PoV Magazine issue 4

I S S U E 4

NEW WRITING POETRY ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY ON A COMMON THEME

the

HUMAN CONDITION

Cover image by Nicole Kircher THE GUYS AT POV TOWERS: Designer: Ben Turner Editors and co-creators: Chris Pilkington and Ben Turner Proof reading wonder kid: Emma Seymour

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Hello

WELCOME TO ISSUE FOUR

AND WELCOME TO POV

Ben and Chris

Here we are again, another issue jam packed with all the best new art, writing, poetry and photography from around the world with The Human Condition as our theme.

One of the cleverest and most well-read people we have ever been fortunate enough to encounter, Mr W.K.Pedia, describes our theme as follows: The human condition encompasses the unique and believed to be inescapable features of being human. It can be described as the irreducible part of humanity that is inherent and not dependent on factors such as gender, race or class. It includes concerns such as the meaning of life, the search for gratification, the sense of curiosity, the inevitability of isolation, or anxiety regarding the inescapability of death.

So not exactly a walk in the park for our artists but the work we’ve got for you in these pages is absolutely some of the best yet. We hope you enjoy exploring the theme as much as we have.

Not only that, but this is the final PoV of the year, our first year in business. It’s been an honour putting the magazine together and we’ve been blown away by the creativity of the artists and the dedication of our readers. Look out for the next issue, in February, for a special ‘best of the first year’ celebration. Now, get on with it, turn the page and enjoy.

Ben Turner and Chris Pilkington Founders of the feast

Visit: www.povmagazine.co.uk Follow: @pov_magazine Email: hello@povmagazine.co.uk

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WELCOME: CONTENTS 006 MEET THE CONTRIBUTORS 010 IN MY EYES Mark Smart’� �tunning portraits illustrate human life 022 THE SWITCH

By Luis Amate Perez 026 SUNFLOWER

By Jade Leaf �lletts 028 SUPERMAN SAYS We get a K�yptonian view of The Human Condition 030 MORE THAN FLESH Beautiful art by Nicole Kircher 038 PALE BLUE DOT Ben Turner introduces Carl Sagan 040 DELIVERANCE

By Emma Seymour 044 THE MOURNERS Life and death with Emelie Gilson 052 SOUVENIR

By W.M.Lewis

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054 THE APOCALYPTIC DESK Sgt.Pilko is �till confusing people in the future 056 THE INCURABLE CONDITION

By Jeff Chandler 058 LONG GONE & OVERGROWN Ben Turner discovers a place that time forgot 073 THE GOLDEN RECORD

By W.M.Lewis 074 REG GARBOTEH

By Emma Jacobs 078 THE NEW HOMEMAKER

By Mercedes Fonseca 080 STREAMS OF CONSCIOUSNESS Exploring the patterns of the mind by Illustrating Rain 092 THE PELLETS

By Emelie Gilson 098 WHEN I DIE

By Jade Leaf �lletts

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WELCOME: MEET THE CONTRIBUTORS

MEET THE CONT RIBU TORS 6

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BEN TURNER Designer / photographer / film lover / music listener / book reader / Stephen Fry worshipper.

Oh and co-creator of this very magazine, by the way thanks for reading, you’re my new hero and you look amazing, have you lost weight?

Having worked on corporate publications for the last few years where everything you do is checked by the complete and utter hell that is a “Branding Team” this is a breath of fresh air. A chance to design something I love with content by people I admire. Can’t ask for more than that eh?

Website: www.ben-turner.co.uk Twitter: @benturner83 BURAK ISIK Founder of graphic design&advertising agency ºcelsius, a brand specialist, professional traveller, documentary photographer, writer (hillsider / blank-mag), dreamer…

His idea of re-creating Superman on twitter with @SupermanTweets entertains more than 35,000 people on a daily basis. A Kryptonian who is stuck on Earth with dual personality disorder shares his perspective on everyday things with a wicked sense of humor and imagery.

Among his celebrity superfollowers are Milla Jovovich, Jean Paul Gaultier, Amanda Holden, Kristin Davis, David Copperfield, Angie Harmon, Nina Garcia, John Simm, Ed Drewett, Matt Johnson, Matthew Modine, Blake Harrison, Tony Parsons, Emilio Estevez, David Faustino and Samantha Fox… Twitter: @SupermanTweets

ÉMÉLIE GILSON Artist / taxidermist scupltor / textile fashion designer.

The morbid captivation with dead animals dates back to my childhood when I used to bury animals I found. The slow organic decaying, drying flesh, body transformation is a ritual that I observe and think of as the animal trauma touching this world.

I create for them elegy, funeral sculptures. Human is a spokesman between them and us by death, by mourning, by clothes, by acting performance, by tales I want to create.

Website: http://emeliegilson.com

ILLUSTRATING RAIN I am a self-taught illustrator working under the name of Illustrating Rain. I love exploring the process of mind and matter and the way my engagement with pen and paper flows out of a space which is ever evolving and in a state of flux. A few favourite things are belly laughs, notebooks and the magical unknown!

Website: www.illustratingrain. tumblr.com Shop: www.etsy.com/shop/ IllustratingRain Facebook: www.facebook.com/ illustrating.rain Twitter: @IllustratingR

EMMA JACOBS My name is Emma Jacobs and I just entered number 23.

I studied English Lit at University in Brighton. I have been writing for a long time, at least for the expanse of my adolescence, and for me, exploring my creative side is integral to understanding others better.

I hope writing takes me to some very interesting and usual places.

JADE LEAF WILLETTS Jade Leaf Willetts is a writer, artist and musician.

He blogs at What would Neal Do? and is currently in the process of setting up the Jade Leaf Willetts Poetry Protest. This is not so much a protest, more another weird idea that he justifies in the ‘name of writing’. It basically involves him trying to convince strangers to create videos to showcase his work.

Blog: http://jlwilletts.wordpress. com

EMMA SEYMOUR Emma Seymour is a writer and journalist based in London. Starting out as a reporter on regional newspapers in Kent and the capital, she now works in corporate publishing. Her heart lies in writing about real life, people and what makes them tick. Other interests include human rights, politics, animal welfare and international development.

Twitter: @Emseymour

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JEFF CHANDLER Jeff currently lives in London where he works as a professional actor and singer.

Being faced with a crossroads in his life, he began to write. His weekly blog entitled ‘Malleable Reality’ marries together his passion for writing and photography covering love, life and everything in between.

