Inky Squib Magazine - Issue Two by matt dicosta

INKY SQUIB MAGAZINE

INKY

CONTRIBUTORS

adam sibson amanda joseph amber brennan ben q claire penson emily k volmer glen binger kevin conder laura glitsos matt dicosta mirium skare steven dicosta steve toase yoskay yamamoto

INKY

CONTENTS

028 034 020 005

036 064

001 ELEVATED

- bye bye bellhop - elevator - twelve floors - ten things you don't want to hear in an elevator - elevate her - the man behind the drone 016 THE NINJA ATTACK BIGGLESWADE

- EPISODE 2 020 THE MOST DANGEROUS ROAD IN THE WORLD 028 THE DAILY GRIND 032 WALKING WITH A PRINTER

034 ERSA, GODDESS OF THE DEW 036 YOSKAY YAMAMOTO - FEATURE ARTIST 052 WHATS ON THE MENU?

- la mour est grand - resturaunt de technology 060 ROCK AND ROLL BAND IN THEIR FORTIES 062 SMOKE AND MIRRORS 064

JIMMY TIME

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WHAT'S COMING NEXT ISSUE

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elevated From the disappearance of the bellhop to the technicians that create them to a swag of Inky depictions, we explore the wonder of the humble elevator. Enjoy.

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bye bye bellhop BY MATT DICOSTA

The bellhop never had a chance. His distant shadow reminds me of the feeling I get when I think back to watching Happy Days or the money I spent on my cd collection. Thems is forgotten times. But I’m not here to complain. According to my parents the fifties were stagnant and oppressive. Nothing like todays sparkling, machine run societies. But while this may be true, my generation has been left short on one thing. In a world steeped with reality tv and job evaporation, more and more grumpy peeps are on the search for a little thing called mystique. 003

Lets go back. Ding. The handcrafted, wrought iron shutter is drawn back and a well mannered, well dressed bellhop signals for you to enter. He helps you with your bags and requests the floor you wish him to enter in the gold plated wall panel. Through the reflection of the glistening wall mirrors you notice the floral carpeted ceiling, the brass hand rails, and most importantly, your bellhop. His shirt is freshly starched, his is head posted firmly forward when you reach your floor he calls you sir and escorts your luggage to your room. You part ways feeling

respected, satisfied, saturated by the cadence of his style. Today. Ding. The number 4 flashes and the stainless doors bounce open. You drag your own bags past the two that just finished their conversation on the benefits of double anal sex post shelving mdma capsules, and into the heavily air conditioned hallway with the fake plants. You shuffle around the Mcdonald’s sauce stained, overweight couple dressed in Hawaiian shirts, past the under parented children screaming obscenities, past the rooms of fake

tanned, fake boobed, tribal band tattooed couples glued to their idiot boxes musing over mediocre room service and Mikey ‘the situation’ working lotion into his abs. But most sadly of all, you move past the black and white prints of Jerry Lewis and Marilyn Monroe hung on the walls. As a painful reminder that their days of mystique and style are over and yours, well, yours just went screaming past you down the hall. But I’m not here to complain. It's just you can give me ‘the oppression’ over ‘the situation’ any day of the fucking week. 004

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elevator BY GLEN BINGER

No one ever questions the tiny Asian operating the elevator. I wear my little bell-hop suit and act as if I’m deaf day in, day out. But every once in a while my secrets leak unto the occupants of my shaft. Someone will smell something or hear something and give me a weird look and then think nothing of it. And I go back to thinking about other things to cure my boredom until the next kill. This box moves in two directions: up and down. No one knows what the corridor looks like outside of this cubby. They don’t want to know. I make fifteen dollars an hour to press buttons and ignore people. Outside of this box, I’m free to do as I please. In the elevator shaft, I’m free to hide bodies. A young woman steps into the elevator on the 1st floor holding one banana and a cup of coffee. It must feel weird to buy a single banana. She seems right. She’s also carrying some books, some mail for apartment 407C, and a laptop. I glance up at the loose ceiling tile that grants the access to my secret shaft. She does not notice me – which makes me smile – and, instead, stares at herself in the metal door. She’s pretty, makes this easier. Then she catches a whiff of my secret, I see it in her reflection. Her nose contorts, eyebrows squint. The smell. Then the doors open on the fourth floor. She turns to me, smiles, and steps out. “See you later,” I say. She ignores me, the doors close and I descend back to another potential candidate. Up and down.

