We Are GoodEnough - Issue 1 by Goodenough Alumni

Inside this edition Goodenough Alumni and playwright Lauren Morley shares her tips to success Photographs by Goodenough members Diego Piedra-Trejos, Christian Smith, Diana Baron and more Over five poems, four short stories, two paintings and more pieces by Goodenough members

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CO N T E N T S MAGAZINE 4 Goodenough Limericks, by Sarah Gibbs 5 Reflection in the Great Hall, by Diego Piedra-Trejos 6 Tiger Lily Goodcat, by Adrienne J.I. Tong 7 Seasonal Neighbours, poem & Calligraphy by Anonymous 8 The Many Colours of Snow, by Anirbaan Banerjee, Painting by Jasmine May Cachia Mintoff 10 An interview with playwright Lauren Morley, by Victor Law, Photographs by Diana Baron 13 Winter Twilight in London House, by Diego Piedra-Trejos 14 Bird Country, by Andrew Cheah, Drawings by Dina Murad 21 Home away from home through the seasons, by Dina Murad

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22 What is this lie, by Diana Baron 23 Do not remove the kinks from your hair, by Sugandha Somani & Ambika Luthra 24 The City of Dreams and the Poet of Dreams, by Po-Chang Tseng 29 The arrival, by Diego Piedra-Trejos 30 The End, by Diana Baron, photographs by Christian Smith 34 A listening Exercise, by Gigi C.Y. Lam 35 Honey for the ears and the heart, by Diego Piedra-Trejos

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E D I TO R ’ S W O R D I remember creating my first magazine with my sister and our cousin before the age of ten. It was mostly made out of pictures of our favourite singers, football players and quizzes and it had one edition. One copy was ever made, which was far from surprising. After all, everything inside the magazine was handmade, so each copy would take us a long time to make, and we had homework and a life outside of the magazine. And we were ten. But it was a nice hobby for a month, a cool memory to bring up from time to time. However, the dream remained and this year came into fruition. Early in the year, during the first meeting of the Creative writing & journalism club, I thought about creating a magazine in collaboration with other Goodenough members, clubs and societies. The goal would be to showcase and promote the members’ creative skills as they are manifested throughout their stay in GC. I had the name early on as well – we are GoodEnough, a word play on the college’s name and also on every writer/artist’s insecurities about not being good enough. We would be reassuring ourselves that we in fact are good enough, while emphasising our connection with the college. So, with this vision in mind, I set out to do

something I never thought I would do in my adult life – found, produce and edit a magazine.But founding a magazine is no easy task. Despite already having a sketch of the layout at the end of November, I had no idea how complicated or expensive the process could get. The magazine was fortunate enough to receive a very generous funding from the Leavers’ Gift 2018, but that was only the beginning. There is a famous Israeli children’s song written by Yehonatan Geffen called “How a song is born”, and it basically describes the process as being similar to birthing a child: “at first it hurts, then it comes out and everyone is happy”. It’s similar to the magazine. This magazine had many birthing pains, but the advantage of not being ten anymore is that I had better management skills and a wider net of very kind people to seek advice and help from. After several months of work, in between other commitments, the magazine started to take form, with the help of my friends, fellow GC members and staff. And now that the baby is born, I need to thank some very important people for all their help and support, because without them, everything would have been more complicated, to say the least. Alan McCormack, Nadia Schackwitz and

Michelle Senyah for the support at the beginning, Eva Chow and the Leavers’ Gift for the advice and guidance during the production and the funding. Sofia PelendridisRoberts, Christian Smith, Andrew Cheah, Victor Law and Anirbaan Banerjee for the brainstorming sessions and ideas, Lauren Morley for the willingness and the support, Carleigh Nicholls for the help with the proofreading, Diego Arguedas Ortiz for the patience and the help with the software crisis in the last minute, Katy from KTB Solutions (UK) Ltd for her advice, kindness and cover design. But most importantly, thank you to all the people who were willing to submit their art and creations to the first edition ever of “We Are GoodEnough”. I admire you all and thank you for sharing your talent. Stay awesome. I hope that this first edition won’t be the last, and the magazine will become a new pillar here, to add to the many existing and inspiring ones, that GC is be built upon. To end with a metaphor - now that this baby is born, I hope that soon it will be walking alone.

Diana Baron, Editor

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GOODENOUGH LIMERICKS BY S A R A H G I B B S

1. Networking There was a young boxer from Balham Who met an old curate from Aran. Said one, “You’re familiar. Did I fight you in Gilder?” It turned out they both knew Alan.

2. Ceilidh Two dancing Canadians despaired When their band to the GBar repaired. “Why, it’s all gone to hell!” “Better talk to Michelle!” Who soon made the fiddlers run scared.

3. The Marshal Said Nadia, a born parade leader (The day’s drizzle could not upset her), “I’ve taught you to dance, With an umbrella for class! Now go and impress the Lord Mayor!”

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R E F L E C T I O N I N T H E G R E AT H A L L BY D I E G O P I E D R A - T R E J O S

ARCH 2018, JUST before the Law Faculty Dinner.

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T I G E R L I LY G O O D C AT BY A D R I E N N E J. I . TO N G

You sit by the window, you feline charm Staring mightily at your great human farm Most wondrous creature, oh round ball of fur A true Goodcat, that we are sure. As you see I’ve bought, with my savings Lovely kibbles, to meet all your cravings So the next time you ever feel light Pop by the basement for a very quick bite. When you’re away we wonder and fret “Where’s Tiger Lily, our one favourite pet” Our feline friend, you really keep us sane In all four seasons; the sun, the rain. Speaking of that, you go hot and cold “Cats are like that”, so we are told Then your eyes twinkle and you meow Sigh! That innocent look you love to throw. We could never be mad at a cat like you For what evil could you ever really do But one request is all that we plead Keep your claws for the mice indeed. Now here’s a message before I leave To Willie-G, this much you must achieve Please look after our spoilt feline friend Without prejudice, without end.

ELIS CATUS, IN her distracted glory, spotted outside the William Goodenough House. A rare sight, this photo was caught on a small yet powerful iPhone SE. Thankfully, she then quickly escaped the harassment of this crazy cat paparazzo.

