Vol 1 issue 2 by Pinched

Poems, Songs, Short Stories, Illustrations, Interviews and Things

PINCHED. Pinched Literary & Arts Magazine

Vol. 1 Iss. 2

ÂŁ5.00

“You’d sing too if you found yourself in a place like this...” - Leonard Cohen, ‘You’d Sing Too’

PINCHED MAGAZINE Pinched is an independent monthly literary and arts magazine. We aim to bring together a community of genuine and spirited artists; writers, illustrators, and musicians. You can purchase a copy via our website and view an updated list of stockists. Vol. 1 Iss. 2 published in June 2015. The authors and illustrators material remain copyright of their possession. Front page illustration drawn by Aparna George. Logo copyright of Pinched magazine. EDITOR Natalie Winter EDITORIAL ASSISTANT Sarah Moore EMAIL / ADVERTISEMENT contact@thepinched.com TWITTER @pinchedmag INSTAGRAM Pinchedmag This issue is dedicated to individuals’ interpretation of the theme ‘craft.’ Powered by Stairway to Heaven and Nicolas Cage’s face swaps.

www.thepinched.com

EDITORIAL note

POETRY note

Ned Carter Miles

Vauxhall Bridge

Jack Kelly

Officer Green Must Die

White Fever

Lyrics from ‘Skeleton Disease’

Troy Cabida

Inner Artwork

Tressillian

Extract from theatre production ‘Anonymous Anonymous’

Danne Corrochio

An Article on ‘Dazed and Confused About Up-and-Coming Poets’ by Sarah Moore

Davey James

Lyrics from ‘Seen More’

Robert Peake

Deoxyribonucleic Acid

An Interview with author Paul McVeigh

Prakeezah Zahoor

Iconoclast

Kelly Jordan

Which Craft?

Frances Bakewell

Up top

Rich Law Family Portrait

Peter Nuckley

She Sees Pictures in the Clouds

Gareth Culshaw

College

An Article on ‘Crafty Design: Bauhaus’ by Natalie Winter

Rahi Still Birth

Rebecca Roberts

Contributors

Give and Take

The Kaleidoscope Man

EDITORIAL note

What is the stimulant that encourages an artist to follow their dream and perfect their craft? Is it outside influences, whether political and social; or simply from organic desires for natural enjoyment. Is it for recognition and respect that leads musicians, writers and illustrators to pursue an artists lifestyle in order to defect from a typical career? It is these questions why we chose ‘craft’ as the theme for our second issue. It opened up many original interpretations from all individuals’ that submitted, whether literal or abstract, resulting in an interesting mix of songs, poems, stories and illustrations. The theme ‘craft’ is an interesting topic that can be interpreted in the literal sense: a cobbler, painter, or musician. Or it can be understood in an abstract sense: the craft of expanding your mind and astuteness through reading, travelling, or socialising. The maturity of an individual and the development of their character can be progressively affected by all the pressures and crafts we take on as we blossom into a mature adult. Our craft we choose to work at can ultimately become our character trait. For the first time in Pinched we have begun to include articles commenting on artistic movements throughout history, as well as other literary and cultural news. We saw discussing historical artistic movements as an opportunity to highlight the importance of creativity and cultural development in social evolution. These articles will be a regular feature in all future issues. We hope you continue to follow the expansion of Pinched and join us as we expand the Pinched community. In this edition I chose to discuss the art movement Bauhaus that began in Germany, from the early twentieth century, as this was a vital shift in architectural design and mass producible fixtures in everyday life. This academy progressively altered the relationship between fine art, technology and architecture, dematerialising furniture into basic design that we take for granted today. This is one of the most historical expansions in craft and design that still continues to influence many designers in modern culture. As Pinched continues our journey we aim to support and guide new and experienced writers and artists along their own path whilst they perfect their craft and develop a voice. We will always advocate the importance of community values and create a respectable platform for artists to share their work.

- Natalie Winter

POETRY note

Given that this month we have asked our writers to be inspired by craft, and what that means to them, I reflected on what craft meant to me through poetry. It got me thinking about poetry as a tangible, malleable entity, an entity that is ever evolving and being shaped by society, culture, and most importantly poets themselves. Pinchedâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s philosophy elucidates the importance of providing a platform for and supporting writers. Taking this into account it seemed appropriate to write about those poets who seem to be crafting the face of this generationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s poetry. Which wordsmiths are impacting the shape and character of modern poetry, and how are they achieving this? Alongside this article are the pieces our poets have written through being inspired by the theme craft. Each piece is shaped through a unique interpretation of the word. Our poets have been on individual journeys in their development of their ideas and inspirations, and it has cultivated a diverse and vibrant collection.

- Sarah Moore

NED CARTER MILES

Vauxhall Bridge

homas’ legs tingled. He felt that Vauxhall Bridge was dissolving underfoot with each new step to the other side where men and women in dark suits appeared in a steady succession. They slid around the corner and onto the bridge without definition. Like Polaroid photographs from the slit of a camera, their personhood depended on reaction and time. They became more and more real on approach, then, as they passed Thomas and continued towards their homes, or dates, or after-work drinks, too real. In the direction from which they came the glass of tall buildings reflected a faint orange light and the images of similar tall glass buildings. The chimneys of Battersea power station stretched up in vain to the East like the spires of a near sunken Cathedral from which rose neither prayer nor smoke. Thomas let his right hand slide along the railing of the bridge as he walked. If he lifted it slightly from the metal he felt that it was shaking; when he let it rest under its own weight the chipped paintwork irritated his soft palm and caused him to grimace, not through discomfort, but something close to shame. He brought it together with its opposite and rubbed both hands together in a Winter gesture, though in the mild October evening this was not necessary. Eventually he let them hang, doughy and ineffectual, at his sides. He was late, but then lateness might work in his favour this evening. His disregard for T’s time might even be considered an additional service, a perk. Time is money, and this was about money, nothing but money, phantasmal and isolate. ‘Money is power,’ Michael had said when Thomas told him about his meeting with T. ‘Perhaps that’s why he gets off on it. It’s a relinquishing of power. You’re providing a service, like any other service in a service economy.’ Michael always spoke like this. ‘It’s not like any other, though.’ The service Thomas was providing in a service economy was financial domination. He was in his second month of unemployment, of increasingly late mornings, of growing shame at doing anything but look daily for jobs on websites that updated weekly. For guilt, he had stopped reading anything other than the classifieds. Craigslist had been the last resort, more assuasive than productive, but still he held out the vague hope of some little income or diversion. Many of the posts were sexual requests, and he was often distracted, sometimes titillated, by the small perversions of anonymous strangers: men wanting to buy the used underwear of women at all stages of the menstrual cycle; women offering to sell them; the man who wanted no physical contact, only to tie a younger man to his bed and tickle him with a feather; the numerous requests for naked cleaners or cooks; the voyeurs, the scatophiles, the cuckolds; all of them imbuing their money with their desires. And then there was T’s ad. T didn’t want to buy anything. He didn’t want to be touched or to touch; he didn’t want anything for his money but the act of giving it away. T was a real pervert. ‘It’s not even really prostitution.’ Michael had said in justification. He liked to live vicariously through his friends. He spent most of his time reading books and left lived experience to others, encouraging them towards the more novelistic and bizarre adventures. ‘In a way I think it’s worse,’ Thomas replied, ‘at least there’s some craft to giving a handjob.’ ‘Craft is an interesting word,’ the following pause made it clear to Thomas the kind of speech that was coming. ‘Once upon a time it had two meanings: in old English, basically old German, it meant skill, art, something creative, but at the same time strength, power, 10 and force. Eventually the word Kraft in German came to mean exclusively power, and craft

