Issue 01, June 2012
L e t t e r f r o m t h e E d i t o r. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Kmye-Chan...........................................................................................4 W i l C a r p e n t e r. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 4 S h a n n o n A . H i n e r. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 6 B i l l y Wo o l r i c h . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 8 Eleanor Leonne Bennett.......................................................................32 Ethan Coverstone................................................................................34 F r a n c e s c a D i Va i o . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..3 8 M e l i s s a J o a n L u n d e r b y. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 2 Catherine MacGeorge...........................................................................48 P a t t y M a h e r. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..5 4 J a v a i r M a n s e l l . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..6 0 K a r l S m a r t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..6 4 G r e g o r y C a r t w r i g h t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . .6 8 A l i c e L o u i s a D a v i e s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . .7 0 T h o m a s D o w b i g g i n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . .7 2 Bethan Ford-Williams..........................................................................73 J e n n y G r a y. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 7 4 T o m R o k i n s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 7 5 William Stephenson.............................................................................77 Av a Wa t k i n s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 8 0 Laura Pelick.......................................................................................82 E s t e l l e Wo o l e y. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 8
L o o k O u t Yo u r W i n d o w. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 2 T h e B u t t o n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..9 4 A r t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...9 6 Wr i t i n g . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 9 Art..................................................................................................101 Wr i t i n g . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..1 0 2
Letter from the Editor Welcome to The Paper Tree. We are delighted to present the first issue with featured cover artist Kmye Chan and writing and art from all over the world! We feel incredibly lucky to have had so many submissions and such great work to show you. A big thank you has to go to all of our lovely contributors and especially to Kmye Chan for letting us use her image on the cover and incessantly ask her questions. We didn’t expect to have so much work for our first issue and we’re honoured and proud that we have. This issue marks the start of a wonderful journey and we hope you will join us along the way. We’re incredibly excited to find out where the birds will lead us! We also think we might end up using a lot of exclamation marks in this letter – we’re just too excited, it’s a sacrifice we may have to make. We’re very sorry to the overworked little exclamation mark and promise to give it biscuits afterwards. As this is the first issue, we would love to hear your comments – even the bad ones! If you have any comments or questions please send them to info@the-paper-tree.co.uk. Please, let us know what you think! If you think you might like to contribute to the next issue of The Paper Tree, all of the relevant information is in the back of the magazine or on the website – we always love finding submissions in our inbox. If you’re a bit stuck for something to write/create, we’ve included two little prompts/exercises for your creative pleasure. If you find the inspiration at the back of the issue helpful, we’d love to know. Please send any responses to the exercises to submissions@ the-paper-tree.co.uk with the subject line INSPIRATION 01 so that it can be included in a special feature in issue two! We hope you enjoy and we hope to hear from you soon!
The Butterflies and the Birds by Elou Carroll
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The Magician by Kmye Chan
Interview
Kmye Chan
For this, our first issue, we thought it would be apt to give the first feature spot to an artist we’ve been following since first joining DeviantART.com six years ago. Her works never fail to catch our attention with their doll-like figures and fantastical scenes. We get lost in her pictures every time we look and we don’t want to be found any time soon! Kmye is a traditional artist hailing from France and luckily for us, she didn’t mind being asked ridiculous questions. So, without further ado, here is the interview (which we dive into with little introduction – we were just so excited!):
Hello, Kmye! Firstly, if you lived in The Paper Tree what kind of bird would you be and why? Hello! Thank you very much for the interview. I believe I would be some kind of owl - I’ve always been a bit of a night bird!
How did you find your art and how has it affected your life thus far? I don’t think I ever “found” my art, it’s always been there. I have been doodling and drawing since I was a kid, although I took a serious interest in it only in my late teens. I have grown and expanded my work since, but the sheer fun and love of doing art was there from the beginning and hasn’t really changed. The fact that I have been spending more time on it in the last few years has affected my life quite a bit, though: I am finding myself juggling between a fairly busy day life (I am a PhD student right now), and my night life, where I draw and paint. The artsy part tends to invade my day life quite a lot: I often daydream about artworks in progress, and critically analyze what I see (shapes, colors, shadows) to try and improve my art. But it’s as giving as it is demanding: I’ve met so many great people, and feel so accomplished when I draw that I wouldn’t change this for anything.
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Sleeping Beauty by Kmye Chan
If you could spend a day in the world of one of your artworks, which would you choose and why? I would say Paper Birds! To say the truth, I’m not a great reader - I read slowly, I need to picture everything in my head and I tend to reread phrases several times because I hate missing any piece of information, so it’s a wonder I ever finish a book. But I love a good library, and the smell of old worn books, it reminds me of childhood.
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9 Paper Birds by Kmye Chan
Free at Last by Kmye Chan
Imagine yourself in room with every art supply and paper type you can think of, with a window on one wall and trees outside it covered in bright red leaves: which supplies would you use first and what do you think you would create? I believe I would paint a face in oils on the window. Just a face, so that the red leaves would work as its hair, and the light shining through would make it glow. Wouldn’t that be lovely?
Oh, yes! Definitely! That’s something we’d love to see. You’ve been part of several shows, do you have a favourite? How would you describe the experience of being part of a show? My first gallery show, at the Dorothy Circus Gallery in Rome, was probably my favourite. The gallery is beautiful, the people who work there are fantastic and have great taste. I love about every single artist they exhibit. I was thrilled when Alexandra (the gallery owner) invited me - I’d never been in a gallery show before, there was no saying how my art would be received and whether it would sell, so it was quite extraordinary for me to feel trusted by such a prestigious gallery. Altogether, shows are a great experience. You get to meet the artists who exhibit with you, and the people who like your work, which is wonderful. It’s also very gratifying to see your work framed and hanging on a wall in a gallery, and shows have always been the source of a surge of creativity and newfound abilities for me.
