. Striding towards her, her boots crunching against the crumbling stone, Caillech took hold of the hem of her shirt and ripped as she moved, winding the cotton around her hand and thrusting it outward beneath a leak of fresh water that fell from the ruins above as she passed it, her stide never faultering. As she reached her Beta, she drew her hand upward and rested it, in a suprisingly gentle gesture, upon Serra's cheek. With her other hand she touched Serra's arm and guided it upward, the motion swift and wordless, to take the wet cloth from Caillechs hand and hold it for herself.- It appears there is something you haven't told me. -She said, her voice stern. Caillech did not need to express her gratitude and care of her greatest friend and warrior with words, for she well knew it herself. They had been through much together, and fought visciously side by side. They had seen each other at their worst and likewise at their best, and that would lie between them unspoken but acknowledged for the rest of their days. Caillech moved to lean against the wall of the bridge, her eyes tilted upward to scan the skies above. She looked for all the world as tough and composed as she should be, as Alpha, but inside her mind and body was wracked with tormented thoughts and memories, a constant battle within herself that shook the very foundation of her existence; she feared for the lives of her pack, of the ones she had spent her entire life defending and fighting for; she cursed herself for the hardship she forced daily upon her Beta, and upon her Tracker; she knew in her heart that it should not have to be so difficult, so horrifically dangerous, to just live, to just stay alive. But she did what she had to do. She made the orders that would keep each of them safe, at whatever cost. That was her job, and none would carry the burden of it but she. Her face remained forever impassive and cold as she waited for Serra's report.-

-The large entrance door swung shut behind Caillech as she stepped into the bright light of day, the force of its impact causing loose debris to fall from the temple walls, cascading to the ground. It took a moment for her mottled silver eyes to adjust to the brilliant glare, before they fell on the powerful form of Serra and, beyond her, the smaller Agatha. She descended the steps, inhaling the cold air in silence, tasting their scents on her tongue and that of another, her hair catching in the breeze. Spray rose from the waterfalls in a thin mist so that every now and then vapour would settle on her skin, akin to soft rain. It was refreshing, and in her nature as a Lycanthrope to desire the call of the wind and the freedom of the skies, but not now. Caillech threw back her head and released a howl as she paced at the foot of the temple steps, before snapping her head forward to assess the stranger before her with a cold, calculating gaze. This must be the Lycan creature Serra had reported, the one that got in the way of a fight between Vampire and their kin, an injured weakling that should not be in the open. Blood could travel for miles around, pungent on a high wind, and if anything other than beast or Lycan caught the scent of a wounded female, they would come running. It was endangering to the pack. Caillech watched her, ignoring for the moment Serra and Agatha whom she had no qualm with today; it irked her that the young one and the wounded were interfering with her Beta’s watch and for a moment her eyes flashed to Agatha, considering her smaller form, before returning to focus on the yet unknown female, waiting.-

- Mactire's central chambers, beneath the mountain.

-Caillech moved through the East tunnel, passing in and out of the lamp light, her shadow thrown menacingly against the floor and walls. Her pace was fast, but she was in no hurry, the only sound was that of her soles against the black granite. She toyed with the knives at her hip, her finger running the length of each steel blade, inadvertently examining the surfaces for abrasions. Moments ago she had stirred from within the belly of the mountain, the faint rumble of heavy footfalls intriguing her, and had risen with the intention of checking on Serra’s watch. Caillech wondered what Serra was doing; the steps were foreign, and she was not pleased.-

-Her frame was tall and imposing in strength, her silver eyes wide. Two large canines pressed against the soft flesh of her lower lip, which trembled in anger. Still she paced, her fists clenched so tightly her skin prickled with the heat, the knuckles shining white, her biceps flexing until two dark veins pushed against the thick colourless skin of her arms. The fury rolled from her body in infernal waves, the tendons in her neck taught and flaming red as she withheld the urge to shift. Caillech's gaze saught the male's and held it, the whites of each eye diminishing beneath tiny red tendrils of pounding blood.-

-The large entrance door swung shut behind Caillech as she stepped into the bright light of day, the force of its impact causing loose debris to fall from the temple walls, cascading to the ground. It took a moment for her mottled silver eyes to adjust to the brilliant glare. She descended the steps, inhaling the cold air in silence, tasting blood on her tongue, her hair catching in the breeze. She had heard a disturbance, and it displeased her greatly. Spray rose from the waterfalls in a thin mist so that every now and then vapour would settle on her skin, akin to soft rain. It was refreshing, and in her nature as a Lycanthrope to desire the call of the wind and the freedom of the skies, but not now. Caillech threw back her head and released a howl as she paced at the foot of the temple steps, before snapping her head forward to assess the stranger before her with a cold, calculating gaze-

