The Menteur 2020 edition by The Menteur

The Menteur Team

Editor-in-Chief

Elsa Meryon

Production Editor and Assistant to Editor in Chief Proofreading Editor and Production Subeditor Fiction Co-Editors

Poetry Editor Poetry Co-Editors

Non-Fiction Editor Non-Fiction Co-Editors

Art Editor Art Subeditor Admin The Paris School of Arts and Culture is a specialist postgraduate centre in one of the most culturally rich cities in the world. We offer advanced, flexible degrees across the arts, including in history of art, film, drama and literature, with modules that capitalise on Parisâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s vast heritage and culture.

Left: Crowded - Iphigenia Garani

Colleen Buchanan Stephen Hockley Tom Baragwanath Jade Darrow Dayna Smockum Tomi Adegbayibi

Maria Dominguez del Castillo Dylan Wright Holly Anne Foster Megan Cotton Madeleine Piggott Amalia Mytilineou Callum Foad Matylda Makowska

Table of Contents

Cover Art: Dear Crocodile No. 20 - Rob Miles

Letter from the Editor Elsa Meryon

Green John Mannone

Untitled Roxy Hervé

In a Borrowed Bed Nemo

Amantes Lucía Valdés Arbolí

Flare Fragments Yi Jung

Après l’Hiver Melanie Faith

In Defence of the Discarded Image Olivia Gilmore

Kintsugi Evie Wright

Kintsugi Petra Bajzova

Interview with Author Taran Matharu

Man’s Best Friend Arietta Chandris

The Moon Allusion Steven Thomas

Shared Dream Annette Lucyxc

Separate Worlds Annette Lucyxc

Summer Jade Darrow

Illustrated Flower Sumaya Asvat

Trust No One with Only One Oar Robert Keeler

Fragments Léo Nataf and Déborah Guttman

The Beginning of Books Amy Alexander

Roses of Sharon Winter Landscape Melanie Faith

Extinction Rebellion: As the Sand Trickles Rosie Solomon

Don’t Look in the Mirror After Midnight Beryl Egloff

Brexit: Fracturing and Reformation David Hayward

Splintered I, II, III Liv Brandberg

Not Unhidden, Bared Hibah Shabkhez

The Wanderer (Three Falls of Rain) María Domínguez del Castillo

Seascape Jemma Dixon

Artefacts of a Life Joe D. Nerssessian

Glitched Sculpture Iphigenia Garani

A Small Girl, from a Big City, with Large Dreams Trini-Maria Katakwe

Overture for the Trees of Time Georgina Primrose

Nue Numéro 4 Roxy Hervé

Sand Art Athena Melliar

Elles Étaient Si Jolie Roxy Hervé

Ennui vs. the Prevailing Anxiety of the Cosmic Now Zoë A Morgan

Man vs. Atmosphere Justin Robinson

Glue of the World Tom Baragwanath

Vanilla Clouds Stephen Douglas Wright

Fragments of Sappho 31 Emma R Dee

Kilometer Hong Kong Lawden Marcus

Separate Worlds Annette Lucycx

Interview with Filmmaker Andrea Hachuel

Il Fait Beau Où l’On N’Arrive Jamais Jemma Dixon

108

Godot Giclée Annette Luycx

108

Erik Satie Pauses Composing Gymnopedies #1 James Walton

110

The Shifted Center II Janise Yntema

111

Letter from the Editor Elsa Meryon

Welcome to our 2020 edition of The Menteur.

Little did we know when we chose the theme of ‘Fragments’ for this edition that the world would soon be fragmented and torn apart by the COVID-19 pandemic. Just as people across the globe have united as one so too is this magazine a genuinely collaborative work, put together in extremis as our editors scattered across the world, working remotely across different time zones to put together what we believe is a very special edition. The theme of ‘Fragments’ spoke to many of us in different ways: to some it signified imperfection, to others it suggested renewal, but all in all the submissions we received demonstrated the scope to which this theme can be interpreted. We are very proud of this edition of The Menteur and we hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed putting it together. We were lucky enough to receive an array of superb submissions from all over the world, including New Zealand, France, Spain and Canada. It was extremely difficult to choose which contributions to include and only space constraints prohibited us from including them all. We have been delighted by the very high standard of the submissions and took great joy in reading the poetry and prose and in admiring the fine artworks. Thanks go to all the editors and contributors who have all worked so hard to put together the 2020 Menteur. We hope you enjoy it! Elsa Meryon and The Menteur Team With thanks to … Clare Kirkconnell @clare_kirkconnell Jezaniah Martins The Paris Office for all of their guidance and support 2

Green is a holy colour, a prayer of sunlight in your garden that you, Mother, carry into the kitchen. I won’t speak of crushed tomatoes for the sauce yet, nor of the garlic pressed into the olive oil. Instead I’ll speak of the smell of green, its texture of basil cupped in your hands, soft whispers of your heart as you prepare for us, the colour of your soul spilling like a poem.

John Mannone

Untitled - Roxy Hervé

In a Borrowed Bed Nemo

Large hands graze my cheek as light as dust But the gold band around his finger burns a path across my skin White hot with shame and desire Every movement every breath Tinged with rum and regret

Begging for an answer I️ think only she has Holding me like a porcelain figure Uncertainty lies behind each embrace Eyes that don’t meet mine Those hands that just skim my skin Threaten to shatter more than just my pride Destroying and creating on either side No possession or greed in his touch But how then do I know what he wants Pulled down devoured His appetite consuming us both Before I can stop and think After left alone with our thoughts But one already has what he wants And I am just a patch to hold him together Or else a piece that could fit better Alcohol and honeyed words fill my head As I lie down a borrowed bed

Left: Amantes - Lucía Valdés Arbolí

Flare Fragments Yi Jung

Dragonflies dance around the buds. Mossy stones portend the winding untrodden path. Your face emancipates ineffable worries. Pottery clay smolders in the kiln, Sunset casts the silhouette of your hunched back, The lyre strikes sad melodies. Moonlight caresses your rigid neck, Lustrous tint shimmer ripple wrinkles. Your eyes shine with tears. Hephaestus mixes a lethal dose, mingled with embalmed elements, lurking silently, under the manipulation of Fatalism. your hair smoked with the fragrance of hard toil. Bliss glazed with beguiled lies, gnarled firewood fails to kindle the tinder. Marish reflects our despaired struggles. Aye, we should never forget the flickering flare. A fluttering phoenix repose upon the window panes. Till the end of time will we collect the desolate shreds of blazing ashes. 6

h Fait anie Mel er Hiv ès l’ Apr

In Defense of the Discarded Image Olivia Gilmore

I walk the Left Bank in the diffuse light, and I wonder, what do strewn magazine pages of aspirational interiors have in common with the fragmentary experience of contemporary life? The first aspirational interior I find lies at the bottom of a stairwell to the Seine. It gingerly sticks, flush against the green moss of stone steps at a right angle. The wine-red carpet of the seventies living room vibrates together with the phosphorescent moss. I imagine this apartment exists along the river, its Playboy-esque interior is complete with multiple fireplaces, gilded mirrors, and a pool table. I am curious about the couple who photographed the space, and for good reason; it turns out that they published a rare book of anthropomorphic photographs in â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;77, featuring a self-portrait of the happy 8

photographer couple —Janet’s head— replaced with a duck’s. Frank smiles fondly at his wife. The cover of their book, Chers Amis, features an image of a cat with human eyes. In Gabriel Pierne square, the second aspirational interior is found along with several pages in the waterless fountain, beneath the fruit-laden statue of Marche-auxCarmes, a two-headed Hermes symbolizing abudance and commerce. The column, “RENDEZ VOUS,” features an interview with restaurateur, Laurent de Gourcuff called “The French Touch.” The pages feel simultaneously, to have been placed just-so as well as violently tossed in the heat of the moment—when

perhaps a scorned designer threw the article into the empty fountain. The title page looks at the sky, perfectly framed by a car advertisement and a photograph of a chic, modern space, with a beige Roche Bois sectional that spans three windows of the gigantic penthouse apartment. A hand-written message is scrawled in red ink on the pages, the word “palpable” is underlined three times for emphasis. Sundry artifacts of urban life—or one man’s trash when stumbled upon—transpose anachronistic space and time upon the present. Urbanists often compare built cities to palimpsests, parchment manuscripts scraped clean to make space for a new writing, 10

whose original message still manages to be deciphered. But what if the discarded leftovers themselves are palimpsests: portals into, often, a not-so-distant past? I find myself enamored with the repetitious normalcy of the abandoned object: home goods, food waste, and personal mementos. They carry with them an aura of human existence and feel like fated tokens, granted by the universe to the discoverer.

Kintsugi Evie Wright

The pottery wheel beside them lay still and clean, but the desk was coated in newspaper, stained with splatters of brown. Broken shards of a smashed charcoal grey dish were arranged carefully before them, and her lined hands, spotted with age, caressed the smooth fragments as she waited patiently. “It’s called kintsugi,” the young girl sat beside her said. Her hair was cropped short, a wave of dark curls just skimming over one eye, her nose ring glinting in the light. It was amazing how young girls dressed now. “I learnt about it at college,” the girl continued as she mixed a glittering powder into a resin. “Rather than try and hide the damage, it just becomes part of the story of the object - embracing the flaws and illuminating them. I think it’s quite lovely - thought we’d try it this week.” The older woman frowned slightly at the girl. She was extremely familiar, and now that she said that, she was certain she had been here last week.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I don’t recall who-?’ “Lucy,” the young girl reminded her, with a pleasant smile. “Yes. Of course. I did know that,” she replied, waving a slightly flustered hand. She peered down at the little pot of resin. “And that’s gold, is it?” “That’s right. Biggest piece first?” Lucy suggested. She nodded, and held up the largest fragment of the bowl; it had shattered down the middle, one side into several smaller shards, but this side was untouched. She held it steady as Lucy delicately applied the golden resin onto the edge with a small brush. “I must say,” she remarked, “I’m glad to see make do and mend coming back into fashion.” Lucy grinned. “Yes. Nice to not just throw it away.” She nodded sagely. “Everyone throws things away nowadays. I remember my mother helping me unpick one of my father’s old jumpers, so that we could reknit it into something trendier.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows, though she didn’t look up from the careful application of the gold. “What did you knit from it?” “A nice new cardigan for me; I told all my friends it was out of a catalogue though.” She burst out laughing. “Did they believe you?” “Naturally.” She picked up another fragment, and at Lucy’s nod, held it against the resin. Lucy leaned forward, continuing the repair. “We were very poor then,” she told her vaguely. She could remember it quite clearly, the smell of the coal dust from the fire, the ancient mangle in the corner, the long queue outside the phone box on the street and the excitement when number fourteen got a telly. “Getting something new from a catalogue… that was… well, that was something worth lying about. A bit of glamour.” “I suppose they wanted to believe you,” said Lucy. “Yes, I suppose they did.” She looked down at the bowl, steadily coming back into shape, the resin hardening into golden streams across the smooth landscape of the bowl. “Everything was 14

