COBALT Nov 15

PHOTOGRAPHY SPECIAL PLUS

CREATIVE WRITING COMMENT ART RECIPES

NOV 15

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ISSUE 4 CONTENTS

Contributors 004 Editorial 005 Bodily Art 006-007 “Perennial Love; Wind And 008 Rain”

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The Secret Life of a Poet 009-010 “traversing mires” 011 Modern Storytelling Sucks 012-015 “Ben In The Bin” 016-17

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Study snack recipes 018 The Beefer street food 019-021 Comfort food - apple pie 022-023 Parisian travel journal 024 Two Hours - personal essay 025 Selected poems by 026-027 Joanna Jakubowska

Cover image by Frederick Chen

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Photography Special 028-029

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Howard Smith 030-031

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“The Selkie” 032-033 Kirsti Maiwald 034-035 “November” 036 Abbie Neale 037 Elena Sandu 038-039 Fiction from Shereen Lafhaj 040-041 Artwork from Megha Agarwal 042-043

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“Not Exactly Prompt” 044-045 Frederick Chen & Joanna 046-047 Jakubowska Hope McGee & Angela Huang 048-049 “The Man In The Cafe” 050-051 Jessica Kazmin 052-53 Agneh Raj Sikka 054

All images reused with permission of owner or licensed for reuse

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CONTRIBUTORS

Megha Agarwal • Lakshmi Ajay • Ahlam Al-Abbasi • Tolu Alabi • Gemma Albin • Mehma Bagga • Sofia Benincasa • Abi Browning • Monica Bv • Hannah Campling • Dina Caruso • Frederick Chen • Laura Christensen • Jess Collette • Eleanor Dawson • Katie Hall • Charlotte Hancock • Zoe Harrington • Ellie Hastings • Kristen Helmick • Hebe Hewitt • Angela Huang • Joanna Jakubowska • Julia Jasinska • Jessica Kazmin • Shereen Lafhaj • Dominic Lam • Kirsti Maiwald • Hector Male • Hope McGee • Abbie Neale • Ana Clara Vazquez Paniago • Elizabeth Pugsley • Harry Puttock • Elena Sandu • Agneh Raj Sikka • Howard Smith • Armani Syed • Radu Vlad • Jonny Young

EDITORIAL SIt o,always it’s the end of week 8. takes an issue of

Cobalt Magazine to remind me that there isn’t that long left until Christmas or Easter or Summer, depending on which term we’re in, and this time it’s been no different.

The amazing Cobalt exec has really stepped it up this year - we’ve never been stronger as a society, and I really think this shows in the publication!

We have had a record number of editors, and if you take a peek over the page at our contributors you’ll see that it’s about twice as full as it usually is. As president and editor-inchief, as well as the founder of this little publication, it’s absolutely amazing to see how many people have gotten involved this year! So before I walk you through the issue, I’d just like to say thank you to everyone involved with this issue, new and old Cobalters alike - we literally can’t do this without you all!

This issue is a real cracker in my opinion (no, that wasn’t a terrible Christmas pun but I guess you can take it as one if you really want!) - we had an amazing response to our call for more photography, so much so that I decided to make this a photography special. Have a look from halfway through the issue onwards to see the pictures of our contributors stripped-back and left to their own devices on the page -

you’re bound to find one (or ten!) that you like. If you’re still not satisfied, there is all kinds of creative writing spread out between the photography, so you’ll always have something to keep to busy.

If that still isn’t enough, the first half of the issue is absolutely packed with articles, reviews, recipes (if you don’t make the amazing apple pie on page 22 then I WILL judge you). There are so many diverse topics that there is literally something for everybody.

In an attempt to keep things fresh, this issue of Cobalt will also soon be available in an audio format that will hopefully be put out

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before the end of term! It’ll feature the majority of the issue with authors reading out their own work for your delictation - we want everyone to be able to enjoy what is published in Cobalt, whether it’s those of us who maybe find the traditional format a bit tricky to read or just those who just prefer their creativity podcasted!

Keep an eye out for that...

Another editorial ended, another issue of Cobalt finished, and I’m getting more and more aware of how little time I have left at the helm of this publication but here’s to many more years of our favourite campus arts magazine!

Bodily Art

Deasil Art Gallery’s recent exhibition: Inked Palette.

The great tattoo debate is still relevant for young people: ‘Will getting a tattoo make me more vulnerable to discrimination, both in the workplace and out of it?’

Deasil Art Gallery in Leamington Spa presents the bold and beautiful side of tattoo culture, in an attempt to make art relevant and accessible to cater for a new generational interest. I went along with the Cobalt team to have a look for myself and discuss the issues surrounding tattooing as a bodily art form; it is brilliantly inspirational for some and disturbingly ‘too common’ for others.

A collaborative effort that brought together Beccy Rimmer, founder of the Inkluded blog, the owner and curator of the Leamington gallery, Kate Livingston and her partner, also Kate, this installation of original illustrations, photography and polaroid collages succeeds in delivering a visually stimulating introduction to tattoo art and culture. As a student of Warwick, I am far from alien to the fashion of tattoos that has grown in popularity throughout my generation. I have seen and spoken to friends who have had tattoos done and I have pondered, many times, whether to get one myself. My older brother has a shoulder tattoo; I seen both the positive and negative effects the tattoo has had on his life from my position as a bystander during family debates. I believe tattoos are not as unusual as they have been in the past. This has created

Abi Browning

a breakdown in the general stigma attached to people who choose to express their interests and creativity on their bodies through the medium of ink. We see companies such as Wagamama proudly advertising their nondiscriminatory employment policies that welcome ‘interesting’ people to work in the hospitality sector. Some employers declare that customer-facing roles require approachable and engaging characters that are common within the outgoing nature of people with tattoos, dyed hair and piercings. I find this a huge generalization, only taking a negative prejudice and inverting it to cloud the fact that tattoos are still viewed stereotypically.

I remember being in awe of friends and family members who would invest their time, money and bravery into a permanent form of personal adornment. Rather than sharing the widespread view that tattoos are intimidating, I find them interesting and expressive. Personally, I love to wear clothing, jewellery and shoes that are different to say something about my personality.

Tattoos are just another way to embrace uniqueness. My mother disagrees with me - a personal family dispute - as she will often make the argument that graduate job employers will not choose someone with tattoos over another applicant who has none.

Again, I think this may have been the case a decade or two ago, but I would hope to work for an employer who could see past the cliché of a tattoo as untidy or unprofessional and appreciate the personal meaning behind body adornment. On one hand, I do agree that in some corporate or customer-facing roles a suited and polished appearance is

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desirable to an employer. On the other hand, many tattoos can be covered by work clothing and I personally see no issue with choosing a tattoo that does not impinge on your career choice; office work, for example. I see so many people every day with tattoos and, although we need to be aware of public opinion and the impact of an employer’s decisions regarding appearance in the workplace, I do believe this stigma is slowly but surely being ironed out. People are becoming more accepting and welcoming of human individuality and our culture is moving away from stereotyping which has dominated popular culture for too long.

Now is the time for personality, the generation of creativity and respect, and I want to be at the pioneer force of such a movement.

These musings have been developing since my immersion in the Inked Palette exhibition, my first experience of tattoo art as a physical installation in a ‘proper, grown up’ art gallery. I regret not having visited more galleries and indulged in art throughout my life so far; I have been to big exhibitions whilst on holiday, tagging along with families of tourists, but my visit to Deasil Art Gallery has opened my eyes to a new side of art as a personal, accessible event. This is what the aim of the exhibition has been from the offset. Both Kates state clearly on the gallery website that their aim has been to showcase “cutting edge, innovative and affordable art”.

This means not just affordable but open and non-exclusive to age, gender or experience.

In a press release from the exhibition launch Kate Livingston commented: “Inked

Palette will really push the boundaries of a traditional art exhibition… Tattooing is a selfless talent that more tattoo artists should be recognized for.”