Blog: http://goo.gl/45E2a

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WELCOME: MEET THE CONTRIBUTORS LUIS AMATE PEREZ Luis Amate Perez is Lou Perez, half of the comedy duo, Greg and Lou (www.youtube.com/gregandlou).

Lou was a comedy producer on TruTV’s Impractical Jokers and performs regularly at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater. His work has appeared in Fiction, Born in the 1980s (Route Magazine, 2008), Rejected: Tales of the Failed, Dumped, and Canceled (Villard, 2009), Beyond Race Magazine, Religion Dispatches, and Zouch Magazine.

Twitter: @LouontheSubway MARK SMART I have been a passionate and dedicated photographer for over twenty-five years and my love for photography began with film cameras and working in the darkroom producing my own prints. I feel there is something special about the hands on approach of film and the craft of working in the darkroom.

My development and enthusiasm for photography meant progressing to using 5x4 large format cameras and I have travelled extensively around the country, especially the North West of Scotland, capturing its solitude and sublime beauty through landscape photography.

Whilst obtaining a BA (Hons) Photography degree, my direction in photography changed. As well as moving towards digital media, I also moved towards a more urban style of photography, including photographing the busy populated areas of London. This has developed into a new love of photographing people.

MERCEDES FONSECA Mercedes Fonseca’s (aka CedeRed) first book written age six depicts The Cookie Family eating a pair of children-cum-playmates. Her writing now shows a different kind of gore, photographs (at times encephalograms) in words.

Lover of detail, analogy, codes and passion. Hater of narrowmindedness, labels and lack of logic.

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NICOLE KIRCHER Nicole is a painter, photographer, and educator. She has had a variety of experiences “in the art world”, many of them unpaid (surprise!) but all of them enriching and enlightening.

She has attended residencies, exhibited in modest and not so modest venues, and worked for galleries, schools, and non-profits.

Nicole apparently loves being in places where she does not speak the language because that ALWAYS happens to her. She enjoys working, walking around, and her two favorite topics of discussion are religion/philosophy and politics/conspiracy theories.

SGT. PILKO Born in the wrong century, I’m the type who would love to harp on about exotic foreign trips, filled with peculiar women who have tempted my gaze with silver trays laden with shiny puddings.

But alas the nearest I have come to this was to be holding the form for a trip to poke a peasant whilst he clutched at his Nokia 3310...

W.M.LEWIS I’m a Brisbane-based poet and fiction writer. my work has appeared in Alliterati Magazine, Best Australian Poems 2011, Cordite Poetry Review, Eclecticism, Multiverses, PoV Magazine, Railroad Poetry Project, street cake magazine and The Night Light.

You can find me (a little too often) on Twitter: @w_m_lewis

Download your free PoV posters from povmagazine.co.uk and help spread the word ISSUE 2 2012

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IN MY EYES: MARK SMART

By Mark Smart

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IN MY EYES: MARK SMART

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As part

of my third year for my BA Photography degree I travelled extensively around India for over two months, visiting many of its major cities and towns and photographing some of the unique and beautiful people I met there. Many of the people I encountered have a very hard dayto-day existence, but their spirit and resilience to these challenges shows through in their faces and that was what I wanted to capture.

Despite what some people think, my images are not cropped and I asked none of the people I photographed to model for me. By

getting this close, being spontaneous and by having no identifiable background to my subject, my aim was to focus entirely on the emotions and feelings shown.

Having started my photography journey with black and white film, I have always found there to be something powerful and emotive about the tones and textures this medium produces. With the following selection of photographs I have tried to put across to you, the viewer, a snapshot of the lives of these people through the expressions in their faces, leaving it up to you as to what story they are trying to tell.

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IN MY EYES: MARK SMART

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IN MY EYES: MARK SMART

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IN MY EYES: MARK SMART

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IN MY EYES: MARK SMART

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THE SWITCH: LUIS AMATE PEREZ

THe

By Luis Amate Perez

sWiTCH The best

part about switching bodies with my grandson was getting to play little league baseball again.

The worst part about switching bodies with my grandson was having to watch him die in my body.

I still don’t know what happened exactly – or if this whole switch is just one big dream I’ve yet to wake up from – but I figure it has something to do with the night I took Michael to the carnival in Douglaston, Queens.

The “carnies,” I guess you call them, set up every year in the parking lot of Saint Anastasia’s church and grammar school. It’s the same thing every year: the same folks from Douglaston, Little Neck, and the other nearby towns; the same rides; the same food stands – overpriced and sure to give you heartburn. Jesus, they have this one zeppole stand – every time I’d get close to the parking lot, the smell of that deep-fried dough would just get inside me!

And I’d want it so badly – but I’d hold myself back.

Because, of course, it wasn’t good for me. When you’re a 67-year-old diabetic widower, and only 40-percent of your heart is functioning, you learn that nothing is good for you.

It was around the time that the stench of zeppole started to make my stomach churn that Michael asked if we could go on the Zipper ride. I looked up at the contraption: five stories of steel and metal cages spinning on axes – the whole thing looked used-up and ready to collapse.

“We?” I said. “You’re gonna have to go at this one alone, Michael.”

Poor Michael. You had to be at least 48-inches tall to ride the Zipper, and my grandson, though smarter than most of his seven-year-old peers, didn’t measure up in the height department.

“You’ll get there one day,” I said. “Don’t you worry

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PHOTO CREDIT: GARY L. BREWER / SHUTTERSTOCK.COM

about that.”

And for a moment I was jealous of the long life plotting itself before my grandson. Carnival rides aside, there’s so much fun to be had once you get over that 48-inch hump.

“It’s bullshit,” Michael said.

“What did you say?” I wasn’t scolding him for saying a “bad word” – I was just surprised by how old he sounded all of a sudden. But he apologized anyway.

“Sorry,” he said, like a little boy again, fighting back his first real tears of rage.

Suddenly, there were flashes of lightning – I swear a bolt struck the top of the Zipper – and the smell of zeppole turned electric. The hairs on my arms stood up just as the rains came. We raced back to my car – well, Michael raced.

I lagged, unable to avoid the downpour.

We woke up the next morning – Michael was spending the weekend with me – and shared screams in the bathroom. Jesus, the ultimate switcheroo had been made!

Could it have been the lightning storm that switched us? But how? More importantly: why? Just so we could ride the Zipper? It doesn’t make any sense. Because even with our minds swapped, it’s not like our respective bodies had changed. I’d still be in the body of a boy under fourfeet tall, and he’d still be in the body of an old fart who can barely take a crap without fainting.

