Escapism in Art

Spitting Image

By Eliza Lourenço

The potion went everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. It even splashed down the front of Monica’s worn-out apron. “Shit,” she said aloud. Mrs Bourbon would be back sometime soon. The fallout would be catastrophic. Just the thought of it was the absolute last straw. Monica untied her apron and flung it on the floor. Harriet, the brewer, came out from the back of shop to see what had happened. Before Harriet could ask anything, Monica told her that she quit. She didn’t want anything more to do with Mrs Rita Bourbon or her raging tantrums. The streets were bustling all throughout the Merchant District. Monica made her way, huffing and puffing as she wove through the crowds. It had been raining and mud clung to the bottom of her pants and covered her boots. Towards the north city gate, the crowds eased, and the sun came low over the city walls. Just before the sun conceded for the day Monica made it home to her mother’s modest farm. The small gate squeaked like always and the grass leading to the front door glistened. The earth smelt vivid and wild, with the scent of spring wildflowers tumbling in from the clearing to the right of the property.

“You look upset,” said Monica’s mother, Flora. “Did Mrs Bourbon fly off the handle at you again? I ought to go into town and tell that woman what’s what. What a way to treat your workers.” “I quit, actually,” said Monica. “I’ve saved a fair amount in the last year between helping you on the farm and at the shop. I need to get away now.” The two of them shared dinner next to the fire, eating leek and mushroom pie. It was no secret that Flora made the best pies in the village. No one could ever figure out how she got the pastry so perfectly golden brown or how the filling was so creamy and full of flavour. She’d shown Monica a few times. In fact, it began in the garden with an enchantment on the produce itself. No one else in the village could make pies like Flora because no one else in the village was an enchantress. They all knew the mother and daughter held power but no one knew how much it was exactly. In fact, it was very likely that Flora had forgotten herself because of how long ago it had been since she had been trained. Monica savoured each bite, knowing it would be a while until she could eat from the farm’s bounty again. Once both women had finished, Monica told her mother that she’d decided to go and be trained like she had almost two decades ago. Flora had left prematurely after she’d disagreed with the head warlock on something. Every time the disagreement came up, somehow the conversation was redirected elsewhere.” You know how I feel about the Council School,” said Flora. “It’s all politics. None of them are of the world and like playing with fire all too much.” “Mamma, you need to understand,” said Monica. “I need to figure it out for myself. It’s either that or stay here and become an old farmer.” “Gee, thanks.” “No! I didn’t mean it like that,” Monica reached for her mother’s hand. “You once said that you met my father at the Council School. I know the chances of finding him are small but if I can find out more about where I come from, it would mean so much to me.” “I know it would,” said Flora, her eyes crinkling with sad understanding. “I just don’t know if you’ll like what you find. But I respect your decision and know it’s what you need. Not staying here and enchanting potatoes and carrots.”

Monica spent the night packing and woke up early the next morning. Her mother had gotten up even earlier to make breakfast and prepare food for the road. Monica wasn’t hungry but knew after a couple of hours on the tough roads out of the valley she’d regret not having eaten breakfast. “You can take Periwinkle,” said Flora. “She’s much faster than your Riley. I want you to have the best chance of making it out of the valley by nightfall. If you leave now, you should make it to Sam’s Inn. I also wanted to give you my old student badge and my pocketbook of enchantments. If they doubt who you are both have my name engraved on the back in old enchanters’ script.” The journey started just on time, as the sun rose over the valley walls. Pinks and oranges burst through the trees, shining in Monica’s eyes. Flora performed a traveller’s blessing and the two hugged. Monica mounted Periwinkle, a burly and surly mare built for rough roads and uneasy terrain.

