The Inkwell: Borderline by PublishED

THE INKWELL

Borderline

...SEPARATING US FROM OTHERS, OR EVEN FROM OURSELVES...

Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Note

Chiara Hampton For this edition of the Inkwell, we chose a theme with the potential to inspire both personal tales and meditations on an era of political polarity and division. Somewhat unexpectedly, many of the interpretations we received dealt less with the overt factionalism of our time than with the invisible barriers which lace our daily lives, separating us from others, or even from ourselves. Writers explored identity, relationships, sudden upheavals of perspective and all the stages from birth to death: the borderlines of a life. As always, narrowing down our submissions to such a slim volume was a difficult task, sparking lively debate. Many thanks to the editorial team for their dedication, as well as to everyone who submitted their work this semester. The Inkwell could not exist without you, and I hope you continue to write inventive and beautiful pieces that transcend the borders of expectation for many editions to come. Finally, a special thanks is owed to all our readers. We hope you enjoy.

Contents Telegraph Lizzie Smith - 5 The Starting point Carl Alexandersson - 7 Landlocked Anna Jones - 9 Untitled Rachel Gibb - 14 To the back fields Jake Kendall - 16 La pietà Dalia Impiglia - 18 With maraschino cherries Lisa Naas - 20 October Katie Buckley - 27 Untitled Cian Pappenheim - 30 Stained Glass William Nye - 31 in over his head Tom Chambers - 32 Email to mum to let her know i’ve arrived safe Zoe Robertson - 34 President’s Note Karolina Zentrichova - 36

Telegraph by Lizzie Smith Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let your knowledge of the wire pollute your eyes: there is no line. The swallow sits on sky.

The Starting Point by Carl Alexandersson I. He will ask me one day, an early Sunday morning, nestled under the covers like a sanctuary of sorts why it is that I always unpack my suitcase as soon as I arrive somewhere and I will say that I like to keep things organised and he will nod and kiss the tip of my nose, and swallow my lie II. He will ask me one day, a late Tuesday night, sipping on tea and telling stories why it is that my stories never make sense; the plot holes making it impossible to trace them back to any given starting point and I will say there are millions of ways the milk could meld into the tea and still end up much the same and he will nod and sip his tea in silence III. He will ask me one day, over an ordinary Thursday lunch, talking over background noise and apologies why it is that I am always late to everyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; thing and I will say that I am never fully anywhere, always stuck somewhere between where I want to be and where I have been (which is to say

that I am, at any given moment, the not-yet-melded milk in any given cup of tea) and that night he will pack a bag and kiss my cheek and I will try to trace things back to the moment he first asked me to stay the night, which was a late Saturday night, which was, in fact, a moment ago.

Not-yet Not-yet Melded Melded Not-yet Milk Milk Melded

Landlocked By anna jones Tucked into the sheltered folds of Clervaux, draped in the darkness of a January evening, a single light seeped from the narrow slit of a slanted window. Through the glass, the flickering shadows of thick, frantic hands shaped the silhouettes of stories. It was there, in the cellar of their crooked wooden home, enclosed in the dull glows and the quietness, that Stefan offered his thigh as a pillow and his tales of the sea. Luc savoured these like sweets, lying with his head against his father and breathing in the steady rasps of his voice. He stared up into his face and traced features that crumbled inwards and wisps of greying eyebrows that furrowed into thought. Each night Luc would ask, “can we go to France, to the seaside?” When Luc was slightly older and the sink of Stefan’s skin was deeper, he finally replied, “yes, we can.” ~ A few nights later, Luc scattered down the stairs into the cellar and halted by his father’s feet. There was no candlelight. Luc roughly made out a splay of thick blonde curls spilling onto Stefan’s right thigh, his usual pillow. Lying there, on the left, Luc tried to listen, but the sound of another’s breath disturbed the usual rhythm. He sensed his father looping blonde locks around his calloused fingers. His heart beat a little faster; his stomach twisted into a knot. The new boy, Benjamin, became a resident of their home. He took a portion of Luc’s porridge in the morning and a chunk of his bread at night. It was strange, Luc thought, that Benjamin didn’t go to school, or sleep upstairs. He stayed in the cellar, only appearing at mealtimes, when the windows and

