Pov issue 007 hate

issue #7

THE

ISSUE NEW WRITING, POETRY, ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY ON A COMMON THEME

Cover design by Ben Turner THE GUYS AT PoV TOWERS: Designer: Ben Turner Editors and co-creators: Chris Pilkington and Ben Turner Proof reading wonder kid: Emma Seymour

WELCOME TO ISSUE SIX

Ben and Chris

Hate. Fear. Darkness. Horror. Animosity. Anxiety.

Irritation. Guilt.

Phew. It’s a bit of an ask, isn’t it? But our last issue was all about love and if we like anything here at PoV it’s a bit of balance, so we set ourselves the task of creating an issue filled with all the things our contributors felt when they thought about hate.

Now don’t panic, it’s not all doom and gloom. Don’t get us wrong, there is some doom and gloom for sure, but there’s also comedy, flickers of light and even a nice slice of hope in here too.

We have some great work in this issue including Emma Seymour’s interview with the awesome All Out campaign group, Jelle Rietveld’s intriguing work during the protests in Istanbul and an in depth look at the work of the queen of the macabre, Misty Fugate. Plus loads of poetry, fiction writing and our usual healthy helping of photography.

It’s a treat and we think you’ll agree, there’s not much to hate about that, is there?

Ben Turner and Chris Pilkington Founders of the feast

Visit: www.povmagazine.co.uk

Follow: @pov_magazine TH E HATE ISSUE

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Email: hello@povmagazine.co.uk

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WELCOME: CONTENTS

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006 MEET THE CONTRIBUTORS 008 ALL OUT VS HATE Emma Seymour talks to All Out, the campaign group fighting hate all around the world 014 THE MYSTERIOUS WORLD OF MISTY PoV shines a light on the dark photography of Misty Fugate 026 GISELLE FROM SAN FRANCISCO

By Zarina Zabrisky 030 PERFECTLY ASKEW Poetry from W.M.Lewis 032 REPEATING PATTERNS OF HATE Ben Turner photographs the patterns in war 046 CIRCUS

By Citlalli Millan 050 ST. SEBASTIAN

by Daniel Frankenburg 054 THE “CAPULCU” OF GEZI PARKI Jelle Rietveld is on the ground with the protests in Istanbul 068 AIRBORNE

By Jeff Chandler 070 FOR THE LOVE OF HATE Delving into the dark depths of Sgt. Pilko’s mind 074 VIBRISSA

By Mercedes Fonseca 076 HUNGRY EYES Marco Paone tempts us with his gorgeous food photograhy 082 SOME YEARS LATER Sara Stojkovic and her collection of Balkan curiosities 092 YOUR HATRED

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WELCOME: MEET THE CONTRIBUTORS 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.

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 CITLALLI MILLAN Citlalli Millan is a Mexican-born writer and actress.

She moved to London in 2000 to go to drama school, and has acted in theatre and film in London, India and Mexico.

Whilst touring through India with a production of Twelfth Night, she began writing short stories based on her impressions of the country, which led her to commit further to a writing career.

She is now in her last year of an MFA in Creative Writing at Kingston University, and finishing a novel set within the drug war that is currently plaguing her home country of Mexico. citlallimillan@gmail.com DANIEL FRANKENBURG After leaving University Daniel teamed up with long-term collaborator Matt Edmonds and together they cowrote and developed a number of highly original comedy projects for production companies such as Baby Cow and Tiger Aspect.

Individually Daniel cut his teeth at the BBC before joining ITV Comedy, he was involved in ‘Comedy Cuts’ in which he helped produce, direct and on occasion even starred in sketches and skits (which to this day he’s thankful were never televised). He then helped produce and direct the shows “Learn to Play the Ukulele in Under and Hour” (2008) and “Sink or Spin” (2011) both of which received excellent reviews at the Edinburgh Festival.

In 2010 Daniel rewrote a feature screenplay ‘Once & Future King’, for Krasnoff / Foster in LA. He has just completed his first stage play ‘The Balkans’.

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.

Upon returning from a 6-month tour in the musical Jekyll & Hyde, he began to write.

His weekly blog entitled ‘Malleable Reality’ takes a sideways look at love, life, and everything in between.

Blog: http://goo.gl/45E2a JELLE RIETVELD From Amsterdam and matching his creativity with his marketing and photography skills Jelle is currently completing a masters education in photography.

Jelle reflects his love of people in his photography, almost all of his work contains people in combination with a clear appearance of lines and, when possible, a contrast of light and shadows.

In the last 6 months he has finished some interesting series which will be published on his new website in September.

Website: www.jjrietveld.com Facebook: facebook.com/jjrietveld LORA BENOIT I was born into a simple small family in the city of Thibodaux. I am writing and publishing books. I am a middle aged woman who just started to get my work out there. I realized that if I don’t get them out there what is the point of writing them?

MARCO PAONE I was born in Rome, Italy, in 1970 and moved to the Netherlands 15 years ago with my ex-girlfriend who I met back in Rome.

Actually I am a lawyer. A lawyer who found out that tribunals and law suits were not really what I was looking for in life.

So after leaving behind the Porsche and high-society I made, from my passion for food and photography, my actual job: Food photographer and I LOVE IT! (the chicks also love it..)

My pictures aim to be different from all the actual food photos you see around which, if you want to hear my opinion, all look a little bit sterile and neat. Dark shadows, scrap metal, old paper, that’s what we like here. A different direction in food photography.

Website: www.marcopaone.com

MISTY FUGATE Misty is an award-winning, published photographer that seeks out the stories hidden within the shadows. Primarily focusing on fine art and commercial photography, she is able to tell her stories through her images.

Facebook: facebook.com/dreampicsdiaries Blog: fugatephotography.blogspot.co.uk 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...

SARA STOJKOVIC Sara Stojkovic is a Serbian photographer working with perception shifts and transformations. In her work she engages with the questions and representations of identities, public space and the relationship to the holy. When not a photographer, she works with perception shifts and all of that, just in education.

Website: www.sarastojkovic.com Blog: theunresolved.tumblr.com 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.

Twitter: @w_m_lewis ZARINA ZABRISKY Zarina Zabrisky is the author of IRON (Epic Rites Press), a short story collection, and a novel We, Monsters (forthcoming in 2013 from Numina Press). Zabrisky’s work appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in the US, UK, Canada, Ireland and Nepal.

She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and a recipient of 2013 Acker Award.

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 narrow-mindedness, labels and lack of logic.

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A L L O U T vs H A T E : E M M A S E Y M O U R

Despite huge advances in equality for some gay, lesbian, bi and transgender communities in recent years, it’s still a crime to be gay in 76 countries. In 10 it could cost you your life.

Emma Seymour spoke to All Out, the campaign group seeking to change that.

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PICTURE CREDIT: PHOTOGOLFER / SHUTTERSTOCK.COM Protesters marching for gay rights in Paris, France, June 29, 2013

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A L L O U T vs H A T E : E M M A S E Y M O U R

FOUNDED IN 2010

by Andre Banks and Jeremy Heimans, All Out is a global movement mobilising millions of people across the world to fight for equality, everywhere.

