ɡrxmx: Issue 1 (July 2021)

PRIMIS JULY 2021 (I) PRINT & DIGITAL £7.50 DIGITAL £5.00

grxmx the PRIMIS edition

The best creative Instagram accounts to follow this summer.

THE REMINDER AT THE WINDOW Jennifer C. Ball

GET LOST IN A DIFFERENT

BO

DIMENSION

ATCH W TO K O

A POIGNANT PERSPECTIVE ON MAGGIE NELSON’S BLUETS BY J. E. SUNDERLAND

a worldwide creative collection.

Meet Kay Arwen, author of debut novel, Dimensions: The Awakening.

WHAT NEXT FOR THE PUBLISHING INDUSTRY?

Read a selection of worldwide poetry submissions.

grxmx magazine July 2021 Issue I Digital Singular: £5.00 Annual: £10.00 Print & Digital Singular: £7.50 Annual: £20.00 Editor-in-Chief Elle Stanley Editors Jean Francis Olivia Eriksen Jessica Pollock Ghost & Ribbon Ltd GLfifty, The Limes Bayshill Rd Cheltenham Gloucestershire GL50 3AW

Fyfe Nicholson

grxmx@ghostandribbon.com marketing@ghostandribbon.com editorial@ghostandribbon.com

yours,

Ghost & Ribbon Ltd, Cheltenham www.ghostandribbon.com grxmx magazine print three issues a year of creative content from around the world.

Copyright © Ghost & Ribbon Ltd 2021

OPHELIA a novella

All rights reserved. No part of this magazine may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

ISSN 2753-1465 (Print) ISSN 2753-1473 (Online) Typesetting and Design by Ghost & Ribbon Ltd Printed in the United Kingdom.

There’s nothing stranger than marrying someone you don’t know.

But even your true love is a stranger before they know you.

HOW TO

28

WRITE SMART grxmx magazine

2

AMANDA DUFOUR

16

Welcome to the first issue of grxmx magazine, a worldwide creative collection.

We can all relate to how difficult the last year has been. In an effort to boost creativity and joy, grxmx magazine (pronounced ‘grammar’) was borne out of the necessity for global creative outreach,

IEF

EDITO R I A L

EDITOR-IN-C H

At G&R, we hope that this primis edition, publishing in Summer 2021, will be the start of something good, a way to bring together creatives from all over the world in a neatly packaged maagzine that comprises prose, poetry, art and so on.

The written word is a powerful tool. Stephen King said, ‘if you want to be a writer, read a lot and write a lot.’ Also, an anoymous yet succint indiviual also said, ‘Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the Internet.’ We all know what that is like. But grxmx is not just reserved for writing. We are always open to sharing art, music, videos and other creative pieces when submitted, so feel free to get involved by sending your work in via our website or email address.

The best part has been seeing what everyone has to offer. In this issue, you will read an author interview, an essay, short stories, book extracts, long-form poetry and, mostly, importantly, learn about the people who made them; our contributors are from Canada, England, India, Scotland and the US, to name a few.

Happy reading and thank you for supporting the creative arts, especially at such a challenging time.

Elle Stanley

6

Ghost & Ribbon Ltd, Cheltenham www.ghostandribbon.com

contents

First published 2020

Copyright ©Javier Goode 2020 Images: Copyright © Ghost & Ribbon Ltd 2020

Broken Beyond Repair: Dan Shypra

10 The rightThe of Javier Goode to be identifieddown as the Author of this work has been asserted accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988. water was rushing from the rough patches of thein brinks; nonetheless

inner waterfall was far the oneor in frontin of All rightsJack’s reserved.

No part of this book may begreater reprinted than or reproduced utilised anyhim. form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

One Letter: Blake A catalogue of this book isFable available from the British Library.

14

A monumental movement started by me, Anon, all because I noticed a boy act out of writing one letter.

ISBN 978 1 9999486 7and 2 (print) charactter took a chance, ISBN 978 1 9999486 8 9 (ebook)

Typesetting and Origination by Ghost & Ribbon Ltd

29

Homework Exercise: Rosebud the Writer - I can’t believe this.

- She kept it all in for all those months and said nothing.

45

Imagination: Ubah Hussein I lock myself inside my own mind Living rent free with no noise

Printed by TJ International, Padstow, in the United Kingdom.

CONTRIBUTORS

aem – Shruti Awaatade – Jennifer C. Ball – Alisha Bose – Fable Blake – Ramyani Deb – Amanda Dufour – 3 Rowan Gladish – Ubah Hussien – Yashika Mathur – Rachel Parker – Rosebudgrxmx – Dan magazine Shpyra – J.E. Sunderland

meet the author: kay arwen

Image: Jazmin Quanor and G&R

Sometimes I wonder If I gave you my pen How would you fill these pages With content Or contempt?

*

grxmx magazine

4

Dedicated to all the beautiful beings that live with bipolar disorder.

TOPIC

What the heck was 2020?

And will 2021 and 2022 make all of our dreams come true?

ELLE STANLEY Editor-in-Chief person.

A

20 20 21 21

fter a year or so’s hiatus on in-person artistic events such as the London Book Fair, Glastonbury, the Cheltenham Literary Festival, Hay-on-Wye Book Festival, the New York Book Festival, and so on, and rocking up to your local charity shop for cheap vinyls, will 2021 and 2022 live up to the hype it is expected to?

Well, I’d calm down just for a minute. Compared with staring at a screen all day or gazing longingly out of the window, or doing your local walk seven days a week, anything is better than what we all endured. We must also save a second for those who have lost loved ones, people who never stopped working, and others who, not only missed creative events locally and globally, they need them to unwind and get stress off their mind. So why has creativity taken a back seat in the last year? It can be argued that mental health is as important as physical health, and that the relief that singing, drawing, writing provides is vital.

Stress is seen, by Rethink Mental Illness, as ‘the feeling of being under too much mental or emotional pressure. When you are stressed, your body releases stress hormones such as adrenaline and cortisol. Stress is your body’s reaction to help you deal with pressure or threats.

This is sometimes called a “fight or flight” response. Your

grxmx magazine

stress hormone levels usually return to normal once the pressure or threat has passed.’1

The creative arts can help to take some of our daily stresses of money, ill health, family, work and so on away.

Coulton et al (2015)2 found that community singing in elderly people improved mental well-being and many others continue this theme. The key to this is the community. We all are part of one. In this case, the creative community can be found in our local book clubs, online in virtual ones or on social media, in YouTube commentary, at festivals, at work or in education, where you have the opportunity to not only share your creative side but also your social one.

Late 2019, 2020 and currently in 2021, we have all been feeling the stresses of COVID-19 and the local and national lockdowns, adapting in the best way we know.

However, meeting in person, breathing in fresh air and being able to express ourselves will be something we all look forward to in 2022 (hopefully).

See our collated list of upcoming worldwide events (virtual and actual) on page 46.

1 https://www.rethink.org/advice-and-information/living-with-mental-illness/wellbeing-physical-health/stress-how-to-cope [Accessed 26 July 2021] 2 Coulton, S., Clift, S., Skingley, A. & Rodriguez, J. (2015) Effectiveness and cost-effectiveness of community singing on mental health-related quality of life of older people: randomised controlled trial. Br. J. Psychiatry J. Ment. Sci. 207, 250–255

5

“I have never pre-planned an individual book plot.

I don’t write in a linear fashion. I find that I write scenes, or bits of a story line of a particular character. It literally feels that I’m writing the dimensions multi-layered.”

@kayarwen grxmx magazine

6

MEET THE AUTHOR A Q&A SESSION WITH KAY ARWEN

K

ay Arwen, author of fantasy young adult fiction book, Dimensions: The Awakening, has spent some time to answer a few questions about her new book, her writing style and what she has been up to in the last year.

embody the reflections of the main protagonist, Kaia, as she evolves and discovers her destiny.

What’s your favourite part of being a writer?

Being a writer can be a challenge, it can be tough to turn up on the page when you really don’t feel Who are you? in the zone! Yet when it all starts to come together and you suddenly get the epiphany moment of how I live on the Isle of Skye. I am a writer, mystic, a character arc is going to pan out, or a plot sticking therapist and a healer. I have founded an energy point comes together it feels great and I find myself therapy and self-development system in the UK and typing with a massive grin on my face. work with people to manifest their dreams and fulfil their potential. I am passionate about authenticity What is your writing process? and people connecting to the wealth and abundance that they have at their core.