so exciting then, but that’s childhood really, isn’t it?” “Aren’t things exciting now?” Lucy prompted. “Oh, well, I’ve seen it all, love,” she replied. “And it moves too fast for me now to keep back. But I think back on those times a lot lately.” “Do you?” asked Lucy quietly. “Like what?” “I think about my mother sometimes,” she said. The fragment she had been holding was set enough to be released now, so she shifted her fingers to hold up another piece for Lucy, the thick blue lines of her veins sprawling across the back of her hands. “And my old school friends. And even the teachers sometimes. They just wander through my thoughts. I can remember my mother sitting by the fire, showing me how to unpick the threads from my father’s old jumper so we could reknit it into something new.” Lucy blinked at her and nodded before looking back to the glistening gold roots that were growing steadily across the bowl. “That’s a lovely memory to have,” Lucy said at last.

“Yes,” she said, remembering the mewl of the cat as they ignored its batting paw, the soft muttering of the radio, the glowing coals of the fire, the taste of the tea. Her mother’s hands, careful and precise, painstakingly picking away at the jumper. “Like this,” she had said. “That’s it.” “All my friends were so envious,” she continued, remembering Judy Mayhew’s wide eyes and parted lips, and how Binky Conlon had run her hands over the outstretched sleeve of the cardigan, secretly born from a tattered old jumper. Binky’s eyes had narrowed as they noticed the buttons, familiar from the window of the drapers, betraying that it was not brand new from a catalogue, but she had pretended not to notice her friend’s suspicion, parading up and down the cracked pavement as though in a beauty pageant. It had been her pride and joy, that cardigan. “One more piece,” said Lucy, jolting her out of her memory. “Oh… yes…” She kept her fingers pressed against the cool ceramic, with just a little pressure to keep the pieces in place, her gaze 16

tracing the seams of gold that shone between the fragments. “You were right,” she said. “It’s very pretty.” “Isn’t it?” said Lucy brightly, holding the last piece in place. “Even more precious than it was before.” “Yes… I really am sorry for breaking it.” She had just remembered, suddenly, the bump against the table that had left the deep purple bruise on her hip, the high pitched crash of the bowl on the floor. She supposed it had been last week. “Don’t be silly! I’m glad you did - I’ve wanted to try kintsugi for ages.” Lucy took the bowl in careful, steady hands, and raised it onto a high shelf to set. She rose too, her slow bones aching, but then paused, gazing around the studio. The clay splattered sink, the surfaces covered with old newspapers, the shelves and shelves of ceramics, some half-finished, some beautifully glazed, pots and plates and vases and sculptures of unknown figures or animals. “Did you make all these?” she asked. The moment hung like the clay dust in the

air, swirling in the light that fell through the window. Lucy’s voice was steady, reassuring, calm. “You did, Nana,” she said. “Remember?” She looked down at her hands, and for a brief moment they were slick with wet clay, gently pinching the sides of a growing vase, feeling it shift and move like a living, breathing thing, born from her hands. “Yes,” she said, her eyebrows raised as she continued to stare down at her hands. They were quite dry again, marked only by the dapple of age spots and occasional flecks of resin that had escaped Lucy’s paintbrush. “Of course I do.”

Right: Kintsugi- Petra Bajzova

Interview with Auth

Photo from https://authortaranmatharu.com/bio/

Interviewed by Holly Anne Foster

Taran Matharu is the author of the bestselling Summoner series and ongoing Contender series. The second book in his Contender trilogy is called The Challenger and it’s expected to be published in summer of this year. You can find out more about Taran Matharu’s work on his website and on his Instagram @taranmatharuauthor. His books are available in bookstores and online. 20

Could you describe your New York Times bestselling series, Summoner, to us? The Summoner series is about a young orphan named Fletcher who discovers he has the rare ability to summon demons. He then goes to a magical military academy where he must learn how to control his powers. Many of my readers describe it as a mix between Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Pokemon. You studied business at university. How did that experience help you to become an author? The publishing industry is mostly made up of English Literature, Journalism, and History graduates, so it was unusual for me to move into the publishing world—but a publisher came to my university and explained how they needed more business students to apply to them. I did so, and briefly worked at Penguin Random House, the largest publisher in the world, and there I learned how publishers decide which books should be published. When creating the

hor Taran Matharu Your books bring up several prevalent topics, such as racial discrimination, classism, and equality. How does the world that you live in They say that being an I think it author in the mod- would be a warped affect the worlds that ern world is more and broken mirror I you write about? than just being a was using if I did not writer, and I agree include such issues in I like to think that writing a book is a with that. You need my work. little like holding a to be an mirror up to societyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; entrepreneur, a social using metaphor and allegory media influencer, a marketer, to reflect the core issues of our a public speaker, and more. My own society. I think it would be experience studying business a warped and broken mirror I certainly helped in that regard. was using if I did not include such issues in my work. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve frequently discussed your involvement with National Novel Writing Month Do you find that periods in (NaNoWriMo) and Wattpad. Do history can guide the you find that having a writing construction of a fantasy narrative? community has been valuable to your work? I have always loved history, even Absolutely. Building an audience as a subject at school. Historical fiction was one of my preferred on Wattpad helped me to convince publishers that my book genres, with Bernard Cornwell and Wilbur Smithâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s books was worth publishing. National stacking my shelves. Novel Writing Month and the Wattpad community also helped Medieval times, with their great battles, political intrigue, and the encourage me to keep writing importance of family, heritage, when I first started. concept for the Summoner series, many of my experiences from that work helped me.

and succession all had a great influence on the nobility in The Novice. In the world of Summoner, only first-born children inherit the ability to summon, and the nobles form the greater part of the officers in the empire’s military. The eighteenth century was an age of great empires, rampant piracy, and a mad mix of modern and early weaponry. There were gunpowder muskets, pistols, and cannons being used alongside cavalry, sabres, and lances. It was a time of scientific advancement and technological disparities, great clashes of cultures, and racial discrimination. All of the above feature in the Summoner series; with dwarves, elves, orcs, and humans at each other’s throats.

or a different way of seeing the world. What advice would you offer to those wanting to become authors themselves? Reread your favourite books with a critical eye. Try to understand why you love that book so much. Ask yourself questions. How does the writer make you empathise with the main character? How do they transition from scene to scene, event to event? How long are their descriptions when they introduce a new character? Our magazine’s theme this year is ‘fragments’. Are there any aspects of the writing process that you find to be fragmented?

Once a first draft is finished, a book will go through an What do you hope that readers editorial process which often includes multiple individuals with will take from your writing? different opinions. Though this I do not have any greater purpose will improve the book overall, it does pull a book in different for my books beyond that readers find them enjoyable. But directions. An author must always be careful to keep the core it is always a nice bonus when of their story together. they discover a new love for reading, renewed self-confidence, 22

Manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Best Friend - Arietta Chandris

The Moon Allusion Steven Thomas

“Why so serious?” asked the artist formerly known as Dionysus. From the concrete bench, Apollo looked up through the moonlight to see the Rockstar staring down at him with wide eyes. Melted ice cream dripped down the wafer cone in Dionysus’s hand, his beard splotched with the stuff. “You’ve got something on your face,” Apollo gestured to his own smooth chin, wiggling his forefinger. His shoulders tensed. His quiet time on the city’s waterfront now shattered by his brother’s erratic presence – as usual. And as usual, Dionysus seemed content to speak in nothing other than the low-cultural flotsam clogging up his brain. Dionysus wiped the ice cream with the back of his denim sleeve. He smiled, “Chocolate. The love of my life.” Apollo caught a whiff of sour wine in the air. “You’re supposed to be making art, not friends,” Apollo said. The cloudless sky hung above the empty wharf. 24

“Immersion is part of art.” “That includes getting intoxicated?” Apollo asked, the sculptor’s nose scrunching against his brother’s odour. “In wine there is truth,” replied Dionysus, gesturing with open arms. “To thine own self be true, and that’s what I do. I drink and I know myself.” Melted ice cream splattered on the ground. Dionysus stopped and stared at the concrete with raised eyebrows and a wide grin. Apollo watched from the bench with a deep scowl and straight lips. “Besides,” Dionysus added, “it’s not easy having a good time. Sometimes, even smiling makes my face ache.” Again, even on a night clear enough to see a billion stars, Dionysus’s inability to restrain his inhibition frustrated Apollo. However, one could not make art without the other, a fact that Dionysus revelled in. On the other hand, Apollo squirmed under their duality as though their relationship grated on the insides of his soul. So much so that he questioned whether he wanted to be an artist anymore.

