E D ITORS’
LETTER “A word after a word after a word is power.” -Margaret Atwood
drunken gin-fuelled yarn in the pub, we love them all. contributions from some old comrades, as well as some new faces, and we hope you enjoy their work.
Dear kittens, Hello, and welcome to Vapid Kitten 6 - Tell us a story! It hardly seems two minutes since we decided to take on Vapid as a ‘proper’ ‘zine, but now it’s been a year. A whole year! We’d like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has been involved during the last year, whether as a purchaser, a contributor, if you are one of the lovely people we’ve met at zine fair this year, or even if you’ve dropped us an email...
- Daniela Huhurez
Thank you all! Please stay in touch via twitter and the blog, which we’re endeavouring to update more regularly (it’s an early New Year’s Resolution!)
“Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything.” -Jane Austen As you’ve probably noticed by now, we’ve gone for an exciting new format!* It’s new! It’s different! There’s no reason! Sometimes we’re just outrageous like that. Anyway, we hope you like it, we do. *Ok, if you’ve got a new fangled e-book thingy, then it will look pretty much the same as the last issue, sorry. As always, we welcome your questions, comments, and emails, you can get us at wearevapid@gmail.com.
we’ve had such a great responses, and with contributors from all around the world, this issue is truly international.
Thanks for reading, and we’ll see you in 2012!
We love a good story here at Vapid Towers, whether we’re settling down to (re)read a favourite novel, or listening to a
XOXO A&B
CONTRIBUTORS Creative writing
in the world’s most competitive profession, yet without an institutional appointment or income. He started writing poetry
Tony Brown Tony Brown is a USAF veteran and a graduate of East has won contests by Art Forum and Union Writers and honorable mentions by Writer’s Digest and Writer’s Journal. His work has appeared in Short-Story Me, Blink Ink, Whortleberry Press, The Storyteller, Gemini, Midwest Literary Review, Down in the Dirt, One Forty Fiction, and Righter Monthly Review. Valentina Cano www.carabosseslibrary.blogspot.com Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Coleen Chen www.colleenchen.com Colleen Chen lives with her family and a bunch of furry and feathered friends on a farm in Brazil. Lani Irving www.laniarts.blogspot.com Lani Irving is a third year Embroidery student at Manchester School of Art who enjoys telling stories; through poetry and illustration, as well as performance as part of Zoo-case Theatre. She adpots a playful approach towards her work, often using collage to produce illustrative pieces featuring hand embroidery, drawing and photography of 3D props. Lance Nizami nizamii2@att.net Lance Nizami has no formal training in the Arts; he is active
Freesia McKee FreesiaMcKee@gmail.com Freesia McKee is a page poet, slammer, and intersectional feminist. Native to a small Midwestern city in the States, Freesia will soon graduate from Warren Wilson College with a degree in Gender and Women’s Studies and Creative Writing. Alexander Tan Alexander N. Tan Jr.,M.D. graduated from the University of the City of Manila (Pamantasan ng Lungsod ng Maynila) with a Doctor of Medicine Degree. He also holds a Bachelor of Science in Physical Therapy degree from Our Lady of Fatima University. He was a fellow at the 36th Dumaguete National Summer Writers’ Workshop (1997). His short stories and poems have been published in several literary journals throughout the Philippines and the United States. He is a member of MENSA Philippines. A practicing physician and physical therapist, he writes and lives in Mandaluyong City, Philippines.
Birds , RSPB Bird Life, Dot Dot Dash ,Alabama Coast , Alabama Seaport and NG Kids Magazine (the most popular kids magazine in the world). She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010. Only visual artist published in the Taj Mahal Review June 2011. Youngest artist to be displayed in Charnwood Art’s Vision 09 Exhibition and New Mill’s Artlounge Dark Colours Exhibition. Daniela Huhurez www.danielahuhurez.co.uk Daniela Huhurez is currently studying MA Design and Art Direction at MMU and works as freelance visual artist based in Manchester. Her practice is concerned with the investigation of the process of creating poetry book illustration.