Through my discussions with the other students who came along to our gallery trip I could see that these aims were certainly met and the appreciation of the artwork on show was formidable as we reflected on the talented and intricate technique of every piece. From the more traditional greyscale styles of Aron Cowles and watercolor illustration tattoos by Joanne Baker to the Neo-traditional Japanese dotwork pieces produced by Shaun Williams, Inked Palette offered a range of beautiful and fascinating tattoo artwork that was both surprising and inspiring. A common favorite of the Cobalt team stood out as the group of three Star Wars inspired originals

by Shirin Scales. These were stunning, colorful cartoon/ comic style drawings of famous characters which dissolved into mermaid-esque tails towards the bottom of the frame and had brilliant names (including Bath Vader and Storm Grouper) that were much appreciated by my fellow English Literature enthusiasts!

Although I may not rush out to have my very own illustration of a sparrow or bird of prey inked onto my shoulder blade (still in a dilemma about this one!), I can certainly admit to being enthralled and inspired by the range of beautiful photos and expressive artwork that we had the pleasure to see. I adore the idea of having an inclusive, non-judgmental, free art installation that encourages people to consider new edges of art and overcome the prejudices that surround it as being snobby or stuffy. Some people only consider gallery art as highbrow modernism or mystically important classical works seen in the Tate or National Gallery.

I came to this position on tattoo art from a point of fascination but stand-offish wonder, being someone who has been told to avoid tattooing for the sake

of future career prospects and who has envied the courage and creative glory I see in people who use it for self-expression.

After going to the Inked Palette exhibition I realised I have too often misjudged body art. The goals set out by Kate, Beccy and Kate have inspired me to pursue more of an interest in contemporary art and the works of talented artists, such as those involved in Inked Palette. I was impressed by the approach of art as an accessible form of creativity and beauty that has been on show in the Deasil Art Gallery.

More importantly, I appreciate the effort made by those involved to highlight that tattooing is no longer something to be snubbed or considered with prejudice. The quote given to us from one of the tattoo artists on display, Shaun Von Sleaze, sums up my thoughts on these issues precisely: “Art is art regardless of placement and it would be nice to show that we are artists, not what an outdated stereotype likes to portray.”

Inked Palette was open and running from October 3rd to 23rd. However, Deasil Gallery will be opening new and promising installations and events in the not-too-distant future with exhibitions regularly changing, keeping a fresh take on local art in their building at 44 Oxford Street, Leamington Spa, Warwickshire, CV32 4RA. I recommend taking an hour or so out of your studious schedules to take a look. Try a little selfscrutiny through the medium of art and culture this year!

For more information on the thoughts behind the exhibition visit Beccy Rimmer’s current blog: inkluded.co.uk or visit deasil.co.uk Tattoo Artists Involved in ‘Inked Palette’ Joanne Baker | David Brace | James Bull | Paula Castle | Aron Cowles | Nicola Cry | The Hores | Hannya Jayne | William Jones | Shirin Scales | Adam Thomas​| Charlotte Timmons​| Shaun Von Sleaze | Alex Stark | Shaun Williams | Kat Winifred | Niall Patterson

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a poem by

Lakshmi Ajay

Twas a day so young when I first laid my eyes on her.

When all the world was before us to explore, All I could ask her was, “Would you like to play with me?�

Pitter patter sang her feet as we ran down window sills and sloping roofs, With me whistling behind her.

Yet, we were just playing.

Soon, time had come for the skies to darken, Her metamorphosis; tiny droplet to divine crystal.

My transformation; growing in might day by day, We were shrouded in the clouds of love.

Frolicking round and round, a love so passionate blossomed; We created a shield, impenetrable to all.

But time alters the designs of fate, And time remoulds the scheme of nature.

For soon shields transformed into weapons; Lashing hard, wind against rain, me against you.

We consumed all in our path with passion, We embraced.

Gigantic trees gyrated to my whistling.

Thirsty Earth gulped in the fruits of her delight, Clouds hastened to replenish her every need and her torrents freshened the rivers.

The cosmos reveled in our love, And then came demur, A rumble shook us, A flash of light tore us apart They have come to know.

Her father thundered, Her mother blinded us in her anger, The skies that reveled now quivered.

In her rage, wavering trees were torn to the ground, In his rage, the earth shook In her sorrow, the waters in the rivers gorged with her tears, In my sorrow, the air sizzled with shrill howls.

When the first light of dawn brightened the gloom of yesterday, A dew drop glistened, a leaf fluttered.

That was all there was of her and I.

PERENNIAL LOVE; 8 WIND AND RAIN

The Secret Life of a poet Dominic Lam

I

was recently asked, by a friend of mine, why exactly I write poetry. It’s strange but previously I’d never given the question much thought.

It seems like it should be straightforward but I can’t find an answer that satisfies: why do I write poetry? Poetry isn’t going to put a man on Mars, nor will it end world poverty, or even make me any better at Lacrosse. So what’s the point?

I just love writing poetry. It’s an infuriating answer, but it gives me a buzz and I genuinely believe that the majority of my good ideas have come through the translucent medium of poetry.

Wordsworth once said that “poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings”.

Writing poetry doesn’t seem like a choice, but an imperative.

Writing, like anything – singing, dancing or painting – shouldn’t be something you want to do. It should be something you just do.

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My life is much like yours – the only difference being that while you may find solace in talking things through with a friend or going for a run, I find it in poetry.

I want to let you in on a little secret. I hate modern music. Not all of it, mind, but I’ve come to believe that old is, for the most part, better. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the Bee Gees and their song, ‘Words’, is particularly close to my heart. There’s a wonderful line which goes: “it’s only words, and words are all I have to take your heart away.” You can lose everything, but retain control of language and you still possess what is most important.

There’s a Morecambe and Wise sketch, featuring André Previn, in which the famous composer complains that Morecambe is disrupting the orchestra by “playing all the wrong notes” on the piano. Morecambe proceeds to grab Previn by his lapels

and explains, very calmly, “I am playing all the right notes.

But not necessarily in the right order.” Just like Morecombe moulds Grieg’s Piano Concerto into his own ditty, I can use the same twenty-six letters that Shakespeare used to write King Lear into something that is entirely my own.

I’m sure that some people reading this magazine will have taken one look at the title of this article and immediately flicked onto the next page. It’s understandable; poetry has always had a highbrow, dauntingly complex and intricate air to it which puts a lot of people off. However, I like to point to John McCrae’s ‘In Flanders Fields’, a piece which seems particularly apposite at the time of writing, and

invite anyone to try and read it without feeling at least a lump in their throat. Anyone, anywhere could read that poem and understand it.

If this article is to do anything, I want it to dispel the notion that poetry is needlessly obscure and wilfully difficult.

Of course, there’s difficult poetry but after all, reading a poem is like crossing a river; some are deeper than others.

Writing can be just as accessible as reading; you don’t need to be Grieg or Shakespeare – it will be your own. If you want to start writing poetry but are unsure of where to begin, read ‘The Ode Less Travelled’ by Stephen Fry, which will tell you in simple terms everything there is to

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know about the basic rules of writing poetry – and even then, some of the rules are there to be broken. Furthermore, in terms of reading poetry, try ‘In Paris With You’ by James Fenton, ‘Out of the Blue’ by Simon Armitage or perhaps ‘Fern Hill’

by Dylan Thomas. Read them aloud.

I’ve just thought of an answer to my friend’s question.

It actually is a straightforward question, and there’s an equally straightforward answer.