Dionysus plonked himself beside his youthful brother, landing in a heap of faded denim and swirling fumes of stale wine. Next to him, Apollo shook his curly blonde hair that, in the day, shone like the sun. He looked like a statue come to life. However, Dionysus’s hair looked as though he had not been sober since birth, with some strands glued to his beard by sticky ice cream. But both artists knew that their souls were made up of pieces of the same stuff, whatever that may be. Together they gazed at the satellite’s unreachable surface. Dionysus asked, “Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?” His lips curled. Apollo shook his head, again, watching the reveller lick his ice cream with reckless abandon. He replied, “You know that’s not my tempo.” “Then you haven’t lived,” said Dionysus. “The only sensible way to live in this world is without rules.” They sat in silence for a moment. Apollo content to think on da Vinci’s ideas on how learning never exhausts the mind. Beside him, Dionysus fidgeted. A rigmarole, his restless thoughts danced to Dr. Seuss telling him that there was no one more he-er than he 26

was or how he had feet in his shoes – which he did. He smiled at the silliness of everything; humanity floating in space. You never know what you’re gonna’ get – Dionysus thought, smiling towards the horizon – so open the pod bay doors! The empty wharf before the brothers separated them from the smooth ocean. The moonlight bathed the water’s surface with the white cloth of a full-mooned night. Apollo’s mind for form following function analysed the moon’s perfect circumference warping on the black water; the reflection floated in a most peculiar way. “Nice night for a walk,” Dionysus broke the silence, motioning to a couple walking along the wharf. As the water defied the moon’s gravity and perfect shape, so the lovers ignored the world about them, content to hang on each other. “Jack.” Dionysus whispered into Apollo’s ear, “I want you to draw me like one of your French girls.” He burst out laughing, folding over with the effort. Insulted, Apollo scoffed, “why does everything have to be so ‘feed your head’ and ‘kiss the sky’ with you?” “The first rule of the Dionysian,” Dionysus

Shared Dream - Annette Lucyxc

beamed from behind blue eyes, his bushy beard twisted into a joyous grin as he wiggled his finger in Apollo’s smooth face, “is you don’t talk about the Dionysian.” “Fools only speak because they have to say something.” “Ha!” Dionysus laughed again, his chest heaving beneath his denim jacket. “Get busy living or get busy dying.” Apollo shifted on the bench. Thoughts of Rodin and Beethoven calmed the rising anger within his chest. The strict perfection of their art helped rally him against the primordial chaos of his drunken sibling. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” he thought. “Don’t you find this all a bit tiring?” Apollo asked his brother. “The silliness.” “Silly is good,” Dionysus replied. “Living is about creating yourself. The rest is but stardust and rust.” Apollo sighed. “You’re always stuck in that stupid man suit of yours,” Dionysus replied. “Your problem is, you have spent your whole life thinking there are rules,” he tossed the last piece of cone into the garden behind 30

the bench. The wafer landed in a rustle of leaves. He continued, “but there aren’t. So, stay in Wonderland with me and I’ll show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes. Otherwise,” he made a plummeting gesture towards the concrete. “Why don’t you have another vat of wine?” Apollo asked. His shoulder bones clicked in the cool air as he rolled them. He felt Dionysus’s frivolous words eroding his patience, settling in his joints like sharp crystals. “Again, in wine there is truth,” Dionysus replied, pointing his finger in the air. “I merely tell the truth so that I don’t have to remember anything.” “You speak as if you live in a world of your own,” Apollo argued. “Where everything is nonsense.” “Sometimes I feel that’s all you believe,” Dionysus said. “That you’re alone and I’m nonsense. But ask yourself one question: who will you call when the danger knocks?” Apollo sat as a thousand words stirred within him, anchoring him to the bench. His eyes focussed on the moon floating above the ocean. A solid piece of light truly beautiful to behold. “I feel like we’re the moon, and that you’re the dark side I shouldn’t show

anyone.” Dionysus turned to watch Apollo with narrow eyes, his long hair swaying in the sudden breeze. “You know we can’t create by ourselves,” he replied. A long sigh escaped Apollo’s thin lips to haunt the space between them. “Remember,” Dionysus said, pointing at the full white sphere. “The moon is made of billions of pieces of Earth blasted into space. There is no whole without the parts. And,” he motioned to Apollo and himself, “there is more to us than just two sides of the moon considering there is no dark side of the moon.” He gestured with both arms to the entire night sky, “it’s all dark.” Apollo looked to the sky and the starlight. Once there was only dark – he thought – looks like the light’s winning. He resisted the pull of Dionysus’s words. Instead, he turned to watch the shadows of the two lovers disappear into the enveloping night. “When you have your epiphany,” Dionysus pointed a sharp finger at Apollo, “and it wakes you from your dreaming in the middle of the night, you’ll remember that we’re not so different, you and I, despite the myriad of particles that contrast us.” 32

“If you seek freedom,” Apollo said, looking everywhere but at his brother. “You become a captive of your desires. But seek discipline and you’ll find your liberty.” “How many nights will you survive without the darkness to define the light?” “Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise,” Apollo said. “Soon there will be only light.” “I see,” replied Dionysus. “Then the game is afoot. You better pray that I am available when you come looking for your inspiration,” Dionysus rose from the solid bench, wiping his sticky hands on his pants. His tangled hair swayed as he shook his head, “Sorry, but I’ve just remembered I need to return some videotapes.” Turning on the heels of his boots, Dionysus strode into the night without glancing back at his brother. He vanished from Apollo’s sight just as the couple had moments before, swallowed whole by the black mist of night surrounding him. Alone in the night, Apollo waited for rosyfingered Dawn to appear on the distant horizon.

Summer Jade Darrow

I love a summer evening. When the birds sing as the sun sinks down the pale painted sky. There’s a peace in these moments I have not found elsewhere. Sat in a garden, the smell of long since bloomed flowers perfuming the air. Memories of tickling long meadow grass against my bare legs and feet. There’s a childish peace in the settling of the day. A sudden snatch of conversation that floats from over the hedgerows catches my ear: “-have you got it?” “Yes!” “Are you sure? Last time-” It feels like the whole world is passing me by as I sit here and listen. I’m not waiting. I’m being. Living here in the moment, the sun warming my face, the wind cooling my bare arms and legs. There’s nothing to do and nothing to plan for, and I couldn’t be happier.

Left: Separate Worlds - Annette Luyxc

Reverend Thomas had commented on my white breezy dress at the market, but I hadn’t a care then or now. I’d actually laughed when he said, “Would you like to borrow my jacket?” My laugh had startled him so badly, the boater hat he wore upset itself to a comical tilt. He’d been playing cricket in the fields and was taking a break for some lemonade when I’d greeted him. In his late eighties, he was a man stuck in the past, or rather rooted in it. I didn’t mind. He had a sweet soul. “Billy!” The sudden shout startled the sparrow on the stone wall between our house and the next. There was a sharp, contagious laughter from over the way. Sounded like Hattie Brent. She and Billy Taylor had been going steady for a while now. They must be on their way back from the fair. It was a sort of ritual of the younger people of the town when the fair set up camp beyond the river. We’d go to the fair in the late afternoon, try our luck at the coconut shy or sneak a bottle of beer from the refreshment tent. Then we’d traipse back home for something to eat before heading back to the fair again. Staying late to enjoy the Ferris Wheel 36

and the Go-carts in the ancient rainbow lighting. Hattie and Billy must be going home for supper. I listened as their laughter carried on up the slope of the street and away into the rows of townhouses. I wasn’t going out tonight, I’d already been yesterday with Freddie and Grace. Tonight was my night, staying here in the bubble of peace I’d found. There was no work to do, no calls to make or answer. Mum was in the kitchen, covering the leftovers from our supper. In the heat, we hadn’t wanted much to eat, and had fashioned a picnic of sorts. Pork pies, quiche, boiled eggs, tomatoes from the garden and apples from our modest orchard. This morning, mum had made a loaf of bread that we’d torn into like children. I’d cooked a handful of asparagus that we’d eaten like queens. Finger food, the type that makes the act of eating delightful. We’d sipped homemade elderflower wine, then finished our feast with greengages and blackcurrant sorbet. The height of decadence in our world of patchwork quilts, scrap-work bunting and bare amber bulbs.

There was a sudden clatter of sound beyond the garden. A basket full of shopping against a metal fence. “-can you believe it!” It took me a moment to recognise the voice’s owner: Mrs. Hardy. Midsixties, does the church flowers, organises the summer fate. Busybody. I heard the scrape of iron against stone across the road. Someone was leaning on their garden gate. Indi, my loyal German Shepard, rose into a sphinx-like position to listen in. Her amber eyes fixed on the hedgerow that obscured her view. “It hardly seems possible.” It took me longer to pinpoint the answering voice: Ms. Catherine. School dance teacher, late fifties, does face painting at the summer fate. Saint. The absence of traffic allowed me to hear the conversation word for word, sigh for sigh. Mrs. Hardy held onto gossip with as much vigour as a child held onto sweets. Indi lay back down, huffing as if tired of the chatter. “That’s what Mrs. Williams told me,” she persisted, tone high strung. Ms. Catherine gave a gusty sigh. “She’s not 38

known for being truthful.” “Well, she’d hardly lie about this!” “Just because someone saw her in the butchers, doesn’t mean they were up to no good. It could be perfectly honest.” “But what if it wasn’t?” Ms. Catherine sounded at the end of her rope: “It’s not our business either way.” I smiled, tuning them both out as they continued to bicker. The sitting room rug beneath me was cool in the shadow of the wall. It was a pleasant relief from the late summer heat that freckled my skin. I’d dragged it out to the garden before we ate. There was something about seeing the reds and oranges against the grass, like looking at a painting and admiring the colours, not the subject. Off in the distance, I heard the first chime of the church bells. Evening service had finished. The sound of the bells were as reliable as the ticking of our grandmother clock. “Connie!” A cry came from over the wall. “Connie!” A little giggle, barely a laugh, crept out from

behind the thicket of birch trees at the end of the house next door. The wall sunk low enough that I could see the blonde head of hair ducking to escape notice. “Connie!” Edith, Connie’s mother and our neighbour, called again. She was stood on their back porch, hands on her hips and eyebrows pinched into a frown. The quirk of her lips was my first hint that this was a game. The next hint: Connie’s continued giggling. I watched, sun drunk and sleepy as she led her mother on a goose chase around their garden. She hurtled over their fat sheep dog called Tabby, and led Edith through a spiders web near the wood store. I smiled when Edith squealed and batted it away, squeamish. Connie rolled about on the ground in childish hysterics. These moments were part of my being, same as the colour of my hair and the length of my fingers. The separate parts of other people’s lives that I shared with mine. They formed a part of myself I had only learned the importance of recently. Years living in London battling the depression of being alone made me realise how un40

alone I was. People come into our lives for mere moments, fractions of time, but still our pockets of space meet. How wonderful it was! I could smell my mother’s perfume long before I heard her voice. “Another?” She asked. I turned and saw she’d pulled another bottle of wine from the pantry. It wasn’t that late, and we’d eaten enough so I nodded. She sat beside me on the old canvas chair, the wood groaning. After passing her my glass, I lay back against the rug and let my fingers find the fibres, trailing up and down. Ember, a stout black cat from another neighbouring garden, meowed as she claimed a spot beside my head. She was a regular visitor to our little haven. Her tiny paws pressed against my shoulder and her claws dug for grip before she settled. Connie’s laugh peppered the air Illustrated Flower - Sumaya Asvat 41

again and I heard mum stifle a likewise sound of mirth. I closed my eyes and listened as she began to read her latest bedside book. The pages turning in an unpredictable pattern. Birds chirped and sang all around us, one rustled the rose bush near the wall. Ember began to purr and Indi huffed as she moved about in her sleep by my feet. Here, in the gentle breeze of warm summer wind, I could feel the utter contentment of being a whole. There was nothing pulling my attention from this moment. I was wholly present, and at peace with the culmination of all the separate parts of me that settled into my bones.

