INK #8 ON THE ROAD by Ink EnGeRom

INK #8

Letter from the editor Bird // Sif Rose Thaysen Illustration // Klara Vilshammer Christiansen Book Review: “The Road” // Sannie Hald Sense // Kristoffer Rasmussen On and on and on // Sannie Hald Spaghetti // Christian Vilhelm Vangsgaard Bender Queen of Spades // Nina Schive Copenhagen // Christina Roed Highway Amalgam // Jeppe Møgelmose What Keeps You Adrift // Jeppe Møgelmose Bikes and Freedom from Adult Society // Emilie Bang-Jensen Illustration // Sarah Leaving // Lene Reinholdt Kjeldsen 10 places for a road trip // You

INK #8 is sponsored by Sl-Fonden

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Letter from the editor When I hear the phrase “on the road” I think of it in a strangely literary way. I see an endless stretch of dark asphalt before my inner eye and I follow the white broken line as long as my imagination will let me. And I think of walking. Never driving, or running. And I definitely never have any intention of standing still. Because there is something alluring about that never-ending road. I will take a risk of pushing a metaphor too far in the following, so please bear with me. For one of the most common metaphors created with this phrase, I think, is the figurative reference to life itself. Life is a journey, a long road you have to travel, and like my mental picture, a road you have to travel at a certain pace. You cannot speed up your progress, nor can you stop. You have to keep walking. But why is this road such a good picture of life? It is maybe not so much the path itself, as what is associated with it. When I imagine the road, it is surrounded by empty prairie. And this, the surroundings, all the sights you will necessarily pass if you start walking, is possibly what makes the picture truly potent. Every experience you have can be likened to a tree you pass on your route, every new skill you obtain to a pebble you pick up on your way. You can fit other things into the metaphor as well. Your friends are people whose paths run parallel to your own; new acquaintances are people whose roads cross with yours. This is the beauty of a metaphor after all, all the connotations you can attach to a concept with only a few words. On the other hand, getting yourself stuck in this metaphor is probably not good. As a metaphor for life there is certainly a gloomy feeling to the idea of arriving at the destination, the end of the road. Getting there: Something which could otherwise be considered the purpose of walking. And there is the phrase “on the road” itself, which seems to deny any sort of detour. Yet the best experiences may just be found out there in the wilderness. So as potent a picture as this journey is, do not let it trap you. At least every once in a while – get off the road!

Bird

Short story by Sif Rose Thaysen

‘We shoulda stayed in London…’ Rick would say, and we really should have. In London we were just a bunch of normal teenagers, but of course that wasn’t enough for us. In New York we would become something much worse. The world feels strange when you’re sitting on a bench in California, more specifically Los Angeles, on a winter night where the moon shines yellow. People always say the moon is yellow, but in real life it’s mostly silver. You just don’t notice until it is actually yellow instead. I know that I’m getting cold – I just don’t mind. I suppose I’m at a turning point in my life, or just a point from where I can start from scratch, but I have no idea where to go from here. I cannot decide whether it is a good thing or not, sitting here on a bench in California. I look up at the sky with that big yellow moon and the stars that look blue in comparison. ‘How the hell did I get here?’ I whisper up at them. Of course I already know how I ended up here, all alone on a cold winter night on a bench in LA: I took a plane from Heathrow to New York. That’s where things went wrong… It took an eternity to get through security. Not to mention the time it took to get the guitars plastic-wrapped and checked in. Rick had completely disappeared – probably off to the men’s room to smoke the rest of his weed. Lenny and I went ahead together, but I ended up standing on the other side of the security gate waiting for him as well for God knows how long, while he assured the airport staff that he had no idea his whisky was over 100 ml and even less aware that is was inflammable. ‘Why the hell did you bring that!’ I hissed at him when he finally got through, ‘You can buy that shit on the plane.” ‘Chill…’ he just said and put his arm around me when he saw Rick coming through the crowd. I gave him a sour look and headed towards the terminal with my duffel bag trying not to think of my mother screaming about chaos. My mom had been very hostile towards the whole Hollywood idea – she had yelled at me for days, ‘Even you should be able to see that this band will end up in chaos – those boys are bad news, Samantha!’ In the end, she didn’t have a say in the matter, though. I was of age. ‘Don’t call me Samantha!’ I just yelled back and continued packing. We got to New York all right. Looking back it was quite good for us in New York. At the time, though, we were disappointed. We got some gigs here and there, but without a work permit it was not much we could get. Besides, we were not very popular – not compared to London. In London we were known and awed by the local kids, in New York we were just liked in a mediocre kind of way. We were the band that would get hired if they couldn’t get their first and second priority. We made just enough money to get by – just enough money for food and soap and the rent for the smallest place we could find. Rick took it pretty badly. If he could, he would have taken the first plane back to London. There was not a day when he did not point out that this trip was not his idea. It was my idea – my dream, but Lenny was the one who made it happen. Rick only went along hoping that we were right when we said the journey could lead to our big breakthrough. Lenny had set the date, used the entire band fund, and ordered the tickets. I don’t know if he truly shared my dream, or if he went along with it because he felt threatened by Rick. Rick and I used to be a thing back in high school but since Lenny joined our duo he and I had had something going on. It did bring some tension to the band, though no one ever spoke of it or seemed to have any hard feelings.

