ForewordbyDr.ChristinaThatcher
Iamwritingthisforewordfromacomfortablechairinmylivingroom Thekettlehasjust boiled.ItisFebruaryanditiscold,butthesunisstillmakingitssmoothwayacrossthe garden.Housesparrowscheepandchirrupastheysearchforfallenseedsfromthe birdfeeder.Inourraisedbeds,everythingisarriving:thedaffodils,thesnowdrops,the rosehips.Eventhewiltedrhubarbisreturning,itsstemslikepinksticksofrockcandy. Whatadaytowriteabouttonics.
Ifindmyselfusingthisword,tonic,morethanIusedto Perhapsbecausethereisaneverincreasingneedforthematatimewhentheworldfeelssounwieldy.Accordingtothe OED,thiswordborrowsfromtheGreekτονικός(tonikós)whichmeans‘oforfor stretching’.IknowwhenIfinishwritingthisdraft,Iwillstandup,thendropmybody intoaforwardfold,thenriseslowly,stackingmyvertebratesoneontopoftheother,until Iamstandingstraightandcanliftmyarmsabovemyheadtostretch:MountainPosewith HandsUp Thisisatonic,forsure
Whethermovement,medicineormusic,manyofthedefinitionsandhistoricalusesof thiswordcirclearoundthesamethings.Itissomethingrestorative,curativeor invigorating.And,inthiscase,Tonicmagazineisaptlynamed.
ThisfirstissueopenswithapoembyAnnaJoneswhichoffersakindofdelicate(and potentiallydangerous)permission:‘Letyourhandsdowhattheymust’Dualityarrivesin otherguisestoo.In‘TheCrossingBorder’,naturalbeautyandpoliticalconflictcoexist;in ‘ASonnetonHalcyonDays’thepastandpresentmeetatarockpool;in‘Nectar’whatever isalsoisnot;in‘TheMalbecPoem’thereaderisspunaroundwithrhymeand enjambment,exposingarednessthatisboth‘happy’and‘annoying’;in‘Sonny’the mountainsactasan‘unbrokenchain’wherepeople(andgods)canbebroken;andin ‘TriptychforStMartins’stormsbothravageandreveal.Thefinaltwopoems ‘Stay’and ‘Abecedarianformyfather’sunwillingnesstocry’ alsoenactdualityintheirsenseof longingwhich,byitsnature,existsbetweenwhatisandwhatcouldbe.
Thevisualartoffersdualitiestoo.PhotographsfromOliviaNilsen’s‘Grain’portfolioplay withnegativeandpositivespace,askingtheviewertoholdboth.And,inthemiddleofit all,wehaveLowriPlayer’sbrightwork,‘TheKingfisher’,which accordingtothe
anthropologistandwriter,RobertNewman(2006) representsa‘multitudeof oppositessuchas:transformation,calm,multiplicity,unity,felicity,disturbance, revelation…’
Atonicwhichcuresandrestorescanonlyexistwhenhealingisneeded.Itisinherently tiedtothetensionorchallengewhichrequiresit.Thisisakindofdualitytoo,which makesthecurationofthisfirstissueallthemorepleasing.Ithasbeenarealjoyto spendthisbright,chillymorningwiththeworkofthesetalentedstudents Theworld needsmoretonicslikethis.
AnnaJones GuidetoKissingandHoldingKnives
Letyourhandsdowhattheymust.
Itismuchthesame thatcarrot-sweetness andwettouch.Holdalittlesloppily,thereyougo. Bestdoneatnight,whenyou’rehungry andthereforemostun-careful
Bestdoneinkitchens.Thereisaswift,meltingquality whichlooksmorepractisedthanitis. Itisveryeasytolearn.
Grain8 OliviaNilsen
CrossingtheBorder
JonnyEvans
SittingnexttoJaninthecarasweheadedoutofBallyconnellintherepublicto cross the border back into the UK– into Northern Ireland– was a surreal experience for me. Jan was one of my oldest friends. She had changed in some ways,yetnotinothers.Gonewastherich,vibrant,shoulder-lengthdarkhairshe used to shake saucily at any guy she fancied. My friend now happily sported a shortgreycrewcutaftershavingitalloffforsomecharityorother.Somethings remained,however;thenaughtytwinkleintheeyeandthereadylaughwerestill there,alongwiththegentlysweetwaftofherfavouriteDiorperfume.Thatsmell alwaysremindsmeofJan.
InJuneof2022,IwasvisitingIrelandforthefirsttime.Spendingthesefewdays withher,aftersolongapart,wasajoy.SettlinginIrelandtwoyearsagowithher husband Anthony, the intermittent messenger videos and texts haven’t been enoughtoeasethosefeelingsoflossatmyfriend’sabsence
I’dbeenplanningthistripformonths.Jankepttellingme,overthephone,how beautifulandsereneIrelandis,howI’dloveit,andhowI’dadorethelocalsthat she’d acquired as friends. Having never visited before, all I had to go on were thosegrainychildhoodscrapsofmemoriesfromtheTVandnewspapers.Ireland hadalwaysbeen,forme,aplaceofmurder,mayhem,andmaiming Serenityand beauty had never been my idea of Ireland’s reality. Perhaps Alain de Botton is rightwhenhesuggeststhat,‘therealityoftravelisnotwhatweanticipate.’What Janwassuggestingsimplydidn’tfitwithwhatI’dseenandbelieved.
I was wrong. Approaching the border, our small talk centred around small things:howmuchcheaperaweeklygroceryshopisintheUK,andhoweveryone from the republic bought their petrol in the north I was humorously told off about the tipsy state I’d got into with the locals the previous night, sitting aroundthewoodburnerinthegarden,drinking,eating,singing,laughing,and basking in the balmy summer evening, whilst steeped in woodsmoke and welcome.
Small talk aside, as I gazed at this beautifully green, indeed, emerald landscape, dotted with well-kept fields full of cows and the occasional horse, along with localsleaningtheirelbowsonthefencetonatterwithneighboursattheirfront gates, I realised that all my conscious perceptions of this place hadn’t prepared mefortherealityofit.