Half a week passed, and the Council School finally came into view at the far end of a long stretch of pastures. It rose above the humble farming land like a needle through old cloth. It was an old elvish monastery the Council had converted a few hundred years ago. No one had objected, least of all the elves, who had permanently been driven out long ago. Monica wondered if the Council had played a part in their exile from the castle. The stable hand didn’t question her arrival. Presumably they were used to strange people’s comings and goings from the school. Two guards questioned her arrival, but the student badge piqued their curiosity more than anything. One disappeared to check if they could let her pass. After a moment, they came back and allowed her entry. The entry courtyard was spacious and filled with weathered fountains of ancient elven gods. Ones that Monica had read about in her mother’s old collection of enchanting tomes. The people in the courtyard read books, played chess, and practiced incantations. It didn’t feel like home, but it felt exciting and new. Potential seeping out of the walls. A woman with streaks of grey through her hair and a warm smile came up to Monica, introducing herself as Professor Berry. The scuffed and worn student badge made Berry purse her lips. “My, my,” she said. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever see the day Flora’s child would come to study in our halls. That is the reason why you came, isn’t it?” “Yes,” Monica put the badge away. “I want to learn more about enchanting. I also want to know more about my family. Mother never tells me anything beyond that she left home, studied here and left to raise me elsewhere.” “Your mother was in one of the first groups I taught,” said Berry. “Come. I need to take you to the Senior Councillor’s office.

Berry left Monica before a floor-length mirror, telling her to step through when she was ready. Alone in the hall, wondering if it was too late to leave, Monica brought the tip of her finger up to the surface. To her amazement, her finger went straight through. Like submerging in water without getting wet, Monica passed through the mirror and found herself in a candle-lit room.

The ceiling rose high above with bare wooden beams and bare sandstone back down to the floor. The Senior Councillor sat at a dark oak desk. He was a similar age to her mother, with black eyes and hair. His smile appeared welcoming, yet also carrying a hint of cunning in its curled lip. The Councillor offered her a seat opposite his and he introduced himself as Senior Councillor Francis Wren-Hughes. “I see,” he said. “And your mother doesn’t approve of you being here?” “Support, yes,” said Monica. “Approve, no. I made the choice to come here in the hope of finding out more about my father and my own skills as an enchanter. Mother, uh, Flora, told me she met him here.” “She did,” frowned Francis. “There’s no easy way to say it. But your father was my brother David Wren-Hughes. But I’m sorry to say that he died just after your mother left.” Monica didn’t know what to say. Francis’ frown deepened, his face searching her own. After a moment he stood, walking across the room to a cabinet covered in miniatures. Francis brought one back. A small painting in square frame. On the left was her mother and on the right was a man, David. Her father. “This was done just before your mother found out she was having you,” he said. “Your father insisted, still deeply in love with your mother. Though I suspect at this time your mother had already made her mind up to leave him.” “Why did she want to leave him?” “A lot of people will say different things about David,” Francis sat back down, looking at the portrait. “He was incredibly intelligent and charming, though he had a nasty mean streak. Eventually his intelligence got the better of him and he began researching old elven incantations. After your mother left him, his interest took a hold of him. One day he summoned a wraith in the old ruins under the school. He tried to bind it to himself. He didn’t survive the incident.” Francis tried to salvage the conversation and informed Monica that he would be more than happy to offer her a place in the upcoming winter cohort. She’d be joined by enchanters from across the continent. In the meantime, she’d have plenty of time to study throughout the remainder of autumn, with full access to the school’s facilities. Francis also offered his own time to help her learn the formal basics once a week

Two weeks passed and Monica fell into routine. Study in the morning, a walk in the day and practice in the courtyard by evening before sunset. The days were getting shorter and now she found herself practicing enchantments under firelight rather than sunlight. In the mornings, frost covered the castle, turning it into a storybook illustration. One unseasonably warm morning, Monica found herself walking around the castle after breakfast instead of studying. Most halls and turns were familiar by now, though there was one set of stairs with a chain across it. She peered over the railing, but it descended into deep, expansive darkness. There was no one around and she jumped the chain on a whim. A light spell revealed stairs leading down several levels. At the bottom, the ceiling opened to a wide hall, lined with coats of elven armour, royal-coloured banners, carpets, and drapery. A large door at the end of the hall drew the eye to its jewel encrusted panels, glimmering under the spell. As the light drew closer to them it became blinding. Monica shivered. There was something dark and unyielding behind the door. This was why there had been a chain across the stairs. Dark incantations seeped from the room beyond. The handle burned to touch, searing Monica’s hand though it left no mark. Among spells in the family spell book her mother had given her, she found one to unlock doors. As soon as the words left her mouth, energy left her body, pounding against the door. Another force from the inside came to assist her own enchanting. A third, coming from the very walls of the castle itself reinforced the door. It wasn’t enough. In a rupture of tension, the door burst open. The crash ricocheted across the halls and surely up the stairs to where Monica had come. The light spell had worn out and Monica crawled along the floor. Never in her life had she used so much of her own magic. Never in her life had she come up against such forceful incantations either. Monica made her way into the room, wobbling to her feet. Two pinpricks of light came from the centre of the room. They were two sets of eyes, burning an intense green. The green light illuminated a man’s face, his arms chained to a wall. The spitting image of her father from the portrait in Francis’ office.

