KCL Journal: Issue 14

BEYOND TIME

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KCL JOURNAL

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14

KCL JOURNAL ISSUE NO 14 WINTER 2020/2021 EST. 2012

E D I T O R S Editor-in-Cheif: Callistajo Saputra Graphic Designer: Giada Martello Prose: Theodora Dumitru Poetry: Aditya Verma Digital: Tara Choudhary Non-fiction: Maisie Allen

OTHER CONTRIBITING EDITORS Gordon Wong / James Mumford / Petra Lindnerovรก / Julia Hoffmann / Lauren Mossman / Liv Pilling / Maisie Allen / Thema Archer / Henna Malik / Eun Jae Kim / Richard Enright / Saul Evene / Fin Cousins

Art has always been an integral part of my life. Art shapes the world around us, through the murals painted all over the city, sculptures, to writings on the wall. During this time of extended isolation, I have once again turned towards art to keep my spirit going. This was what I was hoping to share in the KCL Journal’s issue of “Beyond Time,” which consists of a collection of various artists’ works during these unprecedented moments. This issue aims to reflect upon themes of escapism, confinement, and how one can always find the beauty during moments of great despair.

Working on this issue has been such a joy, and this would not have been made possible without the presence of the KCL Journal team. Being part of the Journal has always been a collaborative effort; and had it not been for the talented writers, editors, and designer of the magazine, we would not be able to celebrate the launch of this issue.

The selections of various artwork and writings here depicts each artist’s unique approach to the theme of this issue, which all connect to form a central exploration of the duality of uncertainty and comfort. My dream is that through these well crafted pieces, our readers would be able to find themselves within these stories and connect to a universal message of hope.

Once again, thank you to our readers, and also, to everyone who has taken the time to contribute to this magazine.

ISSUE 14 Callista Saputra, Editor-in Chief

CONTENTS

poems The Transcendence of Sleep by Elena Calliopa, p9

Ode to the Orgasm Glow by JosĂŠphine H. J. Coustet, p22

Homecoming by Jade Le Moing, p10

This great monotony by Grace Howells, p23

Fruit Fly by by Anna Thornley, p20

I forgot to take care of myself by Karen Ng, p30

If it Starts by Fin Cousins, p21

Revving by Saul Levene, p31

In the Bath by Alice Oldacre, p35

Fissures by Enyu Lin, p36

non-fiction Escaping to Normal by Samuel Christian, p24 Grief - Martina Mifsud, p34 A Place Beyond Time by Anonymous, p37

CONTENTS art and photography Photography by Christian Samsjc, p18, p19 Untitled by Jessica Arterton, p25 Dark by Finn Darrell, p25, p32, p41

prose Mutability by Tam Lin, p12 Forty five by Alex Epshtein, p26 MotivationBy Jack Lines, p33 Cece by Lauren Mossman, p38 The Aleph by Saul Evene, p40

THE TRANSCENDENCE OF SLEEP Written by Elena Calliopa

and here I lie waiting for sleep to redeem me my naked self floating in a timeless vacuum obscurity is burning my eyes yet I can’t close them preverbal thoughts drowning the silence I long for long ago evaporated tears trickling down my cheeks and here I lie waiting for transcendence to devour me

HOMECOMING Written by Jade Le Moing I can feel myself slipping away; Come home, the bubble says.

Courage - believe me, I had done it.

My dreams of belonging Were the enlightened masters of my escape.

She - had let me, She knew better.

She is a part of you, Never can you leave her.

I had left in the early day, To chase the intimate nexus, the fire of Heraclitus Which ignited somber stars into radiant consensus.

With utmost trust in the constellations, As a wise King, as a solitary magus, I fled towards the glare.

Now - I am crawling back, Lovingly she awaits my return My faithful Penelope, Our ardent nights consumed weaving this dousing shroud ...

Use it, do it, smother the sun out!

For brightness had blinded me, And I had leaned in for Juda’s kiss.

At last - jealous lover, be at ease Destitute hopes can no longer burn.

Our soundless conversations Have conquered my passions.

From light, you led me onto your path.

Absolute obscurity finally found, And in its nest emerges

alienation’s epic reign, A self-fulfilling prophecy Revealed in birth and in death; A millennium of lone harmony.

For I long more than ever before, To be tethered to you, dear melancholy.

Heroine of my peace, Confined in your stifling devotion I vow, No more desertion, I take your dark veil.

And in exchange My undivided attention, The sovereignty of my soul, Surrendered - to myself.

For I have chosen in your company To be lonely.

For better or for worse, Until the end, Sweet isolation - only you are with me.

MUTABILITY Written by Tam Lin

I hit delete and erased my paper on Kant.

Without hesitation, I tapped on the space bar too just so I couldn’t get those words back again. With it went the last two hours spent in the school library even though it was the first week of vacation.

I wanted to feel upset but I knew I had no right to be. I knew I wouldn’t be in this position if I hadn’t crushed my scripts and walked out of the exam hall, as coolly as I could, without submitting anything. A move like that would be murder on all your prospects for anyone here but the difference is that I’m not just anyone.

No, really—by Nietzsche, I most certainly wouldn’t want anyone else to see turtles inch across their exam scripts the same way I did. Faced with that mortifying sight, there was nothing else I could have done but to walk out of the finals but deep down, I also knew that this act of suicide wasn’t anything that can’t be reversed when you’re at the top of Damaxius High. Since what happened wasn’t unforeseeable, my personal career advisor had already prepared and submitted the paperwork that would grant me the necessary exemptions so that I can maintain my rank. It’s remarkable how competent they can be when their current means depends on my future, no? I wouldn’t want to be her either.

To meet my expectations, I had wanted to showcase my grasp over transcendental idealism and respond to Kant’s thesis on how time and space are only subjective forms of human intuition but even I knew that that was out of my reach for the time being at least. It’s not that nothing made sense to me. No, I definitely got his argument on how time and space itself would disappear if the subjective constitution of the senses were removed. Yes. The problem was that it seemed to me like there was nothing new that I could say on the matter that hadn’t already been said. A boring summary of debates past wasn’t going to impress anybody and I had to impress everybody.