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The feeling of Quiescence by Kmye Chan
A lot of artists channel their life into their work, is there anything of your life in your images or are they purely fantasy? It’s difficult to say. I very rarely intentionally put anything about me or my life in my works, but my mood and emotions usually show through. One of the best examples is Metamorphosis: I didn’t intend to draw something about me when I did this illustration, but coming to think of it, I drew this right after making a difficult and life-changing decision and really felt like I had undergone a sort of metamorphosis myself. So my pictures are not purely fantasy, but not usually actively depicting my life either, they rather reflect my state of mind.
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Metamorphosis by Kmye Chan
The Writer of Lullabies by Kmye Chan
What is your favourite book and who is your favourite artist? Is there any work of fiction or poetry you would love to illustrate? My favourite book is Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, hands down. I’ve read that book a hundred times. My favourite artist tends to vary with the day, but lately I’m very taken with Chris Berens’ work (he’s a fantastic artist - go and check out his work if you don’t know it already). Otherwise I usually stick with the old masters - Rembrandt, Vermeer, Van Dyck. I would love to illustrate A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare, it’s one of the texts I like best and that gives a lot of space for imagination. Unfortunately, illustrating plays is not going to be very popular with editors, I think!
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It’s not hard to imagine a whole world revolving around your images and their characters; are there stories behind your images and do the women in them have names? No, the characters don’t have names. My pictures don’t really have an actual story to them, or a firm background - in fact, I like leaving quite a lot of things open to imagination. I usually work out a general atmosphere for the picture and imagine a few elements of the character’s personality: I make out the keywords, but not the detailed, elaborate story of who they are, how they got here and what they are doing here, if that makes sense. Sometimes viewers tell me what they see in the picture, the story it tells them, and it’s a whole different story from what I would have imagined, but they’ve captured the keywords and atmosphere I was trying to convey. It’s very interesting for me.
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See No Evil by Kmye Chan
Incubation by Kmye Chan
Your images are beautiful and intricate. From conception to the final image, how long to your pieces take to create? It depends really. Sometimes I pick up a pencil and start doodling without a set purpose, and I make a whole picture from scratch within a day. That’s pretty rare, though. Most pictures I keep in my head for a very long time before I actually get to draw them, usually months and sometimes years. Then once I’m started, it takes me between 15 to 30 hours to complete a picture, but that can be spread over a couple of days or over several months. I don’t rush things, unless I have a deadline ahead of me: the best pictures are usually the ones I’ve had a lot of time to think through, and work out one little bit at a time.
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Imagine you’re creating a fantastical world filled with whimsical places and intriguing inhabitants – each part of that world is made from mixing things in jars: what are the ingredients needed to make stars? Well, stars aren’t easy to make. You’d need to use dust collected from the bottom of old wardrobes, to make sure it has some lace dust in it. You would then mix it with melted ice and strong brandy aged in briar wood casks, and submit it to high pressures until it turns hard, like diamonds. And then you’d get stars.
What would you tell an artist who is just starting out? Is there any advice that you received at the start of your career that you would pass on? First thing: don’t ever get discouraged because you feel your art is not good enough and that you’ll never make it. I don’t know of a single good artist who’s happy about their art, anyway: all of us always feel something is missing about our art. It’s a frustrating feeling but it’s the one that helps us improve with every picture. Don’t compare yourself to others all the time: do your thing, stay focused on what you like and where you want to go, improve one little bit at a time, and feel good about it. Second thing (which is not solely for beginners either, and something I learn from everyday): be observant. There are things to be learnt at every corner of the street, in every face, everywhere. Do a lot of research, look at a variety of artworks that are completely different from your own but that have things that you like (colour scheme, composition, etc), dissect what you like about them, digest it, and learn from it. This helps a lot to acquire new skills and up your game.
http://www.kmye-chan.com
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Rapunzel by Kmye Chan
Old-fashioned Justice by Wil Carpenter 24
Los Angeles, 1949 The stiff: female, looks 60s probably 30s, skin stretched over framework – Hispanic; drug mule, waxy fingertips give it away, sores around mouth, scab-coated knuckles. Throat slashed – rubies on the carpet. Open for the holidays – legs, too. Naked; no sign of violation – cooch recently used, spunk drip, smell catches. Hanson chokes. Hanson doesn’t like my methods, a cold stare. No point caring what he likes and doesn’t. The job is the focus. This poor degenerate deserves some justice. Hanson glances over my notes. His last partner was found in a tunnel near Central – lungs filled with water, a dead rodent where the sun doesn’t shine. He worries. I can appreciate. Hanson, aloud: ‘This town jus’ gets worse by the day. These fuckin’ drugs, Ellis, they’re draggin’ us down into the shit an’ cussin’ our mothers. Fuckin’ dust – gonna be the fuckin’ end o’ me.’ Dust seems the most likely cause of death – heroin by another name. They call it China White back home. Might not be direct, but it influenced the killer’s actions. Vice arrives – Jimmy Deodato and Michael Locke. The chief calls them cops; we call them scumbags. Deodato swoons, flashes a grin, and gets a laugh from a patrolman holding the perimeter. I hate him; Locke, more so. The worst kind of stink comes from good cops gone rotten. He looks down his nose at me. We used to be partners. Back then, I’d have shaken his hand. Right now, I want to knock his teeth out. Deodato assesses the scene, mutters to himself, then to Locke. Then, he tells me everything I already know about the victim – gives me that grin. I picture him with his jaw held together with wire. It brings me peace. Deodato to me: ‘So, Ellis, we agree the cause of death was China White?’ ‘Pretty sure the cause of death was having her throat cut open.’ Deodato laughs – a fake one, from the belly. It’s for the patrolman’s benefit. Belittles me in front of the rookies; we’ve played this game a dozen times. The slightest whiff of narcotics and the scumbag crawls out of the woodwork. ‘Agree to disagree.’ The case isn’t ours anymore. I know before he says it. I’ve known since they arrived. Hanson talks like a sailor all the way back to Central. I agree with every word – not verbally. Chances are Deodato knows the perp. Greasy palms like his cover up shit all the time. The woman’s murder will never be resolved – not really. Deodato will pin it on a black kid from a down-and-out area. No one will make a fuss. It’ll sting, though – for me, at least. It always does.