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SEASONAL NEIGHBOURS P O E M A N D C A L L I G R A P H Y BY A N O N Y M O U S

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T H E M A N Y CO LO U R S O F S N O W: AN IMMIGRANT EXPERIENCE BY A N I R B A A N B A N E R J E E PA I N T I N G BY J A S M I N E M AY C AC H I A M I N TO F F First, snow was colourless – a seemingly impossible pigment of the imagination, rising in aimless reverie as the mind remarked upon the waxing nights and waning days through double-glazed windows. The immigrant, before s/he departs to become one, is bestowed with forewarnings and farewells that allude to a quest involving undulating conditions. In due course, one realises that the tasks of this ‘quest’ are more humdrum than herculean. And like these tasks, the ‘undulating conditions’ of the quest are also more literal than heroically allegorical – weather conditions that have so far been beyond the horizon of one’s experience. One learned to partake in the Londoner’s morbid fascination for the weather. It was a conversation starter that proved to be as perennially effective as its subject proved to be perpetually fickle. The days declined as the infamous British sun defied history every day to set sooner still. It evoked a longing for the heat of the sun, which may be perceptible as its rays fall upon one’s back, and a longing for rain that heralds its arrival by beating unapologetically against the pavement rather than sliding silently, stealthily onto the streets. But, despite this, or rather,

because of this, there was snow. Or, at least, the hope for snow. And that was enough to brave the cold wind – the hope that one day the silent rain would turn from bleak to beautiful. But, before that, the colourless snow paled. It receded from the imagination because it never really came. Even when it came, it hardly ever stayed long enough to settle, and so, it was as if it had never come at all. It came when I visited back home, tempting me to come back. And then, luring me, it turned away. It was forgotten as well – I had not known it long enough to miss its absence. Instead, I found a friend in the furtive sun. I chased it in the library at noon to bask in its reluctant glory. I learnt to breathe in the beauty of a night that lasted. The landscape seemed less lacking, and more as if it were complete in a different manner. And then, suddenly, snow came incessantly ¬– and it was technicolour. Everything was white, but so much more. I saw rosecrimson tips-of-tongues feeling for snowflakes like powdered sugar. I spotted half-formed snowmen with crooked smiles and orange noses. I saw human bodies drowned in multi-coloured clothing building allegiances in the heat of snowball

fights. Even the banal seemed beautiful. The black of the pigeon that would on other days merge with the concrete shone vividly against the snow-covered streets. The purple of the garbage bags struck my mind in a way that I could have never imagined – who even bothered to remember the colour of that which was kept in the house for the express purpose of being throwing away? But, the snow did not stay white – something which the stories generally leave out. Of course, I romanticised it. Waxing eloquent over the purple/violet/fuchsia-ness of the garbage bag would not make its collection and disposal in the unforgiving weather any less dreary. I walked in the wind as the seemingly benign snowflakes struck upon my numbed face. I wonder how many people saw this snow, in which I saw so many colours, and also saw the despair of those clutching cardboards in a cold open night. Soon, the white street pavements resembled sandpits, as the grey and the brown from firm boots – prepared for the winter – and wobbly trainers – utterly unprepared – waded through what was, in fact, a momentary whiteness. The snow turned into a chequered flag, recording the routes we took

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every day with shoe prints and tyre tracks that crossed into each other. And then it turned darker still, as it began to disappear – giving rise to a muddy slush that fails to be described in exalted metaphors. Of course, the snow wasn’t magically disappearing: it was unsophisticatedly melting and seeping through the drains. The snow was not apart from everyday life. It was a part of it and all of its messiness. And life seems hardly ever a flipped coin of beauty and bleakness. Rather, there was a bleakness in the beauty, a beauty in the bleakness. Even if I wanted to forget that, the snow wouldn’t let me.

TORY ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED in The Beaver, the weekly newspaper of the LSE Students’ Union at the London School of Economics at11.3.2018, https://beaveronline.co.uk/ many-colours-snow-immigrant-experience/.

Just for a moment, now, the snow seems silver. It has almost disappeared now, emaciated into the froth upon a wave rather than the wave itself. In this state, it reminds me too much of the ice cubes I find in my refrigerator all year round – an image whose mundaneness threatens to draw out all the magic I associate with snow in my mind. Yet, as crystal traces of snow line the edges of the sidewalk, and I stand on the shallow, watery nothingness where the snow stood yesterday splendidly as if it would never leave, I cannot help but marvel. The snow fades to black. More than 6,000 kilometres away, the city where I spent all my life celebrated the end of winter by playing with water and colour to mark Holi, the festival of colours, while I watched a winter majestically in motion in London. Between the snow falling and fading to black, I felt the bitter-sweetness of being away from home, the feeling of an immigrant forever in the process of becoming one.

AINTING INSPIRED BY the short story “The Many Colours of Snow: An Immigrant Experience”.

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A N I N T E R V I E W W I T H P L AY W R I G H T L AU R E N M O R L E Y - A G O O D E N O U G H CO L L E G E A LU M N I

BY V I C TO R L AW P H OTO G R A P H S BY D I A N A B A R O N

A few years ago, a Facebook Post was widely circulated amongst the PhD students in Hong Kong: “Being a writer is a very peculiar sort of job: It’s always you versus a blank sheet of paper and quite often the blank piece of paper wins...” Indeed, battling the blank page is undoubtedly the biggest plight faced by academics and creative writers alike. Screen writer, playwright, and fellow Goodenough alumnus Lauren Morley (2014-2015), is certainly no stranger to that battle… After giving a very informative Port Talk on creative writing at Goodenough this past year, Lauren has kindly agreed to give an interview at Freddies last February. Given her experience in the industry, I was very keen to find out more about Lauren, to understand her visions and to get some practical tips for inexperienced and aspiring playwrights at the College… A Life Time in Theatre and Drama… Lauren was born and raised in Ottawa, Canada. Like many families in Canada,

her family moved from Europe to North America a few decades ago: her grandparents are from the UK, Finland and Canada. As a result, ever since she was a young child, she has been exposed to a wealth of fascinating family history and personal stories. Lauren started screenwriting when she was in High School: whilst reading ‘1984’ in school, she was already imagining how a film version would look like if she were to make one. This was how it all began.

the Soho Theatre. The Verity Bargate Award is a prestigious biennial award for early career playwrights with fewer than 3 professional productions. The applicants are assessed on one piece of their unproduced/ unpublished

After her undergraduate studies, Lauren decided to come to London to pursue her dream by undertaking screenwriting at the Screen Arts Institute. Lauren also has an interest in playwriting. As such, when she was in London, she entered the Verity Bargate Awards organised by

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works (less than seventy minutes long). There were over a thousand submissions that year, and Lauren’s piece was shortlisted to be one of the top 100. This was a very encouraging experience for Lauren. After her training, Lauren continued to foster her passion for playwriting. At the moment, she is in the middle of writing an experimental play based on ‘Romeo and Juliet’, but with a modern twist: it is set in the future US, with the genders of the characters swapped around. The goal, as Lauren said, is to explore how these new settings would change the dynamic of the story and alter our perceptions on love and falling in love (“whatever in love means”)… The Vision… This new project of Lauren’s also reveals her vision for theatre. For Lauren, the fundamental function of theatre is not entertainment, it is not the message (be it the writers’ and/ or the actors’), but inspiring the audiences to think (themselves) and to understand. There are many different approaches to this.

suspends their emotional responses to the characters and enables them to think objectively about the play, forming their own conclusions.

to be succinct and specific enough to give the outcome, whilst leaving ample rooms for the audiences to self-interpret.

The other approach is the Anna Smith’s ‘Documentary Theatre’ (e.g. ‘Fires in the Mirror’, ‘Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992’). Anna’s works tend to be one-person-shows where the actor plays multiple characters. The aim is to encourage the audiences to link the show to the real world: they are encouraged to reflect on how they are reacting in a theatre setting, and how do (and should) they react in the real life.