The next few hours are a blur. But sometime during our hysterics we remembered that Michael had a playoff game only hours away. What were we gonna do?

Well, under the circumstances we figured it was time Michael learned to drive. I never thought trying to keep a Maxima under 15 miles an hour would be so damn scary.

But for Michael it was thrilling: every left-hand turn, bump, and intersection – it was like he was in one of those Fast & Furious flicks.

After what felt like a daylong car chase, we finally pulled into the parking lot of the ball field and found a spot. “I did it!” Michael said, my old hands – now his – still gripping the steering wheel so hard they were white. “I can’t believe it – I drove!”

“You sure did.” I put the car in park, reached over and took the keys from the ignition, and put them in the pants pocket of the baseball uniform I wore. “Now don’t go telling your mother about this.”

“I won’t,” he said, with a grin.

So, I thought, that’s what my grin looks like.

I went two-for-four in that playoff game. During my first at-bat for the Little Mets I got caught looking at a fastball. Later, I almost legged out a double. Cut me some slack – it’d been over 40 years since I’d last played. But that didn’t get in the way of my two singles – both beautiful shots down the third-base line. Or how

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THE SWITCH: LUIS AMATE PEREZ

What a gift I have been given! Who hasn’t thought about having another go at his life? about my game-tying RBI in the ninth inning? Coming out of retirement after four decades, batting .500, and the closest thing to a golden glove on that field – Jesus H. Christ, you should have seen me at shortstop!

And we won! The Little Mets won a come-frombehind slugfest and advanced to the semis. I joined the dogpile on the mound, and just before I lost myself completely in the celebration, I looked up at the stands and saw myself cheering back at me – my ride home – a hotdog held in what was once my hand. It was surreal.

But for the first time in a long time I looked happy for me.

Then I collapsed. I mean, my body in the stands collapsed. Michael folded in half and fell over the two young mothers sitting on the bench below him.

The women struggled to escape his bulk. One of the assistant coaches from the other team tried to resuscitate him – but I’m sure Michael was dead before their lips even touched. Was this what it was all about? Take my grandson away from this world, just to give me, this broken old man, nine more innings? v Today I’m back at my daughter and son-in-law’s house. I never liked him, but over the last few days I’ve realized that he’s doing the best he can. I’m thinking about telling them what happened to their son and me, but it’s probably best to wait it out a little longer.

I just stepped out of the shower and I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror, looking over the body my grandson has left me. There’s no hair to speak of.

“But just you wait,” I say to his reflection. “If you’re anything like your grandpa, you’ll have monkeys picking ticks off your back in no time.”

Poor Michael. I wonder what he thought of my body – confronting the veins, the spots, my battle wound from open-heart surgery – the horror of age.

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The hair. The penis.

What a gift I have been given! Who hasn’t thought about having another go at his life? Looking at this young body – soon to break the four-foot mark – I’m thinking about all the opportunities it has in front of it. I want to see how strong it can get, how much knowledge it can gain, how many lives it can change.

There’s a whole carnival of possibility here. I don’t want to waste it again. The semi-finals are this coming weekend.

I feel guilty when I have these thoughts. And the guilt makes this gift feel like a curse.

“I am so sorry, Michael. But I did not ask for this.”

I wipe away the fog on the mirror with my hand, so I can see my grandson’s face.

“No, I did not ask for this. But it’s here – this new life – and all I can do is live it. It starts here. I’m gonna go into your bedroom and put on that little suit your mother – my daughter – laid out on the bed for me.

Your father won’t need to help me with the tie.”

There’s an itch near the right elbow – I’m still getting used to these familiar sensations on my new body. I scratch at the area, which is completely free of callus.

“When the limousine pulls up outside, I’ll hop in with your mother and father, and we’ll head over to Gleason’s funeral home in Bayside for the last viewing of my body. Then after Mass, we’ll follow the hearse out to Cold Spring Harbor, where your grandmother’s buried.”

I wipe my eyes on a facecloth. “I’ll ask to say a few words at the grave, and after I’m done, everyone will ask, ‘Where would a seven-year-old learn to speak like that?’ And your mother will say something like, ‘He’s just like his grandfather.’”

I blow my nose into the facecloth.

“Jesus, she has no idea!”

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BORED? LONELY? WEEKS BEFORE THE NEXT PoV MAGAZINE COMES OUT? Well chin up, stop sitting staring blankly at the wall and log on to the PoV Symposium, a brand new site from the minds behind PoV Magazine.

The PoV Symposium is the place to go to keep you entertained between issues with more amazing work from our brilliant contributors and we want you to get involved. If you’ve been inspired to write a short story or poem, take a photo or paint a picture by the themes of the magazine send them to us on hello@povmagazine.co.uk and you could see your work online.

The PoV Symposium – better than a poke in the eye.

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SUNFLOWER: JADE LEAF WILLETTS

SUNFL

(FOR SCARLETT – WITH

The day is blue I have seen score and six more summers than you and grown nothing in this time we plant seeds I watch your perfect fingers negotiate the task at hand you wait patiently checking everyday for signs

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as you sleep I fear death in a new way as unborn flowers come to be the symbol of disappointment soon enough a shoot gives you the most beautiful smile I have seen you wear

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one survived the others dried out got eaten up you watched it reach mast-like until the bud opened out into a perfect circle strong taller than you us

LOWER

ALL THE LOVE I KNOW)

I took a photo of you together that was a happy day time moved around you like a soft breeze freezing only to show you the flower curled down

first lessons in death along with the fish and the mouse that I tried to explain away this is different because you witness the cycle in beauty in cruelty you cry and see him head hung bent over like a beat sea-man looking to the fate that awaits him in the deep the depths he must go to

we leave the sunless flower tied washed up anchored against the dock a shipwreck of rotting leaves bending to the end bowing to the earth it hung there through the winter as a beautiful reminder and even in this the following summer I can see something of it a part that was not cut down

By Jade Leaf �lletts

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Q&A: SUPERMAN

n A m PeR

sU s Ay s

We were lucky enough to grab a word with the one and only Superman to get his view on our theme – The Human Condition.

Ben Turner asks the questions...

As a Kryptonian what do you see as ‘The Human Condition’ and is there a Kryptonian equivalent? Do you have the same goals and fears as us?

The perfect example of the human condition is calling the first flying man you see a bird or a plane. And to be honest, I don’t know if we had “The Kryptonian Condition” back home. Even if we did, probably it exploded along with the planet. When it comes to goals and fears mine are a bit different than the common man. My biggest goal is to wear rash-free tights one day and my biggest fear is to fly under an airplane toilet at the wrong time.