Familiar Faces Kate Dunstone www.katedunstone.co.uk Jacob Edwards
Artwork Eleanor Bennet www.eleanorleonnebennett.zenfolio.com Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 15 year photographer and artist who has won contests with National Geographic,The Woodland Trust, The World Photography Organisation, Winstons Wish, Papworth Trust, Mencap, Big Issue, Wrexham science , Fennel and Fern and and Nature’s Best Photography. She has had her photographs published in exhibitions and magazines across the world including the Guardian, RSPB
www.jacobedwards..id.au Anna Frew www.anna-frew.blogspot.com Betsy Lamborn www.betsylamborn.com Maude Larke screamingvulture@yahoo.fr Crystal Spencer cryss_spencer@yahoo.co.uk Rose Whittaker
- Lance Nizami
CURIOSITY KILLS THE CAT The well known proverb “curiosity killed the cat”, originated from the phrase “care killed the cat”, the earliest printed reference attributed to an English playwright in 1598. This proverb is often quoted to warn against being too curious unless one may come to harm. I propose an experiment to investigate the effects of curiosity on cats and conclude in either support or dismissal of the claim that the cat’s act of being curious is highly/ Firstly I would like to ensure that no members of the animal kingdom are harmed for the purposes of science and so I would propose that to be able to calculate the likeliness of death, we substitute a fatal situation for one less harmful, eg, a pool of water. We shall measure likeliness of death based on whether or not the participating cat ends up in the water at the end of each test; Wet cat = “dead” Dry cat = “alive”. Secondly we will need to create a curious situation for each participating cat, and vary the levels of curiosity the event induces in the cat to note if curiosity has to be at a certain level for it to result in a fatality. We will induce curiosity with varying sizes of the question mark (?) character, the largest question mark at 1 metre 50 cm height, being the most curiosity-inducing, and the smallest question mark at 10cm height being the least curiosity-inducing. In order to make the experiment fair, we will test at least 10 different cats, if not more, to obtain just and accurate readings. Each cat will participate in 7 different tests, one for each size of question mark, and then at the end, each cat will participate in 3 more tests with randomly sized question marks chosen by the researchers to spot any anomalies. mark on one side, and the pool of water on the other side. My hypothesis is that the larger the question mark on the “dead”, dry cat = “alive”). After thorough testing with a total of 12 cats, 7 control tests and 3 random tests, the results show that for all sizes of question mark, all but one of the cats were always curious of water). This conclusively proves that curiosity kills cats in 98% of cases. Although the conclusion we have reached strongly suggests for curious feelings causing fatalities in humans. We would recommend that if curious feelings arise, you seek the help of a medical professional for further advice and support. - Rose Whittaker
SIS NELL’S ROCKER “Get ready. We’re going to visit Sis Nell today,” my mother says. I draw a deep breath, my brain feeling like a frying egg. I do not have the slightest desire to spend my Sunday visiting that senile old lady who lives at an “old folk’s home” in Snow Hill. Sis Nell is completely blind and only can hear you if you shout at the top of your lungs right into her ear. She had lived with my grandmother- her sister- until the day she got mad over some trivial thing and attacked my grandmother with her cane and knocked her down a stairway. Luckily, Snow Hill isn’t far away, and we never stay very long, but even so, the time spent there is like an eternity. Sis Nell’s eyes are glassy and watery and she never wears sunglasses to hide them. Her voice crackles when she speaks,
TIGHT CIRCLE
Sis Nell is sitting way back in an old rocker in the communal area, as usual, wearing the same long, dirty white, well-worn dress as always- her legs wide apart, her frayed bloomers showing to her crotch. The ritual is about to begin. Mother puts Sis Nell’s hand on my face, and she starts trying to decide who I am. “Lin-da?” Sis Nell says, thinking it’s my sister. “NO!” Mother shouts, shaking my head side to side. She moves Sis Nell’s hand to show her I don’t have long hair. “NO! It’s TONE-ny! TONE-ny! TONY!” “Jo-ey?” Sis Nell inevitably says next, as she always does, guessing it’s my brother.
to me. I feel as if she might attack me at any time, though she’s never given me the slightest reason for such fear.
“NO! IT’S TON-ny! TON-ny!” Mother yells louder, determined to make her understand.
Sis Nell because she has very little money of her own and it
“TONE-ny?”
to no end.
“YES! YES! YES!” Mother screams, grabbing my head and moving it up and down.