How?

Despite their differing approaches, for Lauren, their goals are similar: to help the audiences to make sense of things through the eyes of the various characters and to form their own conclusions. For Lauren, the key to a good theatre piece is for it

For those of us who might not have much (or indeed, any) training, but are nevertheless interested in playwriting, one question that constantly lingers in our minds is, ‘how does one begin?’ For that, Lauren has some hands-on advice to offer… The first step is to forming an idea/concept. Aside from drawing inspirations from family history and personal experiences, another tip from Lauren is to use your own imagination. For instance, visit an art exhibition, pick your favourite picture, and then create the back story for it (what are the characters

Two of Lauren’s most favourites were the ‘Epic Theatre’ approach developed by Bertolt Brecht, and the ‘Documentary Theatre’ approach by Anna Smith. Brecht’s approach involves the extensive use of the so-called ‘alienation effect’: the use of short sentences, loud sounds, actors stepping out of characters, stage settings (e.g. exposing the lights and ropes) to jolt the audiences and remind them that they are in the theatre. By doing so, it

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doing? Who are the protagonists and antagonists? Where are they coming from?). The next step is to write these ideas down. Think of why do you want to write a play (as opposed to a novel, for instance)? What angle would you like to take? Set a timer for twenty minutes, and then write down whatever comes to mind. The develop it. Like any good essays, a good play is not written: it is rewritten, rewritten and rewritten. As any academic would tell you, apart from reviewing your own work, peer reviews are also a valuable tool. For beginners, Lauren recommends the Soho Theatre’s ‘Writers’ Lab’. It offers a nine-month part-time course to help participants to develop a full length play: from October (applications open in July) through to June, the participants meet once a month and are taken through a three draft process. Course leaders and members of the theatre’s Artistic Team will offer their support, inspiration and guidance. After completing the course, the participants will be part of the alumni group which will continue to offer peer support to the ‘graduates’.

experience. Playwrights will attend a full-run show in its first week and write a 10-minute play inspired by the show to be submitted by the next Monday. The 503 team will then select between six to eight scripts to be staged at Theatre503 two weeks later. As Lauren suggested, this is an invaluable opportunity for young playwrights to share their work, get peer reviewed and gain support from experienced members of the community. Battling the blank page might be a scary prospect for many of the aspiring playwrights amongst our members. However, fear not. As Lauren reiterated time and time again, the key is to ‘Just sit and write something down’. Being in London, we are fortunate enough to be endowed with a wealth of resources and exposed to countless opportunities to help us win that battle. Make use of them, start writing, because if not now, then, when?

For those who might have some prior experience in playwriting or theatre work, Lauren recommends Theatre 503. Aside from an annual ‘Playwriting Award’ for unproduced writers (defined as “any writer who has not had a play professionally performed for 4 weeks or more in a subsidised London, major regional or international venue”), it also offers a ‘Rapid Write Response’ (RWR) short play initiative. The RWR is a year-round initiative open to writers of all levels of

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W I N T E R T W I L I G H T I N LO N D O N H O U S E BY D I E G O P I E D R A - T R E J O S

ARCH 2018.

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B I R D CO U N T R Y

Colombia has a population of 45 million people, and is the fourth largest economy in Latin America. Colombia, or the land region of Colombia, has been known variously over the years as the Viceroyalty of New Granada, Gran Colombia, the Republic of New Granada, the Grenadine Confederation, and the United States of Colombia. In 1886 the Republic of Colombia was formed, and it still exists to this day. Most Colombians speak Spanish, but there have been up to 101 languages recorded in the Ethnologue database, of which 80 are still spoken today. The people of Colombia are of mixed African and European ancestry. The indigenous people of the land, comprise only 1% of the population. The country is home to some of the rarest species of plants and animals in the world. The desert, rainforest, deciduous woods and plains support 45 000 species of plants, ranging from the cedar and the walnut, to the oak. Some of the animals of Colombia: anteaters, monkeys, pigs, tapirs, pumas, otters, and bears. In Colombia, variety is the spice of life. “This is your Captain speaking...” SQ 22 was half-full, and mostly comfortable. The take-off smell of jet fuel had dissipated long ago,

BY A N D R E W C H E A H D R AW I N G S BY D I N A M U R A D

replaced by the odourless silica vapour of canned oxygen. The economy class cabin was filled with a wide variety of people. There were kids trying to sleep, worried businessmen, wistful grandmothers, pregnant women, hustled fathers, carefree teenagers, college students with backpacks below the seat, and a variety of flight attendants, gay, straight, male, female, gliding up and down the aisles, smiling with efficiency. The seats were beginning to get uncomfortable, and the passengers, sleeping and awake, shifted restlessly on rigid upholstery, knocking arrhythmically into the seats in front of them. Smarter passengers made pilgrimages to empty rows where they could stretch out across two or more seats, making do with half a meter’s worth of width and rudimentary pillows and blankets, refugee camp style. Jennifer Khoo, the lead stewardess, glided down the cabin to the back of the flight with infinite poise and grace, as the passengers attended to the Captain’s soothing voice. “If you look out the window, you will see Peacock Island. A singular feature of the Pacific; an island inhabited wholly by peacocks.” At this height, you wouldn’t have been able to see any peacocks, or

any island, in any detail. Furthermore, the clouds were obscuring any view of the ground. So no one would have been able to see the peacocks or the island even if they tried. However, people on the left side of the plane, and those on the right, looked out the windows and strained at the blinding whiteness of sun-drenched clouds stretching off into the horizon and flaring at the Plexiglas windows. Those in the centre of the plane rolled their eyes and tried to sleep, read, or work. Everyone just assumed Peacock Island was visible from the other side of the plane. “I bet you there’s no Peacock Island,” said the man wearing a flannel shirt, slacks, black-rimmed glasses, and intentionally messy hair. His name was Kenneth. He prided himself on being trendy, plugged in, and worldweary. Walking out into the world, seeing other people going about their lives in routine ways completely unlike his own depressed him to no end. And so he ensconced himself in a womb-like room, reading books about the history of the end of the world, and venturing out for the occasional lecture, prata or conference. Kenneth liked to talk about suicide. In fact, he once attempted it with a bottle of pills and wine, daring God to save him. Instead, he was found by his mother and taken to the hospital. As an act

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of defiance, Kenneth responded by changing his beliefs from Christianity to atheism. Pale to the point of sickness, the man took a deep breath of canned air and started to lecture to the closest person he could find. There was no one on Earth who could stop him. “The colours of the peacock’s feathers might lead one to believe in an upper being, separated from us but at once an integral part of our culture, our physiognomy. Beliefs and systems connected by psychology and anthropology pointing towards an omniscient thousand-eyed deity looking down upon us all, filtered through the

feathers of the ostentatious display of avian masculinity. The eyes of god. This kind of abstract relationship, attractive to the otherwise irrelevant human desire for hope, is at the same time repulsive and beautiful.” Leroy, aged six, feet tapping on the floor, ignored him and looked out the window. He saw neither clouds, nor sea, nor islands, nor peacocks. He saw a tropical vista, complete with pterodactyls, anacondas, caterpillars, rainforests, orchids, elephants, leeches, pigs, chickens, and hippos. Bugs scuttled on the forest floor, hiding in between blades of grass and under decaying leaves. Snails and frogs frolicked in the vegetation.