Jancutacrossthereverie.“Weneedsomevegformylasagne”,sheannounced,as thecarpulledacrossBallyconnelHighStreettostandoutsidethevillagegrocers, ostentatiously labelled Kennedy’s Supermarket. The small shop window was stuffed with carrots, potatoes, parsnips, swede and cauliflower, along with a huge array of salad makings. The garrulous, flat-capped proprietor, smiling throughhisrumpled,weather-wornface,wavedhisgoodmorningtoJanwhilst leaning nonchalantly on a veg box by the front door. This wasn’t my idea of a supermarket A deep sense of pervasive conviviality and calm exuded from this winding,quiet,yetbustlinghighstreet Itwasn’twhatI’dexpected
Images from my youth– bombs exploding, bloodied shoppers, black-masked IRA fighters parading their hatred of the British along with squaddies sullenly patrolling the lanes and checkpoints– hadn’t prepared me for the sense of serenity that this place exudes. Country roads meandered us from the relative bustle of Ballyconnell, through pristine villages that convey a sense of the deepestpeaceandsettledcalm.Whitewashedstonecottageswithwindowboxes burstingwithcolournestledontheroadsides,giftedmewitharomasoflavender, honeysuckle, and fresh-cut lawns. Passing along the N87 and heading north throughthesleepyhamletofSwanlinbar,weleftbehinditspostcardcottages,its tinyvillagestorepresentingavastarrayofseasonalvegforsale,andtheinevitable squat,granitechurch.
Anticipating our shopping trip to Enniskillen, Jan and I had talked about crossing the border the evening before. Sharing memories of growing up in EnglandasthewarinIrelandraged,webothrememberedtheawfulday,onthe 8th of November 1987. Hundreds of people made their way to the centre of Enniskillen to remember the dead of past wars and at 10:43 am, a bomb explodedatthewarmemorial Vividly,mymemoryreplayedthedevastatedfaces of people smeared with blood, running in panic from the scene. Mothers desperatelyheldontoscreamingchildrenwailingtheirhorrorthroughthedust,
whilesoldiersandSt JohnAmbulancevolunteerstriedheroicallytohelpthose who were injured. Eleven souls had died that day– sons, mothers, brothers, fathers,sisters–leavingbehindthesearingpainofbereavement.
As Jan drove us through the small village of Edenmore with its narrow road bridge over a cutting, these thoughts were in my mind again; the colours, the sights,andthehumanmiserywereasvividaswhenI’dfirstseenthemonTV.
“That was the border”, Jan informed me. “We’re in the UK now ” , she added, smilingatmysurprise.
I was shocked. There was nothing to show a border at all. Within seconds, however,Inoticedthat,althoughthelandscape–thewell-keptgardens,thesense of deep beauty and serenity– hadn’t changed, the road signs were once again familiar to me The N87 had become the A32 without even taking a breath Through the sleepy villages of Drumcard and Drumlaghy, before turning right ontotheA4intoEnniskillen,IrealisedthatthepictureI’dhadofthisplace–the horrors, the hatred, the misery and the pain– that I’d casually accepted as the truth,wassimplyatwo-dimensionalmirage.
Parking the car near the junction of Queen Elizabeth Road and East Bridge Street, Jan and I strolled past the numerous knick-knack shops and eateries to standnearthedoorwayofO’Docherty’sFineMeats.Janlaughedoutloudatthe lookofvegetariandistasteinmyeyesasIcaughtsightofthepighindquarters, sheeplegsandcowthighsbrazenlyadorningthewindow.Gazingquietlyatthe war memorial rising on its pale stone base to dominate the junction, the memories of the horror which had engulfed this bustling town centre had vanished Only the gruesome slaughter in O’Docherty’s shop window gave any hintofit.
Localsstrolledaboutinthesunshine,smiling,laughing,andwavingatthefolk they knew. As Jan and I quietly stood with our backs to the butcher’s shop window, watching the locals go about their business, I wondered about the people passing by, searching their faces, scanning their eyes A small older lady wearingablueMactoobigforhercaughtmyeyeasshedeftlycrossedtheroad
infrontofthewarmemorial Withhercrispwhitehairstraightfromthesalon,a touchofredadorningherwiseoldlipsanddraggingthelittlewheeledtrolleybag withthetartanstripes,Iwonderedifshehadbeenhereonthatday.Hadsheseen friends, neighbours or loved ones ripped apart by the haunting explosion? Wouldshewelcomebeingaskedaboutitorwouldsheshrinkinhorrorfromthe memory? Was there a deep pain, long lived with, yet put to bed behind those smiling eyes? As the lady passed, noticing my scrutiny, her eyes locked for a momentwithmine Raisingawrinkledeyebrowandahalfsmile,theeyesmoved on,leavingmewithanunderstanding,atlast,thatthegrainyTVmemorieswere real;thepeoplewerereal;theywerehere.
It was a fleeting moment of human connection on this sunny, calm June morning in Enniskillen. Only the stark, frozen grandeur of the bronze First World War soldier, mounted on his blood-red plinth, cast his suggestion of sorrowspast Despitehisconstantvigilanceandhisreminder,youwouldnever haveknownthatthisplacehadbeenasceneofsuchmisery.Janquietlytoldme that the eleven individually sculpted doves had been added below the bronze soldier in 1991 as a reminder of the eleven souls who had died that morning. Heading back along East Bridge Street for a bite to eat and a coffee at Magee’s Bar, I realised that, for me, Enniskillen, and indeed my perceptions of Ireland, wouldneverbethesameagain
Perhaps, as De Botton suggests, the reality of travel is never what we might anticipate.I’dcrossedmyownborder.
TheKingfisher
ASonnetonHalcyonDays
FreyaRoseJenkins
Eachtimewedraggedourselvesoverthedustyhilltothemurkywater’sedge Youwouldpointouthowallthebigfishswarmedaroundmymilkyfeet Liketheyweretwotastysnacks Achildleadingachild,yourefusedtobudge, Butitwasnotmyplacetorepeat,you’llgettoocoldifyoustayinanylonger. Youlostoneofyourbabyteethintherockpoolsatthebottomofthedustyhill. Istood,watchingyourchubbyfingersfumblingjustoutofgraspofitspearlysheen, Scrapingagainsttherockweed,pokingeachtompotblenny’scallousedgills. Whenwereturnedhome,weemptiedourpocketsofpebblesandshells Ontothekitchenfloor,crouchinglikepixiesaswemarvelledatourtreasures. Yesterday,IdiscoveredthatourtwofavouriterocksarecalledTwinSisters Likeus,theygazeuponthehillsideandreminisceaboutthelifethey’veshared, Relatingeverymemorythatisn’tlostatsea,thestorybehindeachscarandblister. SometimesIwonderifwe’lleverdragourselvesoverthedustyhillagain. Perhaps,oncemore,wecouldstretchourlimbsandseeiftherockpoolsremain.