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He worked on the top floor. His building was wrapped in windows. Transparent. He was wrapped in windows. He had finished work. He was tired. He left the 12th floor and descended to the 11th. He saw Amos from accounting. Amos had a strange look on his face as their eyes met briefly. The he remembered that Amos had done his taxes for free every year for the past four and he had yet to thank him properly. “Have a good night, Amos,” he spoke breathlessly.

twelve floors BY LAURA GLITSOS

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As he arrived at the 10th floor he saw her. And every time he saw her, it was always like the first time. He felt the rush of blood. He snatched a glimpse of her calf muscles. He knew them as landscapes. He knew her smell, temper and the humidity between her thighs. But he would never know her future. She told him she would tell his wife. He would lose everything, including the children. He felt like a walking cliché. On the surface he had betrayed a wife and a family for a woman he hardly knew – because of a great set of legs. But he knew it was more than that. A man wears a suit and tie. He sits at a desk. He recites the script of everyday life

from his TV holiday each evening. His old books are in boxes. He does not need these ideas anymore. Camus is no more alive for him than the Algerian dead on the beach. Responsibility descends on life like a slow mist. [But his suit and tie tell him excuses are pointless.] He was still thinking of her as he reached the 9th floor, and the velocity at which her presence had impacted on his life. The speed at which she could unravel it. And yet even now, he would still press himself upon her despite what happened. “How slowly time travels at moments like these,” his mind was calm. [His building is constructed of metal. He is constructed of flesh pretending to be metal.] Then at the 8th floor he usually picked up his best friend, Benny, and they would ride the elevator down together and drive to O’Sullivan’s for a pint. But lately, Benny would ignore him. Or make an excuse for why he had not time for pints or pity, with a slight flush crawling through his cheeks. Weeks ago and O’Sully’s, Benny had hastily kissed him, grabbing the crease where his leg met is backside. Apparently Benny had not the language to communicate how he felt for many 008

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years, but he sure had the lips for it. As he passed the 8th floor he wanted to tell Benny that he needn’t be ashamed. They were still mates. He never told anyone. “And I never will,” he whispered sadly. By the 7th floor it was all behind him. In a few floors his wife would be waiting at the entrance. Armed with the information from his lover’s phone call. Desperation reeking from her glands. She would ask him ‘why’. “She wouldn’t have to if she ever saw her,” he thought bitterly. She would torture him with her selfpity and hurt. Then give the number of her solicitor. But not the number of her mother’s house, where the children would be. [His building is mindless yet purposeful. He has been taught to be mindless yet purposeful.] He did not even care that the 6th floor Internal Accounts Team had all the evidence they needed now. Even though the misdirection of funds had been the plan of the senior executive, the IAT would burn only him. Senior execs were just too hard to come by. But advertising chums were ubiquitous. As he left work, passing down the 6th floor, he thought for the first time in his life, “fuck you 6th floor.” 009

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And he felt liberated. Nearly at the 5th floor. One he would never get off at. “The City of Gold,” he thought. Where the CEO’s met with clients so powerful they could buy their own islands. They certainly bought the law. They only had desks to rest their hands because the work was done by the 12th. Benny had once met with a CEO after a close call with a cancer patient who wanted to sue for his insurance. Luckily, the patient died before he could get to court. Benny told him that the floors were real marble, and when you walked into an office the lights came on automatically. Benny said even the secretaries looked like models.

On his way to the 3rd floor he realised perhaps he could come through. After all, wives forgive. People change jobs. He still had a best friend and embarrassment only can’t destroy that. [His building is the triumph of modern man. Unspeaking. He is modern man unspeaking. He planned to talk to talk to her the way the once had. He could even speak to Benny. They had never spoken about what happened. Perhaps Benny was waiting for him?

As the 2nd floor rushed upon him he knew the Ground Floor was near. He began to understand. The 12 floors had changed him. He thought again, “How slowly time moves at times like these.” It was then he wished he took the elevator – not the window. But when the pavement is rushing towards you at terminal velocity – it is far too late to change your mind.

“On the 12th floor,” he joked with him, “the secretaries looked like Bowie in The Labyrinth.” Passing the 4th floor, he saw the cafeteria. He remembered his ulcer. The blister. When his wife and he had visited the doctor, they had been told that ulcers increased the risk of cancer. It scared her. She feared losing him. She said the fear was a madman sitting politely on her mind. She said how much she adored him after all these years. How nothing could change their life together. The children, the pets. 010

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S G HIN

○ Any of you birds going down? ○ Akmed, open the briefcase.

T ○ My water just broke. U ○ Was that you or me? O Y ○ You know it really does taste like pineapple. T ’ N ○ Ha! No the other alter boy. O D ○ Oh… that kind of seamen. T N ○ You know that statistically one of us is a rapist. A W ○ Yep son, this is where it all happened. ○ Let us pray. TO ○ What, that one in front there? Fuck no! R A E ○ John, you can’t get dogs pregnant hey? H IN AN R O T A V E EL

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THEME - INTERVIEW

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the man behind the drone WE TAKE A RIDE WITH AN EXPERT...