Birds of all shapes and sizes picked amongst the animals. And lizards scrambled up damp tree trunks, looking up to the yellow-green light from the canopy. It was a riot of movement, with lemurs screaming, panthers slinking, sloths yawning, stingrays whirling, punctuated by gusts of air bubbles rising and popping from the quicksand below, sending leaves and petals bursting forth like spore clouds from sea urchin colonies. Meanwhile, fifty thousand feet up in the sky, a thirty-year old, chronically depressed flight attendant, attempted to guess at the digestive system of birds. Jennifer wondered

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how it would differ from the human digestive system, and then attempted to recall her primary school science classes and secondary school biology classes. This tiny seed of curiosity would soon grow to become a determination to learn. In a few months time, Jennifer would resign from her job as flight attendant and enroll in a Bachelor’s Course in Science, with a view to progress to a doctorate in Zoology. In time, she would become an expert in Ornithology and gain fame as a strident activist, passionate about the preservation of the habitat of an as-yet undiscovered species of cockatoo in the Brazilian Congo. But now, she stocked up the food trolley with neatly compartmentalized trays of food. There was the choice of Braised Ginger Chicken and Baked Fish the chicken with the noodles, the fish with the rice. Also along for the trolley ride of gastronomy was a tiny ball of bread, salad and cheesecake. Jennifer stared down the aisle, silently daring passengers to leave for the toilet. It always happened; someone, upon seeing the trolley of food rolling down the aisle, pushed by a slim, well dressed girl and a fabulous man, would think about the things that he, she, or it, would be unable to do when a barrier of food slowly closes in on them, and then would make the choice to accomplish it. And Jennifer would have to find a way to acquiesce, trained to keep her curses unknown to all around her. Efficient to a T, Jennifer proceeded down the aisle, robotically greeting, smiling, serving, and placating passengers, even the ones wanting to go to the toilet. Smiling, she

served Kenneth the atheist, who had ordered the fish, because he thought eating chicken was unethical. She also served Leroy, who was bored and distracted, and she wondered what he was thinking about. She wondered where the boy’s parents were. And she wondered why he was sitting next to Kenneth. “My friend,” said Kenneth, sniffing, “there are a great many things in life that one should be aware of. I can only impart a few to you.” He took a petite slice of fish and placed it delicately in his mouth, visibly grimacing as the food entered his mouth. He began chewing, as the gravy he carefully tried to keep within his mouth dribbled down his perfectly trimmed stubble. “Eating food is imperative but not important. And one should always think about the animal one eats. Did you know that chickens are practically tortured before being made into the dry breast meat you see before you? What about chicken nuggets? Free range chickens? They’re not running around a meadow eating corn. They’re eating corn sprinkled onto the ground, in tiny little pens that allow them to run around a five-foot enclosure with fifteen other chickens. And the other chickens, they’re completely immobile, held in cages and eating pellets of I-don’t-know-what from a conveyor belt.” “I do think vegans are a little bit annoying. They keep talking. They don’t shut up. Going on and on about the ideals of veganism and how it’s all so different from vegetarianism. Everything comes from animals, no? It’s the coalition of the high and mighty and the idiotic. Welcome to

the real world assholes!” In the cockpit, the pilots talked about geopolitical issues. Surrounded by clear blue sky, they discussed nuclear proliferation, anti-nuclear power, relations between China and America, and the rise of the corporation. Feeling like victims of the system of global conglomerates, yet somehow feeding off it. They wondered if it were possible to trace the number of deaths in Bolivia to the number of plane engines being made, much like how carbon credits, by some arbitrary process, account for the number of miles flown in an airplane, from the Bermuda Triangle to the Bolivian Rainforest, and how it connected to the quantity of trees re-planted to sustain life again. They had no knowledge of the intricate web of life teeming on Peacock Island, the alligators chewing on peanut butter, bats snoozing underneath footballfield sized leaves, lions zooming from zebra to zebra, clamouring for food and water, as they jumped and swam across the islands of a brilliant glowing delta, Technicolor eyes blinking at the afternoon sun. And as the engines hummed and the cabin lights dimmed. As the windows, one by one, closed their eyes to the sky, the pilots in the cockpit set upon a new conversation topic: the possibility of birds flying into engines. They remembered their initial jokes of pelicans flying into engines- bird in one end, puree out the other. The poor bird, ascending above asphalt and grass and trees and fruits and panthers, sucked into a roaring black hole. Chopped up, melted and mixed with exhaust, shot out the other side as another red-brown cloud.

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When cancer only happened to strangers. He thought of holidays by the beach, beers in the evening, crystal clear water and MSG-free potato chips. When having what you wanted meant having what you need and having what you need only meant you would eventually get what you wanted, ridicule-free. A world without social engineering, racism, burning bridges or public humiliation. But on the plane, all Kenneth saw was tragedy clothed in dollarsigned wallpaper. He saw his life draining from him every morning as he looked up at his ceiling, as he ate his breakfast, shat, pissed, sipped his coffee and left his home, to begin another day lecturing to students about Ancient Greek history, bringing linguistics, historical medicine, geography, wolves, and mountain climbing into the conversation. And slowly, but surely, a level of worldliness and pragmatism infected his lectures â&#x20AC;&#x201C; preparing his students for a world of failure, cruelty and well-meaning mindlessness.

Kenneth used to believe in a fair and just world; where hard work pays off and crime does not pay. Where his parents were perfect and people were naturally nice; where he had a childhood sweetheart who would

become his girlfriend and, eventually, wife. He had believed in good times, happy times, with friends and family. When he looked forward to celebrating his birthday with a party and everyone would come and drink and be merry.