Trust No One with Only One Oar Robert Keeler

Sometime ago, even a long time, when everything almost stopped—perhaps though, just an instant before everything stopped; perhaps everything did stop for just an instant or two, but guess we will never really know, we are not stopwatches or… Well, the calendar turned over, college started; water dripped down slimy dormitory walls, fed the local fungus and the graduating moss. Strange. Somehow the dripping never stopped or even went unnoticed. But dogma be dammed, catechistically better to think only about water—a focus. What does or does not lead to completion? Holes in all six pockets, so leak pennies or rare medallions; worms surface up top for their food. Without them, plants and animals sputter out, or start to limp uphill. I cannot wait to get all my trace elements: craw-fill is just like gorp, not spicy. Lobsters good source for cadmium, cobalt—aka their twisted motives and sisters. Hunt methodically for tubers, especially at earth’s centre. Strip off all outer-shell electrons, even the 6p valence ones. In a house or home, a living room transects vanadium to cobble together those most-famous cinnamon buns, but so narrowly. Console armatures wound too tight. Seven-petaled leaves, man-eating plants. Dewy sunlight filters as if dirt, so go out, overwinter in the Sierra Madres. Those spectral waves, only a rare portion of gold, are necessitated for handsprings of earned life and not like…

AVEZ-VOUS PRIS RENDEZ-VOUS AVEC VOS MORTS ? Pour un festin d’eau et de sucre. Dans le bol fumant, « cuire les patates douces jusqu’à leur faire fondre le cœur ». Une indication sensible pour un déjeuner rare. Prendre rendez-vous avec ses morts (les porteurs d’un texte étouffé). La vapeur de la cuisson dilate les corps. Il est temps de les lire. J’ai pris rendez-vous dans la montagne. Son air accélère le vieillissement. Le froid n’a aucune limite, on voit la pierre se mettre à croûter, le ciel à gonfler. Je ne suis pas inquiète pour la montagne, le paysage bouge peu. À 7503m d’altitude, le corps se détériore. Le rendez-vous est donné à 7800. Zone de la mort. LE CORPS EST UN TEXTE À TROU. Prendre soin d’un corps c’est lui retirer les organes, le vider de ses graisses, ne garder que les os. Triturer les corps est une occupation, car sous la peau, le texte. La flamme est le révélateur des mots creux. Avant de venir graver les os, les mots macèrent dans les urnes.

Bien gorgés(oindre pour écrire) ils viendront creuser les os à venir. Les os sont tendres alors brûlons(brûler pour lire) -les. Blessés, ils requièrent un traitement attentionné. La brûlure est leur dernier soin. À force, les plaies se racontent à voix haute. Pour lire son mort, soyons groupés. CE QUI ECHAPPE À LA LECTURE.

Une rangée de corps, assis sur une branche pourrissante, tourne le dos. Le beurre étalé sur leurs chevelures, assoupli cette image première. Une chaise vide m’attend. À 7800m, les os gorgés de pluie patientent. La flamme brûle mais rien ne cuit. La pierre se gonfle pour lutter mais l’infime flamme dégénère les momies fument la montagne est dévorée les os ont chaud ils bougent enfin

se rassemblent. Dans cette cicatrice de pierre une horde de cochons se réfugie. Sucés

jusqu’à la moelle par ces cochons effrayés, nos textes se mêlent enfin. Vu ce matin, une aile de paradisier appuyée sur un brin d’herbe pour saisir un infime morceau d’os brûlé. Y est écrit du nid d’amour. 44

. Mot manquant à la construction

se rassemblent. Dans cette cicatrice de pierre une horde de cochons se réfugie. Sucés

. Mot manquant à la construction

du nid d’amour.

4545

The Beginning of Books Amy Alexander

We were here before the words. They wrote them on our skin with our burned bodies. A box sanded to hold bones bleeds too. The trees have memories passed root to root. Our name: not a tongue that humans use. Call us tsshk. Sound: our bone branches brushed together. Our skin: leaves falling to greet the light again. Silent sisters whisper in sap and pollen. Xylem vessels form pipes for singing. Obscured, at first, the scorched churches and boats over biting waves were translated through the making of a book. Hands of milk, short lives. Out of love, we lent our long memories our durable longing for a moment of movement. 46

Roses of Sharon Winter Landscape - Melanie Faith

Extinction Rebellion: As the Sand Trickles Rosie Solomon

There are so many ways to equate Extinction Rebellion and its principles with the act of something breaking down and separating into pieces. The earth is fragmenting in so many different ways - politically, physically. Personally, I lost my father in September last year. So I grieve, not only for the planet for which, each day, I lose hope that we may be able to save, but also for someone who was the most important person in my life up until the day he was no more. The political breakdown of the world can sometimes seem pretty comforting, at least on the surface; there is something about being part of a tiny group of your own where everyone thinks exactly the same as you. You never have to expend energy arguing with people who donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand because everyone around you understands. Having your own little tribe to identify with and to identify you with other like-minded people. Queer, vegan, feminist. These are all labels I apply to myself and signpost to other people I want to hang out with. At the same time, I alienate people who are different from me. This sense of fragmentation is both comforting and 48

scary at the same time, and I can’t help but think the only way to save the planet is to move past the fear of these other “tribes” and work together. Climate change discussions have become somewhat circular. We understand the urgency of the situation. We protest/complain/argue and it falls on deaf ears. Whether they understand and believe the situation and are just lazy, or actively disbelieve the scientifically proven notion of climate change, the result remains the same - the absence of any significant move towards action. Our words, time and again, carry across empty space and fall on the deaf ears of world leaders and corporations and those with any sort of power to make a quick and effective change. So there is another type of fragmentation. The gap between those speaking and those listening. At one of her most recent speeches in Davos, Greta Thunberg said, “our demands have been completely ignored,” when she argued for the divestment of fossil fuels. This frustration is something that members of Extinction Rebellion deal with on a daily basis. In a way, I envy those who don’t believe. Who can go through each day without a constant feeling of anxiety underlying each moment. Who can enjoy the increasingly less-than-rare rays of February

sunshine without a sense of some impending disaster just round the corner… But I cannot live like that. To me, it feels like the world is separated into these two different camps, getting further and further apart from each other, whilst one side fragments even more within itself. How about we put aside our differences in order to save our planet? Put aside our differences to fight against our one common adversity - the disintegration of our climate and life on our planet as we know it. Fragmentation is the enemy. It’s how we were defeated in elections. We are fragmented as a society, while the earth crumbles and fragments further and further still beneath our feet. It’s difficult to explore this topic in a positive light, so apologies for beginning and ending on a downer. Grief has set in, and it’s hard to fight it for every moment of my life. Sometimes it feels better just to let it win. On the other hand, this doesn’t mean I will not be continuing to fight with and for Extinction Rebellion. No matter how much I feel, some days, like it might all be futile, giving up and stopping making noise is just not something which is an option for me. How could I ever stop fighting for this beautiful planet, which has given me a home for my entire life, which sustains me and gives me 50

cold, sunny wintery mornings and refreshing cool breezes on a summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s afternoon? This stagnation is not something which we can accept. Neither is fragmentation. We must band together and move forward if we are to act in time to save our planet. The steps we must take are ones we need to take together. But most of all, we need to act now. Because time is running out.

Brexit: Fracturing and Reformation David Hayward

Brexit is a purposeful fracturing. Imagine a cup is thrown against the floor. It breaks but not into a few pieces that can be easily glued back together. The fracturing occurs across numerous planes and dimensions. It is a breakage not just of the economic but also of the emotional and the temporal. And these fractures run deep. The UK remains divided between those who think Brexit is a good or a bad idea. And there are stark differences between different demographic groups. The economic aspects of the fracturing, life’s physical nuts and bolts, are the easiest to understand because they have the most tangible impacts. This is why the question of Deal or No Deal has attracted so much attention. Uncertainty abounds, but we can be reasonably sure that whatever the final outcome, the UK’s economic relationship with the EU will be substantially changed. But Brexit is not just about economics. If it was, it might well not have happened. Brexit has various emotional (as well as ideological) Left: Don’t Look in the Mirror After Midnight - Beryl Egloff

dimensions, one of which is its impact on different groupsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; sense of belonging. The position of EU citizens in the UK and UK citizens in the EU is an obvious example. The Brexit residency application process poses a challenging question: is it possible to belong in the same way as before if that right to belong now has to be approved? Brexit was intended to be a centripetal event, a positive expression of nationalism to bind people together. Yet, majorities in Northern Ireland and Scotland and large numbers in England and Wales voted against it. For all of these groups, Brexit both challenges and intensifies identity. Is identity viewed in the same way as it was before the referendum? Do these groups feel more or less British, Unionist, English, Northern Irish, Scottish or Welsh? And how do they consider the European part of their identity? Brexit is also defined by its temporal nature. The process of leaving has been punctuated by the sharp breaks of its dates and deadlines. This has led some to conclude that Brexit is neatly time-bound - a convenient arc from the referendum to the actual date of leaving. But Brexit is not a point or a series of points in time. It is a complex process that will stretch far into 54

the future - “getting it done” will not happen any time soon. Brexit also reaches far into the past. It serves as a challenge and affirmation to historical narratives of the UK. Is the UK best considered an exceptional entity, the product of its island location and evolved institutions? Or is the UK better understood as a distinct but intrinsic part of a wider European context? After all that has happened, perhaps we might agree that the UK’s history is not amenable to any simple narrative. Of course, the fractures will not last forever. There will be a reformation of the broken pieces. But into what shape? The whole point of Brexit is to change. Divergence is not a buzzword or a slogan. It is the rationale. We can be sure that the reformed cup will not look the same as before. And we should not assume the period of reformation will be quick or easy. Nor should we think it will be pain-free. Volatility lies ahead, perhaps even a time of indeterminacy if there is an oscillation between different shapes. And then when we arrive, when Brexit is finally done, will the new shape be better than the old? Will the fractures heal stronger or more brittle? And will they all heal?