Nectar
AlexChilderstone
Youopenyoureyes,andthedayisnew.No,itisn’tnew,butfresh,crisp.Like freshsnow,orthehissofopeningacanofCoke.Itwasbottledup,sweet,but overlyso,anditstingsasyouholdituptoyourlips.Thecoldnessburnsyou,as nectarpoursdownyourthroat No,thisdayisnotnew;you’vebeenherebefore
You are home. Not a home made of brick and dust, something stronger than that. Something the wolf couldn’t blow away. Invisible strands that tie a life together,yourlife,builtthisplace.Theonlythingwearingawayatthishomeis time.Time,thevillainofyourchildhood,therealbogeyman,thecreatureinthe nightstealingthosemomentsaway,leavingthismoment,thisverymoment,the youngest,thefreestyouwilleverbeagain.Beforeyouknowit,thosemoments aresealed,lockedawayinatin,andpushedtothebackofyourmind.Butnow youarehere,youareback,andthehoneyisflowing.
Buthowdidyougethere?Asong,aword,themoonsatatacertainangle;you canseesomeoneupthere,layingontheirside.No,no,they’restoodnexttoyou, thatcrescentgleamingintheireye,likeakoifishinadarkpond,sinkingdeep, deeper. You want to dive in. Or perhaps it was a lingering scent, floating off a faceless stranger on a street, a blur, now gone. No, before you ask. It wasn’t them.Ormaybeitwas,doesitmatter?Youwon’tseethemagain-theyonlyexist in your memory. Maybe that person never existed anyways. They live only in yourmindnow,piecedtogetherwithgoldfillingthegapsyouforgot,orchoseto forget LikeKintsugi
Or maybe it isn’t a person you sense. No, you smell something else. Fresh cut grass, a bowl of fruit on the countertop, the sun casting rays through a halfdrunk glass of bitty orange juice. Your dad always the right sort to buy. He is outsideagain,tendingtherosebushes,andyouthink,whendidthesedaysstops? Youforgethowtallheusedtobe.Healwaysseemedbig,abletofightwhatever you might face You used to think that when you held his hands, two small handswrappedaroundhisbigpaw.Whenwasthelastdayyouheldthem?Do youevenremember?Whendidinfinitypooldowntheplughole,those
momentsfadingintoanabyss,thosehandsforgettingyourtouch,leavingyousat inthecold,withwethairtrailingdownyourbackwithyourchinrestedonyour knees.Nowthegardenisgrey,theswingontheappletreehangingbyjustone frayedropenowabovewiltedweeds.Nolongertendedbythosecallusedhands, therosesarecutatthehead,thetreesstrippedbacktonothing.Itiswinterwhen you ’ re awake, leaves and spring aromas a lifetime away, that moment, those emotions,evenfurther.
Butnow,justfornow,you’reback.Thesunisbrighterthannow,andtheskyis louder. Bugs and bees, a beetle lands on your shoulder. The silent audience to yourchildhood.Iwonderwheretheyarenow?Theirlittlelives,passed.Alunar moth’sadulthoodonlylastsaweek,aweektolivelife,fortheadulthoodtheyso sorelycravedfor,anditpasses.Theyburnsobrightintheirbeauty,theirlivesare overbeforetheycaneverbeappreciated,explodingintoasupernova Iwonderif theyknowhowlittletheirtimeis Iwonderifanycreaturedoes Itseemslikeno time to us, but we must seem even more fleeting to the mountains and trees towering above us. Everything is relative, everything limitlessly small. It is just the same as for you as that moth. That life is gone now, that child outside, forever lost to time. As you see them now, the image is fading. Time, the only warriortowineverybattle.Wateronacliffedge,battlingaway,erodingatthe rock,untilthereisnothingleft Istherereallynothingleftofthatlife?Youhave floatedbackherenow,butthecanisemptyingout,andthecoloursarefading. Onthekitchentablenowisapileofletters:rentdue,billsandadvertisements, andapileofdirtydishesontheside.Thatwasn’ttherebefore.Ormaybeitwas. You’llneverknow,everythingisfadingnow.
Onceyouopenthatcan,whateveritwaswhichbroughtyoutoit,youcannever openitagain Eachtimeyouvisit,youbringalittlebitofthenowhere,leeching awayatthecolours.You’refillinginthegapsnow,itwillneverseemthesame. Theworlddoesnotendatthefrontdoor,droppingoffintoblankness.Aworld of filth and grime, just out of reach. You know that now. And nothing feels quitesoright.Thedrinkisneverquitesosweet.
Itisalmostgonenow Reachforit,don’tletgo Onceyouletgo,itisgone Itis alreadygonethough,theonlythingyoucanreachforisthatlasttracesofthat sublime,handsgraspingon,nolongerthehandsofachild,butnotlikeanadult either,ahedonisticritualforaburningjoy,adrugyoucannevertasteagain.But itistoolate.Itisforevercontaminatedbythenow.Going.Going.Gone.
You are back on the street now. That stranger has passed, the scent a faint memory on your tongue You aren’t quite sure it was ever there Time always catchesup,evenintheselittlemomentsofinfinity.Andyoukeepwalking,not quitesurewhereyouwentforthosefewmoments.Somethinginyoursoulfeels lighternowthough,somethinghasemptiedout,andyoudon’tknowwhatwill everfillit.