I write poetry because it allows for precision of expression within the entangled web of emotions surrounding us. It tells the story of the secret life of a human: we are all poets.

a marsh extends between the two of us guided by wisps i hope to cross it soon the wetlands surrounding your skin the snake the firebrand of your dark radiant hair

shout at the four corners of the world exhibit the fierceness of a formidable fancy i want to spend the night with you by the fireside on a soft white carpet with a glass of wine to talk to you for hours unnacounted with words that are too weak for such a heart as yours and mine a greater heart is oftentimes most silent you whisper with a steady touch your laughter

will we meet midway in november say will you be there when i no longer recognise myself and lose fragments of my mind and loose fragments of my mind are rafts on which the lost traverse the mires how shall we then proceed to pass will we meet someday in november say tuesday afternoon sounds quite fine to me we will have biscuits and synthetic tea you swam across with your bare hands and body my tea was cold and you were dripping you dragged behind your being the ripe spirit of the bog and my place and the city and the world was swallowed at your presence

if dawn catch us like this it will begrudge us nothing through summer swamps we must direct our wingless thoughts and wingless feet there are no angels between the two of us they innly terrified have hid beneath illuminating panoplies of stars our hideout is an earth of mud our hideout is here and no place else if we have time i will construct a cottage on these slippery dells in the quag and there a stable life might follow where sunken deep in dreams and aspirations our inner tongues would roar with discontent

sailor in time i greet you with a kiss you carry wisps within your napalm lips the snake has bitten red into your cheeks it dangles from your neck a jewel bright emerald stone hissing the betrayer don't listen love but lead me to your soul for me to revel in and to lose control to boil with the fire of a purer flame i will lie bonfire to your torch of shame

if june catch us like this the snake will burst in fragrant vapours i'll take the sun out of my pocket and cheer bring me a concupiscent round moon and living will ensue as if it never paused in the first place what place what space is there beyond a fading from existence your wisps should keep me breathing long enough

if december comes without me knowing know that i recall your voice in the placid snow there will be singers in the swamps the flies will buzz to their tunes disenchanted and alone what lies beyond this thick wet wall of grass what lies beyond words never uttered

traversing mires 11

a poem by

Radu C Vlad

Jonny Young

A WORD ON...

Visual Storytelling and Why It Sucks

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W

hy does everything have to be a movie? Don't get me wrong I like movies, but whenever a book, game or even a TV show becomes a hit, there's instantly talk of when the movie version will come outIt's indicative of the steaming pile of sequel factory bankrolling bullshit the blockbuster movie industry has found itself in, and videogames aren't far behind either.

For starters, there are books that have absolutely no right to become movies, like the unbearable Fifty Shades of Grey. Like any film based on sex, it would have either had to be Pornhub: Extended Cut, or two pasty personality sieves gawping at each other and a dildo for two hours in various vaguely hospitable settings. The main issue with this example though, is that the book is absolute garbage, written as fan fiction to fucking Twilight of all things before they changed some character names around and fed it to sex hungry mums whose husbands were too busy eating mud and kicking themselves in the testicles to notice they were married.

If a book is lacking in plot, characters, or general quality, and has very little material that can actually be released in a cinema, then it has no purpose being a film. It'd be like trying to make an action thriller based solely on the contents of my shower drain.

If it's not just a shit adaptation of a shit source, then it's a movie whose execs are wringing as much money

out of a franchise as they can.

Endless sequels, prequels and duringquels effectively split one story into eleventy billion parts for maximum dollar and minimum customer satisfaction. Harry Potter started the trend and sort of got away with it since the book was legitimately too big, but since then films have been all too happy to stall for time, like lawyers at a strippers wedding.

The second Hunger Games film was the movie equivalent of a fat moggy getting stuck in its own catflap, Twilight existed for about eight films longer than it should have, the Marvel cinematic universe is currently making movies just because it needs to keep existing and The Hobbit padded a fairly short book with mine cart races and stoner wizards. Modern movie

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franchises are like public bus services; short journeys, loads of stops, irritatingly expensive and a decent chance of finding a homeless man masturbating with a paper bag in the back row.

But while book-tofilm adaptations are getting progressively stupid and pointless, like when a dear relative passes into their ninth decade, videogames have a much more chronic problem; they're beginning to think that they are movies. Little Jimmy Ubisoft likes to dress in Momma Paramounts dresses on occasion and is slowly hatching a plan to kill her off in a freak golfing accident so he can replace her in society, even though he's about eight and smells of Wotsits and fear.

Games publishers talk bullshit. When a game claims

it's 'cinematic' it means it has expensive graphics. When a game claims it's 'emotional' it means it's got an overcomplicated, under-acted story. When a game claims it's 'immersive', it means it's paranoid about being shit and praising itself for doing its job. If your game is not immersive then your game is bad. Immersion is broken by inconsistencies, so if the players are noticing physics glitches and graphical weirdness, or it controls like a crab at the helm of a 747, it's going to pull you out of the experience no matter what the experience was to begin with. If you advertise a visual media as 'immersive' you may as well advertise the fact that it makes pictures

appear on a screen.

'Cinematic' is even worse. Crucially, it means basically nothing at all and screams of the desperation of marketing departments trying to ride the coattails of a medium they passed by in profitability somewhere in 2009. However, more worryingly it implies that marketers, or developers, or whoever think that visuals are the only important part of a film. If this was the case, every film would just be a procession of flashy lights and fireworks. I can't be certain, but other than some experimental student art films, I highly doubt there has ever been a movie that hasn't at least tried to tell a story of some kind, no

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matter if it was good or not.

A film can look decent while still being absolute shit, for example every single thing Michael Bay has ever done in his entire career. The best films have more than that though; an excellent plot, clever use of music and set design, good dialogue etc. When a game claims it's 'cinematic', it's often artistically good at a level of shallowness not offered by most tea-trays. Controls and gameplay don't matter since people don't need to play it, they only sit entranced by a giant noisy screen while their body fat slowly fuses to their seat.

Then there's the insanity of transferring a videogame franchise into

a film, which boggles the mind. Videogames aren't particularly known for their excellent storytelling, and if one is, it's often at the expense of gameplay complexities, like Brothers: A Tale of Two Sons or Journey. If a game has told an excellent story in its own right, then a film spin-off is pointlessas the story has already been told in a visual medium, so all you'd be doing is removing any user interaction and throwing Ryan Reynolds in for Nolan North. If it hasn't told a good story, then you're removing the pop-ups from a pop-up book and leaving behind a story nobody cared about in the first place. Films that tell a different story but are set in the same universe are fine and could be interesting, provided they don't make a story out of thin air using a franchise name, of which Battleship is the logical stupidity blackhole.

But if all you're going to do is regurgitate the same Mass Effect story but with less stilted animations and no customisation or moral choice then at least one of the creative teams involved has wasted literally years of their life.

Even ignoring all of that, why is cinema the bastion of quality anyway?

There's nothing intrinsically better about films than games or books, and the industry is now as bloated and overconfident as Jabba the Hutt. The critically 'best' films aren't the most successful and the most successful are normally pretty terrible.

Transformers 4 grossed over a billion worldwide but is so

absolutely atrocious in almost every possible way I wouldn't be surprised if Michael Bay was just seeing what he could get away with without being fired. The reason Marvel has taken over the box office isn't because their films are universally amazing mustsees, it's because they deliver a solid, consistent 6.5 out of 10 every time, with the occasional 8 sneaking in there to make up for the hopeless gibberish that was Iron Man 3. Marvel has made a TV series in the cinema, so people want to come back and watch more of their favourite characters get into hijinks in their armoured pyjamas.

Unfortunately, now everyone wants to do this, and I can guarantee it won't work.

Pretentiousness runs through the industry like a clogged artery, the majority of content is trash of the highest degree and the good stuff is either lost in the crowd or swiftly dogpiled by the studio for sequels if they made any chunk of money at all. While that may very well be a description of the movie industry, it's also a perfect example of the giants of videogames. Two of the biggest media industries on the planet are following each other into the shitter with blinkers bigger than Quentin Tarantino's ego, caring little if at all for customer satisfaction or end quality. If that's not a terrifying thought, then... well, go and watch Pan's Labyrinth or something. I heard it was scary.

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illustration by the author

Ben in the bin

“Please take a ticket and we’ll see to you when we can!” read the sign, on its side, by the bins at the back. At a recent board meeting it had become obvious, once it had been pointed out, that the company brand was in desperate need of some revitalization.