Resigned to how time had rendered me intellectually mute, I made my decision to move on and revisit the topic another day since I had till the end of this week to hand in my alternative assessment. Upon keeping my personal computer, I darted through the empty library and plunged into its musty scent of ages past to put the Critique of Pure Reason back in its rightful place away from my syllabi until a book with its spine tucked inwards caught my attention. Not only was it small compared to the lengthy tomes all around, the misplacement of the book made it all the more curious. Nobody touches the books here aside from the librarian and girls like me. Within the library’s labyrinth walls, few came to explore the knowledge in the books it kept as opposed to the vast infinity inside each other’s bodies. I picked the book out to reshelf it but I paused when I noticed how its black hardcover was unlabeled and uncatalogued.

I flipped the book open out of curiosity. All of its pages were blank aside from the turtles inching across its surface.

I kept the book. I slipped it into my bag even though it terrified me. I had developed an aversion towards blank spaces on paper ever since I first saw turtles sprawled all over an assignment I was working on. From then on, these turtles had found their way into every empty sheet that I came across and something had to be done about them.

I looked out for peering eyes and I listened out for restrained laughter but there was no one around. I took the book out once again and tapped on its smooth hard cover. Coming across it felt like a sign. Since all turtles have to break out from their shells in order to survive, perhaps the book and its blank pages was the

shell I had to break out from if I were to overcome my fear of seeing spilt ink and the permanence of any mistakes I could make.

Even so, there was still the ocean the turtles had to get to.

I finished my assignment ahead of schedule that night and submitted it through the digital portal. For my stab at originality, I considered the applicability of Plato’s cave to a collection of short stories titled Girls and their Tall Tales though it only existed within my head. Because the collection didn’t actually exist, I could write about whatever I wanted and show off whatever I knew about philosophy to the rest of the academy without constraints. Once that was done, I took out the book again, tracing the grain of its paper with my fingertips. Turtles inch across its surface once more but I fought against my urge to slam the book shut. With my eyes closed, I grabbed a pen and wrote down the date forcibly. Below it, I scribbled down the words: “I will conquer you.”

For the rest of the vacation, I got acquainted with the book by writing in it every night without fail. I started by using it as a diary though that didn’t amount to much since the only communications I had were the acknowledgements receipts for my online purchases, made using the credits generated through my projected income based on my rank at school through which my personal academic advisor also earned her commission from, or activation codes from bots requiring that I prove my humanity, a question that I began to ask myself as well. Eventually, I began to use the book to make records of whatever I read or watched, whether it is the latest film released or the amount of rainfall over the week. As the blank space within the book filled up, they became one and the same as the lonely walls of my room for even after four weeks, time appeared to have collapsed into a flat circle since neither the book nor myself seemed to have gotten to know each other any better.

As my desperation to break out from this meaningless cycle grew, the day before the first day of the next school year, I wrote about how I wanted my day to go instead.

I showed up straight at the physics lab on the first day of school, deliberately late. I didn’t want the stress of having to choose where to sit, especially since we were going to be shuffled into the new project groups as soon as the tutor was ready. Having to deal with someone I do not want to associate with chose to sit with me can also be troubling for I wasn’t sure if I would be able to resist talking about my form of papyrophobia in a bid to fill the meaningless void. Still, nothing beats being left behind altogether.

When I finally made it past the lab’s door, the new tutor was already preparing to announce the new project groups that will kick off the first two weeks of the semester. I rushed into the nearest empty seat and snuck a peek at what I had written into my book. I then took a long breath in as I waited for my name to be called.

The first person he called was Miki who walked up to the front of the class all jittery. Though I didn’t know her personally, her name was familiar since it was always on the rankings that I had presided over consistently for the last three semesters. Seeing her stand before the class with her fingers twirled around her jet-black hair, she looked like she was just as nervous as I was, though I hope it didn’t show on me. The next name called was mine.

I grabbed my bag and walked to the front of the class to meet my new group mate as the class traced my movement with their eyes. Miki grinned at me as I walked towards her and my lips tightened into a curl to return her pleasantries. I was startled by how forward she was though it did help me take my mind off the reminder of that day at the finals where all eyes were focused on me. Nonetheless, since the only thing I asked for was a partner who was on par with me, I was happy enough with the pairing given her track record.

Miki spoke as soon as we sat down.

“Space. Outer space.”

Amazed by how my partner cuts to the chase, I let out a smile for real now.

I realized when class was over that my personal career advisor had sent me a message stating that she would not be working with me anymore. Puzzled, I dashed to the school’s ranking board to confirm my suspicions as to how my privileges were taken away from me. A crowd had already formed before the board showing the twelve best performing students for the last semester. I fought my way to the front and desperately scanned the board for my name, bottom up just to manage my expectations but it was nowhere to be found. Rounding up the list however was Miki.

I would have tried to shatter the glass sheet protecting the list and shred it to pieces if I could get away with it. I began to hear questions and theories from voices I don’t recognize on why I was not on the list but I had already turned away from it and sped as fast as I could to my next class, all the while reminding myself to not let my expression betray my emotions.

As soon as I made it past the heavy doors of the lecture hall, I threw myself into the first empty seat I could find and took the book out. Frustrated by all the noise everyone was making I scribbled into the book, wishing that everyone would shut up and closed the book angrily. Almost immediately, our English lecturer burst through the other end of the lecture hall and the class fell into silence.

The clubs and societies’ recruitment drive followed the end of classes on the first day of the school year and Miki had asked me to join the astronomy club’s first meeting with her while working on our science project.

Even though she wasn’t the crème de la crème that I expected her to be, I decided to keep my word for who was I to judge when I wasn’t on the list at all. Besides, I had nothing else to do anyway. As I waited for her outside the club’s meeting lounge, seconds turned into minutes that felt like hours but Miki was still nowhere to be found. Averting the gaze of everyone who walked past, I was filled with a loneliness that was intensified by the sense of shame I felt from my academic failure even though I wasn’t stuck in my room being swallowed up whole by its walls. Just as I was about to leave, a couple of girls who claimed to be my new classmates pulled me into the meeting.

As always, the astronomy club was in charge of the first school-wide event of the year being the outdoor movie screening followed by a firework display during the first new moon of the year. Though I kept to myself mostly for I was still unhappy about how I had been edged out of the rankings by a girl who had ghosted me, my classmates responded enthusiastically about getting involved with the organization of the event. I wished they hadn’t volunteered me to shortlist films for the screening but of all the tasks available, it was the one I minded least given how much time I typically spent watching movies alone in my room.

