Editor’s Note Dear Reader, Realising that this was going to be the last Writers’ Bloc Journal I was editing made it apparent how much this society and its writers have become a part of me. I am so proud of all of us for making it through this year together, and I cannot thank you enough for your submissions! Everything I’ve read has brought me so much joy, and I’ve really enjoyed managing the Redbrick and Artsoc collaborations. While I’ll miss this so much, I’m really excited to see where Christi takes the journals, and I can’t wait to read them. Mehar I would like to begin by saying that it has been an honour to be trusted as the next Writers’ Bloc journal editor. Thank you so much to everyone for submitting - reading such high-quality work has been a joy and this journal wouldn’t be here without you and your excellent pieces. My first time putting a journal together wouldn’t have gone this smoothly without Mehar’s help; thank you so much for your never-ending encouragement! I am incredibly excited to be producing more journals and hosting workshops in the next academic year. But for now, I will leave you to dig in the journal and savour it piece by piece, line by line, word by word. Christi
Contents Kal by Zarah Alam Overmorrow by Yerkezhan Berkembayeva How it Might Feel Tomorrow by Hana Walker I see you in every tomorrow by Elizabeth Tylee Two Poems by Cara-Louise Scott Walk in the Woods by Ameek Two Poems by Thomas Hatton Tomorrow by Jodi Twyford A confession by Bianca Fraunhoffer Four Poems by Felix Chadwick-Histed Two Poems by Hannah Vernon
Kal* Zarah Alam The calendar crosses and uncrosses itself. The milk curdles and uncurdles. The clock stutters, clears its throat. Tomorrow was the day of miracles Yesterday will be the day of mourning. Tomorrow remembers the words to your song, Yesterday will be just a hum and a sigh. Tomorrow said you were the most honest person I know Yesterday will learn your lies are the colour of mirrors. Tomorrow the grave was undug, the land unscarred, unscared. Yesterday she will be and breathe. But today is today, It’s too early to mark the calendar, I drink my milk While the clock stays silent, I don’t know the words, I don’t know what to believe Except Today is today And gone is gone.
*In Urdu, kal means both ‘yesterday’ and ‘tomorrow’
Overmorrow Yerkezhan Berkembayeva I never knew the day after tomorrow was called overmorrow. Maybe it’s because I can’t see anything past today, as I struggle to imagine what the future might bring. Because yesterday is history, so far gone I’ve forgotten what I did. Today seems endless and incomplete; Tomorrow is the future days I wish would change the way I think, And past that is something so abstract and full of possibilities, my mind can’t come up with in this instant. Today was hard enough to grasp, so tell me how can I hold on to Overmorrow?
How it Might Feel Tomorrow Hana Walker ~ The First Date Jodie took Sam to see the movie Do the Right Thing, which was playing at a small indie cinema in Leicester Square. He’d never heard of the film before, though he told her that he’d heard the name Spike Lee in passing. Jodie got the sense that he would’ve agreed to go with her anywhere that first night, just so long as they were together. The film was projected onto the HD-ready screen and gave the images a fuzzy, pixelated effect. As Public Enemy’s Fight the Power blasted through the speakers, Jodie wondered if she might have scared Sam off. She side-eyed him and watched as his hand hovered slowly over their shared armrest. Then, he whispered in her ear: this seems cool. Jodie let Sam hold her hand. After the film, they walked around for a while and she let Sam wrap his arm around her as they embarked through the dimly lit side-streets. He spoke about his work and his pathetic boss who had failed at becoming a musician and took his frustrations out on the younger members of staff. Sam was good at telling funny little anecdotes and usually Jodie found them charming. But tonight, she didn’t spend much of the time listening to Sam. She was thinking more about the scene from the film with Mookie and Tina and the ice-cube.
The image in Jodie’s mind was of Tina’s pursed-open lips tantalised by the cold sting of the slowly melting ice, which Mookie then traced around every inch of her body. Stringed music with a hint of jazz played over the scene. The lighting was soft and sombre. Everything about the aesthetics told her that the scene was meant to be erotic. But to Jodie, the body was just a body. There was nothing remarkable or intriguing about it. It was skin and muscle and bone. She thought that if she watched it again maybe something could change, that maybe tomorrow it would begin to make sense to her. She asked Sam in passing what he thought of the scene. I don’t know, he said, I guess it was pretty hot. ~ Honeymoon Period Sam was her first boyfriend. She was twenty-one. Jodie was his fourth girlfriend. He was twenty-three. As a kid, she had never been interested in boys In That Way or girls In That Way. And when she started to learn about all the other genders that existed, she realised none of them suited her either In That Way. In That Way was how her mum would always describe it, whenever she came home and spoke about a new close friend she’d met at school. She was always asked if this was a friend she liked In That Way. The answer was always an uncertain no because what That Way actually felt like was a mystery to Jodie. She went to University and had her first kiss with a random stranger in a club. She was too drunk to consent and too drunk to remember she was supposed to.