So you’re an elevator technician? Yes. It’s a relatively unheard of industry, how did you get involved? Well many years ago, when I was a lad in Ireland, I did an apprenticeship. But when you think about it, with how many elevators there are in the all the big cities in the world, it’s actually a very large and lucrative industry. Does it have its ups and downs? Haha. I’ve only heard that jokes 50 times today.

men think about porno’s they have personal time together while the seen involving elevators and the elevator went up and down in women just try to get out of there as regular service. soon as possible haha. I knew this interview was a good I’ve been doing my research. There idea. Ok so what do I do if an are some horror stories that come elevator breaks down between two from elevator malfunctions. Got any floors? stories like that? Depends who you’re in there with. Yeah I’ve heard a few my self, there No seriously there isn’t much you is a couple about blokes being cut can do. Just press the service button in half or decapitated whilst working and wait. on them. See what happens is they That’s a bit boring. What if I wanted try to get out when its only half level to escape an elevator? with the floor and the lift randomly Unless you are Bear Grylls or Bruce drops and they are sliced in half. Willis it is actually quite hard. The Generally though, these stories are only real way is through the hatch just myths. at the top but its locked and sealed. You would need to have access to it Ok so at the risk of sounding like like my friend did. Zoo magazine, sigh, do you have any saucy stories for the readers? How long could i be stuck in Haha yeah I’ve got one. I know a guy elevator before running out of back home that ended a date with a oxygen? girl on top of an elevator. You would be able to stay in there as long as you’d like unless some one On top, on top? had a bad case of gas in which you Yeah they climbed up there and may only have a matter of minutes. dropped the hatch and spent some

That’s a lot. Ok, so I’ve always thought the psychology of elevators to be an interesting topic. It forces total strangers to share a close space for a short period of time. What do you think most people are thinking when riding in an elevator? Who farted! No really I think the 012

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elevate her BY AMBER BRENNAN

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Going up? They say politely as they step onto the floor, A calculated entrance interrupted by the door; They press the button lightly to express their choice of floor, Then rearrange belongings; shuffle shoulders, (one is sore). Patter-feet are silenced, heels say I know nothing more of motors and hydraulics now relieved of every chore; tongues are now off-duty too and conversation’s war – in the space they don’t exist, no - not anymore. Inhabitants of interspaces often I ignore, But sometimes when I’m feeling just a little off the wall, I tinker with the buttons and I fiddle with the floor, Make the cage swing just a bit to shake them to their core; I reinforce their stories of stuck-in-elevator-lore – For when I see them shudder it really makes my spirits soar. I know I shouldn’t activate the sensor anymore Before the big director has his briefcase in the door I know I shouldn’t make that sound just shy of Level Four To frighten his assistant with the big boots (what a whore) But I cannot stop, I’m certain – of this vestige I am sure – They’d not notice me at all should I not scare them anymore; So I work all day as normal though they don’t know what’s in store, My life as an elevator is indeed a dreadful bore.

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the ninja attack biggleswade BY BEN Q

The sun set on Biggleswade but not on me. I lay awake, lit by the fires of anguish. Hiding my fury beneath the hedge on Potton Road, I couldn’t stop rotating the thoughts of conquest in my mind’s eye. I kept seeing the town, overrun with ninja, cloaked in black satin and totally lost to it’s populace. We were naked victims beneath the ninja’s shroud of stealth. Before long Biggleswade would be invisible and completely cut off from the rest of the world. I had become suspicious of a government plot. Perhaps it was paranoia. Perhaps. I thought back to my house. Living with my long-term transsexual girlfriend Aqulak for the last couple of years, I had become comfortable and lax about security. Not a problem normally- I’d successfully held off an attack

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of schoolkids earlier in the year just using heavy fruit from the fridge. But none of us had anticipated this silent attack. I was totally unprepared. When they struck our house I was only aware they were even close when I smelt digestive biscuit being breathed into my face. The unmistakeable aroma of a stealth assassin. Lucky for me that I’d left my nose-plugs out that night too, otherwise I’d certainly be dead. I’d flinched instinctively into a defensive attack, and smashed the black-masked intruder in the throat, totally buggering up his breathing and speaking plans. As he reeled back, I threw back the quilt to reveal my naked body. The dazzling light from my balls stunned him, and he staggered back into the wall behind him clutching at his crushed windpipe and looking like a right idiot. I was merciful, and sprayed him with my acid-urine so that he collapsed to the floor sizzling

IMAGE BY MIRIUM SKARE

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“Okay – stop that – okay I’ll call or send a card or something. I love you bye-bye, bye-bye…” Click.

and melting, with acrid smoke rising from his burning skin as he slowly asphyxiated cloaked in the settling black fug of his own doom. I dressed quickly, brushed my golden hair, added a little gel and a touch of eye make-up, and trotted downstairs to call Aqulak from the kitchen handset. She replied after only 6 rings. She was in Dubai on business. “Allo? Allo?” Came her gruff lowoctave tones. “Baby?” I said. “Ah! Ah! It is you! I thought maybe it would be-“ she stopped abruptly.

IMAGE BY MIRIUM SKARE

“Be who?” “Hmm. Oh. I think it’s going to be a “Ah… Nothing. Nobody. Ah ha ha. Silly few more days my darling. Is that me…” okay? What about ninjas?” I got straight to the matter in hand.

“A squadron attacking the town… A few days? But… But I miss you.”

“It looks like town has been attacked by a squadron of ninja.” I told her. “Oh, darling. Don’t worry and stress “We may be in trouble. How long so much. A few days is only a few until you are due to fly back?” days-“ And in the background I heard 018

I put on my parka and picked up my survival pouch as I walked through the kitchen to the back door. I’d have to wash up some plates soon. I slammed the door behind me, stepped out into the driveway and grabbed the handlebar of my powertrike. A deep inhalation. I can’t be fucked to open the gate, I thought. Sitting down, I revved the trike hard, snapped off the handbrake and rammed it through the wrought-iron gates and into the street.