I went to the school’s café after the meeting, wanting to reread the message sent by my (former) career advisor and find out how I could get my life back on track. I was getting comfortable with the book by then since I no longer saw turtles everywhere so I started by drawing mind maps to work out how I can win my way back to the top of the school’s rankings. All of a sudden, the barista came up to me with a freshly grounded cup of coffee.

“Oh, I haven’t placed my order yet, actually. Can I have an iced latte?’”

Although I had no intention of placing any orders since I wasn’t sure how my credit score had changed since the publication of the latest rankings, I extended my palm to him so that he can scan the credit chip embedded into my wrist anyway. Still, the barista placed the piping hot drink down on my table. His refusal to grant me even a transactional touch felt like a snub somehow.

“Well, I just thought you could do with some coffee. Would you rather have an iced latte? I’d get that for you too, on the house.”

Even though his voice trembled with fear as he stood before me with his head bowed, I could tell how adamant he was about his offer. Not wanting to trouble him any further, I told him that the coffee is fine as I tightened my lips into a curl once again.

Curious about what had just happened, I scanned the café wondering if there was someone else behind his act of generosity but I had no answers. When I finally returned to my mind map, I saw under my plan to arrange a coffee chat with the school’s board a scribble in the book stating that someone should get me coffee.

Whether it was causality or synchronicity, I was starting to see a link between what I write into the book and reality itself. Curious to test out my theory, I wrote about Miki’s arrival at the café and true enough she stepped into the café as soon as I put my pen down.

“Hey! I’m so glad to bump into you here, Lillie,” said Miki in between breaths. “I’m so sorry I missed the Astronomy Club meeting. They wouldn’t let me go from the orchestra’s studio as we still have that performance to prepare for.”

My mouth relaxed into a half smile but she interrupted me before I could even speak.

“I haven’t got time though, this is just a quick coffee break and my section still wants to run through the Wagner.”

By then, the barista was already done making Miki’s drink that she likely pre-ordered.

“Did you know that that racist was somewhat of a philosopher himself? Interesting, huh? Anyway, I’ll see you around tomorrow!”

Without even giving me a chance to respond, she had already grabbed her coffee and left.

Just like the night before, I decided to spend the evening plotting out the next day by writing in the book, delighting in the friction between pen, paper and the certainty it gave me.

The next day, Miki invited me to have lunch with her after class as planned. Though I got resentful about being paired with her after our initial meeting, those feelings were mostly resolved when I realized that I had only missed last semester’s top spots by one rank. True enough, she was indeed on par with me but more importantly, I wasn’t that far off from where I was supposed to be. Considering how I haven’t seen the turtles for a while now, I convinced myself that I had already successfully broken from the shell I was trapped in with the books’ help and that I was now ready for the other things I longed for like friendship.

Yes, if we worked together, perhaps we could both make it to the top of the rankings next semester.

Just as I was getting excited about making friends with someone who was my equal, the girls from the astronomy club joined Miki and I at the table. Even though I was still feeling disgruntled about how they had volunteered me for the new moon event, I tried not to let my displeasure show since we were all members of the same club. That said, they disrupted my attempts at trying to find out more about them continuously with jokes after jokes. As they laughed rambunctiously, I could only tighten my lips into a curl in an attempt to hide my annoyance. I got mad not because their chattering got into the way of my budding friendship with Miki. I got mad because I had failed to control my future, even though it was right within my hands.

-

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I went to the library after school to look for films to screen at the Astronomy Club’s event by myself thinking that I’d rather spend some time alone. Besides, I wouldn’t want anyone to know that I had to resort to getting films from the library now that my credit score had been cut. Though I expected it to be a quick trip since I already had a film in mind, things changed when I noticed Mahika from within the cracks of the library shelves. Seeing her annoyed me since she was amongst the girls that had made lunch unbearable but there was no escaping her as she noticed me too.

“Hey, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

I tried my best to feign surprise but it wasn’t difficult considering how she already had six films tucked inside her hands “Oh, I’m just… looking for a film for the new moon event.”

Unlike Miki, she spoke as though she was genuinely interested in what I had to say so I let my guard down and allowed the truth to flow out of my mouth even though I was ashamed before. Unfortunately, I hated my voice and how slowly I spoke, like a turtle.

“Have you got anything in mind?”

“Uh… actually, yes.”

I looked into my notebook. It was Nostalgia de la luz, a documentary that linked astronomy with archeology which I thought would breathe new life into the club that I had unwittingly became a member of. It wasn’t a popular choice but considering what happens at these outdoor screenings, if nobody’s going to watch the film, I might as well pick something that I would watch anyway.

“It should be at the back, let me go get it.”

As I slipped past Mahika to the shelves on the back, a thought came into my mind. Quickly I reopened the book and scribbled into it once again.

That evening, I waited for Mahika at the dormitory’s lounge so that we could watch the documentary together as I had planned. I was afraid that she would pull a Miki initially but she exceeded my expectations when she showed up right on time. Beyond that, she had also showed up with the two other girls we had lunch with and also Joji, whom I wouldn’t have minded typically if not for the fact that he lurked suspiciously around the two new girls persistently. Somehow, Mahika had managed to round up everyone from our class who had joined the astronomy club and the alignment of the stars as such reminded me of the awful lunch we had.

I tried not to mind the unexpected crowd initially but Joji’s incessant attempts at trying to make witty comments while I was trying to watch the film got on my nerves. Frustrated by how things were turning out, I excused myself and returned to my room making sure not to let my anger show.

Once my room door slammed shut, I let out a cry. Grasping my notebook, I flipped it open and started to write in it. Having discovered the mutability of life within my hands, I started to write with excruciating detail how I wanted everything to turn out. By Bostrom, whether we are living within a simulation or not, I was resolved to write out the binary codes that will determine reality in itself. As I wrote, I smiled to myself knowing that I can now control time by expanding moments such that they would transgress temporal rhythms and make seconds feel like lifetimes while making eternity seem like fleeting instants. Even though I was not able to master Kant’s theory I delighted in the fact that I had figured out how to conquer time and

space through my creative powers. I wrote and I wrote, feeling the emotion and weight of each word I put down until I reached the end of the book. I flipped towards the front of the book, desperate for any empty space that I can write on until there was absolutely no space left.