“We’re inside the box.”

“What box?”

“Exactly! It’s been so long we don’t even see it.”

“Genius.”

“Look. Our current image, it’s so direct. We’re not the same as them, and it’s about time we went from being the friendly neighborhood idiot trying to get a date to the prom and became something different, bigger, more… abstract! At the moment we’re looking the customer in the face and trying to seem as friendly and helpful as we can and it’s bullshit. We need to stop trying to talk to them, stop trying to appeal to them, and become the urge in the back of their fucking heads.”

A company-wide memo was passed down, distributing the sentiment of the meeting like hallucinogens in the piss of Vikings. The board approved result, at this local branch, was that customers were welcomed by the cardboard cut image of Heather from HR, the particular form of which, it was agreed: “certainly couldn’t hurt business?” (I don’t know why that was a question either, Ian needs to sort his bloody self-esteem out).

Cardboard Heather, as opposed to real Heather (from HR), was then sent a much deliberated on quip from headquarters to be stuffed up her arse and out of her speech bubble: “We guarantee it’ll be over sooner rather than later!”. Ticket 57 had just been taken, and despite Cardboard Heather’s perpetual optimism, the red neon sign above her read 22. 35 customers were waiting.

“Where’s the manager?” said number 26.

“Yes we’re growing restless.” said number 31. They were growing restless.

“Mary!”, called Sue at reception, “People are growing restless.”

“Yes we are. Quite restless.” reiterated number 31. Out came Mary.

“I’m sorry folks,” said Mary, “we’re understaffed today, there will be some delays but we’re doing our best.”

“I don’t have all day you know.” said number 44.

“I’m quite aware of that, Sir.” said Mary. LEDs rearranged: 23.

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by

Har

rry Puttock

“Where are all your staff?” asked number 26.

“Excuse me.” said number 23, working his way through the crowd, deathly afraid of anyone inferring that they were, in fact, very much in his way.

“Well Sir,” Mary began, “our team is short two people; Ben used his staff discount yesterday, and Sarah is on holiday.”

“Ooh, where’s she gone?” asked Sue.

“You know, I didn’t ask.” replied Mary.

“Excuse me.” said number 23.

“Yes?”, said Sue, “Hello, I’m Sue, how can I help?”

“Do you do a student discount?” said number 23.

Paul had received a letter stating that his job title had been “reimagined” as part of the company rebrand, now: “the night shift”. Other than that, nothing had changed. He kept arriving at the same time, to do the things he’d always done, and he still didn’t like to see them. Instead, he’d wait a few streets down and make his way over when he knew it was all done for the day. It wasn’t much distance, but it was enough, one of his tricks. Another was a list of bullet points that he could rattle off when cornered by people at the school gates or dinner parties. Nonsense about getting stuck in the sector, company benefits and life getting in the way of things. Anything to shut people up. Although, he found, increasingly, that the list was more for his own sake than anyone else’s. It at least made some sense of why he came back here five nights a week.

He began to make his way to work. He had people that relied on him. It was too late now. Even if he did quit, where would that leave him? : no staff discount. He saw the woman from reception leave and he knew it was safe, that he’d be alone, to start work for the night.

Paul dumped the last of the waste by the bins at the back. They were full. Business had been good. He was done again for another day.

“Good morning Ben!” said Sue. Paul didn’t respond to her as he walked out and away from the branch. Customers began to arrive. They were welcomed by Cardboard Heather, as opposed to real Heather (from HR).

“We guarantee it’ll be over sooner rather than later!”

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STUDY SNACK HACKS

Abi Browning

1) Mason Jar Dip and Stix

Spoon some hummus or yummy dip (guacamole or frijolemole if you prefer) into the bottom of a Mason jar or tub. Stick cut up match sticks of carrots, cucumber and celery upright in the dip and just tall enough to allow space for the lid to be screwed on. Pop a little cling film on the top of your jar and then secure the lid. Wham-Bam! A takeaway snack that is handy and looks cute too! Great for munching on in the learning grid or by your desk when you feel the urge for something crunchy.

2) Frozen Yog Berries

Try with blueberries, raspberries and even slices of banana! Coat your berries in natural yogurt in a bowl, making sure they are all well dipped. Spread out on a lined plate or tray and pop into the freezer for a few hours. Try not to eat them all before they are ready! The yoghurt goes super creamy as it freezes and the berries are like little bites of sorbet! Pick the yog balls off the tray and pop them into Ziploc bags or a plastic tub to keep stored in the freezer. A great go-to when you are craving an ice-lolly or want to snack on ice cream. These little bites are super yummy superfoods!

3) No Bake Granola Blender Bars (clean eating snackers unite!)

Whizz up some oats, nuts, dates and nut butter (such as peanut, cashew or almond) with a couple of tablespoons of honey. When it makes a gooey but crunchy mush then spoon it into a lined tin and pack it all down firmly! Chill for 15-20 minutes (and then sit back and chill yourself!). Simply cut into rectangles and keep in a tub in the fridge for a cool nibble to go along with a cuppa and your textbook session.

4) Yummy and Healthy Popcorn

Popcorn is super fast and easy to do even without the microwave bags. You need a big pan (WITH A LID – don’t do a Pingu. If you don’t know what I mean then WHY HAVEN’T YOU SEEN PINGU…) and some fresh popcorn kernels. You could also head over to YouTube and watch the popcorn episode guys. I like to use a tablespoon of coconut nut oil as this gives the popcorn a toasted coconut flavor too but normal cooking oil is just fine! Heat your oil until you can see it gently smoking.

Throw your popcorn into the pan and stick the lid on. Every now and then pick up the pan, holding the lid on, and give it a shake and swizzle around to make sure the corn doesn’t burn. You’ll start to ear it pop like mad!

When the popping reduces to around one pop every 1-2 seconds (it normally takes around 5-10 minutes to cook) then whip the pan off the heat and take a peak to check your corn hasn’t caught and burnt. Now it’s time to season your corn! You can add anything you like; salt and sugar if you fancy or why not try shaking cinnamon over the top for a great low-calorie snack! A drizzle of chocolate, warm honey or warm peanut butter (or all the above) is a gooey, messy heaven of a munch! You can also try desiccated coconut, cocoa powder or chili sauce/oil/spice mix. Just think of your favorite flavors and then how best to get that to stick onto corn, the possibilities are pretty much endless! Popcorn lasts well in an airtight container so you can make a batch and keep some for later too!

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Dina Caruso

E

arlier this month I visited the university’s ‘Festival of the Imagination’ where I met Dominic McAlwane. Art has been a prominent element of Dominic’s life with his mother being an experienced artist and potter, and his sister also a fantastic artist. Inspired at an early age, Dominic has become a digital, pencil, chalk and wood artist. Now, however,

Dominic has turned his eye to pop-up street food; The Beefer.

Dominic has spent a lot of time developing his classic Beefer Bun. He starts with the very best bread he can find which is the Manchet bun; the buttery lovechild of croissants and brioche. Moving onto the beef, Dominic uses 28 day mature, locally-sourced brisket, with just enough fat

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left on to make it taste utterly delicious. Smothered with a secret Beefer recipe rub, the beef is then soaked in stock from the last batch cooked, and then cooked for 10 whole hours.

The beef is just the start; the ‘crispy bits’ give every bite an extra crunch and are made out of crispy potatoes and grated beetroot.

No burger is complete without a sauce and The Beefer offers several delectable options which compliment each other perfectly. There’s the aromatic sweet and sticky house sauces made from scratch from their very own recipes, as well as The Beefer’s house ranch style mayo and smoking hot Beefing Bum Burner made with smoked red peppers and burnt scotch bonnets.

Next is The Beefer Slaw which strays from convention with chunks of red cabbage, carrot and broccoli; crunchy and healthy goodness with no overpowering onions. Finally, no Beefer Bun is complete without a few slices of dill chilli gherkins.