doors were firmly shut. It could be very cold down there, without the candles and the company. Luc bit at his pencil rapaciously, gazed at the stretch of fields through the school window, and thought Benjamin was very silly for leaving his home. ~ That night, Luc awoke with a jolt. Violent thumps and low, growling voices erupted below him, shaking the floorboards beneath his bed. He crept to the top of the stairs. His eyes, cloggy with sleep, caught only the flash of his father’s hands clasping desperately at a huddle of grey-green suits that forced him out into the darkness. As the door shut, Luc saw a small, pale leg dangling from the side of a larger body, flailing desperately in the beam of the moonlight. He waited until morning, crouched against the banister, whispering his father’s name. ~ With the first streaks of the sun, the door shuddered at the shock of a small knock against its surface. Luc tiptoed down the stairs, opened the door slightly and peaked through the thin gap. It took a moment for the fuzzy air to sharpen into clarity. “I ran” said Benjamin. ~ Luc and Benjamin assumed Stefan would come back. They reverted to normal life, with one eye fixed on the door. ~ At breakfast one morning, Benjamin put his spoon down abruptly, “your father told me you’ve never been to sea.” Luc shook his head into his bowl, “Luxembourg is landlocked. I will never go.” For the first time, Benjamin smiled at Luc, a toothy grin that overwhelmed his pixie face, the corners of his lips reaching up into his curls. “We can change that.” Luc’s top lip twitched, “we can?” ~ When Luc arrived home from school the next day, a wave

of white powder lurched backwards against the swing of the door and collected in a cluster by the fireplace. He crouched over the substance and blew at it, softly. The linear flight of his breath cut the delicate, milky-pale sheet into two. A separate pile waited beside the top of the cellar-stairs and Luc followed its spiralling trail downwards. He found Benjamin kneeling in the centre of the cellar; his body encircled by a cloud of drifting dust. “Where did you get all this sugar?” asked Luc. “Sh,” hissed Benjamin. He made a bowl with his palms and submerged them into the mouth of a paper bag, scooping up a mound and carefully pulling it out. “Come.” Luc moved towards him. “Put your hands below mine. This is not sugar. This is sand. Don’t catch it when it drops; let it fall between your fingers.” Benjamin watched the heap surge towards Luc, who almost recoiled at the pleasure of the sensation; the cool rush of this lightness tickling against his skin; an ambush of loose, scratchy kisses. Luc picked up the bag and threw its contents across the floor. Then another, and another. He took off his shoes and sunk his feet into the luscious, fluffy carpet and sang, through bursts of laughter, “Benjamin, we are at the beach!” ~ Luc went straight down to the cellar after school the next day. He found Benjamin stood with his hands behind his back, a grin fixed on his face. “What?” asked Luc. He moved across the room until the boys were just inches apart. Slowly, Benjamin brought another bag from behind his body and opened it. He wet his finger with his tongue and dipped it inside, bringing a glistening line of crystal-like shapes back up. He ran this finger along Luc’s bottom lip. “This is the taste

Artwork by Sara Dobbs

of the ocean.” Luc stepped back and flicked his tongue at the salt, lapping up its bitterness. ~ The following night, the wind raved furiously, dissuading drunken soldiers from the streets. “We must be quick,” Benjamin whispered. He led Luc out into the snowfall, along cobbled alleys, through woodlands, and paused only briefly at the foot of the Ardennes hills. “We are close.” Eventually, upon the hilltop, Benjamin explained, “when you sit at the bow of a boat and turn your nose up to the sky, the water splashes on your skin like this.” Luc copied Benjamin and thrust his chin outwards. A gush of snowdrops stung against his cheeks and burst like bubbles into trickles of icy water. They straggled down the nape of his neck, under his shirt and onto his chest. Benjamin pulled two irregular objects from his pocket and placed one against Luc’s ear. “I found these in a box belonging to your father.” Luc listened as a rush of waves crashed against a seashore. “That is the Earth, breathing.” Whilst Luc savoured the sound, Benjamin warmed his hands under their stash of blankets. “Take my hand. It is warm, like the sun.” With fingers interlocked, Luc and Benjamin sat with their sea until dawn.

Untitled by Rachel Gibb pink swathes take cream acrylic into irises. An assault on the senses. some pass by offended others Somersault Into its mind time flickers on. That corner of the painting thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s A splodge. Wonder what she was dreaming of. I can no longer cling To your words, not like I used to. Shards of glass rip your lips pink fingertips grip The inside of a throat, clawing words out need to work out What I need to do Hands warmed from their inside. Chest rising, fingers grip holds made from patterns in rock, chest falls. shit shouting no cause among Flowers we canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t name, city folk take The country cause. Seagulls play with the wind, chest rises chest falls. A thousand footprints lapped by the indifferent waves of salt they mock us.