I’m sure academics would cringe if I was to admit that although I have a concept of the complete Dimensions How did you get the idea for Dimensions? story, I have never pre-planned an individual book plot. I don’t write in a linear fashion. I find that I My own life and experiences and personal growth. write scenes, or bits of a story line of a particular They are all interwoven within the manuscripts. character. It literally feels that I’m writing the dimensions multi-layered. The stories embody the Why do you write? concept of Dimensions in every which way, including how they are written!

My own Inner purpose is to share the knowledge of a bigger picture, that everyone has an inner wealth Where is your favourite place? of abundance and potential that they can tap into and manifest into their reality. I seek to share that I love wild places, green forests and hidden waterfalls. message by way of a ‘story’ a fun ride that carries you My exploits in wild swimming and hiking have led to a place of possibility … what if? me to more than a few!

How would describe your writing style?

How often do you write?

In general, my stories contain very quick scene changes, almost film-like, where you’re following different characters in different dimensions and time zones simultaneously. As the story progresses, these become more closely connected before eventually coming together in the climax. I enjoy interlinking events so that they overlap and affect one to build the feeling of dimensions interconnecting and interweaving with each other. In The Awakening, there are also sections that are journal-like too – these

I write everyday.

To what extent are you similar to your characters?

That’s a fun question! I feel that all writers are their characters on a level! I have to admit I’m very similar to Kaia. I share her passion for nature and wild swimming and also her perception and sensitivity to energy. For the record, it’s not by chance that Kaia meets her soul love on the Isle of Skye either!

grxmx magazine

7

What is your favourite book? Recently or of all time.

What have you been up to during lockdown and are you writing anything now?

My favourite story isn’t a book, at least it wasn’t. It is the Star Wars, the original trilogy – showing my age!

Writing! I’ve written a feature and TV pilot for Dimensions and I’m currently working on the fifth book in the Dimensions series.

Do you have a favourite word?

Is there anything else you would like to say to your readers?

Freedom and authenticity.

Do you have a favourite quote?

Have fun, enjoy the story for what It is … and if you are drawn to look then look deeper and see how the story speaks to you on an inner level. What is your potential? What are your dreams? The world awaits!

‘Do or not do, there is no try.’ - Yoda How important is reading and literature to you?

I used to read volumes, especially young adult fiction.

I am not so keen on adult literature. However, I am a Jane Austen fan and must have read Pride and Prejudice at least 50 times – no kidding!

Tell us the main message behind Dimensions or the reason why you wrote it?

The Awakening follows the protagonist, Kaia as she overcomes her own limitations and steps into her power and destiny. It interweaves the notion of past life with the quantum science that there is in fact multiverses that interconnect with one another. It’s fun, it’s cool, it can mash your head … but why not explore the possibility that there is more to life …?

What advice would you give to someone who wants to be published?

Don’t let rejection squash you, in the words of Winston Churchill, ‘Never, never give up!’

Do you have any exciting plans for next year?

Exciting plans would be for the next book in the series, Mirrors Meet, to be in print and to continue writing for television. Be super cool if we could all be walking around without wearing a mask too!

What do you do when you’re not writing?

Fingers crossed for that, Kay! I’m sure all of us are looking forward to life getting back to normal in the safest way possible.

I spend as much time as I can out of doors, trail running and wild swimming in all weathers. Nature is both a source of inspiration and my own place of sanctuary.

Dimensions: The Awakening is available now on ghostandribbon.com and Amazon in print and via e-book.

grxmx magazine

8

“Have fun, enjoy the story for what it is … and if you are drawn to look then look deeper and see how the story speaks to you on an inner level. ”

‘Nature is growth, life is abundance. You are not separate from this expansive, abundant flow. It is deep within you, you are formed from it. Everyday you exist within it and it is within you …

Humanity is at the point of division between those who awaken and expand into their authentic selves, and those who chose to remain asleep and remain in restriction and chaos. The Matrix Lord knows this and takes advantage. He seeks to control the mind of man, clouding humanity with confusion and ensuring their enslavement with the skin walkers.’

In eighteenth-century Scotland, Meg lives on the loch unaware of her origins. In present day, Kaia’s spirit guides, higher-dimensional beings who are assisting mankind against evil, encourage her to break free from a controlling relationship, leading her on a journey of self-mastery.

As her destiny unfolds, the dimensional portals open, leading Kaia to reconnect with facets of her past. But can she save humanity from the Matrix Lord and the skin walkers?

And will uniting the dimensions lead to her soul love?

grxmx magazine

9

FEATURE

BROKEN BEYOND REPAIR DAN SHPYRA

T

I.

he water was rushing down from the rough patches of the brinks; nonetheless, Jack’s inner waterfall was far greater than one in front of him. Thoughts were striking his mind and heart as though they were an anvil. His heart was pounding; tremor took over his whole body.

“God, even now, I cannot be free of it.”

Jack’s desperate mind did not even give him a chance a regain control. His hands were holding cables tighter than he ever held his rifle; his pale limbs went numb. “Fear not, buddy, just do it and be done with it!”, this time Jack cried out loud, but his bravery had left him a long time ago; thus, no actions had followed after. It was a full moon when Jack`s shoe slipped from his foot, and just like that, it despaired into roaring water beyond the bridge.

“It is simple, one step, and you will be like your shoe: freed from this wretched body,” he whispered to himself. It had been four months since Jack got back from Afghanistan; it had been hundred and twenty-one times he went upon the Lynn Canyon Suspension Bridge. He was to soar down himself this time, but nothing more than a shoe slipped into the waters.

Soaked under the rain, he was limping back home. Suddenly, as it started, the rain stopped; the dawn was breaking and showing the first lights of spring`s sun. Just a small figure among the wooden giants, Jack never even glimpsed above his head; his head was his forest, his fortress, and his prison.

Even though he thought he knew how to escape it, he failed it a hundred and twenty-one times. Men do not cry, it is only drops of the rain that covered his face, or so he wanted to believe. It is hard to shoot the rifle, but it is even harder to live after you did so. However, it is not a battlefield where he made his first shot, it was when Jack had signed the contract.

That shot had killed his past, his present, and nearly killed his future.

The same memories were hunting him for all these cursed hundred and twenty-one days; the same demons were enslaving his soul. Jack saw every dream through the aim of his rifle. One after another: his parents, his friends, and his beautiful Ashley fell under the fire of his weapon. Time after time, his cries stormed the air, “I am sorry. I am so sorry!

Please…” The agony was taking over Jack’s every cell; the abyss of some dark kingdom was watching him, ready to take him in one night at the time. After all the “targets” were cleared, he felt it on the back of his head. The cold circle against his hazelnut hair: the muzzle of liberation.

“Do it, come on! Please, I beg you!”, his thoughts were all over that muzzle; one shot and this would stop, one shot and he would be free. But he heard nothing but clicking of a

trigger; the bullet had never left the magazine.

Jack’s heart was pumping faster than a speeding bullet; his heavy breathing was something that he got accustomed to over the course of the last four months. Every night the same nightmare, every morning the anxiety and cold sweat. The sunbeams were hurting his eyes, “It is noon already”, he whispered and moved his hand to the wet forehead. Glowing stars on the ceiling, even though they unleashed his tears every morning, he never tried to take them off.

After the second feeble attempt, Jack was able to sit down on the bed. He still was wearing wet clothes from the last night; a cough burst out of his mouth. The last drops of his Scottish remedy helped him calm the dryness in his throat; however, it scarred his mood even deeper. “Damn it! That was a good one.”, he thought right before the warm shower. The hurricane of thoughts encircled his mind again. Like a broken radio, his brain wired him to a new chain of notions only the latter could not be unplugged.

“Hello, Mr. Martin! Nice weather, eh?”. He tried to keep it together in front of the neighbour.

“Oh, it is my boy! How are you settling down?” Mr. Martin asked.