Clearly, Dominic sees an artistic side in his burgers and believes that “art is possibly the most subjective subject there is, for me it has to be at the very least aesthetically intriguing.

I never set out to make pretty or quaint food - for me it’s about the flavour first, then building a way to make it eye catching and interesting. However, not all food needs to be so; a steaming pile of haggis, neaps and tatties doesn’t look particularly appetising, but when you start pushing it into your mouth you realise that it doesn’t matter a jot! Can flavour be art?

I guess it is, but only as long as I still make people happy. Art is everywhere

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and unavoidable, it’s ugly and beautiful and everything in between but in each instance, somebody has thought, ‘I want somebody to feel something, how do I do it?’. Only then do the creative cogs start grinding.”

“My sister is a science teacher, and her students post her lessons online because they are so beautifully different and inspirational.

She has inserted art into teaching, but is she an artist? I have to find a way to insert as much imagination into whatever I do as possible, I get better results and it makes the process so much more enjoyable.”

Dominic has put an incredible amount of effort into making beef taste incredible, viewing it as a beautifully messy pile of food with no reasonable way of eating it; his food it not delicate or conventional but it certainly makes people happy (or at least it worked for me!).

So, what makes an artist? I consider Dominic an artist of food; his food has provided many with happiness and satisfaction.

Check out Dominic and The beefer on social media /lovethebeefer /DominicMcalwaneArtist

/lovethebeefer

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E

very cooking freak needs a recipe which will easily lift them to the state of food ecstasy and comfort. For some people it’s an Italian pasta, made with odorous garlic, aromatic herbs and red tomatoes, then sprinkled with the finest parmesan cheese. Easy, quick, filling and, gracious: how tasteful! For others, it may be a good, old, British jacket potato, filled with the memories of home. Its cheesy and buttery smell may easily bring some back to their mother’s kitchen whenever they feel lonely and homesick in the university halls.

One of my favourite “comfort recipes” is the Apple Pie. It has all of the necessary requirements to be ranked as a culinary perfection: The result is delicious.

It reminds me of the traditional Polish apple pie, frequently served throughout the autumn season.

The products are still available

during the whole year!

It is relatively easy to make.

It looks freaking impressive and makes you feel like Gordon Ramsay!

The Apple Pie recipe could comfort me if I felt like a cooking failure and wanted to lift myself up. It could remind of home. Last, but not least, it could comfort me if I simply wanted to energize my body with sugar and didn’t feel like going for something as common as chocolate.

So, whether you want to impress your flatmates with remarkable baking skills, or you want to delight your taste buds with a sound combination of cinnamon, apples and soft meringue, try this Apple Pie recipe!

Comfort yourself with this non-guilty pleasure.

The recipe was adapted from: mojewypieki.com/post/ szarlotka-z-beza

COMFORTING APPLE PIE 22

Julia Jasinska

For the base you'll need:

mixture starts to bubble.

- Cook on the medium heat for no longer than 7 minutes.

2 cups of wheat flour 2 ounces of powdered sugar A pinch of salt A bit less than 1/2 cup of butter 1 tablespoon of sour cream 1 egg yolk

It is important for the apple pieces to retain their shape! Remember that they will bake in the oven too! Don’t burn the caramel, otherwise the filling will be bitter.

For the Meringue you'll need:

- Mix everything together with a blender.

- Wrap the dough with foil and put it into the fridge for 30-60 minutes.

- Heat the oven to 200 Celsius Degrees.

- Take a baking tin(either a square measuring around 31x21 cm, or a circle with the diameter 25 cm), oil it with butter and sprinkle with flour.

- Spread the dough on the baking form using your fingers.

- Make little holes in the bottom using the fork.

- Put it into the fridge for another 30 minutes (If you’re in a hurry, it is possible to skip this step).

- Bake for 15 minutes, or until the base becomes golden. In the meantime, prepare the apple filling.

3 egg whites 1 cup of white sugar 2 teaspoons of potato starch (it makes the meringue soft in the middle, so don’t forget it!)

-Whip the egg whites using a blender.

- Add sugar slowly - tablespoon after tablespoon.

This is important for the texture!

- When the mass will finally get stiff and shiny, add the starch and mix again.

For the apple filling you'll need:

Take the baked cake bottom. Add apples and then put meringue on top.

2 kg of sour apples (McIntosh and Granny Smith will be best. Don’t use Red Delicious!)

1 tablespoon of butter 3 tablespoons of brown sugar 1 teaspoon of cinnamon (or more if you’re a cinnamon fan!)

1/3 teaspoon of nutmeg Optional: 1/2 cup of raisins and nuts.

- Peel the apples and remove the seeds.

- Cut each apple into smaller pieces.

- Melt the butter on the pan.

- Add the sugar and mix gently by shaking the handle.

- Add the apples and spices when the caramel

Lower the temperature to 180 Degrees Celsius and bake for 25 minutes.

The baked meringue should have a cracked, slightly browned top. If it’s still too white, bake for a little bit longer (up to 15 minutes) in 150 degrees Celsius.

Let it cool down for a short bit by opening the oven door.

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Finally, enjoy the taste of your pie and the compliments of your kitchen peers!

Travel journal Parisian Spell Elena Andra Sandu 8.30 am. Beauvais Airport. Paris. France. Me and my mother left home around 1 am the night before, as we had to go from Constanta to Bucharest to catch our flight. It was uncomfortable, stressful and exciting all at the same time. I could not help but wonder how it would be to actually walk down the streets of a city as enchanting and notorious. It was my first time there and I could already sense a change of air.

We exited the airport and began looking for our shuttle driver and his tiny piece of paper which had our names on. When we encountered him, we gave him our evidence and then he started speaking to us, asking us questions about our country, the reason we are in Paris, what is our itinerary, what are we doing after our getaway. Do not get me wrong: he was extremely polite while chatting with us. He spoke a lot about himself as well: Brazilian, lived for nine years in Bristol, another five in Florence and for one year he has been living in Paris as an airport shuttle driver. Obviously, he could speak fluently: Portuguese, English, Italian and French. He gave us a lot of tips, touristy spots, information about the means of transport and he even took a detour to Chantilly, a commune in the Oise department in the valley of the Nonette in the Picardy region of northern France, 38 km north-northeast from the centre of Paris. The Château de Chantilly is magical. It stands almost like on water, the domain being not that colossal, but certainly impressive: two attached buildings: The Petit Château and the Grand Château and The Muse Condé, which is integrated inside the castles.

The next stop was our hotel and, as it was still early in the morning, we had to waste time until 3pm when we could move in our room. I did not think twice about this: it was our time to take over Paris. The hotel was located in the 11th arrondissement and the closest underground station was Parmentier, which is on the Avenue Parmentier, named after the administrator and scientist Antoine- Augustin Parmentier, promoter of cultivating the potato as a food source in France and throughout Europe. All over the walls you could see information about Monsieur Parmentier and his achievements. We took the line 3 towards Mairie des Lilas, changed it at Republique with line 5 towards Bobigny Pablo Picasso.

Our destination was la Gare du Nord. It was spectacular. It is not only the busiest railway station in Europe, offering connections with several urban transportation lines, including the Paris Metro, RER, Buses, but also the busiest railway station in the world outside Japan.

The architecture is stunning as well, in a Beaux-Arts (neoclassical) style, with a U-shaped terminus. We bought our Eurostar Train tickets for London and then we were all set to see new places.

Our next stop was Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre. The Basilica was designed by Paul Badie in the Romano-byzantine style. The exterior is graved in travertine white stone, known as ‘Château-Landon’, while the interior focuses on mosaic, stained glass windows and an apse, a semicircular niche or polygon enclosing the nave of a Roman basilica.

Reverie. The city opened in front of me, wide or narrow streets, trees, concrete, doors, windows, roundabouts, everything looked different and better in Paris. A blinding light covered France’s stunning capital, a boundless world of colour, style, extravagance, luxury. My instinct was telling me that was it was going to be one unforgettable five-day journey.