Fenix wouldn't hold back the attack. He didn't care to. This was his vengence for his family. This was the only way to protect every one through out the world. Each and every human wouldn't be allowed to feel the pain he had been infused with since that day. As his punch extended, his knife would puncture her abdomen first, tearing through organ after organ until the tip of the blade finally found bone. The tip would penetrate the bone and upon feeling the sudden impact with the dense tissue, he would twist the blade clock wise to snap the tip off before pulling his fist back and the blade free. His eyes intent on the lycan before him as he had hit her. He showed no remorse for this, no pain. Nothing. It was as if his eyes were that of the dead. Letting his hand fall to his side, he would take a step back as his eyes lingered upon her for a few moments more before turning his attention to the other. He didn't look down at his weapon to make sure of anything, he had felt the difference in weight and the chipping of the silver inside her. With his intention fully on the other now, he would take a few steps further from the lycan behind him. He was aware of the sensitivity of the spinal cord due to his years of fighting. The nervous system was pumped through it and in all likely hood, she would probably be paralized from the wound down. A light drip sounded beside him as a single drop of lycan blood dripped from the blade, landing on the stone. He spun his katana around in hand causing the sound of wind being cut to echo off the walls around them in an extremely high pitched tone.

ValenciaTeek: -Serra smiled at lucid, the man was good and he had gotten her, ripping through her insides, but he handnt counted on Lycan bone, tougher than the strongest metal it was impossibly hard to break, and due to the delicate nature of the lycans change their spinal chords were wrapped in flexible bands of bone, like plating to protect the spine whislt they changed. The knife was in her allright, but she could move and he had turned her back on her, wrong move. . . . . . always make sure a Lycan has not head before you dimiss it. The pain of the silver burnt through her body, making her eyes water and her skin instantly feverish. Serra reached her own hand inside herself grabbing the silver blade she pulled, with it sizzling in her hand she thrust it at his calf, aiming for a downwards ripping motion he was less than 4 inches away, she could not be certain but she did not think he would dodge it. With her almost silent attack coming from behind and his attention on Lucid she knew her Alpha could finish this fight-

-Caillech stilled. As she exhaled the world shifted, every breath and moment languid. Her blood, coursing and pounding through the great labyrinth of veins within her body, sung in her ears, the beat of her heart loud and resonating against her chest. Tiny hairs prickled at the back of her neck, the beads of sweat along her spine cooled the skin there as the wind picked up. She inhaled. Caillech’s vision honed in on the human’s arm, its movement protracted, and each fine detail patent and excruciating in its clarity. She exhaled. The sound of tearing flesh caused gooseflesh to explode along her forearms, a nauseating ripple cascading through the vertebrae of her spine as she watched Serra’s lips part in agony before mutating and spreading in a smile, her eyes sliding to meet Caillech’s. She inhaled. Her own lips twitched in a delayed reaction, eyes shifting to the human. In a great surge of blood and pounding, time erupted. The adrenalin caught up with her, all movement accelerating to its normal speed. The human would die. Caillech shook back her head, throat distending to accommodate a hideous, guttural bellow. Head snapping forward, eyes locking onto him, she ripped her blades from their sheaths, the sound tearing through the air, and dropped into a low crouch, elbows locked, knives poised and glistening toward her kill- 

- Human embodiment of one Lycanthrope god, of which Caillech is re-incarnate. 

I have heaved this body to the edge of a void; walked the precipice of an incalculable abyss. I have seen myself staring back from sheens of black water. Felt the heave of a terrible wave, mounting a timorous internal blaze; a deluge of salt water that rolls, merciless, across the fields of good fire, snuffing the sweet smells, lolling its great maned head back in guttural screams.


Tearing at flesh its tongue, slathered and heavy, laps at my blood with an obstinate hunger. It feeds. I feed. We were one, the abyss and I. Monstrous in our power. Our burnt, scalded and lacerated lips, cracked under the furnaces of starvation, peel back across two glistening jaws and howl, our eyes thrown back to the sky.

Dreams

LUCID DREAM

One week ago I had a series of dreams, over a period of four nights, the first depicting the earth surging, splitting and breathing great tongues of fire; I dreamt volcanoes would erupt simultaneously, staining the sky with forks of magma and flame. 

On Saturday, you have probably seen the papers, several volcanoes erupted in Chile, and their skies are laden with lighting and fire. I'm frightened; my second dream is stronger on a larger scale, mighty and fiercer than its predecessor: 

My second dream is of an irregular ring, viewed of the earth from the sky, the layers beneath this great circle of land are burning away under a powerful furnace of molten rock. The ground begins to tremble, a pit forming in its centre. When I woke, I thought of Yellowstone and felt the breathe rush from my lungs - my throat felt burnt and swollen as if from inhaled smoke and ashes. 

My third dream is from the side of a blue mountain, a garden hidden in the rock. I stand in this vast garden between a house and its twin; I am bowing before a teacher, my forehead pressed against the dirt; he tells me we will view a planet alignment visible from the mountain and I rush to the edge of the garden, turning my face to the dark skies.