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Excerpt from
Shadowsby Shannon On TheA.Wall Hiner Part of the Immortal World series
‘So, what is your name, really?’ She looked up at him quickly, staring into his light eyes. Despite all he had said, she just couldn’t find it in herself to trust him so easily. It was as if her subconscious kept warning her, don’t trust him. Still, she couldn’t think of a good reason to lie about her name as she had so many times in the past. ‘Don’t lie to me.’ He said calmly, as if picking up on her reticence.
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No doubt he could. She wasn’t trying to hide her emotions, just trying to sort them out was difficult enough. ‘My name…’ The only person who ever called her by a name she hadn’t made up was her master. But when he said it, it never felt right. It was just what he called her, but she wouldn’t really say it was her name. Then again, now one else ever saw her or talked to her, outside of the targets he set for her. ‘My master calls me Cameo.’ ‘Let’s get one thing straight, he is not your master. Calling him that only gives him power over you. Please don’t call him that.’ David crouched down in front of her and looked up at her, ‘Cameo, huh?’ She couldn’t seem to disengage her eyes from him, and it was disconcerting at best to be trapped like that. She squirmed a bit but nodded. ‘That’s an odd name.’ Finally she was able to tear her gaze away. She looked at her hands as they clenched. Conversely, her eyes stung. She wasn’t sure if she was angry or sad, but a rush of hurt had come upon her. ‘Well, I’m sorry you don’t like it. You can change it if you want.’ David’s eyes widened and he stared at her for a moment before saying, ‘What? No! Cam, I didn’t mean it like that. Come on, it’s a nice name. I’ve just never met someone with it before, that’s all.’ ‘Yeah well, I’ve never met anyone named David before.’ Even as she said it though, there was an odd fizzle in her mind, as if it wasn’t true. She couldn’t remember anyone named David, but did that mean she hadn’t met anyone with the name? ‘Wait,’ she glanced back at him and found him looking at her earnestly, ‘what did you call me?’ He put his hands in the air in surrender, ‘nothing! I didn’t call you anything!’ ‘No, you did.’ She said slowly, thinking back over his words. ‘You called me ‘Cam’.’ David put his hands back down, ‘yeah, short for Cameo…do you not like that abbreviation?’ It was her turn to frown as she sifted through the emotions that the name had stirred. Nothing negative, but there was an odd itch again in her mind, as if she was forgetting something important. ‘I, I don’t know. Maybe…maybe it’s alright?’ ‘If you don’t want me to call you that, I won’t.’ She stared at him, feeling as though she was trying to piece together too many puzzles at once. In one corner was her master and his game, but then there was her missing past and names, the targets she had collected and what was happening to them, and then finally David. How did he fit into the whole mess? Who was he? Why was he so familiar, yet kept acting different than she expected? She kept expecting him to be more like her master; short tempered and arrogant. Instead he was impatient, but also cheerful and kind. She made an awkward half-shrug before saying, ‘I can’t think of a reason you shouldn’t. It doesn’t precisely… bother me. I just-’ she shook her head, ‘I don’t know. Everything is too confusing tonight. I can’t seem to get anything straight.’ He nodded slowly, still looking at her curiously, ‘okay. You should get some rest. I need to go hunt before the sun rises. Do you think you’ll be alright until I get back?’ Fear wanted to overwhelm her at the thought of him being away, but her rational mind was still clicking away. ‘Yes, master doesn’t like to cut it close to the sunrise. He will already be going to sleep.’ David had been rising to walk to the door, but he stopped cold at her words and just looked at her a moment before saying, ‘Cam, he is not your master.’ Her heart quelled at his expression, but she was ever practical, ‘I don’t know what to call him otherwise.’ His eyes narrowed a bit and she could see his darker side quite clearly, ‘I could provide a few adjectives.’
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Lilith
by Billy Woolrich
Of all the corners and crevices of this Earth where I have been, I find myself now in Coseley. I had never even heard of Coseley until this morning, yet here I sit, but a few hours later, sipping some vile concoction of herbs masquerading as tea, in what was presumably supposed to be a cool, edgy little café. The owner’s desperate intrepidity is evident in every detail. Wrappings of discount table-cloths conceal the graffitied school desks underneath, as a fig leaf hides the shame. A backwards clock, ticking in reverse, how postmodern. Photos of long dead musicians line the walls, none of which had ever, or will ever, attain the title of ‘cool’ or ‘edgy’ – but good effort. Almost every item on the menu was suffixed with ‘appuccino’ or ‘achiato’. Tea, I told her. What kind, my love? We have-, and off she went: a brave attempt at sales womanship, I’ll give her that, but this is Coseley, after all. I was never expecting miracles. I ignored her and sat down. Several moments later she had padded up to my table with the pot full of piss I now have before me. An irksome little bell heralds the arrival of two new youths. The first, the female: blonde and pretty, sure enough, but her mind, I see, lacks any intelligent cohesion – a mass of vapid, half-formed ideals. I gloss over her to the male she is sitting with. Our eyes meet briefly and a spasm wracks my insides. Adam. I delve without hesitation into his head for those familiar synapses, those ancient engrams of Eden, those – no. That’s not him. This poor boy’s thoughts are just as full of fantasies and nothings as his companion’s. But, Lord above, if there was a hair difference in their physiognomies I could not identify it. No, Adam’s mind was a veritable orrery of divine cognition. I remember it better than any I’ve ever touched, and though I’d usually reproach myself for admitting it – self-expostulation does get rather tiresome when you’ve lived as long as I have – that mind still haunts me. Misogynist though he was, a fool who fell further than any could ever fall, he was still my only peer. Why couldn’t he have seen it? Lord knows how content we could have been.