Q

What do you think are the human race’s best and worst qualities?

Best quality: Sense of humor (Excuse my American spelling there..)

Worst quality: Kim Kardashian

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I’m sure we’d all like to be Kryptonians, with the excellent black

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outfits and all those crystals lying around, do you ever wish you were a human?

Well this is a hard one to answer. I’m still trying to solve my dual personality disorder issues with my shrink. Clark, do you want to answer this one? . . . He doesn’t.

Do you have a favourite Human – not including Lois – who are they and why?

I love everyone who buys my official S-shirts.

I make a 50 percent sales commission on all sales.

Q

And finally, we think a very important part of being human is the ability to laugh, have you learnt any good jokes since being here?

- Knock knock.

- Who’s there?”

- I’m Batman - Batman Who? - Alfred, your Alzheimer’s is getting worse.

Open the door.

Q

“sorry, was I meant to be writing down the answers?”

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MORE THAN FLESH: NICOLE KIRCHER

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MORE THAN FLESH

By Nicole Kircher

One of my primary concerns is emotional transparency. In my work I attempt to make the private public, which I think is a universal human inclination. Even the reclusive and withdrawn lay themselves bare in one way or another.

In pairing the animals with the figures, or even the pieces where the animals stand alone, I was considering the sacredness of being and the transcendental experience of interacting with a moving, breathing life. There’s this otherness that’s hard to pinpoint, hence the wonder, mixed with awe and fear.

In all the paintings I was seeking to emphasize the physical because I believe that this physical reality is inextricably tied to spiritual realities. Despite one’s spiritual framework I think it would be hard to argue that this concept hasn’t been one of the driving forces behind human civilization.

When it is not politicized or demonized I think it’s a beautiful thought to consider, that we are this flesh, and more.

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MORE THAN FLESH: NICOLE KIRCHER

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PALE BLUE DOT: BEN TURNER

I wanted to find a quote that I thought would do justice to this issue’s theme – The Human Condition – and in my mind there is one that stands 6 billion km above the rest.

The author of the quote is not a playwrite, politician or world leader but an astronomer.

His name is Carl Sagan and, for me, these few lines sum up our human life perfectly, in all its beauty and wonder.

Ben Turner

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“From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of any particular interest. But for us, it’s different. Consider again that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us.

On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined selfimportance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light.

Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity – in all this vastness – there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. The Earth is the only world known, so far, to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, the Earth is where we make our stand. It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.”

Carl Sagan (1934-1996)

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This is a photograph of planet Earth taken in 1990 by the Voyager 1 spacecraft from a record distance of about 6 billion kilometers (3.7 billion miles).

The Earth is shown as a tiny dot (0.12 pixel in size) against the vastness of space. The Voyager 1 spacecraft, which had completed its primary mission and was leaving the Solar System, was commanded by NASA to turn its camera around and to take a photograph of Earth across a great expanse of space, at the request of Carl Sagan.

IMAGE COURTESY NASA/JPL

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DELIVERANCE DELIVERANCE: EMMA SEYMOUR

The woman looks down at the paper again. 5.30pm Dr Richards, Wellness Centre. The desk clock flicks to 3:24. Not long, she thinks.

It’s stuffy inside the flat so she opens the window. The still February day enters the room. Everything is grey this time of year, the sky is white, a sun-bleached photograph.

A crow swoops down to snatch at a worm, exposed and vulnerable in the middle of the lawn below. Another crow joins the grappling pair, unfairly matched. A tug-of-war begins.

The woman turns away from the scene and plunges into the bathroom. She runs a bath. The water bubbles and steams, slowly filling the tub. It seems to take an age, the water inching its way up the side until she gets impatient and gets in. She is submerged only up to her knees.

Her mind turns to this evening. Have I made the right decision? Or am I being rash and hot headed. Mum always used to accuse of me of acting first and thinking later. No, I’ve had plenty of time to think this through. I’ve thought of nothing else since that day two months ago. v It was already getting dark outside as I sat in the itchy polyester chair in Dr Lovell’s office. I remember thinking the tinsel stuck to the outside of her computer was pretty

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inappropriate given the occasion.

The room was still ringing with the echo of her words.

Awkward in the ensuing silence. The ancient storage heater pumped out stale, warm air and the white walls of the small room seemed all of a sudden oppressive. I need to get out. I eyed the window and thought momentarily of making a break for it. But instead I said thank you, got up and walked calmly to the door, grasping the handle to steady myself. v The woman rinses the shampoo from her hair, letting the hot water soothe her aching head. The pain has intensified again. Forcing her eyes shut as if to block out the shards of glass cutting through her scalp, she massages her temples.

Yes, she thinks. I’m doing the right thing.

Back in her bedroom she carefully leafs through her wardrobe, hovering momentarily over a strappy scarlet number. She pushes it aside and instead reaches for a dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt dress. The wool feels soft on her skin, comforting. Black leggings, black boots, red lipstick.

Teasing her hair into place she eyes herself in the mirror.

Something’s missing.

She reaches under the bed and gropes around. After a couple of minutes her fingers chance upon it. The box’s

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By Emma Seymour smooth, hard surface offers itself to her. She pulls it out.

A thick film of dust has dulled the once bright burgundy cover. Taking a deep breath, she opens it.

An old cinema stub, a plastic flower, a bus ticket to somewhere distant and foreign, a business card, a packet of matches, a handwritten letter, a photograph. She pauses over the fading image. The smiling faces look almost alien.

Then there it is. The soft velvet pouch reveals itself. Pulling gently at the ribbon it opens. Inside the woman touches the ring. Fading in the dark it has lost its old sparkle. Bit like me, she thinks. She slides it onto her left hand, packs up the rest of the box and puts it back under the bed where she found it.

Dr Richards eyes the file quickly and closes it with a sigh.

He checks the clock on the wall above his desk. 5:20. He lifts the phone and dials 0 for his assistant.

“Is it all prepared?” he asks.

“All ready Dr Richards,” said Sylvie. “I did have one question though. Are you sure she didn’t want anybody here?”

“Of course.”

“And she didn’t want to call anybody, not a relative even?”

“What does it say on the form?”

Silence.

“Sylvie?”

“It says no visitors. It’s just, well if it was up to me…”

“Well fortunately for you Sylvie it’s not up to you. It’s not for us to question what our clients…”

“I know, ‘our clients’ choice is paramount’ and all that. I dunno it’s just…”

“What Sylvie?”