I am one with the night, amongst a cluster of stars, within an astrologist's map of an ancient scripture, surrounded by the deep blue of the sky. I fly close to the brightest point, I watch the way it will align with its sister planets. I am in the garden again, watching the planes below and the cities within - in the distance the earth rolls high, crumbling and shredding the ground, higher and higher like the formation of a mountain, magnificent in size; from within climes a monstrous wave that devours the cities and surges towards the mountain I stand upon, cutting away the rock and loose earth so that the ground beneath me shudders and groans. 

I run to the houses and scream in warning, and then wake. 

I want these written down, with the date set firm and true - I don't understand what story the dreams are trying to tell, but I refuse to take them lightly as the first came true. 

Earth

It is peaceful here; that's the first and foremost thing I know. Here, seated between the gnarled bark and twisted limbs of an apple orchard still in bloom after the warm spring. How can anything tainted stir them, or me, here? Yet I feel a festering disturbance in my gut; I hear it in the hiss of wind through the hazel leaves that creep along the edges of this sweet place; faint, but there.

The larger trees heave and sigh in the heat of the sun. The tips of their branches tremble and lick, hungrily, at the moisture in the air. I want to join them, dance with them in the great surging cry of the wind; the breath of a goddess. She lingers in their roots.

Proselytizer 

Wednesday: 13^th April 2011

Walking down The Bourne and turning towards a long gravel drive, woven through some kind of woodland which snaked towards the impeccable Southgate Priory, I suddenly felt a strong sense of impending doom. The Imperial March soared in my ears as a tiny voice peeped, do you think we should have a codeword, you know in case they murder people here, which, until further inspection had slipped from my own mouth and hung in the air like a silly childish dread. The drive curved to the right, opening onto a wide lawn with marble steps leading to the front door of a majestic building, two large white pillars supporting the balcony above.

‘There’s the anorexics’ Juliet says with a sour laugh. She doesn't mean it that way.

An excruciatingly frail looking woman, fag hanging from two protruding fingers, stands in front of the steps, her free arm hugged into her stomach as though she fears the wind will blow her down – the feeling is mutual and I find my eyes probing her body jealously, staring dumbfounded at the way her cardigan stretches like a second skin over her spine. We pass her, lugging the suitcase towards the swinging glass doors, minds ringing with questions: What will the room be like? Who are psychiatrists this time? Group therapy? Do they put you in one according to age, or trauma? The receptionist tells us to wait with a bored smile and we take two leather chairs positioned under the unnecessarily large, and plush carpeted, splitting staircase. Looking around no one seems insane; there is a young woman next to me reading a newspaper, a floral scarf wrapped tightly about her neck, legs crossed, twitching brown suede shoes tapping at the table leg, jiggling the hot coffee; I anxiously ring my hands, eyeing the caffeine rings on the varnish with a crinkling nose.

A woman strides into the reception area, a post-adolescent boy slouched at her side – most likely her son – in sweatpants and a frayed training jacket; they stand together at the counter, the clack of the woman’s nails setting my teeth on edge. The boy, who slumps his fists into his stained trouser pockets, bouncing back on the heels of his trainers, turns his head nervously and eyes the interior as well as its occupants. They briefly scan over my scarf and coat, looking as miserable as I feel.

‘Miss Oliver?’

Yes. I drag the case through three tall white doors, the wheels catching on every possible edge, into a small office lit by one vast window. She tells me to take the seat nearest and for Juliet to take the seat behind, to which we oblige apprehensively; a consent form lies on the otherwise empty desk in front of my chair. The woman, short with a mordant haircut, reads the conditions of my stay and points vindictively at the signature line, to which I oblige again after skimming the document with as much feasible dignity I can muster. Juliet then complies as a second document, funds, is pushed across the desk; a quick automated call to the bank and we’re done.

We look at each other, ‘It’s fine’ Juliet says brightly, and I believe her.

The mordant woman leads us through several security doors, past two reception desks and a small lounge area to a lavish room off the ward: number 19. The faint but tangible smell of hospital, though masked quite well by the thick beige carpet and spacious interior, makes me nauseous; the undeniable reality of my whereabouts hangs in every inch of the Priory, regardless of how abundantly it has been designed. The staff, though dressed smartly, seem prim and irritable as we pass them by but force a quick hello and a see-you-later, an inadvertent promise they won’t hold.

‘Wow, look at the bed...’, I look around the room, struck mostly by the high window and its exterior which fortunately looks onto a beautiful, but almost diminutive, patio circled with pillars; a small bird, most likely a hatchling, peeps in the thicket beyond the sill. I test the bed gingerly, rewarded as the springs sink quietly and deeply into the lower layers of my new mattress. Bouncing, I survey the rest of the room; seven pieces of furniture in all, two bedside cabinets of the same matching wood that constructs a large wardrobe and desk, two chairs that stand arbitrarily about the room and a purple cushioned bed with a large four foot headstand – I wonder how daunting it must be to sleep under. On inspecting the bathroom I find that the door doesn’t lock.