Of course it eventually got worse in New York. Rick started spending his money on drugs, and though he had already used his part of the money he still ate of the food, which meant less food for Lenny and me. I could handle that, but Lenny couldn’t. He got cranky and drank more than usually. Basically it just tore on everyone that we could hardly afford to live. ‘We shoulda stayed in London…’ Rick would say, and we really should have. In London we were just a bunch of normal teenagers, but of course that wasn’t enough for us. In New York we would become something much worse. The night air bites against my skin, but I don’t really feel that much anymore. I come to think of Rick while sitting here on my bench, think of how he always wanted us to sing Louie Louie, the Iggy Pop version, the one with the foreplay from Surfin’ Bird. Without realising it I start humming: ‘Well don’t you know about the bird?’ I choke on the words as I hold back a sob but I cannot hold back the tears. They feel warm on my cold skin before they freeze ‘...everybody’s talkin’ about the bird…’ Lenny lay on one of the filthy mattresses, we had in the middle of the room, sipping a beer to avoid the hangover. I sat picking on Lenny’s half-acoustic guitar on the kitchen counter while Rick smoked and played with the bass. After a while Rick put down the bass and went to look in the fridge. ‘This is all we have?’ he asked disapprovingly. ‘Shut up, man!’ Lenny said from the couch. Rick turned to face him, ‘What!’ ‘If you didn’t use all the money on drugs, we might have had some more.’ ‘Yeah? Well maybe you shouldn’t use money on all that shit you’re drinking’ ‘Whatever, man,’ Lenny scowled and knocked over a bottle – he was hardly ever sober anymore, and Rick was always high. ‘Screw you – I’m gonna go get some food!’ Rick stated and took something from his bag. ‘What the fuck, Rick, you have a gun?!’ I squealed and jumped off the counter when I saw what it was. ‘This is America, baby.’ Lenny got up from the mattress. ‘You can’t bring that, mate!’ Rick raised his hands, ‘Yeah? What are you gonna do?’ Lenny looked over at me and I mouthed, ‘Do something!’ at him. He punched Rick in the face. It was not that hard, he did not really want to hurt Rick, but Rick, under influence as he was, dropped the gun and stumbled backwards into the door frame. He clearly didn’t sense the softness of the punch. Before I knew it both Rick and Lenny was rolling around on the floor. They were both wasted and with every punch they got more and more agitated. They were going to kill each other. I was sure of it – and I had no idea how to stop them. I picked up the gun. ‘Stop it!’ I screamed panicky, ‘Stop it or I’ll shoot something!’ They didn’t notice me at all. I stepped a bit closer hoping they would see the gun or something – but they didn’t see that either. Rick smashed his fist into Lenny’s jaw. I watched the blood running out of Lenny mouth as he threw Rick hard against the wall. ‘STOP IT!’ Desperately, I tried throwing myself in between them. Everything happened too fast. I got hit by something in the chest, the air was knocked out of me and I stumbled backwards and fell. Instinctively, I tightened my grip around the gun as I hit the floor. I couldn’t see in my disorientation, but I heard the deafening sound of the gunshot – and the scream. A cry of pain. I had hit someone. Fearing what I’d done, I slowly pushed myself into sitting position and saw Rick lying on the floor holding his leg moaning with Lenny