While driving there, my older brother and sister are playing “cow,” but there are so many small family and church cemeteries along the way that every time one of them amasses even a few sightings, a cemetery appears on their side of the road and “kills” their cows. In view of the dreaded task we are undertaking, it seems appropriate that both of them are back to zero when we arrive.
“It’s TONY! TONY!” Sis Nell yells over and over. She smiles when I put the folding money on her upturned palm, but and down in that old rocker, once again the happiest woman in the world. - Tony Wayne Brown
Lauren lost Oliver to Ann. She still had his keys. Marie offered to return them. The go-between was Ann’s ex. The ex, Jerome, married Marie. - Maude Larke
SPILLOVER i have a body tight with shame of the same cloth a slit of shame pulled buckets from rivers spilling with shame my thumbprint you saw one of shame i have a body tight with shame high is the arch protecting our shame a ring of shame some ring of shame between my thighs a print of shame i have a body tight with shame my bitter nails toothed with shame in a see-saw room sticky with shame we sleep and wake up eyes warm with shame mouth holds gentle full from shame i have a body tight with shame the roof of my mouth stacked with shame fingers paint themselves with shame my silly neck locked in shame clipped-throat adult fixed in shame i have a body tool of shame i have a body
tight with shame - Freesia Mckee
WALTZING
-Betsy Lamborn
SCREAMS Warriors of sound have taken over the room. They pierce through With pitchforks of drumming, Sharpened to points. They tear through the film We’ve laid over the furniture, The quiet of tossed words And forgotten sentences. The pale walls that close in Around us Tremble with these creature’s cries. The tiles shriek, threatening to give up. What is this? What has come in here With its timpani of dry thoughts And its heartbeat that shakes the House’s foundation? There is nothing to be done But cover our screams. It’s too late. They’re already here.
- Valentina Cano
SUBSISTING ON AIR QUOTES TO BE OR NOT TO BE (POLITICALLY CORRECT)?
Zeus: Either that, or we’re so comfortable with our masculinity that we don’t feel the need to prove it. Jupiter: What do you think, Veto? Does eating salad make us female? Veto: No, it’s just that more women than men order salad.
With a dust storm closing in on sunny Brisbane, nevertheless I felt it opportune to ride into Uni, my intention being to soak up some of the latent cultural ambiance. I rang Jupiter to tee up a dinner plan but he was off to the pool, partly in celebration of a math assignment two thirds finished and partly to commemorate a new fitness regime. He suggested that I join Veto instead and that he’d meet us both later. I called Veto and was part-way through establishing her whereabouts when we ran into each other. Retiring to the gourmet pizza joint, we were soon joined by none other than Zeus Ronin, who just happened to be wandering by. The dust compelled us to seek shelter in the Schonell, whereupon Veto ate some pizza and the conversation turned to all things politically correct. Veto, though professing a hatred of ‘feminist bullshit’, was soon to be mandated into editing a ‘female’ edition of Semper. As a means of promoting ‘minority discourse’ it is mandatory, apparently, to publish both a ‘female’ and a ‘gay’ issue, put together by females and gays respectively and each devoted to ‘suitably relevant’ content. As the only female member of the Big Smooth editorial committee, Veto would be flying solo on the first of these ‘special’ publications (her initial inclination being towards a blank issue). As for the second: # Zeus: Do you have any poofs— queers— fags? Sorry, the first one came out non-PC and I fucked it up trying to correct. # Jupiter — who had just arrived, dripping wet, wearing a
purple shirt and with a towel wrapped around his waist — felt incited into making one of his famous rants: # Jupiter: Terms like that are meant to be so offensive, but gay magazines, with gay contributors, can use them all the time. It’s bullshit! I mean, all the names come out — queer; poof; bender — and it’s all okay because it’s gays talking about gays. That’s bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit, I tell you! # Having endured a torturous English degree, majoring in postcolonial and feminist bullshit, I felt strangely compelled at this stage to rattle off some of the dogma: # Apollo: What you have to understand is that it’s all about reclaiming words. If so-called ‘minority’ groups take terms that have been used derogatorily against them, and use them themselves, take pride in them, then the words cease to be offensive. # Which all went to suggest it would be a night of heavy philosophising. We adjourned the discussion briefly in favour of food and managed through our orders to concoct a rolereversal of traditional eating stereotypes. Both Zeus and I went for chicken salads (the first time Zeus had ever ordered a salad), Jupiter had a Mediterranean salad while Veto — who already had gone the pizza — subsisted entirely on beer, thereby establishing herself as the only male present: # Apollo: Just as the meat pie is essentially masculine, so too is the salad feminine. Let’s face it. We’re turning into women.