That was three days ago. I look at my watch. Three days and four a muffled voice saying ‘who the minutes. I shift to one side to make fuck is it bitch?’. I ignored it. “Don’t my balls more comfortable against worry darling. I’ll be home soon.” the lumpy grass verge. My elbows It sounded like she was shuffling are sore from this leaning. Fucking around. ninja, ruining everything without “Baby, will you-“ “Please, honey, not now. I have to go, even a thought for the normal people. I’ll see to them. ah, okay? Yes, yes, I love you too“ “But“ 019

UNDER THE WINGS

UNDER THE WINGS ttTTTVTV

the

most

dangerous road in the

world...

IN SOME PARTS OF THE WORLD CASUALITIES ARE JUST THE DAY TO DAY.

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riding for your life La Paz, Boliva

BY ADAM SIBSON IMAGE BY MIRIUM SKARE

“...We’d just agreed to join a group of mountain bikers and ride down an infamous Bolivian road that had recorded three hundred fatalities a year.

declarations that voided the mountain bike company from any responsibility to our potential deaths, and asked us to sign. My friend tilted his head towards me and whispered, “Dude, can you From top to bottom, this 70km road remember the last time you actually descended eleven thousand feet, rode a bike?” He nervously laughed was three metres in width and had when he saw me struggling to unguarded cliff edges that dropped remember. I suddenly felt that six hundred metres in most sections. nervous pang I used to get during We' d be reaching speeds of 60km/ swimming lessons at school...when I hr on loose gravel and facing realized the girls were watching and oncoming trucks with full loads. the shrinkage had been brutal. The locals called it ‘El Camino de la Muerte’. The backpackers called it The first two hours were miserable. ‘Death Road’...” We were still in the clouds, some four kilometres above sea level. It The salesman pulled out the was below freezing, raining and 022

the high altitude meant a quick burst of pedalling would leave me desperately gasping for air. I was so stiff my reflexes were shockingly delayed. It was lucky the beginning section of the road was tarred. I never would’ve made it on gravel. I was hating myself at this point.... what a stupid fucking idea...this was no fun and it seemed the only reason I was doing this was so I’d have a good story to tell to my friends back home... and they’d probably just call me a liar anyway. We reached the end of the tarred road just before lunch. It was all gravel, cliffs and oncoming trucks from now on. Our two guides told

us to get off the bikes and take off most of our clothes because we were descending quickly and it was about to get hot fast. Our group consisted of about twelve travellers, and like most remote adventures you can experience on the planet, there were a lot of Germans participating. We’d stopped at a lookout point that overlooked the beginning of Death Road. You could see the narrow road had a mountain rock face on one side, and a ridiculous six hundred metre drop on the other. The guides seemed most concerned about the oncoming traffic on the narrow sections that had steep cliffs. 023

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They kept repeating that if a truck or bus comes, we were to get off the bike - stay ‘cliff side’ of the oncoming truck - our bikes on the cliff side of us. That way if the truck nudged us we could push the bike off the cliff but still maintain our footing. A tall German guy behind me asked a typically blunt, German question, “Vy can’t ‘vee get ‘orf and stand on ‘zee ‘udder side ‘ov ‘zee road, next to ‘zee mountain and away from ‘zee cliff???” He was shot down in flames. “Because if a bus goes over the cliff trying to avoid you on that side, dozens will die... and a dozen lives are more valuable than yours”, the female guide had snapped back. I then heard him mutter, ‘Wow, serious!’ When a German says something is serious, you know it is seriously serious. That ‘shrinkage feeling’ was back again…

UNDER THE WINGS

realistic to be just hearsay. Now, for some unknown reason I was flying down a narrow, cliff-edged mountain road in this country, dodging rocks, potholes and oncoming trucks. My ears were constantly popping with the continual altitude changes and my balance was becoming an issue. Bouts of speed wobbles somehow coincided with the ear pops. I felt like Jim Carrey wobbling along on that scooter in Dumb and Dumber. After about two to three hours of intense concentration, the guide stopped us at a small section of dirt just before a blind corner. He asked us how we were feeling. A New Zealander behind me boasted, “Piece of piss so far mate!” The guide shook his head at us, “Go look over the edge....go!” We got on our hands and knees and peered down the cliff.