Her flatmates congratulated her and she felt normal. She kissed a few guys in clubs after that and remembered no moment of it. But when she first met Sam, she knew exactly how she was supposed to feel. It was as close to That Way as she had ever felt before. He was the sort of man who demanded attention with his boyish good looks and muscular body. He was the sort of person who never had to worry about being an outsider anywhere he went, and Jodie was impressed by that. Was she attracted to him? The question cut deep and the answer felt unknowable. He looked like the men on the front of her favourite gossip magazines when she was a teenager, the ones who would play the princes and the heroes in her favourite blockbuster films. And he had a kind sensitivity to him which made her feel like he cared about her. He was exactly the man she needed. Besides, he wanted her. He always replied to her texts within the hour and would meet up with her during their short lunch breaks so they could eat together and chat about their day. He would fix a loose strand of hair into place for her, and listen to every podcast she recommended. He listened attentively to everything she had to say. She was apparently the exact woman he needed, and that felt good. ~ The First Date: Two Months After Jodie entered the beer-garden.
She looked around at all the tables which were lit up by the scattered glow of fairy-lights. The night sky was grey and there was a dim suggestion of rain in the air. Jodie noticed Sam standing up and gesturing for her to come over. She hadn’t seen him since… I’m really glad you came, Sam said. Jodie smiled and said: I’m glad too. He continued: The truth is, I want to just get everything out into the open. Let’s talk about us, and you can tell me what I did wrong and I won’t mind, I just want to know. Okay, Jodie said. Okay, Sam replied. But first they ordered drinks. Sam drank his Guinness and Jodie slowly sipped on her Prosecco, allowing the bubbles to dissolve against her tongue. I guess I just want to know that you like me, and that you don’t just see me as a friend? He asked. Jodie considered the question. Then she said: yes. I like you in that way. Sam wasn’t sure how to reply to this short declaration. Furrowing his brows, he reached for Jodie’s hand, which she allowed him to take, as he told her: Can you tell me what I did wrong? A silence fell between them. Last week was the last time they’d seen one another. By all accounts, things were going well before then. Sam had mentioned that he wanted Jodie to meet his parents and
she said she would. All of Jodie’s friends knew about Sam and were excited about where things were going. But, last week Sam had kissed her and moved his hand underneath Jodie’s shirt. She flinched. He stopped instantly and asked if she was okay. Jodie said she felt ill and had to leave. He called a few days after and told Jodie that she could tell him everything. They agreed on drinks at a bar for the following night. Before he hung up, Jodie wanted to tell him something. It was a word, a label which she felt she should be able to use and that would help make everything make sense, finally. But she ended up saying nothing. Maybe she’d be able to say it out loud tomorrow night when they met. Jodie broke their silence first. Do you remember that ice-cube scene in Do the Right Thing? she asked. Yeah. Well, I remember after our date I went home and read about it online. It turns out the actress hated filming that scene. The reason that you don’t see her face is because she was crying. That’s horrible. Yeah, it is… but it also feels knowable to me. What do you mean? I feel like I’ve gone through life and everyone sees things as it’s shown in that scene, through the camera’s lens. Like the body is beautiful and should make you feel something. But, I see things as being like if you could watch that same scene from the
actress’ eyes, as if you could hear her crying. Like it’s an intrusion, an attack. Sam took a moment to himself. He finished his Guinness and wasn’t sure whether he wanted to order another one. Later, Jodie decided to walk herself home. ~ The Truth Sets In At the end of their first date, an unfamiliar kind of anxiety had permeated through Jodie. It began small and then erupted to ignite a strange internal sensation. She felt as though her body was closing in on her, that she was being consumed. She knew what this meant: her body was slowly becoming his. The first time they kissed, it felt wrong. It was their second date and they were sober and alone in his flat. There was nothing in the world to distract her from the intimate closeness of their bodies. She knew it should be sensual. She knew this moment should be everything she ever wanted. But it wasn’t. It was claustrophobic and disgusting and scary. She wondered how something so innocent could be so terrifying. But she decided that she may feel better about it the next day. Tomorrow came and they had their second kiss. This time, his tongue intruded her mouth and she felt like she was going to be sick.