in English to mean exclusively art or skill. So in the past a skill would get you money and money would get you power, and now it’s different.’ Michael paused again. He was in his element now and wanted to make sure he was being followed attentively before getting to the point: ‘Money and power still go together, but craft belongs somewhere else. It’s the opposite.’ ‘In what way the opposite?’ ‘Is the crafty fox in children’s books powerful? Not at all. He’s vulnerable to the force of the farmer’s traps and the hunter’s dogs. His craft is a way of surviving in the face of a greater power. People don’t go on about freedom of speech in the arts because the arts are powerful; it’s because they’re constantly under threat from real power. The artisanal trades -’ ‘Ok. I get it.’ ‘Look, here’s the point. This guy’s working at Millbank. He’s probably loaded, has to be if he can sustain a fetish like that, and you have no job . He has money and power, and you have none. So be crafty.’ Thomas tried unsuccessfully to reconstruct Michael’s logic as he approached the end of the bridge. T had proposed to meet him by a construction site on the left bank, only he had made a mistake: from the vantage point of the bridge Thomas could see that the meeting place was, for the moment at least, a demolition site. White plywood walls had been erected around the site and were covered with computer generated images of developments that were destined for other places, or not at all: professionals ate lunch around fountains or walked to meetings; they looked like figures in a Renoir painting that was as void of impression as its subjects were of expression. The walls were sometimes indented with alcoves, and contained diamond observation holes, meshed with rusting iron, for the curious public. Thomas kept close to the walls, circling the demolition site like a negative of Theseus in a maze turned inside-out, until he came to T, cornered into an alcove that faced out towards the river. T’s hair was thinning and, in the fading light, was the sickly colour of beaten battery farm eggs. His shoulders were rounded inwards to the extent that his hands, though hanging straight down, nearly met at his front. His head hung several inches in front of the concave nape of his neck. His face was at once gaunt and flabby. His eyes were fixed somewhere around Thomas’ knees. ‘Hello sir.’ His voice had the consistency of a hair picked out of a plughole. Thomas held back a shudder. ‘You got the money?’ He let the stale tobacco drip in the back of his throat distort his voice into a half growl. An unexpected sense of satisfaction rose when he saw T nod his head shakily and reply in the affirmative, calling him sir for the second time. T put a hand into his left trouser pocket and brought out four perfectly clean, straight, twenty pound notes, pushing them towards Thomas with viscous fingers. Thomas hesitated. Besides taking his money, in his ad T had made an additional, though not obligatory, request: that the respondent insult him. He had included a list of names by which he might be called, and it was last of these that swelled in Thomas’ throat while T’s eyes flickered up to see what the delay was for: worm. There couldn’t have been a better word. A worm is little more than a tube. It is not a hunter or even a forager. It moves through its environment; its environment moves through it. It survives by this fact, mak11

ing nothing, leaving nothing changed. Thomas could imagine Michael saying it, in his own smug way, with an exaggerated German accent on the second noun: ‘A worm has neither craft nor Kraft’. T twitched and pushed the notes forward meekly. Thomas felt his face go hot; a vast, nauseous emptiness opened in his stomach. He was disgusted. ‘It’s only a performance,’ Michael had said. But the cruelty rising was as real as Vauxhall Bridge. A worm. Its death has no more impact on the world than its life, which can be taken with no skill. Thomas looked at the ground, still wet from a passing afternoon shower, then to the apartment blocks to the South, the defunct power station to the East, the office blocks to the West. As a child, on wet days, he had never crushed the worms he found writhing on pavements as he returned from school, but stopped to replace them on soil. T was looking at Thomas’ chest now. His eyes were red and his lips slipped over each other in nervous impatience, revealing teeth the colour of the scum that collected at the opposite bank of the river. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t.’ T was transformed before he had even finished speaking. His eyes turned upwards and fixed on Thomas’ directly. His shoulders rolled back so that he filled his suit jacket fully, even stylishly. His chin moved backwards and up in a mechanical motion that hid his bald spot and revealed that he was, in fact, Thomas’ height. Even his skin seemed to tighten around his cheekbones. He folded the four twenty pound notes crisply and slid them into his right trouser pocket in a series of purposeful motions. His hand came out in a fist and, without warning, connected with Thomas’ face, knocking him to the ground. ‘Prick.’ He took a long step over Thomas and disappeared around the corner of the alcove. His hand cupped over his nose, blood dripping through his knuckles and coagulating in the already moist dust, Thomas watched T turn onto the bridge above. Expressionless, at ease in his environment, he disappeared into the fading day.

Illustration by Mireia Mazon

Officer Green Must Die

JACK KELLY

Officer green must be punished for his sins. For robbing me of my be all and end all. My better half, she who steers me to hard graft rewarded of her prize of sanctuary. Heart full of blind hatred thinks of nothing but vengeance. The cogs are in place. The dusk is brimming precious atmosphere through a circular Gothic window. Here in this cold attic I construct my weapon. The signs are critical. Determined hands complete the rifle. I have silver bullets lined up. I’m making my weapon conceived in devices of malice. Looking to infiltrate the jester’s polished palace. Where officer green brings scripted hateful deceit in exchange for his mouldy unholy bread and meat. I’ve infiltrated the security outline, marked out the goings on in this jesters palace. I know when the bastard will surface. A convenient abandoned warehouse opposite the office block. Plant my pot on the spot at my vantage point. Checked my watch as officer green is due to appear for his daily crawl of abusive authority. Soon his wounded body will be weeping before me. Doors open. His devious defiant cruel demeanour makes his approach outside. My weapon in its delicate construction and many over priced issues of rifles weekly is ready. One deep breath and squinted eagle eye. Stealthy careful finger on my justified trigger. His head is on my cross hair. Fire. God damn pigeon gets in the way!

WHITE FEVER

lyrics from ‘Skeleton Disease’

If you touch I’ll burn just like you made me bleed. My skin’s a lot thicker then it needs to be. Red eyes poetry, never mind it was only me. Those eyes you didn’t see, never mind it was only me. Lets call it off, it’s never enough let’s call it off. I’m a live wire for you but I don’t believe, We can make it out alive with this skeleton disease.

Now take away the caffeine and exchange it for lemonade zest high, replace the notebook with Notes and the playwright’s English class friendly face for a musical gypsy, quietly meditating on a song. Unlike what the other guy advised, I don’t get high on whiskey but on tree dances, sun lions and little healers: hazel for balance, yellow for vibes green for luck, whitish pink to call my soul mate I wear fortune on stones not clinical writer depression – none of that Victorian fluff. That block shall never drop himself on me again A new genus of life an underground generation of expression a blooming breed of art.

Inner Artwork

TROY CABIDA

I suppose by the time you see me next you picture me cowering over a tattered notebook fingertips bruised with pen marks, boasting brown morning coffee breath as dead literary canons swim around my guts.

TRESSILLIAN*

extract from theatre production ‘Anonymous Anonymous’

Allison collects the cards in.

Allison: Okay, so.

Michael: I’m ready.

Allison: Good.

Michael: Wait. How many badges?

Allison: One. But it’s one of the rarest.

Michael: Right.

Aaliyah: What about us?

Allison: It depends.

Allison shuffles the cards vigorously. Allison: “Michael gave a lot of passion in his talking and I can also tell that he is a forgiving person.” Did you hear that, Michael? Passionate. Forgiving.

Michael smiles.

Allison: “What you need to do is sort your life out, because you ain’t even addicted you just sound like a paedo. Stop being a paedo.”

Michael grimaces.

Michael: Can I just say -

Allison: We can discuss it afterwards but for the moment just hold onto that thought. Allison takes a badge from the box and goes to stand near Michael for the next comment. Allison: Last comment: “What happened to your son is a tragedy. He survived. You’d think fate could spare us another turd in the gene pool.”

Allison hands Michael a badge.

*Tressillian’s debut production ‘Anonymous Anonymous’ is @ The Space 23rd June - 27th June

Illustration by Tressillian Collective

DANNE CORROCHIO

Give and Take

“Shoreditch is so expensive, how can anyone afford to live in the east side!” I was grunting in my livingroom in South West London. My roommate tried to calm me down as he suggested looking for a shared room. “I mean, if you’re so keen on the East, you have to make some sacrifices, right?” He said. “No, you stupid idiot! I mean yes, but I’m not going to share a room with a stranger when I’m trying to get strangers in my room.” Oh, hi! My name is Melody, Melody Williams. I’ve been living in London for a year, unfortunately not in the best part of London. Actually, in a really shitty part of London. You want to know where? Ok here it goes, I was living in....Okay let’s just do this... I lived in Brixton! Here’s the thing, this really trendy website told me that Brixton was the number one up and coming ‘hood in London. “Away from the congestion of the city, but a city itself ” —Quoted a website with over 10,000 hits a day. “Brixton’s food market is an Oyster only a few have shucked” —A similar website. “Champagne and Fromage invades Brixton.” I mean, I like booze and I love cheese, but no one had the decency to predict a bunch of angry old Brixtonites protesting over good taste. As it turns out Brixton is not chic, it’s not trendy, and it’s not up and coming. This is why I’m seeking refuge in the borough of Hackney. ‘Dear Borough of Hackney: My name is Melody, I was tricked by a popular magazine into living in Brixton; I hate it. Can I please move in with you? Sincerely, Melody Williams’

“Yo, Arthur!” I shouted at my rasta flat mate. “I’m outta here, soz. I just found a flat for 500 quid a month in the heart of Shoreditch, peace out.” I practically took the place over the phone without seeing it, but c’mon, £500 a month?! The ad read “Brand New Development”, “First Tenant”, and the word “Luxury” popped once or twice. So, I took the Victoria line, and then the Northern line to Old Street station. I was so exited I forgot my Oyster, but there was no time to go back—full fare is not that bad anyway, right? I love Old Street roundabout - stressed from commuting? Wash it down with an organic-vegan-virgin-kosher-free range smoothie. Exit two: Old Street East I had never seen it like that though, it looked fragile, even a bit geeky. The Aquarium looked like an abandoned rapist house, and the Road Trip bar like a good old family restaurant. There’s a vibe to Shoreditch and that vibe can be described with two words, ‘fancy cardboard’. As I walked up Pitfield Street towards my future home I realised my favourite chicken shop was actually Tennessee, not Cottage, flowers are fucking expensive, and cyclists are assholes in the East too. 8 New North Road, I was there. “Give and Take.” The flat was above this weird store. A craft store of some kind. Miniatures, necklaces, and knitted cows. I wondered who buys this crap. 20