FRUIT FLY Written by Anna Thornley

A fruit fly won’t leave me alone And I’m swatting it Saying Shoo!

To no one in particular Because that is what you’re supposed to do With a pest I have to pretend I’m not flattered by its attentions But I feel coveted It’s constant companionship Sickly sweet Like the fruit it desperately wants me to be I think I’ll miss it When 40-50 days from now It dies Provided these are the ideal conditions For fruit flies And it hatched this morning

IF IT STARTS Written by Fin Cousins

It starts through the cracks on the pillow, in the sofa somewhere, just a small gap as the morning rushes in, bleeding in little bursts like an orange pip on a cutting board.

You clutch a piece in your fist, press it to your chest; stand at the window and stare at your bike still tied to the same tree as the shard scatters your thoughts in the leaves with a small hope that one day when the pedals turn and the bike moves everything else might start to turn too.

ODE TO THE ORGASM GLOW Written by JosĂŠphine H. J. Coustet Ho! That orgasm glow!

Cannot be replaced By all the creams loaded, On your bathroom shelf.

Ha, what a disappointment!

When you realize, That the ones you feign to have Have no effects whatsoever.

You go back to make-up, Since you lack a partner you like enough, Who can give you a glow alike, To the creams you have bought.

And anyway, what is the use?

If this effect diffused in your body, Can be provoked without the risk, Of becoming unhealthy.

I prefer to be sexually inactive, And collect all kind of brush, That I deem more trustworthy Than my temporary crush.

Because the guy who gives you the glow, Can also cause such a sorrow, That will provoke a permanent damage, To the face you try to protect from age.

And even saying cheese silently, Won’t fool anybody, As much as the cherished creams, On which you can rely confidently.

THIS GREAT MONOTONY Written by Grace Howells

this great monotony; this, the almighty force to keep you exactly where you ought to be. and shouldn’t you be made? at the grand old age (two decades), not long and you’ll be past it! stay where you are then, to keep the cogs turning. y0u are capital. my dear, you are not creative (n.). never mind the poetics. never mind the prose, the prāṇāyāma, the pages and pages. what are your words to me? wasted, they are, on the war there and the politics here, that religion and this sex and those drugs, the fire, on her and how she makes you feel things and the weather, the f**king weather and most of the time, you just feel scared.

ESCAPING TO NORMAL Written by Samuel Christian As the second lockdown loomed, I took a final trip to my favourite coffee shop, preparing myself for the weeks ahead. As I sat there sipping coffee, I dipped into Suitcase, a travel magazine I had recently brought in the hope it would provide some escapism during this time. In a way it did. Reading accounts of far off places and the adventure of travel was refreshing, and yet the experience was altogether strange.

I wasn’t able to completely lose myself in these places. More than ever before they felt a million miles away.

Being unable to even entertain the possibility of visiting them, created an ocean of distance between us.

I've not done much travelling abroad, so lockdown made this more obvious than before. It’s only when you’re unable to do something, that you really think about doing it. I began to think of all the places I would love to explore. Yet even an excursion to another part of the United Kingdom was impossible.

Instead I was forced to turn to my immediate local area. How could I get the most out of, not just the area of London where I live, but also, my home? Travel is one of the many ways in which we seek to escape from our daily reality. Going to another place allows us to momentarily transcend our common experiences for something unique and rare. So many of our fondest memories are of holidays. Despite it making up so little of our lives, holidays are often some of the clearest, and best loved memories we have.

Perhaps these memories are recalled more than ever during lockdown. The memories of complete freedom to travel, of being able to simply get out of the city for a trip to the coast. Memories are all we have of that escapism.

Lockdown can be viewed as a challenge to explore and live out the joy we find in our daily existence. We can’t go to some other place to escape from it and witness something interesting and beautiful. We are always in the same place: home.

Home has always been the best of places for me. I enjoyed holidays, but I was never more relaxed and comfortable than when at home. The home is inexplicably linked to family. What are the communities that are directly around us? Lockdown has re-introduced the importance of household.

When there is so much uncertainty and fear, we need others more than ever. Our households are essential.

Working to cultivate and build a home that allows the full household to flourish can transform our experiences of lockdown.

Our society has long been one of individualism. The pandemic made us realise what has always been the case. Individualism doesn’t work. We need others around us. We’re communal beings who are dependent on others.

When our daily existence is one we all wish to escape, how can we build a home and household that becomes that place of escapism? A place where we can go to experience something different and beautiful, and take a breath of fresh air?

This sort of home doesn’t just appear. We can’t buy it. We can’t just walk in on it. We have to actively build it.

Our daily words and actions can either create a place to escape, or flee from.

For centuries, the sharing of food and gathering to eat has been at the centre of communities. It’s brought people together, and reinforced the truth that we are dependent on others for survival. In lockdown, we need others for more than just providing the food we eat. We need others for so much more. However, placing the table at the centre of our household and the sharing of food remains the symbol of that need. It’s the act of cultivating a household that supports each other.

It’s the symbol of a household that allows us to escape from the chaos of the world to a place of beauty, joy and love.

In this period of isolation, taking the time to share a meal with your household might just make a world of difference, allowing us to move beyond these times, to build something better.

FOUTRY FIVE Written by Alex Epishtein He strides quickly passed the abandoned reception, towards his intended final destination—the elevator. The black, cement-like marble desk mimics the outside of the building. He sees the rundown chairs, which still have imprints in them. He focuses on the task ahead, the real test. He can play with the chairs if he still wants to after. After he has the money.

45 pounds for 45 floors, that’s the deal, nothing more, nothing less. He gets into the elevator. A small, mechanical metal box that only moves vertically, up or down. He can see which numbers are the ones commonly used, the ones that are most faded on the rusting plaque. G, 1, 2, 3, all the way up to 10. He wonders who has touched them, how many fingerprints a forensic scientist would be able to find on each number, which ones would have the most. G, he guessed. At one point or another, everyone is going to the Ground floor. They have to. Don’t they?