He was always a nice fella, and he did enjoy a short talk from his porch. A neat man in his fifties, Mr. Martin, was a friend of his parents when they still lived in this house. Nonetheless, Jack did not feel like he could go with him beyond façade, nor he wanted.

“It`s ok. I’m getting used to it.” Jack gave his neighbour a half-smile.

“We are proud of you!” Mr. Martin raised his fist in the air and shook it full of dignity. The young veteran pulled on his hood and headed to the nearest liquor store. He did not have to think about the path; his feet learned it a long time ago. Jack felt like a third party; his eyes were gazing at the world around him while the body was moving like a midnight train. “Liquor Express” or “Drunken Land Special” the choice is yours; the veteran was too tired to pick one.

“What’s up, Jack?!” a familiar voice greeted him at the front door.

“What… Who… Hi,” Jack felt startled after his ten minutes of solitude. It took some time for him to adjust and focus on the person in front of him.

“It`s me, Jess!” her voice felt far too loud for Jack. “We are so proud of you, man! Welcome back!” she added calmer.

“Jess? Jess Willington? Aren’t you fifteen or something? What are you doing in the liquor store?” he chuckled, which was quite unusual and surprised even Jack himself. He finally had a chance to step back and see her: a redheaded young girl was staring at him with green eyes. Even her gray baggy cloth could not hide that she is not a teenager anymore but rather a young woman.

“Hello?

I was fifteen when we went to high school together. Did you somehow forget about the last, well, I don`t know, four years?” her words were spilled out by the force of habit. Both felt like the time remained still after that; Jack`s smile had turned into the grimace.

grxmx magazine

10

“Oh, I am so sorry! What I meant to say is the years before you went to…” He did not want to hear the pity anymore that never helped.

“I`ll stop you right there! It`s all good. Okay?” Jack interrupted her right before it got too awkward for both of them.

“I feel so stupid. You know what? Your drink is on me!” Jess’s idea struck him as a good one. She paid for his battle of a cheap whisky. Even though Jack tried to stay humble and denied the offer the first two times, he was glad she offered it for the third time.

“By the way, I heard about Ashley. She doesn’t deserve you!

That wannabe actress, she can rot in her damn California!”

Jess had stated her opinion loud enough; numerous gazes now were directed toward her. Jack appreciated the gesture; he gave her a nod with a brief smile, thanked and went outside.

The brightness of Jess cleared Jack’s dismal ambience for a concise moment; nonetheless, with his hood on the head and the bottle in his hand, he returned to the dark pit of his thoughts once again when his feet reached the threshold of the store.

Was her smile enough to heal him? Did it make any difference at all? Could it possibly help to vanish the blood from his hands, eyes and depth of his soul? The free spirit at least dealt with the issue temporarily, but it never lasted. No wonder the third of that bottle was drained by the time he got home, which was minutes away from the liquor store. He escaped captivity in Afghanistan, but he could not escape the captivity of the world he saw through the glass. It helped for a while, but after some time, the screams and cries of pain started fighting through the misty mind of the alcoholic.

II. The bottle had gone, anxiety came back; another evening, another fight for Jack’s soul. “It doesn`t work anymore, I don’t work anymore,” Jack thought out loud from his bed. The neuroticism was, suddenly, replaced by apathy. The tears had finally dried on his cheeks; fresh ones were not coming. On the one hundred and twenty-second day, his inner radio went on its reception wave; all the thoughts were passing by, none of them stuck. The time stayed still; he was no longer Jack The Veteran, he was something that was watching Jack from the within. He felt no pain, nor he felt happiness. The rifle and hands of blood were not killing him anymore in the back of his mind; moreover, Jess’s smile was not bringing any joy either.

His eyes were like those of a dead man, the man he killed, the man he saw was killed. “Am I dead? If I am, there is no more fear of Death”, he thought to himself and stood up from the bed. The liquor store is not an option anymore; his numb limbs led him towards a different place, the only place he thought might help him free the dead man from his body.

The old Buick was ready for the journey over the bridge, from the forest and water to the concrete and dust. The sun lights started to hide after long working hours and ignited the sky with crimson. Jack`s eyes saw that beauty but could not comprehend it anymore; he saw everything and nothing at the same time.

The slow ride brought him to the wild side; the rain-city was ready to accept the newcomer. The port and office towers were looking at him from above with their lights full of flout. Hive of activity, pretentious liars, they had no idea what was behind those dead eyes. Jack did not care anymore; he passed by them like a ghost that never existed. After few turns, he was not alone in the realms of nocturnality; there were many, and all with the same emptiness in their eyes. Some were gasping for air, some were praying to their Gods, and some were ready to join them.

The first offer of remedy came right after the entry: “What’s up, man! You wanna buy some?” The trembling voice of a stranger did not startle Jack, nor did his smell through the open window of the car. “Unless you give up your stuff for free.” The veteran chuckled and stretched his arm with fifty in it. The money was replaced immediately with the plastic bag of poison - or, perhaps, “medication”? He anticipated that fear would have come; however, it never had. His feelings were all hammered off, so were his senses. Watery eyes barely saw the street; all the lights in front of him blurred into one yellow mass. The time, space, have they ever existed? Maybe, just maybe, it was

always just that road with the lights. Perhaps Jack was one of those lights, blurred into one mass with others: broken souls like himself. No matter where you turned next, you still would end up on the same road full of lights. “If there is no time, there is no death. I have nothing to be afraid of anymore.” Jack`s thoughts left him again after another moment of “revelation”.

His right foot accelerated the Buick; Jack’s eyelids felt way too heavy for him. The struck like thunder did not intervene his Nirvana; moreover, it only reversed the time, or so he felt.

Sudden rain was crying out of its clouds, but for Jack, it felt like drops of water were moving back to the sky. Before that, a fresh breeze filled his lungs; the veteran`s eyes were finally opened. The car remained behind him; a smashed bumper and dim lights seemed to be far away. The first drop on his face hit with the memory: parents that were too busy with their differences. Then second one: guitar “that was a waste of time.” Third: Ashley`s broken promise. Fourth: signed contract.

Fifth: the muzzle on the back of his head that should have finally performed its duty. Another struck felt like that shot; it happened. After so many days, Jack was liberated. His eyes were heavy again; the lights went off.

The darkness overcame him; the abyss of eternity was watching him again. However, there was no fear, no pain, just emptiness.

Jack`s mind remained still. His mental radio was off, as it was the time he was in the car. “Is this the end?” his first thought had interrupted the moment of peace. After that question, there was an answer: a distant dim light started blinking in front of him.

Jack attempted to walk but felt like soaring instead. The light was getting closer each moment. After a few brief moments, he saw an old lamppost. The beams from the top worked as magnates for Jack: his body ascended to the old yellow bulb.

Veteran`s hands were on it at the same moment he reached the top; the warmth spread through his arms to the whole body.

The light was everywhere; to his left, to his right, under his skin.

If Jack were to look at these beams before, he would experience a major headache; nonetheless, this time, it was different. The eyes were not hurting; it seemed like he was that light. After a brief moment, it got dimmer. The silhouettes and shapes started to form out of luminosity. Jack tried to think about this venture, but there was no thought strong enough to pierce his mind.

He was there, and he was absent. The veteran was no longer a driver but rather a passenger on the back seat of his own mindvehicle. No more pressure, no more feeble attempts to control things, just observation. The show had begun.

“Look at this cutie pie! Let your auntie smooch you in that little nose of yours.” The tall woman with blond hair was ready to shower Jack in love, even though he did not feel like he is up to receiving it at that time. “So serious! I still love you, little guy.

Go play.” The setting of his private show started to change the decoration: from bright living room to the small bedroom with numerous stars on the ceiling. The door remains opened and faint voices proceeded with a conversation.

“Mary, what are you waiting for? I told you that this man is no good.”, the woman that tried to snuggle Jack a moment ago now was bordering between whisper and murmur. “I know, I know, but… Jack. I don’t want him to grow up without father”, Mary`s reply pierced Jack like an electric shock. The picture started to faint; the bedroom vaporized back into the light.

The old wooden desk appeared right in front of Jack`s gaze.