I rang the buzzer, flat number 2. A quick voice “hi–hi!” “I’m here to - “ “- yeah-yeah.. Molandy right?” –Reminded me of that guy at university who used to call me Molly. I walked up and turned right. “There’s no elevator, sorry.” There was no need to apologise, for £500 I would climb up a rope everyday or shoot through a cannon. “No worries” I said, and we were there. The whole place smelt new, like thinner and painting. The inside was white, very white. It was also square, very square. It was a cube, soulless, so very British. I could see myself living and hanging myself there within 2 years. I’ll try not to stay that long, I thought. “I’ll take it!” I blurted happily. I paid the man and got the keys. As I was leaving the building I bumped into a girl, she seemed a little shy but nice; a little weird, but nice. She was my new next door neighbour. Her name was Luna, she was 23, and she was the owner of that weird store downstairs. I didn’t get to talk to her much, but on my way home I wondered how a girl like her could afford a flat and a store in Shoreditch. Whatever, I was out of Brixton and that’s all that mattered. I packed my bags, my bong, my cat, and my lucky clover. When I was a kid my Nanny gave me this lucky clover inside a massive amber stone, my most precious possession. Arthur gave me a bag of “pop corn”- Amsterdam’s strongest ganja - for my farewell and I was out; see ya don’t wanna be ya. First night in my new flat I did nothing but celebratory pop corn and Prosecco sorry I was poor remember!? I tried to invite Luna but she wasn’t home, there music was playing, though. Next day I found a note on my door: ‘Thank you for the lucky clover, I absolutely love it! Love Luna.’ I dropped my breakfast burrito and had a mild stroke. ‘How high did I get last night?!’ I kept thinking. I must have left it by her door and she thought it was a present. I couldn’t believe it, I’ve had that thing for 20 years. I went down to her store, she was busy knitting a doll. “Hi!” She gave me the most enthusiastic smile I’ve gotten since that time I told my boyfriend I wasn’t really pregnant. “I’m so sorry but...” Imagine telling your 8 year old kid you’re taking him to Disney Land. Driving all the way there, park the car and going “Psyched!” Then driving back and taking him to the dentist. That’s how she felt. She gave it back but as she did, she stared at it for a while in silence, looking deep into that clover’s soul. Then handed over with a smile. Well that’s if for that friendship, I thought. 21

Within the next few weeks strange things started to happen. Lights flicking on and off. Stupid things went missing randomly, like deodorant - I bought three in one week. Food was going off faster than usual - since when does cheese last only two days in the fridge?! I asked my landlord to change the locks, I was convinced she was sneaking in while I was at work moving things around to mess with my head. But things still kept happening. I thought maybe the flat was haunted - hence the bargain. One time I found drops of blood in the shower. That night I dreamt Luna stabbing me with a rabbit’s leg. And then it hit me... “The bitch’s a witch! And that’s not craft... That’s witchcraft!” I shouted to the mirror. I brought a friend over and she said I was crazy, but she left with a skin rash. I brought home a guy and he couldn’t get it up. He said it was the coke but I blamed her too. My cat Snacks seemed like she was going through depression. She was ruining my whole life. I wanted to get a priest but I wouldn’t dare walk into a church. I knew I had to put an end to it myself. The easiest and most obvious solution was to give back the clover and I did. Except that I got angry-drunk and threw it through her bedroom window. I didn’t know her bed was right next to the window, and I also didn’t know that I had killed her. Four days later her sister found her with the clover for an eyeball, the sharp edge of the stone went straight through it. Jail is not that bad, I’ll be out by season 10 of Game of Thrones. I miss Snacks.

DAZED AND CONFUSED ABOUT UP-AND-COMING POETS By Sarah Moore

Should we feel complacent about this generation’s writers? Or is it really something to get excited about? Some may argue the first. But we believe in the latter, just take a look at the works of any one of these up-and-coming poets.

here are literary critics out there who believe we are living in a generation where it’s impossible for new poetry movements to be established. Even though a movement is often defined retrospectively, these critics are predicting that when time has moved on and we are looking back on this generation, its writing will not be defined by any unifying characteristics. No engaging, energising force of creativity will be identified as having pushed the boundaries and augmented the art form in any notable way. It’s a solemn take on modern poetry. But it’s not an opinion we have to side with. And when reading the works of this generation’s newly established writers, it doesn’t seem so doom and gloom after all. So what stance should we take? Has literary creativity and innovation plateaued, or are we in the midst of something really quite special? Let’s take a look at some of the poets that seem to be set to make an impact on the face of the art form.

Kate Tempest

Kate’s success has transcended from page to stage. At the young age of 29 she already has some remarkable achievements to pen her name to. She has succeeded in written word, with her book ‘Brand New Ancients’ winning the Ted Hughes Prize for innovation in poetry, and three of her plays gaining critical acclimation. Surpassing her achievements on paper, Kate’s album ‘Everybody Down’ was nominated for a Mercury Prize last year.

“Her writing is relevant, clever and relatable. Her words give life to characters of our world, in a gritty, gobby and unapologetic manner.”

Kate is the youngest artist to be displayed in ‘Picture the Poet’. Her portrait taken by Dav Stewart made it into the exhibition constructed to inspire young writers. Kate herself can be noted as an inspirational figure for those who have literary passion. Her genre spanning achievements are quite something to aspire to. Let’s put aside her achievements for a moment and consider why she is such an accomplished

24 artist. The title of ‘Next Generation Poet’ does not come lightly, or even often, the poetry

society carefully select only 20 each decade. So why is her work worthwhile? And how is she shaping the future of poetry? In a world where the media seems to be saturated with individuals, who may albeit be creative and talented, appear to be motivated be status of fame for fame’s sake, Kate’s disposition is refreshing. Her drive comes from a want, a compulsion even, to express herself through her writing. Her work is not just of ‘good quality’ but it is influential because it’s pushing what we know as poetry into new realms. She surpasses convention. Her writing is relevant, clever and relatable. Her words give life to characters of our world, in a gritty, gobby and unapologetic manner. ‘Brand New Ancients’ cleverly sees parallels between the tragic and petty quarrels of the mythical Greek gods, and ordinary people of today. We can expect a lot more from Kate in the future. Her passion, unconventional influences and surplus amount of literary talent, alongside her unwavering opinions and fearlessness, have her set to be crafting the landscape of poetry for this generation.

Sam Willets

Given Sam Willets’ life history you’d be forgiven for feeling some surprise that, as well as being an ex-heroin addict who remains pretty much broke and NFA (living at no fixed abode), he is a brilliant and talented writer. His journey with narcotics began from as young as 11 or 12 when he recalls stealing his mother’s medicines, Valium and other ‘mother’s helpers’ drugs so common throughout the 60’s and 70’s. He’s endured struggles with alcohol since his teen years, and admits to questionable and at times immoral behaviours in his past.

“...as well as being an exheroin addict who remains pretty much broke and NFA (living at no fixed abode), he is a brilliant and talented writer.”

However, his writing does not reflect solely on his troubles with drink and drugs, but covers a vast and diverse range of topics. Each written about with the striking ability to stir emotion in the reader. His poems are full of gusto. To read them is to feel touched by a sense of Willets’ remorse and regret. Willets’ first collection of poetry ‘New Light for the Old Dark’, published in 2010, was incredibly well received. He was shortlisted for the Forward Prize, the Costa Prize, and the TS Elliot Prize, a rare and notable achievement for a first publication. Like Tempest, Willets was also recognised last year by The Poetry Book Society as being a ‘Next Generation Poet’. Sam Willets is more than worth a read, aspiring writers everywhere should be compelled to take some inspiration from Willets’ deeply evocative poetry.

Warsan Shire

Born in 1988 in Kenya, Warsan Shire has already achieved a lot in her relatively short career. After moving to the UK early in her childhood, Shire has been treading a steady path to success. Her poem “For Women Who Are Difficult to Love” went viral, catalysing public interest in her writing. In 2013 she won Brunel University’s African Poetry Prize, and later that year she was chosen as the first Young Poet Laureate for London. Shire is bringing a matureness and new sense of style to British poetry. She is moving the art form forwards by setting new boundaries and breaking old ones which no longer serve purpose. The politeness and distance at which British writers may classically place themselves is nowhere to be seen in Shire’s writing. Her work is urgent, it’s real, and it carries a strong sense of purpose. The topics she covers are of greater maturity than her years, and she writes about them with sensitivity and emotional understanding. Shire is definitely one to watch out for. Read any of these author’s works and it’s safe to conclude that the world of poetry has not stagnated. There really is a lot to get excited and inspired by in the works of modern poets. We’ll be watching these guys closely in the coming years, and many others. This is just a small selection of poets who are creating something exciting. Let’s seek out great authors, support them and feel inspired by them.