‘Why doesn’t it lock?’ I ask the mordant woman.

‘For your safety, in case there is an emergency’

‘What if I’m using the shower? What if I don’t hear them knock and they just come right in?’

‘That won’t happen, sweetie’ Juliet laughs, but I don’t feel reassured.

After the receptionist leaves there is a soft knock and a man enters, he offers tea and biscuits to which we nod eagerly; the train ride had consisted of one cold croissant and sugarless coffee leaving us hungry and a chill had wafted through a gap in the window; tea would be welcomed here. I wonder at the small open space between the glass and its sill, come to the conclusion that they think I will try and run away, and upon questioning this only receive a similar answer. Ten minutes later I come face to face with an enormous spider on the bathroom floor, no doubt exploring the warm room for places to nest after a brief slip over the sill and quickly across the carpet. I yelp and rush to the far end of the bathroom, calling to Juliet who blithely fetches another receptionist to deal with the intruder.  

Later, after tea and a banana, we are visited by the consultant psychiatrist who assures us that I will be very much looked after and that there have been a few changes to my medication. She goes over some brief details about the Priory, who I will be assessed by and the like, before introducing me to the chief nurse and taking her leave. Bonnie, a small woman with yet another laconic blonde haircut, leans forward confidently to address us both.

‘So, hello! My name is Bonnie as you can see,’ she points to her name tag with an awkwardly large grin, ‘and I’ll be the one looking after you, Libby. Today we’ll just focus on getting you settled in, having a few assessments and getting to know the Priory!’

Juliet and I nod in unison and I notice my hands clutching hers. I wonder at the person behind the smile, whether she is pleased to see me or just pretending; I wonder whether she took up this job out of compassion and a refusal to work with anyone other than patients-in-need, like a true do-gooder. I can see that she is Christian from the small and almost indiscernible silver cross protruding from her shirt collar, but feel doubtful as to whether that is the true motive behind her career. She fumbles through a large folder, slapping it against her lap every now and then as though out of frustration.

‘I can’t... for the life of me find that form. Bear with me one moment!’

I take the time to smile at my mum and kiss her cheek, a gesture returned in a hand squeeze. How was it that I ended up here? I feel incredibly fortunate all of a sudden, gratitude towards Juliet and my grandfather washing over me so suddenly I feel sure I’ve stained the bed with it. To think that, if Donna had had her way, I could be in a grotty psychiatric ward pumped with tranquilizers and anti-psychotics. I adjust my position, half out of discomfort but also to check I hadn’t wet myself. Roused from my thoughts by a snap, I look up to see that Bonnie has finally found her form and she places the closed folder on the desk next to my new bed.

‘So,’ she folds her arms and looks at me expectantly, I stare back with equal anticipation and she glances back at the folder, ‘well, first of all let me tell you how this is going to go. I’ll wake you up early every morning come rain or shine, I don’t care if you’re tired or have period pains; I can be very unforgiving in the mornings, you see, and a lot of people think I’m a bit of a dragon.’ we laugh nervously at this, ‘First I’d like to take a urine sample, if you just fill this up-’ she holds out a pale grey plastic pouch, concealing a cup, ‘because I need to know whether you have taken anything within the last twenty-four hours. You can tell me you’re clean all you like, but I won’t believe you until I’ve got it in the lab.’

‘Okay, sure’

‘Good. Let’s see now,’ more rustling, ‘I need you to fill this out please, it’s just a consent form to say that all the details we take down can be transferred to your GP’ and it goes on much the same, for half an hour; forms and questionnaires and petty details before Juliet has to leave for work and they begin to rush me for lunchtime. Bonnie slips out of the room while I embrace mum and let her rub my back, I refuse to let go for a while until she pulls away and I suddenly feel as though there are great mountains between us; the world shifts as she leaves the room. The door clicks and I am alone.

A few minutes pass while I wait for Bonnie to return, and when she does she is accompanied by another woman. I begin to think every member of staff is of a below-average stature, when a nurse in pale blue steps into the room briefly to check everything is alright, standing at an impressive six foot three, ‘Hi there, Libby, I’ll be at the desk this afternoon if you need me. Just around the corner, alright?’ to which I nod and he leaves, pulling the door gently so as not to make a slam. The women mutter among themselves words that I don’t understand or that make no sense, ‘Amber? Yes. Amber. How about ml? Is that what she said? Make sure you write that down. Zopiclone, yes, for three nights. Aggression and property we’ll talk about in a minute’. I watch them inquisitively.