Grain3 OliviaNilsen
TheMalbecPoem
AnnaJones
Malbecthecolourofhappiness
SloppedDroppedinaflushInaglass
InarushedhushInatoastWarmsthethroat Doesn’tlooktooshabbyNoitMakes Meintomemyselfandme(I)isa
CabbagebutterflyROCKINGthedrinksorder
SwaggeringthroughavintageredSeeit Doesn’thavetobeexpensiveactuallybut It’sthehistoryswishingroundmy
TonsilsandmysexyElflipstainwhich Iwouldn’tusuallybuybutIjustgotaBoots
AdvantagecardwhichisbasicallyReallifeDon’t YouthinkNoit’sspittingImeansplitting Thebillsameallwaysandnotjust PayingforyourownThinglikeyoudon’thave TogetthecalculatorforyourDietCokeand Whisperabouttippingfortenminutesstraight NoaMalbecislikeaWednesdaypoetrynightat TheoldcommunitycentreIt’sprobably HealthyandIwon’tembarrassmyselfcosWe RealCoolyeahIquoteGwendolynBrooks
Andswillmyheartaboutandswoonand WineisanaccessorytoaFANTASTICcrime
E.g.stealingfromcorporationsOrgivinghead
ToanangelintheclubbathroomstallWalls
Icecreamain’tascoolasmeAllbigSwigagain Pigoutonthethirdmostexpensiveitemon
ThespecialslistcosI’mworthitPerfectLikea Ratwho’sjustbecomeafieldmouseand RedisreallythemostannoyingcolourIt FucksmeupSlipsmyFreudandopensmy MouthTosayIthinkIIactually YouknowIthinkit’sveryinconsiderate
HowtheworldisBadbagsare10pnowandGod
GlugsastabbingglassKillmePleaseFuckingWow
Pleasegetthisscarf-coloureddrinkoutmyHandNow
Sonny
RafeTaylor
Trees coated the mountains like dark brush strokes, stab wounds, each ragged lineshorterastheyrose,thetreelinefallingbackuntilonlyvirginsnowlayupon the rocks, leaving saplings under the snow. Strips of bare stone cut through whiteliketornfabricinthecloakofthehills.Thebranches,croppedtighttothe trunks,gatheredmoundsofpowder.Ononemountain,thepineswerearranged indiagonallines,littlefencesmarkingskiruns.Loomingovertherange,theflat faceofgreatMountRundle,leaningbackwithrazorpeaksasifsuspendedinair, stonehidingbehindthebleedingedgeoutofsight Nestledintheforestatthe crookofRundle’sarm,coldairroseinplumesoutofthevillage.Inthosecold Banffdaystheentireworldseemedlikeoneunbrokenchain,onemountain,one tree after the next across the whole of the valley. We were specks upon the blanket,glintsintheiron.
Itwasthethreeofusinthemiddleofthevalley,inarentalcarwithamissing doorhandle,whenthemountainssteppedforward Kurtwasdriving,hislicence due to expire in a week, and I was riding shotgun, looking for outlines of the mountains that were supposed to be there through the fog. Every few minutes I’d swear I’d seen one, and we’d all turn and stare hard. Sonny sat in the back seatwearingoldclotheslikeastowaway,thewindowcracked,watchingthesky. Hisgreenballcapwasdirtyandfadedandoneofthebuttonshadfallenoffhis thickMexicanflannel HehadbeentryingtodecidewhetherornotCanadahad any great writers, pressing his nose to the window in silence. Sonny, the short auburn hair, Sonny, the dark aviator shades. He was twenty, with that nonchalant confidence of his age, and to us, he was in charge. It wasn’t a prestigious position but it was his in our imagination. Banff was his idea. We wereonedayintotheparkandalreadybattle-tested.Werodeinunderthecover ofobliviousdark,hopingtoseetheRockieswhenthesunrose,butweweremet withcloudsthickerthannightthenextmorning Therangewasinvisible Inits placesnowblewinfromalldirections,batteringusonallsideswithfivefeetof deep champagne powder as we snapped on our boots. We stepped off the gondolaandsankintothemountain.Allthatfirstdaywefoughtwithitandlost, twisting,huddling,throwinguparmsandbalaclavasforprotectionand
alwaysendingupbackinthesnow Sonnyledthewaydownthedoubleblacks, moguls concealed under five feet of powder, always dug in, tearing off straight drops.Hewentthefastestandhefellthemost.Hefellinspectacularways.He didsomersaults,lostskisandpoles.Hewouldstandupwithgogglesdanglingoff thesideofhishead,ahoodie pokingoutofhisjacketcollar,iceclingingtohis face.Laughing.Sonnyfellinwaysthatwouldkillanyoneelsethefirsttimethey wentdownthatway.Hewasalwaysthefirsttothechairlift.Itwasasifoncehe had snow covering his eyelashes he could see through the fog The mountain keptgrowingandthewholeworldwaswhite.Atdinnermylegswereaching.
“Trulygreatwriters,”Sonnysaid.“Likereally,titans.”
“YoulikedMordecaiRichlerdidn’tyou?”
“I like Richler I want better” Sonny’s ideas were bigger than he ever actually said. He was his own apostle in these things. The world was a disappointing outlierandhewasthecontrolgroup.Hewantedabookthatcouldstopbullets, pressed to his heart in his breast pocket like a photo of a soldier’s wife. “Not PenguinClassicsNewYorkTimesBestSellers.Somebodywhochangedtheway Englishiswritten.”
“EasyDuddyKravitz,”Kurtsneered.
“That’s not fair, how many guys like that even exist?” I complained. Sonny pursedhischappedlips.Hesaidthattheyalwaysgotpainfullydryeverywinter, but he would never use chapstick, because then he’d be stuck buying the stuff forever.HelikedtosayhewasDiogenesian.
It was on the road to Lake Louise where the sunshine broke through, in the rentalcarasweroundedMountCastle,restingontheflat-toppedpodiumofthe mesalikeagoldmedal.Breakfasthadbeenasdrearyasthedaybefore,butwhen weleftthehoteltherisingsunhadbeenpressinghardagainstthegreysky,until thecloudspoppedlikeballoonswiththeforceofthemorning.Theroadpassed Taylorandthemountainsappeared,thewholerangesteppedoutfromovercast fog like soldiers presenting themselves, medals and stripes glimmering while cannon-firesteamroseofftheriver.Theiceofthelakedancedwithlight
betweentwomassivecrests,thesnowstoppedfalling Thesunlookeddownon thoseperfectsnow-coatedmountainslikeGoodKingWenceslas’crown.Itwas themostbeautifulplaceI’deverseen.
ImetSonnyatschoolandgotthesenseIwasbreathingsomeoneelse’sair.He looked like a prep school hippie in a white button-up, Doc Martens and a cowboy hat. He had this mythic air about him, standing in the old campus boardroom,eyescreakingwiththefloorboards Iwasgivingacampustour,and when we walked into the room, we cut in to tell a middle-aged mother how much her son would love the residences, and that there was a chameleon chiselled into the cornerstone of the library. He followed the rest of the tour until he was leading it. After the middle-aged mother shook his hand before mine,hepulledmeasideandsaidIwaswastingmylifeasatourguide.