And Jennifer munched on a piece of cheese on a dry biscuit, counting the spots on a galley locker, as her watch ticked away towards the last hour of the flight when she would announce, in a calm, well-paced voice, for the passengers to fasten their seatbelts, move their seats upright, close their meal trays, and switch off their electronic devices. Boredom, she thought, is like a seagull flying behind an endless silk curtain, flower motifs repeating endlessly across time and space, and meanwhile the fish are getting away. Jennifer spun on her heel, walked to the intercom,

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and spoke: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are beginning our descent to Peacock Island, please fasten your orange juice, relax your seatbelts and stow away your troubled shoes.” The hum of the engines changed in tone, and inertia ensconced its grip on the passengers of the plane, as they began to wonder, as they began to ask, weren’t they meant to be touching down in Colombia? An old man, nervous about landings, tossed a Viagra pill down his throat by accident. His wife fidgeted nervously with her wedding ring, closed her eyes, and dreamt about a crumbling factory in Birmingham, 1973. Their grandson, a bulbous child of five, began to cry, setting off a chain reaction of other fat children crying, as their parents employed their toolboxes of tactics to placate them: cooing, back-scratching, rocking slowly, talking rubbish, and grinning maniacally. And as the choir of baby screams populated the air, the lights in the cabin brightened as Jennifer and company glided down the aisles distributing hot towels and collecting headphones, reminding the passengers in soft, trained, tones to return their seats to their original position. Leroy propped his seat back up, and, already an experienced traveller, began to swallow as the cabin pressure increased with the descent of the plane. For the first time in hours, he turned to look at Kenneth, who was murmuring to himself as he buried his head in a non-fiction semi-scientific text: ‘The Mating Lives

of Pigeons’ by Sir Humptington Salaad. A text with little connection to the real world, where he could pretend the only presence of humans was implied in the objective observation of bird life. He examined closely a line drawing of a pigeon: dull, lifeless eyes, strokes representing feathers, and feet like structured mating earthworms. He lost himself in the contours of its beak, and found himself recalling the in-flight safety video of the vessel. It began with a yellow screen, with the majestic strings of the Singapore Symphony Orchestra in the background. In faded a tracking shot of the passenger cabin from the fore to the aft in the point of view of a mouse, which climbed up the galley wall to spin round as a computer generated, unnaturally voluptuous cabin crew member, rumoured by the pilots to be modeled on the mistress of the Head of Air Traffic Control of Changi Airport, mouthed instructions and the possible consequences of not following these said instructions. Subtitles in Swahili, English, and Flemish appeared below her breasts. Ravel’s String Quartet in F major: II. Assez vif. Très rythmé played in the background. In a postmodern twist, a second parallel safety flight video appeared behind the CGI woman, which showed real world footage of aviation disasters, as well as CGI footage of a huddle of penguins. The penguins dutifully waddled into an airplane, strapped themselves properly into customised penguin-seats, pulled on oxygen masks to offer to their baby penguins first, and inflated

their life jackets, before diving into Antarctic waters, blowing whistles and flashing lights to attract attention. It was utterly preposterous. Kenneth was inspired by his vision. He turned to Leroy to share his knowledge, but his glasses fell off with the swift leftward motion of his head and the sudden upward motion of the airplane as it encountered an air pocket. An old man with a Viagra-spawned erection wondered why his pants were so tight, the blood in his penis taking advantage of the momentum to further engorge his wrinkled member, shocked daughter looking on, comatose wife asleep. A flight attendant, fighting an onset of depression by gorging on jelly, suddenly dropped her spoonful of jelly onto the floor, causing the jelly to bounce jovially onto the carpet. She wept. A six year old boy imagined a flock of storks, each carrying a package of joy, flying under a blazing sun, from the West to the East, chattering to themselves in low pitched cackles, their shadows gliding across choppy waters. “We encountered an unexpected air pocket, and are proceeding on our descent to Colombia.” Kenneth was about to talk about surrealism, and its emergence from Dada. He would wax lyrical about the death of rationality, and the liberation of imagination from the bourgeois cage of the logical. He would namedrop Breton, Chirico, Oppenheim, and, of course, Dali, with detailed descriptions

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of their particular brand of art and its relationship to the overall movement of a general irreverence towards reason and logic - being the importance of the mind, the freeing of the unconscious, that gives surrealism its power and effect. He would discuss its legacy in present day media, from visual art to text, to music, to films - characters undergoing hallucinations, the real becoming the unreal, the line between reality and emotion becoming blurred as psychology violently pushes its way into the frame. He would lament the corruption of the form into impure mediums, a once-pure art movement used as commercialism for selling shampoos, soaps, computers, sweets and so on. And then he would lament about the loss of freedom, the advent of religion as a panacea for simple everyday pain, and as a controlling force capable of forcing the kindest souls to commit unspeakable acts. The machinations of well-hidden imperialism, followed by multi-national empires, selling shampoos, soaps, tea, phones, beer, computers, produced by slave labour in countries declared bankrupt by a system geared against them from the beginning. But when he found his glasses, he caught a flash of a pelican gliding out of sight from the porthole. White feathers and a gigantic orange beak, backed by a sun-dappled sea. The pelican, in a majestic swoop of its wings, flew upwards, out of the tiny frame of the porthole, barely registering in the flight path of the airplane. Kenneth, a little shocked, a little tired, and a little blind, then looked at Leroy or, to be exact, the back of Leroy’s head, with his wiry black hair so hopeful and familiar. He

bit his tongue and put on his glasses, staring ahead at the seat before him, waiting wearily for the landing of SQ22. On the tarmac of the runway of the airport of the Colombian Empire, a lone peacock emerged from the vegetation. It straddled the edge of the tarmac for a few minutes. The peacock was a little traumatized; it had had a bad morning, when its mate was mistaken for an alligator and was shot dead by a .34 caliber rifle. The peacock wandered into the centre of the tarmac, its tiny feet clicking on searing stone. Heat waves danced upwards from the ground and distorted the image of the bird, giving it the impression of a strange blue flame emerging from the ground.

“So, what exactly is the lesson here?” said the Captain. A peacock, living a newly solitary existence, walks onto a runway, directly onto the path of a landing plane. For a normal man, this spells deafness and insanity, if lucky. Most people will be blown off from the tarmac, lifted into the air and brutally tossed into the surrounding shrubs. But the peacock stood impervious, untouched, imperious. A monument to life. Then, it is said, and can be said now, before, and evermore: that our Father, our Lord, our Saviour, is once and always for all time, truly a loving and merciful God.

As the roar of the Rolls-Royce Trent 800 engines shot out from the sky, and as the plane descended rapidly onto the runway, the peacock, oblivious to the sound, slowly turned about and faced the behemoth bearing down upon it. It opened its wings and displayed an achingly beautiful collage of electric blue, violet, green, yellow and black feathers, a canvas of a thousand mystical eyes greeting the pilots, as the plane’s front wheel narrowly missed the bird and slammed onto the runway. The tyres screeched, the engines blasted, and the surrounding vegetation bent and broke in the sudden, calamitous, rush of air. But the peacock stood unruffled, completely untouched by tyre, smoke, and heat. Its feathers, feet, head and beak remained intact and unharmed. The peacock, its display over, strode off the tarmac and disappeared into the vegetation of the Colombian Metropolitan Airport.

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H O M E AWAY F R O M H O M E THROUGH THE SEASONS

BY D I N A M U R A D

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W H AT I S T H I S L I E BY D I A N A B A R O N

What is this lie, this falsehood That we are fed, from birth to bed? Too keen to see our fellows as presented, Not as they’re created – that would be too intimate. This image of pristine perfection is adorned By our fathers and mothers, shared for others To behold, the greener grass and the exuberant colours So sublime are the flowers – that are borrowed for the daily show. The looking glass is polished by invisible hands Adding layers of love, praising the God above The taglines read the only truth (sort of ), “Who would not forgive such an enviable crowd?” Well, I find it hard not to be envious, (Not of these beings, and supposed feelings) Of a free mind, that is truthful and kind Uninfluenced and pure, impuritan, not blind, Untouched and clean enough to live its life truly free. If I ever find one, I will seek thee Oh how I wish that could be me.