leaning over him. ‘Jeez, Sam, you shot him!’ I crawled over to Rick. He was shot in the thigh. I tried putting pressure on the wound. ‘Len, call an ambulance!’ ‘You gone mad? We’ll get in jail for this!’ ‘We have to call someone! Look at all that blood!’ I cried. Rick was getting quieter and horribly pale. ‘All right,’ Lenny said, ‘You’ll call, I’ll pack our stuff.’ I removed my hands from the wound to get to the phone on the wall. They were all red with Rick’s blood. There was too much blood. I couldn’t wrap my head around it – so much blood from a gunshot to the leg. I took the phone and hurriedly dialled smearing it with blood. ‘Hallo? Someone’s been shot at 708 Hunts Point Ave, Bronx…’ Lenny grabbed my wrist mid-sentence, ‘Come on, we gotta go!’ He pulled me roughly through the room, leaving the phone just hanging there. Lenny had brought the guitar, the gun, the drugs, the alcohol and the money. That was what we had with us. ‘We can’t just leave him…’ I tried telling Lenny looking over my shoulder as we hurried out the door. Rick lay on the floor pale and stiff – like every blood drop had left his body. ‘Come on!’ Lenny yelled and pulled me down the stairs. ‘Lenny! Why are we running…?’ I cried: ‘Evidence is all over the place…’ Lenny just dragged me down the street as we heard the sirens approaching. I get up from my bench and walk a bit down the street. The light from the moon and the lampposts dim the neon stripes in my hair. I find another cold bench from where I can see the bay. This is scratch… I soon learned Lenny’s plan. We were going out of state. Lenny stole a car that was so old he was positive it did not have an alarm. We spend the rest of our money on gas and slept in the car. We stopped at a rest stop just outside Los Angeles and sat on the bonnet eating a pack of crackers we’d stolen from the gas station. ‘What is it with that fucking bird?’ Lenny suddenly said. I took me a while to figure out he was talking about the song. ‘We wanted to be that bird,’ I answered quietly. Lenny did not understand that, still he asked, ‘Well what happened?’ ‘We couldn’t fly.’ I woke up the next night. The car was bathed in the soft flickering light from the ever-moving city. My heart was pounding. I held up my hands in the dark. I could not quite make out what colour they had in the dim light – all I knew was that I had dreamt they were covered in blood. Shaking I rolled over and grabbed one of Lenny’s bottles. They liked our music in Hollywood and Lenny loved it. He did good – didn’t drink as much anymore. He got us this big gig on a popular club. It didn’t seem like he thought much about anything else. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Rick should have been there with us – because of me, he wasn’t. Sometimes I even thought I saw him standing behind the stage or in the back of the crowd. I figured it was the whisky – Lenny figured I was mental and that he was better off without some half drunk singer. ‘I can sing better myself, Sam,’ he said. I didn’t care. Scratch is when it can only go forward. I know that somehow I will make it… Someday I will take a plane back to England, back where I belong. The stars are still up, but in the horizon I can see a vague pink glow. As the sun rises, I wonder if Lenny will ever find out about the bird.

