Inkwell (R)evolution

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2017-2018 winter issue cover photography: NADIA AHMED

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editor’s note

Literature has always responded to the times. Be it through the immediacy of poetry, or the more meditative form of the short story, writing enables us to make sense of the strange world we live in.

The presence of a two-fold theme, ‘Evolution’ and ‘Revolution’, has inspired diverse reflections on these contradictory times that I hope the reader will find both entertaining and thought-provoking.

Great societal change is afoot. Established institutions are falling, members of the highest echelons stripped of their decorations. Scandals, referenda, protests, revelations; these are the catalysts for our ‘revolution’.

They have also proved ripe for creative interpretation, from expressing the minutiae of personal milestones, to the impact of geographical and metaphorical borders, to exploring notions of gender, music, national transitions and hierarchy in the animal kingdom. The pieces displayed in this issue, though certainly varied, are bound by shared ideas of navigating the joys and tribulations of living in the 21st century.

In curating this issue, The Inkwell team has brought together voices and illustrations we feel embody the essence of (R)evolution. Looking back at past issues we were struck by the ways in which our use of style and formatting has changed over time; the Inkwell may have become smaller in its dimensions, shrinking from A4 down to A5, but it is loftier in ambition, bursting with colour and gusto.

Forever evolving, we hope to continue providing the University with fresh, fun and fierce writing for semesters - and years - to come.

- Saskia Solomon

by JULI SIMOND

my girlfriends and i are a beast of femininity with hair kept so long it catches dirt, leaves, critters, and cowards writhing at our feet

“

Poetry is the lifeblood of rebellion, revolution, and the raising of consciousness.

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-Alice Walker

as we march through the hills we are one fat shadow, delicate necks swaying in flurried gales, each nape averaging a metre in length, atop which deep dimples perch, flashing the bright white of lurid eyeballs, contoured in kohlglinting orbs not constrained by, but contained within the thick black line so as to keep amorphous jelly sucked well into socket

!

les garces

we remain the uncanny. disdainful: so futile is the attempt of a nervous chuckle to diffuse an atmosphere of pure electric vengeance, the weighted stench of old blood rises in the place of your usual throatful of bile

honey, do you smell something burning? look down, look down you stand upon the pyre you have built for us our shadow lit by the flame of a single match, desired soft curves perforated by sharp angles lurking beneath our intricate braids connect us, bridging head to head, we are one and you- finally, forcefully, fruitfully -are none

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g r o w

by CHLOE BRUCE

i

When I think of where I was A year ago, six months ago, An hour agoI sigh and think how foolish, Am I? How primitive; A seedling with its first taste Of daylight, Thinks it finally sees, But it’s just dazzled By the light of the sun.

Can’t walk, But tries to run.

And when I think of it -of how I thoughtThinking I was free When really I was fresh caught; A salmon on the end of a line.

And when I think of this,

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g I think that I am now Some ancient tree Grown tall and broad and wise.

That I’ve survived The deathly winters And my branches now reach the skies.

That I’ve not just matured; I’ve metamorphosized.

But I am not a tree yet: I’m just a sapling even now, Still blinded by the light; Still running Without knowing how To just walk.

But one day I’ll be that oak.

And my past stages, All the masks I’ve worn, Will be charming memories Of how young I used to be.

One day, I’ll take my first sure step To becoming me.

illustrations: ALICE GRIFFIN

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her allies, pigtails swinging defiantly, thankfully narrowly missing the corner of her eye; her troops couldn’t see their leader cry. Jenny skulked towards the ash tree inhabited by her possible secret weapon; Teacher’s Pet.

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n o n o e e h h R e e c e h T nh c u l T un l e e h ch T n u l

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His spindly body was crouched foetus-like in the earth, his chewed finger nails frantically scratching at the soil. Hissing like a feline, his head snapped up at the unfamiliar sound of approaching footsteps.

“Alfred,” she addressed him by his favoured title “I need your cooperation.”

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vo T l h un e

Just one place promised Jenny sanctuary; Kissing Corner. Where, yonder when the hopscotch lines were still bright, a notorious incident passed.

Supposedly, young Jonny Farrow stole a kiss from Bella Bates here, but on returning the next day a blemish maimed her once angelic visage…

The Wart. Legend spread like wildfire, igniting the fears of those who

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net. The higher authorities were quicker to react, attempting to detain the furious girl, but the lanyard-wearing oppressors couldn’t prevent Jenny from evading their clutches. She darted beneath a table, reaching the exit unscathed, save a single Warburtons Toastie Loaf crust ingrained in her knee.