DAVEY JAMES

lyrics from ‘Seen More’

Lost my father to a railway track at the tender age of four Never did mind him leaving but he could of told me what for He said you won’t find what you’re looking for as he walked out the door I guess he saw less where I’ve always seen more Mama ain’t been the same since my fathers been gone Drinks herself to sleep an’ tells me ain’t nothing wrong She said you won’t find what you’re looking for life will close the door I guess she saw less where I’ve always seen more So like a bottle of wine, let me grow old Till I find what I’m looking for my blood will run cold My hearts ten fold but I’m a whisper not a call Tears wont ever dry mama until they fall I gained a lover by being honest but she ain’t here no more She threw out my songs and letters they came floating down the hall She cried you wont find what you’re looking for as she closed the door I guess they all saw less where I’ve always seen more So like a bottle of wine, let me grow old Till I find what I’m looking for my blood will run cold My hearts ten fold but I’m a whisper not a call I said tears wont ever dry babe until they fall So like a bottle of wine, let me grow old Till I find what I’m looking for my blood will run cold My hearts ten fold but I don’t care at all Tears wont ever dry man until they fall

Deoxyribonucleic Acid

ROBERT PEAKE 30

The corkscrew plies away the bottle top the rooting pig shovels clods with a snout disaster comes on a Thursday, dressed smart and removes his hat before entering the door. Coded into the spiral, wound tight, and waiting, art imitates our natures in planned obsolescenceâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; how efficient the machinery of stasis, whacking our mole-heads downward into each plastic hole.

Illustration by Alex Karol

Pinched speaks to PAUL MCVEIGH The recently published author of acclaimed ‘The Good Son’, director of London’s Short Story Festival, and active blogger Paul McVeigh talks to Pinched about his experiences in theatre and inspiration for his debut novel.

PINCHED How have your experiences writing and directing theatre influenced your writing?

MCVEIGH If you look at ‘The Good Son’ you’ll see dialogue is central to the novel. I use it to reveal character and relationships, to keep the pace up and to deliver the overall tone of the piece. I learned how to achieve this through working on scripts. The other influence from theatre I see is in the ‘showing’ through action rather than ‘telling’ through description. In theatre, you are also very aware of the other tools you have to tell your story - the set, props, lighting etc. I use this breadth of thinking in my writing.

PINCHED You’re an author with quite a diverse writing background. Is this something you’d recommend for an aspiring writer?

MCVEIGH The more skills and experience you have the more you bring to the desk when you write. So yes I would recommend having a diverse writing background. The only downside I’ve found is that it can take longer to ‘make it’ as you are moving forwards and outwards at the same time as opposed to someone who sticks at one thing moving straight ahead. 32

PINCHED A lot of our readers are short story writers. I read that ‘The Good Son’ your first novel, started out this way. What advice would you give to writers wanting to make the transition from short stories to novels?

MCVEIGH A novel is a huge commitment and it takes time, so be patient with yourself and be prepared to fail, get back up again and get writing again. There will be many drafts but each one will make you a better writer. Do your research on novel writing. You need to read a lot of novels and see how they work – a short story is not the same thing at all. You don’t train the same way to run a sprint as you do a marathon.

PINCHED I have also read that ‘The Good Son’ is literally your first full length novel, you haven’t written any others before this that you didn’t finish or get to publish. How do you keep working on a novel that you may have been writing for years already?

“I don’t think there are enough regional or working class voices in modern fiction.”

MCVEIGH Writing a novel is a big commitment and I worked on it over many years. For me, it was essential that I was writing a story I had to tell. I was compelled to tell the story of this little boy. That’s what kept bringing me back to it when I thought I’d had enough with my failed attempts. I decided to write the novel for me and if it ended up staying in a drawer in my bedroom I was okay with that as long as I knew I’d written the novel I wanted to write. That also freed me up to experiment and dispelled the cloud of pressure I was creating around it. Of course, everything changes once you’re finished and have achieved your goal, then you want it out there.

PINCHED What inspired you to write about Belfast, the place you were born?

MCVEIGH I think there are many extraordinary stories to be told about Belfast during The Troubles. They were extraordinary times happening right here in the UK but so many people know little about what happened there, especially on a day-to-day level. Certainly, I felt it was important to record that time from a child’s perspective - not the political thriller or star-crossed lovers story – it wasn’t a story I’d read before. Also, I don’t think there are enough regional or working class voices in modern fiction.

PINCHED To what extent are your own personal experiences of troubles in Belfast reflected in the novel? How was writing about it?

MCVEIGH Every ‘Troubles’ event in the book I either saw or experienced myself but not as it appears in the book. I wanted every word to feel authentic, to recreate that time in as 33

visceral a way as possible so people felt like they had a feel for what it was like. Writing in the first person helps this as well. If I’m honest, the book is like the Disney version of The Troubles. It’s about as much as I thought people could take without getting turned off or to bog down the story down in ‘reality.’ As a writer you have the responsibility of being truer to the story than reality. It wasn’t always easy to write about. I was writing in the first person and I tend to get into character somewhat when I’m writing so putting that little boy through those events and remembering my own experiences was at times unsettling to say the least.

PINCHED In the past you’ve written some stand-up comedy. How did that come about?

MCVEIGH I had studied theatre at University and went on to cofound a theatre company in Belfast. One of my buddies from the course had become a talent agent for stand-ups in London and called me inviting me to direct a comedy show for Edinburgh. I ended up cowriting it too and spent the next 8 years or so working on the comedy circuit. I specialised in working with trained actors who were also funny (character comedians) and helped them create a show rather than a 20 minute set of jokes.

PINCHED What advice would you give to aspiring writers wanting to improve their craft?

“As a boy, I was taught to share with my community. Our front doors where left open and kids came in with empty bowls we filled with cereal or we went in next door for a cup of sugar. What you have you share.”

MCVEIGH Read a lot. Develop a thick skin. Don’t let people destroy your confidence. Don’t let rejection make you give up. Don’t argue with criticism - put it away and come back at it when you’ve calmed down and your ego has disengaged. Read great writing and figure out why people love them even if you don’t. Read interviews with great writers, sometimes they provide the key to what’s locked away inside you.

PINCHED What motivates you to write? What inspires you?

MCVEIGH Motivates is a tough one. Sometimes I feel like a dynamo in that keeping busy keeps me moving providing its own momentum. People inspire me the most. The world around me too. Moments of clarity, revelation and 34 understanding.

PINCHED You’re a very active blogger, we see that you promote submissions and support writers and literary events. Is this a conscious choice to encourage writers?

MCVEIGH I think it comes down to your personal philosophy and certainly I believe in leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for those who come behind. Also, as a boy, I was taught to share with my community. Our front doors where left open and kids came in with empty bowls we filled with cereal or we went in next door for a cup of sugar. What you have you share. When I started back writing after a long break I scoured the internet for ways in writing courses, interviews, submission opportunities, bursaries, testimonies for other writers – and it was the most obvious thing to me to share that with everyone else.

PINCHED Before we say adieu, any interesting plans in the pipeline?

MCVEIGH I have a few festival appearances lined up. I’m excited about the Wroclaw Festival in Poland in October and a trip to Oz looks set for the Winter. I’ve just returned from Mexico with the British Council where I’ve been talking to a Mexican writer about some exciting future collaborations and a huge project for next year. All early days though. I’m looking forward to the second London Short Story Festival this week and after that getting back to writing - finally!

Illustration by Aparna George

In the image of you. To bring the prose of my being In full bodied verse, To the lyrical tilt Of your mouth. You could say anything. And I would stand all day, Stirring, Sift to softness The coarse grain of love, Whip myself to a peak Stiff, as longing. How I sat for you, Long hours in pose The strokes of time passing Slow as your brush, While I ached To see a portrait complete. Long did I try To fashion myself In the image of you. But found I was too much clay.

Iconoclast

To fashion myself

PRAKEEZAH ZAHOOR

Long did I try

Pores clogged to cold porcelain So breath comes in gasps, And beauty has turned to hide, Muffled beneath sheets Streaked brown and grey. If sun was seen It was only in shadows cast, Of monuments erected Edifice of a past. Crumbling pieces fell to dust Broken vision in retreat, And all hope stood aghast. But then I heard the stars whisper, Murmured heresy at twilight That they had come Only to shoot cracks and shatter the darkened sky.

KELLY JORDAN

Which Craft?

igh on the mountainside above a ravine, The dusk drapes through spaces in violet beams, Where out juts a shelf, of rock and of green Here they gather. Here the coven convenes. Solemn they stand, each silent and straight, Charged with the power their wills create. Cloaked in the shades of descending night, Five wise bowed heads bring words to life. These are the chosen. And here, they unite. Open before them, and centrally placed, Is a book bound by a finely-forged grace. Within it enchantments, rarely believed, And timeless traces of all that has been. There, the spells. Here, cast to be seen. The masterful minds stand proud on the shelf, Through whispering wind, and crackling storms, Against critical elements, spiritually sworn. By the moons light, in static formation, Expressing, in turn, each magical self. Here comes elation. Here lies their true wealth. The sacred staffs like swords are drawn, Five wizened grips have, through endless nights, Held proud and tight, til countless dawns. Smooth and worn, and charmed to delight, Distinguished contours are, slowly borne, By hands and hearts devoted to write. Here, are their wands. And here, is their light.