Be that by petitioning a world leader or organising a flash mob, it uses social networks to try to rid the world of hate.

And with more than 1.8 million members, it’s already making a difference.

The group was instrumental in passing equal marriage in France earlier this year – its petition attracting more than 325,000 signatures.

Andre, founder and executive director, said: “We have had several major victories over the

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years and this was the result of a long campaign.

Guillaume Bonnet, All Out’s Senior Campaign Manager in France, worked on it for about a year, involving key petition deliveries, rallies, outreach to elected officials, and press work.

“But while there are incredible advances in some countries like France, we must never forget those who are literally fighting for their lives.”

In Russia there have been violent crackdowns on LGBT communities daring to speak out against the country’s new draconian anti-gay laws.

The new law, signed by President Vladimir Putin this summer, imposes fines on people who provide information about homosexuality to minors, and who talk about or display any

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To join the movement go to allout.org

The International Olympic Committee is being forced

by Russia to tell athletes to shut up, but instead they are speaking out.

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signs of homosexuality.

With the Winter Olympics set to take place in Sochi next year, All Out presented a petition with more than 300,000 signatures to the International Olympic Committee (IOC) in Switzerland this month, urging Russia to repeal the laws.

Andre said: “The International Olympic Committee is being forced by Russia to tell athletes to shut up, but instead they are speaking out.

“Ironically, the global outcry is transforming Sochi into an amazing platform for Russians and athletes to defy the law and speak out on gay rights. If the IOC and Russian government do not take urgent action, the chorus of voices against these laws will dominate the conversation at the Sochi Games.”

Similarly, earlier this year Nigeria passed the so-called ‘Jail the Gays Bill’, which punishes anyone in a same-sex relationship with up to 14 years in prison, while Uganda’s ‘Kill the Gays Bill’ threatens to punish LGBTs with the death penalty.

“Each country has unique circumstances that result in a similar problem,” explained Andre.

“Gays and lesbians are denied the freedom to live openly and love without fear. Many people make the point that the worst anti-gay laws are fuelled by deep-seated cultural bias, but what often gets missed is how that bias is whipped up by cynical politicians willing to demonize a minority in order to gain more votes or distract their critics.

“We’ve seen this in Nigeria and Uganda and it’s been a major driver for some of the worst laws and violence in Russia and Eastern Europe.

The outsized influence of wealthy American

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A L L O U T vs H A T E : E M M A S E Y M O U R Evangelical missionaries in many of these places has also played a big part in catalysing anti-gay animus. They have largely lost their anti-gay crusade at home and are increasingly using their resources to export hate around the globe.”

Connectivity has changed the fight for equality over the years, with online communities allowing people to connect online and share their personal stories.

And it’s All Out’s ability to use that technology to reach out to people that sets it apart from other LGBT campaign groups.

It was founded when Banks and Heimans were building Purpose – a registered B-corp that uses an innovative social model to pool knowledge and experience of activism from people around the world.

Its ability to reach out to people everywhere is, said Andre, the key to All Out’s growth.

He said: “All Out’s model uses technology to turn moments that inspire outrage and action into a movement that builds power for sweeping social change. For example, more than 60% of All Out’s members had never been involved with an organisation dedicated to love and equality for lesbian, gay, bi or trans people before we engaged them.

“This connectivity and ability to broadcast stories is what makes governments who wish to prevent equality very nervous. They can see the same data we see. People who personally know a gay or lesbian person are far more likely to be accepting in most areas of the world.

“While it’s exciting to see more people joining All Out, we’re not surprised there are so many people who support our mission to build a world where no person will have to sacrifice their family or freedom, safety or dignity because of who they are or who they love.

“In fact, we’re designed to grow rapidly.

All Out has brought more people into the global movement for LGBT equality than any organisation in history, and we believe millions more will join us.”

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Russian police detain a gay rights activist during an attempt to hold the unauthorised gay pride parade in Moscow

SINCE IT WAS FOUNDED IN 2010 ALL OUT HAS HAD VICTORIES AROUND THE GLOBE.

MAY 2011: When a Nigerian football coach bragged in public about kicking lesbians off the women’s national team, nearly 50,000 All Out members called on FIFA to investigate. FIFA responded by launching an enquiry into the coach’s comments, followed by its first-ever public statement against homophobia. The coach in question was eventually asked to step down.

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PICTURE CREDIT: KOJOKU / SHUTTERSTOCK.COM

my view

Joe Mirabella, All Out campaigner “I am continually inspired by activists who risk their freedom and their life to fight for love.

In Russia, the recent police crackdown in St. Petersburg didn’t stop demonstrators in Moscow from publicly demonstrating against the anti-gay propaganda bill.

“Threats of torture and arrest have not stopped activists in Uganda from organising and speaking out.

In Cameroon when a man was sentenced to three years in prison for sending a love note in a text message to another man, he did not cower.

Instead, he shared his story with the world which inspired thousands of people to speak out in solidarity with him.”

JUNE 2012: Around the world extremist groups are promoting dangerous ‘therapy’ sessions to ‘cure’ gay and lesbian people. More than 70,000 All Out members called on health officials to speak out against these fraudulent ‘treatments’. The campaign sparked global outcry, prompting the Ecuadorian government to shut down more than 200 clinics promoting the ‘therapies’, while the French Health Minister publicly condemned gay ‘cures’.

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MARCH 2013: DC Comics announced they had asked notorious anti-gay writer and activist Orson Scott Card to write the first issue of their new Superman comic. When tens of thousands of All Out members launched a campaign for DC to drop the writer, media pressure drove the book’s artist to withdraw and DC Comics went forward without Card.

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THE MYSTERIOUS WORLD OF MISTY: MISTY FUGATE

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While looking for work to feature in this issue we thought about all the feelings that our theme HATE can encompass.

Darkness, fear and horror were all words we kept coming back to so we knew there was a certain photographer we simply had to get in touch with.

MISTY FUGATE is an award winning and repeatedly published artist who specialises in the macabre.

Over the following pages, BEN TURNER finds out what it takes to be Misty and we showcase a selection of her finest work.

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THE MYSTERIOUS WORLD OF MISTY: MISTY FUGATE

How did you get into photography?

I’ve always been in love with photography. One of my first memories is of me playing with my great-grandmother’s old rectangular Kodak film camera. I carried it everywhere and always pretended to get the shot!

After a brief blindness years ago, I was determined to capture anyone and everything around me on film. I wanted my children to see themselves as I see them in case I lost my eyesight again. Thankfully that didn’t happen. As it turns out, photography is a great therapeutic tool that I have used to exorcise many demons and memories.

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Where have you seen your work published and have you won any awards?

I’ve been very fortunate with my work being published. Arcangel Images has been representing my work and me since January of 2011. I’ve seen it in Vogue Italia online, The Pulse magazine, Practical Photoshop and Diopter Divas magazine. It has also been used for a number of book covers and in various newspapers.