About 200 metres down, on a I was working the brake the whole sharp ledge of the cliff were the time, but I was still travelling at an mangled, twisted remains of a uncomfortably fast pace. I followed yellow school bus. We turned and the guide’s advice and only focused looked back at the guide. “Two days on the road ahead, trying to ignore ago”, he muttered, “26 kids and 2 the sheer drop. I’d forgotten how teachers....now don’t get fucking to blink. Words can’t describe the cocky and keep your focus!” The continual concentration and fear. disembowelled bus and its dead Bolivia in general scared the crap and bloodied young occupants out of me. Half the local kids here were sickening to see, and what’s walked around in ski masks because worse was there was no shortage they were embarrassed about shoe- of wrecks just like it. The guides felt shining for a living and the stories it was necessary to point out a new of taxi kidnappings seemed too crash site every hour or so. Tragic as 024

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they were, they served the guides’ purpose of scaring us back to reality and remembering the seriousness of the trek. I had a feeling some of these crash site observations were directed at me, because I had slowly become cocky throughout the day. I remember one section I had casually locked up my back brake to straighten up when I heard a cyclist scream behind me. At the next stopping point that person told me my back tyre was inches from going over. I had no idea. It had become alarmingly easy to focus on the gravel road and forget you were riding a metre away from a cliff edge and certain death. Covered in lumps of mud and sweat, we reached the bottom about 4 pm. I’d envisioned a scene of adrenalin026

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filled, chest bumping celebrations. It wasn’t the case. People were clearly having trouble with seeing bus wrecks and dead bodies all day while others were in physical pain. Mentally, we were exhausted. A dreadlock sportin’ Frenchman started crying. My arms were numb and my vision was blurry from vibrating on gravel all day. Our group had our fair share of injuries too. The first accident was actually funny and had momentarily lightened the mood. My friend had dramatically veered off the road into the rock wall, his momentum making his hips fly forward on the bike, ramming his groin into the handlebars...Napoleon Dynamite style (after going off that ‘sweet jump’). It was no laughing matter though, when the cocky New Zealander came off on loose gravel

and put his tooth right through his lip. The tall ‘serious’ German had the closest call of the day. It happened an hour from the end, about 50 metres up the road from where I was at the time. He had gotten off his bike when a large truck carrying bricks had passed, but he was too close to the truck, and its side mirror had clipped him because of his height. He was forced to push his bike over the edge, frantically doing ‘windmills’ with his arms to regain his balance. It happened in seconds, but it really shook me up... I thought the bike was him at first, and I’d let out a guttural scream when I saw the bike go over the edge. That incident set a slow and wobbly pace for the remainder of the trek. Part of the package deal for the trek was a night in a luxury hotel at the bottom

of the mountain, in a town called Coroico. We checked in and stood on the balcony looking back up at the mountain. I was in no mood to talk. In an ironic twist, there was a convention for deaf people being held at the hotel that night. We later dined with one hundred people in dead silence...lots of vigorous hand movements were occurring in our peripheral vision, but quite surreally, there wasn’t a sound to be heard, because like the deaf, our communication had become visual. After risking your life for an entire day and continually seeing those wrecks and bodies, celebrating surviving that trek would’ve been inappropriate.

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INTERVIEW

the daily grind IS SATELLITE NAVIGATION CHANGING THE WAY WE HOOK UP? WE TOUCH BASE WITH NEW YORK NATIVE GERALD POSSER TO DISCUSS THE POPULAR PHONE APPLICATION GRINDR.

I first heard about Grindr in NY, how long have you known about it for? Oh gosh, to be honest I have no clue all the hookup sites/applications sort of blur together to me. Possibly a year or so. Can you explain to the readers what Grindr is? Grindr is an application on your Iphone and now android thats designed for gay users. On it you create a profile with one picture, age, height, age, and a one sentence discription of yourself. On the main page it then lists profiles by distance away from you. You then have the option to chat with anyone online. To be honest its mostly used for hookup purposes. 028

and get online and then try and find the guys close by in the club. its like wheres waldo but so much better. I also like to see who looks like their photo, who had it photoshopped, and whose using a picture from five years ago.

Obviously its becoming more and more common, just how often does it getused ? Honestly its different for everyone. I know guys who hate it. I have friends who everytime i see them they have the application out. And

then others who will use it from time to time. Do you use it? Of course. For its indeed purpose (iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m only human right) although my favorite use of it is to be in a club

Does it change the dynamic of going out to meet people? Going out in general? Honestly not really. I think most gay men are signed up to one dating/ hookup site, this is just another. Although Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve definitely been with a guy before and see them using it and that just tacky. Do you ever go man hunting with it? Yes and been successful ;) 029

INTERVIEW

GERALDPOSSER.COM

Tell me a good story. Umm.. I’m not sure any of my ‘good stories’ would be appropriate to this, nor do I fuck and tell. But lets just say i’ve had some great hookups and haven’t had to even leave my street. Now a bad one. Ugh.. I once met up with a guy and his photo was clearly from five years ago. I had a drink and then left. Do you think an app like Grindr 030

works better in a gay community than not? YES. I think it works really well in the gay community. I had to generalize the gay population but we tend to be more open to hookups and anonymous sex, and this application is just another way to do that. Have you been hassled by other guys in the street because of it? Nope. no bad stories like that How is grindr perceived in the gay community?