He scans higher, so the numbers get clearer, more dusty. 40, 41, 42, 43, 44. 45. He imagines who might live on those levels. The luxurious penthouses and offices, the suites and salons and rooftop terraces with balconies and swimming pools. The people with the money. The people at the top seem to travel the most distance, pass the most floors and other residences, yet are scarcely ever seen. He wonders whether there is a secret that you only find out when you pass a certain threshold of wealth. They are the people in the suits, the people with no shifts and fancy phones and cars and shoes. Why are they so different?

The Tower was once one of the most expensive buildings in the City. He looks into the dirty mirror, the bottom right corner, closest to the door is slightly smashed, with dirt being trapped around the sharp edges, making the rays of the cracks seem deceivingly blunt. What happened? He wonders how long it had been broken, how long no one had been bothered to look. Why did he? He sees the reflection of his friends as the doors begin to creak as they slowly and evenly shut, barely lining up at all. He remembers the money from the bet. One pound for every floor he manages to reach, on one condition, he takes the elevator. The stairs were locked anyway, he was surprised that even the lift still worked. He needed this money.

He clutches his phone so tight, his knuckles went paper white, he needed this phone for photo evidence for each floor he’d reach, to show his friends when he came back out. 45 photos, for 45 pounds. Waves of doubt tumbled around his mind, what if the lift got stuck, or his phone ran out of charge, or there was no service?

He collects himself as he brushes his knuckle across number 1. The elevator shutters against its weight and was lifted up against gravity once more, the old cables clanging against each other as they complained. It probably hadn’t been used in decades. As he rose, he prayed under his breath, his mutters echoing around the small cube he was in as he hushed to a whisper, almost scared of who would hear. As the lift neared the first floor, and the doors creaked open, the first thing that he noticed was the smell. A wall of hot air collided with his face, as the smell of rot and rusty iron flooded his nostrils while he lifted his shirt to his teary eyes in poor attempt to save himself from what seemed like the embodiment of death. Scared that if he didn’t, he would be drowned by it. He’d rather suffocate. Bulbs and cables drooped from the ceiling like frozen rain making a poor attempt to fall. He quickly took a photo and continued, as he did for the next four floors, slowly becoming accustomed to the rancid stench of death.

As the lift reached the fifth floor and the doors opened, the windows were larger, and more light reached the level, unlike the previous floors that had been shrouded in darkness, due to the surrounding skyscrapers and the setting sun, revealing an ominous mix of greys, browns and blacks. All he saw were grey tiles and faded wallpaper. Abandoned offices, nothing more than the mundane. His disappointment soothed him as reality set in, the first five photos in the new album on his phone looking the same. He knew the stories hadn’t

been true. The ghosts, the demons and spirits who were meant to ruthlessly patrol the Tower, they were really all but stories. He continued to the next, and the next, and the next. It was easy money after all, his friends were fools, why hadn’t people thought to do this before?

By the time he reached the tenth floor, he was bored. Bored out of his mind. The process was monotonous, and watching the elevator doors struggle to open and close over and over again had become a painful ritual.

His photos became more blurry with each floor, merging into one, the empty offices becoming a single entity.

The endless tiles, how long would this continue for, he still had 35 more levels. He could be doing other things with his time, he didn’t need this. He hadn’t realised how long it would take, it would’ve probably been faster if he had taken the stairs.

To his surprise, the eleventh floor was slightly different. The button was more stiff than the previous ones.

Almost all the light bulbs were still in the ceiling, and there was a small conference room at the end of the corridor. There were lines of phone boxes and the office booths were spread wider apart, empty storage boxes scattered the floor, loose, yellow documents pinned up and falling off the crispy walls. Why had these people needed more space? Did they have wider corridors because they were constantly in a rush and wanted to prevent accidents and people walking into each other? Had they wanted to avoid interaction with their colleagues? He thought up stories for the next five floors, as they continued to get brighter and more spacious. He created characters of the people who had been standing where he is now beforehand. He wanted to be those people. He began to hate that he couldn’t become them.

He circled the rim of the unlucky number 13, the infamous floor. He remembered back to the famous headlines in all the newspapers, The Market Crash. Unforeseen events that caused a series of suicides, 13 people dead, jumping out of the 13th floor. It sounded like a Halloween story, one of those that seems like a myth or a legend, but that is ultimately true, because of the memories and the people left behind, the manifestations of what is lost mixing with the remnants of what is left behind. As the doors creak open, he thinks he sees someone drift through the corridor, trailing out of the window, as a gust of wind sweeps through the room before the doors close again, almost as though someone tries to join him in the elevator.

But the doors close, and he takes another blurry photo.

Eventually, the floors began to look the same again, and he grew bored again. He needed a change of scenery. Maybe he could skip the next floor, maybe he could just duplicate another photo, or use one from the internet, his friends wouldn’t know, how could they? They wouldn’t notice that there were 44 photos rather than 45. As the elevator doors drew open again, he stopped noticing that the floors were beginning to declutter, space out. He had become mechanical, his movements, a programmed robot. Floor, photo, floor, photo. A monotonous routine and nothing more.

Only when the twentieth floor arrived, did he notice a difference. No more boxes, spacious offices, and a glass conference room at the bottom of the hall, sandwiched between two large, closed off offices. The beginning of the important people. As he looked through his phone screen, he realised there was a small kitchen and sitting area, perhaps where colleagues would go to have lunch or catch up, complain about the busy mundanity of life, scheduled for 13:00pm everyday. Small talk. The nurturer of human potential. But it’s not a question of life, it’s merely survival. The false force and irony of common niceties were something he'd always dreaded, but something etiquette demanded for, so he always had to abide and obey and pretend to understand. With experience, you can begin to expertly carve these conversations to make them any length, about anything that you like. The people at the top had the most experience, hence why they had made it to the top. He wondered how long these meaningless, painful conversations would have lasted. Until the elevator doors opened on G? Until they close? Until the doormen at the bottom of the Tower had closed the doors behind them? Would it have mattered if the person had had a bigger briefcase, or had been travelling from a higher floor? He guessed that the lower floors had it easier, they had a much shorter ride down.

He moved further upwards, passed more glass conference rooms, passed boxes and presentation rooms and kitchens. Passed open spaces and closed offices and the stories of everyone who spent their lives working,

working, working. For what? His thoughts were interrupted once more, what floor was he on? He had made it to the cleaner half of the plaque, where the numbers were more raised and the circles more clear. Floor 25, 25 pounds. As the barriers once again began to reveal a room, he noticed something. A smell, a memory.