After much fuss and hasty scrawl, the new woman tells me that she is the resident doctor here and that tomorrow – not today because of a tight schedule – it is mandatory that I have a physical examination; blood tests and a stitch-removal will be done in the morning so that she can gain an inclusive impression of my general health and well-being. I watch her pull out more forms and she asks me invasive questions, pummeling my mind and stomach into a steadfast stupor. Tell me about your father, when was the last time you saw him? What did the lodger do? How old where you when the feelings began? How often and where do you use a blade? How long have you been doing that, then? This continues for several hours, my room visited by various consultants and psychiatrists, nurses and key-workers, until I am exhausted and depraved of my, now non-existent, pragmatic mind. I drift into automatic-response, my mind wondering separately to my mouth.

When I was a little girl I would watch cartoons in the morning, squished into an uncomfortable-looking, but actually quite pleasant, ball on the sofa with a bear and a bowl of cereal. Usually the Smurfs was the only interesting program running, for a four year old, that early on a weekday morning. I’d watch the tiny blue characters running about in their funny white shoes, Papa-Smurf guiding the villagers through the wilderness and back into the safety of their mushroom houses. I would wonder whether grandma knew that Smurfs lived in toadstools and, if she did, whether she would ever show me some. My grandma, ever with the love of nature, would lead me down the lanes behind her country house to a small forest flanked by great rolling fields of corn and peas, to pick bluebell plants and make potions with the petals of various flowers. She would do this with me every time I travelled there from London, and each day would be different; there would be the ducklings to feed, carnivorous terrapins to spy, fish to poke at through the long reeds at the edge of the pond, coffee mornings to go to, Bingo on a Friday night, blackberries to pick in late summer, butterflies to catch...

How would you describe your relationship with Juliet? Every night at grandmas, after cheese and biscuits, I would be tucked into the little spare room with a cup of hot chocolate and a kiss on each cheek and grandma would say ‘Goodnight Libbyloo’ to which I would peep ‘See you later alligator!’. Sometimes, depending on how tuned his hearing-aid was on those nights, a gruff voice from downstairs would add ‘...in a while crocodile’, to which me and grandma would giggle. I’d make her promise to give granddad a kiss from me, and she would always oblige. Then, after a few moments I would open the curtains and slip out of the bed, rummage through the contents of my night bag until I found a secret envelope; inside would be a message from Juliet, sealed with a lipstick kiss that I would open as carefully as I could so as not to rip the paper.

Angel face,

Go to the window and count all the stars in the sky. Can you see them? I am looking at them now with you, and I have told the moon to keep an eye on my little girl. If you miss me, just remember I’m looking at those stars with you. Be strong, chick.

I love you,

Mummy

No doubt I would find one of those scrawls tucked away in a sanitary box later, Juliet will never see me as a grown woman. I smile benignly, nod, adjust my shirt so that it doesn't cling to my stomach, become friendly with various cracks on the wall and let them pummel me. I let them ask and press and frown pityingly. I let them pinch and cluck and scratch at their pads. I let them lacerate my stomach, let them unfold my guts and study them, smiling encouragingly all the while. I let them. I am safe in my space between the sofa and the wall, the cold concrete unfelt at my back, while the big voice wails and breaks and howls passed my hands which I press, fiercely, over my ears. No one can touch me here, in my safe space. They would have to climb over three boxes full of junk, and then a broken sink. They can't touch me but I hear them, I hear the big voice and the wails of the other voice, and the name of a child I no longer associate with myself. He can't find me here. He doesn't know this place. It hurts to crawl here, through broken things. When did you first notice that things at home weren't quite right? Did anyone help you? The phone rings and I hold my breath, it's silent now, I can hear big voice contemplating who might be on the other end, and if it's worth setting my mother down to finish later. I count the cracks in the sink, seventy eight, seventy nine, thirty two, thirty forty, fifty ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen. The phone is by my safe space. It ring rings. Big voice comes and my chest hurts from holding. 

She sets down her pen and considers me over the rim of two hideous lenses, the kind that connect to a chain to keep them from falling. Her purple lips are compressed into a tight line, white around the edges, like the asshole of a pornstar, puckered and dry. I stare at them, trying to swallow the bile. I've never been good at looking them in the eye while they prod at my insides. I can see them now, great sticky mounds of bloated flesh in a pile on her lap, staining her white blouse. I release a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. She smiles.