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TWO HOURS

Two hours in a small white room.

Two hours gadget-less.

Two hours in silence.

Two hours listening to the groans of a slowly dying man.

Lakshmi Ajay

This was how I spent my evening of the 19th of June, 2014.

Driving along long dusty roads with my overbearing parents was not my ideal way to spend a Sunday afternoon. And certainly not to meet a man who I have met only twice in the 17 years of my existence.

But that was until I knew the full story.

The man I met that evening was once a large man; brimming with life. The body that lay on the stark white hospital bed was a shriveled form, shrouded with the hum of the countless machines that he was hooked on to.

The man I met that evening once had eyes that could shame the stars and a voice that could fill a hall. Now all that emanated from the shriveled body were whimpers of pain and lightless eyes.

The man I met that evening once put everyone in awe with his hustling and bustling. Today, he couldn’t move a limb.

This man whom I barely knew was in the last stages of lung cancer and it broke my heart. I sat transfixed as nature reduced a man to a mere body.

I was a mere observer, no one noticed me, yet I noticed everyone. It never occurred to me to turn to a mobile phone to distract my morose thoughts or plug in my earphones to travel to the land of music; the scene before me had left me paralysed. People moved in and out of the room, and I felt strangely removed from the whole moment.

The wife gossiped about

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everything under the sun, in a desperate attempt to avoid talking about the withered form on the bed. The son, a miniature figure of his father, was glued to his phone, disregarding anybody and everybody. Why should he when he has lost all faith? The family played their roles perfectly, nothing was askew until the facade shattered.

I broke out of my trance when I realised that this man’s lovely wife had rushed out of the hospital room to release the tears she couldn’t ward off any longer.

She blamed his condition on fate, on the gods, on everyone except him. For he had wanted to change, he wanted to stop smoking she claimed.

Years ago, he met a friend who was plagued by lung cancer, an evil consequence of his uncontrollable smoking. It was the day that he met his friend that this man vowed to stop smoking, so that he wouldn’t suffer like his friend did. Two months later he was diagnosed with lung cancer.

Nature took its toll and there was nothing that could stand in the path carved by fate. I had always thought that we, human beings, decide how things end, that we were in control. However, the life of that stranger taught me that there are elements far beyond our control. We can do nothing but accept. What lies in our hands is the power to choose the beginning of the path; what lies at the end is merely a consequence of that decision, a consequence we shall to come to peace with, a consequence that is beyond our control, nevertheless a consequence that is our responsibility.

It was that moment where gloom changed to edification, as the stranger in that room taught me life.

house party close my eyes one two three so comes the rhythm of the song one two three I breathe in the smoke one two three I blink and you are here time and time again after every blink and breath you are here you are there you are everywhere I drink once twice thrice my head swells to the beat of the song and you look at me with a glint in the eye but I am empty I am raw one two three it’s my turn to pick the card and drink one two three how many boys I’ve kissed how many girls you shagged into the floor one two three I drink till my throat burns and eyes water the only thing I know for sure is that I don’t love you I never really did and it’s alright it’s alright it’s alright it’s alright I am beautiful in my misery and I feel the rum burn my arteries but it’s alright it’s alright it’s alright one two three she listens to me patiently as I try to cry but I only smile and keep looking at the car’s ceiling

darling darling I can hear your breath from across all the hours spent endlessly in the middle of my bed darling why are you so sad I can hear your laughter still but your hand trembles as you circle my heart through the shirt what am I darling I wonder aloud when nobody is home in the morning what am I darling I ask the willow in the park where we nearly kissed darling are you mine or are you alone darling there are so many sweet nothings I have yet to tell you darling there is still room for you in my mind in my bed in my heart deep inside I know I could have fit in your life so well how I wish you were a mistake I could forget how I wish my arms ached from your weigh but we have never promised each other much darling go to sleep shush my little darling I am tired of your eyes of the hunger that burns at the hinges but dies down as I reach out for you cheers darling I have already my death fill up my lungs to the brink cheers darling to all those stars we will have never counted anyhow

selected poetry by

Joanna Jakubowska 26

I WOULD SAVE YOUR SMILE

he comes to visit me

I would save your smile for a thousand of more nights that one frown upon your brow when I kiss you when I touch you when I make the sweetest love to you behind my frozen in amazement eyelids I drink till the outline of their faces blends into yours till your eyes look back at me in the haze of a moment in the closest of dances I know what I once felt I know who I once held at an arm length close to my heart enough to bruise enough to hurt but letting close letting their own breath mist my face and the lights flicker and the alcohol buzzes in my veins I want more I want you I want something more than I have ever had but it is your back I see your eyes that close when I come too near you are a chapter I will never begin a journey I have envisioned but will have never seen unfold a story untold but with an already planned ending you are a regret I will not voice but will hold as close as close I wish I have held you

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he comes to visit me late at night when the curtains are already closed when my aching legs spread on the bed when my head lolls back onto the pillow he visits me with a twinkle in his eye that never quite reaches his pursed lips with one hand on his hip, the other on mine he tells me of things below the starry sky he knows when I am at my most vulnerable he runs a sympathetic hand up my thigh he clucks his tongue to a rhythm only I hear when the sweat builds, when the flutter starts my teeth fall out each time I see my reflection the back of his head slipping from my grasp as the rotten pearls spill down my chin he vanishes and I cry, I cry so hard that I jerk awake feeling my jaw, feeling my stiff bones crack he comes to visit me late at night when I close my eyes long enough to sleep

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SNAP HAPPY

Cobalt Magazine presents a mindblowing photography portfolio from our contributors, interspersed with breathtaking creative writing 29

Howard Smith

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31

The Selkie

The first step was the removal of shoes. Her fingers gnawed raw by the early-morning chill, it took Ingrid several attempts to unknot the laces, and almost as long to convince herself to take her sock off and place one naked foot onto the sand. The hidden pebbles dug instantly into her skin. She winced, and momentarily regretted not taking the beach shoes that the bed-and-breakfast had left in a cupboard for surfers. But then, of course, Johan had never worn beach shoes – and that was the whole point.

By the time she had taken off both shoes and was becoming accustomed to the sand between her toes it had started to rain, the sea flickering with drops so light they were almost silent. Ingrid shivered, cupping her hands around her mouth to try and breathe some heat into them. She looked down at her rucksack, and then out at the waves. Then she sat down, tucking her knees up under her chin, tight and stoic the way she’d always done as a child. “Like a pebble,” her mother always said. Ingrid hadn’t liked the comparison. She knew from watching her father skimming stones exactly what happened to pebbles in the sea. They flew as long as possible and then, exhausted, sank. She didn’t want to sink.

Whenever she’d tried to articulate this feeling to her family they hadn’t quite understood. “There’s nothing to be scared of, darling,” her mother had frowned. “It’s just like being in a swimming pool. You’re not afraid of swimming pools, are you?” Ingrid had refused to reply, sullenly tracing patterns in the shingle so that fragments of damp sediment lodged under her nails. Until, finally: “Watch Uncle Johan. He’ll show you that there’s nothing to be scared of.”

Uncle Johan was already halfway across the horizon, lying flat on a wooden surfboard. He slowly pushed himself upright and balanced precariously. In the distance, a flock of seagulls called out their encouragement. Ingrid watched, entranced, until her Uncle quivered, lost his balance, fell heavily into the grey water. Then she screamed.

“Honestly, sweetheart – look, he’s fine!”

Already Johan’s head had re-appeared, his arms wrapping around the surfboard to haul himself back upright.

He paddled steadily back to land and then, laughing in that solid way of his, emerged from the foam, his skin pink and his wetsuit shimmering with brine. He mumbled that perhaps it was, “A bit too cold,” for such an escapade, and then wrapped a thick towel around his shoulders, dried off his thinning hair and sat down next to his niece.