Illustration by Klara Vilshammer Christiansen

BOOK REVIEW

“The Road” THE BOOK: Title: The Road Author: Cormac McCarthy Year: 2006 Genre: Post-apocalyptic Fiction Praise: James Tait Black Memorial Prize (2006), Believer Book Award (2006), Pulitzer Prize (2007).

Book review by Sannie Hald

Sannie’s rating: 5/5

Snippet from page 28: In those first years the road were peopled with refugees shrouded up in their clothing. Wearing masks and goggles, sitting in their rags by the side of the road like ruined aviators. Their barrows heaped with shoddy. Towing wagons or cart. Their eyes bright in their skulls. Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland. The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all. The Road is tale of a journey of an unnamed father and his son in a world of ruins. Civilisation is destroyed and the world is bare and covered in ash. Dead people are to be found along the roadside and not many people dare to venture the road. It is a dangerous

life on the road because there are those who are so starved and desperate that they have lost all hope and morals. Not only is the context bare, simple and gloomy, so is the form of the novel. There is no structure, no chapters, nor indicators of speech. The descriptions of the world and situations are very simple and short - there is nothing to it. Everything has been destroyed and there is very little left. This leaves the impression of nothingness, and one gains the feeling of wanting to give up, who would want to live in a world like this? Yet, the father persists he keeps his hopes and morals for the love of his son. For those who, unfortunately, do not find pleasure in reading, there is a very well made film adaption of the novel with the same name, starring Viggo Mortensen and Kodi Smit-McPhee.

Sense By Kristoffer Rasmussen

Characters W.H. Borden: A man in his sixties Hong Kong: a Chinese city 1.1 SCENE

An apartment.

CURTAIN RISE – A man, BORDEN, is sitting by a kitchen table with an audio recorder in his hand and a gun to his temple trying to get at the line of poetry he hid somewhere deep in the folds of his brain. BORDEN: I realized something today, [BORDEN speaks directly into the recorder in his hand] that this city is riddled with holes. I’m not entirely sure, but I think the holes are supposed to be roads: concrete to ward off concrete, but I’m afraid to find out. I’m scared I might fall through the cracks if I cross the doorstep too abruptly. [BORDEN turns off the recorder and pulls the trigger. The blood spatter spells nothing at all.] 1.2 SCENE A night club. BORDEN, a young man in his twenties, is snorting coke off the tits of an overdosing hooker. BORDEN: [To the dying woman at the tip of his tongue.] I’m a poet of sorts, been workin’ on this thing for quite a while now. I’m sure you would love it, really! But there’s one thing that keeps naggin’ me. [Her leg starts twitching oddly, and he does another line.] It’s starting to look like there’s nothing missing from my work, it is starting to feel, oddly, complete. And worse, it makes sense. [Foam gathers around her mouth.] Do you get that? How everything is cocked up by understanding and that once something makes complete sense it shrivels up and dies. Horribly, I might add!

[BORDEN excitedly seizes the hooker by her neck and kisses her passionately as her leg finally stops twitching.] [Outside the nightclub winter rustles a couple of trashed newspapers on a neon-lit street.] BORDEN walks up a flight of stairs and into the night, though he does not know the way back to his apartment. Kowloon fades underneath him as he staggers to resolve understanding. “What!?” he screams at a passing car, that rudely interrupts his chain of thought, but the car offers no reply to soothe his soul. So he staggers on, circling Tsim Sha Tsui. Borden shifts through his keys. Finds the one he needs and cracks his head against the door as it won’t open. He slumps down on the stairs leading up to his door and leans against the cold concrete. For some reason he gives up finding the right key and decides that Hong Kong winters aren’t that cold anyway. … Borden wakes up, suddenly. The night still groans in his bones and his mind is fucked up beyond belief. His fingers and feet are cold. Colder than he thought possible, but his poem still makes sense to him. An old Chinese woman passes by him, she spits at him, but his rusty Cantonese doesn’t pick up the words. He looks up at the door and realizes he doesn’t recognize it, nor does he recognize the neighborhood, but there’s something oddly comforting about the area, something that puts his mind at ease. However, he’s obviously not welcome, so he drags himself up and falls down the stairs less than gracefully. He lingers in his movements. The road opens up and Hong Kong slowly jolts him back into his apartment at gunpoint. The gun clicks once, twice in his hand and it’s pouring acid rain outside and everything continues to make sense.