'You must be hungry'. It takes me a while to gather her meaning and finally I shake my head while the room spins back into order, no ghosts in the corners, no empty bottles on the fluffy carpets. My stitches itch. I go to scratch them but a fleshy hand stops my arm; I can already feel the flakes of her calloused palms settling on my sleeve, the sweat leaking from swollen pores. Disgusting. 'Come now, Missy, I'll show you the dining room and get you acquainted.' And so I go, towed behind her like driftwood stuck in a net and reaching desperately through holes smaller than my body. Through the wide halls and their pretentious paintings spaced meticulously, painfully, perfectly, I pass a few rooms with open doors, with beds and carpets and curtains identical to mine in all but colour. I wonder if they colour code their patients according to severity and the thought makes me smile; a part of me wishes I had blue coverlets instead of purple. I think what I am feeling is inevitability. The inescapable, unavoidable, inevitability of it all, and a numbness that doesn't entirely stop the throat from tightening in grief. I stare now at the woman's heels, the kind that you can only really buy in Marks or some heady corner of Debenhams, no, the size 4 rack in the Clarks summer sale. Navy blue, chunky, narrow but square-toed with a little fringe. Not quite rubber but something else, something similar, something similarly dreary and practical to match the mordant cut of her hair and jacket. So, this is the woman that will have seen me naked by the end of the week. 

'...-ket potatoes, bread, salad, plates over here, water machine... oh, this machine never works. Andy? ANDY?', she turns to me in mock fury, 'Silly man is never where he should be,' a plump hand presses against her cheek as if to shield her words to all but me, '...always at the cake and biscuits - ANDY!'

I am told never to talk to patients occupying the back tables, the ones by the big bay window. To avoid looking directly at them if I can. By all accounts some floppy-haired post-post-adolescent member of McFly is currently undergoing his 30 day purge and sits there among the others, for drug abuse and alcohol, but I didn't hear it from her. They congregate by the bay, rowdy and outwardly cheerful, on a strict program that denies access to sugar, caffeine and other patients - and, of course, anything psychedelic or vaguely reminiscent of that particular horse tranquilizer. I duck my head, take a seat and watch with disinterest as the woman walks away. 
And so I sit and stare at a plate full of food I can't stand the sight of. I stare but don't really see. My eyes do that thing where they loose focus and everything swims strangely, blurs sickeningly, so that almost, almost you can make cloudy shapes out of a hazy slice of cucumber. A moon eating hand sanitizer. That kind of thing. Inside, distant but tangible, something moans and writhes and howls against the steel bars of a cage, a body of anger or something, but all I see is a square of butter sealed in gold, and a smudge on the bowl of my spoon. 

INHERITANCE NEWS!

Book 4 of Christopher Paolini's Inheritance Cycle will be released on November 8 this year, entitled INHERITANCE as the last book in the series, it was only announced today! The cover has also been released. 

Really though it's about time! The last book came out in 2008 or something ridiculous like that and there's been so many rumours. I'm very glad it's all cleared up now and we have something to go on and look forward to. It's a shame because a lot of fans have 'grown up' now, if such a term can be applied to literature, and have grown less and less enthusiastic about the final book. I felt like that for a while, I gave up hope and stopped checking in on the site for updates, until I saw this on facebook and exploded. Paolini is like Patrick Rothfuss, I think; an absolute perfectionist, and actually that's not a bad trait at all when it comes to writing a novel - I hope that Rothfuss will update us on The Name of the Wind's sequel soon, I'm just as excited about that one too. Today is a happy day. 

I have the power in my mind to split my forearms lengthways, spill out any last litres of repulsion, and draw on the stenches. I'll turn to the pharmaceutical cabinet with a large glass of wine, swallow fifty dry and two hundred with a quenched throat, after the bath is drawn. And slipping into the water I'll think about the faces, feel the heavy roll of intoxication under a smother of convulsions, and realise in one mighty wave that I have finally found peace.

‎"In order to form an immaculate member of a flock of sheep one must, above all, be a sheep." 

- Albert Einstein

‎"We are not "believers", we bow the knee neither to Reclus, nor to Kropotkin. We debate their ideas, accepting them when they elicit fellow-feeling in our minds, but rejecting them when they evoke no response from us."

 - Émile Henry

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." 

- Oscar Wilde

"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." 

- Shakespeare

Round like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending on beginning
On an ever-spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain
Or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that's turning
Running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half-forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that I said?
Lovers walk along a shore
And leave their footprints in the sand
Was the sound of distant drumming
Just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway
Or the fragment of a song
Half-remembered names and faces
But to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over
Were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the color of her hair?

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever-spinning reel
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find

In the windmills of your mind

'The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.'

- Stop The Clocks, W.H.Auden

Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other's wings,
They lay down, in their curtained bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fallen snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipped with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars beamed in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapped to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Locked together in one nest.

- Rossetti's 'Goblin Market', a snipet

A pointless argument you don't need to read. 