Mostly in jest, a lot of gay men use it sites out there. Where I don’t even or at least have it on their phone. know of any straight hookup sites, they are all relationship based. So Is it invasive, or is it the way of the maybe the straight version would be future? like a match.com version for the I would say way of the future iphone? Do hetero’s need one? Maybe? Although to be honest I would imagine it would be just a bunch of straight men using it, and not having many female users. I also think gay men are alot more open about hookups and just being blunt about sex, theres so many hookup

Anything I've missed? I really do recommend playing wheres waldo with it. SO MUCH FUN! You can even make a drinking game out of it. Last to find the guy drinks.

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FLASH

As they walk, alone, just her and him. They think of life. What is important, what is trivial, what matters, what doesn’t, why are we here, why aren’t we here? Who am I? And why do I need him? Who I am? And do I need anyone? He needs her because; she is pretty and makes him look good, but she never takes anything seriously. He wants to move forward and she is dragging him behind. He wants love, she wants lust. But they are still there. She needs someone because; she hates being alone. Wants someone to understand, maybe just a real friend. Not like the others, who mean something, but do not accommodate to what she desires. She needs someone. He believes life is there to be lived. She thinks if you can’t live well, then get out. He gets mad at this and walks faster. She catches up and wraps loving arms around his body. She explains she doesn’t mean it; it was just a Latin phrase. Like an old crest on a coat of arms. It means nothing, but the look in her eye says otherwise. He sees this, but doesn’t act, seeing no use in attempting to change her stubborn mind. He doesn’t want her to go. He doesn’t want her to leave. But it’s her choice and all he can do is try and change her mind. Try and fail. She wants him to understand, the reason for her hate, pain and dislike. But she knows she’ll never act upon it. It’s only a bluff, for attention, for the love and warmth of others. Though the thought has crossed her mind, that’s no lie, but act, she would not. BY EMILY VOLMER

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They are lost at what to think, at the end of days. In their eyes, dark and sorrow slowly take over. The night and the darkness consume them both. Not looking back and not looking forward. Just travelling wherever the concrete footpath takes them.

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Today I walked through Ersa and she spun into my hair, clawing my jeans and shoes with her breath. She lay over fields and grass, ethereal , intimidated by her more strident river cousins who chatter and gossip like old maids on the stoop. Each day I walk this path. Ersa appears out of the air, birthed from the dawn sky. She looks at me with tearful eyes, learning afresh that death will come in hours, from the evaporation of the sun, or overwhelmed by the rain that washes down through the sentinel trees. I take part of her with me to the house that stands battered by the winds. Ersa sighs, and becomes one with the air. I am not cruel enough to light a fire to hasten her pace. She glows, trying to hold on for moments longer. Ersa is the most human deity, sharing with us temporality; a stuttering existence that gives us so long in front of the fire of life before we dissipate in the dawn of whatever comes next. Maidens used to wash their faces in her skin, taking the touch of the forever youthful goddess, reborn with each rising sun. To coat their countenance in her gifts, that their faces too would remain childlike and fresh.

ersa, goddess of the dew BY STEVE TOASE

She gently lowers herself, stretching and spinning to rest comfortable until her time passes. Many do not know her transparent hair and shimmering form . I walk through and feel her touch. Ersa does not speak to me. What is there to say? She never gets old enough to pass wisdom. In the dawn she languishes with no memory of what is to come again. I speak a liturgy for her passing, watching her freed, swirling with heat up into the air. And I weep, the first seeds of her birth in the coming morning.

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yoskay yamamoto DRAGON STYLE FROM EAST TO WEST.

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www.yoskay.com

upcoming solo exhibition at ‘lebasse projects’ in september

yoskay.blogspot

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yoskay yamamoto

Born and raised in Toba, Japan, Yoskay Yamamoto moved to the United States at the age of 15. A self-trained illustrator, Yamamotoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s artistic tastes expanded as he fell in love with the urban culture of the West coast, USA. Yamamoto discovered a way to fuse the two different cultural backgrounds together into his work. Yamamoto nostalgically blends pop iconic characters from his new Western home with traditional and mythical Japanese elements, balancing his Asian heritage with urban pop art.

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RIGHT - TELL ME A STORY

ABOVE - NAMIDA LEFT - MY DUMB LUCK

RIGHT - SHE AND HE 044

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SUMMER 046

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WINTER 048

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SPRING

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? u n e m e h t n o s t a h w WHATS ON THE MENU?

LITERARY CHEFS MATT DICOSTA AND AMANDA JOSEPH SERVE UP SOMETHING A LITTLE DIFFERENT FOR SUPPER. 052

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l’amour est grand BY AMANDA JOSEPH

Entrée Golden Arrow A drizzle of champagne, simmering lightly over too much cocktail and dark lighting.

Main Confit of Hot Tamale with a Side of Wit A well proportioned gentleman, stuffed with a bouquet of self-confidence and self-importance, drizzled with an arrogant jus and served with a side of self-deprecating wit and a large wad of green notes.

Dessert Death by Overindulgence A tart bouquet of regret, tempered with a dollop of heavy satisfaction in a light golden crust of hope served on a slip of a phone number.

Aperitif Reasonable Twist A sharp tangy shot of reality and disappointment served in a steaming glass of “well, fuck you then.”