Poems 12

On and on and on By Sannie Hald

I am walking, On and on and on. The Road goes on. Everything is lost and barren, On and on and on. Death has gone. Sullen eyes With dried-up tears. I hear their cries, They know me fears. I am lost With several roads crossed. My mind is empty, On and on and on. I am the dead long gone. My feet keep walking, On and on and on. Forever, the Road goes on.

Spaghetti By Christian Vilhelm Vangsgaard Bender Bill McCoy exhaled the smooth smoke of his Lucky Strike with pleasure; he then headed inside the restaurant and sat down to his evening meal. Tony was almost done with the days work, only one thing remained. He picked up the telephone receiver and made a phone call. Bill raised an eyebrow at the sharp light piercing the windows of the restaurant, but before he could raise a hand, three bullets smacked into his chest with three consecutive thuds, mixing blood with spaghetti. In the freshly painted house just outside the city limits, Jane McCoy went to bed alone.

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By Christina Roed

COPENHAGEN 16

copenhagen i am a prisoner in your presence no way to escape i have to stay could it be any different copenhagen still awake it is three in the morning the moonlight shining through the window your eye will always find me copenhagen i wish i could run run away from your eye and stifling embrace be free copenhagen nothing is as it looks like just take a look at you but you found me bleeding on the road

copenhagen you told me my heart belonged to you guess you are right i have to stay so i can figure that out

Highway Amalgam By Jeppe Møgelmose

Like a highway of spades, or an ace of bats, thunderstruck and breaking the law, straight out of hell, with a mind full of venom. You’re my Black Betty, your name is like poison, you drive me ape, you’re not a girl - you’re a woman. Babylon’s burning, the Wheels are turning, and your fortunate son is no more. Perhaps he wasn’t even there before? Living in his yellow submarine, singing schools out forever, and never dancing with you, always dancing with himself. But he would do anything for love, and it’s more than a feeling, if you know what I’m meaning.

What keeps you adrift By Jeppe Møgelmose

Sometimes falling asleep is like slowly drifting into an otherwordly nothingness But then a sound catches you, and you are no longer marooned in the darkness.

I want to ride my bicycle Bikes and freedom from adult society: A pop-cultural analysis Article by Emilie Bang-Jensen

For us Danes (or, perhaps more specifically, Copenhageners), biking is part of our everyday. It is our mundane commute from home to work or school, in all manners of weather and all kinds of moods. It is the easiest way to get around the city, but we all dread the rainy and windy days where Langebro seems like an endless uphill struggle. That is why it surprised me the other day when I realized

the significance that is given to bikes throughout much of Western popular culture. This hit me as I was watching the music video for Titanium on YouTube (yes, procrastinating). The song is by David Guetta ft. Sia, and the video accompanying it features a boy running away from the police after having trashed his school. His method of escape: A bike. The symbolism is quite clear: After having trashed his school (read: rebelled against society), the boy initially escapes the police (read: another important and controlling aspect of society) on a bike. He gets caught in the end, but rather than giving in, he destroys himself through some kind of weird, supernatural powers. This is basically a video about the oppressive or constructed adult society that children sooner or later have to be confronted with; a society this boy would rather escape from completely than cooperate with. This reading fits to the lyrics of the song as well, though the lyrics imply a survival rather than a self-destruction: I’m criticized but all your bullets ricochet You shoot me down, but I get up I’m bulletproof… This view of childhood vs. adulthood is not only present in Titanium. In fact, it seems Titanium was inspired by an older and much less somber movie: E.T. by Steven Spielberg, from 1982. This movie provides the ultimate symbol of the bike as a means for escaping and being free from adult life and society. In E.T., most of the adults seem ruthless and are out to exploit E.T. for their own purposes, whereas the children are curious, sensitive, and understanding of E.T. Even Elliot’s teenage brother and his friends, who are in the twilight zone of childhood, become entranced by E.T. and are, for a little while yet, on Elliot’s