And out from the nibs, flows hand-written scrawl: It streams from the tips; fluid and floating, Glittering, trailing, in swirls that enthral. Freed from minds and weapons; devoted, Bursting, whipping, in response to their call. Here come the words. 40 Here, they are all.

Each line that emerges, with graceful intent, Moves in the fashion with which it was meant. Fuelled with a fire that desires transcendence; Erupting, ascending, with a rapturous force, Or a delicate slither, on a soft sweeping course. There, is intention. And here, are its laws. They dance in the light of the tones that they render, Free, are the potions, the prophets are blending. Each raises their staff, for their words to descend Downward to hover; still and suspended, Above the white page; awaiting appendage Here, silence arrives. Here, for now, the whispers have ended. The Elder first, raises a feather to bid his will: Emitting sparkles from the nib of his quill, To join his words that are patiently waiting. A maidenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s flowers, a skull. One vengeful; Debating. And in the air, a stage, created. He parts the curtains, no less to unveil Humanity in dramatic light, and the trail Of the pity designed in protagonist plight. The sparkles dissemble, and whirl all around, Merging with words bound close to the ground. Alone and low, and barely heard, His chant begins, to worship the word. The conductor of truth, exposure, and magic. Here is the bard. And there, is the tragic. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Words, words, words. Words, words, words.â&#x20AC;? Next, the lonely mad prophet, engraving his Songs Strikes through the air with the whip of his wand. And forth from the writing tip flies a glistening grain: A single orb; of sand, and of pain. And within it, The world that the coven explores. Then the wildest flower is devoutly scored, And in it, a heaven, that married its foe. The infinite symbol is etched and a-glow, Around and around, all-time is stretched, And sixty small orbs are perfectly set. The sparkles dissemble, and whirl all around, Merging with words bound close to the ground.

Divinely mad, and faintly heard, His chant joins the bard, to worship the word. Here, is the prophet. And there he augured. “Infinity, divinity. Infinity, divinity. Infinity, divinity.” “Words, words, words.” A revolutionary Magus now takes up his stance. His staff at his side, as when walking the lakes, Where weaving his words his lance aimed to make Himself, a speaker of those some deemed weakened. His spells are spontaneous, overflowing and grand, And with a thud of its base by an elderly hand, Ancient wood strikes at the mountainside ridge, Disturbing all that quietly lives. And into the dark Scurrying creatures, hurried out by his natural art. Upon the coven unfurls a vivacious scene: It’s Tintern: lucid, and serene – translucent, A dream - summoned, for great, growing minds, To reach the height of the natural sublime. The sparkles dissemble, and whirl all around, Merging with words bound close to the ground. Soulful and deep, aiming to nurture, His chant begins, to worship nature. Here is the lyric. And there, is its spirit. “Wye, Wye, Wye. Wye, Wye, Wye.” “Words, Infinity. Words, Divinity. Words, Infinity. Words, Divinity” Now, comes the time of womanly power, Where high is drawn, in a confessional vein, A glass jar that holds the exquisite remains Of an exposed, tortured, and blackened brain. The pen that served the therapist’s hour Fought devilish muses; and brutal devourers, Intoxicated mortal, of truth and of flight Now biting the air, and cutting the night, As each heavy fig is drawn in light. The sparkles dissemble, and whirl all around, Merging with words bound close to the ground. Lamenting and low; her tone is her business, Her chant begins, with active distain. There, is the Mistress. 42 And here, is her pain.

“I am. I am. I am. I am. I am. I am” “Words, Infinity, Wye. Words, Divinity, Wye. Words, Infinity, Wye.” The final to conjure holds a Modern knife. His nib, full-sharpened, deadly, it slices Deep down past deception to the quivering core, Where fragmented life lies shattered, abhorred. Through the chattering clatter, distraction, and waste, He plunges his sword through defensive states. He raises his blade to the black page of the sky, And crafts an eye of pearly bright white, stark, And crisp, on the back-drop of night. Then, moving on: a tarot card, and wings are drawn; A bird, a rose, and a chess piece pawn. The sparkles dissemble, but for the bird, Merging with words bound close to the ground. Boldly haunting, his melody heard, His chant joins the chorus, to worship the word Here, is the Modern. And there, he disturbs. “Time present, time past, Time present, time past. Time present, Time past- Shantih, shantih, shantih.” Words, Infinity, Wye, I am. Words, Divinity, Wye, I am. Words, Infinity, Wye, I am. Relentlessly, the sorcerer’s chant: Words, Infinity, Wye, I am, Time present, Shantih! Words, Divinity, Wye, I am, Time past, Shantih! With wands outstretched: Poised, and aiming at straining creations, impatiently waiting. The glittering sphere, assembled of words from the first incantation, Is mixed with the sparkles of bright manifestations. Light and letters, freed in the air, aloft then descended Amassed, and suspended by magic minds, to be seamlessly blended. Words, Infinity, Wye, I am, Time present, Shantih! A solitary spark permitted to fall Ignites the page to bind them all. Words, Infinity, Wye, I am, Time present, Shantih! 43

In the fiery flames of the burning pages, That immortal sages through timeless ages, Have wrought, defended, and woven their words In the fabric of the canonical world. Facing the fire of the burning page. Words, Infinity, Wye, I am, Time present, Shantih! Words, Divinity, Wye, I am, Time past, Shantih! Face the fire! “Quick,” said the bird, So, quick, went the words To face the flames! “Go!” Said the bird, to all the words, To all that falls in ethereal showers: To the virgin’s flowers, the infinite hours. Face the flames, of the burning worldOf the burning words. “Go, go, go,” said the bird, to the fig And the eye, the jar, and the card“Find your words! Fuse with your words! Be eternally bound to the written world!” Face your fire! Wye, infinity? Am I words? Infinite time but, Wye, divinity? I am Divine but, Face your flames! I am present I am past Wye am I? I am words. Silence. Stillness. The smouldering book. There is the coven. And, that is their craft.

FRANCES BAKEWELL

Up Top

Sometimes she thought about all the lies she had told and the way her web weaved around those in her life. Friends and lovers suspended by sticky string wrapped around in a loving cacophony of words, all so placidly unaware, not even struggling. Not that she thought she was Evil - Evil leaves no room for lying, it is certain and reached by iotas. She wasn’t there yet, not quite yet. The hum hurt her, the sway. The drum of consciousness against her temple with the press of fleshed out thigh to fleshed out thigh spread across painful upholstery. She decides to look elsewhere and catches sight of her face, struggling to focus on the basic details and, instead, concentrating and distorting one feature until it spread over the plateau of flesh covering her skull. Her face is now one huge, swallowing black hole of a mouth. She wants to scratch the dried shit of make-up off, tear at it and rip strips of flesh and fat until there’s nothing there. A short, sharp slap is what she needs. Or to run, to get off and run. But she is about to be hemmed in by the window, trapped by another breathing, shitting, sweating pile of human. *Don’t sit down, don’t sit down, don’t sit down, don’t sit down, don’t sit down and don’t sit down* She pleads. He does. What a fucking stupid move on his behalf: Unfortunately for him, this heavy breathing individual, her attention now steered clear of morphing her own features in the window, has moved on to bigger and better things - such a clever brain, well done brain. She rotates it slowly, haltingly in front of her face like a music box ballerina, stopping every now and then so she can concentrate on the shiny blade refracting colours imbuing it with a kaleidoscope surface swirling down its spine and across its steely wings. She has become fixated on her knife floating in mid-air on the 172 to St Paul’s. So pretty. Well done brain! She doubted any such creativity had occurred on this bus route before. Or would after, come to think of it. In all reality she wants to reach for the black handle and stab, stab, stab some part of her to see what will happen. But he had to sit down next to her and his weight, his thoughts, his life are seeping up through the fucking seat and shouting for attention, prickling the back of her thighs. 46

She wants his problems, his life to go away, to leave her alone to stop making them known to her. She wants his disgusting fucking being out of her way. She wants to stab, stab, stab through his smell, his dead eyed stare, his tiny strip of back flesh between trouser and shirt, his day job and his joy, his hurt and his pain and his lean forward holding the rail at the front between her and the stairs. The bus jerks and his left arm plunges into her side and she want to scream, instead she gives that early morning commuters awkward side smile conveying the assumed fact that they both don’t want to be there. She just has to hang on to Lancaster Place. That’s all. But now her arm is on fire and the rotating knife has sped up to what will eventually be an alarming speed. She’s losing control and there’s deadweight next to her, blocking her exit. She whips her head round convinced that someone has noticed the merry go round of colour blurring in front of her and her thoughts of homicide. She did it too fast. Sharp noses, eyelashes and wisps of hair blow by as brazen singularities rolling off larger features buried inside the seething mass of bus and human behind her. She can hear her beautiful creation humming now in front of her, vibrating like her hands in the realisation of what she was going to do - and it’s all too much. Mornings had never been her strong suit and the focal point of her journey had become a spinning knife and a casual stabbing. She turns her head, slowly, slowly back to ‘eyes front’ steadying herself for what needed to happen, but her lost little peepers retract back into her sockets overwhelmed by the obesity of her emotion. God, this was a bad hangover. Inch by inch she opens them up to see the Thames slide by and a newly formed exit to her right. Ha. He must have got off at Waterloo whilst she was still afloat on the sea of human crush behind her. The knife is no longer there and a sadness flows down her throat choking her eyes in mourning and reality. Everything is in proportion now, her face, the bus. Her rage. Life, she supposes. She is left exhausted to limp down the stairs gripping onto the rail as the bus judders to a halt in the wilderness. Lancaster Place.