There’s a pause. Sylvie lets out a slow breath.

“Nothing.”

The taxi pulls up outside the pristine white building.

It’s raining now so the woman reaches for her umbrella, fumbling for the fare. The driver avoids her eyes as she hands him the money.

Inside the building there’s a strange smell, a mixture of antiseptic and vanilla. The smell of fear, she thinks, snorting to herself for being so melodramatic.

She walks over to reception and hands the lady her appointment card. The receptionist’s dark curly hair crowns her face like a halo.

“Good evening,” she says. “I’m Sylvie. Please come through.”

The woman follows Sylvie through a wooden door and into a bright corridor beyond.

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DELIVERANCE: EMMA SEYMOUR

They pass several closed rooms before reaching an open doorway at the end.

The room is sparsely decorated. A heavy wooden table sits in the middle of the space, surrounded by three chairs.

There’s a bed in the corner by the window, scattered with chintzy cushions and a plaid blanket. Either side is a small table.

The curtains are drawn and a lamp lets out a dim glow, giving the room a feeling of familiarity. Like being at your Grandma’s house.

“Just make yourself comfortable,” said Sylvie.

“There’s some paperwork we need you to look at and sign.” She gestures to the piles of paper on the table. They lay out side by side like marble tombstones.

The woman nods.

“Dr Richards will be with you shortly. If you need anything at all please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Sylvie vanishes through the door and closes it behind her.

Once again the woman is alone. v “I’m not angry,” I said.

“Yes you are, I can tell. You’ve got that pursed lips thing and you’re cleaning. You only clean when you’re pissed off. Talk to me.”

Poor Ryan, there really was no point. I couldn’t explain why I was upset. If he knew it was because I thought the romantic trip we’d just got back from hadn’t ended in a dramatic proposal, he’d run a mile.

“It’s nothing,” I lied.

“Clearly,” he said, an edge to his voice.

This wasn’t fair. The thought hadn’t even entered my head until the girls at work started teasing me about it.

‘You’re going to Paris? Surely there’s only one reason he would take you to Paris on your birthday!’ They squealed like a bunch of overexcited children.

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It was ridiculous. I didn’t even want to get married that desperately.

But the problem was, they’d planted a seed and that seed had grown. It had grown into an ugly weed, its roots lodged firmly in my brain, twisting and knotting until any sense of logic was suffocated.

Ryan came back into the bedroom dressed in a coat and scarf.

“I’m going for a walk.”

The door shut behind him. I sat down on the bed and looked over at the birthday card on the desk. A cartoon bear holding a birthday cake grinned back at me.

Get A Grip.

Three hours later and my anger had turned to worry.

Where the hell is he?

The stew I’d lovingly prepared to say sorry sat on the hob expectantly.

My stomach grumbled.

There was a knock at the door. I waited. The oven clock said 9:15. Why would he knock?

I got up, charging to the door.

“About time,” I said. “Where have you…”

But it wasn’t Ryan. Standing in the doorway where he should have been were two uniformed police officers.

“Is this the residence of Ryan Allan?”

“Yes,” I said breathlessly. “What’s happened? I’m his girlfriend.”

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident.” v It’s been two months since the funeral. The body shuddering grief is gone, leaving only an empty pain in my chest.

I’m shuffling around the flat, sorting through Ryan’s things. I’ve been putting it off but today the piles of empty meal boxes towering on the side force me out of

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my torpor. Macaroni cheese, vegetable curry, chow mein.

Meals-for-one.

I open the suitcase, still packed from Paris. His clothes smell musty.

I tip it upside down, emptying the contents. Something rattles. Setting the case down I notice a zip, hidden beneath the lining. I’ve not seen it before. I tug at it, slowly unfastening the pocket. Reaching inside, I feel the soft velvet beneath my fingers. v The woman leafs through the papers. I accept all responsibility…I fully understand the consequences. I am free to change my mind at any time.

She signs along the dotted line.

Her throat is dry so she pours herself some water, draining the glass just as fast. Her head is pounding now.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she says.

Sylvie reappears.

Checking the papers she nods.

“Great, I mean…thank you. Dr Richards will be with you shortly. Please lie down on the bed or under the covers. As you wish.”

And she’s gone.

The woman slides herself onto the bed, leaning back against the wooden headboard. I wonder how many people have lay here. She shudders. Don’t think about it.

She peers through the gap in the curtains. It’s completely dark outside. A new moon.

She looks down at her left hand, lightly brushing the ring with her finger.

There’s another knock at the door and Dr Richards enters. He’s carrying a tray. On it is a glass of water and a tablet.

“Good evening,” he says.

“Hello,” the woman’s voice is raspy.

“You have signed all the documentation. But before we proceed I am required to ask, do you still wish to continue?”

The woman nods.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” “Very well. Are you ready?” v Dr Richards’ kind face is blank. He’s speaking but I can no longer hear him. The white tablet sticks in my throat as he hands me the water. It’s slightly milky in colour.

I drink it down, lying back on the bed as Dr Richards takes the empty glass.

“Just relax,” I hear his voice, distant and quiet.

My eyelids feel heavy and I give in to the exhaustion sweeping my body. So tired.

I feel as though I’m drifting out to sea. For the first time in months the pain has subsided, washing away with the tide. All is quiet. v Sylvie switches off her computer, puts on her coat and escapes into the night. Outside the rain has stopped. She drives onto the high street. Office workers spill out of the pubs, revelling in an evening pint. A gin and tonic.

Sylvie keeps driving. She grips the steering wheel. It’s what she wanted. She shakes her head, hoping to rid herself of the day.

She gets home at her usual time, eats with her husband and goes to bed. Her brain buzzes with another day’s events until tiredness takes over, pulling her into sleep.

In the morning the sun rises, Sylvie wakes, gets dressed, gets in her car and goes to work.

She takes her place at reception.

Soon enough another client, anonymous, comes in through the front door for the last time.

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THE MOURNERS: ÉMÉLIE GILSON

THe

moUR

(Original title: Les pleureuses) The Mourners represents a series of portraits in mourning with dead animals. They mourn animals in a movement of reconciliation by carrying them by the human heart.

There is a contact of nudity with the death, flesh by flesh, but the face is hidden with a broken shroud.