Apollo: You see? Pattern evidence. Jupiter: Well, I’m proud to be acting like a woman! Apollo: Well said. Of course, you are a woman. You’re eating salad. Jupiter: That’s bullshit! Anyway, you’re eating salad too, and so’s he. Apollo: At least our salads have chicken in them. Zeus: And you are wearing a skirt. And a purple shirt. Apollo: And you have long hair. And breasts. Jupiter: That’s why I’ve started swimming. Anyway. I’m proud to have breasts! Apollo: In your defence, you’re quite hairy. Women don’t have so much hair. Zeus: Greek women do. # Which surely constitutes an anti-Mediterranean taunt. Or does it? In a world populated -- as Veto delicately puts it -- ‘largely by dickheads’, in a world where political correctness is running amok, could it be that we four were just doing our best to reclaim some words? - Jacob Edwards
- Eleanor Bennett
PICK UP THE PEN What is it with this eternal impulse to tell stories? As children we remember our folks telling us those off-the-cuff tales of monsters and mayhem, with some annoying brat thrown into the mix for good measure. Mondays are spent chronicling our weekend jaunts, reinforcing our friendships by letting on about ones drunken dandering. If you go to a party there will always be some clever-clever social caterpillar shadowing you, introducing you to one and all as that lass who did that thing, that one time. As a literary enthusiast I am obviously obsessed by stories. Perversely I’ve even programmed myself to believe that storytelling is my most potent seductive tool; although I think my cheery anecdote about smashing my face open at 19 has left more lovers in the lurch than it has caused to lust after me. Anyone who likes to spin a yarn, who believes they have good banter or a belief in their own voice, will come to a point when they ask themselves: have my stories and storytelling a place on the page? It is a cliché that everyone has a book in them. But there is some truth there, because when pressed – even when people wish to suppress us – we will always find a way to tell our stories to one another. Is there a point to this cycle of storytelling beyond the personal? Well, for me, there is. Putting aside the notion that selfexpression is essential for any individual. Women need to write their stories. History has great gaping holes where the voices of women have been repackaged into some more palatable form by male authors. Before the nineteenthcentury there was a paucity of popular female writers. Even Jane Austen - while revered - hardly sold on a grand scale in her lifetime. There is a telling moment in my favourite of Austen’s novels Persuasion when Captain Harville announces that all history and literature is against our
heroine’s defence of women from the charge of caprice. Anne Eliot provides the rebuttal: they were all written by men. Here lies the void. At University I did not come across a single pre-nineteenth century piece of writing by a woman until I undertook a module dedicated to the gendered voice. Why could their voices not mingle with the ‘masculine’ expressions which made up the main body of my course? Why were they put in a quiet corner? Even in the nineteenth-century, when George Eliot, the Brontë sisters and local lass Liz Gaskell were hard at work, their voices were considered a ventriloquism which apparently communicated that the author ‘wants some Tomkins or another to love her and be in love with’. This is a quotation from the pen which brought us Becky Sharp, the pen of William Thackeray and it is written about Charlotte Brontë. It is a patronising polite way of saying (in modern parlance) that a good fucking from some Tom, Dick or Harry would shut her up. The carefully disdainful reception of women’s writing is hardly the obstacle which quietens our pens today. It is our own bodies, our own femaleness which stops us. By this I do not mean some intangible characteristic. I mean our potential to procreate and society’s judgement of us for this. While the Brontë sisters may have had to put up with an untold amount of snide male reviewers, nothing stopped them writing down their stories at home. They had no children to contend with, and a household which pushed them to be creative with their craft. Many women who did write during the quiet spells in ‘women’s literature’ were without children or with that slippery object: the supportive husband. There has never been a suggestion that if a man fathers a child he will have to put down his pen. Yet how many women have put aside their creativity to become their husband’s helper? After Ted Hughes left her raising two small children