RICH LAW

Family Portrait

e borrowed the backdrop from heaven – marbled sea and sky. He sat me beside you in a wicker chair, with freshly permed hair, looking out of paradise. And told us to smile. It’s a miracle my hips outgrew the scars where your favourite of my dresses dug its teeth in. But Mother always points to you and says ‘Well, Simon looks the part.’ Though, if this were still-life, a painter could say so much more about you and your rented suit With a blob of tomato red the hell I went through persuading the shop manager we could pay the fine Given time. You said a family portrait would be like christening the house, something to show the grandkids one day. It took a rock, some paper and a pair of scissors to settle where we’d hang our smiling faces.

PETER NUCKLEY

She sees pictures in the clouds

f life is hills and hollows And a journey through the crowds, I hope to always walk with her; She sees pictures in the clouds. When the wind has shown its teeth And our coats are buttoned high, She binds our hands with ribbonâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Til the storm passes by. She chases the yellow moon Just to catch its beams. She believes in woodland fairies And lives between life and dreams. I long for teacup moments To discuss a nonsense thing. She tells of polka-dot ideas To change the world with a ball of string.

he tap of a stretcher against another, buttering up the Flemish bond. Things laid out before me, a building up of maturity. the wall of knowledge that leads us through life a slide and heave of trowel under sloppy mortar, a tilt and pull back, leaving a slug like trail. The bed to rest a brick, the tip tap of handle. A knock knock on an empty house door. I built what I could before I left with a not knowing of the future what you build in life should have support. The lintel became too heavy and eventually I had to carry my own load when I see empty buildings and old warehouses with windows sad looking and broken. I know I made the right choice, to let bricks sit under their own guilt, their own weight.

College

GARETH CULSHAW

CRAFTY DESIGN: BAUHAUS By Natalie Winter

Bauhaus led the way of modern architectural design, combining art with mass producible and industrial style fixtures, influencing generations of designers to come. Here’s a snippet into Walter Gropius’ influential school.

ne of the most influential and revolutionary art movements, founded by Walter Gropius in the early 20th century, was Bauhaus. Gropius is considered to be one who altered perceptions of modern architecture, leading the Bauhaus school of arts in Germany and turning it into a renowned academy. Gropius’ reputation spread, attracting artists who taught at the school including Paul Klee, Johannes Itten, and Alphonse Mucha. Their teachings evolved from expressionism and was based on a new teaching relationship between teacher and pupil, encouraging the idea of a community of artists working together. Architecture constructed was designed to bring art into everyday lives and to be given as much reverence as fine art. Bauhaus objective was to bring together architecture, sculpture, fine art and design into a utopian craft of creative expression.

“Architecture was designed to bring art into everyday lives and to be given as much reverence as fine art.”

Initially from Gropius’ takeover of Bauhaus in 1919 he stressed the unification between craft and the arts, focusing teaching on workshops governed by these goals. However, a break-through came in 1923 when Gropius, whilst still focusing on craft, shifted the schools ideals to adopting an approach in aid of industrial mass production.

When Bauhaus moved from Weimar to Dessau in 1925 workshops were put in place that inspired the new philosophy of art in industry. Textiles, cabinet-making, metalworking and typography were among a few workshops that were geared towards dematerialising conventional forms of furniture into minimal pieces. Chairs were designed to be practical, minimal and mass-producible, and modern light fixtures were designed in metal workshops with functionality and ease as a key component in these industrial forms. 52 Hannes Meyer succeeded Gropius in 1928 continuing the schools emphasis on mass produc-

ible architecture and designing pieces for social functions. Not long after his inauguration he was replaced by architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe; however the increasing political turmoil in Germany caused Mies to relocate to Berlin in 1930.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;...workshops were geared towards dematerialising conventional forms of furniture into minimal pieces.â&#x20AC;?

During World War II, many of the renowned figures of Bauhaus emigrated to the U.S. influencing generations of designers and architects; Gropius went to teach at Harvard University, Marcel Breuer and Joseph Albers taught at Yale, and Moholy-Nagy went to Chicago founding the New Bauhaus in 1937. This led to a significant legacy that changed design in Western Europe and the U.S.

Bauhaus sort to unite creativity and manufacturing mass products rejuvenating design for everyday life by breathing art into modern fixtures that we see today.

RAHI

Still Birth

The old man had something in his eyes that clearly did not justify the ‘scrooge’ like image that had been given to him. Something about him suggested that he was capable of giving love and care despite the rude and unresponsive behaviour he sometimes showed. At the time I was too young to understand but now as I think of him I want to hug him and tell him what a great artist he was! My grandfather was Mohan Ray and although I saw him on many occasions, I never got to know him well. There are a lot of rumours about how and why he died a sudden and unexplainable death. Some say he was touched by evil on his last day. Some even claimed that he saw a ghost. However, recently one of my uncles claimed he knew the real reason behind my grandfather’s death. “He was a secret agent for the government!” He said. ‘Now this one is new’, I thought. “What makes you say that?” I asked my uncle. Uncle Jay was the youngest of his sons and he was much friendlier than the rest of my uncles and aunts. “A secret agent for the government, are you sure?” I asked. “I thought he was an art teacher and he just about managed to keep that job as well. Everyone says that he was an aristocratic, reclusive, mentally disturbed old man. What makes you think that he was a secret agent?” I was pushing my uncle to come out with what he knew. Uncle’s theory was that my grandpa was on some secret mission because he never let anyone in his room and he was hiding something from all of his family members. Though my mother always tried to keep me away from it, I was intrigued by all the gossip that went round the family regarding his death. They said he cried like a child in denial of something and would cry for hours. Nothing they did or said would convince him to come out of his locked room. He shouted abuse to himself, calling himself a fallen soul and a lowly creature and what not! He claimed that he had failed to see the simplest things in life. Uncle Jay went into in his room where no one had gone in years. He didn’t find many things except for some wooden sculptures and holy books which were on his desk, along with some legal paperwork and some maps. Since he died everyone had been very scared to go on that side of the house. And the ghost stories weren’t much help. Everyone including the servants refused to go there and no one had cleaned that room for year. Grandpa had taken all the furniture and valuables out anyway, why would anyone want to go in there? When he was alive no one was ever allowed to go in that room. My otherwise quiet grandpa would storm through the house in anger if someone so much as peeked in that room in the back of our house where he would often lock himself away for hours. One of our distant relatives said he was a mad man. And our old servant had defended him by saying that he may be a mad man but he was a mad man with a mission! I had thought he was just saying that to defend his master - ‘Loyal servant’ I had thought. But now as I hear Uncle Jay’s theory I saw some connection between the two. How fascinating! The old man everyone thought was a lunatic and unreliable and he turns out to be a secret agent. That would be pretty amazing. So I decided to go and visit our old servant Shombhu. I must have been less than fifteen when my grandfather passed away. And Shombhu had left our service only weeks after grandpa’s death. He couldn’t tolerate the jokes and ghost stories that surrounded the old 54 mans grave. Now, ten years later though as I went knocking on his door he instantly recog-