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It started with dust. Light had been cleaved from darkness, the land from the sea. Impregnated was the earth with all the frondescence we know, blooming with bounty and chlorophyll. Next came the swimmers and skimmers, the divers and fliers, followed in short by the runners and walkers, the leapers and the creepers. Finally: it was my turn. For eons He had worked, sculptured and devised until I was ready, at last, to be crafted. Grain and mote rose, coalescing into marrow and bone. I could feel Him lift me higher from the ground, strengthening my spine, aligning my vertebrae into a neat column. I stood skeletal and tall. Then I felt Him sifting through my bones forming cartilage and ligament. I was His most precious, divine jigsaw. Into the carnal tapestry sinew was woven flawlessly to muscle and tendon. Liver, kidney, heart, brain; all were assigned duties within me, flesh, hair, breasts and genitals, too. And ultimately came the air, breathed deep inside and I awoke. Welcome, Daughter, He said. You, whom I have fashioned perfect and complete. And I wept, feeling life and joy in my heart. Laughter burst forth as doves from a branch. I fell to the grass, revelling in the green, honey, cerulean and vermilion. New hands against new flesh, feeling over every smooth surface, over garnet lips, through carnelian hair. And down, past the pool of my navel, the emblematic V and down to my garden of fuchsia. God Himself was then inside me. The raw humanity I had been gifted pulsed and seethed, it ignited every fibre of my being: pleasure in the pure form it was intended, God-given, natural, yet no less... primal. Now, Daughter, I shall create for you a garden. Tend to it and respect its bounty, yours is the power to bring forth fruit, herb and vine. Cultivate this home I give you. And for years I sowed all the seeds of the Earth with indefatigable tenacity. I watched acorns grow into towering oaks, felt the life beneath their enduring bark mature. For an age I sedulously tended my garden, never knowing the pain of toil, but delighting in the efflorescence. I named it Eden. And it was good. Yet no matter how much I loved my Eden, there was still a void that was yet to be filled, a vacant cavity residing inside this body He gave me. One night I lay, reticently holding my stomach, feeling the empty space within, when God came to me in the form of a serpent. He wrapped himself around my middle, a vermicular and welcome presence. I thought I was complete. I whispered to Him, a single tear escaping. Daughter, forgive me. You require a child. I should have known. I shall build for you a partner and you shall call him ‘man’. Love him and thrive. But remember: he is but young in this world you have created for yourself. Teach him, but do not forget to learn. He is the one that shall bear you a child. The snake tightened just a little before gliding away through the leaves. Then I slept. Not knowing how long for, but I felt the familiar passing of seasons around me, sensed all the lives of Eden in their perpetual cycle fade and grow and fade again. Finally, my eyes opened to a carmine dawn shining over me, I rose to greet it and found another waiting for me. A blazing corona was about his head, darkening his face. After an impossible moment, I spoke. What are you? He didn’t respond but shifted a little, yet I was still unable to see him clearly. I stepped slowly to the side. When the light caught his face I found myself unable to move a step further. I had seen glittering glacial lakes surrounding mountainsides, timeless waterfalls cascading in their jewelled prismatic brilliance... Yet none of these matched the sheer exquisiteness of this being, this... ‘man’.
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My eyes drank him down, every bit of him. His hair of lustrous bracken, spreading down by his ears and over his hard jaw; his hirsute chest, so broad and taught, rose deeply. Where I was porcelain and blue, he was granite and brown – his fathomless eyes like lambent agate stones. I examined every possible edge of him, an idolising, heliocentric circuit – every new curve and protuberance enthralled me. So it’s fair to say that, yes; I was a little taken by Adam. The first man to walk the Earth; bred of nothing but divinity and light. Who would blame me for getting a little... eager? Of all his qualities though, it was his hair, oh, that epigamic hair running from tip to toe, which still stands most prevalent in my mind to this day. And for a while everything was perfect. It was kinship beyond anything Eden had offered me yet, and I basked in him. For millennia we’d lay, side by side, identifying all the new bodies appearing in the heavens, praying that this place would not be forgotten, that we were His magnum opus. I taught Adam to speak. Granted, it took a few decades, but he learned from me. I taught him how to use his power for good, using the will of God that was within us to help nature prosper in our Eden. On wide, bright wings we’d fly the firmament, or dive fathoms deep into the oceans to lie on coral beds. In verdant meadows we’d pound our hooves, racing wind and time. Yet over the passing of many years, I could not dispel the ancient yearning inside my womb. One evening I came to Adam, he was lying under a giant fig tree, one large fig held speculatively in his hand. I recognised it immediately. No, my love. I said to him. Of this tree we do not eat. I took the fruit from him and held it up to the tree. It reached down to collect it. Why? It is God’s will. The moment I first awoke, my love, He told me that this tree, this one tree in all of Eden, is the one we must not disturb. The fruit is not for us. Then who is it for? That is not for us to know. Promise me you will not eat it, my love. For a moment he looked like a defiant child, but his handsome face soon relaxed. I promise. For a moment, or perhaps an era, we laid still, gazing at each other. I felt his mind within mine; I pressed my own back into his with fervour. There was an egregore between us, a mutual psychic entity, melding my consciousness with his. Our bodies moved closer together. The moon and sun converging over the horizon in a celestial collision. And then: disaster. His sun rose over my moon and burned down upon me. I turned in my cycle to meet him on the skyline, but he crossed me again, taking the loftier position. I felt his heat bearing down on me, too much, this comet passion. I felt his intrusion rising. With a screech and a rush of feathers I am transformed, flying away from him, mournfully hooting into the night. Millennia again pass by, more than I have ever thought to count, this cursed pain made all the worse by the absence of mortality. It took me years to finally return to him. But this was my garden after all. I hadn’t abandoned it yet, and now it is time, I thought, to finally resurface, to take back my Eden. Soaring on silent wings and calling on the winds for assistance, I eventually found him. He was exactly