Jodie smiled at Sam afterwards, and allowed his hand to rest on her lower back. But, she knew it was the worst sensation she had ever felt. Still, she reasoned with herself again – perhaps tomorrow it will feel better, tomorrow it’ll all make sense, tomorrow you’ll be normal, yes, tomorrow it’ll all be okay. But it kept happening until his hand reached further into her, claiming her skin and turning it into something it was not. That was when she knew it was time to leave, because Jodie would always be Jodie and days would pass and it would always feel the same. And the label still lingered on the edge of her tongue, aching to be whispered aloud. But she didn’t want to face it today.
I see you in every tomorrow Elizabeth Tylee sun finds its way through the blinds penetrating your marble eyes, drooling down your skin, glowing honey ethereal and intuitive, our limbs make the shape of hearts two swans dancing, glistening in the first breaths of january mated for life whispering the ways our paths cross over and over for the rest of eternity decorating the garden, bike rides in spain i feel them between the flex in your shoulders the call of your fingers to come closer so certain of their occurrence i can’t let go to have and to hold; to love and to cherish i’ll fly with you anywhere
Two Poems Cara Louise-Scott Tomorrow’s Wish Tomorrow there will be no more hate Just a world that will recreate Love Happiness No more plastic smiles plastered On people’s faces who have mastered The act of hiding Just biding Their time, gliding Their way through the heaviness Of their hearts Tomorrow we will be more kind And no one will be left behind And we can no longer be defined By our gender or skin Only from what’s within So tonight we shall hold hands Fully united on the stands As we move from the afterglow Into tomorrow.
Dreaming of Tomorrow I long for that day when I see your face again to place my hands on the surface of you face feel the ruggedness of your beard against my fingertips look into your ocean eyes and see that big beaming smile overarch your face and you'll say: “I’ve missed you”
Walk in the Woods Ameek I’m tired of the melancholic landscapes that don’t exist, confused with your loathing for nature, for haired womanly bodies; the ‘boy cuts’ for girls. I remember the times I cried as people stole my alibi, the rhinoceros dreamed as a unicorn, the red eyes of werewolves as you only threw lasers in my little eye. With sun running out, I throw on my fur coat to buy a sad lamp. The stars are beautiful tonight. You never had a good eye, it moves too fast, a satellite. I see the red Mars and my star gazer tells me it’s the god of war. The smoke I cherished as mist was too thick. A car has broken down and a person is injured. No one notices the dog that has cut itself on glass – I bend to bandage and its fur is soft, like Chris’ hair felt when he was mine.
Two Poems Thomas Hatton Prayer for the Body (CW: dysphoria) Christ I think I’m getting old way too soon is that something I want I know it scares me to think of things shutting down slowly how many wrinkles until people only see me a certain way I don’t see a sense in this construction of yours the way it cracks as it moves and doesn’t bend right even at nineteen maybe I’m just lazy maybe I broke what you made from star-iron and whatever spark started things maybe you meant for it to be like this when you draw up blueprints do you get excited that you get to play with the big boy stencils jam the clay into rough shapes vaguely human do you get validation from your father when you fit the pieces through the right holes the way infants do when they aren’t too busy choking on the plastic you gave me a few things I am grateful for somehow on the days when I can see them right my arms my collarbones my hair to these things I must be kind I should be kind to all of me but this at least is a good first step
Morning Ritual In the morning I will wake up and check my teeth, let my tongue roll across them counting each bump and fall to check that they are all still there. I have that recurring dream that people say means fearing change. I feel my tooth coming loose, the root weakening, then I pluck it from my unbleeding gums, an off-white berry. There is no pain and the ease of it never fails to unsettle me, how willingly I go about my harvest. It makes me think of the founding myth of Thebes, where Cadmus slew a dragon, collected its fangs, then sowed them in the ground. From dentine sprung soldiers, spartoi, and from the seed of spartoi sprouted noble houses. A whole civilization rising from the dirt, heads crowning from earth-womb like potatoes dragged up by a gardener’s fork. In my dream I don’t get around to the planting, just stand with mouth-grown bone in my hands, that whispers the future up to me.