By Joshua Caulkins

ESCAPE

Victor Wey clipped his visor, it hung by his cheek as the glare of the burning red sun bleached his vision. He pulled down the scarf covering his mouth and grabbed the water pouch from his hip—the water was warm, bland but precious. Heat was all around him. Unrelenting from the clear pink sky, and a resonating warmth from the barren white sand on which he traversed—and nothing to block either. Deyo, his small, Juvian droid, skirted up beside him on the top of the sand dune. The hovering disturbed the sand like a spring breeze on a pond. Victor’s long jacket flapped in the dry gust as he looked out over sand as far as he could see. He wore tan pants and a grey undershirt, his boltgun was holstered on his thigh with only three bolts strapped next to it. He rolled up his sleeves to get some facsimile of relief but winced when he brushed the bandage on his upper arm. With his good arm, he set his pack down and dug around for his binoculars. Deyo chirped, though it was just an orb with a large, light blue eye, by the swing of its antenna Victor smiled at the curious tilt it did to look in the pack. He looked as far as the horizon ahead, and checked with the GPS display on his wrist. The coordinates were right but nothing else was. He felt a chill down his spine but forced himself to look behind. Nothing obvious. And the binoculars didn’t turn up anything either. ‘You scanning anything, Dee?’ The droid beeped in a low negative. ‘Hmm...’ Victor hung the binoculars around his neck by the strap and grabbed his pack and made the descent down the dune. ‘What about underground?’ He let his momentum take him down which mimicked surfing on crisp ocean waves. Deyo followed unperturbed by the speed or angle. It warbled a series of beats. A nod was all Victor could manage as he lost his balance he shot his arms, and one leg, out to the sides to regain it. Deyo bumped his side and Victor’s leg fell back in line with the one skimming the sand and he stabilised. ‘Thanks Dee.’ It gave a high pitched double chirp with the praise. They crossed the edge of the shadow and Deyo shivered. A rotation lasts for 189 hours on Darwin IV and the depressions between the dunes stay frozen for dozens of hours. With his speed he had to shuffle to the bottom. The ascent of the next dune got a gasp from him as he saw a glint of light on the top of the precipice. Deyo emitted a dour tone, looking at the ground.‘What do you mean it’s not here? It has to be. That shuttle is our only way to escape!’Deyo blared a few waves of beeps.‘I know it’s your last drill. But this is our last option.’‘Ya bol! Aunseen!’ vibrated around the depression.A wave of dread crept over him. Six whited-out figures stood at the top of the dune he came from. ‘Leave us! There’s nothing left to take!’ He nodded to Deyo. The droid dropped the small hand- sized drill which hit the sand then bore into the ground. Deyo warbled a distortion of harsh sounds, wavered in the air then plopped on the sand. ‘Untuli, vlaa creendo. Boska!’ the figure in the middle shouted and they all came down the dune towards them. The boltgun was in his hand and fired before Victor decided to use it. One of the figures fell and rolled into another, sending them both tumbling faster. He pulled another steel stave from his thigh and loaded it. Victor shot again at the bulky figure in the middle but it flattened and dropped after lighting up an ice- blue shield that shimmered then faded from the impact. They reached the bottom. Only a few metres from Victor, he loaded the last bolt with a shaky hand and raised it toward them, shifted between targets. They all wore ragged, sand pelted fleet officer uniforms, standardized boots but with unkempt cloaks and various other scarves, ponchos even a pilot helmet to block the sand and sun. Comparatively the uniforms were pristine to the unsuited haggard figures that wore them currently. They each had a cudgel, pipe or some terrifying strip of rusted steel.