The boy sprung up from the dirt and leered towards the girl. “Cooperation”

o

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he h T c un l vo Re he h T c n u l o v e R

e e approached this nook, that they might like Bella Bates be bitten by the curse h h Re of Kissing Corner. Jenny was either sceptical of such fables, or prepared to The c take any risk to R elude the Blueaprons. Only one thing was certain…

T T n Re e v TSchool Dinners. e T u h h o Revoluncheon e v She was a victim of the era of Jamie Oliver v n T lThe by LYDIA h oo l e h LOWE o n e o o u h h l e n l e e IGHT ME!” Screechedh the 4”8 child, to the 5”3 octogenarian. o v“FT n Shen hadc to lead the Revoluncheon. u u u c e n l c R nc wasl no u jellyn left. h o n v c e There h o e n o e ch Therh u ebeckoning “Cuckoo!” she throatily echoed comrades’ call. Sweet joy!

R T l evAllvo h e vo Her cry availed, bringing loyal Frank and cold-sore Cathy galloping, but h e e e gone. e on they were wary ofe crossing Kissing Corner’s threshold, marked by a rainR e e v o l l u n c heoon h on h faded line Jenny had queued up for thirty thousand years for a taste of that sweet, drawn in the chalk of their predecessors. u n n c nc synthetic gelatine on her lips. Even worse; today the flavour was reminiscent of plasticky strawberry. Jenny’s favourite. o “Jenny, why are you hiding in K-ki-… here?”.

Frank approached h the fugitive T un ewith the light of rebellion, like a squirrel whose e l She looked Mrs Dinner Lady, the worst of the Blueaprons, was taunting her with a up, eyes shining e plastic pot of browning banana, boldly advertising it as ‘dessert’. Jenny o acorns have been snatched by o merciless children. h n h v was no fool, she was a nine year old. Nine year olds are greater pudding c connoisseurs than the ‘experts’ who award Michelin stars to crumb of raisin n is now, friends, gather all that you can. For today we strike!”

T“Theutime e served on a bed of saffron foam. Nine year olds rival the pudding adoration R five of Gregg Wallace. Thus, Mrs Dinner Lady was senseless to dare offer Insurgents l were aplenty, the recreational grounds teeming with them, yet slices of browning plant matter as the pièce de résistance following Jenny’s the authorities imprudently believed that fraying skipping ropes and faded o fingers of codfish battered in breadcrumbs, served on a pool of bean juice, encircled were enough to appease their inferiors. Unbeknownst to them, v hula-hoops by several microwave-warmed garden peas. e these very items would be used in opposition.

The pig-tailed girl’s unexpected imperative caused Mrs Dinner Lady’s R Before fighting could commence, Jenny had a risk to take. She turned from thin lips to shrivel, silver perm quivering beneath its captor; a stringy hair

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he spat “Hah. What have you ever given me except ridicule and wedgies?”

Damn his easily targeted Power Ranger boxers. Threateningly, he lifted his elbow to his nose, adding to his sleeve’s snot crustacean.

“Remember the beans? They thought we wouldn’t notice the difference between Heinz and Aldi’s own. We weren’t brave enough to revolt, then what did they do with the Smiley Faces? Replaced them with boiled potatoes!” The beans were his Achilles heel. He ground his teeth together; the queen of the chess board. It was check mate.

A dark figure emerged, scuttling towards the furious woman, her expression softened at the sight of her favourite. Teacher’s Pet. Jenny felt bile rising in the back of her throat, he was about to give her away, who knew what perverse punishment would befall her? Jenny didn’t have another letter of apology left in her.

“Nothing will persuade me to help you, Jennifer, you let your comrades abuse me one too many times. Now, I believe Headmistress is in her office… what shall she think towards your pathetic rebellion?” Before Jenny could wrestle him to the ground, he skipped away, malevolent cackle trailing behind. She was doomed.

h un e c h e e Th n o e h o c n evolu

“I know how this looks, but you must understand that those people aren’t like you or I. Watery beans are not enough to feed their brains for rational thinking.” Jenny knew Teacher’s Pet only accepted Heinz.

The next moment; eerie silence. The rebels had espied Headmistress, thus began to surreptitiously drop their weapons, some going as far as to begin hula hooping, as though that piece of equipment hadn’t just been a ninja star.

Ground trembled beneath stomping feet. Rebel chanting sliced the air.

“Ban the Babybel? We’ll give you hell!”

“Mashed potato is murder!”