SomehowIendedupinabarwithhim,talkingabouttheVinylCafe,wherehe forcedmetojointheschoolnewspaper.Hewasimmediatelyinfectious,enviably confident. The office of the paper, a broom closet with four desks, was always full of nameless people sticking their heads through the door to talk to him. Every article he wrote had a violence to it, a rapid-fire virility. He was both eloquentandvulgar,likehewasreadingcursesoutofathesaurus.Hispieceon HomercalledOdysseus“ahornyGOPsurvivalistwearingintegritylikeatinfoil hat”,andanop-edonthephilosophydepartmenthadeverythingredactedexcept forhisname.HehatedAtwoodandlovedGertrudeStein.EzraPoundwasthe only good fascist. Anne Carson was superhuman. Rupi Kaur could swallow a pipe bomb. Canada was the greatest country on earth and Canadians were ruiningit.Hewasacommunist,apoet,awarmongerandanalcoholic.Everyday hewasreadinganewbookandthepageswerealwaysdogearedandusuallywet.I wasastoundedbyhim,andhe,forhispart,saidmyarticleonstudenthousing wasbetterthanhalfthebooksthatwontheGillerPrize.Ibookedtheticketsfor BanffinFebruary.
AsmallsignonthetopofthefirstrunatLakeLouiseread“Warning;YouAre NowEnteringAvalancheCountry”.Therewasapictureunderneath,adrawing ofsomebody’shandreachingoutofasnowdrift Sonnymademetakehisphoto besideit,thenracedoffbeforeIgavehimbackhiscamera,aclunkyCanonwith a neck strap, which battered my ribs all the way down the hill. The lens was clickingconstantlyallthatday,capturingeveryinchoftheinfinitecordillera.
We turned around a corner on one long Blue, Juniper, and were met with a postcard,thelodgebeneaththetwinmountainsandthefrozenlake,alllinedup asiftheyknewwe’dbecomingandknewtheywerebeautiful.Deepgroovesin each mountainside cut through swathes of forest where rivers had once run, crisscrossingwhitelinesfrompeaktobase.Therewasasideoftheresortwhere noneofthetrailswerecharted,andyouhadtobringashovelandgetaspecial permit just to access. At lunch, we could see Sonny staring up at it from the lodge. Kurt and I both immediately shot the idea down before he could get it out Localauthoritiesusedexplosionstocontrolavalanches,andeverytimewe sawawarningsignaboutit,Sonnywouldsmileandsomebodywouldsmackhim upsidethehead.
Atdinner,thedebateovertheGreatCanadianWritercameupagain.Sonnyhad broughtacopyofHemingwayandwassmackingitagainstthesolidoakdining table of the hunting lodge He was drinking a Meadowlark with ice, a sprig of thymestickingoutoftheglassandpokinghisnose Nobodycouldsayhewasn’t aclassydrunk.
“Americahastenguyslikethis,”hesaid,rifflingthroughthepagesofthebook. “Maybemore.Wedon'thaveasingleone.”
“StuartMacLean,”Kurtoffered
“You name me one Stuart MacLean novel,” Sonny said, “and dinner’s on me.
Who’s the Canadian Steinbeck, the Canadian Twain, the Canadian Hemingway?” The warm scents of meat wafted through the lodge from a wall madeofstackedcutlogs,aphotoofMountRundleloomingovertheworldon thedoortothekitchen.Threeroundsofbeerpassedthroughthebrightorange room before the door swung open, and Rundle was eclipsed by a man and a womancarryingheavytinplatesandbowls.Wesharedahugepotofpotatostew thatsteameduptheicywindowsandthawedourlungs.KurtandIhadAlberta striploins, and Sonny tore into duck breast, dripping with pineapple juice, severallargechunksfloatinginasweetbrownsauce.Thenextroundofbeerwas dark and tasted like oatmeal, and when Kurt grimaced, Sonny shot a hand out andemptiedhisglass Histoplip,crackedanddry,splitashechewed,andafaint trickle of watery blood stained the flesh of the duck. His shades were resting besidehisplate,andwhenhefinishedKurt’sbeerheputthemon,leanedback,
stabbedachunkofpineapplewithhisforkandhelditup
“Thisiscannedpineapple,”heannounced.
“What?”Isaidwithamouthfulofsteak.
“It’scanned.Look.”
“Howcanyoutell?”
“It’sobvious,”Sonnysaid,asifhe’dgrownpineapplesallhislife.
“So?”Ireplied,stillchewing.Kurtgroaned,fullofryeorsickoftalking,andput his head down on the table “Where would you even get fresh pineapples out here?It’swinter Onamountain”Sonnysighed Heheldhisforkuptohiseyes, twistingthelittleyellowfruitbackandforth,reflectingtheglimmeringjuicesin the black of his shades. He smiled sorrowfully. He bit into the pineapple and sweetjuicesranoverhischappedimmortallips.Hewasbeautiful.
“That’stheproblemisn’tit,”hesaid.“Canadaiscannedpineapples.It’sallwe canget That'sallwehave”Westumbledoutintothecoldnightandgropedour way down the half-deserted main drag, following the long cracks down the middleoftheroad,snowdancingatourankles.
Ourthirddaywasourlastbeforeourliftticketsexpired.Kurtwantedadayto rest, and I didn’t mind the idea The soreness in my legs from hours of skiing turnedtoburningwhenIgotoutofbed.ButSonnywouldn’tbedenied.Pain was the juice from the fruit of Eden, and if man was already condemned, why notfeastuponeveryapple.Theskytookhissideandturnedaperfectclearblue. The Rockies puffed up their chests and swallowed the heavens. Every horizon was another dazzling peak. Our wide Italian skis carved across freshly groomed tracksofcorduroy;Kurtbouncingofflittlebumpsattheedgesofthetreeline, Sonny rocketing full tilt downhill, me bringing up the rear, cutting slow halfmoonsintotheslopeasIdranktheworldin.
As morning arched into midday we dove into wide uncharted bowls, where ninety degree death-drops opened up into huge craters of uneven snow, feet bouncing over each small rut, pushing up moguls and making new paths whereverwewent.Themountainwentonforever.