Whatever the new shape, the pain of the break will last long in the memory. But not everything will change. Physical geography is an enduring constant. The distance between Dover and Calais is only 20.7 miles. Ireland is a footstep away. Whatever the final outcome, the reality of this common neighbourhood will always exert its own inescapable gravity.

Right: Splintered I, II, III - Liv Brandberg

Not Unhidden, Bared

When self-ingesting like caterpillars in cocoons we lie Is the person concealed ever found unhidden revealed? Do uncrushed selves squirreled away from anger learn to spy Thinning in the canopy upon which their breaths congealed? Each dawn splintering the flawless porcelain of the night Shoves them again beneath the hell-jar that first crushed their flight

Hibah Shabkhez 58

The Wanderer (Three Falls of Rain) María Domínguez del Castillo “Poor dweller alone”

I. Will it ever stop raining So this urban dawn fails and falls and the doves’ crippled legs are grey and rusted and no dream of a rood despite this viscous fluid crowning someone’s head it is still warm it tastes like metal Who is it We do not know a voice that seems to say Beatus ille neque horret iratum mare or was it English rather Was it Fear no more this Summer heat this Winter rages or were they birds singing in Greek Oh But we do not know: I know in the beginning was the Word and Man’s first word was no word but a cry / shriek. I once knew God: it was a spider dragging his exoskeleton on fields of dry dead wheat walking on vinegar waters climbing a window. And then, he injected his fangs tender, lovingly into our heathen hands (Chelicerae And we are mad againe!) Oh please do close the window

for it is starting to get cold.

II.

“As long as God lived, man was at rest: he knew himself being looked at / he was watched over. Now that he is the only God and that his look makes all things hatch / bloom, he twists his neck to try to see himself” – Sartre, Situations Please Oh will you take this cup away from me for I do not feel my hands. Here is the puddle that I cannot cross. Here is the tree that I shall not pass. Here is the mirror that I dare not look at as I try to reach my own hand and remember something Sartre said. Today we twist our necks trying to see ourselves wishing that this too too solid flesh could melt for once only for once to settle on waves. Wait What is that sound of water It’s rain It’s rain again it’s raining still.

the

III.

Today that Jesus Christ has lost his body and it is November the 1st and the city pales behind the morning mist and the faint façades of humid stone and the damp rooftops are mirroring the pallor of early clouds and the birds are quietly shivering under their drenched feathers I went to seek his palms I crossed the bridge and entered Sainte-Chapelle and as I entered at last at least encounter the Lack of Lack of something Something different from

White.

the violence of white this ceaseless white and I don’t feel my eyes between this rarefied stained glass. In the midst of air: the violet hour blue, floating, light, ethereal

This taking off our sandals This bathing in the void: With bare feet, nude, unclothed A body of maritime resemblance: It is another white: piel clara carne bruñida of shells and pines and salt and seagulls and southern sands. Seascape- Jemma Seascape Dixon - Jemma Dixon

Artefacts of A Life ff

Joe D. Nerssessian

I lie in bed in fear of the inevitable phone-call. Maybe tonight. I inhale into the arm of your green patchwork coat which I’ve taken to sleeping in. 3 October 2019 He sits with her. She hasn’t spoken for a while. The two silicone rainbow wristbands she wears are loose. They have slipped half-way up her arm. On the other side of the bed is her sister. The hospice staff have told the family to stop giving her fluids. It can slide down into her lungs and cause an infection. He asks if she wants some music played and she doesn’t respond. He asks if he should play some Leonard Cohen and she doesn’t respond. Her head moves or he imagines it. He plays a song. A second one starts. Eyes shut, she tries to speak. Bird, Bird, Bird. He thinks she is trying to say his father’s name. Surely not. Her sister is the first to realise. Bird… Bird On The Wire. He plays the song. Later, he thinks that might be her final words. You used to doodle when you spoke on the 62

telephone. Simple flowers or chains of 3D squares. You would sit on the settee and hold the phone in one hand, pen in the other, notepad on your knee or the arm of the chair. I would duck under the phone cord to sit on your lap and watch. I find pages and pages of doodles in your belongings. 7 October 2019 When she was in hospital in August, her sixyear-old grandson left his small toy owl on the bed to keep her company. “I want it back when you’re out,” he had said. It became hers again when she went into the hospice. Ten days later she didn’t need it anymore. Caz collected her son from school. She didn’t know how to tell him so, instead, she gave him the owl. “Nanna doesn’t need it anymore.” He was slow to realise and quiet in response. The threeyear-old needed a more deliberate conversation. Through the kitchen window, Joe watched his sister kneel down next to the boy in the garden. His blonde curls fell down by his ears and his bright blue eyes looked around the garden. He could see his sister was speaking but was too far away to hear how she told him. The boy began pointing at plants and birds and asking questions. Later, Joe was defeated by tears

while playing with the three-year-old. “It’s ok,” his nephew said. “I’ll be your best friend.” 8 October 2019 They are cleaning the house. It isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. They’re at the paperwork stage. The paperwork which climbs out of drawers and slides off the table to gather on the kitchen worktop. They have a simple system. His sister hands or shows him something, and he replies with “throw” or “keep.” If he says “keep” she puts it back in the same place but makes it look tidier. If he says “throw” she puts it in the bin. Simple is important. Throw. Throw. Keep. Throw. What about this? It’s a white Nationwide envelope. Empty. Ordinary. Recyclable. She turns it over in her hand. A table of times and ticks have been scribbled down the back. Keep. 64

When you came home from the hospital in August you brought a paper bag full of medication. Morphine - take 5ml orally as and when needed. One dose every four hours. Omeprazole - take one tablet twice a day. Steroids 2mg - take one tablet every morning. Senna - Take one tablet twice a day. Metoclopramide - take one tablet three times a day. Docusate - Take one tablet twice a day. Fluxoteine - Take one tablet every morning. Paracetamol - Add two tablets to water. Take one dose every four hours. This was a lot to remember. This was too much to remember. Especially when you needed the morphine and paracetamol more frequently. It was Carol’s idea. Your next-door-but-one friend who cooked me dinner and arrived every lunchtime armed with cheese sandwiches cut into squares or circles or hearts or stars. Her idea was to note down the times you had taken morphine or paracetamol. It was always on the back of an envelope, an old prescription or any other scrap piece of paper. Paper I can’t throw away. Because if I throw it away then I won’t know what you have taken and when. I am still waiting for you to come home and need me.

October 11 2019 Laura and her girlfriend are each wearing silicone bands. They hover over their 10-month old son. He needs a nap. He feels hot. His nappy needs changing. He won’t feed. He won’t sleep. He’s teething. 23 October 2019 He’s driving. Where? It doesn’t matter. And he can’t remember now anyway. He tries to see her. To picture her. He can see her hands. Soft. Slightly wrinkled. Warm. Always warm. Warm at the end. Until the end really was the end and then they cooled. He can’t see her eyes. He squeezes his own shut to try and find her but it doesn’t work. Did she have brown or blue eyes? He should know this. He really should fucking know this. 26 October 2019 He is blu-tacking photos to the wall. They are photos of her. As a child, an adult, a mother, a 66

traveller, a teacher, a lover, a friend. There is one photo with no people in it. It’s of their ramshackle childhood home. Demolished a decade before and resurrected by her departure. The first thing you ever stole was a pint of milk from someone’s doorstep. A man swung open the door and shook his fist as you fled so you put the bottle down and apologised. He thinks of this story every time he picks up the milk bottles from the doorstep. Then puts them in the fridge. He doesn’t drink milk but he hasn’t cancelled the delivery. It’s been three weeks and there’s eight bottles of milk in the fridge. No one explains how much paperwork is involved when someone dies. Car insurance. Council tax. Death certificate. Bank accounts. Solicitors. Estate agents. Dentist. Internet. Mobile phone. Landline. Cremation. House insurance. Milkman.

04 November 2019 He puts her key in the door of her house and notices a mystery key on the ring. It does nothing. But it touched her hands thousands of times.

Glitched Sculpture- Iphigenia Garani

20 November 2019 Sometimes a good day turns into a bad day. Sometimes a bad day gets distracted and turns into a neutral day. Is a neutral day a good day? “Half-way up and I turned to look at you, your bent head the colour of the rocks, your breath reaching me, short and sharp and solitary, and again I felt the tipping in the scales of us, the intersection of our ages.” Owen Sheers - Farther (2005) 25 November 2019 He is coughing so much that he keeps giving himself a headache. A chest infection is his sister’s diagnosis. He can’t visit the doctor - it’s too much paperwork. He’s still registered in London. Or in Bournemouth. Not here anyway. To re-register he would need to find his NHS number and who knows where that is. She would have known. He feels her in the walls that night. He left his window open for the first time in weeks. The next day he gets lost in 70

an old suitcase which has been left out after a further ‘clear-out’ attempt. There’s a box in the suitcase full of old documents. Birth certificates, death certificates, marriage certificates, divorce certificates. The deed to the house. The first document in the box is all he needs. The one at the very top. The one that has his NHS number on it. She is still finding what he needs. 14 December 2019 The day after the election he listens to a voice memo on his phone. He remembered recording it but hadn’t been able to face listening to it until this particular moment. He doesn’t know why he needed to hear it now but he did. He listens to the 49-minute recording in one sitting. Immediately after it finishes, he listens again. He doesn’t cry. It was made three months earlier on September 19th. Usually he came home earlier but on that day he had an induction lecture at the university so arrived a little later. They talked a lot, far more than he realised. Her paranoia and confusion lingered over the conversation. After listening for a third time he is satisfied that he still managed to mock her and she him.