“Mr. Miller! Would you mind?!” the low voice of a teacher barked from away. Jack’s eyes now were focusing on the whiteboard: “Do you agree with Nietzsche’s idea about the meaning of life?” Middle-aged Mr. Erickson was insisting on getting an answer: “Hmm? I cannot hear you, Mr. Miller!”. The answer was shot without thinking: “Nietzsche? Sounds like some sort of Nazi last name, so I think I would rather disagree, just to be safe.” The class full of teenagers burst out laughing.

Jack scanned the audience and appreciated their approval with a low bow. The school bell had rung just on time. Jack started to shove his belongings into his “Metallica” backpack.

“Hey! Jack, Right? I am Ashley, we have a few classes together.

I just wanted to say you’ve made my day, keep it up!”. He still remembered that feeling, when his heart nearly pounded out of the ribcage: a beautiful girl with deep blue eyes was smiling at him and waiting for a response. The end of the scene; the light

grxmx magazine

11

had come back. The dim glow of the lamppost bulb appeared for a second and conveyed him to the next chapter.

Jack’s parched eyes could not recognize any shapes out of his blurry sight. After a brief moment, he could focus, but there were no shapes to be spotted, just sand. Burning yellow with no end to be seen: Afghanistan. Miles and miles of the desert lied in front of him. He remembered it, even though he tried to forget it. That is where he met his demons for the first time, or perhaps genies? Even though he got away from the captivity, the abyss was watching him and he could feel its presents. Jack slipped his hand into the pocket and retrieved a crumpled parchment: “From Ashley”; the beautiful handwriting that was followed by the most disgusting content. He could not cry, for his eyes were like the desert itself: empty and dry. His mind, however, took its turn. The inner radio was veering back and fro; the hate was replaced by pity. He felt as though someone was plucking strings inside of him. Every momentum was filled with anticipation; one wrong thought and the strings would snap.

The hazy vision had occurred; Jack knew it was not real but his mind wanted him to believe otherwise. “His Ashley” was standing right in front of him. Her watery eyes were staring at him. She was beckoning the young soldier into the waves of the yellow ocean. Jack, exhausted after days of scattering, tried to extend his arm but everything around him went dark, even Ashley’s blue eyes dimmed into darkness.

“Jack! Jack, wake up!” A familiar voice was shouting right by his face. A blonde, stocky guy was staring at him with anticipation, while Jack was trying to comprehend where is he and where is Ashley.

“Colt? Is that you? What happened?” The young soldier remained perplexed.

“Damn right, it`s me! You are a lucky bastard! We picked you up in the middle of the desert, dehydrated. I thought you are done brother…” Colt seemed excited. They shook arms in the Roman fashion and exchanged nods. For a brief moment, Jack felt safe and present. The green tent around him was as good as his bedroom with little stars on the ceiling. Jack was at peace for a second, right until the soaring sound intruded into his state.

“Get down!” The young soldier’s shout sounded like thunder, but it was too late for Colt. The explosion erupted right at his feet; a crimson river sprayed Jack right before his wretched body was forced about five yards away with the tent after him. “COLT! COLT!” Jack tried to yell, but he heard no sounds. The ringing noise kept him deaf to the surroundings.

A hundred yards away, the wave of fighters emerged out of nowhere. Without thinking, the young soldier put his grip on the rifle, that was in the tent`s leftovers. His mind went blank when it happened, now, however, the light of lamppost cleared it for him. Jack went berserk; his voice turned into growls. The wild animal within had woken. Target after the target was lying dead; his aim was unshaken. Right until that happened: the muzzle, that nearly dented his scalp under pressure. Anticipation. Jack was ready to die; he might be dead already. The loud thud that freed the bullet had not killed him. Jack turned around to see a dead Afghan soldier.

He did not feel relieved. His watery eyes were starring at the fallen man but not with disgust, but rather pity. His body was saved, but his mental string had snapped.

After lights dimmed away, Jack was standing by the lamppost in complete darkness. There was nothing before him, nor there was anything behind. “Is that my hell? To relive all of that?!” he tried to say it but no noise came out of his mouth.

That question remained inside of him, unanswered at this time.

“Jackie, my boy!” Mary shrieked and thrust herself on the young veteran.

“Mom? What are you doing here? Where are we?” Jack

hissed quietly. His voice had not come back after the crash on the bridge. The white walls around him brought him back to reality. The intoxicated mind was still hazy.

“I got a ticket the next moment they called me! Oh, dear! I should`ve been here for you!” Mary was crying and sobbing loudly on Jack’s shoulder, while his eyes were penetrating the wall in front of him. The thoughts were swirling again: the lamppost, nightmares, rage, Colt, Ashley… and Jess?

“Jack, I heard what happened! How’re you feeling?” she said in a soft voice and moved the chair closer to his bed. Jack was surprised to see her but did not mind her presence.

“Dr. Chang told me that he is the luckiest man alive, but it will take time to recover completely.” Mary`s clarifications put a halfsmile on Jess`s face but brought more thoughts into Jack’s weary head. No time in the world would bring him back. The path to get back not just diminished, it vanished into the abyss even before the old Buick was struck by that old truck.

III. Jack could not understand his vision. The experience, that was not life, nor it was a death, occupied his weary head. His hopes left him a long time ago. Jack’s main question, however, remained: “How many times should I die before Gods would let me stay dead?”. The question that some of us asking ourselves, whenever new challenges are beating us up. There are a lot of answers that were given by those who never felt it; there is a great number of bits of advice that never worked.

The new day had arrived, so had Jack to his old house. Young body recovered fast, except for a few scars on his forearms that were left there forever. Jack’s spinning thoughts and fears had not left him; however, his chain of thoughts seemed to move in a different direction. The idea of consistent surviving despite the unwillingness to live stroke him like an anvil. The meaning. Was not his meaning of life to fight? If so, it had been accomplished.

Or had it? Did he fight in Afghanistan only? Or maybe the war was only an escape, the way to stop looking for his meaning.

His mind turned to Mr. Erickson’s class; he missed the meaning but found his Ashley. Perhaps, she replaced it? He could not say now. Merry left the house, and the old habit forced him out and led through familiar places to Jack’s nightly destination: Lynn Canyon Suspension Bridge.

Even the beauty of the North Shore could not stop him from going down that road and climb a fence in the middle of the night. He had done it over a hundred times before, and, he hoped, that would be his last try. Ten yards away, his eyes fixed on the tiny figure with her hands on the bridge cables. Jess. Jack accelerated his pace but did not dare to shout to do not startle her. From a few yards away, he could see her upper limbs turned blue. It went for at least an hour, the veteran thought to himself.

“Hey…” Even though Jack tried to soften his voice as much as possible, the girl turned rapidly, as though she heard a gunshot.

“What… What are you doing here?” Her trembled voice gave up tremendous despair.

“I should ask you the same thing.” Jack returned the question and sat next to Jess on the bridge with his legs out. She looked puzzled for a moment, but did not move back to the safety and stayed on the other side of the cables. “Whatever it is, I get it,” he continued.

“I buried one of my shoes down there before the crush.”

“Jack… I… ” Jess’s speech turned into a stutter. Her eyes, full of tears, were staring at him. “I don’t know what to do, Jack.”

“Neither do I. Can tell you more, no one does,” the veteran replied. He sighed and turned his gaze towards the forest in front of him. “I wish I can tell you that everything will be like it was, but nothing ever will be. You just have to live with that,” he added.

“I don’t know… what`s the point? What’s the meaning of all of it?” Jess’s voice turned into a scream, right after that her left foot gave away. She slipped to the deck of the bridge barely holding

grxmx magazine

12

her grip around one of the cables. Jack utilized the moment, grabbed her by the armpits, and pulled her on the other side.

Jess did not resist and sat close to him. Jess put her head on Jack’s shoulder.

“There is no meaning except the one you made up for yourself. There is no point in doing anything. But at the same time, it has all the points in the world.” Jack answered calmly and placed his arm around the girl.

“Jack, I don’t get it. Especially from you. You’ve been through hell, and I am the one who is trying to jump… I am so sorry.”

Jess sobbed and curled even deeper in his jacket.

“I came here to do the same thing, but when I saw you on this bridge it got me thinking.” Jack`s pounding heart was calm for the first time.

“About what?” Jess asked in anticipation.