As for awards, I was lucky enough to be a winner in Canon and Ron Howard’s Project Imagination in the Backstory theme. My photo was made into a movie by Georgina

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Chapman with a script written by Neil Gaiman. The movie is called “A Dream of Flying.” I also won 1st place in the National League Pen Women Art Competition.

A lot of your work focuses on the macabre and darker side of life, is that something you’re particularly interested in capturing?

The great thing about photography is that it can truly show human, raw, emotion without ever having to speak a word. I find the darker side of our personalities, fears, and dreams tend to be more honest and more relatable, even to those who haven’t discovered their darker innings yet.

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THE MYSTERIOUS WORLD OF MISTY: MISTY FUGATE

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THE MYSTERIOUS WORLD OF MISTY: MISTY FUGATE

How did that come about? Were you commissioned to do a shoot like that and then carried on or were you always into that style of photography?

I began my professional career by doing family and boudoir portraiture. I found myself always wanting to push the envelope, so to speak, with the subject matter and editing. After doing portraiture for almost 7 years, I finally made the decision to stop doing what I didn’t love and begin shooting what my passion truly was. I will admit I was absolutely terrified on how it would be received and if I could do my ideas justice once I got behind the camera.

It has truly been the most liberating and awarding thing I could have done.

Some people would view work like yours as scary or like something out of a horror movie, do you see your style of photography in that way or do you see them as beautiful regardless of the subject matter?

There are those who have definitely thought my work was scary or horror movie quality, but I find not only my work, but all macabre work beautiful and honest. The ultimate goal for me is to evoke some kind of emotion from the viewer. That isn’t to say that I am going for a shock value, but I do seek those who are willing to look past the immediate reaction and look for the story that is being told within the image. That story may not be the one I intended, but if they find a story that they can relate to, then I have done my job.

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THE MYSTERIOUS WORLD OF MISTY: MISTY FUGATE

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There are some stunning effects used in your photography – could you pick one photo and tell us how you achieved the look?

On the image, “The Awakening of Ms. M.” I enlisted the help of my model and a serious force to be reckoned with in the Makeup Industry, Khara Williams. I met with the two ladies and discussed my concept of a person, almost newborn like, to be born, or awakened, with darkened eyes, pale skin, and the mouth tearing a part as though she would try to be screaming.

Khara and the model worked for close to three hours applying the special effects makeup. To get the look of a foggy liquid around the model, I filled a bathtub with warm water and milk. I placed the model into the bathroom and the rest is history. I try to get as much as possible done in camera to achieve what I am going for.

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Bearing in mind all the work that goes into each of your photos, do you always have a strong idea of what the outcome will be before you start the process, or do you just start working and pull it all together at the end?

Before each shoot, I meticulously plan out everything. I have a battered notebook that I write all of my ideas in, quotes that inspire me, or even a location that I may come across while traveling. I do my best to go into each shoot with as much detail as I possibly can have. It makes the shooting time go smoother and it can help direct my subject. By doing it this way, my shoot time is normally 5 for so minutes. As with the shoot I mentioned in the last question, I took 3 shots, got what I wanted and was done.

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THE MYSTERIOUS WORLD OF MISTY: MISTY FUGATE

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Do you have any tips for the budding photographers reading this?

I encourage everyone to shoot what they have a passion for, what they love, what they can’t wait to get out and shoot next. It becomes a fire in your soul where you truly are anticipating that next shoot. It took me a long time to realize that if we shoot what we love, it shows in our work. It stands out and it becomes more personal. Once you do this, then you can seek out those who appreciate your type of work and hopefully they would be willing to publish/share it with others.

What’s next for you?

I have tons of concepts floating around in my head and some shoots scheduled coming up. I will be going to the film premiere in NYC this fall for Project Imagination to watch the movie directed by Georgina Chapman that was inspired by one of my photos. I’m looking forward to meeting everyone and having a great time.

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e l l e s i G from San s i c n a Fr GISELLE FROM SAN FRANCISCO: ZARINA ZABRISKY

by ZARINA ZABRISKY

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sco

SHE WAS DANCING AT A BUS STOP.

She was a dancer, she danced everywhere she went, but I didn’t know that yet. I just saw a thin girl in a green jacket dancing at the bus stop in the fog. And then the red-and-white bus came, lights cutting the fog, and off she went, and the bus disappeared into the fog.

The next day I was waiting across the street, and there she was, right at the same time, only she wasn’t dancing, just drawing circles on the ground with her worn sneaker.

I looked at her and I could not breathe. The fog was in my throat and before my eyes.

So I went to the hairdresser, had my hair cut really short, and put tons of grease in it, it was all spiky and cool. I put on my brother’s baggy pants, and this cool blue sweatshirt that kind of goes with my eyes. I’m tall but too skinny. I looked in the mirror, and I hated myself, but I went to the bus stop anyway.

When she showed up and started to do her funny steps I came up to her, and said, “Hey, what’s up?”

I tried to make my voice sound really low, but it came out sort of rough.

She looked up at me and stopped moving her foot. Her eyes were green, just like her jacket, and she was chewing gum. She thought for a moment, and then smiled and

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GISELLE FROM SAN FRANCISCO: ZARINA ZABRISKY

said, “Not much.”

She looked down and started to draw circles on the ground with her toes again. So we stood there a little while, and then I asked, “What’s with the feet?” She stopped, and blushed, and said, “I want to be a dancer. So I stretch and stuff, you know…” And I said, “Cool.” And then the bus came and I got on with her, and we talked a little.

The whole next week I was either on the bus with her, or by her dance studio, or on email or online with her. I learned everything about her. Her name was Melanie, but she wanted to change it, she liked Giselle, and I said, “Cool, I’ll call you Giselle.” She was thirteen, she was afraid to stay home alone at night when her mom worked. Her grandmother was Vietnamese.

She wanted to live in Paris in a place called “Mansard”—or something—and dance in the theater there. I just said, “Sweet.” She cut herself when she was sad, with a pocketknife she once found on a bus stop bench. She wanted a dog, but cats scared her; when she was three a big black cat named Roxie bit her ankle. She liked dumplings but couldn’t stand quesadillas; she liked to buy raisin bread and pick out all the raisins while she watched Animal Planet.

I loved her. I loved the way she gasped for air before laughing; I felt a sharp knife stuck in my guts each time she laughed—just like the pocketknife she showed me, all black and slick and sharp. I loved her bitten nails; I loved her old wrinkled sneakers. I wanted to be one of them. She didn’t mind, she seemed to like me, too. That was the most unbelievable, painful part… Nobody’d ever liked me before; nobody even looked at me this way. I had a crush on our math teacher, but she didn’t know; I fell in love last year, in the eighth grade, but the girl just complained to her mom. Giselle cared for me. I knew it.

And then, on Sunday, we went to the movies. We saw some stupid movie, and I couldn’t understand a word. I kept staring at her, thinking, “I’ll touch her, I’ll touch her, now, now,” and then I wouldn’t move. I was in pain.