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D O N OT R E M O V E T H E K I N K S F R O M YO U R H A I R BY S U G A N D H A S O M A N I A N D A M B I K A LU T H R A

EMOVE THEM FROM your brain.

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THE CITY OF DREAMS AND THE POET OF D R E A M S : T H E W E L S H P O E T G R A H A M E D AV I E S P I E C E A N D PA I N T I N G BY P O - C H A N G T S E N G

Grahame Davies is just like someone who came from a big dream, with silver hair and profound, blue eyes. Davies is a distinguished Welsh poet, novelist, lyricist, literary critic and journalist, who has won numerous prizes, including the Wales Book of the Year Award. He also was the editor and executive producer of BBC Wales.

“She nodded, understood, or thought she did.

I told her I should really let her go. I saw that she was rushing when we met. Yes, she said, just running to the shop,

Vienna, the city of dreams.

then back for my next client on the hour.

Here, in Freud’s hometown, I attended the workshop “Poetry and poetic spirit”, organised by Goodenough College and hosted by Davies. Goodenough College is a prestigious institute providing accommodation and networking for international postgraduate students in central London. Davies is one of its governors and fellows.

Her client?

Immersed in the twilight in Vienna, Davies explained to us how he was fascinated by the theories of Freud and Jung, of dreams and psychoanalysis, and read to us some of his own poems. He read with his temperate north Welsh accent, with an air slightly flowing, elegant but determined, adding beautiful rhythm to the poems. Davies read a poem entitled “Crossroads”, in which the speaker meets a good friend’s daughter and they greet each other. She is already a music postgrad, enjoying balanced work, study, music, partying and travel. In contrast, he has been suffering from the hustles and bustles of life and worrying about the bills to pay, with little time to write. And the story goes on:

Yes, she said. A prostitute can’t keep them waiting for her on the street. It’s all about discretion, as you know.

I didn’t know. She saw I didn’t know, and gently smiled at my astonishment. It’s just a job like any other one. You trade some time and trouble for their cash, and spend the surplus on what gives you joy.

Of course you do, I said. Of course you do.

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But didn’t mean it as I wished her well, and watched her run towards the corner shop.

I walked on, wiser now, perhaps. Perhaps. I thought of what she’d said. The time, the trade. The guiltless freedom that her labour bought. And walked on, wiser, yes. Of course you do.” [1]

“But it was all about a dream”, Davies smiled, wisely, and perhaps, also naughtily. Around the time this poem was written, Davies was struggling between ideal and reality. He wanted to step aside from disappointing work and seek some quiet moments for his literary ambitions. As a journalist, he had the impression that there were too many pieces of negative news, even though the world was not as terrible as we were being led to believe. News becomes news because of its unusual, rare nature, but often people are unaware of this. Freud had his own struggles. In 1938, the Nazis gained control over Vienna. Despite his complaints about this city, as a Jew, he was surprisingly reluctant to leave. Not until the very last moment when his daughter Anna was interrogated by the Gestapo and his property and assets were seized, did he decide to flee to London. Freud’s son Martin indicated that Freud’s abhorrence of the city was, rather, an undercover love for it. [2] Walking along the streets in Vienna, I tried to imagine how this dream-like city could arouse such complicated emotions in Freud. Davies explained to me how Gustav Klimt established the Vienna Secession Building, the one with the golden dome; and then we passed by the splendid Wiener Staatoper, and walked towards Café Landtmann, Freud’s haunt. Within those colourful shop windows were displayed elegant stationery, delicate pastries and resplendent clothes … … While strolling along the golden alleys, I asked

Davies what circumstances prompted him to find inspiration from his dreams. He explained it all began from a workshop on shamanic techniques, where the participants meditated to enter a semi-dreaming state for the stimulation of literary creativity. The host asked them to think of a hero from their childhood. In carrying out the exercises, Davies had expected this to turn out to be a film star or sporting hero. But he was surprised to find it was someone he had greatly admired as a teenager, but had long since forgotten. It was Michael Wood, the famous historian and BBC broadcaster, that came to Davies’ mind. Wood had initiated a new style of history TV programmes. Rather than just voicing over some knowledge, he walked into the screen, exploring to the very ends of the UK, visiting battlefields, ancient routes, ruins, and old churches on his own. With his good looks and the famous sheepskin jacket, his passionate and enthusiastic voice brought history to life, and he gained great popularity amongst audience members. Seeking to emulate his hero, Davies as a teenager had bought a similar jacket, which he wore for some years until he eventually set it aside and forgot about it. In the guided meditation at the workshop, Wood approached Davies with the jacket in his arms and told him to put it on. Later, on the same day of that workshop, when he came home, … … The story was just about to continue, when suddenly, we were separated by a flood of passers-by. Davies was waiting ahead, looking back, intentionally or otherwise. I hurried to catch up with him, “And then?” At the time of the workshop, Davies’s elderly father was in his last illness, with only weeks to live. While driving home from the workshop, Davies called to see his parents. As soon as his mother opened the door, she asked him to wait as she had something to show him. She went into the house and returned with a bundle which she pushed into his hands. “Look at what I found!” she said. It was that very leather jacket! He hadn’t seen it for thirty years ... … So he wrote the poem for this occasion entitled, “Jacket”: “God, how I wanted to be just like him:

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the looks, the learning, the leather jacket too. I even bought one just like his and wore it for a while. It didn’t fit. And I lost it, later, somewhere on the way. Today, I met him, after all these years unchanged. He carried something in his arms. The jacket. “Here”, he told me, “Put it on. You see,” he said. “Now you’ve grown into it.”” [3]

Not only was Wood concerned with the lives of emperors and famous people, he also made great efforts to reconstruct the extraordinary lives of ordinary people. Davies, too, often wrote poems for those with no-names, such as the reader by the window, the young woman at the traffic light, the islanders, and the topics repeated again and again: books and book stores. Davies also wrote the book “The Dragon and the Crescent”, investigating the relationship between Islam and Welsh culture, as well as editing and translating the book “The Chosen People: Wales and the Jews”, revealing the connection between the two. He writes poems like a historian or a novelist. His poems tell fascinating stories, with suddenly changing plots. Often, he throws in an unexpected line which brings the poem to a new level and totally different meaning. I told him that I enjoyed his sharp and clever endings, and he agreed with pride, “I work very hard on the last lines of my poems.” He blends poems, history and novels, and here come dreams. “Oh! And there are big dreams!” Another time when we were discussing dreams, Davies’ voice became unusually bright and glowing, “those dreams that come up again and again.” And then he told a story about Ted Hughes: the big dream where there was a burnt fox.