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where I had left him, sprawled under my Lord’s tree, fig in hand, petulant look on his ridiculously beautiful face. Well, I remember thinking; at least he hasn’t fallen so far as to taste that fruit yet. And then another figure emerged from behind the trunk of the tree – a woman! Her shoulders were draped with a body of long diamond scales – some kind of serpentine demon? But there has been, and never will be, any such defilement in my Eden. Yet, as she moved closer to Adam, the scales slithered from her, onto the trunk and up into the canopy. I relaxed just a little. She bent over Adam and pressed her lips to his ear. Bitch. Next second they were kissing, writhing together on the floor in what was always meant to be my passion! It was within my ocean his seed was meant to grow, not hers. But it is what happened next that truly set events into motion. As she unstuck herself from Adam’s face, and he was removed from inside of her, she placed between their mouths a ripe fig from my Lord’s tree and they bit down. I need not explain the wrath of my Lord God, words are entirely useless. Sure, there was fire and fury, the like of which no man has ever, or will ever know. The very sky was rent apart over and again, great maelstroms of divine rage, yes. And young, confused Adam and his Eve, well they fell, of course. Fell into bitter and ephemeral mortality. That’s one part of the histories that those daft little monks with patriarchal quills did not neglect to retain. But I won’t get into that now, right here in this pathetic little coffee shop in Coseley, where I expect no miracles and continue to sip away at this God-forsaken pot of piss.
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Untitled by Eleanor Leonne Bennett
Eleanor Leonne Bennett
http://www.eleanorleonnebennett.zenfolio.com
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Floating Ghost by Eleanor Leonne Bennett
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http:// www.flickr.com/spiderthan
Ethan Coverstone
Along Came a Spider by Ethan Coverstone
Sinatra Blue by Ethan Coverstone
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Weary Sentry by Ethan Coverstone
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Home to me is being a different person, a Doppelg채nger by Francesca Di Vaio
Window by Francesca Di Vaio
Francesca Di Vaio
http://francesca-di-vaio.pullfolio.com
Breakfast by Francesca Di Vaio
Simplicity by Francesca Di Vaio
Hurt Lips by Melissa Joan Lunderby
Melissa Joan Lunderby
http://www.facebook.com/melumebellephotography
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Or Perhaps by Melissa Joan Lunderby
Sleeping Beauty by Melissa Joan Lunderby
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Day one (‘I would much rather be holding you’) by Melissa Joan Lunderby
48 http://www.flickr.com/photos/cmacgeorge
Catherine MacGeorge
Exhalation by Catherine MacGeorge
Self Strangulation by Catherine MacGeorge
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Persephone’s Return by Catherine MacGeorge
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The Puppet Master by Catherine MacGeorge
Drowning by Catherine MacGeorge
The Door by Patty Maher
Patty Maher
http://www.wix.com/pmaher/portfolio
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Looking for the open window by Patty Maher
Call of the Wind by Patty Maher
She brings light by Patty Maher
“What I love most of all about photo ing. It stretches me to constantly reended in co-creation with the viewer
ography is that it gives me the ability to take random or disconnected pieces of the world and frame them in a way that gives them new mean-envision the world in new ways and to consider what my imagination has not yet described. It allows me to tell stories in a way that are open r.�
The world weighs in by Patty Maher
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Javair Mansell
It doesn’t matter how sunny it is, to have a dark day by Javair Mansell
Don’t let me die young by Javair Mansell
Karl Smart
http://www.facebook.com/KarlSmartsPhotography
Crocowood by Karl Smart
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Path to Wisdom by Karl Smart
Beautiful morning walks by Karl Smart
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Psycho Killer I heard Psycho Killer in the ready meal aisle of the supermarket turns out it was just the humming of the fridge and all the talking heads
by Gregory Cartwright
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Snow Covered Garden, Blood Red in February I’m looking out at the garden where the snow has tucked itself into bed the scene tinted in blood red, colours running from a February sky bleeding. Darkness almost turned up to full. Silence hangs over me, hungover no ghosts in this house to make the walls creak in ghoulish delight except one; you’ve been turning the lightswitch on and off for the past ten years and my fear has slowly disappeared replaced by clear memories. Looking out at the garden the snow has tucked itself into bed the scene tinted in blood red, colours running from a February sky bleeding through horror-movie darkness I see a lonely figure standing against the wall watching me face of pure nothing. I don’t lock the door and whimper I don’t disrespect by harbouring fear rather I approach, without caution knowing that you’re here to visit.
by Gregory Cartwright
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Traffic Lights I didn’t want to leave that day But you looked at me with such Desperation on your face That I couldn’t refuse. We travelled north, into the cold air How quickly the wood began to rot. The rusty garage door Stayed shut. The shape of your head sank Into the steering wheel. How quickly your mind can change When you realise you were wrong.
by Alice Louisa Davies
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A Challenge To The Dark In primary school I was sat on by a group of children who smothered me as my velveteen hat slid down over my eyes and there was blackness screaming and my nostrils got blocked with wool from my mittens and I could feel the bones of my bottom grind at the concrete.