Finallythebowlsgavewaytothedoubleblackdiamondsofthefirstday,bumpy gauntlets through trees and over sheer drops, our undoing at every turn when we’d first arrived and fog covered the signposts Now we could see, see the mountainsallaroundandtherocksandsaplingspokingoutfrombelow.Sonny ledon.Hismovementwasadance,skidingovericeandburstingthroughdrifts, pushing hard on the breaks then pumping his arms hard, picking up speed at each little jump. His entire body sucked into itself then burst out like a dying star,downandupashecutbackandforththroughtheturns.Hewasinvincible and awe-inspiring, and it was all we could do just to follow his tracks when he dodged the buried rocks Sonny, the hors-piste, Sonny, the burning thighs, SonnyofSamson’suncuthair.Theedgesofhisskisdughardtotheleft,andfor a moment, he wobbled, about to fall, one leg extended in air and arms outstretched for balance. Then he steadied himself. Then he exploded. The tip ofhisleftskidugintothestonepokingoutofthemountainbeforehim,andhe launched skyward. He hit the ground and bounced, poles and gloves flying, helmetcrackingagainstsomethinghard Herolled,bouncedoveranotherrock, andstartedlimplyslidingdownhill,hisbootskickingupasprayofsnowbehind him.Hesettledsomehundredyardsawayfromwherehefell,facedownwithan arm caught in a fir shrub. Sonny, the dash of red on a white canvas, Sonny, amongthesnow,Sonny,Icarus.
I found a tub of vaseline in the Ski Patrol’s first-aid kit. When the paramedic wasn’t looking, I leaned over and smudged my thumb on Sonny’s swollen lips His face was battered and black and his leg was in a sling. The trouble with looking at the body of a dead god is that a dead god is no god at all. Even the slumberingmountainslaydownwithgrace,buttherewasnomajestyinSonny here.Kurtwasatthelodgefillingoutsomethingsforthepatrolguys,andsoit wasjustthetwoofus,theprophetandhisquiveringapostate,inthebackofthe ambulance, headed towards town The sirens weren’t on and there was no traffic.TheTrans-CanadaHighwaycutrightthroughthevalleyofthepark,but unlesstheskiliftswereabouttoopenorhadjustclosed,itwasallbutempty.I
watched Sonny’s body until I didn’t expect him to move, until the bruises just lookedlikeapartofhisface.SoIturnedawaytothebackwindows,watching the mountains go by in their unbroken chain. Banff. Bourgeau. Assiniboine. Norquay. Edith Cavell. Yamnuska. Ha Ling. Robson. Victoria. Athabasca. Rundle.LakeLouise.ThegreatCanadianlanguagewasspeakinginstone,spread outacrossamillionmiles.
ATriptychforSt.Martins
FreyaRoseJenkins
TriptychforStMartins(transcriptforphotopoems)
FreyaRoseJenkins
PhotoOne,CalypsoBeans
We sat shelling calypso beans at your kitchen table, carefully separating each bean pod, slipping our fingers between each soft green seal Our hands delved intothepearlypinkbowl,siftingthroughthegrowingpile.Wemarvelledateach marledbean,allperfectyinyang’s.Afterwards,Iwantedtowalkalongthebeach tolookforcowrieshellsbutyouinsistedthatwecountedeverybean,toseehow manywegotfromthisyear’sharvest.Welinedthemupalongyourkitchentable, inonelongspiral.Therewerethreehundredandfiftysixalltogether.I’mgladI stayedandcounted.
PhotoTwo,BeyondtheThumb-prickedHedgerows
Beyond the thumb-pricked hedgerows, dense with march-born thistle, The glassy-eyedjackdawrestsonlichen-drenchedrocksthattumbleoverthehillside. StormIshaforcedherselfuponthelandinthemoon’sDarkshadowofJanuary, spitting phlegm-like waves over the headland, pummelling clumps of gorse and brackenastheyclungtothedowns StormJocelynravagedthelandwithacold indignancy, uprooting trees as if they were glued to the earth with honey, uncovering the gnarled jaw of their moss-smothered roots. Along the coast, the marramgrassflexedAndthesanddunesshifted,revealing
PhotoThree,ASelkie’sMourning newrocksyettobediscovered.Restinguponthetidelineliesthegentlecurvesof agirlwhoseopalskinhasbeenscrubbedflawlesslybytheocean’ssavagetouch She is draped In a thick pelted seal skin, grey-marled and rich with goosebarnacles.Itclingstoherlegslikeasecondskin,asthoughsheiscloakedwitha shadowofthepast,mourningforthesalt-ridden
Stay
Ally-JohGowan-Day
byShakespearsSister cameontheradio atwork. Itremindedmeof you. Iremoveall romanticcontext InsteadIimagineyou lyingonthatalter andIambegging begging foryouto staywithme.
Iamaskingyou toconsiderme enough.
Iimagine layingmyhead onyourshoulder holdingmybreath tocatchevery echoofyourheartbeat asyoutellmestories ofusdancinginthekitchen barefeetoncoldtiles toFleetwoodMac andIshutmyeyestight exhaleandwhisper staystaystay.
Grain2 OliviaNilsen
Abecedarianformyfather’sunwillingnesstocry
CaitlinTinaJones
ThiscentocanbeattributedinitsentiretytoJaneClarke’sWhentheTreeFalls
ASundayeveninginJanuary
Backwhenhispalms, coaxedwithtenderness,wereas darkasanightwithoutstars. Everyfamilyhasstories,leftlikeploughs fifty-oddmilesfromhome.
Godandreligion hadscorchedanewplacetohide Ithappenedquicklyintheend: justmyfatherandme,watching kitsplayinginthescutchgrass, layingourtoolsaside.
Mymothersaidshe’dalreadyaskedhim–notebookopenonthekitchentable–forstories ofthehospital,ofnightnursing,of paper-thinskin.Justmyfatherandme, quietexceptfortheengine’shum.Therewasa rootdeepdown,entangled,butinhis silenceIheardascythe.
Tofindthewordshehadtopull uptheheadstones,weedthegravel,nickthe veininhisarm.Hesaidheusedtobitehislip whenhebegantodig,worryingwheretoputthe X.Intheafterwardsmymotherunsheathedthesplintered yardbrush,sweptupseeds,runners,whiterhizomesand zippedusalltogether,prayingfortheweathertohold.