The bulky middle figure stepped forward, ‘Venuul Untteen?’ The words shook as he managed to let them out, ‘I-I told you. I don’t know where the shuttle is.’ ‘Qua qua unva multeen.’ His voice like sandpaper. ‘That’s what I’m trying to do. Just stay back. You can’t come with us.’ The man furrowed his brow and tightened his lips, shaking his head. ‘Vawla unchooli’ the three others moved in towards Victor from the flanks. Victor shouted and shot the bolt at the one from his left who then clutched his stomach and dropped on the ground. The others growled, with a flash Victor found himself on the ground looking up at the sky. His body seized up, only drawing short, stabbing breaths—he grimaced from the nausea. The weight of the man who tackled him was crushing his chest and the fetor of bourbon and body odor made Victor retch. Victor kicked the assailant in the gut and scrambled away. The world became nothing but pain as his forearm exploded. Victor screamed and pulled his arm back towards his chest and reeled from the pain. The bulky man dropped the pipe on the ground, pulled Victor up by the hair on his head, ‘Da veno unchuun!’ Victor was trembling but shook his head side to side. A rumble came up through the ground. Dee, warbled and floated back up crashing into the man— pushing him to the side. A blue light surrounded all of them, the sand floated and gravity dissipated. The others looked around in confusion and panic. Victor looked up at the blueish-white beam of light, he smiled as his eyes welled up. They were pulled up to the sky. Victor spun around and saw the shuttle underneath.

POETRY

Poetry is a form of written art. It stretches the rules of grammar, and convention to extremes to convey the poet’s vision. In the same way a picture tells a thousand words, poetry is able to tell us so much more than what is shown on the page.

Escapism

By Shaani Hutto

Evenings come and go, Slow paces, and disruptions, and perpetual existence. Closed in and unmasked, All encompassing, placidly, considerably – Peeling back layers of flesh, exposing the creature, the self – introspection. Insightful and distinct, floating, fleeting – finally seeing. Small worlds we reside in, small worlds there is much to see in. Moderate feelings of loss are bound – although endurance can be found.

Ballad of Abel

By Ethan Jegers

Been stabbed 12 times over, died once maybe twice Have a cattle and my staff but I ain’t got no buck A broken hermit can’t find his ring I dial up Sarah but her phones engaged

Riding up to Sinai on a donkey’s back Traded my wheels with Ramesses for another piece of gum Kneeling down for God and some solid advice God he splats “hey man, to America you go” I sell my precious donkey for economy class off to New York City, God just says “good luck”

I jump to my apartment from the Empire State I hear the door is ringing, how can I be late Sarah’s got a bridal dress and a silver TAG watch “So have you met Cain?” Oh good God what gives

Friday Night Line

By Ethan Jegers

I ain’t got no time to chase a cigarette bun from a meter maid a cheap and a chump and a solid case of a late night cold in summers base

Cleopatra asks, “what’s your brace?” from the scattered marbles where my two feet stand She’s got nothin’ to seek or give Lady Macbeth got arms to twist

Cigarette smoke can skip and trip from the front and back of a midnight bash Rocker and racket in hand’s reach Hold up my head and straighten my back As Goliath stares at the castle’s gate

Talismans

Road By Ethan Jegers

Stella she keeps her mosquito under a giants thumb she walks out to the edge of town to read the jester’s card On the back of a ticket booth well she may still go On the train rolling to Talisman Road

Oscar he’s still moaning, his sitting on his rues Curiosity is his religion London is his sin The henchman has his Havana hounds take a lap or two About time he escaped to Talisman Road

Ali he stands and whistles over Cassius Clay Molly stands amongst the romans graves in the coliseum her Tuscan dress might not have all but one clean sow But she’s still psyched with her ticket to Talisman Road

Rashida she’s so brooding on a dog day afternoon puzzled by her lack of nerve or any common ground All she needs is some time to let her ego flow About time she took a trip to Talisman Road

Photograph by Jordi Maudson

Photograph by Jordi Maudson