And then she turned to me. Her eyes were all

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That was the mos painful part… liked me befor looked at m sparkly, but she didn’t smile. I looked away, and then back and then… then we kissed. She tasted like popcorn. I didn’t know how we were doing, it was probably all wrong, but I thought I would die.

I wished the movie would never end.

But it did, and we stepped out into the fog, and I couldn’t breathe, and I held her cold hand, and I said: “Want some French fries?”

And she said, “Sure.” And so, there we were, at McDonalds, standing with our French fries and Cokes, and eating and not looking at each other, and then this guy Ed, from my junior high, shows up with a friend. They come up to us, and I try to turn away and pretend I don’t see him, but he just looks at us, and says, “Hi, Al.” That’s my name. “What’s up? Do you girls want to hang out?”

So I turn to Giselle and say, “Let’s go—” But Ed goes, “Hey, you go if you want. She can stay. She’s hot!”

And then he asks her, “Want some ice cream?”

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st unbelievable, Nobody’d ever re; nobody even me this way “Let’s go,” I tell her.

And I pull her by the hand.

“You go,” says Ed. “She doesn’t want to go yet. She wants to stay.”

“Leave us alone,” says Giselle. “Let’s go, Al.” “Wow!” says Ed. “C’mon girls, wait…”

“Let’s go!” I tell her.

“Can’t you tell a boy from a girl?” she says.

“Wow!” says Ed. “Who’s a boy? Al?! Cool!

So, you had a sex change?”

“Let’s go!” I shout.

But she stares at me kind of weird and doesn’t say anything, and her eyes are black now, not green.

“I can explain,” I say. “Don’t listen to him…”

Then she does this thing with her foot, it goes round and round and round, like crazy. And she is all pale, like really pale.

“Is it true? Is it?! Just tell me,” she says.

“I will explain. Technically, I’m… Not really… The doctor said I had a hormonal misbalance, and stuff…”

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“You ARE a girl,” she says.

And then she throws her French fries and her Coke at me and turns around and walks away, and Ed walks after her, and I’m left just standing there, French Fries and all.

And what happens next is that she goes home, and no one is there, her mom is at work, so I guess she first cuts her wrists with her pocketknife, but it doesn’t help, and she’s still too scared, so she leaves and she walks all the way to the Golden Gate bridge and jumps off the railing.

And here I am, and I can’t breathe. The fog is in my head and everywhere. I can’t think, and I can’t feel, and my mom takes me to a therapist and I throw a chair at him. I must die, too. I can’t cut my veins, I hate blood, I can’t even stand a period. I wasn’t meant to be a girl! So the days go by, and then one night I steal my brother’s bike and ride it to the Golden Gate Bridge.

And I want to jump down, but I just can’t.

It’s cold and wet, and foggy as hell. And then the fog gets thicker and thicker, and the wind gets stronger and stronger. The fog flies faster and faster, and gets stranger and stranger, so awfully strange, shreds and all, like cobwebs.

And then I see shadows. Dancing shadows.

Dead ballerinas.

“Dance!” howls the wind.

“Dance!” howl the girls.

And they swirl me around, drag me along the handrails, throwing me, whirling me, brushing me; their wet skirts hit my skin, slap my cheeks, flap around me; their dead hands grab me, push me, swerve me— “Death!” hiss the girls. “Dance! Death by dance! Death to traitors! Death to cheaters!”

And I dance, and I fall, breathless, crying, dying… and then I see her, my Giselle, my love, a ghost, a shadow, all gray and transparent and weightless, dancing on the blood-red railing on her toes and reaching her shadowy hands to me, and crying, “Leave her alone!”

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POETRY: W.M.LEWIS

off ite glove ty h w s t i s ar Whip culous p a r i m e at som irls t of the g all nigh in front n flirting with ee pean you’ve b ou with a euro t ec sy A shoe stretched and slap that doesn’t exp e c so that it squeaks arrogan esponse r k r like cartoon mice with e ly t s h a ber r so slig e v e d le every step lip cur ery and al savag rough accents i n It gives me away lo o c at gling th ladders g u r t s as I try to move soundlessly s word p as fish ht expect e e t s d n g I can no longer be the spy thick a atever you mi h o w h g w or the ninja assassin n r i e t say a charac tie askew h c u s in these blasted shoes from fucking e name t c e f r e or the much desired r tru with p now you ront of the girls k u o Silver Fox y s f let orth in s actually w e u r t Instead I am the man your aiter e boys w ing all day for m o s with fat feet who d n r a a en prep atter e b e ’v cannot afford to be quiet u yo tter no m e at another a m o n or quick on his toes but kanc oking as n rose taffeta lo le i h w i princess or both possibly be cousin wife es ar y who ma ar except she sh ming le oo it’s not c pation with gr u c c its preo ou can’t master ead h ty a subjec ne slight tilt of ercise ho id ex and wit his stup t n i n o urges it glove comes off bodied d em its secon at your feet dis shed n d flu is throw nging an st i t s k e e your ch e and bloodlu ht sir with de hat’s rig t y a s I yes waiters wn even while e o it you go d by gorgeous wh e d distracte ighs as inside th ing a th t a sw jumbly hind tha d teeth e b t s fi ct an glove a ly conne useous threat n a m le t gen ng na of spitti irls retreat instead g revolves and the are spat s wait the room now ik er the wait european cafe ing th ng a spinni ke that kind of why li w ll i o ay d n ired w they st e h t et on feel t you forg and tired you en ewise who wh ertions that lik ex of these and by mutual e or d are bore u call it off bef l move o y na consent s make their fi d e i k o a t ine the bo uckles s tions n k y h lt a gloves fi tact and reput n i honours y preserved sa e shall w a cab into town e r w you sha ctly aske e e f r e p t g ec and refl ver said the pa e o h y e that W curse Well th they a was not age And se p e h t w e ur never kn the fucking c ew never kn

PET HATE NO.2

Perfectly askew

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DRY IN THE MOUTH OF LOVERS

SELF-PORTRAIT NO. 3 Grotesque abstract.

Manic accusation of fine lines.

Barbarous gargoyle - wait watch.

Loves stony fear.

sky broke apart. and far flung heart (burst) with speed of decay. the approaching sun, in fjords of doubt, fissured the world. our eyes broke apart (in) dismay. one gaping hole left in hope. the ashes of humanity covering the world, dry in the mouths of lovers.

Kind, kind, ugly ease.

You glittering slit of awe and recognition.

You precious withdrawn bauble.

Wasted. Wasting. Waster.

Shroud us now in little deaths and little visions.

You have not bared all.

I am the reason I am the reason for your journey.

And I am your journey.

Look me in the eyes and screaming all flesh will fall all flesh will fail let all flesh come before me. I am the reason.

Look him in the eyes through all the tombs in the land let them look. I am the reason and the unreason and the screaming.