AbouttheContributors
NiaJaneGriffithsisapoetandartistbasedinSwansea,currentlyontheMAin CreativeWritingatCardiff.Sheisotherwiseanaerialistandcollectorofhobbies.
AnnaJonesisathird-yearEnglishLitstudentandpoetryenthusiast.Aregularonthe YoungPoetsNetwork,shehasbeenpublishedonlinebyThePoetrySociety,andher poetrywasusedforthewellbeingproject‘Steph’sPoetrySpace’inschoolsacrossthe country In2023,AnnawasofferedaplaceattheTowerPoetrySummerSchool, whichhostedsixteenyoungpoetsatChristChurchCollege,Oxford,withtheaimof developingtheirwritingandcriticalskills.In2024,shewaspublishedinHeroica’s debutanthology‘BodyOdyssey,’whichcentredonthethemesofgirlhood,bodies, andbelonging.MostrecentlyAnnahostedacharitypoetryslamwithStoreBought Flowers,theCardiffUnizine.
JonnyEvansspentmanyyearsteachinghistorytosecondarystudentsbeforemoving toCardifffouryearsagotofollowtheEnglishLitandCreativeWritingBAasa maturestudent.NowlivingpermanentlyinWalesandbuildingalifehere,Jonnyis studyingontheCreativeWritingMAprogramme.Hehasrecentlyenjoyed participatinginopenmiceventsandpoetryslams.Todate,hiswritinghasincluded experimentingwithgenresthatincludepoetry,shortstoriesandnarrativenonfiction.Heaims,inthefuture,tobecomeapublishedauthoroffantasyfiction
LowriPlayerisanundergraduatestudentstudyingEnglishLiteratureatCardiff University.Asanavidreader,shealsoengagesincreativewritingherself:bothinthe formofpoetryandprose.Creativityisherpassionasshealsoenjoysdrawing, painting,playingpianoandcrocheting Asaloverofmovies,shespendsher downtimewatchingallherfavouritefilmsinthecinemaorathome,andgoingtopub quizzeswhereshecanshowoffhermovietrivia.Lowrihasagreatinterestinpeople; shehasspenttimeinSpainteachingEnglishinschoolsandhasrecentlyjoined AmnestyInternational.
FreyaRoseJenkinsisfromtheIslesofScilly:aremotearchipelagotwenty-eight milesofftheCornishcoast.SheiscurrentlyinherfinalyearstudyingEnglish LiteratureandCreativeWritingatCardiffUniversity,wheresheexploreshowher loveforthenaturalworld,folklore,andnostalgiashapesherpoetry.Freya’sworkis deeplyinspiredbythelandscapeofherislandhomeandsheaimstobringthis
connectiontolifebyweavingspecificplacenamesandnaturalterminologyintoher writing.Indoingso,shehopestokeepthisaspectoflanguagealiveinaworld increasinglyshapedbytechnologyandurbanisation.
AlexChilderstoneisan18year-oldwriteroriginallyfromBuckinghamshirestudying EnglishLiteratureandCreativeWritingatCardiffUniversity.‘Nectar’istheirfirst piecetobepublished,buthehasintentionsofacareerinfictionwriting.Heis currentlyworkingonacollectionofshortprosefromwhichthispieceoriginates,as wellasalongernovellawithinthefolk-horrorgenre.Whennotwriting,hespendshis timesurroundedbynature Alotoftheirwritinginspirationoriginatesfromthis;he enjoyshikingandopen-waterswimming,aswellasplayingtheguitarandtravelling.
RafeTaylorisaCanadianwriter,filmmakerandpoetbasedinCardiff.Hisworkhas beenfeaturedattheChrysalisPicturesWriter'sLabandonTheAthenaListinNew YorkCity Hepreviouslyservedastheeditor-in-chiefofPangaea,andpublisheda dissertationonthehistoryofcoffeeandtheOttomanEmpire,andhisfictionwriting oftenevokeshistoriographicalandmythicalthemes.Rafegraduatedfromthe UniversityofDalhousieandiscurrentlyenrolledintheMAinCreativeWritingat CardiffUniversity,andcanusuallybefoundperformingalongsidehisclassmatesat theAwenWriter'sSeriesopenmic.Thisishisfirstartisticpublication.
AbouttheTeam
SabineWilson-PatrickisoriginallyfromBarbadosandisinherthirdyearatCardiff UniversitystudyingEnglishLiterature&CreativeWriting.Shehasperformedatthe HayFestivalandherwritinghasbeennominatedfortheBestoftheNetandBest SmallFictionsanthologies HerworkcanbefoundinMidnight&Indigo,AsterLit, NawrMagazineandEtherealMagazine.SheistheManagingEditorofRover MagazineandtheLoveSectionEditorofQuenchMagazine.ShecreatedTonic Magazinebecauseshelovesthediversityofcreativewritingthatliterarymagazines foster.
Ally-JohGowan-DayhasadegreeinEnglishLiteratureandCreativeWritingandis currentlystudyinganMAinCreativeWriting.Herwritingfocusesonlifewith trauma,specificallydealingwithchildhoodtraumaandPTSD.Previouslyshehas workedasaneditorialassistantforWalesArtsReviewandasafreelanceeditorand researcherforcompaniessuchasOpenGeniusandKoganPage Sheoriginallyhails fromSomersetbuthaslivedintheValleysfor6yearsnowandcan’timagineherself anywhereelse,evenwiththerainandthehillshercarenginehates.
AngelaGriffithisafinalyearEnglishLiteratureandCreativeWritingundergraduate atCardiffUniversity,originallyfromManchester.Herfavouritereadsareusually literaryrealismandshortstories,butrecentlyshe’sbeenlookingforabooktohelp herlearnSpanish!Angela’swritingremainsrootedinherhomecity(despiteher travelsacrossEurope,SoutheasternAsia,AustraliaandNorthAmerica).Currently, sheisworkingonacollectionofshortstoriessetagainstthebackdropofthe2024 raceriotsinManchester.AsproseeditorofTonic,Angelaisthrilledtoseethefirst submissionsoftalentedwriters,poets,andartistsofCardiffUniversityandwantsto encourageeveryonetosubmittheirwork!