By Emelie Gilson

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SOUVENIR: W.M.LEWIS

SOUVENIR we are the cloud, or we’re in it; walking to soft jazz in loud snow, through metropoli that may yet be forgot. but not by us. we are the underground; which like us wants to return to anonymity and collaborates with soft rocks about procuring quiet cave-ins. we are the history you tell us; of our days respectively as Comtes and Ducs we learn via towers, prisons. and the complete stories of lovers. we are the smiles; engulfing each new republic like reunited families. wherever they emerge in history, with them we are one. we are the journey; in the sweet rain, going west pilgrim, or safely back east. where the green gardens lie in wait, learning again to wish. we are the day, and we make it; wherever it is the sky is blue, freshly escaped, and sweetly ripped from Degas. deliberately skewed, like us, it too is lucky in love.

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THE FLEEING DISSIDENTS The trucks barrel down the early streets, horns blaring in quasi-religious fervour.

They are Gyuto monks forever on foot, or in the air, escaping their persecutors and making spare cash while they’re at it.

On the hilltop a light industry answers their mournful call, throbbing with a desire you feel in your naked souls.

It is a home in a friendly nation established by fleeing dissidents.

They welcome the newcomers, turning their tears into music.

TRIBUTE Two men talking to themselves alone One carries a pocket umbrella anticipating a storm One carries a wayward gene uniquely haemorrhaging Like hungry puppies the footpath rears up They tame it with quiet words and sublime hand gestures We leave these languages on the angry mountain, as tribute

By W.M.Lewis

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THE APOCALYPTIC DESK: SGT.PILKO

THe APoCAL ago my gran burned her sleeve Twenty years while cooking milk. The culinary

world revolves around tomatoes and that liquid dairy gold. That was her way of thinking. Her shriek caused her voice to bleed and hence I never heard her call for tango and dinner as she plummeted head first into the family well. Father always maintained that it should have been moved from the hallway. I would later write daily passages on stone about this and my search for the smugglers inside the sandstone cliff.

It was a Tuesday.

Back on the train the Sarge looked at the man opposite, wondering what the air pressure change would bring as they descended the slight gradient at high speed. He concentrated hard on the man.

His ears popped, in fact they exploded clean off the side of his head. Looking around, perplexed, he regained his composure and tried again. A whistling and then gurgling emerged from the bleeding holes on the side of his head.

The vultures loomed...

That was how he had envisaged his father’s death instead of the plain old age which had crept up on him.

Upon alighting at the station the Sarge immediately sought out a library. He needed to be in the company of lots of paper. One was easy to find and soon he was inside like a man making love to a building, in and out, in and out, then finally giving a little cough before falling over limp. Looking up at the sun he suddenly thought how bad a sentence that was. Smut-laden-written-text.

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After a slight snooze he was back up and inside once more and found a wooden table to sit at. He read about cavemen, he read about the history of Avon, he even read about Reading. The town was of no interest at all. He began to doodle on the edge of the desk, his black biro making good steady work.

Doodles on the edge of a desk in his local library – the crime! The shame! Oh but they were very good, even for his standards (which were normally very low and consisted of drawings of owls in different hats.) This time he had gone for a procession of enigmatic figures playing tubas, a man and a bowling green. v Suddenly several thousand years and 4 months into the future there was nothing but a stereotypical wasteland of a post apocalyptic world. Grey, smoke, bits of robots, and total desaturation of colour.

Then, another something hundred years later, the seeds of a leftover civilisation had reconvened upon Earth’s surface. These new Earth dwellers are smart and keen and wish nothing more than to learn about humans of old.

The one item telling of ancient man, that has managed to survive the ravages of time, is the doodled-on-desk. Only this desk has survived after the fall of man thanks to the Sarge sealing the images into the wood by wiping his ear wax over them, the bizarre depictions in biro are as vibrant as they were when new. Beings examine and study humans from these.

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LyPTiC DesK From these drawings the beings made a hasty decision about their ancestors.

The official report sent to the academical research and mind expansion centre read as follows:

ACADEMICAL RESEARCH AND MIND EXPANSION CENTRE FIND: WOODEN PANEL Decoration most likely ceremonial ● Purpose uncle ar. Must have been a revered item to have such goo d lacquer* placed upon it. ● Social intellige nce low, better off dead. ●

●

*re: lacquer- science boffs want a sample , to replicate this valuable substance.

Back at the library the Sarge had been rumbled, it was closing time and the librarian wanted her library back for herself. The sight of the Sarge digging deep into his lug-holes and smearing the dark, black brown substance onto her clean desks make her feel sick and violent. Not only this but closing time was when she could put on her mixtape and dance around the library revealing her true beauty to all of nobody.

The Sarge instantly fell in love with her and while he was trying to reason this out with her, was hauled out onto the pavement by his sleeve.

Back home the half summoned spirit guide (in the form of an annoyed half made morris dancer) had slithered his way into the house and messed up the neat display of china tea cups, a prized collection amassed from years of visits to tea shops and stealing the china from bemused old lady folk.

“What in blazes have you done? You half imagined half wit! The dust has come off! Clean off! Do you know how long it will take me to find it all again and put it back on? Do you? Well neither do I but I guess we’ll find out won’t we? They won’t sound right you know, bloody spirits, no respect. Just as well I came back when I did. You can’t be trusted. Now you’re here make yourself useful, go and bother the religious fanatics down the road.”

With that the Sarge carefully set to his task, caressing each cup and arranging the dust so that they were a testament to his lack of hygiene or use of anti-dandruff shampoo, wistfully looking at the picture on his wall of a sunset walking off heroically into a cowboy.

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THE INCURABLE CONDITION: JEFF CHANDLER

THE INCURABLE

The

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machine beeped on. Echoing off sterile grey walls, the hypnotic sound came and went in a heartbeat. It filled the room and burrowed its way through the skin into every organ.

The slower it sounded, the quicker my chest moved. Each blip taking just that little bit longer than the last.

She looked like she was asleep. Eyes closed peacefully, I wondered briefly if she was dreaming about the picnic we all had just a few short days ago.

Lying on soft grass, the warm summer sun splashed onto her face and made her hair shimmer in the light. The wicker hamper next to her contained the final crumbs of a veritable feast which bore witness to the sound of laughter wafting up the hill as we rolled and rolled, eventually crashing in a dizzied heap at the bottom.

I’m sure I saw the faintest of smiles wash over her face. Or maybe not.

They said that she couldn’t hear a thing. All senses had left her as she slept peacefully in her bed. I couldn’t understand that. I was 6.

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CONDITION

As I placed my tiny hand in hers I noticed something. Something on her face...

I watched as it rolled slowly down her cheek, leaving a glistening trail that caught the light on its journey down. And I felt my heart stop.