side. However, as children, they are in a weak minority. Therefore, they must escape from the adults in order to get E.T. safely back to where he belongs. They do this, of course, on bikes. As in Titanium, Elliot and his friends run away from the police, which represent the rigid and controlling institutions of adult society. When they finally seem to have been surrounded, something magical/extraterrestrial happens: the bikes fly! Thus the children become Peter Pan-like as they soar across the sky, away from the adults.

As a final example, let us take a look at the lyrics in the song The Bike Song by Mark Ronson & The Business INTL, which was released in 2010: My mother tells me I should stop, go and get a real job That can’t be the way that I roll Everybody’s growing up, having kids and paying rent They’re all getting cars of their own I’m gonna ride my bike until I get home… Here, childhood life is once again connected with bikes. Bikes represent carefree, childish times with no adult responsibilities such as jobs or kids or rent. What is it about bikes that has created this image? First of all, it has to be kept in mind that all of the abovementioned examples are produced in the U.S. There, the bike is a way to get around your neighborhood until you turn 16, when you can drive a car. Cars obviously belong to a more adult life, laden with responsibilities such as insurance, driver’s license, paying for gas etc. Thus the bike becomes a nostalgic object belonging to childhood, before the intrusion of all of these adult responsibilities. Also, bikes can get you from A to B in nearly any way and any time you like. On a bike, you have complete freedom of movement; you don’t necessarily have to follows roads, you don’t have to stop or pay for gas, and you don’t have to wait for the bike to depart as with public transportation. This could also be a reason why the bike often becomes a symbol of freedom and escape. If you take a look at E.T. again, this is also evident in the bike-escape. The kids take their bikes off-road where the police cars cannot follow

YouTube links

them. The police cars can only follow the road. Seen in a more abstract light, adult life is here represented as a straight, one-way kind of deal, whereas childhood is a not so much a road as a huge area of countless possible routes. Everything is still open and undecided, and only the imagination sets the limit. Thus, in the American (and hence Western) imagination, the bike becomes the symbol of childhood, freedom from adult responsibilities, perhaps even freedom from oppressive adult society. It is a Peter Pan symbol. However, childhood does not last forever. Some try to escape this fact: In Titanium, the boy on the verge of puberty destroys himself rather than crossing the border to adulthood. In the Bike Song, the I-person simply ignores his adulthood, and in E.T., though childhood does conquer adulthood in the end, Elliot will continue to grow after the camera shuts off. As a Copenhagener, it is more difficult seeing the connection between childhood and bikes, or bikes and freedom from responsibility. Bikes are part of our everyday lives, even as grown-ups. They are not steeped in the same childhood mythology or nostalgia. However, they are fundamental to our freedom of movement, whatever the weather may be. Or however steep Langebro may seem on a Monday morning.

“Titanium” / David Guetta feat. Sia

The E.T. bike escape

“The Bike Song” / Mark Ronson and the Business Intl.