by Alice Louisa Davies
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Refracting i sit down to justify my self, to perfectly express the ‘ness’ of you not being here. and i look down, and i am wearing different clothes. thicker, with shades of crimson, felt. and my hands are traced with tubes and creased and the pen beneath the right is dust. and the words the words
by Thomas Dowbiggin
Perspiration I will never forget the thrill of that first drive, the view from out the window fields and valleys smooth and blurred your ruthless hand behind the wheel.
by Thomas Dowbiggin
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Umbilical She will leave you behind, talc-scented womb for me to sleep in. In you I will dream of being born, and of dinosaur plasters on my knees. You will hang, still, on the back of the bathroom door, dampening whilst I shower, airing out as the heating comes on, still ready for her to slip her damp body in to as she stomps across the landing shouting for her slippers.
by Bethan Ford-Williams
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This House Breeds Bad Feeling It creaks in the eaves; an old bird’s wing. It seeps up the staircase, crawls under cabinets. Stops mid-prowl to take one wily look over its jutting shoulder. One cup too many left in the sink. You parcel the washing-up in black bin bags and leave for collection. Brother wears a nervous smirk and mother just is quiet. Every room feels dank and mouldering. I will not inhale too deeply. We drink tea from soup-bowls now.
by Jenny Gray
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Hush Puppy Stutter He slips his shoes on, left first, then the right, pulls them choke-tight. He ties them in the same way; weaves the laces through his hands. He pulls on his overcoat his left sleeve before his right. He then tugs the zip halfway, down again, and back up top. He walks to the door, pauses, and flicks the plastic light switch. He clicks it back once again, back, forth, back, forth, thirteen times. He opens the door, goes out, goes in, then checks the alarm. He goes to step out again but trips spins and lands face up to the clouds.
by Tom Rokins
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Roots Forty years of toil in the earth takes its toll: the creaks and the cracks of his back as he bent are no longer there. But I still hear them, on those frost-snapped days when to breathe is to wince. The crackle of crinkled twigs underfoot reminds me of his shoulders, globed, as he stooped – the crusty crunch of well-done toast as he sunk the tool into the ground; an Earth-bound Poseidon with his trident.
by Tom Rokins
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The Da Vinci Loop Amid Leonardo’s sketches for parachutes and tanks, Sandoz T. Riemann (a Musicology Prof from UCLA) discovered a diagram of a barrel-drum with ten sticks driven by an iron crank attached to lateral gears that propelled the sticks to hit a skin in time. Thud. Pegs plugged in at different heights set tempo. Below the drum-machine diagram, in Leonardo’s spidery mirror-writing, ran the legend: Memo to self: recite sonnets rhythmically over beat. Imperative to invent hip-hop. Yo. Keep it ’hood. I met Riemann in the Arrivals bar at La Guardia. Sluiced with Cuba Libre, he gushed secrets I can only sketch here: how Leonardo’s drawing languished in a Vatican vault until stuffed into the pocket of Leopold Mozart, on the day his son memorized all nine parts of the Allegri Miserere. Wolfgang had Da Vinci’s beat-box built, then composed at least forty (now tragically lost) ambient soundscapes dub labyrinths and trip-hop symphonies, described in a letter to Constanze as Psychedelic dynamite – full-on dope sounds. This will buy our farm, baby. But a fanatical priest, desperate to keep Leonardo’s beat within the One True Church, hammered on Mozart’s door thrust gold under his nose, demanded the world’s finest requiem mass (his eyes concealed by a leather mask) then filched the machine from the composer’s desk.
They’re a cult, whined Riemann. They hand down the secret every generation – there’s this fucking monk chasing me – he flagellates himself with a Fender E-string every night . . . I smiled, snapped my fingers for the check. Coiled round the crucifix against my chest, the wire burned.
by William Stephenson
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An Educational Visit As the year four crocodile waddled into the Toshiba House, Bryony saw the televisions mating. Look, she cried, pointing at the aerial of the male that quivered like a beetle’s feeler as it clambered onto the female who buzzed in electric heat. Venus v. Serena blared. Whack. Oomph. Clappa-clap. Love-fifteen. Miss stopped the line and in the low tones grown-ups use to talk about Serious Things said Televisions are now an endangered species. They feed only on human corneas and as so few of us sign up to have ours unscrewed after death only nine hundred Toshibas remain in captivity. Bryony shouted Miss, my mum says that if we all sold the hi-definition tigers in our front rooms, more people would read. Is that true? Miss frowned. Very good, Bryony. House point, she added abstractedly as she glanced at the quartz crustacean on her wrist whose pincers ticked against a strap of something tanned.
by William Stephenson
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Only What colour are those clouds? she asked. I replied Only white, and she explained in the siren crescendo of an art student high on the fumes of her Sunday joint how some were china, a few eggshell, some pearl. Can’t you see? she added, rhetorically, then scampered up to wave at the burgundy blot of a hot-air balloon – as if she could reach up, grab a rope heave herself into the basket and rise into the picture she was painting, lean out and inhale some cloud to bring back down.
by William Stephenson
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If I Left, I Would Be In the Oven in the preserved skin of grease; the sticky pruning of fat and carbon eczema of cooking metal. I would have sunk in the plug hole; the moorings of my hair anchored in the pipe work; every strand shores up on your pillowcase with the singleness of a fish scale. I would be in buttercream: the parade of cupcakes on their stand – their unbuttoned yolks and bruised flour. Their crowns of strawberries each ridge a pip on the tongue. I would be on the floor: A hair clip gripping to your carpet. The single earring – a star sharp as electrified snow.
by Ava Watkins
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Elder (pencil, ink, acrylic) by Laura Pelick
Laura Pelick http://fallenlights.net
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Listening to the Trees (Acrylic on Tea stained paper) by Laura Pelick
The Safest Place (watercolour) by Laura Pelick
Goblin Queen (watercolour) by Laura Pelick
Mask Collector (watercolour) by Laura Pelick
Estelle Woolley
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Estelle-Woolley/108320292519727
Home From Home explores ideas of place and memory, of evolution in the home, of sounds, familiarity, comfort and discomfort.