“I died at least five times, and every time I wanted it to be the end: the end of misery and suffering. But I am still here.” He closed his eyes and continued after a long sigh. “Even if there is no meaning, I have to make it for myself to ease this pain.”

“I hope I will find it,” Jess answered and for the first time stopped crying.

“Make it do not look for it. I don’t know about you, but I am broken beyond repair. It won’t get back to normal, but I will have to learn how to live with that.” Jack sighed and continued.

“Apparently, you can`t escape your suffering but you can face them.” Jack kissed Jess on the forehead and turned his gaze towards sunrise. The pain had never vanished; however, neither of them ever had been on the other side of cables.

An aspiring exophonic writer and traveller from Vancouver, Canada. Despite being in his late twenties, he holds multiple degrees in business and economics from both Europe and North America. Moreover, Dan is an experienced leader who worked in multiple industries; however, after the weary “Covid Year” he came to the realization of his true passion: writing.

@dan.shpyra

/in/dan-shpyra

THE END

13

One letter

FEATURE

Fable Blake A monumental movement started by me, Anon, all because I noticed a boy act out of character and took a chance, writing one letter.

One evening, I noticed a boy named Kit passing by a bridge. When he started to frequent it and peer off into the water, I figured something was wrong, so I left a letter pinned to the wooden post where he always planted himself.

Nothing special; a simple reminder that regardless of what he might think, he mattered. People loved him. The world would still spin if he jumped, but everything else would change.

Of course, I hadn’t given a hint to who might have left it—I let him wonder by leaving it from ‘Anon’ in a blue pen—but he smiled, so Anon became a hobby.

Over the next few weeks, I kept leaving him letters, not just at the bridge, but slipped into his binder and locker sometimes. I passed time by writing out little reminders and hiding them wherever possible.

I never truly realized I had gotten to Kit until I spotted a smiling girl reading a letter with a signature ‘Anon’ in blue pen, and after, the target widened from the girl.

I helped Kit out when I could, but I never stopped giving him letters.

Popular kids who temporarily lost their smile received letters from another Anon, and because no one noticed me, I could pick out the letters and their handwritings easily. But they weren’t all from Kit; he signed his with a little heart for a period.

The following month in my classes with Kit, I noticed an ‘Anon’ letter hidden in teachers’ paperwork, joined by a wider smile—the signature smile I used to identify another received letter.

Walking down the halls became easier for me, hearing the excitement of a person pulling out a folded note signed in blue pen to brag to their friends about how they were loved. The little quirk of the lip on the

FABLE BLAKE WAS

BORN IN CORUNNA, ONTARIO, AND IS SURROUNDED BY FAMILY, FRIENDS AND BOOKS THAT INSPIRED HER TO WRITE. AS A REPRESENTATIVE FOR HER SCHOOL FOR A WRITING COMPETITION, SHE DISCOVERED THE JOYS OF WRITING SHORT STORIES AND CAME OUT OF HER SHELL FOR PEOPLE TO READ HER OWN BOOKS. EVERY FREE HOUR IS SPENT WORKING ON ANOTHER PROJECT IF IT’S NOT SPENT WITH HER BROTHER’S PUPPY OR HER TWIN SISTER WATCHING MURDER MYSTERIES. SHE PRIDES HERSELF ON WRITING EVERY DAY TO ALWAYS MAKE TIME FOR WHAT SHE WISHES TO DEDICATE HER LIFE TO: BEING A FULL-TIME AUTHOR.

writer’s face could be spotted a mile away.

The school newspaper even broadcasted a segment to submit the names of who needed a letter, and the recipient would grin days later.

I noticed others paying closer attention to their friends, studying their eyes and how much they’d eaten that day. The simple questions and the genuine asking of how their friends were or if they needed someone to talk to had me blushing into my notebook.

The letters became a regular part of someone’s week. They could count how many letters they received and compare them to their friends, laughing at the difference in the handwriting, knowing a different Anon wrote it, or maybe even the same one checking up on them.

Kit frequented the bridge more than ever, but never alone. He brought his friends to show them the stream or to have picnics at the shore. I could hear their laughs on my way home, choosing to take the trail hidden by trees so I never interrupted. It warmed my heart to see Kit back in the spot where it had all started.

Social media blew up with pictures of letters with witty captions or heartfelt confessions of how someone was grateful to hear from Anon. Parents harvested my idea, using paper and pencil to get to know their child, leaving small reminders that their children and family were loved.

Local news stations interviewed a few teachers and asked who at the school started it, but they never had a clear answer. Not once did someone suspect me.

A few months after my letter to Kit, blue ink ‘Anon’ letters blew up. I proudly watched the suicide rates drop slightly, observing the smaller numbers every week.

Letters were discovered up and down the hallways, but I had never gotten one. Watching my letters cascade down the halls resulted in my signature smile. I never needed a letter if I saw one in another’s hand.

Close to a year after my initial stint as Anon, I noticed a letter pinned to the head of the bridge, but Kit had collected the last one I wrote.

‘You matter, Anon. You are loved immensely throughout the world that spins in your presence. I am glad I witnessed the world change, all thanks to you.

Love, Anon.’

I stared at the little heart and couldn’t help but smile. The world would never have been traced in blue ink without that one letter, but the little heart made all the difference.

@unknown_author_23

grxmx magazine

14

FEATURE Dear Wildfire, I hope you’re doing well.

I would say I know you are, but we both know the projected self and the real self are different things.

I hope you found a semblance of happiness, after everything you faced.

I hope that you know you are beautiful, then and now.

I hope that you make something for yourself, that you won’t want to break.

Wildfire, this is not forgiveness.

Even if your very nature is to take, that does not absolve you of blame.

You burned me to ashes.

I hope that you never burn another.

I hope that you’ve learned to stop burning yourself.

Rowan Gladish

Wildfire, I am full of scars.

Some are yours, some are others, some are mine, but they’re all healed over now.

I hope that my marks remind you of damage.

Rowan Gladish is a 20-year-old aspiring author of fiction, creative non-fiction, and poetry.

I know that I am no longer in pain.

She spends her evenings reading and writing, when she’s not distracted by her keyboard-obsessed cat or catching up on Netflix. Rowan lives in London, Ontario, and is currently completing a degree in criminology.

Wildfire, after all these years, I am letting you go.

This is not forgiveness.

This is an absence of bitterness.

I hope that your life is beautiful and long.

I know

@rowan.finally.writes

I will make mine the same.

With Love and Regrets, Your Oldest Friend grxmx magazine

15

Image: Malachi Brooks

“In these troubling and isolating times, Dufour’s poetry anthology reminds us of all the ways we connect as humans. Our prospects of a collective home are not always clear or the same, but the need to feel like we belong, to a place, a people, a cause, or a memory is as palpable as ever.”

Beirut Today

Coming from Swiss-Lebanese origins, Amanda Dufour left her hometown of Beirut after high school to pursue a dance career in London. Over the years, she has performed around the world with many prestigious companies and artists.

This urge to communicate creatively led to poetry, where she deals with themes of personal identity and displacement, drawing inspiration from her own experiences and background.

In 2018, a selection of Amanda’s poems was published in ‘And We Chose Everything’, an anthology

by Turning Point Books in Lebanon and in 2020, her first book ‘Local Foreigner’ was published by New Generation Publishing.

This latest work is a collection of poems searching for home, exploring the boundaries set by nationality and the struggle to move beyond them in an area defined by past and present conflict.

Amanda Dufour

“Utterly absorbing poetry.

Heart-breaking and vulnerable, yet steely strong. A deep consideration into the notion of home.”

grxmx magazine

16

@mandywriteswords

FEATURE

BAHR I have come to seek shelter, A home within a home That won’t accept me as its own.

Floating up from the desert Where the white meets the blue, I am bound by a phantom cord To this vast expanse.

It is no secret that conflict Is rolled into each wave, Crashing into poisoned depths We will never reach.

And yet, I feel safe in its ancient embrace, Turning away from solid land Towards a glistening horizon.

Far beyond the veil of reflections, Dancing across our perceived edge, There is a moment when the light breaks To let us see complications Unravelled, at their end.

BULB The light glows dim, To cast false romantic shadows.