Photography by Aiyah sibay

Chest Rises Chest falls 15

by Jake Kendall

To the back fields

There had been many tears shed that day. These were different. I tried to ask her what was wrong. It wasn’t me she wanted to speak to. She pushed past. She was asking for her brother in a loud voice that carries over a room full of brittle small-talk. Her aunt was asking how I travel to work each day. The aunt had wept next to me all through the ceremony. Now she wanted something safe, something easy to hold on to. I tell her my bus is called an S1. It costs £5.20 though a monthly pass makes it cheaper. There are raised voices in the other room. The aunt senses my need to investigate and excuses herself, taking her drink to the next table. They are standing by the buffet cart. Her brother’s eyes are wide and his body convulsing. She has her hands on his shoulders. He pushes her off and tries to break free. She pulls him close again and pleads for him to listen to her. Everyone else in the room pretends nothing is wrong. She leads her brother away from the crowd. As they approach, I try to ask what is the matter. I am told to wait until later. They go outside. I see them lighting up cigarettes and walking away from the pub talking closely. Conspiratorially. I linger alone in the doorway. I look to their mother. She’s lost in grief. Dozens of well-wishers surround her in a futile attempt to absorb her suffering. People wave me over to them. Today no one should be alone. Today we have all broken. Drinks are placed endlessly before us. No one can face sobriety. They ask slurred questions: where am I working these days? Do I drive or is there a bus? I stare out the window and wait for them to return. When they do their faces are different. Gone is the sadness. They are masks of cold purpose. Her brother begins walking the pub and garden. He approaches some of the men and asks them to follow him. I walk to her and she pulls me close. She has been numb to affection for months now. I hold her tightly. Hoping the closeness can somehow reunite our souls. I ask her what is happening. She is silent a long time before replying: someone here should not be. Something needs to be done. She pulls free and makes for her mother. The crowd reads her seriousness and disperses. Soon it is her and her mother who leave the room engrossed in rapturous, hushed tones. Outside a group of men in black tuxedos stand in a circle at the end of the car park. Their intensity is thick enough to taste in the air. I am almost scared to approach. Some of them are strangers to me. Young men. Outside the family. Locals. All steaming drunk. One of them is massive. His face is twisted into a snarl as he points back into the fields behind the pub. Others nod. I ask her brother what is happening. Before he can answer, their mother runs out shouting his name. Pleading for him not to do this. The brother replies that he

has not done anything - the line has been crossed already. More anger is about to cascade from him, but he falls strangely silent and stares back towards the pub. We all turn to follow his gaze. Please no their mother says. A chubby man with slick-backed hair who I have never met has exited the pub for a smoke. He has taken a bench alone with a glass of red wine in hand. He sits with his back to us, unaware of the crowd and oblivious to the white-hot emotion radiating from them. Please not today their mother implores one last time. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s already talking to the backs of her son and his friends as they march to the bench. The mother collapses into her hands. Her daughter puts her arms around her. Unlike her mother she will watch. She stares impassively back at the bench. I have never seen this look in her eyes. I wonder if she wants me with her or with her brother. She doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look at me once. I walk over too. Unsure whether I am going to intervene or participate. The men surround the bench. Red Wine doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand his predicament and tells the brother he is sorry for his loss. Get up the brother replies. Get the fuck up now he repeats, when Red Wine remains seated. The hostility is unmistakable. Just having a drink boys he says in a quiet and shaking voice. The massive man snatches the glass of red wine from him and hurls it into the ground. He calls the man a rapist piece of shit, before physically pulling him from his bench and onto his feet. Come with us. Come with us right now. Red Wine is shaking. He begins to cry and plead that he has done nothing wrong. He asks for their mother, but she is running inside now, unable to watch and unwilling to help. The crowd begins to drag him away from the bench. Towards the country path. Towards the back fields. If we get him there, we will none of us be the same again. I feel sick. I feel her watching us all and I feel a bloodlust I did not know she possessed. Red Wine is crying now. Ten versus one. No mercy. He is so scared that his face is wet with tears and spit and snot. A taxi pulls up. The driver looks at us all like he wants to reverse immediately. One of the boys breaks rank and stops the taxi. The debate is frantic. Put this sick piece of shit inside. I find myself talking: your mum is right - not today - this is not how we remember today. Some of those in the crowd are happy with this. Others want blood. Red Wine has fallen to his knees. He sobs that he will never come by the family ever again. The crowd has hesitated too long for violence now. An element of sympathy is creeping in. The back and forth continues until someone helps Red Wine to his feet and places him in the taxi. I look for her to gauge her response, but she has gone inside. The taxi pulls away. Red Wine looks at the brother. He is smirking at us all. He winks and waves as the car drives him away to safety.