nised me. I remember as a child he’d take me with him to attend Rathyatra festival. Shombhu would carry me on his shoulders and walk miles on the festival day. Now, as he saw me ten years on his eyes brimmed with tears of joy. He invited me in and I sat on the floor of his modest little cottage. “What brings you here Baba? Have you eaten? Shall I bring... Umm we have some fish curry, your favourite Baba.” Shombhu was overjoyed and emotional at my unexpected visit. His hands were shaking and he could hardly believe that a master can come to visit a servant just like that! I waited while his wife brought us some sweet chai. I took in the surroundings of the condition that Shombhu was living in. After serving my grandfather for more than thirty years all he had was a roof over his head and a meal or two a day. Though he didn’t look like he had any complaints. As we sipped the chai I decided to broach the subject. I knew I had to be very careful for he was a very loyal servant and he was closest to my grandfather. Even my grandmother didn’t have permission to enter that secret room when he was alive but it was okay for Shombhu to bring freshly ground natural colours, sharpened chisels and bits and bobs that my grandfather would order from the shops. I just wanted to find out what he was up to in that secret room all those years when he could have been watching all his grandchildren grow up, sitting amongst his loved ones and relaxing with a newspaper on his lap. Though he was the head of the family and a mighty landlord with hundreds of acres of land in his name, it was my grandmother who ran the show. In the last ten years of his life, pretty much all the years since I was born and was around him, I hadn’t heard him say more than a sentence or two to anyone. He would come home from school where he was teaching art and retire in his room without any exchanges with anyone. We were a family of around twenty people, including seven grandchildren. He worked at a prestigious school in town even though it was not necessary for him to work as enough money was generated from the land he owned. However, he felt a man must go to work in order to stay sane. With all the rent money and all his wealth he really didn’t need to work. That’s exactly what my father and uncles have done all their life. In fact my father believes that collecting rent from all their tenants is a full time job of its own kind. When I asked about grandpa Shombhu’s eyes lit up with pride and reverence. “Baba, your grandpa was a great man! God was very pleased with him. I shouldn’t be saying this but his family never understood him or respected him for who he was!” I asked Shombhu to tell me all that he knew. “Was he a spy? What was he hiding in his room?” Shombhu couldn’t believe his ears. “Do you mean no one has found those deities?” “Deities? What do you mean?” I asked and Shombhu opened a page of my grandfather’s story that was well hidden for nearly a decade. Well hidden or ignored, I wonder. “He was an atheist and he never went to temples and that is why he never encouraged his children, your parents and you all to believe in any religious rituals or deity worship at all. You see Baba we are small, servant class people so we don’t understand these big ideas. We go looking for gods in temples and we do it because we feel that’s how it’s done and that’s why it must be done. But your grandfather was a different man altogether. He would say God cannot be found so easily. God cannot be found in deities. He said deity worship was a romantically stupid idea, until one day he met one carpenter. The carpenter, though he was very poor, was the happiest man Mohan babu ever met. He would sing so melodiously while he worked. He had set his little workshop under a huge banyan tree by 55

a little lake. He worked tirelessly for hours and he would sometimes even forget to have his meals. He was carving three large wooden dolls and your grandfather being an artist by nature was intrigued by his workmanship and creativity. Occasionally, Mohan babu would sit and watch him work quietly. Sometimes he would go and have lengthy chats with the carpenter and I ask you Baba what is a match between a learned artist and an illiterate chippy? He started telling your grandfather all the mythological stories that he knew and Mohan babu on the other hand would ask him about from where he could acquire natural colours made from crushed flower petals. I was with Mohan babu on most of his visits holding an umbrella for him when it was scorching hot. Their friendship lasted many years until one day the three large dolls turned out to be ‘Lord Jagannath’, ‘Baldev’ and ‘Subhadra.’ I was also there when the deities were officially unveiled and that was when something happened to him. Mohan babu was taken aback by the beauty of the deities once they were installed. He couldn’t believe that these were the same deities that he saw everyday taking shape bit by bit. He said to me, “Shombhu, tell me how is this possible? Didn’t we see these dolls almost every day for past two years? Tell me did we not witness its birth? Why do they not look anything like those dolls that we saw everyday? Why do they look like they have come to life?” “Baba, I am an uneducated peasant man, how would I know the answer to his questions?” He asked me again and again what could I see on the temple alter? I said I saw God. He asked me if I really see God and I said yes. Now is it not a matter of belief ? All my life I have been told that the deities are God and since I believed what I have been told, I see God in what your grandfather would call dolls! He asked me again, how come I don’t see God. I didn’t have an answer to that. So I said, ‘My master you are a man of higher intellect and I am a lowly, less intelligent soul. I see what I believe and you believe what you see. Why do you ask me these questions when you have made up your mind that there is no such thing as God.’ Then he said that he wanted to see God and since that day Baba, he had taken up woodwork as hobby. See, rich people have these hobbies and interests so I only did my job bringing him the material he ordered from time to time. He slowly started to shut himself from the world. He had always been a moody man but since that day things went so downhill that people started to call him a mad man secretly. Just a few days ahead of his death I realised what he was trying to do. He was carving similar deities and hoping to give birth to the God just like his carpenter friend did. He became so engrossed in his newly found passion that he didn’t care about rest or the world or his family. I saw his deities were miniature of those at the temple but he was not happy with them because he didn’t see God in them. He made futile attempts to find out what was that amazing feeling that he had experienced at the temple. And this is just what I think Baba. Pardon me if I am offending your feelings but after all that labour what happened is he felt that he could not bring it to life and the realisation of it killed him.” I was speechless upon hearing this. So he wasn’t a spy or a secret agent! He wasn’t a retarded old man either but he was a man in search of God. He was a man who thought he could take his creativity to another level by giving birth to a master piece. What he didn’t see or couldn’t see was that the differ56 ence between a wooden doll and a deity is in the vision. Had he wanted to believe in God’s

presence he would have seen it and felt it too. I wonder again, this theory can be baseless too! What if he had seen and felt the God in those deities and couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t contain the joy or shock of it and thus he died?! Who knows. I was making my way home with lightening speed now for I wanted to see those deities. May be upon seeing I might get the answer to the mystery. Maybe.

BECKY ROBERTS

The Kaleidoscope Man

It was an hour before the sun would set over the Chilean seaport of Valparaíso. Houses erupted at all angles, clinging to the steep slopes and swells of the land, all painted in assorted colours. A secret whispered through the winding, narrow streets, riding on the back of the pacific wind. This evening was a special kind of evening. You could tell by the quality of light; a fresh, ethereal light, bathing the coastal port. The Kaleidoscope Man rode the yellow funicular up to his favourite spot on the Cerro Alegre, the ‘Happy Hill’ as it was commonly known. His favourite place was a short street, backed by a neat row of pastel houses. It was a street also favoured by tourists, and they ambled up and down it to the soundtrack of buskers, admiring the street artists and the sea view. The Kaleidoscope Man found his usual corner of the look-out, and parked his precious cart there. Comprised of a wheelbarrow and half a chest of drawers, it was a beautifully obscure piece of carpentry. He flapped out a red silk cloth over the drawer-top, to lay his masterpieces on. Then one by one, and with extreme care, placed-out five kaleidoscopes. Each one was a unique work of art, taking him years to craft, and inside each he had imparted a piece of his soul. They had been made with carefully selected items found from around Valparaíso: a gilded ostrich egg, a length of antler, a wooden flute, a brass door knob, and a 19th century naval compass. Each had been filled with shards of colourful glass, beads and mirrors, and had been extraordinarily transformed. The old man stood back to observe them. A wave of excitement rippled through his aching bones. He had a good feeling about this evening. With his pieces now displayed and ready, all he had to do was wait. A young couple strode arm in arm along the walkway. They laughed together on full stomachs of wine and seafood, stopping to muse over some watercolour pictures. Yet as they neared the cart, their attention was stolen by the view, and they passed by as if it wasn’t even there. A little later two mature women approached his cart, and they carelessly fondled his creations, too engaged in their conversation to really look at or appreciate them. But The Kaleidoscope Man was not deterred, believing surely that the right person would soon come. Later, a young boy leading his mother by the hand tugged towards the cart pointing excitedly. He almost made it, before he was distracted by the sweet smells of a vendor further down. Others continued to idly pass the cart, until the sky was warmed pink and the light dwindling; the sun taking her exit bow.

The Kaleidoscope Man remained patient. A soft growl at his feet announced the arrival of David Bowie; his favourite, dishevelled street dog. He had one blue eye and one bright green, and was a Porteño just like the old man (growing up in the port and never leaving). David Bowie chewed an old crust from the man’s pocket, and they sat down together on the curb. In truth, the old man was glad of the company, for he was generally avoided by everyone but the dogs. The people of Valparaíso all knew of him, had seen him pushing his cart around for too many years to seem natural. The Porteños were a suspicious people by nature, and his unusual longevity of life did not sit well with them. The Kaleidoscope Man heard the whispers that surrounded him he is cursed, he is magic, he is deranged, and each 58 rumour that reached his ears made him smile.

“Qué pasa?” the old man asked David Bowie, who was looking visibly bristled. The dog scrabbled up and scampered away, over to the middle of the railings. The old man’s gaze followed him, his eyes stopping to rest on a girl. “Si, David Bowie” he whispered. He knew then that she was the one. The girl had a restlessness about her. Her brown hair was tangled in the breeze. She was by herself, he presumed travelling alone. She leant over the railings, looking down, watching cargo containers being loaded up and lifted onto ships docked in the bay. Below her the many colours of the city waltzed. Every inch of it was painted, every alley lined with murals. A hotchpotch of various colonial styles and flavours. The girl sighed, taking in all the beauty, but even such beauty couldn’t still her. The old man waited eagerly for her to come, steadily willing her to, and it was not long before she did. “How beautiful!” She exclaimed as she reached him, admiring the crafts on his cart. “Inglés?” He asked her. “Yes, I’m English”. “And you like my city of colour?” “I’ve never seen a town so vibrant”. The Kaleidoscope Man seemed satisfied enough. “Colour is life”, he said knowingly. “I heard that all the painting began here because kids used to graffiti over the walls. But people soon realised that they wouldn’t graffiti over murals, and so they all commissioned artists to paint their houses. Is that true?” The man quietly processed for a moment. “It is so. But colour came a long time before then. You know the Canal de Panamá?” “Yes, I’ve been there once”. “Well, a long time before it was made, boats sailed around the whole peninsula to get to the west of America. They always stopped here in Valparaíso, to rest, and re-paint their ships. They left all the paint, piled up at the harbour because it was too heavy, and so we took it for ourselves to colour our houses.” “I like that” the girl said, “what a good story”. “And what is your story, girl?” “I’m travelling”. “You are a lost soul…I can see it”.