The single tear that left her eye for the very last time.

And. Off. She. Flew...

Years later I’ve come to realise something; something that has been niggling under the surface of my skin for a very long time: why do we love if we lose love?

We recklessly open up our hearts whilst desperately trying to ignore the palpable fear that this love may someday be the cause of a broken heart. And yet, we carry on regardless.

But it is just who we are and always will be; an inseparable part of our incurable condition.

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Words and photogrpahy Jeff Chandler

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LONG GONE & OVERGROWN: BEN TURNER

Long &

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gone

rgrown

By Ben Turner ISSUE 4 2012

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LONG GONE & OVERGROWN: BEN TURNER

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I was thinking about the human condition and what it means to different people. There are features of the condition that, regardless of race, gender or faith, remain true for all and perhaps the most powerful is the inescapability of death.

Near to where I live is a graveyard and one whole part of it is full of overgrown and forgotten graves and it made me think of the following lines by David Eagleman in his book Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives. “There are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.�

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THE GOLDEN RECORD: W.M.LEWIS

the

By W.M.Lewis

GOLDEN RECORD It seems so long ago we made the gesture Starting with Akkadian and ending with Wu What would Galileo have thought, I keep wondering?

The threat of fire is small viewed from such distances “Friends of space, how are you all?”

A million miles a day that friendly Chinese travels Measured from our sun it outlives the Amoy concern with hunger and the protocol of visiting If only Louis A., Beethoven and Blind Willie knew They would have recognised the cover’s gramophone They would be able to hear the diminishing quavers lost collectively in the infinity of a lulled cosmos So we sent a kiss, chimps, a rainstorm, steam-trains The metal-on-metal grind struggling like pure tongues Sneaky old thunder waiting to pounce on gullible soil We sent smooching and wailing in available voices The demonstration of licking, eating, drinking vying with Gorilla Jane, genitals, and sprinting Guatemalans They are all beautiful, and even the supermarket looks clean, fun and a perfectly human endeavour We sent Voyager 1 and 2 endlessly racing, like us What would Mary Shelley have thought, I wonder of the fragile “Hello from the children of planet Earth”?

That our Frankenstein was splendiferous, too, surely Our stories are earthquake, hyena, horse-and-cart The evocative wheels and hoofs clattering out history in proud and tactile cuneiform, deposited in rich clay We are impressed and impressive we rightly think I hope we told about circuses, sex, gardens, surfing That we sometimes laugh about death and greed That we hold our tired bellies and chuckle at threats which seem large and beautifully morose So gracefully inviting: “We wish that we will meet you” Lightly said it’s as truthful as our pictures and music Talking to ourselves in this complex way is pretty, yes “May all be very well” is still a fine and happy birdsong

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REG GARBOTEH: EMMA JACOBS

REG GARBOTEH

By Emma Jacobs

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Reg did not feel himself this morning. He hung his heavy head in his rough cupped hands. His long fingers cradled the corners of his mouth and his eyes remained fixated on nothing.

He began to ruminate about his dream that came to vivid form about twice a week.

After waking he would feel an immediate sense of shame. The prolonged seconds between sleep and waking, between in and out, Reg saw as trying to force oneself out of an overgrown forest with bound ankles.

The components of his body worked against each other and his head trailed behind, whimpering. He dreamt of being caught up in a crowd of naked people, although no one touched him, he could feel the essence of wandering hands. Reg was clothed and his neck wrapped in dark cloth. The sky was a pulsating purple which gave him the feeling that he ought to surrender. All the naked people stood facing one other person; it seemed like lunch time within a naked commune. Reg would get on his knees to escape the mass of thick peach to find himself dumbfounded before a brick wall. His older self would descend from steps that would disintegrate behind as he walked. The old man, himself, would swear at him with his two fingers and the purple sky would tremble with laughter.

Reg wondered whether his imagination was really fragments of his leftover dreams, in a world where we can be thinkers and inventors.

Like a moth to a flame, he tortured himself in whether he was truly mad or not, constantly tittering toward a light whose power was both the reason for attraction and resistance. He thought of his life twenty-three years ago and a teary smile spread across his face. Moments like these made him feel human and served as a reminder that he has not been fully whitewashed from the exhaustion of all life’s experiences.

He was thirty; it was nineteen-sixty-one in downtown Manhattan. He arrived at the

station and sat down to re-arrange his things.

He had noticed her hands first, and then her shoes. Her hands were as dainty as a little girl. She wore worn-out brogues with an even further worn out snake skin embellishment.

Although he hadn’t said anything, he felt like a screaming idiot running around the station saying her name, whatever name that was. Her bag was netted like a grocery bag, he felt himself stare. Their eyes met.

Reg introduced himself and she followed.

‘Just call me Tengra’. With this accepted, they progressed in conversation where it was decided Tengra would help Reg find his apartment. Tengra was a freelance journalist, although Reg questioned this as she didn’t seem familiar with Manhattan. Once they had entered his apartment Tengra seemed the most comfortable she had done all day.

Tengra mentioned of no other place to go or in fact much at all. She seemed fixated on this spontaneous meet with Reg, an exceedingly tall man. Almost four months into living together, they had not slept together. Her hands seemed as if they would break in his clench of passion. Until one night when Tengra had come back from a writing class, she was full of words, her skin was polished with sweat and her baby hands made contorted shapes;

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REG GARBOTEH: EMMA JACOBS

‘Tonight we had to write about our most erotic experience, something about living in Manhattan, lost desires, young, trapped – it was awful! So awful! I just wanted to climb out of my own skin you know’.

After speaking about how traumatic she found this, she and Reg had become romantic through their delicate crossing over of words.

They flirted with phrases and licked the side of words; they had developed a new communication between them. They released their fears and now there was an extra hand to hold them. After five hours of literacy as foreplay they began to communicate in another way. Reg felt clumsy and Tengra felt shy, but with a keen eagerness in her to please Reg. The morning came and Reg woke to find Tengra wasn’t beside him. The sheets

and Tengra would draw on the walls; writing messages to each other, messages of the future or simply anything else. They hardly ever had the money to buy the goods to do this, but they lived in their own realm of free creativity.

They were expanding as people together and as a result weren’t letting their own idea of love taint their own love.

Whilst walking around barefoot that morning, with the towel wrapped around his slim waist, blissfully going over last night’s happenings, he found Tengra in the bath. She had not drowned herself but overdosed. His hand went limp and the sheet crumpled to the floor. He stood naked looking at the woman he had fallen in love with, now a corpse in the bath.