BoBurtisacreativelydriven,bubblythirdyearstudentstudyingEnglishLiterature withCreativeWriting.Shelovesreadingpersonalessaysandcontemporaryfiction, bothofferingaperfectbalanceofrelatabilityandescapismthatallowshertoconnect withdiverseperspectives.Arecent,andfavourite,readwasBlueSistersbyCoco Mellors Sheloveditsrawexplorationofsisterhoodandithassincebecomeakey sourceofinspirationforherfinalyearcreativeproject.Sheisoverthemoonwithher roleasprose-editor,excitedtocontributetoshapingtheliterarycommunityat CardiffUniversity.
MeganIngram-JonesistheProseEditorforTonicandapart-timeMAEnglish LiteraturestudentatCardiffUniversity.Shehasabackgroundineditingand marketing,withexperiencerefiningproseforclarityandaccessibility.Asco-headof DAPSattheUniversityofSouthWales,sheoversaweditingandpublishingforthe anthology,showcasingemergingvoices.Sheisespeciallydrawntomagicrealismand narrativeessays,appreciatingboldstorytellingandimmersiveprose.Alwaysseeking workthatresonatesbeyondthepage,shevalueswritingthatexploresidentity, memory,andcultureinmeaningful,thought-provokingways
SamDavieslovesallthingsliterature,particularlyGreekmythsandphilosophy. Passionateaboutretellingsandclassics,heiscurrentlyworkingonhisownnovel whileresearchingtheintersectionsofcelebrityculture,fandom,anddigitalactivism forhisdissertation.Whennotreadingorwriting,Samisimmersedinpopculture, dissectingthelatestalbumreleasesormediatrends.Inhisfinalyearofuniversity studyingjournalism,hehopestobuildacareerinmagazinesandpublishing.Witha loveforstorytellinginallforms,hefindsinspirationineverythingfromclassic literaturetomodernmusic.
HannahCoyleispartofthepoetryanddesignteams.Theyloveallsortsofwriting butintheircourse,EnglishLiteratureandCreativeWriting,theyhavefocusedtheir poetryskillsandareworkingtowardstheirdissertation.Askilltheywanttopractice moreistheirsfxmakeup,whichtheyusedtodoalotmore,butnowthatuniwork haspickedup,themakeupbrusheshavedonedownIntheirfreetime,theyloveto read,drawandplayinstruments!Theyalsolovefoodandarealwaysupfororderinga take-awayandwatchingafilmwithfriendsorgoingoutfordrinksandplayingboard games.
MillieHigginsisathird-yearEnglishLiteraturestudentatCardiffUniversity,witha passionforreading,writingandart.ShehascontributedextensivelytoCardiff StudentMediathroughoutherthreeyearsatuniversity.Millie’sloveforliterature startedwithRoaldDahlandhasgrowntospanvariousgenres,particularlythrillers andmemoirs,andcovermanyliteraryforms Arthasalsobeenalong-lastinghobby, shapedthroughschoolclasses,teachingitatsummercampandfrequentvisitstoart galleries.Alongsideheracademicpursuits,otherhobbiesofMillie’sincludestraveling andspendingtimewithfriendsandfamily.
CaitlinTinaJonesisathird-yearCreativeWritingstudentandemergingpoetfrom Hengoed,SouthWales.HerpoemshavebeenpublishedbyThePoetrySociety’s YoungPoetsNetwork,PoetryWales,andPropel.Herpoemshavealsofeaturedin variousanthologies,includingHe,She,They,Us:QueerPoems(PanMacmillan)and Beyond/TuHwnt:AnthologyofWelshD/deafandDisabledWriters(Lucent Dreaming).SheiscurrentlyworkingwithEdgeHillUniversityasaLivedExperience ConsultantonArts4Us,a£25mresearchprojectusingcreativesolutionstoalleviate stressfromchildrenandyoungadultswithmentalhealthstruggles.
CharlotteHardie-Wattsisasecond-yearJournalism&Politicsstudent.Shewas borninEnglandbutgrewupintheSouthofFranceformostofherlife Fromas youngasshecanremember,Charlotterecallsalwayshavingacreativespirit.She participatedinmanyartclassesanddidanythingthatrequireddrawingorpainting. At18,shewasabletocompleteseveralartisticprojectslikepaintingsorinstallations andparticipatedinaprojecttohelpblindpeopleimagineartpiecesthroughtouch. ThroughthisroleatTonic,sheaimstoencouragestudentstoshowcasetheirart piecesandbeproudoftheircreativity
OliviaNilsenhailsfromanislandintheU.S.movingoverwhenshewastwelve, livingintheUKeversince.In2020,shemovedtoCardifftostudyherEnglish LiteratureBA.Afterfinishingherdegree,shecontinuedtoliveandworkinthecity beforedecidingtoreturntostudy.Currently,sheisinherfirstyearofapart-time master's.Alongsideherstudies,shehasbecomeanillustratorforbothQuenchand Tonic.Sheenjoysspendinghertimereadingliterature,painting,knitting,and gardening Sheaspirestobecomeanacademicwhilecontinuingtocreateartwork
JuliaBottomsisaDeputyEditorofQuenchMagazineandOpinionEditorat EmpowordJournalism.SheisalsoawriteratBuzzMagazineandCardiffTimes, writingaboutanythingandeverythingfromWales’20mphspeedlimitto interviewingAberystwythKinkSociety.Currentlyfinishingherfinalyearofher JournalismandEnglishLiteratureundergradatCardiff,shewillbemovingto LondoninSeptemberforaMastersinMagazineJournalismatCityUniversity Her favouritethingsintheworldareTheToeRagMagazine,DavidLynch,Talking Headsanddigitalcameras.JuliahasbylinesinTheSouthWalesArgus,Buzz Magazine,CardiffTimes,Quench,RoverMag,Multippl,EmpowordJournalism andGreyBearLiteratureMagazine.
Masthead
HeadofTonic
SabineWilson-Patri
ProseEditors
Ally-JohGowan-Day
MeganIngram-Jone
BoBurt
AngelaGriffith
PoetryEditors
SamDavies
CaitlinTinaJones
HannahCoyle
VisualArtsEditors
MillieHiggins
CharlotteHardie-W
Design&Illustratio
OliviaNilsen(12,18
HannahCoyle(5,15
Layout
SabineWilson-Patrick
JuliaBottoms
ThankyoutoChristinaThatcherforprovidingthisissuesforeword.Specialthanks forKatieStorrieandElaineMorganforsupportingthecreationofTonicByQuench