“You know, I thought I saw a Selkie when I was down there,” he said quietly, just for her. “Do you know what that is?”

Ingrid shook her head.

“They’re seals who are beautiful women underneath. Sometimes they long to be on land, so they come out of the sea and take all their seal skin off and walk around for a while, before changing back again. But if a man finds her skin and locks it away then she’s forced to become his wife.”

“That’s not fair!”

Johan shook his head. “No. But Selkie women always manage to get their skin back and go home. They’re very clever.” He smiled at her and put an arm around her shoulder. “Why don’t we go and have a paddle?”

The water was icy. Ingrid hissed as it lapped at her ankles, drawing the colour out of her skin. Uncle Johan looked down at her and said, “Do you want to try going out a bit further?”

Ingrid shook her head violently.

Johan nodded. “Fair enough. It’s always good to know your limits.”

Then he took her hand and squeezed it.

From inside the rucksack, Ingrid heard her morning alarm go off. It was already six – she would have to get a move on if she wanted to avoid the dog walkers and the joggers. There was no one here to see her; no one to know.

She pulled the bag towards her and dipped her hands inside, seizing on the folded rubber and drawing the brand-new wetsuit out. She held it up in front of her, pressing her fingertips against the supple, electric-blue neoprene.

The tide creaked in and out, in and out.

The wetsuit had been an impulse-buy, something that she wasn’t particularly used to doing. The sales assistant had given her a strange look when she’d asked to try it on, as if struggling to reconcile the young woman in the smart City clothes with someone keenly interested in water sports. “It’s a birthday present,” Ingrid had explained, deciding not to mention that the birthday in question was hers and had occurred several days ago.

It had passed, as almost all of her birthdays did, entirely without incident. Her colleagues hadn’t noticed that she’d brought in a cupcake alongside her regular lunch, and she’d huddled over it secretively while lighting the solitary candle. The flame had shuddered for a second and then gone out of its own accord.

Later that day someone – she couldn’t now recall who – saw the date on Facebook and had suggested they all go out for birthday drinks. She’d ended up in an All Bar One in Holborn, sipping a gin and tonic as Mark had talked at her about his recent stock investments. After a while he’d stopped and half-heartedly asked, “So, are you doing anything fun at the weekend – for your birthday?”

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Ingrid had smiled. “Yeah,” she lied. “I think I’m out with some friends on Saturday.”

Instead, on Saturday, she had made her second impulsive decision of the week, finding herself on the motorway on the eight-hour drive towards Stonehaven. Aside from a few brief pauses at service stations, she had driven without stopping, drawn on by some invisible hook in her lip.

By the time she’d arrived it was beginning to get dark. She checked into the bed-and-breakfast and then went back out into the town, breathing in the salty air and wishing she’d brought warmer clothes. She walked along the sea wall, listening to the clanging from the boats in the harbour, and then turned into the town.

It was funny, she had thought, that although she hadn’t visited Stonehaven in years she could still navigate the streets without really having to think about where she was going. When she did find the house it was almost by accident, but she couldn’t have mistaken it. The sense of familiarity threatened to erode the ground from under her.

The building was dark and silent, the curtains drawn. Ingrid paced around outside it for a few minutes, looking at the brickwork and remembering those holidays, long ago, with her mother and father and Uncle Johan. Once she had played at being a pirate on the stairs, fighting imaginary krakens and stealing cutlery for treasure while her parents unwrapped paper parcels of battered fish in the kitchen. Once she had collected stones that the sea had rejected and lined them up along the chest of drawers in her bedroom. Her memories were sticky with nostalgia but, Ingrid thought, if she held her hand in front of her face and blocked out the For Sale sign, it was almost as if no time had passed at all.

But only almost. Johan’s home had been, to her childish self, a castle. Now it was a shell that murmured the sound of the waves back into her ears.

On the beach, in the stillness of the frozen morning, Ingrid turned her face up towards the mottled sky. I’m sorry, she thought, that we never went swimming together. But watch me now.

Step Two was trickier than Step One had been. As soon as she’d pulled her t-shirt over her head the cold wrapped itself, seaweed-like, around her arms and made her gasp. She pulled her towel out of the rucksack and draped it over her shoulders, then wriggled out of her jeans, dumping them hastily in a pile on the wet sand. When she pulled the wetsuit on she felt the chill diminish. The material formed around her, her pelt, her second skin. She tied her hair back with an elastic band and then gingerly got to her feet and began to move towards the water’s edge.

As she picked her way over the razor shells and rocks, Ingrid felt her heartbeat quicken, the old fears re-surfacing with every rush of the tide.

When she got to the surf she stopped.

Step Three.

With one pace the water met her feet, encircling them, the sand drawn out from the gaps between her toes and then pushed forward again in greeting. She took another tentative movement until the sea was up to her ankles, then her calves, then finally up to her knees. It was bitterly cold. Back on the beach a lone gull perched on a rock and called to her, heckling her descent. Ingrid clenched her fists and kept going, forcing her body to wade through the mass of sea until it was at her hips. She drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes and let herself fall forward.

It was an exercise of trust. She broke through the surface and the water leapt up to catch her, holding her legs and arms and her stomach as she submerged herself.

When it closed above her head she could hear nothing, could see nothing, just the silence and the peace and the timelessness of being underwater. A sense of calm settled between her lungs. She would not sink. She would not be dragged down. The sea would bear her up.

When she came back up for air she was amazed at how far from land she had come.

by

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Eleanor Dawson

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35

Kirsti Maiwald

NOVEMBER a poem by

Abbie Neale

We’ve only met twice - the last time in November but we always get silly after just drinking two.

(Three drinks if we count the one you don’t remember).

On paper it says that we’re both young offenders, but you put on an act which I could see through.

And we’ve only met twice - the last time in November.

On bonfire night we danced in the embers of the fire you started but couldn’t subdue.

(Three fires if we count the ones you don’t remember).

We lay on the rooftop of a house in September.

We’ve stayed up there since, just me and you but we’ve only met twice – the last time in November.

And then came the day you were hit in December by the airbags you burst and the car you crashed too.

(Three cars if we count the ones you don’t remember).

Our reckless ways we’ve since then surrendered, and you only see mine as a face which is new.

I’ve known you two months - the last time in November.

(Three years if we count the ones you don’t remember).

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37

Abbie Neale

Elena Andra Sandu 38

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UNTITLED by

Shereen Lafhaj

Wonder how many people thought of that before him?

Such a recurring thought lately, it now just naturally rose through the mind until it was floating on a white background inside of the forehead in black Word Art. It had also stopped seeming like a question and became a remark. But I guess for conceptualization purposes its still technically a question. The thought appeared when reading in the library, listening to experts talk about the lives of great theorists.

Surely they were just the first people able to tell more people about what had occurred to them?

Ok so now up floats a little Earth in starry black Space, all clean blue and play-doh green. Square in on China or what the rough outline of China probably looks like. Really need to look up a bit more about China. So that’s billions of people.

Expand that out slowly. A lot of people. All those individual lives. All those environments and experiences being lived without consideration of a wider world in the moment just like when I relive my memories.

Someone else definitely thought of it before them. Lots of people probably. A truly unshakeable thought. And it had great powers for preventing being able to be impressed when learning about the impressive but also for stopping creative writing at night because someone else has probably thought of this too.

It couldn’t be verbalized because what if it was just stupid?

What if those guys actually were the first? What if they were geniuses? And it stopped me being able to write because surely geniuses are more rare than this? A double-edged bastard of a question because for all the quiet satisfaction in doubting the History Hall of Fame it always morphed into the far more personal…

Wonder how many people thought of this before me?

Urgh.

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Though dark, but free from the darkness.

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original artwork by

Megha Agarwal

An eye is the parlance of illimitable expressions.