Something warm, and fuzzy and beautiful deep inside him stirred. Something he hadn't realised. He lingered on the floor, his finger not releasing the button, forcing the doors to hold his weight, to stay on this floor, this memory. The hair behind his neck rose, a shiver crawled down his spine as the smell lazily oozed into his nostrils and he felt saliva gather in his mouth. He breathed it in, so it filled his mouth and throat and insides.

Again and again, and he waited, waited for something to happen, replaying that thought, that long forgotten memory. The danish pastry shop on the other side of the street must be preparing for the next day.

The frost cleared from his eyes, the fog lifted. He remembered his routines. His weekend, and embrace of something he wished and longed and yearned for. Something he’d lost. He tries to close his eyes, he refuses to dwell. But the doors close, and he continued to ascend, nevertheless, it did not leave the smell behind. It clung to him, to his shirt, which he again pulled over his nose, to his hair and phone and hands, and it lingered in the elevator, like the calm before the storm. He willed the doors to stay closed, wished and muttered under his breath, but they inevitably did, as they always do. He waited for the smell to spill out of them, and the memory to become lost again, dive back into the darkness of his mind. But it didn’t. It stayed.

It was still there on floor 28, 29 and 30. It tormented him and it hurt. The delicious smell of dutch delicacies that now clouded his mind, hurt. It was so close, why had it risen to the surface again, it hadn't needed to, but it did. It was torturous, the way it lingered and scorched him, no longer the enveloping comfort it once was, but the reminder of something beautiful, something once in his grasp and a promise of blissed eternity that he knew he would never get back. Pain can transform and create, it can be beautiful. He gently circled the rusty ring, and, with a bit more pressure, he pressed it. The way a musician would delicately touch a body. The way a mother would touch her newborn. The way a baker would inspect his pastries in the morning. Careful, calm, calculated. He was measuring its fragility. His fragility.

His phone screen flashed, a warning, “5%”. He still had fifteen floors to climb, and if he wanted the money that came with the top, he would need to do it fast. The rooms had become orange and red, the mixed colours of Autumn. The brown hue created by the reflections of the dying sun on neighbouring skyscrapers became a thinning forest in his mind. The offices continued to grow in size, as did the corridors. More doors appeared, more mahogany and presentation rooms. Fewer desks and chairs and tables. A larger kitchen.

Two kitchens. Three. If there were fewer offices, why would they need more cooking space? Maybe it was to avoid social interaction, he thought. These people were too busy trying to better their own lives to have the meaningless conversations the lower floors did. The people gouged in their own self interest. He hated these people. He hated them more for wanting to become them. He loathed himself for wanting to become them. He hated himself. He hated this stupid Tower, and it’s too-many stupid floors. He hated it.

He pursued the climb with his mechanical ladder. The offices continued to grow in space and shrink in number. Once he hit Level 40, there were three glass cubicles, with wide, carpeted corridors outlining them.

This was the same for 41 and 42. On 43, there were two glass cubes, in between was a room with a whiteboard, the blinds tattered and half drawn. Stuck, refusing to close or come down or shut, leaving the room in partial view, revealing some sheets and a lonely projector. His phone was on 3%. Indication that he needed to act fast. The smell had made him hungry, and the light was disappearing as the sun was becoming increasingly concealed behind the shadows of the City’s industrial trees. The doors shut and he almost punched the plaque, missed the next digit, so the doors reopened on 43 and went down a floor back to 42, the ropes seemed to scream in protest of moving down, threatening to drop him if he weren't more careful.

He cursed under his breath, then louder at the numbers and the crack in the dusty mirrors and his phone, now flashing 2%. He dared the ropes to drop him.

He pressed number 44. Two offices, a corridor dividing them, glass, chairs. No more sheets, he guessed they were in drawers due to their confidentiality, or something important like that. These offices had an air of importance. He somehow knew they belonged to the boss. They had large leather sofas, with comfortable pillows and cupboards that probably harboured expensive suits. He wondered if anyone had ever spent the night here. He wondered if the people in these twin offices ever spoke. 1%. Faster. 45 floors. 45 pounds.

He reached for his phone, he wanted to take a quick photo before making his way down, but as the door opened, he became mesmerised. He took a step out of the metal box he'd become so accustomed to, the familiar feelings and leaving behind the salty, coppery taste of metal on his tongue. He strode across the room, towards one of the floor to ceiling windows, passing the large, leather sofa that matched the mahogany desk. He was above the birds, the trees, the stalling traffic. The smell of bittersweet nostalgia still found him, through a small crack at the bottom of the far left hand side window, behind him.

It was just him and his Tower. He stood silently, letting the tempest calm. His dead phone lies forgotten on the desk by the black briefcase abandoned on the hardly-used armchair. He moves the chair away from the desk, turns it to face the dying dusk, and sits down against the soft pillow. He stared out the window, the cool breeze drifting through the crack creating a whistling melody, as he swam in the beautiful silence. He stood there and watched the city. He let himself swim and relish the scents he treasured. The colours, the reds and oranges and yellows and browns. They all blend into one. The good and the bad and the maddening. Touched by the warm, rays of the red, setting sun.

I FORGOT TO TAKE CARE OF MYSELF Written by Karen Ng

moon maker sun eater is the grass always greener? slow letter hair trimmer crying alone between these sheets. why bother? green monster eating away at my smiles apple grinder lemon cinders minding the peels of my thoughts. quick seatbelts tensed ceilings eat away at the holes. shaved– my teeth shaking feet trembling the space in my heart only grows.

REVVING Written by Saul Levene

try licking the nib furious scribbles pixelated breath and etching in arteries, building up phalanges stall emails clogged schedules of German netflix makes me feel so productive; love a good nap, me two hours up too much don’t forget Youtube! i call through the Shofar i’m learning to blow before Rosh Hashana How did that happen? walks are lovely, time for a nap. can’t see friends, don’t kill Granny; uni soon, start student bank account for weather Headache. stay up till three set an alarm, commit be better, be stronger, be A knife would be kinder.

MOTIVATION Written by Jack Lines

Take all your troubles and worries. Hold them tight. Feel your hand blister as they burn brightly, fuelling a ravenous inferno. As the flames caper, every link in every chain that has ever shackled you is duly melted.