Illustration by Sarah

Leav Short story by Lene Reinholdt Kjeldsen

As night fell the streets thinned out, only a few people milling about and Matt finally loosened his grip on the dog’s lead. He needed to find a place to stay for the night and get an early start. Finding a place to stay might not be as easy as it sounded. What he needed was to find somewhere that would let him stay without too many questions. Plan b was to find an abandoned flat, but that was highly unlikely – The Camden block being one of the most densely populated areas. He decided to head into the old stables market by the Lock, a few people lingering, all of the stands long boarded up. A group of people were sitting around a bonfire in the clearing. He silently approached them. A few of them were talking though most of them simply stared into the fire. Another man joined the scene from behind Matt. ‘Excuse me’ he asked quickly, the man turning to him, his eyes were tired, he looked worn, distant, though he could not have been much older than Matt. ‘Is there anywhere to stay for the night?’ The man shook his head and stumbled towards the fire to sit down. An older woman got up, ‘Listen, son. Your best bet is to stay down here. We’re a few that don’t have a place but here is fine when the weather isn’t against us.’ She reminded him of his mother. He nodded and looked around. The benches were piled up with sleeping bags and rugs. ‘Where are you heading?’ The woman asked as he had sat down near the fire. He felt a sting of panic, thinking the freepass might be visible through his shirt, but then remembered having shoved it to the bottom of his bag after having found a quiet place on the inside. He shrugged and ran a hand over the dog’s head, resting against his shin. ‘Probably to a less crowded block,’ he sighed hoping he sounded convincing enough. ‘I dunno yet.’ She nodded, ‘Many people say that, travelling to the next block over, because things supposedly are better there.’ Matt nodded in agreement, it had been like that. In every single block. He shrugged, ‘Grass is always greener, right? Can’t blame a guy for trying.’ Silence fell, and Matt got lost staring into the flames. Thinking about the city, thinking about his

ing family, thinking about the people he was about to leave behind for good. ‘Wher’ ya from?’ An elderly man asked, scooting nearer the bonfire. ‘South Kensington, but I was born in New Cross.’ The man nodded approvingly, ‘I lived in New Cross once, you know. Lovely place, that, before..’ He didn’t need to elaborate any further, the collective memory of what happened still fresh and silence fell around the clearing once more. He wondered if it was even necessary to lie to these people, but he sure as hell was not going to make the mistake of trusting the wrong people this close to his goal. Just thinking about being this close to leaving this wasteland behind was exhilarating. He had to remind himself of the company he was in, in order for a smile not to spread across his face. Matt wasn’t sure how long he had sat there when a group of people came running through the stables. Banging on all the boards, yelling. Two of them were carrying something. As they came closer to the fire he realized it was a someone. The someone was bleeding, from his head and stomach. It looked bad and Matt shrunk away, keeping his dog close. As much as he wanted to help he could not get involved. Not now, not this close. No. A young woman threw herself at the lifeless body on the cobbles, crying, screaming. Another man appeared, ‘Where the fuck is the medic?’, running a hand through his hair, grey woolen beanie in the other. There was another scramble and a group of people appeared, one being pushed in from the group. ‘Thank fuck!’ The older man at the front appeared to be the doctor, gently kneeling at the bleeding man’s side, as members of the group tried to peel the woman from him. The man with the beanie kept pacing as the doctor examined him ‘What the hell happened?’ a man in the surrounding crowd asked. He stopped pacing, his eyes flaring, ‘we were jumped. By a bunch of fucking Maida Vales!’ A low chatter spread through the crowd.