Frantic light searches for providence Like the lost mother, a justification And the broken son, his purpose. Significance bleeds through open palmsCatching water is just a teasing game, A cruel dance of hands adorned with blighted charms. The shadows employ the vests of our memories, And our dead are left naked, barred for centuries. Under bridges, tables and tiles seeps my gaze In search of ground, a calm estate. On this soil I have stretched my skin, Scratched my eyes, torn my nails to get inside. Stained by sworn promises I held my head, Fell to the floor and left Trails of pity: I had sacrificed my soul to theft. And for the rest? Faith had a body no longer, Just crumbled stone professed. Here we are cutting and creating our own religion: Confinements painted like red borders around our eyes, The golden drops on our lips Are the shadowed footsteps of the words we once said. The rules are simple but many, The days are numbered but unknown, Our prayers live in silence But worst of all, Our God hides alone.

Photography by Aiyah Sibay

La PietĂ by Dalia Impiglia

Our God

Hides Alone 19

Lisa Naas With Maraschino Cherries She traced her fingers along the ruts and ridges in the old mahogany, varnished over the years with lacquer touch-ups and amber, beer washes. So thick and smoothed-over was the resin coating, that she couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel the wood itself, except when she explored its knots and imperfections. The edge of the bar was wrapped in leather, and she felt it soft against her chest as she leaned forward to look at the bartender. It was quite dark in the room. The cellar space offered no windows, at least, not any that she could see. From floor to ceiling, the walls showcased red, velvet drapery that held swaths of murkiness between their folds. The heavy fabric matched the seatbacks, and the whole of the place seemed rinsed with a deep wine color. The area behind the bar was bright enough though, and the light gleamed and reflected off the glass bottles, displaying a fluid palette of earth tones echoed in

the wood. She put her cheek to the counter for a closer look and watched her bartender from the skewed angle. He was dressed sharply in his tailored vest and crisp white apron, busy preparing a glass, stacked high with just-cut ice. But it wasn’t her drink, she would have to wait. All around her were her father’s businessmen in their suits, their voices rumbling low in conversation. She tilted her head occasionally to follow their cigarette smoke. The grey curls floated upward to play with the dust that shimmered and whirled in the tinted lamp glow. Every now and then, the front door would creak open to reveal someone new. She would swivel in her seat, just in time to watch the shadows explode with sunlight. When she blinked, she could see the light streams and silhouetted figures on her eyelids, even after the door shut. Savoring her temporary, secret pictures, she blinked again. Most of the men were standing or seated at the booths and tables, but here she was, high on a tall stool. Her legs dangled and she liked to raise her feet so that her patent-leather shoes touched the wall of the bar. They were her dress shoes, shiny, stiff and black with little straps that held them in place around her ankles. It was a rare occasion when she had permission to wear these, but a visit here always meant her best clothes. Her dress had layers to it, with its built-in, silky slip, and a pink, satin bow that wrapped around and tied behind her back. Even her socks were dressed up with their ruffles. Her mother had fastened a little gold cross around her neck, and she tried to look at it now by pulling her chin in and peering down her nose. It was shiny and interesting with its scrolled etchings, but the chain was too short and her eyes were crossing, and she didn’t know how to take it off to see it better. She felt grown up when she dressed up, so she tried not to move too much to disturb her look. Her white-blond hair was still free of tangles

from the last brushes of her mother’s hand about an hour ago. But little beads of sweat were forming behind her knees, and her bare legs were starting to stick to her leather seat, just like they did in the car after a visit to Coney Island. She lifted each leg and shifted, pulling at the hem of her dress to cover more beneath her, but that made her collar too tight and the crinkly lace scratched at her neck. The elastic of her puff sleeves cut into her upper arms and itched where they made little rivets in her skin. She tugged at them where they held on to her. She knew she wouldn’t last much longer—she was ready for her drink. She could just about taste the sticky-sweet redness of it. The tiny, fizzy bubbles were always the first part of the drink. They tickled her upper lip and nose when she would take her sips. Sometimes they even made her sneeze, if she breathed them in. Little plastic swords usually held two cherries speared through their middles. She liked to have one cherry before sipping and save the other until the end of her drink when it would be soda-soaked. The plastic swords always seemed like toys misplaced to her in such an adult glass, but she accepted them in order to have the candy fruit. She could see the cherries now, in their jar across the bar top, but she knew she couldn’t quite reach them without stretching out across the counter and bringing attention to herself. For distraction, she listened for her father’s voice. His was now the loudest, easy to pick out among the men. She heard him talk of her mother and laugh that deep growling laugh he had when he relaxed. The other men laughed too. She didn’t hear all his words, but there was something in the laughter with the men that made her blush. Her ears felt hot and she wanted to leave, but it was just then that her father seemed to notice her. He stepped toward the bar and bumped her chair, standing close.