You are free.

You are a phoenix – a phoenix rising from the ashes. You can feel the warm cinders still crackling beneath the tips of your new-born wings. You take flight. Your eyes remain fixed on the firepit below. You watch as your past plights grow ever smaller. You wonder how these tiny afflictions could have ever held you – a magnificent creature – so tightly in their grasp. You are a phoenix. They are nothing.

As you sail through the sky, you notice your childhood home. Your school. Your neighbourhood. Your office.

Your life’s cartographic footprint. The size of these institutions seemed once impossible for you to fathom.

They were daunting, their power limitless. And yet now, from your rightful place in the clouds, you see them for what they are. Faint impressions on an ever changing plain.

These marks fizz with movement. Even smaller dots scurry around the edges, making their way. Following the rules of these outdated kingdoms. Rules which no longer apply to you. Above you, there are no borders or barriers. Your mind is your only master. The world is your dominion, explore it, cherish it.

You steady your speed and lower yourself. Now, you are gently gliding over an open field. A hoard of tiny figures loiter, brandishing guns. These so-called hunters stroll the landscape, boasting their pride and power.

But you know the truth. They have no power.

A bullet hits your wing. You hear the bones crack. Blood covers your feathers. The hunters cheer. You flap rapidly and begin to flag. You are falling.

You hit a tree and tumble. As you land on the ground, the impact feels almighty and yet, you leave no mark.

You lay in the shrubbery, motionless.

You are completely paralysed. Your eyes look up to the sky. It’s a beautiful day. There is not a bird in sight.

GREIF Written by Martina Mifsud

Grief. Not the empty, desensitizing kind of grief. The gripping, earth shattering, entire-world damaging kind of grief. The kind which engulfs you from within, swallowing you from the inside, leaving you to do nothing but wait it out whilst being oblivious to its real effect.

The kind which clutches at your throat, leaving you unable to take one last breath of remorse. The grief which breaks away the very essence of your foundation, destroying you to the point of nothingness. The point of never has been and never will be. The grief which reduces you to naught. The lowest of the low causing your struggle to survive, struggling for yet another breath, another day. Highly improbable that you will manage, but hey, others have managed before you so why shouldn’t you?

Then there is numbness. Serenity. Have you made it to the other side?

Negativity has finally directed its trajectory onto another victim. Have you made it through?

As of yet you are not entirely sure.

But after: resurrection. Feeling alive again! Is it an illusion? Is this an extrapolation of the numbness, reaching such an irreparable stage that you have plateaued into a seemingly eternal parallel world? A world which rewards your psychological detriment with blissful ignorance and promising- but false - images? If this is what heaven feels like, then I sure want to live a Godly and Christian life. You feel blissfully unaware and unattached to all that held you by their reins in this hellhole of a world.

You feel free.

IN THE BATH Written by Alice Oldacre

Blanching, floating, oozing, Liquid-like in silk inside.

Ten puffs worth less than Fumbling voices from below, To those people, “I love you.”

There’s me getting stoned, right here; warming to the idea of only slow movements for ever, Sleepy endeavour.

Even as the day pours down, as there are leaves dark on my cheeks, sweetly open eyes are soft now, skin raising hairs, oh, sink down until you’re warm, and gone.

FISSURES Written by Enyu Lin

The bridges we built grow longer each day headstones and nametags far behind to mark where we have lost our way brambles and hedges and punctured tires that long long time ago those smiles and sighs ago the many yellow suns ago since we sat beneath the church door listening for foreign sounds in electric wires counting dreams in red and blue yellow and green.

Where will you be?

Where have you been?

When it all turns to ash at last – finally.

How will I know?

Where will I look?

Where will I go?

For the window is closing fast now the road is as vague as a dream it will be hard tomorrow and then harder still, to see ourselves as we were born to be.

A PLACE BEYOND TIME Written by Anonymous

When I think of a space beyond time, I think about limits. Not that this space would have any, but more so the ways in which that new reality would transcend the constraints and boundaries that plague my own life. I think about the human conception of time and how I time my meals at certain intervals of the day, the 1 minute and 20 seconds it takes to make a great bowl of porridge. I think about how all of the mundane activities and actions I partake in are always undergone with the intention of it ending. That’s really what it comes down to – endings. I try not to get too caught up on thinking that my life has an expiration date, an expected natural conclusion like rotten vegetables or soured milk. That likeness scares me. But a place beyond time, a place of broken clocks and hazy conversations that no longer drag for hours as there are no hours but instead just exist without reason, justification, or limit. I try to think of the ways I order my life now; my cynical worldview that the end is inevitable and the constant guilt at how it clouds the way I live my life - as if every friend is destined to leave me, every relationship bound to fade. Why is it that at every beginning I am already seeing the end in sight? Could that sense of foreboding, this realism that protrudes and bothers me in every happy moment be so easily shed?

I long for such a place. A place that would allow me to feel and experience without a fear of an obscuring mist, or a bump in the road that will deceitfully lead me to an all-out crash. I want every memory to be bottled up only to be poured right back out, so every happiness can stretch on endlessly, for this place beyond time to envelope me like the longest of hugs.

Most importantly, I want this place beyond time so I can value moments without the hustle, the distraction and the worry of ends and beginnings and beginnings and ends.

CECE Written by Lauren Mossman It wasn’t a quick noise and it wasn't voluntary. It was the kind of cry that you can’t help but voice, because you are so overwhelmed with shock. Sometimes you don’t even hear it come out of your own mouth.

I was hung-over and shattered, quite frankly. I saw she had the phone to her ear. Then I couldn’t calm her for hours. Cece’s mother, Karina, was on the phone and she had quietly explained her cousin died by suicide last night. The apartment was dry and hot. The half empty bottles of last night stared at the two of us curled up in the corner. Hours passed.

It had been over a month since Cece and I had moved our mountains of clothes from our university flat and said goodbye to living together. We had been bonded by a fondness for woozy music, pints of cider and pretending to study on our picnic blanket. We’d also been bonded in friendly (sometimes not so friendly) debates on very important issues, such as the appropriate wearing of double denim and the overall attractiveness of scumbag ‘love-of-her-life’ John McGorn.