Headmistress stood high upon the steps, beholding the expectant revolutionaries. …

Alas, victory was bittersweet. The rebel forces were subjected to apology letter writing, Jenny personally having to repent to Mrs Dinner lady whom she had challenged to a duel. It had been her 81st birthday on the day of rebellion.

T R olu Reve v

Heinz beans returned to the menu.

T

The R e e voluTh The struggle for Smiley Faces continues nch eo .

Revolunc Revolunche henon

Undeterred, the scuffed-shoed-youths proceeded, bean bags, the everfaithful hand grenade, flying majestically. Alack, the greatest hula-hoop launcher halted, turning wild-eyed to Jenny, jerking their head towards the school building; emerging onto the front steps was she who they most feared.

T vo eevoluncheon R R

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TTT h he n Rev hee cheo Re o v o l lu ulnun cn o h c e h o e n o Rev n

She broke rank from her troops, too engrossed in chanting to perceive impending doom. It was better that way. Jenny crept towards her two greatest enemies, deep in conference, what she overheard shook her to the core.

On returning to her rallied troops, Jenny followed the example of all past leaders; she lied profusely. As far as they were concerned there would be no interference from Teacher’s Pet. …

Blueaprons swarmed to oppose the rebels, their pursed lips never once quivering. Their minimum of three decades in the service had rendered them hardy and stalwart. Raising their polished whistles in unison, every one of them blew, the tooting so high pitched that the neighbourhood hounds could be heard howling from afar.

Her kitten heels clip-clopped against each step. Her beaded necklace rested on her chest, rising and falling with each measured breath.

Despite her cool demeanour, Headmistresses’ eyeballs were burning mines of sulphur.

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Neand

Set the horses free!

We have cars now, And those wonderful little Toothbrushes that stink Of good hygiene.

by ALEXANDROS CHRONIDES Let the lions go!

We now have our past To tear us into bleeding pieces.

And those beautiful sunsets By the beach.

Release the caged canaries!

We have our plasma TVs To sing us enamoured Lullabies And those catchy war sirens That fill our summer mornings With optimism...

Let the pandas go Extinct.

Their black and white perspective Doesn’t do our 20 megapixel cameras Any justice.

And we need their bamboo for our Uncomfortably chic furniture!

et al.

My evolved thinking, dictates: All animals are equal.

Except the apes.

Kill the apes!

They’ve caused this world enough Misery ...

illustration: ALICE MCCALL

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before you finish your coffee

by AMANDA VESTERGAARD

Before you finish your coffee, I tear up the floorboards And declare myself an independent woman.

I teach my daughters to hold knives in one hand And their hearts in the other, Warning them not to let the latter go without a fight.

As you sip grains, and cream, and sugar, I count all the calories in my bacon-and-eggs-breakfast and applaud myself for no longer caring what they do to my body.

Which is to say, I applaud myself for being rid of the idea that my body should be anything but magical;

photography: NADIA AHMED

I catch non-believers in my web of fiery curls, Chew them up only to spit them back out and watch As they stand before me drenched in the scent of bravery so loud I no longer dare swallowing it.

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illustration: MONICA NG

illustration: MONICA NG

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apple that adorned the disk. The green was bright, and it was as though I could feel the glow it sparked into my eyes. ‘HEY JUDE’ in bold black letters reverberated into my heart. I squashed a squeal.

illustration: RACHEL BERMAN

the beatle offensive

by CALUM CHERRY

TROOPS TO VIETNAM NORTH VIETNAM UNDER SIEGE 1ST PHOTOS OF VIET MASS SLAYINGS JOHNSON SAYS HE WON’T RUN; HALTS NORTH VIETNAM RAIDS; BIDS HANOI JOIN PEACE MOVES RECAPTURE U.S EMBASSY: GIs Land in Copters on Saigon Roof, Wipe Out Viet Cong in 6-Hour Battle VIET CONG ATTACKS U.S EMBASSY AMERICANS ALARMED BY ‘TET OFFENSIVE’ I parted with the news for a moment, to enjoy my unbridled delight in my new purchase. Delicately placed on my open palms was the seveninch black vinyl, which represented weeks of long waiting and prayers in order to save enough cash.

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I leaped to the player and set up the disk on it gently, not wanting to damage this ebony gold. I studied the record with its luscious green

Seven minutes passed and without realising I found myself sunk on my back in the cream, plush rug. I ran my fingers along the material as though I were running them through grass, with the uplifting melody gradually fading into silence. I felt drunk in my languid stupor, with the joyous lyrics still singing in my ears once the song had finished. Just as delicately as before, I flipped the vinyl over, this time staring at the crisp whiteness of half an apple. REVOLUTION. The sight of those words in their boldness, against the sharpness of the apple made me uneasy. I hesitated. There was something too striking. I could feel the assault before the first blow. With trepidation I lowered the needle and allowed the song to enter existence.