Let all reason come before us. Look her in the eyes, and nothing shall remain unavenged; nothing shall remain but flesh and notflesh, nothing shall remain

And nothing shall remain unavenged. And forgetting love, look him in the eyes and screaming no flesh shall come before You, no reason fall to comfort You, know

but screaming.

And wandering through all flesh in the land, through all reason and tombs of reasons, know

I am the journey and the nothing and the screaming.

I am the reason for your journey and I am your journey.

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REPEATING PATTERNS OF HATE: BEN TURNER

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Repeating patterns of hate Last year I spent 3 months travelling around south east Asia. I was stunned by its astounding beauty but I was also shocked at the astonishing violence of its past.

Learning more as I journeyed through Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam I couldn’t help but notice the repeating patterns I was faced with.

Both in the pattern of the recurring horrors exacted upon the people of those countries but also the superficial patterns of the weapons used to inflict them.

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REPEATING PATTERNS OF HATE: BEN TURNER

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REPEATING PATTERNS OF HATE: BEN TURNER

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REPEATING PATTERNS OF HATE: BEN TURNER

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CIRCUS: CITLALLI MILLAN

CIRCUS THE ROOM IS HOT.

by CITLALLI MILLAN

The air conditioning doesn’t work, it´s an old, rusty puto machine from the 80s. The screws that attach it to the wall are all loose and rattle, giving me a headache. Boss told us never to open the windows. Cabron, how would he feel if he was stuck in this caca smelling dump?

I put a towel over the stains on the sofa and sit down. The pistachio green paint on the walls is peeling. Pistachio green is a colour for junkies and people with mental problems and should be banned.

“You have to sit tight like men and stop whining for your whore mothers.”

Boss had given us his orders from his sun lounger, while we stood around his big pool.

He was half asleep with a cigar hanging from his mouth. It made me laugh, if only he had met my mum.

Thinking about my mum with her slitty eyes and big lips reminds me of that circus. Truth is, I think about that place all the time. Before a job, when I’m eating, dancing, banging. Mostly, before a job.

It was in a shitty blue and green tent with holes in the sides. Large sections of it were sewn together with some strong plastic thread and it smelled of animal poo. It came to our town once a year and my father could never afford to take us.

All the neighbourhood kids got excited about the thing months before it rolled through the dusty streets. “Three shows a day, three shows a day, don’t miss your chance.” a skinny guy in sunglasses yelled into a megaphone from the back of an old pickup truck bouncing through town.

I knew my father would come up with some puto

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excuse like “I’ve made two dollars in five days, the girls in tutus riding tigers will have to wait.”

He was a tall man with big eyes. He didn’t drink, cheat on my mum and rarely got into fights. He had one job that lasted him a lifetime and made him proud. It involved cleaning rich people’s shit, driving them around, trimming their hedges and making sure their wives didn’t run away with some young boy with big muscles. He said “sorry señor” more than anybody I have ever known.

One day he surprised us by showing up with eight circus tickets. I think my mum gave him a blow job for that, hell, even I felt like giving him one.

Me and my brothers showered, put on our best clothes and combed our hair back with purple gooey gel that was called ‘Monster Snot’ or something like that.

“There is no money to buy food there. Make them a snack, Elena.” At the time it seemed fine.

Going to the circus was enough.

She asked me to help her make some sandwiches but there was no bread so we took some sweet tea biscuits and smeared them with condensed milk. Biscuit sandwich my mum called it. I wished she had the chichis to say “Your father is so useless that we can’t even have a yellow cheese sandwich and a can of coke”.

I still don’t understand why she didn’t take us out of the house and moved us to the other side, marry some rich gringo or show some mercy by drowning a few of us.

The tent was on a dry patch of grass surrounded by makeshift food and drink stalls. On one side of the tent, behind a popcorn stand, there was an area

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CIRCUS: CITLALLI MILLAN

for the animals. Skinny lions and featherless birds lay in their cages, waiting to perform.

The midday heat made them semi-conscious.

The lions had barely any space to move, their eyes covered in pus and cockroaches.

I remember thinking that the fucker who kept them like that deserved his little balls chopped off.

“Men with big balls would let the beast walk around and not be scared of it, no?” I told my dad.

He slapped me and my brothers laughed.

“Pendejo.” They said.

Music played from a pair of giant speakers and a woman wearing a green dress danced on a platform. Her moves were clumsy and there was no life behind her eyes, she looked like an injured peacock. The music was so loud that I couldn’t understand the words of the song, all that came through was a deep bass guitar and some screeching electronic instrument.

We stood in front of the tent, waiting for it to open. Sweat dripped down my back and my hair stuck to my skull, salty drops getting into my eyes. My mum gave me my biscuit sandwich, trying to calm me down.

The tissue paper was stuck to the condensed milk. I tried to pick the pieces out, getting my hands all sticky and sugary. Finally, I just put the whole thing in my mouth and chewed. I tried to swallow the blob of paper, but it was stuck to the back of my throat.

I marched towards the drinks stand, grabbed a can of coke from the bucket and drank the whole fucking thing. The lady who sold them started screaming and making a big fucking teatro like I had ripped her panties off and stuck a carrot between her legs. Maybe that is what she wanted, the pathetic short-legged señora. My dad squirmed and apologised, “sorry señora, sorry...” My mum just cried.

The lions had barely any space to move, their eyes covered in pus and cockroaches.

We passed stands with tamales and cold drinks.

Families strolled by, buying candy floss and buttered popcorn. My mouth was dry and all I wanted was a cold can of coke. We passed a stand selling plastic glasses full of ice covered in blue, red and orange syrup. Next to the colourful drinks stood a bucket full of cold cans of Coca Cola. Back then it would have cost like three pesos or something shitty like that.

My mum caught me eying the red can up and gave me a sip of water. It was warm and thick and made me think of donkey piss.

My brothers were happy and chatting to each other like idiots. They didn’t care about the looks people threw at their torn trousers and filthy feet. They were at the circus and

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everyone was equal here, they thought. They laughed because we were together as a family in the place where girls in shiny suits jump in the air and magicians make elephant cock look small. No Coca Cola though.

They sold my ticket to pay for the coke and left me standing with the pus covered animals while they watched the show. I can’t remember what happened afterwards, but this I remember really well.

The phone is ringing. Martin picks it up and says ‘okay’ and puts it down again. He looks at me, his voice is clear and strong.

“Stop staring like a pendejo monkey, we have to go.” I tell him that when I stare at him it’s because I am thinking about how his mother looks in her underwear.

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ST. SEBASTIAN: DANIEL FRANKENBURG

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ST. SEBASTIAN

by DANIEL FRANKENBURG

A bare stage bar a table, perhaps a chair. A few cables are strewn across the floor. Joel (late 20s, dishevelled) enters – he paces and looks at his watch, he’s waiting for someone, he drinks some wine. He fiddles with his phone, he exits. There is a knock at the door, Joel comes back on stage. He pauses before opening the door and Steve (also late 20’S) enters.

STEVE Hi, I’m Steve from... I’m here to take a look at your...