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Look Out Your Window What can you see? Does paint crack around the frame? Are the curtains fraying? Perhaps, there is a garden, over-grown and wilting. Does someone stand looking back, looking up at you like they know what you’re up to? Look out your window, what do you see? Write/draw/paint/sculpt/photograph a response and send it to submissions@the-paper-tree.co.uk with the subject line INSPIRATION 01 to be featured in the next issue!
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The Button On the floor, nestled into the carpet, is a button, from whose clothing did it fall? Was it from wear or incident? Describe the feel of its texture, the colour of its surface. Is it old or new? Broken? Write/draw/paint/sculpt/photograph a response and send it to submissions@the-paper-tree.co.uk with the subject line INSPIRATION 01 to be featured in the next issue!
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Contributors Art Kmye Chan was born in April 1985 in France. Since a very young age, she has been attracted to painting, drawing and all sorts of crafts, but art really got hold of her in her late teens. She started out by displaying her artworks on the internet out of fun. In 2008, she started working as a freelance illustrator alongside of her studies. Currently, she is completing a Ph.D in biology, and works as an illustrator on selected projects when time permits. Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16-year-old internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature’s Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010. Her work can be found at: http://www.eleanorleonnebennett.zenfolio.com Ethan Coverstone is an architecture student from Indiana. In his spare time he likes to delve into photography and digital art. His focus is portraiture and documenting architectural treasures around the world. His work can be found at: http://www.flickr.com/spiderthan Francesca Di Vaio was in 1990 in Milan (Italy). Always fascinated by every kind of art, at the age of 4, she started playing the piano. After having received the Diploma in Teory and Solfeggio at the Piacenza’s Academy of Music, she started to play the bass guitar. In 2009, she registered at Literature University in Milan, and finally received her first Reflex. She loves black and white pictures, adoring artists like Bresson and A. Adams, but my “heroin” is Annie Leibovitz. Her work can be found at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lacessa http://francesca-di-vaio.pullfolio.com
Melissa Joan Lunderby is mostly a self-portraitist (for simple reasons, such as she’s hardpressed for models, and more comliqué, such as her love to show her personal metamorphosis over time) although she occasionally dabbles in macro or nature photography. The girl currently studies French and Classical Civilization, which includes the Latin and Ancient Greek language, history, and religious studies. Her one goal in life is to one possess a pet octopus. His name shall be Melmen. Her work can be found at: http://www.facebook.com/melumebellephotography http://www.flickr.com/photos/55077309@N05 Catherine MacGeorge is an eighteen year old photographer living in a small village within Oxfordshire. Her serious passion for photography developed just over a year ago, and she is currently embarking on her second attempt at a 52 weeks project. She uses photography as a way of expressing her thoughts and emotions visually, and likes to think that her work contains surreal elements of darkness, producing both disturbing and alluring photographs. Her work can be found at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/cmacgeorge http://www.facebook.com/pages/Catherine-MacGeorge-Photography/277087258985384 Patty Maher is a self-taught photographer who began her journey with photography just a few years ago. Based outside of Toronto, she derives her inspiration from the beautiful countryside in which she lives. In this environment she is moved to tell stories through the art of self-portraiture – stories that explore the boundaries between real life and the otherworldly, the surreal and the fantastic. Her work can be found at: http://www.wix.com/pmaher/portfolio http://www.flickr.com/photos/closetartist http://www.facebook.com/pages/Patty-Maher-Photography/325154774162586 Javair Mansell, 19, is currently studying for her Photography Degree at Brighton University, England. She absolutely adores surrealist, whimsical and morbid photos. She loves painting the imagination into an image and getting complimentary and critical feedback. She has been developing her surrealist skills for about two years and received a testimonial from the U.S Government for an image manipulation job about 7 months ago. She has currently started a 100 strangers project and is nearly 80 photos of the way through her 365 project. She completely adores photography, and hopes to pursue this as her passion for many, many decades to come. Her work can be found at http://www.facebook.com/pages/JLM-Photoshoots/115624321836597 http://www.flickr.com/photos/mansellphotos
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Karl Smart is a young guy with an interest in Photography, who would one day like to do it professionally. He’s currently studying Art and Design in college. However, next year he hopes to be studying Media or Photography instead. He also has an interest in graphic design, he had an ambition to become a Graphic Designer from a young age but the first time he looked through a view finder of a DSLR camera that changed; he loves the way you can express exactly what you’re feeling at any given moment of the day. His work can be found at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/76113159@N03/ http://www.facebook.com/KarlSmartsPhotography
Laura Pelick is a traditional fine artist with roots burrowing into fantastical storytelling. Currently she is working on a few children’s books with St. Louis authors, and plotting with her husband over a twisted up fairy tale to illustrate sometime in the future. Her work can be found at: http://fallenlights.net http://www.facebook.com/laurapelick Exploring the oscillation between microcosm and macrocosm, Estelle Woolley often questions how very small things can imply much larger thoughts or concerns. Through a minimal and poetic use of materials, which are often very fragile, she explores possible narratives and layers of meaning. By subtle manipulation and often surreal juxtaposition, she hopes to renew a sense of curiosity, while always highlighting the beauty inherent in the forms used. Her work can be found at: http://www.axisweb.org/seCVPG.aspx?ARTISTID=15223 http://www.facebook.com/pages/Estelle-Woolley/108320292519727
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Contributors Writing Wil Carpenter is a charming recluse. His repressed thoughts usually regenerate into on-the-nose, grit-fuelled fiction. He spends his time hunting quail. He might manage to catch some one day, but first he needs to find out what quail are. Shannon A Hiner works for money and writes to live. She is the author of two books, Submerged In Darkness and Only The Stars Know, which are available in both paperback and ebook format. Her scamp of a cat, Pangur Ban, and her trusty laptop, Samuel, are never far from her side. She still believes (and likely always will) in faeries, vampires, werewolves, angels and the occasional unexplained phenomena. You can find her on Facebook (facebook.com/shannonahiner) or on her blog (shannonahiner.blogspot.com). Billy Woolrich is a second year Creative Writing and Drama student. He is the Vice President of the University of Chester Drama Society and is always involved in some dramatic show or another. This year he was a cast member in a production of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. He also wrote and directed the Drama Society’s Winter Variety Show. He hopes to go into the publishing industry in the future; a career in proofreading/copy-editing seems quite appealing.