alone (and folks I’m not picking sides, I’m from Ted’s neck o’’ t’woods), Sylvia Plath found her writing hours dwindled to that ‘still blue almost eternal hour before the baby’s cry’. Perhaps today, watching Mariella Frostrup chatting away to a female author we think: things are different. These women are shifting their works by the bucket-load in bookstores. They tell Mariella that they’re writing in cafes, balancing babes upon their knees (or those of a nanny), supping lattés and filling their laptops with stories which sell. And here comes the crunch Kittens. They write because they can afford to and are an uncommon species in our current economic climate. Female unemployment is on the up, with women losing their jobs at ten times the rate of their male counterparts. Childcare costs have rocketed. 124 Sure-Start centres - where childcare is subsidised – have closed this year. The majority of women in our society will struggle to meet the essential requirements of modern-living. There will be little time for the pen. This does not mean that they will not have stories to tell. This does mean that there might be a whole generation of women forced into practical problems which will silence them on the page. It cannot just be the expensively coiffured coffee club who have a yarn to spin. If you have a story to tell; if you have the time and the freedom to share your story then pick up the pen! You might write rubbish. I do. You might tell a story about yourself. That’s fine. You might tell us about a youth with warts and an anger-management problem in Timbuktu. But this is the thing you must do: pick up the pen. If not to honour all the women who were (and are) prohibited by a lack of time, support or literacy; if only for the purpose of healing or revealing some of that holed up feeling; if the pen is on the table and you are able: you must write your story. Pick up the pen.
- Crystal Spencer
- Daniela Huhurez
SUSIE AND THE OWL She opened the window as she heard the howl And came face to face with a rather large owl! It took poor Susie by surprise With its huge, bewildered eyes, And she let out a startled shriek When the owl began to speak! “Good evening to you, dear friend, I see your day is at an end, But the day has just begun for me I’m a nocturnal kind of chap, you see! I only emerge in the moon’s silver light On lonely evenings, such as tonight. Don’t be scared, don’t shy away, Can’t we be friends? Come out and play!” Susie knew not what to say, It was too late for her to play. She paused for thought before she said, “I can’t play, I must go to bed.
But do not leave – I have an idea!” She beckoned him closer - “Come in here” The owl agreed, with a nod of the head, Flew in and settled on Susie’s bed. She told the owl, “I just can’t sleep!” The owl replied, “Have you tried counting sheep?” She said, “I’ve counted six hundred and four, I’ve counted so many I can’t count anymore!” “A bedtime story, that might help you rest.” “Oh, thank you owl, that would be the best!” She climbed under the covers and the owl tucked her in, He settled beside her, “Now let us begin…” And when the bedtime story had reached its end, Susie drifted off to sleep, thanks to her new friend.
- Lani Irving
- Lani Irving
Susie lay awake one night Long after mum turned out the light. She tried and tried but couldn’t sleep, She lay for hours counting sheep. She wondered what might be outside, And pulled the curtains open wide. It was a cold and clear night, Darkness was broken by moonlight, Which cast shadows on her bedroom wall, When suddenly she heard a call A cooing noise - “Too-wit, too-woo!” What was that? Or maybe who? Startled now, she stood up straight, She knew not what to do but wait To once again hear that strange sound, But there was silence all around. She held her breath, stood still and then, She heard it call again and again.
PROPHECY “The Bible predicts that a great meteorite shower is going to fall on our coordinates. We need to escape from the zoo!” Ellie pressed up against the railing of the elephant
great net aloft. Ellie lifted her trunk and shot peanuts at the men who approached. The peanuts stopped up most of the guns, but one got her in the leg. She stumbled and swung her trunk
“Ha—what Bible? You don’t even know how to read,” scoffed the baboon. but she was caught fast. “The Elephant Bible. It’s an oral tradition. We don’t need to read—we remember everything.”
Then a blinding white light blazed overhead, and everything went still. When Ellie’s eyes adjusted, she saw a giant silver spaceship above her. A door opened, and a 15-foot-tall woolly mammoth emerged.
The lion yawned hugely, displaying teeth rotted from years of soft zoo living. “Assume you get past the iron bars and the guards. What would you do then, hide in the parking lot?”