Now, finally, after a 5 hour Eurostar journey passing more fields of Dutch cows than I could count, I had reached Cece’s home for our summer holiday in The Hague. We were staying in a stuffy, scruffy and sweaty studio apartment that was happily ours for the whole weekend. We didn’t care if it smelled as if someone hadn’t flushed.

“Your mum asked me to bring this for you,” I’d remembered, rushing back from the toilet. I laid down the blueberry jam Karina had given me just the night before.

“Honestly, it’s like she likes me even more when I’m not at home” Cece scoffed. “That’s breakfast sorted, thank you mother!”

That was Friday and now on Sunday, I was the only thing remotely close to family Cece had right now. She sat scrunched up on the other side of the sofa, whilst I sipped my water. Along with the apartment’s musty smell of closed windows on a summer’s day, we lingered behind the blinds, away from the sunshine hours.

Twenty-four hours before, we had moulded like dough in our seats under the July Dutch skies with coffee and cigarettes. Even the night before the call was disgustingly happy. Cece took me to all her favourite (totally dreadful) nightclubs. We danced embarrassingly to every 2000’s song that you’d expect to be played, as if we weren’t expecting it all. Feigning surprise with an uproar of “Oh, come on, on your feet for this one!” or some phrase of that variety with every song that burst from the speakers.

It was obligatory that, as filthy students, the night should entail sweat, smoke, maybe a cheeky pee behind a bush. I think there was even a calculated vomit at one point—so ‘future us’ would thank ‘drunk us’. However, ‘future us’ would always fail to thank ‘drunk us’ for the embarrassingly widespread photo documentation we’d managed to blurrily snap throughout the night.

With our scraps of dignity bike chains serenading us through the early hours, we took our dramatically mayonnaise-d chips and set off for the walk home.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Lu,” Cece had whispered, her arm knotted through mine as we made our way across a bridge; small pink tulips and the peeping Saturday morning light walked us back to our humble sofa and blow-up bed. As she attempted to sing even more Britney Spears, Cece’s hair whipped into her mouth.

That’s where I wished this memory would be finished, in the moment when we were still girls concerned about the weather for the beach tomorrow.

“We need to move, Lovely,” I finally coaxed after hours of sitting, and becoming adornments of the furniture “Fresh air is going to feel good right now”.

Gingerly, we packed bread and blueberry jam and shut the door behind us to shift ourselves to the last crumbs of sunshine on Hague beach.

“Tell me you took the keys out the door Lu?” Cece started as I shut the front door behind me. Well, fuck. In a desperate attempt to fix my stupidity, I suggested I climb the pipe up the wall outside the window.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because you’re too small, and also not Spiderman” Cece retorted.

It wasn’t until it was dark outside that the crabby Dutch landlord broke and subsequently repaired the front door lock.

Greasy from not showering all-day and sticky with blueberry jam on our fingers, we felt very sorry.

“Hot chocolates,” I decided, “On me”.

The sun had already passed the bridge outside the apartment; now the pink flowers were sorrowfully waving at us in the cool evening breeze. Our arms were naturally knotted again and we slowly strolled in pyjamas and sandals through the street-lit city. Pointing and mocking at peculiar Dutch window displays, we cautioned a giggle, our shoulders loosened.

“You’ll be happy to know that the man who made this hot chocolate was extremely attractive.” Cece returned, flashing a smirk.

“A toast,” I started, raising my mug.

Taking the cup to her lips, “Yes, to him”.

THE ALEPH Written by Saul Evene I walked down the flight of steps to the basement where I had it trapped,x in Borgesian fashion, and observed as my colours wept and bled through me and I wasn’t in the basement any longer. I had to invite someone. Let them see, take the burden from me.

I brought him down the stairs, gave him the lantern and quickly ran. Locked the door. Watched through the keyhole.

In a way, it spoke.

‘Inside your light-filled bones is space. The marrow-blood that fills you up, without which you’d be hollow; on, and further capillaries and nerves that most don’t believe exist that far down, spiral like spaghetti drawn tight against the fretboard of a guitar. They play you, of course. I invite you to keep going until you face the Aleph, the space before space, the ultimate meeting place of conception and destruction, all working their way back into its humble lattice of lines.’

‘You fall down the leg of the Aleph, but you get stuck in the quagmire mines of earthquakes in Japan. You can climb on its side, but the altitude of salt-flaked Alps, makes your mouth dry and you similarly lose the will to continue. At base, when you rip apart the Aleph, rapt in your scientific stupor, you see nothing but lines that contain nothing, yet hold all of Heaven and Earth between their grip. Atlas holds the sky, but the pressure between these forces that combine and is One would make the Titan tremble because the Aleph contains him too.’

‘I invite you to consider when you first saw it, in the hut of the ancestors, its leather-robe dressing hiding the letter in the word for ‘tent’ printed again and again in the DNA of the thing. Accessible only in the corner of the eye, or never at all until the moment of death, where all the letters appear. Perhaps you saw it in the reflection of your eye in your lover’s, as you knew somehow that all people are the same and the next will be just as ecstatic, and just as boring as soon as we stop locking eyes. It is there, always and forever, before and after, like a good friend. A friend that sits outside the house and inside it, a shoulder to cry on and the shoulder itself. The moment of tears. The moment of triumph. No moment at all.’

The man who was Joe, but no longer Joe, spoke in a whisper, drooped to the floor. It replied: ‘Leave, leave, leave’, and sheets of green appeared in his vision, flurried in the dusty light as if carried by a silent wind and fled from the scene, like a robber in a two-penny opera. Through the walls. The resulting gasp was eaten up by it, the man unaware of his ever having opened his mouth at all.

It replied: ‘Huff, rough, tough’, and I wish language could take the place of sound and sight and contraction and expansion in the cold December night and the light of the candle burned in his eyes and was puffed out.

In a blaze of storm. The pressure was intense and the bleeding of colour was like the bleeding of gums.

Unpleasant to feel with the running of the finger against the lips and the movement of the lilies in the pond serenity - was at one with this and the light and the darkness was no longer distinguishable.

I accompanied him out, safe I assure you, not long after I heard the sounds die down. I was a free man. I had never felt so lonely.

ISSUE 14

Front cover photography by Christian Samsjc All graphics and designs by Giada Martello

www.kcljournal.co.uk | @kcljournal