His suit coat hung in her lap as he reached behind the bar. She could smell his warm cloud of peppery cigarettes and leftover cologne. He chose a bottle with a uniformed soldier on the label and poured more drink into his glass. He placed a tumbler in front of her and motioned to the bartender, before returning to his circle of men. The bartender leaned over, pulled the trigger on his plastic gun, and with a whooshing gush, filled her glass. Another separate splash of red created a thick, floating ribbon through the crystal clearness, and then he pushed the pierced cherries into the ice. She tucked her feet underneath her bottom and knelt up higher. Leaning into the bar, she listened to the fizz. The little pops and whispers covered the menâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voices if she concentrated. She closed her right eye and put the left nearer the glass, to see the bubbles jumping on the liquid surface. They sparkled and danced under the lights in a miniature world of their own, and she focused on trying to count them before they burst. *** â&#x20AC;&#x153;Shirley Templeâ&#x20AC;? Ginger Ale, 7-Up, or Sprite over ice Splash of grenadine Garnish with maraschino cherries

Artwork by Dalia al-dujaili

Photography By Auro Varat Patnaik

October by Katie Buckley The house, like me, isn’t used to the cold. It creaks, leans into itself, tries to turn its face away from the wind. The pipes in the wall are humming. They sound like an orchestra tuning up, and I open my eyes and lie in bed, full to the brim with excitement while I wait for the violins to start and the lights to go down. My window is cracked open and gasps of autumn air shudder through it. Small children shriek on their way to the school at the end of the lane. Maybe they have new pencils clutched in their fists, maybe they have new, light up shoes that pinch a little bit. I used to hate this time of year when I was at school. I resented the way summer suddenly stood up and walked out, slamming the door behind her but forgetting to take her things. Roses are left to frost as they slouch over wet iron gates. The sun decides to put her back into it for an afternoon and you sweat through your jumper. Today the sky is so blue that you feel like you could stick your arm into it, right up to the elbow, and it would come out dripping with blueness. People laugh in the hallway and my door is thrown open as he staggers through it. He has a cup of tea in each hand and swears as some slops out of the top and onto his bare feet. “You’re an idiot,” Francesca says, reaching over him to hold the door open. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, catching the door with his foot so it doesn’t slam shut. He puts the tea down gently. He pulls his shirt off over his head and it’s the casualness of it, the way he throws it across the room, that makes my stomach ache. “You look very relaxed,” he says, raising his eyebrows at the way I’m draped across the bed. My hair is a mess but I still have all my jewellery on and my ring catches a piece of light and tosses it up onto the wall. “It’s all an act,” I say, sitting up to take the tea. “Really?” “Yeah, I was actually thinking about how much work I have to do.”

“You gonna go to the library?” he asks. He puts a hand on my leg, just above my knee, and draws tiny circles with his thumb. “Yeah, I actually kind of need to get up now.” “Oh shit, okay.” He moves his legs so I can get up and I hop over him, bending over to find a pair of knickers that don’t hurt, a pair of socks that don’t have holes in them. “Do you want to do something later this week?” he says. “Yeah, sure. Maybe Friday?” I play this game where I smile at him, just because it makes him smile, and I do it now and watch a grin lift up his whole face. “Friday sounds good.”

The bottle green door slams behind Francesca and the wind is ecstatic to see us, it kisses us all over, takes liberties with our skirts and breathlessly unwinds our scarves just to get at the impossibly soft skin above our collar bones. “Autumn,” she says, gesturing up at that paint pot sky. “Yep,” I say, and we clink our coffee cups. “You look tired.” “I am,” I say, pausing to push my fingers through the gate where the border collie lives. She licks them gently and we keep walking. “Not getting much sleep?” she asks, a little wryly. “Not getting any sleep,” I say, and she laughs. “You have a hickey,” she says, reaching over and rubbing it with her thumb, the way my mum used to rub bits of Marmite off my face. “Oh fuck off.” “You guys are gross. Who gives hickeys? This is not a rhetorical question, who is out here genuinely convinced that hickeys are the move?” “Him, apparently,” I say, laughing. “We’re too old for hickeys. We’re almost in our mid-twenties, hickeys are behind us, just like hair crimping and making out at the movies.”