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previously...The Wrong Side of Warm (see Issue 3)

Not Exactly Prompt by

A

Harry Puttock

lfred found that he spent an awful lot of his time waiting. Primarily, it must be said, for Bill, more or less solely for Bill. Bill, you see, had fallen behind and never managed to catch up, like a poorly kept pocket watch he existed in a perpetual state of several minutes behind everyone else. The exact disparity of Bill’s temporal dimension had not yet been quantified; although, it was, in layman’s terms, just enough to elevate anxiety to a role of ubiquity in Alfred’s life. Alfred didn’t mind, of course, that is, of course, he did mind, of course, he just didn’t see the point in accepting that he did. Thus, Bill was responsible for an artisanal distillery in Alfred’s unconscious that specialized in bottled resentment. The price of companionship. This cinema trip was something they did semi-regularly. It had become a sort of routine, and quite frankly this was just part of it. Bill’s late appearances certainly did make Alfred anxious, but at least anxiety was familiar, a lack of it would have made him terribly anxious, and I’m not sure where that would have left him. It wasn’t that Alfred was particularly excited by the film, or that the thought of Bill missing an early portion of it was distressing. Plans had been made, and their execution was under scrutiny: that was all. And so, sitting in his disconcertion, Alfred waited for Bill, scrolling through texts he had already reread, searching for clues as to Bill’s whereabouts in an attempt to convert passivity into an, at least, ostensible form of activity, not that it was working:

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illustration by the author

The current state of the cinema, Alfred reflected, gave a conflicted review of Bill. That is specifically, the twin nature of Alfred being its sole occupant. Bill was, on the one hand, and Alfred was happy to admit it, clearly an educated veteran of the cinema schedule and its relative fluctuations in busyness, the place was, indeed, very quiet; but on the other, Bill seemed so very intent on conveying its contemporary quietness that he had not, or not yet, shown up himself; and for that, Alfred had decided, Bill was an inconsiderate, deceitful, untrustworthy bastard. Although, Alfred didn’t mind, of course. The room changed to an artificial twilight that suggested Bill wasn’t getting any earlier. Alfred resigned himself to making the most of his situation and not letting Bill win, whatever it was that meant under the given circumstances, as he knew Bill, despite his short comings, did not take any pleasure from his characteristic lateness. Alfred was alone and that was, at least, better than most of the alternatives. He

scanned the room, wondering when was the last time, if ever at all, he’d seen an empty cinema, considering how nice it would be to have room like this of his own: although, he decided, hopefully less sticky. Part way through his private and static tour of the cinema, Alfred’s eyes stopped at, what was referred to by First World War fighter pilots as, 3 o’clock. There was a bucket of popcorn on the seat four or five down from his own, roughly the size of the average industrial freezing unit, or so thought Alfred, however, the container was not empty, and its contents were not solely popcorn. A mole sat amongst the popcorn, with only its head visible, like a phoenix mid-reincarnation. Clearly conscious of being observed, the mole’s head turned to meet Alfred’s gaze before turning back to the screen. Alfred followed suit. I suppose they must not be blind… Best not to think about, he thought. The remaining lighting faded just in time to make Bill’s journey up the stairs deservedly difficult.

“Sorry Alf!”

“No problem.”

“Have I missed anything?”

“No, nothing. Nothing at all.”

They said that if she ate the lotus flower, she would forget.

They said that it had worked for all the others. You were supposed to fall asleep and just drift, slowly and sweetly, till the light would obliterate you.

Her mother embraced her as she fished out one of them, the petals white as marble. Its green leaves snaked up her arms as she breathed in the faint smell.

The chef cooked it over and over, and she looked across the water as the smell grew nauseating. And she ate it, the emptiness growing till there was nothing left.

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When she finally wakes up, it feels as if her head will split open. The rain is pouring outside as the man opposite of her stares at his tablet, the cross on his chest glistening in its hue.

“We’re halfway” he mutters, flickering his eyes from reading the newest high score, “Your girl went to get breakfast.”

She lounges, creaking her neck as she props the bedding right once again.

The compartment stinks of sex and sweat but it’s alright.

The world outside is desolate, and the rain pitter-patters as she kisses him, slowly, oh so slowly.

Photography: Frederick 47 Chen Fiction: Joanna Jakubowska

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car horns traffic fumes evening commute neon lights stretch out your hands to the sky look up how small we must seem how tiny miniscule insignificant like there is somebody pulling the strings among the heavens a master puppeteer we are the dolls the city is the dollhouse nightlife laughter clinking glass more champagne madame taxi rides stolen kisses promise to call yes mother i’m on my way home right now the majesty of the cosmos is too much for words the universe expanding contracting pushing pulling we are the creatures caught in its snare.

Photography: Hope McGee Fiction: Angela 49 Huang

I

followed him to a side-street café. You may think I’m weird and have tendencies akin to a stalker, but I was just curious. I shouldn’t have gone through his pockets in the first place. Normally, I wouldn’t.

But there was something about the coat.

One moment I stood there with it held in my fist, the next I was rooting around its deep pockets. It’s almost as if the coat was a siren transformed; it called my subconscious forth and banished my courtesy.

An opened letter addressed to ‘John’, a faded Polaroid of two children, a one-way train ticket, used, and a key with a tag that read ’22’.

It hurled my imagination into overdrive. Was ‘John’ the owner of the coat? Were those his kids? The contents of the letter were not what I expected.

The handwriting was neat, cursive. The type that I have always struggled to read because it seems more like calligraphy than normal handwriting. It was a short read. A woman called Anna seemed to be responding to a letter she’d been sent. She was hesitant, plain, but agreed to meet John at the café around the corner from the train station at noon.

I checked the time. It was almost midday. This posed a dilemma: I had the feeling that the contents of the coat were important to the meeting, and that it should be returned immediately. But if I showed up at the café with the coat, both parties would know I’d read the letter. I was debating whether to put it back where I found it or hand it in to lost property at the station when he arrived. He was an older man with receding hair and tired, greying skin.

That’s mine, he said.

I felt like a thief caught in the act.

My words stumbled so poorly out of my mouth I was sure I sounded like one too. I was, uh, I was just going to hand it in... to lost property, I replied. I’m sorry...

Well, I’m here now.

Have-a-nice-day.

He took the coat and left, his right hand feeling around each pocket as he walked. I had to know more, so I followed him.

When Anna arrived, John had been nursing the same cup of coffee for fifteen minutes. I’d been nursing my tea, at a table in the corner for the same length of time. She looked around his age, though much healthier. There wasn’t any joy in her eyes when she spotted him in the small crowd. She approached the table, took off her scarf. He started to rise and hold out his hand, but she sat without so much as a hello. I watched them sit in bitter silence for around ninety seconds. He offered her the menu, she shook her head. He stared into his coffee and she glanced out of the window. I couldn’t tell what their relationship was but it wasn’t a happy one.

He began to talk. His lips were trembling slightly as he spoke. She seemed to be listening with faint disinterest. Then she shook her head and dismissed him with her hand. He leaned forwards, hands pressed together, pleading. A few people at neighbouring tables glanced at them. I envied their proximity. Anna was staring at him with an array of emotions: anger, pity, restraint. Something else set her off, this time she rose from her seat but he took her hand and pulled her back down.

Now she was talking, gesticulating wildly.

His shoulders slumped forward. He drew something from his pockets. I think I saw the corners of the photograph and the metal of the key. When she stopped talking, he put them on the table and pushed them towards her. Then he got up and left.

I watched her watch him leave. I saw the surprise on her face, the confusion at his sudden departure. Then I saw him stood at the kerb; he looked left and then right. He stepped out onto the road as if to cross. I glanced at Anna. We both rose from our seats as his body crumpled against the number 9 bus.

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The man in the cafe

by

Zoe Harrington

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Jessica Kazmin

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Agneh Raj Sikka This photo is the amongst the best ones I’ve clicked till date. To me it depicts how the reflection of material objects seems so beautiful and perfect but when you look closely enough you realise that is not the case.

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ISSUE 4 27TH NOVEMBER 2015 WARWICK UNIVERSITY