Tomorrow Jodi Twyford I was confused. It all happened so fast. In one way, it was expected. In another, I never thought they would really have the nerve to go through with it. When you’ve been pretending for so long, you end up stuck in the picture-perfect image that you’ve honed, even if unwillingly. It becomes so hard to even consider tearing that canvas down and letting others see behind it; to see that on the other side, with paint cracked and faded and ready to flake off. So I never really thought they’d do it. I thought I’d live that parody for the rest of my life. Thought I’d have to spend a lifetime of fake smiles, of hardened masks and of pretense. Of letting them all believe that we were perfect because we had perfected that image. I had always said it needed to happen; used it as a joke. People thought it was a joke too. They couldn’t see beyond the portrait: I even displayed it when I was alone. Then that day came. They didn’t even tell me, I just knew. Like a tsunami that crept in insidiously, you couldn’t even know until that giant wave was looming right over you, blocking out the sun and crashing down, flattening everything you knew. Just a few cryptic words, and the spell was broken. The canvas wasn’t quite slashed, but it finally started to fray. The paint started to chip. And the wave crashed down.
Until it happens, even if you’re not happy, even if your smile is fake, you have a tomorrow. You know the sun will rise in the east and settle comfortably in the west in the evening. But when it happens, that changes. The sun is no longer a morning person and likes to peek in from the north. Some days, it doesn’t even get up, and you feel like doing the same. Your tomorrow has been extinguished and has gone from a dowdy portrait, to nothing. Empty. Blank. I used to have a tomorrow. A giant tapestry that was unfolding before me. It may not have been a path I liked, but it was there. That’s gone now. And though tomorrow is a fickle fiend who never quite goes away, he’s not a tapestry anymore. More like a black hole. A black hole; a tsunami; a slashed painting, that stole my tomorrow away.
A confession Bianca Fraunhoffer Trust me, I’ve been trying so hard to write this One measly little poem. It’s the one I’d be proud to Maybe have you read without me knowing in One breathless moment, when you’d put your phone down and Realise how deep you dug under my skin, Rushing to the airport holding your passport On your sleeve, just another immigrant in love, but I’m afraid the Words I choose aren’t light enough to fly you back to me. I think we see the same moon radiating the same Light, and I hope that when we Look up at night, we see each other. Trust me, what I hide behind my back is Real, and heavy: the torch I carry for You crushes my shoulders like a rock; yet, I keep walking Alone, too afraid to even steal Glimpses of the words I’d write had I taken just a bite of you, Apple of my eye. My blank poem Itches to slip past my lips on certain Nights, but that’s okay.
Four Poems Felix Chadwick-Histed What a time for being so small The cadavers of clouds lie in heaps along the horizon, Stowaways on the dishwater sunrise That creeps through the cracks under the windows Like the itching wrists of January dragging along new street. Take me Away Slabs of shadows strutting into the shapes of alleys Leave trailing waves of having their way Working into my lungs in the smoky air Like an autumn draught crawling up a cuff
A coat hanger twilight Growing wild with disuse like eyeshadow at 4am, A hot flush head throb creaks in the trudging breeze And a greasy fingered headache haze Gathers like crows in the street corners, The Thames is frail in the evening umber.
Each Time Red walls, wooden shutters Narrate the days to the Wasps buzzing past the open fridge. The quiet is strong in the sun And no one comes up this far, Gardeners toiling away on paths drowning In groping vines and pine needles. Each year the overgrowth stifles the hills a little more and the farmers grow older. The silence is taking these hills back, Hot June winds building a city of aching vertebrae and mounting leaves On the rolling backs of the passing winters, Claiming every pebble and tumbling moment Like a lazy eye taking the childhood from a bullied boy.
Two Poems Hannah Vernon Bottom Dollar If the sun comes out tomorrow I will bet my bottom dollar, The final dollar of them all That the day shall still be grey. When one is trapped in a day, A day that is grey and lonely, One cannot just stick up their chin And grin, and cry ‘Tomorrow!’ Oh, Annie, to be so fine, A bliss so fine You blow my mind! Though ensnared by a past So melancholy, You do seem to thrive. I suppose I have two parents And some siblings bound by blood, And no shadow of Miss Havisham Flooding liquor in thy loins, I still feel as though I suffer Almost imperceptibly. I wish I had your optimism – I’d pay more than a bottom dollar To be free! Tomorrow
They fight. Should Paris fall He shall rise undead And shall kill him With a spade The future is of Infinitely golden Possibilities. Who knows What might transpire If the ghosts of Our better angels Hit the poison First? Hit the road, Jack.
[Untitled] Let me kiss you harder Than the falling rain If only you swipe right For me After our sweet date Tomorrow afternoon What if the only way through, isn't together?