The girl was beginning to feel uncomfortable, but for some reason she was drawn to stay. “What is your story?” She deflected. “I grew up surrounded by colour, and now I trade in it”, he nodded towards his cart. She picked up the antler horn, turning it over in her hands. “What are they?” “Kaleidoscopes…I make them”. She lifted it up to her eye but the man stopped her urgently with his hand. “That one is not for you. This one will be better”, he passed her the naval compass, set in its cylindrical wooden case. “And how much do they cost?” “They are not for sale. I sell something more precious, at a very great cost” “What’s that?” She asked sceptically, sensing she was on the edge of a scam. “El futuro. I sell divination. If you look into the kaleidoscope then you will see what you want from life. You will have clarity”. A laugh escaped the girls’ lips. “OK”, she said, humouring him. “How much is that going to cost?” “Five precious years of your life”, he let the sentence linger in the air. “Oh, well if that’s all it costs, I might as well take a look”. “It is a great cost, and no joke, I must warn you. But a cost, I believe that would be worth it. For you would waste five years of your life not knowing what you wanted to do anyway. I would treasure that time, not waste it. Besides, at your age, you won’t feel it yet”. She grinned, greatly amused at the peculiar man. “You have a deal then, mi amigo”, she said, and brought her eye to the small hole in the wood, squinting inside to see. She twisted the end of the shaft. Immediately she was pulled into a new world, with new paradigms, different structures, of whirling hues. Of geometry, of symmetry and exploding colour. Dancing configurations, every picture unique and never to be repeated again. Greens and pinks and yellows. Turquoises, purples and reds. And soon she found that the shapes transforming before her were somewhat obvious and easy to interpret. Triangles, diamonds and squares, overlapping. There were people performing, engaged audiences, crowds cheering, numerous stages, and 60 different acts. She was there, a circle; complete, whole, pulsating with success and joy, then

transforming into new shapes, new characters, taking on new roles, all with an overwhelming sense of rhythmic clarity and control. She pulled herself away from the eye piece, and exhaled deeply into the warm air. The sun was now setting quickly, and the sky around her was fading to grey, matching the sea on the horizon. It could only have been seconds but it felt like an age. She looked at The Kaleidoscope Man uneasily, and replaced the compass on the red silk. “I think” he said slowly “that it worked, no?” But the girl found that she could form no appropriate words. Within her chest she felt an elevation, which she knew to be inspiration. She allowed herself a smile. “That’s not quite what I expected”, she said. “People never do”. “Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about, that’s for sure”. “Think less, do more, girl”, he said. “You have less time to waste now”. The girl walked away from the cart, not knowing quite how she should feel. She reached the top of a steep row of steps that were decorated to resemble piano keys, and tinkled her way down to the bottom. She felt that something extraordinary had happened, but the sceptic inside her laughed. The Kaleidoscope Man lingered a while, looking out to sea and breathing the salt air. He loved this place and wanted never to leave it. After some time he packed up for the night, wrapping his masterpieces carefully in cloth, and laying them neatly in the top drawer. Then he pushed his cart over in the direction of the funicular. He paused for a moment as something caught his eye on the ground. Camouflaged on the green pathway it could easily have been missed. It was a single earring that someone had lost, made with a marbled, dichroic green glass. Almost like David Bowie’s left eye. The Kaleidoscope Man slipped it into his pocket - it would make itself useful one day. The funicular cranked its way down the Cerro Alegre, as night time fell over Valparaíso, wiping out all its colour into blackness, until the morning came.

CONTRIBUTORS A-Z

Becky Roberts Becky is a London-based writer, world-traveller and aspiring novelist, who has always been most content with a pen in hand. After graduating from the University of Nottingham with a BA in Archaeology and Art History, she moved back to the capital to take her chances. She dabbles in poetry, short stories, and plays (such as her comedic series Disastrous Dates produced by New Theatre, 2012). Known as a dreamer, some catch her looking vacant, but you can be sure that she is actually conjuring up new fantastical worlds that she plans to take you to. Danne Corrochio Danne started writing funny bios about his teachers and classmates in the 8th grade (so funny he got expelled). He has contributed to American zine publications like Street Carnage and Thought Catalog. But recently founded his own magazine: Carnicería (which translates to “butchers”), an intercontinental publication in Spanish and English featuring exceptional storytelling & striking opinions. You can check it out at RevistaCarniceria.com, and you can follow his rants on twitter @nvvmxac. Davey James Davey is a London based musician. To listen to more please check out daveyjamesmusic.com and @ DaveyJamesMusic Frances Bakewell Frances ‘Taffy’ is a graduate of Goldsmiths University London; part-time cash earner, full-time human and well loves writing poetry/short fiction when the inspiration hits. One day her name will be up in lights. Maybe. Gareth Culshaw Gareth is an aspiring writer who wants to achieve something special with the pen. He currently lives in North Wales. Jack Kelly Jack is a Londoner who believes in the provocative, empowering energy of the imagination, and a lover of stories of various styles. When not serving his time in the daily working grind his passion is devoted to composing story/poetry based writings through what could be considered abstract, off-beat, surreal wordplay that is both playful and aspires to explore the enduring strength, general humorous and darker aspects of human nature. Kelly Jordan Kelly is 33 year old single mother of two who has just completed a BA English at Winchester University with a dissertation on the Sublime. Living on the south coast means she is fortunate enough to spend lots of time on the beach; reading, writing, taking amazing pictures of sunsets that she wrongfully assumes her Facebook friends will appreciate, and attempting to coax her wimpy sausage dog into the ocean. 62

Ned Carter Miles Ned is a writer, translator, musician, and has just returned to London from France, where he held a teaching post at the Université de Franche-Comté. He was the founder of Story Time, one of London’s original prose open-mic nights, and cofounded UCL’s literary zine, Still & Still Moving. Peter Nuckley Peter is a Liverpool born, Yorkshire living, married father of two. As an English graduate he has always been a keen writer of poetry, novels and songs all of which are helped along by a love of whisky. Prakeezah Zahoor Pakeezah Zahoor is a fledgling poet and lover of all things literary. She studied English Literature at the University of Leeds and holds an MA in Postcolonial Literatures and Cultures from the University of Manchester. When she isn’t gobbling chocolate or slurping tea, she works as the Events Coordinator at the Bradford Literature Festival. She also loves cake. Rahi Rahi is a freelance writer and a poet. She started her writing career at the age of twenty one in India. Her work experience varies from writing for both in print and television shows. She is a versatile writer with a natural skill to write a fiction that touches reality of human life. Her English translation from Marathi language was awarded and applauded by the vigilance commissioner of India. She speaks three Indian languages and works as a translator and interpreter. Her poetry is making ripples of appreciation in her Facebook page. Rahi is working on her novel Masala Chai. Rich Law Rich Law is a London-based blogger and writer. A UEA English Literature with Creative Writing graduate, his writing has appeared in the Huffington Post, Cultured Vultures and on BBC radio. He is a weekly contributor to The Metropolist. His band, Roofus, is currently working on its sophmore album, Half-Ghost Town. Robert Peake Robert Peake is a British-American poet living near London. He created the Transatlantic Poetry on Air reading series. His debut full-length collection The Knowledge is now available from Nine Arches Press. Tressillian Tressillian exist to analyse the effects of modernity through collaborative text based theatre. They are cofounders Director Grace Gummer, Writer Philip Carter Lindsey and Producer Felicity Paterson. After graduating from Goldsmiths, Tressillian spent 2014 developing Philip’s work through workshops, rehearsed readings and scratch nights. ‘Anonymous Anonymous’ will be their debut full length play. For more information: tressilliancollective.com @tressillianco Troy Cabida Troy Cabida is a writer born and raised in Manila, now based in London. His recent poetry work has appeared on Our Own Voice, The Travelling Poet, WORK and Thought Collection Publishing, with his first prose piece coming out on their webzine. He is a columnist for Instazine21 and Miracle E-Zine and has been credited editor for several issues of Siblíní Journal and Thought Notebook. He 63

also has a poetry book titled Lost in London through Blurb, which will be re-released as an eBook this 2015. Catch him blogging about life at www.troycabida.wordpress.com. White Fever White Fever are an Anglo-Scandinavian dream-pop band based in London, experimenting in ethereal and atmospheric landscapes.

This months edition is dedicated to the theme ‘craft’ and individuals’ interpretation of unification between fine art, technology, literature, design, architecture and the mind.