“Look, if the chance comes around to make out at the movies, I can’t promise you I won’t do it.” “Fine. But no crimping.” Leaves, the colour of cheap gold and perfect red lipstick, skitter around our feet. The wind hisses through the trees. Time, it seems, is on the move. “If you were a season, what season do you think you’d be?” I ask, while we wait by a van that’s permanently parked up by the path, exhaling coffee scented steam in busy people’s faces. “Spring,” she says, putting a sugar in my coffee. “You?” “Summer.” “I know,” she says, “golden girl.” “I do like autumn though,” I say, but I don’t mean that really. It makes me nervous. All that change that does nothing to disguise the downhill march into endlessly dark days and cracked lips. “I love the colours,” she says, stooping to pick up a leaf that glitters like it’s been candied. “Yeah, me too,” I say. I tilt my face up to watch the trees shaking with laughter. Rooks chatter amongst themselves and even though the sun is out, the ground is damp, and I don’t think it will get dry again until the earth rolls onto its back in six months’ time. My mouth is the warmest part of me, my lips taste like coffee and I hold my cup with both hands. “How are you feeling about the boy?” Cesca asks. “Good. Yeah, really good,” I say, and I mean it. I can still just about feel his body on mine, the way you still feel the roll of the ocean when you step onto land. “Did you talk to him about what you’re doing?” “If we’re going out? Not yet. I will.’’ The trees are creaking in the wind but you could be forgiven for thinking the world is groaning, straining under the weight of all this gold and green. The world is one big ‘almost.’ Cesca leans forwards to brush hair out of my eyes and smoke from a bonfire, yards away, makes me blink and prick my nose up in the air. “You should,” she says. “No time like the present.”

untitled by Cian Pappenheim 30

Through the woods, me son and me As glad a band as e’er you’d see, Espied a man hung by a tree His tongue distent and purple. My son, he stopped and asked of me, “Sure here’s a sight I ne’er did see A figure hung upon a tree How could he be deserving?” “Specific business must betide For one of conscience to decide To see a man is thusly tied Upon a tree so keenly.” “I dread to think what should betide, Mayhap on rape one should decide And murder too to come so tied Below yon tree so rangy.” “O ho! My child, you misconstrue, ‘Tis not arranged by what men do, In life, one’s lot is oft undue; Simply look around ye.” And so we did, me son and me And soon enough we came to see ‘Twas not one corpse upon a tree But a forest full of people

Stained Glass

By William Nye

Not yet self but flesh and warm saliva. Embalmed in amniotic fluid, Encased in transparent treacle, That swaddles, secures. But morning dew is a fickle coat And rattle, clang, thump breach Pink walls to form steady pulse. Breath, flesh, warm saliva: A bare frame open to the air. Open soil for your sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s touch, A canvas for your brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lips. Naked fists open wide and grasp! Shell cracks and fists latch and fibres cling to tacky skin. Milk white eyes scan and swallow As pupils peer through thin film Flecked and fingered by prying hands. Grit and dust - textures of time and noisy memory Settle over pallid skin, Numb intertwined fingers, Sour shared breath And blur the form in front of you. Encased by walls of thought and warm fug. Dots squint through a warped lens Smudged, chipped, scribbled and scratched By daytime babble and evening blur, By etched shadows. You stare at a sealed perimeter. At thick, insulated glass.

by tom chambers

In over his head HEADMASTER Thank you for coming to see me, Jenkins. I won’t keep you long. JENKINS Not at all, Headmaster. HEAD. As I’m sure you recall, your time here at Crimpington Manor High has been marked by a series of… regrettable occurrences…

Waits for a response, but JENKINS is impassive. HEADMASTER retrieves a large file and opens to a random page.

JENKINS HEAD. JENKINS HEAD. JENKINS HEAD.

JENKINS HEAD.

[Clears throat] Perhaps we could start by discussing the Washing Liquid Incident? Would you be referring to the mysterious presence of washing-up liquid in the lunchtime soup a fortnight ago? That would be the one, yes. Care to elaborate? I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean, Sir. Three students reported seeing you sneaking into the prep section of the kitchens, and you were on washing duty that day. But Sir, as I told the Cooks at the time, I never left my station until I was released to eat– –by which time the results were already apparent, yes, Jenkins, I am aware. Three students went into anaphylactic shock and most others were emitting bubbles all afternoon. It was quite a hassle, I don’t mind telling you, clearing up that mess. We are keen to establish that it wasn’t the work of any individual wanting to disturb order. Lining up suspects for interrogation, if I might interject, Sir, is such an aggressive way to go about it! Your concern is noted, Jenkins, but I think you had better leave matters of discipline to us. It’s not as though we haven’t quite the growing case file of otherwise inexplicable events involving you [Indicates the file in front of him] I really must object, Sir! Then why don’t we examine another example? [Leafs through the file]

JENKINS HEAD. JENKINS HEAD. JENKINS HEAD. JENKINS HEAD. JENKINS HEAD.