I sense the ugliness in which you live, A seductively sombre nest I feel compelled towards.

PRAY God lives in platitudes Embedded on our tongues, A lingering bitterness To replace the honeyed warmth Of mother’s lullabies.

KALAM How is it to hear your own voice Echoed back to you In high definition

Betrayed by basic survival instinct, I dug into the darkest layers Beyond my vital reserves, Six feet under ancient soil.

Through past lives and time I can never reclaim, I strayed further from self-preservation To nurture a vulnerable imposter.

The light has been turned on, To banish false romantic shadows.

I see the ugliness in which you live, A seductively sombre nest I felt compelled towards.

How is it to spill your words Without immediate apology Under a forceful hand

Saints hide in caves On perilous street corners, Watching as we swerve a fine line, Placing our faith in shrines Marking each treacherous turn.

How is it to speak truth Knowing it won’t be twisted Or weaponised against you

I sit in temple and church, A curious spectator seeking peace Without the need for salvation.

Born to create an impression Of all my altered selves.

How is it to not fear those sounds Tumbling from your own lips To not have to push them back in How is it to annunciate And amplify each letter

God lives in platitudes.

Saints hide in caves.

We kneel in blessed holes, Looking for an exit to safety In between one prayer and the next.

How is it to choose between Whispers and bellows How is it How

“To hold this book in your hands, to read the words on these pages, it’s a glimpse into someone baring their soul. It’s pain, conflict and struggle, it’s beauty, strength and bravery.

Congratulations to the author on her achievement!”

grxmx magazine

17

PUBLISHER INSIGHT

The Future of Publishing

J

une 2021 marks the 50th anniversary of the first e-Book was typed by Michael Stern, the text of the US Declaration of Independence, to be exact. According to Statitica, in 2018, 34% of 18–29-year-olds said that read at least one digital book in the last month, this number decreasing with age. In February 2021, The American Association of Publishers reported that e-Books made up 15% of all sales, a number which has risen since last year. Equally, many magazine publishers have packed in printing and gone for online-only options, such as In The Moment Magazine, Computerworld and Teen Vogue.

So if there is a correlation with age, over time, surely this means that the older we all get, and the more digitized life is, the less we will actually care about that new book smell? Right?

Wrong. When you flip it the other way, 85% of book sales in the US being physical copies is substantial. The trend is similar in the UK, Europe and Asia with at least 75% physical books sales. Although it is a great thing to use less paper, most books have been recyclable for years, regulated by companies such as the FSC. Also to consider is the booming business of second-hand bookselling (notably where Amazon and Jeff Bezos started). Books are rarely ever used once, are – surely – mostly always recycled, resold or traded, and are massively educational or provide some version of escapism, improving both mental health and brain power.

The importance of publishing in all realms – children, further education, religion, language acquisition, health, cookery and so on (there are so many) – is not minimal. From the moment a baby is born, parents read to them. Books are not only written, they are musical, they come in Braille format, they are there to reach all people. The advent of audiobooks lends itself to the ability of share content in many different formats.

We should welcome all formats of content, remembering that the addition or loss of different formats are often business decisions, not necessairly a response to the real world, but the response of the money (and indeed strategy) that goes along with it. These days, almost all books by publishers will be produced physically, in paperback or hardback, in an e-Book and audiobooks. The amalgamation of all formats seems to be the best way to ensure that no one is missing out of receiving new information.

Whether or not this will change in the next fifty years is anyone’s guess. But I’m sure the people who carried phones in suitcases back in the 80s could even fathom the iPhone 12.

Perhaps, then, we should all look forward to what publishing will bring to us next and go along for the ride. We’ll get back to you in 2050.

grxmx magazine

18

Fig 1: 1.1.21: St Mary’s Churchyard. Captured

with Sonar SX-70., J Sunderland 2021

Chronic Attentions of an Obsessed Mind Reading Maggie Nelson’s Bluets through a Polaroid Picture

J. E. Sunderland

N

elson is, undeniably, obsessed. Her Bluets1 are an ode to infatuation with a colour, a singular journey exploring this relationship with the metaphysical, through her own life and those of others who have pondered, fixated and realised their need to touch, embrace, absorb, b l u e. Nelson’s attentions in Bluets are surrounded with habitual practices, personal and abstract anecdotes, and questions around this seemingly primordial sentiment- something perhaps slightly sardonic considering the modernness of the word ‘blue’, compared to other primary colours which have a long established history, and contemporary considerations of its existence in the lives of humans- it was only about 6,000 years ago that blue started to become a colourant, that it ‘became’ a colour2, and only later still till it was named by the Egyptians, 14,000 years after the first cave paintings emerged3.

1 Maggie Nelson, Bluets (London: Wave Books, 2009).

2 https://www.dunnedwards.com/colors/specs/posts/color-blue-history [accessed 3 January 2021].

3 David Alan Warburton, ‘Ancient Color Categories’, in Encyclopaedia of Color Science and Technology(New York: , 2014).

Similarly, the Polaroid ‘1.1.21: St Mary’s Churchyard’, taken by myself on the first day of the New Year, directs its attention towards something both abstract and very real, a metaphysical concept and physical truth that envelopes everyone in their entirety at some point. Much like blue, blueness, b l u e s: death, dying, the noth hh ing exists in two states, the real and the other, and this is why I direct your own attention to the two, to the interweaving relationship and divesting – something – that exists between Bluets and A Polaroid Picture: ‘1.1.21: St Mary’s Churchyard’. This little piece will tangle and untangle and likely blur your thoughts at parts, but will ultimately revel in the universal attention we pay to things and the things that are on the outside of our peripheral, waiting to be noticed, and how some of these are born (death, dying, nothing) and some are imbued later (blue, bluets, blueness).

Where to begin?

It can be safely assumed that the past year (2020), the global population has thought about one thing more than they may have before. The coronavirus (COVID-19) has caused an increased awareness and attentiveness to death, dying, the in between

FEATURE

grxmx magazine

19

(incubated, in-tubu-lated). A pandemic that halted the global economy and made the majority of the world start obsessing about hygiene, bringing about the idea that you should have some basic form of it. I start off directing your attention to your personal reactions to this virus.

Atten tion was initially raised through news that a virus had broken out in Wuhan in China, global governments refuting that it was already in the western world, that it did not s p r e a d like they claimed it did ‘we’re safe’ and ‘not at risk at this moment’.

But we became more acutely aware of every cough (I am asthmatic, I justified as I coughed into my elbow after running to catch the bus. No one seemed to believe me), taking steps away from people as they displayed possible symptoms. Then, when the United Kingdom finally entered a lockdown, in March 2020, lagging behind the rest of the world, our attention was drawn towards numbers and the consequences of a virus that had travelled across the globe to our tiny island. Less than a month after national lockdown, the UK reported its highest daily death toll, 948 people dying due to COVID-19 in 24 hours4.

The response to this was mourning and incredulity (this was diagnosed COVID-19 deaths, and at this point testing was not yet rolled out en masse). Why, though, do I mention this? Why do I stop there, and not mention how many have recorded to have died to date in the UK of COVID-19 – over a 97,000 at the time of writing, by the way. I mention this as it is context for the bubbling congestion of an obsessed populous with death, our minds tapping away at us telling us constantly that the person next to us could kill me with that cough or contemplating the restraining-order we have imposed on ourselves not to visit our elderly relatives and loved ones, because what if they caught it and it was I, who killed them? What if I killed grandma? This tapping, constant niggling and worming obsession with death that has burrowed out of our normal subconscious can be truly likened to what Nelson presents in Bluets, the constant niggling desire to attract (or to repel, in the case of COVID-related attentions) the source of her attention, to elucidate on blueness like I myself am on death.