During his first two years at Cambridge University, Hughes studied English. However, he shifted towards archaeology and anthropology later on. One night when he was working hard on his essays on English Literature, Hughes dreamed that he was sitting beside the table. The door of his room opened, and a fox, walking erect like a skinny man, the size of a wolf, approached him. “Every inch was roasted, smouldering, black-charred, split and bleeding”, with its eyes “dazzled with the intensity of the pain”. It spread the hand on the blank space of the unfinished page and said: “Stop this - you are destroying us.” Left on the page was a palm print, “with all the lines and creases, in wet, glistening blood.” [4] “He subconsciously felt that studying English could in no way contribute to his ambitions in literature.” Davies explained. As a result, the sudden enlightenment came to Hughes and he made a life-changing decision. Further on, Davies continued with his own “big dreams”. From Wales to England, there is a border river called the River Dee. In his young age, Davies left his hometown, Coedpoeth, in northern Wales and came to London for work. He dreamed of coming back to the riverside again and again, looking at the buildings on the home side of the river. “Whenever a new building appears, that means something important is going to happen”, he said, as if fallen into some remote and profound memories, as if he were just on the riverside.

As an outsider in a foreign land, he has experienced the fickleness of the world and the inconstancy of human relationships. Once he found himself in competition with a work colleague who he thought had behaved unfairly, and Davies felt quite upset with this unfair action, intending to start a serious argument with the colleague the next day. However, on the night of that day, he dreamed of his colleague, as a father, thoughtful, expressing his love to his partner in every possible way. Hence Davies thought: as a father, how unbearable it must be, the pressure that he’s facing; how heavy the responsibility he must take; and he decided not to hold the grudge, and their friendship went on.

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Dreams make us a gentler person.

“It’s not the kind of volume that I buy,

The first night in Vienna, I read Davies’ short but striking poem, “Charity shop”:

the glossy, tasteless, coffee-table kind; small text, big pictures, easy on the eye:

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Unlock the Secrets of Your Dreaming Mind.

And then I woke up.

The sort of book you buy to give away.

The next day, in the workshop, we shared our dreams.

And yet, perhaps there’s more here than there seems –

There were struggles, ambitions, and the ordinary, but also extraordinary big dreams.

the inside cover’s been inscribed this way: “Dear Bea, come home and we can share our dreams.” Her parents’ names, her sister’s and the date – God help them – scarcely 18 months ago: their tripped, dream-chasing daughter didn’t wait before she let this hopeful hardback go. I buy the unread, two-pound-fifty tome to give, if not the child, the book, a home.“[5]

Thereafter, I had a dream. The small bookstore at the corner, which I often hunted around in my childhood, was going to be closed down. The owner of the bookstore, a kind old man, gave me a small book of an unsuccessful children’s author, and asked me to read it as often as I could, otherwise the characters in the book would be forgotten by people and eventually fade away. As I turned the page, it was about a boy, who went to a station in a rural town every day, waiting for the train to come, then staring at it as it left. One day, suddenly the boy hopped onto the train towards an unknown future. And then, the war destroyed the city, and I was lost and separated from the book. After decades of displacement, I came back to the ruin of the bookstore, where I found the remnants of the small book. As I read on, an old man was sitting on the bench and thousands of birds flew over. They landed, with their white feathers covering the whole city as if it was covered by the purest and softest deep snow. Suddenly a bird heralded and they all flew away. The old man disappeared - all that was left was the empty bench.

Special thanks to James Cann for his thoughtful opinions. Endnotes: [1] Grahame Davies: Lightning beneath the Sea (Bridgend, Wales: Seren, 2012), p. 43. [2] Peter Gay, Freud: A Life for Our Time (New York: Norton, 1998), p. 38-40. [3] Grahame Davies: Lightning beneath the Sea (Bridgend, Wales: Seren, 2012), p. 40. [4] Ted Hughes, Winter Pollen: Occasional Prose (London: Faber & Faber, 1994), p. 8–9. [5] Grahame Davies: Lightning beneath the Sea (Bridgend, Wales: Seren, 2012), p. 50.

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T H E A R R I VA L BY D I E G O P I E D R A - T R E J O S

EPTEMBER 2017.

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THE END BY D I A N A B A R O N P H OTO G R A P H S BY C H R I S T I A N S M I T H Words she couldn’t hear were coming out of his mouth, as he struggled to shake her out of the black mist settling around them both. She looked at her watch. It had been one minute and five seconds since the bomb had begun its march, spreading its cloud of dust and human remnants, moving away from the eye of the explosion. Donna tried to sit up, but Mike pushed her down, still mouthing something she couldn’t hear. She raised her right hand to her ear, feeling blood leaking from it. She looked up at Mike. She tried to concentrate on reading his lips. “Ax is dead. Can you hear me?” Donna moved her head to indicate she couldn’t. “I think my right ear is gone,” she said. She couldn’t even hear her own voice. Mike leaned in, looking at her, visibly worried. “Yeah, I think you’re right,” he said. Donna jumped in her place. She was able to hear Mike’s words in her left ear. She teared up. “My left one is working! It’s working,” she shouted. She tried to get up again, and this time Mike didn’t try to stop her. He

was smiling back at her stiffly. Donna examined him, concerned. “How come you’re OK?” “Got lucky, I guess,” he shrugged. “I hid under the table, like you told me to.” Donna finally looked up. The final two floors and the roof of the thirty story building had been blown off by the blast. She turned east and saw the shock wave still rampaging in the distance through the window. “What did Ax say about the range?” Donna asked. “42 Kilometers,” Mike answered. It was still hard for her to hear his voice, it still sounded muffled, as if coming out of a well. This clichéd analogy made her smile to herself. All of a sudden Mike hugged her, noticeably shaken. He wrapped his arms around her and wept. She patted his back. “We’re fine, Mike, you’re fine,” she said. After a couple of seconds Mike started relaxing. “Where is Ax?” Donna asked.

Mike disconnected from her and moved to the left, uncovering a body. Ax was unrecognizable, his face a bleeding lump. Only his clothes indicated who the body used to belong to. The bubbly Australian that Donna knew from conferences, her competition, the person who tried to save her friends and her today, but failed to save himself. He was gone, his lab coat coloured in black and his name tag partially melted at the front. Donna looked up, hiding the tears. She examined the ceiling, or lack of it, the sky shining in purple above them. The second wave of cancerous particles intended to inflict genetic mutations will soon begin. “How long do we have?” Mike asked. “Well, Ax said that the first explosion is the slowest one, liquidating matter and clearing the way for the next one at 25 Kilometers per hour.” “It definitely cleared most of the stuff around us,” Mike said. He was indicating toward the shattered windows. The Wembley Stadium was completely flattened. “Matter decomposition bombs tend to do that,” Donna replied. “But I’m not sure the lead walls and windows

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will help us with the next one. We have an hour and forty minutes until the first explosion dies down.”

“I’m not laughing,” Mike replied. “It’s just ironic that the guy came to warn us and ended up-”

“Poor Ax, not to get through even the first one!”