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restaurant de technology BY MATT DICOSTA

Entrée A healthy dose of late night Facebook parnoia. Single serve. Main Black rings of fatigue accompany a desperate flick through her photo album. A medley of matured men, all new, all hand picked from the most sought after nightspots. Regretful moments sided with thoughts of you somewhere forgetting about me.

Dessert There it is. Page Four. Two across. One down. A finely shaved Brazilian male smothered in your recrudesce and red lipstick. Gently placed on a bed of silk sheet with chocolate body sauce, you lie coupled, neatly. Your two dimensional eyes pierce three through the screen then me.

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eat, pray, shut the hell up BY STEVE DICOSTA

A rant inspired by a recent film starring Julia Fucking Roberts.

all trying to get on with our lives, and that’s hard enough as it is. We’re washing our hair, feeding our Ok, listen up anyone who is dog, descaling the bathroom taps, presently having, has recently had, running to the shops for milk, trying or will shortly have a ‘spiritual to replace the batteries in those revelation’. Theres something you little hand-held fans in forty degree should know… No one wants to hear heat… you know, dealing with the about it. necessities of everyday life. What Unless of course you’re Buddha – doesn’t help us all get through and you’re not, because he’s dead, those million and one annoyances so keep reading. is someone emailing (bad), texting The simple point is this: we are (worse) or calling (God help us) to 056

talk about how they’ve “figured it all out”. Mostly because, invariably, they haven’t. Here’s what they have done: they’ve watched Oprah …or maybe they’ve read a book with some wanky title like “The Way” or “The Simple Yet Elusive Path to Finding Yourself Within the Self You Didn’t Know Was You and Allowing Yourself to Be That You”. Ooh, now there’s a phrase I really hate: ‘allowing yourself ’. Those people that practically orgasm when they tell you that they’re finally allowing themselves to be happy are really telling you that they’ve

just decided to be more self-centred – and they’re doing it under the banner of self-fulfilment. Fuckers. What really upsets me is that some of our most meaningful words have been hi-jacked by these spiritual journey pedestrians. Take ‘soul’ - a word that describes some of the most indescribable and illusive aspects of what makes us feel alive. And what did these people do with it? They fed it chicken soup. I don’t know about you but I find that deeply upsetting. It’s wet and soggy and not at all soulful. These people vomit out five-dollar wisdom nuggets dripping with cheese and 057

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they should all be fed live bees as punishment. The worst offenders exhibit behaviour that includes (but is not limited to) the following: - offering advice - shaking their head and smiling - hugging strangers - getting fat - hugging themselves The jobless in particular seem to be very good at finding meaning in everything from cornflakes to plastic bags. It’s amazing how not having to wake up at 6:00am and go to work can give rise to intergalactic peace and harmony. The wealthy too, are victims of this. Oh, wonderful, you’ve discovered a place where the sun always shines, where no one’s ever tired and where bills are a thing of the past. Splendid. Tell me all about your latest mud bath and how the

meaning of life is found therein. No. No no no. You’re not the messiah; you’re just on holiday. What really makes me want to slam my testicles in the oven door is the portrayal of this phenomenon in popular media. The abovecited example, ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ is a particularly offensive example. In this story, a woman goes to Italy without getting her handbag stolen. She travels to India without getting dysentery, and everywhere she goes she’s instantly surrounded by a group of honest, caring people who are prepared to listen to her talk about herself for days on end. When she eventually comes to some understanding of what life’s all about (and don’t ask me to interpret “if you open yourself up to everything, the truth will not be withheld from you” wtf?) she emails

a k u i uc l i

her ex boyfriend who - one can only imagine - is pleased as thrush to get a seven page memo on her latest epiphany. No. This woman is not to be learned from. This woman is to be stoned at dawn for not being satisfied with her health, wealth and beauty. Incidentally, I gave the film 2 stars - there were some nice shots of Bali, and a good suggestion for serving artichokes. Spiritual revelations are short lived and hollow. They don’t involve taxes, dead goldfish or laundry and as such are not part of reality. Nevertheless, we’re subjected to emails, tweets, messages on Facebook (or godforsaken status updates) all describing in minute details the inner metamorphosis that accompanied a friend’s recent discovery of their own belly-button. Fortunately, these people are so

wrapped up in their own kebab meat that responses are often not necessary – just don’t think they’ll stop if you ignore them, chances are they haven’t even noticed. The most irritating thing about these people is that they undermine the efforts of professional health care workers trying to do their jobs. Some people need help making decisions, or taking perspective, or just coping with some of the shit that life throws at us in the course of a normal life. There are serious people out there who offer a better quality of life through determination and hard work, and they know what they’re talking about. If you choose to believe that this can be achieved in a sudden burst of sunshine, big words and moisturiser, then be my guest …but keep it the hell away from my inbox.