JOEL Ahh! Yes, hi. Come in! I had a chat with your manager earlier – he said you’d be the man for the job. ‘Then Send me a Steve!’ I said!

STEVE looks unsure by JOEL’s eagerness.

STEVE Right. It said on the system that there may be a problem with the router..?

JOEL Forget all that Steve. First things first, glass of wine?

JOEL begins to pour a glass of wine.

JOEL (CONT’D) You know what they say Steve? A day without wine is like a day without sunshine. And between you and me, today has had quite a few, sunny spells.

STEVE I’m... no thank you, not really allowed.

JOEL Come on Steve, it’s late – this must be your last job of the day...

STEVE Umm. Not much of a red wine guy.

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JOEL Beer?

BEAT. STEVE tries to suss out JOEL. STEVE It is my last job of the day.

JOEL There you go!... A beer for Mr. Steve.

JOEL skips off to retrieve a beer. STEVE looks around and takes in JOEL’s flat. JOEL pops his head back on stage.

JOEL (CONT’D) (excited) Do you want some quiche?!

STEVE No, no. I should be getting on, where’s this router exactly?

JOEL comes back in with a beer.

JOEL It’s Lorraine? Thank god. That’s the thing with quiche isn’t it Steve? You can’t muck about with quiche, I said this to a waitress just the other day. I said if it’s not Lorraine, I’m not fucking interested!

STEVE has just opted to try and find the router by following some of the cables.

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ST. SEBASTIAN: DANIEL FRANKENBURG JOEL (CONT’D) And the funny thing was Steve, it turns out her name was actually Lorraine!

JOEL looks for response from STEVE. JOEL (CONT’D) I went back there to see her the other day, but they said Lorraine had moved on. Shame...

STEVE takes the beer, JOEL motions not to drink.

JOEL (CONT’D) (solum) Cheers, Steve.

STEVE (nervous) Cheers...

STEVE looks at his clipboard.

JOEL (CONT’D) ...Mr. Jones.

JOEL (toasting) To my telecommunications knight in shining armor.

JOEL moves too close to STEVE. JOEL (intense) I was home schooled Steve.

STEVE Oh. BEAT JOEL I’m joking!

STEVE nervously attempts a laugh. JOEL wheels away.

JOEL (CONT’D) Right so as you said, this router is the route of all my problems.

STEVE Yes right, let’s have a look at it.

STEVE looks to find the router by following more cables.

They drink.

BEAT

JOEL (CONT’D) And call me Joel.

JOEL Do you like my place Steve?

STEVE It’s very nice. Lovely area, can’t be cheap.

JOEL It is, I own it too. I’m afraid to say it’s almost certainly out of your price bracket Steve.

STEVE (shocked, annoyed) What? Yeah. Listen, where’s this router?

JOEL I mean minor level telecommunications engineer, what we’re talking 22,000 to 25,000 a year tops?

STEVE I do ok, thanks – Joel.

JOEL (faux consolation) With that salary, I mean to be honest Steve, I think you’ll be priced out of the whole area.

They drink again. The name rings a bell for STEVE. STEVE Joel Jones..

JOEL So down to business, as I said to your colleague, I think it’s just the router... that’s the issue. Not getting much signs of life from it...

STEVE Joel Jones...

BEAT JOEL (CONT’D) Weird question, where did you grow up?

JOEL (deflecting) ...you should find the router around here somewhere.

STEVE I think we may have been at the same school?

JOEL Oh I had a very hard time at school Steve. I was bullied pretty ruthlessly.

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STEVE I’m sorry to hear that – but where did you go?

STEVE is struggling to untie some cables.

JOEL (CONT’D) I imagine you’re more of a Zone 5 man?

STEVE 3 actually.

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JOEL Fair enough.

JOEL (CONT’D) North or South?

STEVE South.

JOEL Thought so.

JOEL Steve! Don’t go, have another beer.

STEVE Keep your beer.

JOEL Steve Green!

BEAT

JOEL (CONT’D) We do know each other. I’m, sorry, I should have said.

STEVE I knew it. Saint Sebastian school right?

JOEL Correct.

STEVE Why didn’t you say something... Listen, whatever, it’s great to see you again Joel. Best of luck but I’m going...

BEAT

JOEL (CONT’D) You married Steve?

STEVE (losing patience) Listen! Mr. Jones!

JOEL Please, call me Joel.

STEVE ...Joel if you want me to get you back online by tonight. Let me get on and do my job. (underbreath) Where the fuck is this router?

BEAT JOEL You’re absolutely right, sorry.

STEVE finally manages to untie and pull through all the cables. JOEL goes to the front door and secretly locks it.

STEVE Joel, there’s no router attached.

BEAT JOEL (CONT’D) Well there’s your problem, the problem with your router is... you don’t have a router.

STEVE goes to the door.

JOEL Steve? Would it upset you in any way if I told you that I’ve locked the door?

STEVE Yes. It would. A lot.

JOEL Right, would that build to an anger?

STEVE Absolutely.

JOEL It would, right.

STEVE It’s building now Joel, we’re approaching anger.

STEVE tries the door, it’s locked. He moves towards JOEL, menacingly.

STEVE (CONT’D) Unlock the fucking door Joel.

JOEL Don’t tell me what to do Steve.

JOEL is now holding a router.

JOEL (CONT’D) What the fuck’s going on?

BEAT JOEL I have a confession to make Steve.

STEVE (resolute) Listen mate – I’m done – ok. Thanks for the beer, you want some professional advice?

Plug in your router.

This script was performed at a Love Bites theatre show. For more info and to get involved go to the Love Bites site.

STEVE goes to leave.

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THE “CAPULCU” OF GEZI PARKI: JELLE RIETVELD

THE “CAPULCU” PEOPLE OF GEZI JUST LIKE YOU PARKI AND ME All text translated from the original Dutch by Jelle Rietveld

Earlier this year, in Istanbul’s Taksim Gezi Park, protests were sparked in outrage of the brutal eviction of a group of environmentalists who were protesting an urban development plan. JELLE RIETVELD from Amsterdam with the support of BURAK ISIK from Istanbul, travelled to meet the protesters.

This series of photographs is a reflection of the “Çapulcu” in Gezi Parki – Taksim square in Istanbul taken in the week of the 3rd – 7th of June.

First of all, why were you in Istanbul?

I stayed in Istanbul from May 25th until June 7th, the original idea was to have a week of holiday with my girlfriend and a week of photography aiming to take some “storytelling” photographs.

How did you create this series?

My aim was to photograph the “Çapulcu” in a non-political way by asking them four basic questions – their name, gender, occupation and why they were at Gezi Park. I looked for a diverse selection of people to give an overview of different layers of the society and, together with a Turkish friend Burak Isik, we wanted to show the real faces of the people.

No smiling, no laughing and no political expressions.

Not the radical people but the real faces behind the protesters fighting for democracy. I was moved seeing they were people just like you and me. The violence used against them was so exceptional, especially if you imagine they were unarmed.

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What does Capulcu mean?