JENKINS HEAD.

Let’s see… October 23rd, a Year 7 class in the gym was plunged into darkness– –I can hardly be held accountable for random power cuts! Someone played creepy laughter over the PA system– –that could be anyone! You were reported absent from your class– –I needed the toilet! It has been passed on to me in confidence that you appear to have something of a vendetta against Year 7 students. Those snitches… I bet I know who squealed– –Jenkins! Sorry, Sir. I just get… bored– –A line has been crossed, Jenkins! Repeatedly! I am hereby issuing you with an official warning. I cannot prove directly that you are culpable for many of these incidents, but the evidence– –circumstantial– –circumstantial, yes, though much of it is, your attitude and conduct are simply unacceptable. You seem determined to create chaos and snub orderl– –I know it seems that way! How else could it possibly ‘seem’?! We demand excellence in every form from our students and staff alike here at Crimpington Manor High. Learn to share our values or your time here may have to be cut short. Do you understand? Yes, Sir. I just don’t know if I can get on board. Align yourself with our school’s ethos, Jenkins! You show promise, but you are currently performing at a level which is, quite simply… oh, what’s the word? Borderline? No, average is the word I’m after. You are achieving distinctly average results. You are well-liked by many of your peers, but that simply cannot justify such a disappointing performance! I understand. Now, I should probably be getting back to my Maths class. You know how teenagers can get when left to their own devices… You left them unsupervised?!

Email to Mum to Let Her Know I’ve Arrived Safe

by Zoe Robertson

To: Mum Mon, July 24, 6:08pm Re: ARRIVED!! I’m at the hostel! I have a room to myself which is really great: need to be alone and veg for a while before heading out on tomorrow’s hike. Hoping that the shower here has hot water - people talk a lot about geothermal energy up here, right? Geysers and stuff. They’re bound to have nice warm baths. The journey was a bit bumpy, but it didn’t feel as long as I thought it would. And I wasn’t mugged or anything on the way - told you that you had no reason to worry! Although, there was a weirdo in the carriage with me. I thought they were asleep so they didn’t really bother me, but one time when I got back from the bathroom they were just staring at me, like I’d upset them or something. They just kept staring with these crazy huge brown eyes. They were probably drunk or something, idk. I didn’t speak to them after that, just had a nap. *** In quiet moments, I slip beneath the wave of their hand and drown amongst soft touches edged with teeth. In loud seconds I forget all of myself except the feel of prickly bedroom carpet beneath my feet, and a name that won’t form in my mouth anymore. This is all to say that I made a shape in my kitchen sink, from bits and bobs of me: a snapped hair tie, my baby teeth, draft blog posts saved on my phone and never published. I poured in bleach and bubble bath, added a splash of tedious dreamscape descriptions spat from my lips, and churned it up until the bitter brew frothed. Whatever got stuck in the plug, clogged the drain, I imagined as a chunk of me - hair or flesh or nail - chopped off and discarded into this strange soup for additional flavour, additional foundation on which my creation would stand. I’d read the science and the secrets and the stories: I knew what I was doing. The ‘why’ is another question, elusive but surely whimsical. Surely justifiable. Surely correct. Overnight, the scent of cheap champagne chugged on prom night, seven years ago, pinched at my nose and made me think of a clacking first kiss and frayed hems. I tossed and turned and saw visions of dark water dismembering me in its riptide, waking only when I was thrown onto the shore, whole again. When I woke up, the shape was standing at the foot of my bed. Hazel eyes open and staring into my hazel eyes, bare feet prickled by cheap carpet. It towered over the furniture, scalp brushing the speckled ceiling, the sunlight pinning freckles to solid skin pushed into a performance of personhood. It was waiting. It was alive. I stared at it; fingers white as I gripped my bedsheet, throat dry and plugged with screams that I thickly swallowed back down into my gut. Its form defied any language I could think of, defied even my eyes and sense of rationality. I was transfixed and repulsed, and that’s how I knew I had succeeded. I had triumphed over the borderline between myself and the