“Oh just shut up,” Donna cut him. “Let’s get to the underground lot.”

“Shut up, Mike.”

They resumed climbing down. Donna wanted to put some distance

“What? I feel bad for the guy.”

between them to try to calm her anger. She wasn’t sure that it was wise to fight with her brother while waiting for another bomb to strike. After several floors Donna started hearing voices from below. Her face lit up. “Do you hear it?” She asked.

“I’m still wondering how the fuck did you survive.” Donna started climbing over debris toward the door that led back to the corridor. It was Mike’s idea to come this close to the window and watch the explosion. She tried explaining that being near any windows, even made of lead glass, at the time of the first explosion would kill him. But as usual, he refused to listen. And now Ax was dead. She turned right and started climbing down the emergency stairs. “You do realize that Ax was standing up when the wave hit us, right?” Mike yelled after her, trying to catch up. “So was I, Mike,” Donna replied. “Maybe you forgot, but I was trying to look after your dumb ass.” “Thanks, sis.” “I nearly died, Mike, it isn’t sweet,” Donna stopped halfway through the first staircase and turned around. Mike stopped as well. “We should go, Donna,” he said. He tried smiling hesitantly. “It’s not funny Mike!”

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“What? The tank moving below us?” was irrelevant at this stage. What does Mike chuckled. “How could I miss it?” it matter if her brother violated some security codes because he wanted to “Then why didn’t you say anything?” see the explosion, if the world as they Donna shot an angry look at him and know it was coming to an end anyway? then leaned over the handrail. “Hey, is Donna remembered how a few hours there someone there? This is Donna, ago, when Ax came here to tell them from development!” She shouted. the truth, almost everyone ignored him. It doesn’t matter anymore. Truth “Donna? This is Marina.” Donna is dead, just like Ax. recognised Dr. Spielman, the chief engineer of the company, her voice Marina’s eyes paused over Donna’s echoing up the stairs. “Has anyone right ear, which was still bleeding. else survived?” “Well, I’m glad you’re alright, Donna. Most of us came down already.” “Not that I’ve seen. Alexander is dead, Marina,” Donna replied while running “Yes, sorry. I came as soon as I woke down the stairs, trying to catch up. up,” Donna shrugged. Mike was close behind her. Marina moved to let Donna and “Well, he shouldn’t have come in the Mike go before her. Donna turned first place,” Donna heard Marina say to her brother and signaled with her to herself. head that he should move ahead. She turned her head back and met “But I’m here,” Mike shouted. “It’s Mike.” Marina’s gaze.

hands, looking at papers; some still had their lab glasses on. Donna and Mike leaned against a wall and sat on the floor, ignoring the glances. “They found some day to fire you,” Mike whispered in Donna’s ear. “If you’re trying to tease me, at least do it in my good ear,” Donna rolled her eyes. “Will you tell them what you and Ax did?” “Will they believe me? I won’t get me my job back, and we’re all going to die anyway,” Donna shrugged. “You tried to warn your boss,” Mike said, getting upset. “And he thought you were spying on us with Ax.” “To be fair, would you believe the lead developer of your competitor?”

“Mike from security?” Marina said. “Loyal to your personal connections Donna looked at him and Mike “What were you doing at one of the until the end,” Marina whispered looked away. top floors?” sarcastically as Mike descended. “But you’re right, they could have “He was with me,” Donna replied “It shouldn’t have been the end, trusted me,” Donna sighed. as they stopped in front of Marina. Marina,” Donna shot back, letting Marina looked at them suspiciously, her dirty lab coat brush against the Mike wrapped his arm around her. so Donna explained, “He’s my brother.” Doctor’s. “Well, Taxo-Dem got to the bomb before your friends, and they used Marina turned to look at Mike, still They continued walking down the it,” he said. “I’m sure Holi-World would visibly unsure about his intentions. stairs in silence. Mike slowed down to have done the same.” “What were you doing there?” walk next to her again, and Donna felt him squeeze her arm, his eyes glowing “Only without giving the heads-up After a moment of silence in which with gratitude. She sighed. She will that we got from Ax,” Donna Donna waited for her brother to react always try to protect him, even now, chuckled. “And don’t say it like that. or even confess, she stepped in to help when nothing will matter anymore. We were trying to save the world.” him. “I had to check something, and asked Mike to accompany me,” Donna When they arrived at the lowest floor, “All bad guys do,” Mike pulled his arm said. they were five floors underneath away. “But they saved it first.” the ground, leaving above them a Marina fell silent for a few seconds. mountain of lead that will be rendered “Well, let’s hope they do build a Donna felt like her eyes were scanning useless soon. A group of thirty better world than the one we had,” her, trying to detect the lie. But truth employees was already there, holding Donna replied, pulling her brother’s

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arm back around her. “I’m not sure that the modifications Ax and I added last minute will make it happen faster, or better.” “At least we will never know,” Mike replied. Donna and Mike sat there in the parking lot of Holi-World, leaning against the wall. Donna glanced at her watch every couple of minutes. Mike tried to get his cell phone to work. They all waited for what Ax told them would be inevitable once Taxo-Dem unleashed its experiment – The second and final explosion to genetically modify all the humans that were still alive, wipe out all their memories and end the human race as they knew it. Mike leaned his head on her shoulder and Donna closed her eyes, feeling more serene than she ever thought she would before the end

PRING WILL ALWAYS come.

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A LISTENING EXERCISE

BY G I G I C . Y. L A M

Your mind may be bombarded with all the things you have to do, people to whom you owe emails, what to have for lunch or dinner, what to wear to the party on ... taking up room in your brain, and now you're filled with new thoughts, silly thoughts, the mundane issues of your life. Question is “What’s next?” you might ask. What if you stop and listen, truly listen? Can you hear the voice(s) around you? This article exercise of Deep listening inspired by composer Pauline Oliveros, which help us to heighten and expand consciousness of sounds and connect us to the environment. Exercise of the day: Clapping (2018) Clap your hand once

What's that? You can't tell. You feel, perhaps, a little uncomfortable. Listen During any one breath Clap

What's that ? Did you stop some sound around you, a sound that someone else is making? Breathe Listen outwardly for a sound

Breathe Clap to the sound that someone else had made

What's that? Repeat clapping with the sound, now are getting to somewhere, blending in with the sound. Breathe Listen Continue this cycle until you blended in every sound around you and interests you.

聽 Chinese Character of “Listen” 耳王十四一心 is a phrase used to remember this character, based on the order of the strokes. It literally means EAR, KING, TEN, FOUR, ONE HEART … You need to use your heart to listen.

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HONEY FOR THE EARS AND THE HEART BY D I E G O P I E D R A - T R E J O S

HE GOODENOUGH ORCHESTRA. January 2018.

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Cover image: Diana Baron. Cover design: Katy Bache (KTB Solutions). Layout design: Diana Baron. Created by the We Are GoodEnough Society in Goodenough College, 2017/2018

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