To feel mournful, depressed, despair, is to feel blue. Nelson brushes against this mourning early on in her work. Starting with Mallarmé, she processes us through his turmoil – through the mortal attempts of reaching, gr a sssssssp ing, throttling, the concepts of God, religious piety and purity, immortality and choicelessness. Nelson eventually diverts and skirts away from mortality and consequentialism of the relationship between her personal obsession and The Inevitable, only to circle back to a friend who had been in an accident, and the blueness of dying. To talk about Wittgenstein and his own mortal relationships with colours that represented his pain, the urgency of dying. To talk, also, about Derek Jarman’s own Chroma and deathcolour relationship, the blueness of his films and forecast of his death in a torrent of blueness in his films. The decay of seeing in colour, of one of the last colours to remain in vision often being blue. Nelson talks of obsessions with colours, of the knowledge of mortality and your ending passage as a person, as this person. For Nelson she ex udes blue and oozes it on every surface that she touches, yet she has not touched (directly) the blueness that she fears the most, but she recognises its presence, its immortal hold over us all. Even the blind feel blue eventually, the blueness of body warmth failing to keep yourself temperate and consciousness fading, or simply the blueness of nothing, of darkness.

‘I got the blues, I got the blues, I got the blues…’5

Yet, I find myself disinterested in finding the answer to that question.

This is not a place where I am disseminating her work, dissecting it for academic presentation and proclaiming her piece to be one thing or another. This is a space exploring the relationship between Nelson’s work and death, or more literally, my Polaroid of ‘death’.

This grasping of colour when faced with mortality can be seen outside your window as you look out at the street, as you walk by neighbours houses or pass public buildings. Rainbows for Heroes, bright colours, the symbols of hope for biblical-fanatics, for the mundane mind and for queers who have clutched the eight colours (now eleven) to their chests whilst simultaneously raising it in the air since the late seventies. You also see other mortal colours as a passer-by adjusts their ribbon with their infinite associations with AIDs, cancer (of every monstrous strain), mental health disorders and various other conditions that causes us to confront mortality earlier than expected.

We obsess over these colours, the forcing of recognition of something bright to escape the darkness that death brings, to fight and bring light to it. Blue ribbons can have over one hundred different meanings, depending on the personal circumstances. This is not a critique of mourning and colours, but a side line to a greater tangle, complication, of questions about the mentality of humans and our obsessions with

Nelson, perhaps, has the advantage that her subject is colouring things in, especially when thinking of death, or at least on not taboo. If I were to publish a Bluets-esq book on death, I may the precipice of death. be criticised as being morbid, suicidal or attention-seeking in my weird machinations, even if I were to declare that my ‘Deathlets’ And so, as I read Nelson’s Bluets for the twentieth, thirtieth, fortieth, were more the murmuring of a population than of a single mind. time, I cannot help but notice the b l u e n e s s of everything, of With this in mind, Nelson’s Bluets fascinate me. The idea of the veins on my wrists, ankles, neck, on the covers of the books on expounding and examining your own obsession and translating my shelves and the deep twilight of the sky. And then I think about it through history makes me want to grasp at the intangible the blueness of emotion, of the tiring days that are spent isolated, of concepts that have drawn me in since first thought, to draw their the slight pallor to the faces of those who you see in the street (and histories out and consider them like Nelson. And so, relating this you wonder, have they been touched by blueness death recently?). I to a Polaroid taken only a few months ago is somewhat odd. A almost constantly reflect back on Nelson’s writing, noting how many photo of 700-odd year-old tombstones, taken on a camera older of those she quotes, Mallarmé, Wittgenstein, Goethe, are dead. She than myself but with film produced during the worst pandemic of forces me to embrace the question of how reliant we are on the words modern history, outside of the Spanish Flu. But it is this attention of the dead to enforce the living. Could Nelson’s work have survived, I draw to you, the reader, to question and consider – what is endured, without the dead doing the heavy lifting in conceptualising the consequential difference between obsessions over death and the obsessions of blue? I am of course, hypocritical. My own work is obsessions over ‘blue’? Both are a part of our lives, metaphysical built on the foundations of the dead, my contemplations with mortality and physical: the blue sky, the blueness of lips and skin as you influenced by those such as Mallarmé (again), Epicurus, Wilde and die, the blueness of a babe’s eyes before it changes into its final Nietzsche, are all materially dead. If I went through Nelson’s works pigment, the blueness of the emotion that people collate with with a red marker and removed all mentions of anyone dead or dying, sorrow at the passing of someone the cared for, the blue of the would it have the same impact it currently does? Would the obsessions night sky when all that is left to illuminate the ground are the remain the same? Would her questions of whether colour can live, can ethereal stars above. die, can be, be more or less prominent?

4 British Foreign Office, COVID-19 Timeline (2021) <https://bfpg.co.uk/2020/04/ covid-19-timeline/> [accessed 3 January 2021].

5 Saint Louis Blues (2020) <https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/louisarmstrong/saintlouisblues.html> [accessed 10 January 2021].

grxmx magazine

20

Perhaps you could draw links between her unmarked sections, just numbered paragraphs (a stretch, perhaps, to compare it to how archaeologists divide, grid, and number gravesites and places of burials). Perhaps it is a personal link I find, that I am projecting my own obsessions onto the world with my linkage between the human chronic obsession with death and Nelson’s own obsessions with the colour blue.

An interlude: Deathlets, (An Extract).

but

my fate will still be like the unlucky, my body

still feeds the scavengers in the morning wherever my body lays, i likely have a headstone. made out of limestone, granite, wood – i doubt i have a tomb. maybe,

i do not have a headstone,

maybe i am bald. my body

buried under tarmac or stone,

disjointed through vibrations from those above.

my body, must be being watched.

possibly, mummified in a museum, or

encrusted in jewels in a cathedral.

a child, perhaps, is being shown the clavical, scapula and

mandible, by a doctor, scientist, teacher?

or, most favouribly, my children watch

me as i am exposed to the elements, had i been cem

outside their homes as my flesh

ented

peeeeeeeeeells and turns towards the sky,

in the mud of the foreshore? or had my reverence in the rats te a r i ng my eyes, head been

by a boulder to prevent me from

toes, tongue. my left ring metacarpal gifted from the dead, after sleeping with the devil and proclaiming the to my nephew, to bring luck to him as it king should die

has brought luck to me perhaps

(my flesh feeds my beloved perhaps,

dogs, they protect him too, now) perhaps

i was a social deviant, disabled, unchristian, other

and my body was driven from the pure land, into the “The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he said unbeyond was, “Why is a raven like a writing-desk?” maybe “Come, we shall have some fun now!” thought Alice. “I’m glad they’ve

i was one of those p o w e r f u l dead that the common begun asking riddles. —I believe I can guess that,” she added aloud.

folk feared, my head lop ped off and body burned, “Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?” said

outside of the church boundaries the March Hare. (my tainted bones cannot lay here) “Exactly so,” said Alice.”6 i sometimes wonder, if in a previous life i had been buried as a witch, heathen, heretic my body t o s s e d, twiste d and defi i lled, by those who i had trusted (and those i had not), had my body been face-down, like Adie’s? upside down

could it be, that my body lays in a pit, strewn with other undessssireables,

a mass grave for lepers, blue-sickness fatalities, unrully

locals, my flesh peat that feeds the wheat, the corn, the

apple trees? once, perhaps, i was a spider

i shed my dead skin until i shed no more. picked up by a toddler, child, human.

i curl in their palm, shrinking in on myself, i shrivel, they

start to cry. i am tossed away as they find another toy to

play with or maybe i was an rabbit,

caught in the jaws of a fox or combine harvester or

grooves of rubber tires, my body mu t i la t ed, tossed in

the air before my body feeds the earth, the sky and

those that live in between.

my ragged remains are pulled out of the jaws of a dog as a human screeches to ‘drop it’, my body’s purpose is pulled elsewhere, tossed away from rancid breath of disobedient hounds i hope i was an elephant,

our final journey ritualistic, resting at the

place the lucky died, knowing my friends, family, herd,

will come to visit soon

I ask you the reader, to consider what I have been answering throughout this piece, ‘Why is Bluets like a Polaroid of a Churchyard?’