Matt could practically feel the tension building. The man turned back to his friend on the ground. The medic sighed after having pressed bandages into the open wounds. ‘His body is going into shock. He’s lost too much blood.’ The man froze, ‘’What – what does it mean? Is he going to be okay?’ The doctor sighed again, ‘Without proper facilities to handle this kind of injury, there’s not much I can do.’ The woman, who had briefly stopped sobbing, rushed back to the limp body, ‘But he has to be okay.’ She brought her hand to her stomach and only then did Matt notice the slight bump. The air turned cold in his throat. Fuck Matt tried to tune out, it was evident that the man was not going to make it without proper medical care. That was a luxury no longer available in the blocks. The government forces had raided each hospital, thinking it would stop the rioting if they could not receive medical care – but it had only sparked yet another riot as well as heavy criticism from other countries. The woman was still sobbing but the crowd assembled became louder. ‘We need to get back at them!’ one yelled ‘Revenge!’ came a strangled scream from the back ‘Let’s kill the stupid bastards!’ The man clenching the woolen fabric in his hand was breathing hard, his eyes wet and nearly glowing with rage and despair. The nod was only slight but the whole crowd erupted at the consent. ‘Gather everyone – let’s go now,’ said one to the other and the group started to disperse. ‘We’ll take the south-east exit.’ The on-looking men and women were riling each other up, and a stream of people came to pay their respect to the man dying on the streets of Camden, by a roaring bonfire. Matt felt panicky as the man in the beanie turned to those who were sitting around the bonfire the entire time. His heartbeat unwillingly sped up and the dog was about ready to get on its feet. ‘We need all the help we can get.’ the man said and looked around the group of people. As the other men around the bonfire agreed to join one by one, Matt was trapped. He was exactly the kind of person they needed. Young, fast, smart. He tried to stay calm. He was not going to be bullied into fighting their battle. It was just one fight in an endless strand of retaliations and he knew if he joined in now, he was never going to leave.

As the man turned his gaze to him, Matt did not look away but simply shook his head. Hoping, praying that he would not make it into a big deal. Of course his friend was dying right before his very eyes so that was never really an option. ‘Fucking coward,’ He spat. ‘You’re just gonna sit here and watch this man die,’ the words stuck in his throat, ‘and not help us avenge him? For the sake of his unborn child?’ The woman cried louder again. His eyes were blazing as he scoffed, ‘If that’s not cowardly then I don’t know what is.’ His posture was threatening, but Matt stayed seated, in silence. On the inside grasping for the final straws. The man saw that his words had no effect and turned away into the assembled group. The group left a short while after that. Their voices ringing out through the stables, leaving the doctor, the woman and the dying man in front of the fire. Her crying had died down, but when the doctor declared him dead and placed two golden coins over his eyes, her scream was ten times more horrific than before. He looked around at the people left. Some were crying, other still staring the a yellow and orange flames devouring the wooden planks. The older woman turned to him, ‘I’m afraid for you,’ Matt frowned, confused, ‘Wh-why?’ She looked straight at him, ‘I think it would be wise of your to leave before they come back tomorrow and decide to make an example of you.’ Matt nodded. She seemed to know what she was talking about. ‘Leave around sunrise – they will probably be licking their wounds till mid-morning.’ ‘Why are you helping me?’ ‘You remind me of my boy. He’s about your age. I would like to think that wherever he is people would help him, like I am helping you.’ He understood, kindness and compassion was becoming a rare commodity. As the flames died down people began to retreat and Matt found a spot against the wall, grabbing his coat from his bag and placing it on the rough cobblestones. He sat and leant against the wall, the dog settling heavily against his lap. He drifted off into an uneasy sleep, the weight of the dog against him, comforting. He woke with the sun and quickly packed up his things, remembering to dig out his freepass and feeding his dog before heading north. Camden seemed practically empty. A chill ran up his spine – it was too similar to the no mans land of Westminster. After 20 minutes Matt and the dog reached the Northern Gate.

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INK inkedboard@gmail.com TITLE: ON THE ROAD SPRING 2013 EDITOR IN CHIEF Emilie Larsen EDITORIAL BOARD: Aurelija Aniulyte Emilie Bang-Jensen Daniel Birch Josefine Eckstrøm Christina Nordkrog Estrup Sannie Hald Christina Roed Jensen LAYOUT Emilie Bang-Jensen Josefine Eckstrøm COVER ILLUSTRATION Klara Vilshammer Christiansen NUMBER PRINTED: 100 PRINT Grafisk - KUA ISSN: 1904-299X INK #8 Copenhagen, May 2013 SPONSORED BY SL-Fonden

INK #8 ON THE ROAD Sponsored by SL-Fonden