“Greetings, little elephant sister,” the mammoth said. “We are mammals and reptiles from your prehistory, travelling through
“I tell you, the zoo’s going to be hit by meteorites. It’s been
valiantly. Would you like to join us on our journey?”
of you.”
Ellie trumpeted her agreement. The mammoth came down and lifted the net off of Ellie. The elephant followed the mammoth into the spacecraft, where enormous animals, some over 100 feet long, welcomed her.
None of the animals cared. At six o’clock the next morning, when the elephant keeper opened the gate to let Ellie into the feeding area, she charged. Grabbing the sack of peanuts the elephant keeper held, she crashed through the open door out into the main zoo. Seizing two iron bars on the main gate with her trunk, she pulled with all her might. Hinges protested, yielding with the crash of rebounding metal on concrete. Ellie was free.
Before the ship exited Earth’s atmosphere, the mammoth pressed a button and a large number of portholes in the bottom of the spacecraft opened up. “Before we enter space, it’s a good idea to use the bathroom,” he said. All the animals got up, each positioning its rump above one of the portholes. Ellie joined them. There was no warning for anyone in the vicinity that a massive shower was imminent.
But the lion was right—she had nowhere to go in these manicured park grounds. Fire engines and police cars were already arriving. A dozen men trotted out, armed with tranquillizer guns; a helicopter was overhead carrying a
THE PROSELYTIZER Ode to the very late professor S.S. Stevens, Harvard S.S. Stevens is famous in psychology for his Law stating that the growth of sensation with stimulus intensity, when plotted on bi-logarithmic paper, is just a straight line. From his pulpit (the journals) the demagogue thundered: It’s all quite so simple: it’s all a straight line. Don’t suffer the details, don’t question the method; The subjects, they do as they’re told, you must see Isn’t it obvious? It’s clear to me The relation is linear; why complicate matters With thoughts of “inside”? It’s all a black box, the innards don’t matter; Our minds with the workings. And so, all agreed. And when he reached seventy, wealthy and honored, His critics beat down by his admiring friends, The demagogue passed away suddenly, skiing His death mourned by acolytes, women came streaming A mind, they insisted, let’s make him a casket, At the family’s insistence, a pine box was ready– Black, angular, simple, and quite unadorned. Professors then howled: why can’t he have better? After all, he’s a hero, a man who inspired. But his children replied: to us he was distant, Obsessed with his theories, ensconced in his tower, In some campus block, out of sight, out of mind. We found in his writings: “Don’t complicate matters, It’s all a black box, who cares what’s inside. Don’t suffer the details, don’t question the method; It’s all quite so simple: it’s all just straight lines.”
- Lance Nizami
- Colleen Chen
EXCERPTS FROM ‘50 STORIES WITH 50 WORDS’ 5. She thought back to the time she’d picked up a small crab out of a rock pool, its legs curving and arching through the air, climbing invisible crab ladders, crawling to get free. She watched it, her face mirroring that perceived desperation, that desire to escape... and so she ran. 15. “Thank you all for coming today. I would ask that we begin with a minutes silence for those lost in the event.” [DO NOT THINK ABOUT THE EVENT] “Thank you. On the agenda by the temporary committee, we will discuss rationing, current supplies, task forces and most importantly, your safety.” 17. When he crushed the cigarette in the palm of his hand, she knew he meant business. She told him everything and they let her go. She found herself in an alley; saw a coat hanging out of a dumpster. She tugged, and out poured bundles of money. Call it compensation. 20. Every so often I stumble into a moment of clarity, much like the one I experienced on that mysterious night 3 weeks ago. My days are in. If only I hadn’t responded to that private urgent phonecall. 22. supposed to be a surprise. There’s no other way to explain the ribbons and streamers - every colour of the rainbow. I found remnants of a picnic. But why did they throw my birthday party without me? 24. Dear Lenny, I found the box like you asked and now I’m leaving you this note as per your instructions. But that’s as far as I’ll go. I’m not opening the box, I’m not giving it to you, and you’re going to be sorry you asked me to do this. 25. When you arrive in the village of Latham, please be reminded that we have a lot of elderly residents who enjoy peaceful streets and good behaviour. Good behaviour is rewarded. The church is on your left. Curiosity is not an option. Stay on your side. Leave now. Get out. Run.