Suddenly a cacophony of rapid electric guitar strokes resounded within the room, followed by a guttural cry: You say you want a revolution Well, you know We all want to change the world You tell me that it’s evolution Well, you know We all want to change the world I could feel my heart suddenly slow, the blood thickening throughout my body like syrup, goose-flesh forming on my exposed arms.

Was I hearing, right? I didn’t want to be hearing right. I don’t recall closing my eyes, but they must have shut in defensive protocol. In the darkness of my mind I could see the bold word REVOLUTION plastered across my thoughts.

But when you talk about destruction Don’t you know that you can count me out EVOLUTION. DESTRUCTION. SOLUTION. CONTRIBUTION. CONSTITUTION. INSTITUION.

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But if you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao You ain’t going to make it with anyone anyhow The record scratched, and I was yanked from my void into reality. Without intention, yet with desire, I had stopped the record from spinning, silencing the band. I then flopped back to the ground in a daze, no longer engrossing but strongly discomforting. I clenched my eyes shut but all that filled the plain of visionary thought was the ripe green apple. The fruit radiated in the darkness and lured me closer. That apple scent which recognises its bitterness yet promises the concluding explosion of sweet satisfaction. Music was supposed to be heard, not listened to. These boys were demanding to an inquiry, and I would have listened, had they not belittled the work of our struggling brothers. The red threat overseas, wanting to abolish our American freedom. Those prancing little British boys dared to comment from behind their recording booth.

illustration: ALICE GRIFFIN

In succession all these words polluted the darkness I was trying to hide in. Internally I asked myself, how could they be singing about this? My quaking soul yearned for the strawberry fields, the resolution that all we needed was love, the safety of a yellow submarine would have been better.

Then came the last blow to my faltering mind.

The apple pure had been sliced in half, revealing its starkness when no one asked to look upon it. I didn’t want to see the white within. The flesh that would soon begin to brown and taint in its exposure. I had no desire to have the apple progress from its purity of image which delighted everyone; now cut in half it was divided. I avoided the exposed side of the record, remaining with my pleasant green apple; solid and unequivocal.

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I told myself I had more time than could fill Dana Point tide pools, Nevadan lakes, or vast Pacific oceans.

I used to hide in the folds of crisp white polos, peer from behind red-berry trees– run wild across cement white bleachers, knowing, there was still so much time to go.

graduation

by JANA PHILLIPS

I held early autumn dust like fairy glitter in my small, cupped hands.

In the lazy afternoon sunshine, pages splayed across the folds of my red plaid skirt.

In the snap of the bonfire flames and sandy feet, wet hair clinging around my face and neck.

It all just sort of blurred together.

The slipping sun, the rising moon in the warmth of desert days, ensured months and years to come.

Now after so many nights spent walking arm in arm down day-warmed sidewalks.

I’ve reached the end of the street.

I was a first grader, second grader, third, fourth, fifth.

But then I still had middle school, then I still had high school.

Hanging off the cliff of a cracked cement bridge, suspended by one hand squinting into the whitewashed sky. I’m left wondering where all the pavement went.

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I f

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C o u l d

S l e e p

by GEORGE WILLIAMS

If I could sleep a hundred years and wake up on the day, That countries rearranged themselves and borders disappeared.

I’d lie among the the dust and ice and watch the comets fall, Past the darkened wreckages and vacant cosmic halls.

I’d look towards the middle east, and search for what remained, If all had gone beneath the sand and cities long erased.

I’d wonder through the monuments of dimming galaxies, Climb the steps of space and time and swim in vacuum seas.

If I could sleep a thousand years, and find that I could breathe, A breath without the soot and dust, That lurks within the breeze.

And when this day comes to it’s end, The void like blackened tar, I’ll fall into my final sleep, Just drifting in the dark.

If I could swim upon the lakes, Or climb an aged tree, I’d fear I’d been looked in a dream, Where continents were still green.

I’ll tumble through the universe and journey back through time, I’ll follow ancient filaments and watch the cosmos die.

If I could sleep at all tonight, I’d find myself surprised, As staring at my sombre ceiling, Leaves me hypnotised.

I’d write new songs inside my head, Some vapid poetry, Draw great maps upon the walls and paint indefinitely.

If I could sleep 5 billion years and watch the Earth dissolve, Beneath the sun as it expands, It’s furnace growing old.