17 December 2019 He visits Southend - where she battled adolescence. He sees her childhood flat above his grandad’s old shop. It’s a takeaway now. He sees her all-girls secondary school. She hated it. He sees the flat where she lived in 1979 after she came back from travelling. And the one she lived in before that. The park where she met her best friend after asking her “Do you like boys?” The two of them used to buy five woodbines together and smoke them in the park where a few older boys used to hang out. Sometimes the boys would put her on the back of their old motorbike and she would feel the wind blow through her un-helmeted hair. He thought he might feel something but he’s not sure he does. Maybe the car he’s being driven in by her friend has created an emotional barrier. Or perhaps the lack of time to contemplate and the fading light is stopping him from seeing her here. But later he decides it’s because he had no connection to her, or the her that he knew, to this place. He knew that she had lived and loved and worked here, but she was not here. The vortex didn’t offer itself up. 72

25 December 2019 He is walking in the mud and the woods of West Wales with his three-year-old nephew and his sister’s dog. They reach a track and he asks the boy which way they should go. The three-year-old points left. “I walked that way before with Nanna.” I don’t think you ever came to Wales with her. “Oh. But she came to Wales didn’t she?” Yeah, she did. “She rode on the back of a whale too. A humpback whale.” Oh wow. I didn’t know that. “Yeah she did.”

AASmall from a Big City, with Large Dreams-Trini-Maria SmallGirl, Girl, from a Big City, with Large Dreams - Trina-Maria Katakwe, Katakwephotography collage

Overture for the Trees of Time Georgina Primrose

Space whispered, like it always did. The truth of the

phrase “silence is deafening” is rarely realized until you’re suspended in the blackness of space. Beyond the tinned sound of breathing, there is nothing, and yet there is everything. The mind likes to play tricks in absences, and so even in silence, it generates mutters, noise, cacophony until there is nothing but a monstrous roar in your ears, like a thousand tidal waves rushing over your head. Sometimes though, space just whispers, the universe murmuring its secrets in an unsuspecting ear. What would it tell them all now, the tiny human lives still flailing among the stars? What would it want to say? The universe rippled and sighed

“You’ve fucked it.”

Lola’s voice crackled through Clementine’s spacesuit

and she started out of the impossible, cosmic symphony. “Excuse me?”

“I said you’ve fucked it. The coordinates. We can’t be

in the right place.” Lola scowled and her auburn eyebrows slanted dangerously, rivers of fire ready to ignite alongside 76

her famous temper. “There’s nothing here.”

Clementine kept her face straight but her heart

smiled fondly. Lola, as always, was not wrong, but also, as always, she had missed the point. It was almost ludicrous how many of their arguments had boiled down to that.

“Of course there’s nothing here,” said Clementine

patiently. Nothing whole, anyway. A loose rock floated past her and she swatted it in Lola’s direction. “This is what we came for.”

Clementine drifted closer, enough to see the careful

crease of Lola’s forehead through the glass bubble of her space helmet. She caught the object in her gloved hands, turning it over, immense concentration pouring from her face. How many times had Clementine traced the smooth lines of this expression in her dreams? She felt her pulse quicken; maybe the two of them out here, alone, hadn’t been such a good idea. She should have requested a different partner.

Lola squinted up at her. “We came for this tiny rock?”

“Not just that tiny rock. Look around you.”

Sometimes, the overwhelming darkness and

musical-silence of space made it difficult to focus on

what was right in front of you. How could one see the immediate when infinity surrounded you? It was like trying to see silt in water, instead of the ocean floor. Clementine dragged her eyes from the unfathomable backdrop, an endless sheet of black silk, scattered with stars like fallen sequins, and focussed on what surrounded her.

A swirl of fragments enveloped her and Lola, like

miniature, charcoal stars of their own solar system. Some were no bigger than blanket fluff, some like beach pebbles. They drifted lazily in incomprehensible patterns, brushing Clementineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s space suit with the dust of ancient history.

Lola was transfixed, with that same horrific

enchantment on her face that many people wore when they first came here. Clementine let Lola ride the waves of what-ifs and furious laments. No amount of education, books or stories could prepare anyone for the sinister magic of inhabiting the space where Earth had once been, for gazing upon the exploded, dead remains of a ruined paradise. 78

The textbooks spoke of ozone layers, trapped gases,

rising sea levels and warming countries. Clementine’s grandmother had spoken of ignorance, denial and greed, of forests set alight and then discarded like cigarettes in an ashtray.

Clementine put a hand on Lola’s shoulder. “Are

you okay?” The contact, which came so easily, sent a jolt through Clementine’s heart.

Lola hesitated. “I can’t believe… this is what’s left.”

Clementine smiled sadly. “Disbelief is what caused

this in the first place. The best thing we can do now is get on with the present. Maybe build something new.” She pressed a bag into Lola’s hand. “Let’s get collecting.”

Resolve sparked through the grief in Lola’s eyes and

she bobbed away, swiping at the little rocks swimming in the blackness.

They gathered Earth’s skeleton with a funeral

solemnity and Clementine let herself be soothed by the myriad of sounds that her mind conjured for the silence of space. When they were done, they returned to the shuttle, bags and hearts heavy. Inside, the breathable air welcomed them as they took off their helmets and Clementine busied herself with the decontamination unit. Lola didn’t move.

“Do you really think…” Lola ventured, “that it’s

possible to build something new?”

Clementine’s fingers stopped on the buttons.

Lola said, “Don’t you think some things are

unrepairable?”

The delicate edge to her voice told Clementine that

Earth’s graveyard had worked its strange sorcery. It was almost impossible to come here and not feel something immensely in all your body. Sometimes it was a deep defeat. Often it was profound and quiet motivation.

Clementine’s voice fluttered out as a breathy whisper.

“Do you think some things are unrepairable?”

Lola came closer. Clementine could smell the

lemongrass on her hair. Lola put the rock bag into the decontamination unit and then their eyes met.

Lola’s eyes were hues of green, coveted shades that

now only lived in irises. She put her hand on Clementine’s and said, “Things are only unrepairable when nobody wants to repair them.”

Clementine had thought, after all this time, she was

immune to the alchemy of emotions that this cosmic grave sought to stir in her. She had been wrong. She willed 80

Nue NumĂŠro 4 - Roxy HervĂŠ

herself to answer Lola, but all she could see were the remains of Earth outside the window, could only remember being told that no amount of love, sacrifice or hard work had been enough to save that majestic, powerful, beautiful planet from giving up. In that moment, she was too afraid to give and to want and still

get nothing.

Lola let go of her hand, her face cruel and cold. “Or

maybe some things are over. Why revisit what’s dead and gone?” She stormed off into the cockpit, a fury of hope and feeling that Clementine longed to chase after.

Clementine stared out at the stars and the dust.

She gathered the earth rocks and carried them to the laboratory, Lola’s words echoing in her mind. Why revisit what’s dead and gone?

The laboratory gleamed at her when the door slid

open, a sterile, silver room that winked with soft white lights from mirrored monitors. Clementine set the rocks down on the central table and began the long process of inspecting and cataloguing them. An hour passed before she sat back, her eyes burning, and inspected the array of earth pieces before her, a jigsaw that would never be complete again. They were so shattered, it was hard to believe that footsteps ever walked upon them, that they ever held up empires and monuments, ever supported life and death.

Maybe some things are over.

A beeping pierced her reverie and on the far wall,

a small containment unit flashed. Clementine jumped, her thoughts scrambled by the surge of emotion elicited by that sound. She threw down her tools and scrambled across the room, slamming her hand onto the keypad, her anger and regret burning away, leaving only eager anticipation fizzling like fireworks in her veins.

Her fingers trembled as the misty door slid open and

she carefully removed the tiny disc. It sat in her hand like a crystal moon. She carried it across the room, holding her breath as she slipped it under the microscope. A second passed before she could bring herself to press her eye to the lens, but when she did, hope bloomed unending in her heart.

Lavender and rose crescents melted into swirls of

magenta, blooming across clouds of indigo, a galaxy of life, strong and vibrant in its newness.

Clementine had never thought she would cry

over bacteria, and yet here she was. Weeping over these tiny, boundless organisms that would one day form a constellation of cells in a towering network of trees. Now they were only invisible saplings, but someday they would burst through the soft soil on a new planet, and emerge as

a rebuilt kingdom of nature.

The concept of forests, woods, jungles had always

been an impossible fantasy for Clementine, the glittering imaginings of stories and dreams. How had her ancestors walked beneath forest canopies every day, brushed their fingers on rain-wet leaves, touched their feet on warm, earthy soil and taken no notice?

She sat back from the microscope, wisps of

extraordinary life still dancing before her eyes.

Frantic footsteps echoed in the silver veins of the

ship and Lola flew into the room. “Did it work? Did something grow?” She pressed in beside Clementine, their arms touching as she bent over the microscope. Oceans pooled beneath the fields of her eyes. Then she frowned.

“You’re telling me forests were made out of this? But

they’re tiny.”

Confused disappointment collided with earnest

hope and Clementine could only imagine Lola’s face if she ever got to stand in a forest of fabled mountain ash or marvel at a mythical sequoia. It was an intoxicating image and Clementine couldn’t help but laugh. She put her arm around Lola, pressing her forehead against Lola’s shoulder 84

for the barest of moments.

“It will grow,” Clementine promised, running her

hand through Lola’s hair. “Taller than you. Taller than you can imagine.”

Lola’s face burst into a smile, a comet of joy across

her face. They remained quiet, watching the persisting remnants of earth swirling encouragingly in the space outside.

Lola traced the lifelines of Clementine’s hand with

her fingertips and whispered, “I guess it is repairable after all.”

Why revisit what’s dead and gone?

Because it wasn’t dead and gone. Cracked, split,

broken, yes, but nothing was ever really gone whilst someone still lived with the patience to put it back together, whilst something still pushed its way through the cracks. They were all just puzzle pieces who longed to be united, no matter how many were missing. If space had taught Clementine anything, it was that what seemed like the biggest absence often held the most profound and infinite potential, a shattered pool of nothing, and of everything.

Sand Art Athena Melliar

Hand me a blade. I am an in-between make, sand and sea well from my veins. I am carved in a curved shape to mirror things that break: break, wave; break, glass; break, her and leave her starved. A sprinkling of abyss glassed in absorbs bitch after bitch bitch,, aborts at a beach like carved Syriana from fever dreams. How a fourbe sculpts half-hour sandglasses for aeons-long war it is a miracle, one of yours. Myrtoan wave in my mouth, the M in war; skin robed in mounds of rubbish raked on shore: blade mark a place, mark, mark a place in his world. Mark it with a name. Waves rise, sand art fades — I am starved for name. Say, “Sand art seagrades.”