31. obviously it’s great fun but you’d think I’d get a break. It ended the day they faked a suicide note and left me hanging in the kitchen.” Testimony of Kate’s Barbie doll. 39. “We named her Speedy Marie, “she’s built for speed”. Every time we said her name we’d say that phrase. Every time. Sailing on her in the Mediterranean summer was my favourite memory, the wind running through my curls, the waves jogging me on.” And that was all he would say. 40. I was too old for this. My grandson had insisted I come to the back garden to see what he’d found. Never trust a ten year old. I was half a mile from the garden climbing through bracken, but I still acted impressed when he stopped at a “bear footprint”. 44. “Be very still, you don’t want him to hear us...” “Shhhhh.” she looked up at me, her eyes big and dark, wide in fear. I edged closer. “Shhhhh.” I agreed, nodding slowly, never taking my eyes off the door in the corner of the room. We didn’t realise he’d gone. 46. Have you ever seen a note on a lamp post, says “RAWGN”? Ever got television, usually it’s during the news. I notice it most written above cash machines. Look out; they want you to see it. 50. The smell of cigarette smoke bit into my senses as he lit the cigarette between his lips with a silver lighter that shut with a -click!drew again in quick succession. I knew we were nearing The End
- Rose Whittaker
- Daniela Huhurez
OBLIVION RIDE Going to Office of Muslim Affairs, January 12, 2010
Let us stay in this bus going nowhere to nowhere. If I would have my way the heavier the traffic, the better. Forever we can go with our minds in a swoon, drained of all cares, with nothing to look forward to, nothing left behind. And each seat so perfectly fits our bodies, as if to tempt us more, as if the cool air blowing through the slits
HOW TO CONTRIBUTE You’ve reached the end, and perhaps are now thinking “I could do this, for I am an artist/writer/journalist/illustrator/ maker/doer and I would like to contribute to the next issue of VK”
Everyone
Well, firstly, congratulations on having a thought process so uncannily similar to ours; and secondly, here are all the details you need...
- All work should be emailed to: submit@vapidmedia.co.uk
As always the next issue will centre on a theme, and will contain a mixture of creative writing, articles, photography and illustration.
above our heads, and decks of floral curtains were not enough to stir a grand delusion that we are on a royal tour, with the veins
The theme for the next issue is:
and stance of royalty, enthroned within a bubble glass world devoid of dust and shame, relishing every moment like a sin,
Writers
while everything beyond the window blurs to oblivion. Only the bus remains real as our minds are borne by the engine murmurs towards the bliss of sleep. Like lovers we are prompted often to touch arms, elbows, thighs and settle in our warmths, a shoulder cushioning the head. We are all this together. Let us go on and on and on, with no more sighted landmarks to remind us we have to get out, and soon, out there where we face another ending to the wheeled-in dream, out where we nurse again the sharp pain of waking and of parting.
- Alexander N. Tan Jr., M.D.
‘Seeing is Believing’
We publish most forms of creative writing, poetry, short stories, or ballads- the only rule is that it is connected to the theme. When you submit your lovely work please attach it as a word file saved as your name and email it to us. The word limit for creative writing pieces is 500 words. If you’d like to write us an article please email us with a short outline of your proposal. The word count for this is 1000 words and its usually better to email a proposal well before the final deadline.
Visual People We love to include a wide range of visual art within Vapid Kitten, all forms of illustration, photography and fine art are welcome. If you would like to produce some new artwork or illustrations, please email a proposal for the work you would like to produce. Or if you already have something complete simply email your work attached in a jpeg format.
- Please include a two sentence biography about yourself in the email, we will include this on the contributors page.
- The final submission date for all work is the 28th of February 2012. If you have any questions, or a more unusual proposal please feel free to email us. As always we will email everyone back, because we hate it when people don’t reply to us. Looking forward to hearing from you, XOXO A&B
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Tell Us Your Story Do you have a story to share with the Vapidistas? Tell your story in the speech bubble in any way you want, photograph it and send it to submit@vapidmedia.co.uk. We’ll share as many as we can on the blog.
vapidmedia.co.uk katedunstone.co.uk