Goblin Market is considered one of Christina Rossetti’s most accomplished works, an expression of her views on society, politics and feminism, to name a few. Whether her poem is a cautionary tale has remained a controversial matter for many years, and critics express many, many different interpretations of it. It could be that this was what Rossetti had intended, and that it is each individual’s take on the poem as a whole that is the most significant. She reaches out to readers throughout Goblin Market, physically luring us in so that we, like Lizzie and Laura, are captivated by the goblins; she holds us in a trance through the duration of the poem, the rhythm almost like a heartbeat, fast paced and quick – mirroring the movements and actions of the goblin men so that we are surrounded by her images, the colours she uses. It is only when we take a breath at the end of each stanza that we can allow ourselves to look back and reflect on the true meanings of Goblin Market; in this sense the tale could be cautionary for children, as they learn from it not to trust strange men, and to also love and stand by the ones you love, because to children’s eyes there is no other meaning, no other danger or sinister discomfort behind Rossetti’s words.

Rossetti begins her poem Goblin Market by creating a stanza which is filled with persuasive language; she lists the fruits, along with their origins and colours, emphasizing the taste and texture of them ‘Bloom-down-cheeked peaches’ tempting the readers, luring us into her poem, much the same way as the goblins do when they entice the young girls.  The enjambed sentences in this stanza make the reader feel as though they cannot tear their eyes away until they have reached the end, another reflection on the way the goblins tempt people with their fruits and cries. If you notice the colours of the fruits ‘dewberries’, ‘strawberries’, ‘barberries’ and ‘crab apples’, you find that the majority of the fruits are greens and reds, both contrasting colours; an example of juxtaposition. The idea of double-meaning behind Goblin Market is mirrored in her use of colours and imagery; behind the goblin’s cries, and the beautiful fruits, there is something much more sinister and this use of language continues throughout Rossetti’s poem. The list of fruit and internal rhyme such as ‘Rare pears’ make their offerings seem delicate and precious which again emphasizes the idea of temptation, and luring people in. You could even go so far as to say that Rossetti is hinting at appearances, and how beneath the beauty, the facades that society holds in place, the much practiced stances and manners, there is something irresistible and dangerous.

There are a vast amount of critics interpretations of Goblin Market, not least of all Rossetti’s poem being a reflection on Victorian society, allusions to Adam and Eve, forbidden fruits, Christianity, temptation and drug addiction, amongst others. I believe one of the most popular ideas is women’s temptation of men in Victorian society; in this case, the goblins would represent the men. This idea is even confirmed at the end  and beginning of Goblin Market, ‘At last the evil people’, ‘Curious Laura chose to linger, wondering at each merchant man’ two lines describing the goblins as human, though the first not specifically referring to men - as they ‘run’ away from Lizzie. With this in mind it is easier to view Rossetti’s poem as a cautionary tale, though not necessarily for children. Throughout Goblin Market we come across a range of different language used in order to convey some kind of warning, in some cases not related to the tale at all. ‘Who knows upon what soil they fed their hungry thirsty roots’ is a line spoken by Laura as she warns Lizzie not to look at goblin men, it could be read as a metaphor for men’s sexual motivation, as the language throughout Rossetti’s poem is purposefully erotic, and the roots of men’s  incentive. If this is the case then Goblin Market could be considered an extended metaphor for men, how they lure women in with their charms and looks; lines such as ‘One whisked a tail’ and ‘One prowled obtuse and furry’ are animalistic qualities, as though describing the nature of men as individuals, each like their own animal. Particularly the use of ‘a voice like voice of doves’ and ‘They sounded kind and full of loves’ emphasize the more sinister aspects of these goblins; doves ‘coo’, a sound which is harmonious but also eerily beautiful, and the use of ‘sounded’ implies the goblins are not completely what they seem.

As far as cautionary tales go, there is an example of three lines in Goblin Market which sound curiously like an old saying: ‘Twilight is not good for maidens; should not loiter in the glen in the haunts of goblin men’ which in itself is a caution to young girls and unmarried young women, but it also sounds as though it would have been derived from a contemporary source, perhaps in Victorian society as a caution for young girls not to trust men. These ideas, the interpretations of the poem, are suppressed beneath the child-like structure and rhyme, the repetition of ‘Come buy! Come buy!’ and also some of the language; many aspects of the poem are exciting, the colours are vibrant, the imagery is beautiful, the fruits are tempting and the lists are persuasive; Rossetti uses sound in to convey the goblins as they move, and includes plosive and sibilant language in order to emphasize the actions of the characters, ‘plucked from bower’ and ‘pined and pined’ as well as ‘sugar-sweet their sap’. Including this language in her poem makes it seem child-like, intriguing, like a fairytale, but like most fairytales there are underlying meanings behind the stanza’s, most of which are uncomfortable when revealed. It is controversial whether Rossetti intended Goblin Market to be a reflection on something other than goblins and little girls, but her use of language and the possible metaphors which could relate to other things are undeniable.