This was the bath they had used to wash up in because his sink was almost non-existent, and the bath they were going to paint gold like a Greek antique.

His sadness turned to anger. How the hell can you ever know anybody? Where is the proof? How are you meant to spot the proof? Is there a technique? Love and Death packaged together.

Reg removed himself from the nightmare that was Manhattan. He remembered where he was. He was fifty-three, living in Long Island in a rented apartment with nothing to do but answer to someone else. Reg had not moved far, technically he was still a New York resident, but after Tengra he could not muster the strength to move too far, either way Reg had no form of strength. Anywhere than that room with the sight of that bath, he considered himself better off. He often had days like this where he would stew in

They flirted with phrases and licked the side of words were twisted in different places; there was no doubt what had occurred last night. It was Friday and Tengra didn’t work on Fridays.

Reg didn’t prod at this, she was freelance; she has her own choices. Normally, they would tear up his apartment, making plans of where to put what. It was wild; in his own home he could tear down the wallpaper and throw a lamp out the window without anyone getting hurt. His window backed onto the communal garden shared by his block. No one was ever there apart from wondering vagrants. If it did happen to hit them, they looked up into the sky, at God, and took it as the upmost serious sign that they should change their life. Reg

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silence. He would continuously rub and drag his face trying to speed gravity along. He saw it as removing the phrases and words; his thoughts out into the open where they drop upon surfaces. This only made looking at his reflection the more painful. He could not escape. He could not find solace. His solace was the fact that he felt love, if only once in his life. But if the one good thing is dispatched from you, thought Reg, where else is there to go? He had shifted so far back that there were no longer any other doors.

Long island was full of tall buildings next to gigantic buildings. Reg hated that there were no trees. The buildings all had something vocal to them and were giddy with advertisements. Reg could walk around the city and find a quiet satisfaction in reading and analyzing these signs. It made him feel younger and in turn, as if he had the same freedom of those skimpy youths running around. He enjoyed the quivering lights and buying chemically induced food on his way round. Once at home he would feel dizzy and all that he marveled at now seemed a war of colour and technologies. At night he would imagine all the souls that were racing around the city. People’s bodies could barely keep up.

Their mouths were wide and loud and their hearts were off searching for something. He wondered whether someone’s heart would come knocking at his door.

The next evening The night air was thick but had a sweet smell, as if the city was having a spring revival. The moon looked as if someone had marked their thumb in chalk and touched the sky. Reg walked through town leaving behind the familiar shops and faces. A few

nodded to him and raised arms as he walked by. Reg made a quick smile and continued to look ahead. There were not many people around as it was late. Those who were around were closing shop, whilst a few crawled out to start playing havoc in the dark. He reached his dingy and jumped in almost going into the water whole. He steady placed himself and sat down and began to row. The water was calm with surges of panic and fluster. It was nothing he couldn’t handle he thought. The water looked black and venomous; the white lights that reflected seemed full of trickery as if they were trying to say something. Upon the water, Reg heard Tengra’s quiet laugh rise in pitch between the chugs of water. He heard the moon breath steadily down upon him. He heard the creatures beneath him slur his own fate.

Would he be found on the shore before a great deal more people? A bag in his possession is now someone else’s dear item.

Would his eyes stare at you? Or has someone drawn the curtains? The photo of him and Tengra, who has placed this as part of their romantic collage. ‘I saw him in the paper’, the old biddy says. The last time the camera caught him, he was crawling up St. Michael’s steps. In 62’ he begged to buy a large ruddy bath tub from me, I gave it to him and his lady.

The thoughts of an old man deciding his own fate on a windy Thursday afternoon were disturbed by a dingy flipping on its side. Its nose skidded along the pebbles and the old man thought back to his younger days on the shore, scavenging for anything to keep him occupied. A dingy would have kept him happily occupied for weeks, he would have played Admiral. He felt at ease which he had not been in the presence of for decades. The dingy had bought him some more time.

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THE NEW HOMEMAKER: MERCEDES FONSECA

THE NEW This time I got the look by metal scouring vinegar, powder and all tea stains out of white mugs This time I didn´t punch that bus stop wearing some chunky High Street, bad soldering medium-splurge ring I am glad I took a picture no punching, these days no (x) star ninja throwing of hair pins, those that match and can´t be seen during (a) short lived up do.

Those pictures: a lot less flattering characteristics that live in perpetual puddles waddling in a day dream settling silt

HOMEMAKER

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NARKÀO to show bad form surprising in that sort of way where predictable behaviour is no longer an exception ought to be less than 1% of the full invoice instead it stands taller than ever never fatter just misshapen rounded off as if worn allegedly torn (but that’s not true) pure make belief uncertain regarding the scale of the production spaghetti western stills superimposed amalgamation of a modern day impish heroine of not-so-tragic novels

By Mercedes Fonseca

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STREAMS OF CONCIOUSNESS: ILLUSTRATING RAIN

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EAMS OF OUSNESS

By Illustrating Rain

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STREAMS OF CONCIOUSNESS: ILLUSTRATING RAIN

The work I have created and chosen for this collection illustrates how the mind creates its thoughts in a series of repeated patterns and how our ever changing thoughts affect the psyche and how that is translated into our perceptions of the world that we see. The human condition is one where, in a world of dichotomies, we are searching for wholeness without division. These illustrations have come through an exploration of streams of consciousness whilst putting pen to paper and these are the outcomes.

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THE PELLETS

THE PELLETS: ÉMÉLIE GILSON

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The pellets (original title : Les pelotes) is a funeral bed for skeleton of owl pellets. It’s a dormancy, contemplation bed for these animals who have been eaten and spat out.

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THE PELLETS: ÉMÉLIE GILSON

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WHEN I DIE: JADE LEAF WILLETTS

WHEN I DIE When I die – Can it be at night?

Can I see the stars turn on, the moon fade up?

Can I hear the river running?

Smooth, it soothes, whispering over my days.

Let me die – looking up, hair pushed back.

Lay me down on sweet damp grass, let me feel my body cool, as the warmth of the day leaks away.

Let your eyes wash me with forgiveness, let your tears dilute my blood, look down on me with love.

By Jade Leaf �lletts

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ISSUE 4 2012

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WE LOOK BACK AND CHOOSE OUR FAVOURITE WORK FROM YEAR ONE

NEW WRITING POETRY ART PHOTOGRAPHY ON A COMMON THEME

I S S U E 4

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