The rough translation means looter or vandal and was used in a speech by Recep Tayyip Erdogan on 2nd June 2013. The protesters re-appropriated this name.

Was it dangerous creating the series?

Danger is a big word but after running away from the police amongst a thousand others I decided to be more in the background. I was there viewing the situation with perspective, I did not go if the police were “clearing” the square and streets. This was different for the protesters who got more energy at those moments. I concluded that the violence of the police resulted in more sympathy and support by the locals towards the protesters.

Do you feel your work contributed to changing the situation?

Not directly but it is good that people in Istanbul / Turkey feel that people all around the world are seeing what is really happening. In the Netherlands the story was published in one of the most prominent daily newspapers. This gives them support as I believe giving opinions is fundamental to a democracy.

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MERVE / 25 / ACTRESS I’m here for my own freedom, I’m here because the police have shown violence and I’m here to defend our rights, the rights that had been taken away from us. They call it a democracy but it’s only their democracy. If you’re against them, you’re the bad kid, they never let you criticize their actions. They always think they’re right, we are here to change this.

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THE “CAPULCU” OF GEZI PARKI: JELLE RIETVELD SELIM / 32 / INTERIOR DESIGNER I am here because I don’t want a prime minister who always interferes in people’s lifestyles, who always tries to impose things using a very bad language. We are there as people of Turkey, who have never been through a revolution and probably never will again.

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GAMZ / 24 / TEXTILE WORKER I am here to protest against a government who limits even the basic rights of its people.

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THE “CAPULCU” OF GEZI PARKI: JELLE RIETVELD ISMIGÜL / 27 / EDUCATION CONSULTANT I’m here because for a long time he (referring to Recep Tayyip Erdogan) has been taking away our rights from us and I think this is the time to take them back.

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ESEN / 62 / DRAMATURG – WRITER I’m here to resist the oppressive methods of the Erdogan Government who is becoming fascistic. I’m here to take back our democratic rights. This is an explosion.

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THE “CAPULCU” OF GEZI PARKI: JELLE RIETVELD SENEM / 39 / YOGA INSTRUCTOR I’m here to help raise protesters’ positive energy through yoga and also to send the same positive energy to the people who are hurt or in custody right now.

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NIHAL / 52 / SOCIAL SCIENCES PHD STUDENT I am here because this protest is an opportunity. We are becoming aware that we are citizens and we are telling this through protests. I want the violence to stop. I guess that when the police violence ends and our demands are heard, the democracy will proceed. This is new for Turkey. For the first time people with different ideologies unite.

This is what makes our protest so special.

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THE “CAPULCU” OF GEZI PARKI: JELLE RIETVELD BUNYAMIN / 23 / VETERINARY STUDENT I am here to support. That’s it.

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LAURA / 20 / TRAVELLER FROM GERMANY I am here to be a part of it, to participate and to show that the youth won’t give up after a few days.

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THE “CAPULCU” OF GEZI PARKI: JELLE RIETVELD SABRI / 27 / HAT MAKER I am here because I think everybody should be here.

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ELIF / 19 / COLLEGE STUDENT I’ve been here since Wednesday 29th May. I think this is an innocent protest. I wanted to show my support because I think the government is a liar. They are lying to us.

They use our religious feelings. But we just don’t want another shopping center. We have so many of those. We want Gezi Parki to stay.

They (police) attack us with tear-gas bombs.

Why? Just for trees. It’s a joke.

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THE “CAPULCU” OF GEZI PARKI: JELLE RIETVELD YUSUF / 76 / RETIRED (MARITIME LINES) I’m here because since I was young I am a social democrat and I believe in democratic rights.

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BASAK / 27 / MASTER STUDENT ARTS MANAGEMENT (OVERSEAS) I am here since Sunday 2nd June and came back to support and to be with my friends, I have been waiting for this for years. My thesis was all about this. Luckily academia is a platform that you can use to express yourself freely.

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AIRBOURNE: JEFF CHANDLER

e n r o Airb

R

E L D N A H C F

by JEF

MY FAVOURITE PART OF FLYING

is that moment you reach speed, the nose tilts up, wheels stop turning, and you begin to soar up into the sky.

It always makes me feel so free, hopeful, light. I love watching the angle of horizon tip as earth melts gently away into the distance. Within seconds, the city becomes a toy town.

Then your ears pop!

I am suddenly aware of the passenger next to me ferociously gripping onto the armrest.

Her knuckles are as white as her face. After gently enquiring if she is ok, she manages to muffle out the words ‘I HATE flying!’ through gritted teeth, tears welling up. My hand instinctively finds its way onto hers...and there we sit, soaring higher and higher into the clouds.

Once the seatbelt signs turn off, and we are once again allowed to play with our beloved electronic devices, my new friend starts to relax enough to describe the intense hatred she has of being up in the air. I don’t know if it is exhaustion or the Xanax she had just taken, but within half an hour, she is sound asleep, hopefully dreaming of sunny days and boat rides.

And as I look out over the vast ocean 38,000ft. below, I begin to think about love and hate. As much as we all have in common

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on this crazy blue planet, one person’s hate will always be another one’s love. And that’s ok.

These things colour life and make us question our own beliefs about it.

I am lost deep in thought until our meals come trundling up the aisle. My new friend slowly wakes and turns her head to me.

Smiling sleepily, she momentarily forgets how high she is.

With our neatly packaged meals in front of us, conversation turns to the different foods we love. I am beginning to think that despite our vastly opposing views on air travel, we have a lot in common...that is until she casually blurts out the one thing she loves more than anything in the world: Seafood sticks!

My hand suddenly grips the armrest; knuckles white. She puts her hand on mine and gently asks if I am ok. Through gritted teeth I manage to mumble the words, ‘I HATE seafood sticks!’.

And on we fly, laughing loudly, high above the clouds...

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FOR THE LOVE OF HATE: SGT.PILKO

by SGT.PILKO

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CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS ISSUE

THE DARK FIGURE

stood in the doorway, absorbing light so that moths were repelled by his very presence.

“Stop looking at me like that” said the figure, “ever since we were children you have been like this, worse since I became a lifestylegothically-independent-type-fellow. Here, I

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have this. Being-see-you.”

He handed a note to the Sgt and turned almost musically on one heel and sped up the path on a pair of what appeared to be Heelies.

The note smelt of lavender and as if that wasn’t bad enough, the contents of what was written was worse.

It read: “Mother is coming to stay.

Tomorrow, 2pm.”

It was his father’s handwriting and the letter had been sent as a warning, he had to get away!

The world reeled and spun, the birdsong from outside turned into cruel laughter, then his bowels dropped. **

received fewer cards than usual.

The radio made a noise, an awful din of the modern variety. His white, pale eye searched the room, naked of its faithfully present monocle which lay in broken tatters underfoot; having been rendered useless from his punch up with the ghost. He had been asleep but he had no idea as to how long.

The sarge farted to make room for his swelling bladder, he gruffly and silently acknowledged the extra space.

He heard a noise upstairs which then turned into screaming. It was tomorrow afterall and she was already here.