unknown, dissolving it away in a homebrewed vat of venom and slapdash self-belief. Thrilled, I crawled to the foot of my bed and wrapped my arms around the colossal waist of my visitor the best I could. I heard the twinge of muscle, the gargle of intestines, the thrum of a pulse that had me close to tears. Not a performance, but a living thing. I pulled it back into the sheets with me and sat on its chest and let the sunlight spilling in from the window pin the freckles on my body too. I called it a shape because that is what it was; that is, indisputably, what we all are. Awkward patchworks of collagen and water housing dark spaces that require constant renovation in order to continue existing in a world that demands flexibility. The housing market for our bodies is in crisis, and adaptation is the only way to prevent an eviction notice. I realised that I had to integrate my creation into the world, therefore I taught it how to manipulate its shape, reconfigure the house I built, so that it could blend in. I explained to it how to shrink from monster to maiden to find a seat on the bus, how to unravel oneself from a tight coil of fear with pride in the face of prejudice, watching with an unnerving flip of my stomach as mental malleability manifested physically. It would shift before my eyes: one moment taking up the entire bedroom, the next managing to fit in my coat pocket, then blossom into a horrific display of anxious angles, bones sharp and protruding. I recoiled. “No, that’s not right,” I scolded. “They can’t see that.” Its skin rippled and eyes opened in all places, gazing at me quizzically. The shape swelled, throwing me across the room. Frightened and betrayed, a spark of anger exploded inside me. This thing I had made with my own sweat and blood and bits and bobs had no right to transform, no right to distort the image I had designed for it. It was not entitled to monstrosity - that was my job. Rising to my feet, I balled my fingers into fists, ready to tear this shape to pieces. Then, I felt a solid weight wrap itself around my middle. The shape, my creation, held my body tightly, the pair of us shuddering. For a long moment I only felt the twinge of muscle, gargle of intestines, thrum of a pulse, and watched when it pulled away at last, morphing into a shape I thought I’d known. Hazel eyes looked into hazel eyes, and I took myself by the hand. *** To: Mum Mon, July 24, 6:30pm (Draft) Re: [no subject] Forgot to say! Just realised how tired I must’ve been, cos I thought the weirdo in my carriage was a grown-ass person, but when I woke up from my nap I realised that they were actually really small - a kid, pretty much! I glanced around when I was getting off the train, wondering if they had a parent or something, but no sign. I also swear that they had brown eyes when I looked at them earlier, but I guess I just needed that nap, cos they were actually green. Like mine.

The End

President’s Note Karolina Zentrichova

Another semester at PublishEd has flown by, filled with many bookish delights. This semester’s edition of The Inkwell focuses on the theme ‘Borderline’, providing a platform for students to share their writing, photography and artwork. I was absolutely blown away by the quality of the submissions we received and hope you enjoy what our wonderful editing team has put together. As has become tradition, the first event of the semester was a chaotic ‘Bookshop Crawl’. We then held two ‘Write Drunk, Edit Sober’ events, which were both a delight of tipsy writing - I recall an especially memorable collaborative story with an eclectic character mix including Margaret Thatcher, Tigger and Plato. In October, we collaborated with the Society of Young Publishers Scotland, inviting six industry professionals to tell us about their experience in the industry, followed by some drinks and networking, during which we established that the publishing industry truly has the friendliest people of all. Finally, we also held two Open Mic Nights, featuring live performances of poetry, writing and music. Seeing people come together to celebrate and support writers, as well as seeing numerous people perform their work for the first time was a touching experience. I could not be more excited for the next semester with PublishEd. We plan to hold one Open Mic every month, as well as to invite industry professionals and authors in for events. We will also be putting together another edition of The Inkwell. Holding the hard copy of The Inkwell in my hands for the first time is always the highlight of the semester and I would like to thank our editing team for all the hard work they put into making it a reality. I would also like to thank all of our members for submitting their writing and attending our events - you are all a wonderful bunch of people and your engagement and support makes this all possible. With Love, Karolina

Karolina Zentrichova President Anne Van Der Poel Vice-President Ian Kirkland Events organiser Evan Bayton Secretary nIYA IVANOVA Treasurer Mia Morgalla Chiara Hampton Ailsa Bridgeford Benjamin Park

Media Editor Editor-in-chief Prose Editor Poetry Editor

Will penkethman-carr Drama Editor Elizabeth Park Copy Scarlett Maccabe-abel Editors Jana Phillips General Editor Emily Hughes Head of Design

Artwork By Dalia Al-Dujaili