Ennui vs. The Prevailing Anxiety of The Cosmic Now Zoë A. Morgan

A thousand frames, a shadow appears which is darker and bolder than you and real and tangible. All this vitality, burning away in corporeal polis like fragments of a deity in secular bliss. The responsibility you have to this urban kindergarten of your being. Children immersed in cream and water, plaiting each other’s hair to a mass unified thread. “Our planet is only a peach dangling from a chain of pearls.” You say, as you play with the incisor of a sabre tooth tiger. I’m like a mannequin with bloody handprints. My porcelain skull scolding in tea-stained, mass-produced heat. We built straw tunnels, bags of straw time There’s a prison to perch on handcuffed to one another, treading toes, the high tide. All my friends swept up in sea foam. We’re embers, we’re water A vortex of inertia All these trees are half a diamond. Her crust seeping dew, gasps: Aurora Left: Elles Étaient Si Jolie - Roxy Hervé

Man vs. Atmosphere - Justin Robinson

Glue of the World Tom Baragwanath

We’re taller in the other place. Here, that’s just a Frank Ocean lyric. “White Ferrari”. You love that song. This version of you does, anyway. But in the other world – the world without us – there’s no Frank Ocean, and you’re more of a Chris Brown type. Because that Chris Brown never even met Rihanna. In that universe, Chris Brown was busy building schools in Nepal on Grammy night, and Rihanna sells insurance in Tucson. It’s nicer there, except you never signed up for that second-year philosophy paper, and I never sat next to you still smelling of my bed. “Huh?” You put down your phone. “What?” We’re at the eye clinic. I’m taking up too much of the waiting room couch, but you don’t seem to mind. “Some theorists think our decisions split the world in two,” I say. I’ve been on Reddit a little too much lately. “Then another two, on and on with every choice. Sometimes more, depending on the options.” “Like, an infinity type of deal?” Your eyebrow curls up like a sleeping terrier. I’ve always loved that. “Exactly.” “Hmm.” You’re squinting. “Seems like an idea with zero practical utility.” “Well thanks.” “Jesus, you’re so sensitive. When did you go to bed, anyway?” I shrug, because I honestly don’t know. For a second you seem mad, but then you reach for your coat. 90

Your fingers are shaking. “I probably don’t even need new glasses,” you say. “Let’s go get nachos.” My hand goes to yours. “It’s fine. You’re fine.” You smile: a small smile, but a real one. Around us, more worlds are splitting away. A Judy Dench type of lady leans across the coffee table, choosing between Rolling Stone and Good Housekeeping. The Stone wins out, meaning another universe in the dustbin. It’s too much to think about, really. “Miss Lipsky?” A young man with a haircut appears in the doorway. “This way, please.” We follow him into a smaller room with charts and filing cabinets and plastic models of eyes with coloured nerves in blue and red. Many worlds will languish here; I can feel it. “How are y’all doing today?” “We’re okay.” There’s enough of a pause in your voice for me to understand that you, too, were expecting an older optometrist. “That’s good.” He looks between us. “I’m the boyfriend,” I say. “Her boyfriend.” He doesn’t care. “Could you tell me a little more about these headaches?” Something about his tone really rubs me the wrong way. I don’t think I’m going to like this universe. “It’s right here.” You point to your left eye. “I get a throb sometimes, and a pain like hot water. There’s some astigmatism in my family – I probably should have mentioned that already.” “I see.”

“It’s mostly when I use a computer. Which, with my dissertation, has been, like, every day. For hours.” “And the pain,” he says. “On a scale of one to ten, how severe would you say it is?” “One being the least?” I ask. “Sure.” My hand goes to your elbow. As many as nine universes are at risk, but there’s no time to warn you. “About a six,” you say. “A seven, sometimes. Enough to take an aspirin.” The young man nods and moves his hands over the desk, reaching across more folders than I can count. There’s a sizzle in my brain like rain on a hot engine. Worlds and worlds; universes upon universes. “Well,” he says. “We haven’t found any change in your prescription. So that’s a good thing.” I exhale through my nose. The sound is loud enough for him to notice. “What about the headaches, then?” “That’s the thing.” He digs a pinky finger into his ear. “We can’t say. It might be nothing – a muscle twitch, maybe. Or simple strain, as you said.” “Or?” I’m leaning forward. “Or, it could be something a little more serious.” His face clouds for a moment. “I’m going to recommend a scan.” “A scan?” There’s a tightness in my neck. This universe really fucking sucks. “I can put you in touch with a great ophthalmologist.” He slides a drawer open and scratches around in there with his little claw. “I 92

wouldn’t want you to worry. In most cases symptoms like these are absolutely nothing.” Most cases? I’m going to grab him by the collar and shake until his little Nick Jonas head snaps off. He doesn’t know enough to speak of absolutes; not even Hawking did. “Thank you, doctor.” Your smile is so sweet and uncomplicated that for a moment I can’t believe where we are. This must be the bakery, I think, or the community art gallery where we go to laugh sometimes. There are no blood clots allowed here, and certainly no tumours or plaque on the nerves. “Take care, now,” says the optometrist. “Both of you.” We line up at the counter, where I know you’ll remember to keep the receipt and claim the co-pay. Judy Dench is asking how long she can expect to wait to be seen. Looking for allies, the receptionist stares past her to us. Something in her pale expression gives me an idea. “Let’s go,” I whisper. “What?” “Let’s just take off.” Now both of your eyebrows are terriers. “I haven’t paid.” “So?” “They have my information. They’ll just…” “Please.” My cheeks are wet. This may be our last chance to choose. Nobody will be expecting this; we might just trick the whole scheme into letting you off the hook. And anyway, criminals never get tumours or strokes

or any of that stuff. Criminals are the healthiest people! “Okay.” There’s a look in your eyes like the last glacier cracking. We turn at the same time, walking slowly at first. The water cooler lets out a bubble as we pass, and I know we’ve done it. The sharp claws of fate, or chance, or whatever, flash through the air just beyond us. There’s hot breath on our necks, but we can still run. “Miss Lipsky?” “You’ll never take us alive, coppers!” My joke is dumb, yet the air fills with bright laughter from your throat. We push through the doors, and more worlds fall away in pieces. We don’t feel a thing, though, because that’s all they can ever be. Pieces. You’re there with me, this version of you, holding it all together with your hand tight in mine. We might be taller and smarter in other universes, or in this universe at other times, but this is what we have, and this is where I love you. I’m more awkward than I could be, and I eat all the Starbursts when you’re at the library, and nobody ever called me back about those job applications, and you keep getting these headaches, and there are mornings when your mouth smells like cloves, but here we are, and here it is, all of it, and outside the sun hits the snow like glory made real, and the frozen trees in the car park all reach up in the longest grey Hosanna, happy with these two young fugitives, and happy to have been chosen.

Step h

Douglas Wr i g ht

uds lo

nilla C a V

Swirling vanilla clouds encircle me As I watch this nascent world accede, It moves, pursuing greater mysteries Springing up and forth, a sky seeking seed, So shall we mourn the passing of the day? Spill tears and tales of what we may have done? Grasp at what Timeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s light has burned away, Longing for the light of a Parhelion? Now night has set and all the earth grows dark, Stretching streams of purple span the skies, Twinkling, twittering stars grow stark, Usurping space and climbing ever high, Will we burn bright and also learn to shine? Or lament the loss of sad and wasted time?

Fragments of Sappho 31 Emma R. Dee

A man is equal with the Gods whenever he sits beside you – ear to your lips mouth to his ear speaks low – and laughs of loveliness quicken the heart in the breast sends my eyes to you. I’m mute: speech falters Useless tongue of fragments – a narrow darting flame under skin suffuses ears hum eyes dull Sweat, more moist than grass – tremble, like the grass – pale, to die like the grass yet I am myself I endure even as a poor man to sit on Olympus Is any to sit beside you? 96

Right: Separate Worlds - Annette Luyxc

Kilometer Hong Kong Lawden Marcus a day like this, or the train between us won’t stop – this life is too long, dear tourist – & you know this morning i have to pay the rent too – as you insist that demonstrations at Victoria Park crow an ashfall of a feathered controversy – scarred by heavy clouds – as poetry as a lesson in leaving seems like years – & every day umbrella seems like months of our days, days of our months always like this

sure it’s like this

you know there might be another Worldwide Plaza - buzzing non compos mentis from your postcolonial Central - & that i’ll never know what new noise gently crumbles our married Clock Tower lungs – our karmic hearts in Kowloon once upon a ferry sea always like this

we used to see

chaos intensify in the streets – waltz of smoke rioting upon youth – all a tumult of fire eating fire – times commissioned by risk as rains of pleas in falsetto communicate to the city – a sigh of democracy lingering in the last taste of Cantonese cigarettes – or i chain yes, for being around you time after time after Sham Shui Po-congratulations! we love roast goose, not extradition always like this, or a day should have watched you, dear tourist, principle beyond the barricade – inspired to taxis – the size of the Octopus beaming like the future hands of the

like this by the MTR - i glimmer w/ translate the colors of card - into something – OUR FUTURE – in the harbor

Interviewed by Holly Anne Foster Andrea Hachuel is an assistant director who has worked on projects such as Dunkirk, Killing Eve, and The French Dispatch. Her self-written and directed short film Frangipani Rising was completed this year and is currently being submitted to film festivals. You can find out more about Andrea Hachuel’s work on her IMDB page and on her Instagram @andreahachuel. Her photography is available on Dust and Soul.

The separation we have between each other when we’re making a film is a little like we’re creating a world because everyone has their own ideas and it’s beautiful to see the puzzle come together.

Photo from https://www.imdb.com/name/nm1355202/

Interview with Filmmaker Andrea Hachuel

You’ve described your self-written and directed short film as a “modern fairytale” set in Bali. Can you tell us more about Frangipani Rising? The story came about from a fairytale I wrote as a gift for two actors who got married a year before we shot the film. It’s about a man who’s extremely lonely, but he lives in a beautiful place and is constantly surrounded by beautiful things. But because he is lacking the one thing he wants the most—a romantic partner—he grows bitter and curses the moon for his loneliness. There is an earthquake and the next day, he stumbles upon some frangipani seeds. He thinks he can grow a girl who can teach him about love, but by taking the plant for himself, he’s taking beauty out of nature and trying to possess love. So it’s a bit of a metaphor, as he just needs to open his eyes and see that he is already surrounded by beauty in our world. In Bali, the religion consists of praying to the terrestrial spirits and giving offerings to nature. The moment you step on the island, you feel the respect that people have for the world. In my work, I like to talk about the loneliness that we have in the twenty-first century, where people think that if you don’t have a partner and you’re not on social media then you’re alone in society. I think that’s just wrong. Obviously, love is a thing we all strive for, but love can happen in so many different ways and there are so many different people you can share it with.