Is it tomorrow or today still?

Mother dear was staying, she was still ungratefully alive, without the decency of passing over anytime soon.

The problem this created was that having begun her argumentative ways as soon as she entered his house, the Sarge’s temper had turned a deep red. So he had taken the opportunity to lock her in the bathroom. His bladder was full again.

His mind floundered in a panic. Grabbing his gun from behind the armchair he immediately felt better. His one good eye began tracing the shotgun sight at the radio. One blast and the din was over. He threw the gun aside letting off another clumsy salvo. This time the shot scattered across the living room, but one stray piece found its way out the window, across the garden and into the soft temple of a postman’s soft, juicy head. Not a fatal wound but enough to disrupt his rounds. Little Charlie at number 17 would never forget the birthday in which he

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having begun her argumentative ways as soon as she entered his house, the Sarge’s temper had turned a deep red

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Damn Cider... He thought, but secretly he was as in love with it today as he had been on the day he first tasted it.

He took to relieving himself in the kitchen sink.

Having taken care of both pressing matters he decided to release his mother and then proceed to vacate the house for as long as her visit deemed necessary.

He would sleep in the wild woods, if need be, or the bus station. Both had their plus sides and none of the minuses. Only, the woodland didn’t have the annoying staff who resented his presence and would rudely awaken him at 3 in the afternoon demanding that he leave. ** His favourite type of dog was like his favourite type of crumpet – thick and fluffy. But he had not found either to be particularly faithful to him and he forever resented them for this. On several occasions he had lost shoes, being so angry at their nonchalance toward him he had hurled his footwear in their direction. Dog owners complained and the bakery aisle in all the local supermarkets were now off limits to him.

A tattooed man walked past and dared to say a polite greeting. Having

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once tattooed a heavily detailed map of the London tube onto his own gums and thrice found it impossible to read when needed; the Sarge decided that the tube was not for him, nor were friendly tattoo-covered people.

As he sat in the park a card blew up into his face.

‘To my one true love, forever yours... blah blah... faithfully and ever incontinent... kind regards, kiss kiss...’

The thought of having to write tiny x’s with affectionate purpose at the end of a letter or any communiqué filled him with dread. He shuddered at the mere suggestion of tenderness.

The nearest he had come to such pathetic outpourings was at a local branch of Argos one summer. And that was purely an accident.

Secretly waging a war on the invisible moments between blinks he harboured many ambitions that many considered futile.

Once he was a frequent visitor to a masseuse with whom he felt comfy. He didn’t like people touching him so this was a rare occurrence.

The knots in his back were the envy of the Mongolian Navy, apparently, as well as the Boy Scout organisation.

He would always request some soothing music to play in the background, usually some Peter Gabriel era genesis. The arrangement between them soured when the masseuse, in a bid to please him, began to play Turn It On Again. She had fallen in love with him and thought this might prove the right course to his affections. Sadly he stormed out in a rage.

It would be dark soon and nothing, even the Hate for his infernal Mother could keep him from his supper. Which he was hoping would be lovingly prepared for him and waiting upon his dinner table at home. He always enjoyed her lasagne.

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POETRY: MERCEDES FONSECA

VIBRISSA oh, watch out, prickly pears want to bloom out of season, out of time, into reason, far from sands whirpooling across the Belt of Coherence, zig-zagging absurdly, scaring away the last known axiom. don’t tread on the threads of karmic scrolls; wash and rinse, even thrice, before bed or handling bare. hiding, hidden, hands held tight, dancing, tripping, landing flat; maybe a snap, perhaps a crack. rickety-clicks translate to tantrums and fits, febrile swelling where saboteurs sliced: borrowed bodkin, stolen switchblades the alignment wars setting out rules, scoping the mood and scooping the maul. winner is skinned and hung up, shown off. this label caught up, a name no one knows; one to be learnt, two to keep score three for time’s sake, nevermind four. thistle bristles, whimsical nettle tea; etched using tools of regret, carved hollow, shaped loosely on real-life events, facetious musings always leaving a mark, not displaying the setting, but of how and what the nameless get put in their place by the faceless demanding more than a smudge.

by MERCEDES FONSECA

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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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HUNGRY EYES HUNGRY EYES: MARCO PAONE

by MARCO PAONE

Food photographer Marco Paone tempts us with his delicious guilty pleasures.

Don’t hate yourself, it’s ok if you’re just looking.

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HUNGRY EYES: MARCO PAONE

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HUNGRY EYES: MARCO PAONE

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SOME YEARS LATER: SARA STOJKOVIC

SOME YEA

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ARS LATER

by SARA STOJKOVIC

Summer fun at Kozarac village which still bears the traces of destruction from the war of the nineties (BiH, Republika Srpska)

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SOME YEARS LATER: SARA STOJKOVIC

Of heroes and values and pride, monuments and changes, memories and odd remnants of the nineties‌ A short collection of Balkan curiosities encountered in July 2012.

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Monument remodeling in Preševo, the main center of Albanian community in southern Serbia (Serbia)

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SOME YEARS LATER: SARA STOJKOVIC

Clockwise from above: A rest stop somewhere in between Knin and Plitvice National Park (Croatia) Shopping at a Prizren supermarket (Kosovo) Getting lost one evening on the way back to Debelo Brdo (Serbia)

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SOME YEARS LATER: SARA STOJKOVIC Fireflies at Kozara National Park, the site of the Battle on the Kozara, a part of the Yugoslav National Liberation War and Partisan resistance during World War II

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SOME YEARS LATER: SARA STOJKOVIC Border-crossing over Sava river: left bank – Croatia, right bank – BiH

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your hatred

POETRY: LORA BENOIT

by LORA BENOIT

Your hatred is intense like the deserts heat Keeping too much held in for too long Erupting like a volcano so violently Spewing out your poison fast and strong

Your hate has contaminated you like a disease That has infected you like a virus spreading fast You are nothing but a desert full of animosity With branded marks that consume you of the past

Like the desert your life is a barren wasteland Burning up and wasting away all your energy With a life that is a useless waste of time You keep developing such intense anxiety

You live such a shallow and degrading existence That is so false and hidden within your cold heart You could let go of all that anger and hate And maybe you could make a brand new start

It is so sad how you waste your life away Harboring such anger over others happiness And living with such intense hatred of others Because your vacuumed heart contains such emptiness

All that I can say to you is, let it go Release all of the resentment and the hate Set yourself free of all that raging anger Or you will continue to bear that bitter trait

Your hate consumes you like an undying hunger That has the need to be continuously fed With your hot temper that burns like a raging fire And your heart so ice cold, like it were dead

If you won’t change your obnoxious attitude You won’t change anything about your demeanor You will always stay bitter as you are now And it won’t make your life any better or easier

Your intense hate and anger builds and explodes Spewing out your poison on other peoples lives And destroy anyone that makes you feel threatened With your fury, you don’t care who lives or dies

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NEW WRITING POETRY ART PHOTOGRAPHY ON A COMMON THEME

issue #7

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