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be nice. she’s trying to find herself. 058

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They all used to be on heroin but are now on Atkins. The singer can still wail like Pavarotti with a cattle-prod shoved up his ass. The guitarist has fingers that flail like grunion on a moonless night.

rock band in their forties BY KEVIN CONDER

The drummerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hands shake when he talks and he smiles when he stutters. When they play men rear up on their hind legs and launch themselves at one another, chests slamming together. When they play grown women with three children take off their shirts and reveal what life does to a teen-age body. The singer blows them kisses. When they play the ocean comes in through the door and everyone drowns. Sweet death in deep sonorous seas. When it is over everyone hops around like pogo sticks trying to get the water out of their ears. When it is over men say I love you to their women but no one can hear a goddamn thing. When it is over everyone drives home in the roaring silence and wonders when they be able to die again.

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Waiting at the station Empty coloured eyes Lost in her defenses As the world passes by

smoke and mirrors BY AMBER BRENNAN

Such a pretty picture Cross the road and hope to die But it’s all smoke and mirrors That’s not the reason why Weapon in her pocket She doesn’t bother to conceal But it’s all smoke and mirrors She really does feel

She heard that a heart like hers Played between two concrete walls But even though they knew their lines It just didn’t work at all

Anywhere but here she said Walking back into the light Just blame me for everything It’ll be alright

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jimmy time BY MATT DICOSTA

Ants. What do they think they’re playing at?

world out there spreads for miles. Ant miles. Six or seven metres at least. It’s hard to be exact. Up here, Forty ants are pushing forty grains of looking out at that view, this is sand to the top of the mound they Jimmy time. This is where he dreams call home. Jimmy the ant; he’s the up the classics. one at the front of the line, the one pushing that grain like it’s his last. The other thirty-nine make their way The one with the charisma. up to the charismatic one and see him gazing into that wonderland of He’s nothing like Jenny. She’s an ant, cream brick and hardi-flex fence, his but she’s a rat in a cage. A buzz kill feelers flapping in the cool breeze, waiting for her day off. Guess what and can only speculate as to what Jenny? It’s not coming any time soon magic he’s weaving. love. You’re an ant. You were born into an oppressive regime built on It’s said that ants aren’t able to hierarchy and hard slog. And you think, feel, knit or communicate. don’t sleep. That surely doesn’t help. Come on. What age are we living in people? We know it’s not true Jimmy trudges up the hill, for the because that day, at the top of tenth time that day with his body that hill, something changed. weight in sand on his back. At the Jimmy got involved. And Jenny, crest of the hill he drops the grain she was wearing pink lint woven and rests one of his six feet on it. leg warmers. Jenny, although a He casts his eyes out. That giant simpleton, did have some skills. In

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At the top Jimmy drops the bark on the ridge and turns to his team. His face is a raged canvas with painted red stripes. His eyes are fiery pits of defiance. The other ants form a semi circle around him. Everything is about to change. He was doing this for his ants, his ant-cestors, his freedom. He pushes the bark to the edge and steps on. Solo commercials don’t get this tense.

saying that though, it should also be said, if you’ve been assigned manual labour duties don’t show up in your weekend wear. Jimmy knows these things but has more important stuff on his mind right now. Sick of this life of sand slinging Jimmy does the unthinkable. He lifts his foot off the grain and trods down the face of the hill. The other ants start doing what looks like break-dance but really they’re just freaking out. No ant was to walk down the face of that hill. No ant was so bold. So there’s Jimmy, the renegade, staggering through the sand like Jim Morrison. He looks back up to the top of hill to what looks like a ‘so you think you can dance’ 066

audition. He muses then thinks to that time he attempted the six feet moonwalk in front of the queen ant in hope of being hired as one of her entertainers. It backfired. She thought he was having some sort of fit and sent him off to special care. Jimmy reminds himself that his moves are just too ahead of their time, and continues on.

Jimmy, cool as a caterpillar, winks at Jill then disappears down the slope. The ants line the ridge as Jimmy carves his way down the dune. They scream and cheer for their hero. He hears his co-workers and slashes at the sand to pull them into view. He’s Jimmy extreme. He’s Ant-tony Hawk.

Standing on four feet he waves his other two up at them. Then he hits a rock, or a pebble, or a bit of hard sand. Jimmy’s goofy smile, it plunges into the sand and he proceeds to flip and kick and roll the entire way to the bottom. From the top, all you hear is his moronic wailing; all you see is a trundling cloud of dust. The other ants look at each other in disapproval. Then go back to work. From moon walker to sand slinger to sand boarder, Jimmy pushed the boundaries. After the casts came off he returned to his job on the hills. Although Jimmy would never sandboard again, he remained positive knowing that, in his head, he would always be ‘Jimmy the renegade’.

He stops at a piece of brown bark. He crawls underneath it, hoists it into the air and starts back up the hill. When Jill and the other ants see a glimmer of bark and ant crawling in the distance they raw with excitement. In the heat of the moment one of the less respected ants tries to kiss Jill and is rejected. Jill only had compound multi-lensed eyes for one ant. 067

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issue three

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COMING SOON

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SUBMISSIONS SHORT STORY - < 2000 WORDS FLASH - < 500 WORDS POETRY - 11 POINT / ONE PAGE ALL ART WORK, SUBMISSIONS AND OTHER WRITING PLEASE EMAIL INKYENTRIES@HOTMAIL.COM 070

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