You’ve also worked on many large-scale projects, such as Dunkirk, Killing Eve, and The French Dispatch. How did you find working on these sets compared to your own? I think it all depends on your degree of involvement in a project. When you work on a big film like Dunkirk where you have three thousand extras every day, or The French Dispatch where you have a crazy director with forty-two of the best actors in the world, it can sound overwhelming. But if you don’t feel like you owe it to the project to give it your all, then it’s not going to feel the same. As an assistant director, my goal is always getting the scene done and finished. When you get what’s in this crazy director’s head onto the camera, I think you feel the same way as you would getting it for yourself. So the main difference is scale and distance and time— everything takes longer when it’s a big film just because of the organisation. The difference is having to say what I want in another language over a megaphone because there’s a two kilometre beach and I have to tell someone on a boat in the middle of the sea to sit down because of the angle of the camera. But when I do the same on my short film, it’s to the person in front of me. It’s just a matter of adapting. As part of your career you’ve gotten to travel across the world. In what ways has travel affected your work? Firstly, I consider myself very privileged because I can speak three languages so I can work in different 100

countries. After I finished my studies in Paris, my first opportunity was to work as an intern of an intern in Australia, and I remember a lot of people telling me, “You should stay in France and build up your career. Build your connections.” Which isn’t wrong, but I think it differs depending on which job you want in filmmaking. I’ve always wanted to be on the writing side, the directing side, the creative side, and in that sense, I needed to fill my head so that I would know what I wanted to tell in this world. I only knew that I wanted to see things and that I knew nothing. So I decided that for three years, I would say yes to anything, anywhere. After Australia, I interned in London reading scripts, and then an opportunity came to do camera work for Spanish documentaries in Korea and Vietnam. Now, I’ve been in France for four years, but I’ll still not refuse a chance to work abroad because my film family will keep on growing. Working on films creates a very strong bond where you consider everyone family, even if you don’t see each other again for six years. Sometimes, you’re not comfortable, but your vision grows and your adaptability grows. I think we should never get comfortable in film, because if you get comfortable then you’re not confronting anything. To tell stories I think you should always feel that you’re a little bit out of place. You studied film and photography in Paris. How did that experience help you to become a filmmaker? I think studying in Paris was one of the best decisions I’ve made. I left my hometown in Spain and went by myself

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to another city where I lived in a house full of people that I didn’t know. It was not like going to school, because I was learning things I wanted to learn. But also, I don’t think that film comes from study, though it can give you the confidence to participate in this world at a professional level. A lot of directors I admire didn’t go to school, but all of them say that if they could’ve studied, then it would’ve given them that confidence sooner. For me, experience came from interning and working summers and getting myself out there and doing as much as I could and, basically, making mistakes. You learn after panicking on set and not knowing what to do until a grown-up comes and tells you. But my few years in Paris were incredible. So studying film gives you confidence. Just having a knowledge of the technical side of things makes you feel more in control over what you want to create, which is awesome if you can afford it. But the other great part of it was meeting the generation of artists that are now my friends ten years later. In school, I met my family who are now professionals in film, and I think you do need that sense of family so that you don’t feel alone in this artistic world. To have people that you know are like you and are just doing their best every day is very important to keep the hopes up. How have you found working as a woman in the film industry has changed over time and experience? Truthfully, when I started, it wasn’t on my mind at all because the only thing I thought about was that I wanted the job. Sometimes I was on set and I didn’t even notice that I was the only girl in the assistant directing department; I just 102

knew that I needed to run faster and keep up and be better than the boys. I knew that I wanted to be in the industry so I needed to work harder. But it’s awful once you realise that when you do see girls, they’re in the costume department, they’re in the makeup department, or they’re the actresses. I realised it myself when I noticed this gripwoman carrying a metal thing and looking all badass, but then I thought that I shouldn’t be noticing her. There should be boys doing costumes and girls putting metal rails on cameras. On big films, you now have to go through a harassment protocol, which never happened five years ago. But there are still less women than men in powerful positions, so we have a long way to go. I realise now that I am an adult with experience that I have a voice which I can use to protect others. When you start and you’re a girl, you don’t want to say to a man that seems important that his joke actually wasn’t funny and made you feel a bit weird. So you just don’t say anything. In the beginning, I was just thinking of myself and not the world that put me in these situations. I thought I just needed to work harder—but that’s not how it’s supposed

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to be. I’ve always tried to not be affected by it, but now I understand that I need to be affected and then react to it. That’s what I would love to say to any girl starting in film, because you never feel like you belong on set before you’ve been working on set. You always feel like you’re in the middle of things or you’re bothering people, and those feelings are bigger when you’re a girl. We should be encouraging women in film not to be wondering if they’ll be able to find another job if they speak up about their experiences. Our talent will take us there and men cannot do it without us. What do you hope that audiences take from your filmography? That magic is possible in the world. That’s what pushes me when I write anything; I always try to find the magic. Magic doesn’t have to be a flying carpet, it can be anything. But it’s the way you tell it. If an audience is watching my films and get excited by little things that they experience every day, I am happy. If they can feel a kind of magic that makes them believe flying carpets could be real, then that is the type of film I would like to create. I want to talk about real issues, but always from the point of view of magic. In film, we can make the magic. It can be a metaphor for all the things we can do with very little, or from a different point of view, or help from another person. For example, it doesn’t have to be a great love story to make you believe in love. But if it’s a little love story with a little magic, then it can make anyone believe. 104

What advice would you offer to those wanting to become filmmakers themselves? The simplest one is to watch films, read stories, and tell stories. I think that even if you’re a student and you don’t have the means to create a film, you can still make a story by telling it. My advice is this: now is the time to make things. Before I shot Frangipani Rising, my best friend and producer said, “We’ll pick a date and we’ll shoot on that date no matter how much money we have, no matter which actors we have, no matter how much equipment we have.” Then, we did a fundraiser online and made three times our goal in a month. We bought our own tickets to Bali and saved our money as if it was a real shoot and budgeted for camera rentals and location rentals. The shoot lasted for seven days and it was the best experience of our lives. So just make things, and try to lose the idea that film is something that is made by people with experience and money and connections. You go out and film with your phone and you edit it. You show it to a friend and you’ve now made a film and you have an audience. You just need two people to do that. My second piece of advice, which I learned while making Frangipani, is to never think about anyone’s opinion but your own. I’ve always written quickly and passionately, but when I polish my screenplays, I always think about what the best critic in the world would think about it. With Frangipani, although I know I made mistakes, I am happy because it’s the first project where I didn’t care what others may think of my idea. I think that nobody cares to watch a film that somebody makes for someone else. So

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when you get that in your mind and you start creating the film that is most honest to yourself, then the better it’s going to work. You owe that to the people who are going to hopefully pay money to watch your vision. They want to see what the director wants to tell them, so you cannot go wrong when you work with truth. Our magazine’s theme this year is ‘fragments’. Are there any aspects of the filmmaking process that you find to be fragmented? The beauty of film is that it’s already fragmented. We work by putting different pieces together from different departments all day long. The separation we have between

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each other when we’re making a film is a little like we’re creating a world because everyone has their own ideas and it’s beautiful to see the puzzle come together. When watching a film, you may see a woman crying in a chair and it’s a scene. But for those working in the industry, you see the dress she is wearing and the makeup that the artist had to make sure wouldn’t smudge. You see the actor concentrating on crying, so there needed to be silence on set, even from the person who was trying to work the lights. But as beautiful as the work is, I think it also needs to be broken and imperfect, because nobody wants to watch a film that is perfect. We want to see someone broken getting fixed, or someone fixed getting broken, since that’s the natural process of life. So I think that if there’s one industry that’s fragmented, it’s ours because art is broken. It’s like our souls in the sense that there are a lot of pieces and influences and emotions all mixed into one. One film can never just be one thing—it’s a million things. That’s why you have assistant directors, because in the end you want to try and make these fragments come together to make a whole, meaningful piece of art. Images taken from Frangipani Rising, dir. Andrea Hachuel, 2020

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In time walk. Breathe in and look. The city its madness, its fists close to open the flowers; in dissent I mean the sky Do you see it? She sips.

See it in the sky, it floats behind the window turn face its real face. Rimbaud is not alone. Somewhere fields sigh. The inlets spill out rain warm showers gentle. Again, the swallow you tell me: â&#x20AC;&#x153;We are cities on the verge.â&#x20AC;? Those collar bones walk the street full-crevice sing. Always inco mplete you tip the flower cauterise the flesh. We must sit down I am tired all at once. Strung up words swollen in tongued bundles You fabricate the sky I move into suffocation

Look I am happy. Contingency meets thought. Walk; breathe in look. The city its madness. The sky is not real.

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Il fait beau où l’on n’arrive jamais Jemma Dixon

Interior cities now let us scrape enormity. Wine. Red darkness stretched inside the buds, they melt almost open in joy; then gladness; serenity; madness; ecstasy. Descent is in the garden you swallow -

Do you want to see something? Your hands are mine. Shiver off the unknown dialectic it is Unanswerable.

The sky is not real.

Godot Giclée - Roxy Hervé

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Erik Satie Pauses Composing Gymnopedies #1 James Walton

A masquerading umbrella shambles to the jetty in winter’s street stretched out the carriages pass over bending the puddles holding the tripped souls the torn pockets of faces as inkers’ absinthian dye presses them down Mouthing the words wanting to sing with voice of pathos and honey fallow in a melody this season favours my friends don’t know why the pain between us has such beauty as well where the darraigne has refrains to orchards in coppice The coffee grounds of midnight were arguments we had to have about lapsed words and brushes the piano strokes so quiet dawn turns on with the new clef of light to the background of discarded suits in the challenge of why we are here at all

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The Shifted Center II - Janise Yntema

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