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illustration: ALICE MCCALL 24

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by ELLA GALLEGO

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ometimes I wonder what will happen when your son experiences his first heartbreak. I think about how you will enter his room and sit on the edge of his bed and place your hand on his back. Your son will have his face buried in his pillow, now soaked in the tears and snot of an emotionally exhausted boy.

As you sit on the edge of the bed listening to him sob, I wonder if your heart will break. The fissures caused from two paradoxically different and congruent incidences: the pain that your child is experiencing from his first love and the memory of your own. You and I both know that the throbbing is different. You know that your son is nearly sick with grief; you remember the way your heart used to throw itself against the wall of your chest. The half of his face that isn’t hidden is red and swollen and slick. The heat rising from his skin is almost feverish. Now, so close to the memory of your own heartbreak, it pales in comparison to his.

Your wound is healed and the scar is silver but still. It is there, a fleeting and gossamer shadow; the dull ache that makes your heart feel just a bit heavier.

Will you tell him that he will love again? Will you tell him that time will heal all wounds, even this one?

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illustration: ALICE MCCALL

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Even though, you remember how such statements made you feel: cheated. Like you had won the lottery, beat all odds, only to have your prize wretched from you.

Or maybe you will tell him about me. Will my face take up space in your mind when you walk through the door from work and your wife tells you that Jeremy and his girlfriend broke up and he’s been locked in his room for hours and refuses to come out? When you walk over his bedroom threshold, will you be dragged into the stage wings of your memory, where I and other people of your past wait? I wonder if the words, I thought that way too, buddy, will surface to the back of your mouth as you remember the shape of my face and how easy it was to laugh around each other.

Perhaps you won’t say such things or anything at all.

Maybe you will sit in the silence of your son’s room and stroke back his hair—the very hair you had as a boy.

You’ll think about how your father comforted you and how maybe one day your son will comfort his own child and so on and that this is merely a rite of passage. And, like all the fathers and sons in your family, you’ll sit togwether and apart, thinking of lost loves and listening to the sound of broken hearts.

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“

Finally, from so little sleeping and so much reading, his brain dried up and he went completely out of his mind.

“

-Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra Don Quixote

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hank you for taking the time to enjoy the 2017/2018 Winter publication of The Inkwell, PublishED’s semesterly publication, in which we aim for the encouragement of a creative and constructive literary dialogue that is open to all. Our editorial team has really gone above and beyond to create this semester’s magazine, and I believe it shows. As a whole, this semester has been an absolute whirlwind. September kicked off with a ridiculously popular Freshers’ bookshop crawl, which was swiftly followed by the return of the ever-entertaining Write Drunk, Edit Sober workshop.

In October, we hosted a fantastic 6x6 Publishing event with the Society of Young Publishers Scotland, a partnership that might just make an appearance again in our spring semester. PublishED also collaborated with the Fruitmarket Gallery to host an ‘ekphrastic’ writing workshop – or should we say, challenge – inspired by Jac Leirner’s exhibition ‘Add It Up’. As November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), PublishED decided to join in with a range of NaNoWriMo specific workshops, led by the committee’s own wonderful NaNoWriMo’ers.

We will see you all again next semester, -Mika

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the team PRESIDENT // Mika Cook VICE PRESIDENT // Ardith Bravenec EDITOR-IN-CHIEF // Saskia Solomon TREASURER/DRAMA EDITOR // Kirsten Knight SECRETARY/COPY EDITOR// Hannah Crawley GENERAL EDITORS // Sarah Donachie, Eilidh Sawyers PROSE EDITOR// Snigdha Koirala POETRY EDITOR // Georgia Leslie HEAD OF DESIGN // Stephanie Jin MEDIA EDITOR //Theodor Mihalcea-Simoiu

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For 2018-19, the Department of English Literature is offering two exciting opportunities for writers who wish to explore their talents, foster their craft, and learn about publication.

All programmes are taught by experienced teachers who are also well-published writers.

MSc in Creative Writing This one-year, full time taught MSc offers students the opportunity to focus in depth on their own practice - of poetry or fiction - and develop both creative and critical skills through a combination of weekly workshops and seminars.

MSc in Playwriting This is a unique practical playwriting course and will appeal to aspiring playwrights, performance artists, directors, dramturges and critics alike.

Taught through seminars, writers workshops and practical workshops with actors, directors and other theatre professionals, it focuses not only on the craft of writing for performance, but also on how a script plays out in real space and time, and in front of an audience.

For more information about these and other MSc programmes in English Literature visit: www.ed.ac.uk/literatures-languages-cultures/ english-literature/postgraduate/taught-masters