Gregory Cartwright is a second year student at the University of Chester studying English Language and Creative Writing, he comes from a small town in the Midlands. He has been writing poetry for 18 months but has played music and ‘written things down’ since a young age. He would describe his poems as observational, sometimes confessional and definitely contemporary in style; drawing from the writing of Sylvia Plath, Tim Dooley, Allen Ginsberg, Ryan Adams and Bob Dylan. Alice Louisa (BIG AL) Davies is a final year student at the University of Chester, studying for a BA(Hons) in Creative Writing with English Literature. You’ll either find her at orchestra, fiddling away, or sat revising the wonders of Renaissance Literature in the library.
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In the last fading hours between one day and the next, one man stands on the brink, gazing into the abyss beyond. His head blazing and roaring with snatches of images, sounds from another time, another life. Laying it across the anvil of imagination he raises his mighty hammer of vocabulary, and with fire in his eyes brings it crashing down on– AHH! MY FUCKING THUMB! Thomas Dowbiggin is a student, an occasional poet and frequent procrastinator. Hoping to begin a career in scriptwriting, The Paper Tree is his poetry debut. Bethan Ford-Williams is currently completing a degree in English with Creative Writing at the University of Chester, and continuing study next year on an MA in Nineteenth-Century Literature and Culture. She enjoys solitude, tea, and the novels of Charles Dickens, and has a penchant for things which are ugly, broken, or unwanted. Jenny Gray is from Aberdeenshire in the North-East of Scotland and currently in the final year of her degree at The University of Chester, studying English and Creative Writing. She has had poems previously published in the poetry journal Albatross. She was co-editor in the 2012 issue of a student run magazine called Pandora’s Box which publishes poetry and fiction. Tom Rokins is a student of the University of Chester, about to complete a BA(Hons) in Creative Writing and German. Whether with or without a beard, one thing remains the same: he is ginger. He likes tapirs, The Doors, and vegetable crisps. When he grows up, he’d like to be a dinosaur. William Stephenson teaches English at the University of Chester. Since 2009 his poems have appeared in a number of magazines including Anon, Envoi, Obsessed with Pipework, Orbis and Pennine Platform. His pamphlet Rain Dancers in the Data Cloud won an Iota Shots award and is available from Templar Poetry in June 2012. Ava Watkins BA Poem-Shearing at the University of Chester. Commonly known as ‘the girl with orange hair.’
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Submission Guidelines Art We accept primarily photography, traditional and digital art. However, we are also open to other forms of art (including but not limited to ceramics or embroidery). The Paper Tree is interested in the surreal and the strange, with notes of the whimsical or dark. We select certain poems and stories to be interpreted by an artist or photographer in some issues, if you would be interested in illustrating one of the written works indicate this in your email. - Submissions should be sent to submissions@the-paper-tree.co.uk with the subject line ART, attachments should be in either .jpg or .png format. - Files should be sent in low resolution, high resolution images will be requested if your work is selected for publication. - Include a small bio (no longer than 100 words) with your submissions. Third person preferred. You should also include a list of places to view your work online. - Up to five images may be submitted at any one time. - Alternatively, art work can be submitted into our Flickr Group. If your image(s) is/are chosen from the pool you will receive a message from one of our team on Flickr. - Photographs of other art should be sent with a description of the piece and/or project. - Hotmail users: We cannot view skydrive files on our server so please make sure your files are attached, rather than uploaded into skydrive. Unfortunately, we cannot offer payment at this time.
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Submission Guidelines Writing We accept poetry, fiction and flash fiction. The Paper Tree is looking for new work which is playful, whimsical, fantastical and sometimes dark. It can, at times, be poignant. We select certain poems and stories to be interpreted by an artist or photographer in some issues. Please, be aware of this when submitting your work. - Submissions should be sent to submissions@the-paper-tree.co.uk with the subject line WRITING, attachments should be in .doc, .docx or .rtf format. - We do accept simultaneous submissions but we do ask that you notify us if your work is selected for publication elsewhere. - POETRY should be no longer than fifty lines. It can be experimental and should be contemporary. - FICTION should be no longer than 5000 words. - FLASH FICTION should be between 100 and 300 words in length. - Include a small bio (no longer than 100 words) with your submissions. Third person preferred. - Please, send no more than three poems/pieces of flash fiction in each submission and no more than one short story. - We prefer previously unpublished works but if your submission has been published before include where in the body of your email. - Hotmail users: We cannot view skydrive files on our server so please make sure your files are attached, rather than uploaded into skydrive. Unfortunately, we cannot offer payment at this time.
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The Paper Tree info@the-paper-tree.co.uk http://the-paper-tree.co.uk