There is also the idea that the characters of Lizzie and Laura are representative of a more psychological outlook on Rossetti’s poem; light and dark, good and bad, tainted and untainted. It could be that it is one woman’s silent battle against the temptations of men, against conforming to a society that would shunt any woman guilty of ‘sinning’ or temptation away; a woman’s conflict over a drug addiction, or how she is psychologically damaged. This idea comes from Rossetti’s biography – a volunteer worker at the St. Mary Magdalene ‘house of charity’ which was a refuge for former prostitutes. Rossetti would have experienced, witnessed, women who had been physically and mentally scarred by their pasts – their encounters. ‘With clasping arms and cautioning lips’, ‘golden head by golden head’ and especially ‘like two blossoms on one stem’ portray the two girls as being extremely close to each other, again suggesting that they are two aspects of one mind. The conflict with each other ‘Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie’ and ‘No, no, no’ is mimicked through the disparate actions of the two sisters. I considered this idea because, if this poem were to refer to women in Victorian society, the ending would be unrealistic; a woman’s reputation would be completely ruined if she were to be guilty of Laura’s actions, and yet the end of Goblin Market is idealistic – they are older, married, with children, happy. The idea of the story being a feature of a woman’s mind could show how desperately she wants that as a future and that she tries to overcome her own destruction by gaining the strength she has left – which Lizzie is symbolic of – and facing what she fears the most in order to be forgiven for her ‘sin’, or something of the like.

Rossetti also refers to the role of women in Victorian society ‘Laura rose with Lizzie; fetched milk and honey, milked the cows. Aired and set right to the house’ and ‘Talked as modest maidens should’ combined with ‘Laura in an absent dream’ could refer to the way of life women were expected to follow, the responsibilities and reputation they had to build and endure, and how Laura is tempted by other things, by dreams, wishing for something that would never be acceptable in such a society. This hints at the right of women, and how Rossetti perhaps opposes this. There is also a great deal of sexual imagery and language throughout Goblin Market such as the use of ‘Plump, unpicked cherries’ and ‘Cherries worth getting’ perhaps symbolising purity and virginity, and also ‘Pomegranates, full and fine’ and ‘Figs to fill your mouth’ which are both sexualised fruits, especially ‘figs’ in Rossetti’s time. There are so many references to female sexuality, women being submissive to men, and so on, that it cannot be a coincidence, and to have such an explicit poem would mean Rossetti must have had other intentions whilst writing this poem; some kind of message is being conveyed through the stanzas. Another reference to facades is ‘She heard the tramp of goblin men’, it seems that throughout the poem Lizzie is not tempted by the goblins because she doesn’t look at them, just like young women were taught by their nurses or even mothers about men but never experienced them until they married. When they do look upon them they become enticing, intriguing and their appearances and what they offer – again, symbolized by the fruits – are alluring.

There is also an evident sense of women and their morality; when Lizzie is faced by the goblins, sacrificing herself for her sister in order to find Laura the ‘antidote’, she shows extreme courage and strength, and belief in her love for her sister. The goblins taunt her, they mock her and tempt her and then physically harm her. All through this Lizzie stands ‘White and golden like a lily in a flood, like a rock of blue-veined stone’. This area is so important in the poem that Rossetti goes on to write six similes in order to describe Lizzie’s strengths and her purity. ‘Blue-veined stone’ is vaguely oxymoronic in the sense that it shows something delicate, ‘blue-veined’, conveying the beauty of Lizzie – her skin is so pale and clear you can see her veins – against something solid and sturdy such as a stone. The references to ‘lily in a flood’ could symbolize the element of water, one of nature’s most powerful sources; by standing her ground she becomes a symbol of hope. This stanza is entirely made up of similes that convey purity and honour, sacrifice and strength. For women living in the Victorian era this would be extremely encouraging. There is evident allegory here too, in the two stanzas, from line 380 to 423; there is a meaning beneath the words that unearth the idea of women’s moralities; to be polite but firm. Lizzie is a symbol of this, her words becoming mono-syllabic ‘Give me back my silver penny’ which shows she won’t be persuaded but she is still sure and certain, she isn’t rude to the goblins but she stands her ground. This could be a reflection on what Rossetti believes a woman’s role could or should be in society.

Whether Rossetti’s poem was meant to be a cautionary tale for just children alone is controversial, but there is a vast amount of evidence throughout the text which suggests otherwise. I believe this poem is a cautionary tale but for women in general and not just for children; through use of sexual imagery and references, persuasive language and extended metaphors – such as the ‘thirsty roots’ of a man’s motivation – amongst many other rich and intertwined aspects of the play, we must consider Goblin Market to be allegorical. There is a great amount of symbolism throughout Rossetti’s poem, some of which we cannot ignore. She manages to create both beautiful and unnerving atmosphere’s, ‘Chattering like magpies, fluttering like pigeons’ in order to physically draw the readers into her poem, she reaches out to every possible audience through her use of similes. It is this idea that brings me to believe Goblin Market has many underlying meanings, and that it is for us, as individual readers, to interpret how we see fit.