Much like Alice in Carroll’s writing, you may find my ramblings that of a mad hatter, connecting dots where you see nothing but lines, bars that divide. Or you may consider yourself like the Dormouse or March Hare, the answer not obvious but the wrong answer clear. To me, this is not a riddle nor an unanswerable piece of rhetoric. Bluets is like my Polaroid, because it is more than it is unlike my Polaroid. They are entangled. Nelson in her work captures this ephemeral yet habitual attention to colour, how throughout her own history, and the history of the famous, infamous and common, blue has constantly been referred to and looked back upon with some form of fondness, questioning or obsession. My own Polaroid, taken on the first day of a New Year but in the midst of a global pandemic, of tombs and graves of people who died hundreds of years ago – the first grave recorded from 1292 for Lora de Vere d’Argentine, the last to be buried in 1982, Marion Heath. This Polaroid, a passing shutter of the camera and footfall from walking home from work, displays a timeless attention to death and our treatment of those who have passed before us. Our rituals, universal and diverse all celebrating our disposal of the dead, coverting our morbid obsession with our own mortalities (for, do we not bury our dead primarily because we ourselves want to be remembered after we are gone?). Is, tangentially, the success of religion primarily because of our obsessions with death? Do they all not work with the purpose of the pursuit of a good after-death? Of something beyond our control?

6 Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Millennium Fulcrum Edition 3.0 (1865), Chapter VII: A Mad Tea Party.

grxmx magazine

21

I implore you, the reader, to consider the most recent time you talked, thought, or lingered on death. When you realise how much attention is given to it, you will see clearer the links between Nelson’s Bluets and death the way I do.

To give death attention is not a bad thing, it is something that perhaps should be normalised. To confront a ‘good death’ and a ‘bad death’, and to make peace with mortality just as Nelson has made peace with her obsessions within Bluets.

To follow in the footsteps of writers, philosophers and artists, and consider productive and unproductive obsessions, to create immortal beings, something that lives beyond the finite mortality of human existence. I have no doubt that Bluets will outlive Nelson, as my own writing may well outlive me. I embrace the mastery of healthy obsessions, of acknowledgement of reality, of humanity and impermanence.

@jamesesunderland

I revel in Nelson’s honesty, assumed honesty, at her disclosure of attention. To find common ground with another in embracing your own chronic fixations on the metaphysical, on concepts that are not real but are tangibly intwined in your own grounded reality that they can be nothing other than physical in your minds. The bold confrontation with decay, dying, death, and the desensitisation of negative emotions that repel you from acknowledging death. I do not ask you to ignore or suppress grief, mourning, but to recognise the innate human nature of being attentive to death.

I encourage you all to recognise this core obsession, to retreat into the comforting disquiet of relinquishing control to the realisation that time is finite, and to finally let go of social taboos embedded with thinking on death. You will find yourself liberated once you acknowledge them, rather than when they remain ignored.

www.jamessunderland.co.uk

“HEY THERE! IM ALISHA BOSE, 24 YEARS OLD, RESIDING IN GOA, INDIA. FROM CHOOSING ECONOMICS TO CONTINUE MY EDUCATION TO DROPPING IT TO FOCUS ON MY PASSION, AND HERE I’M TODAY PRESENTING YOU A COLLECTION OF MY WORK, MY POETRY. GRATEFUL TO GRXMX MAGAZINE FOR GIVING ME THIS OPPORTUNITY AND GETTING MY WORK OUT TO THE PUBLIC. “

WRITER SERIES READ MORE IN OUR NEXT ISSUE

My mother – an eternity

ALISHA BOSE Boost your immunity power

We meet tons of people From childhood To adulthood But not everyone becomes A significant part of our lives But my mother’s magnificent Efforts to raise me up In this world, Is worth of all the praise, An infinite energy, Who prefers to stay By me as a bliss While i face the risk, Where others appear And disappear, But mother is an eternity, Who will be the pillar Of my strength during the Adversity!

Image: Mr Bose

There are days when Injustice knocks your door You feel a cardiac arrest With your blood pressure Eventually going high Where you feel that Your immunization power Can’t fight against the Negativity around And end up in a paralyzed State of mind But remember one thing Nobody will fight for you Until you are willing to fight For yourself, Nobody can give you justice Until you prefer justice, So boost your immunization power Not just to fight diseases But also to fight with the injustice Happening with you.

Lisa is no more an antagonist

Which gives me a feeling Of transparency and authenticity and yes I’m in love with his eyes.

Lisa was subjected to Degrading treatment By people around her, Who smoked out Inferior views about her, By claiming they are superior she took those humiliating words Into consideration, By dehydration of herself, Lisa understood in this process She misunderstood herself By swallowing the negativity And loosing her own positivity, But finally decided to fix it By being a protagonist, Who won’t be antagonist Of her own life anymore.

Image: Kalea Morgan

Are you being you ?

Louisa ran behind people She wants constant attention For her it’s all about functioning On others orders and being a copy She always devalued herself By trying to fit into a certain group She thought it’s the people In the group who will Acknowledge her and Lost her own voice in This process, she tried To change her personality Along with her mentality Only to be admired and Appreciated but failed to Realize the pressure She is putting on herself is Only to impress not to express Her Own self.

Image: Anton Darius

You are an infinity In a modern world Where nobody gives A damn, People just walk in And walk out of life Where they prefer to Be on temporary contracts, You entered like an infinite, Who can feel me the way I feel myself, Where your presence makes me feel Like a pleasant morning After a dark phase, When i swipe on my painful Issues with tears You wipe out my fears with cheers.

I feel you like a snow I feel you like a snow Where you approach me Only during a season For a good reason I can’t describe our friendship It’s beyond any relationship Because you appear during My hard days And disappear during My bright days I know you are watching me Where I’m catching the serendipity and falling In love with the way you Comfort me during my down days So that i can rise above the recession In my life.

A love affair with his eyes I saw his brown eyes Which kept my eyes Fascinating, what a Beautiful moment just to Look into his eyes, Which won’t tell lies, His eyes which expresses Him more than his words, I wonder Does he realize this?

His eyes which portrays Countless emotions Without hesitation,

The Virus Besides the Coronavirus There are tons of other viruses Travelling around the globe At a faster rate, The virus of hatred, racism Fake feminism, terrorism, Which is playing the Major role in eradicating The tranquility and creating Chaos in the economy, Where the authorities and population Fail to tackle the issue, There are still people Who can’t afford to have potable water, But this pandemic doesn’t want to Find a vaccine and cure the Misfortunate sections But focus on how to eliminate Humanity from the human race.

Jennifer said bye bye to drama

Image: Reuben

A Feeling of Constipation Shawn was addicted to weeds, Which he planted as seeds In his life, He had a feeling that Getting high will eliminate his Mental stress by Hitting the press button Towards his addiction Which only provided Him temporary relief From the world of reality, When life was hitting hard At him, he got a feeling of Constipation, where he lost Control over himself And entered a world of hallucinations, Which ended up in frustration But lucky he, who found a Englintened mate Who brightened his thoughts And lightened his life.

Jennifer haunted by daily drama, People around her Had a love affair with drama They were engaged In back- stabbing And wanted Jennifer To get involved In their activity Which put Jennifer Into Confusion between Right and wrong But was wise enough not to fall into anyone’s trap As she choose to function According to herself And hence said Bye bye to drama.

Image: Renee Fisher grxmx magazine

23

FEATURE

Remedy My fingers smell of after-sun lotion A moment of balm and familiar, nostalgic remedy Aching remembrance of a before these abstract patterns; swirled white through belisha beacon red Amidst pain

Je suis desoleé I am written in apologies Everything of me is sorry My spinal cord the question mark of ‘do you still love me?’

My vertebrae is punctuation interlinked Bleeding, leaking, ink

Amidst pain It does not escape me that sunburn is a laughably apt analogy for grief Pain that grows slowly, wrings the very flesh red raw Fades over time, yes, but the skin will remember The skin always remembers I still have the marks of growing up curled around my hips and shoulders I collect new ones as I go The body is just an abacus; Measuring time with a new slide or tear of skin over skin over skin The bones click as they settle into place I am grieving I am burning I am hurt

I hurt with the exertion of it These shapes are so well known to me My mouth torn at the corners so the words Just fall out My skin was made for this Paper thin parachute for crisis Oh just let me fall Into these crescendos Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry I will bleed until my fingers are nibs To handwrite on flesh this apology note Sorry I will draft a thousand of these That nobody will ever read Let alone Left alone Sorry old me.

One of the prerequisites for stretch marks on the NHS website is simply being female I wonder if I will continue to stretch I wonder if I am destined to be nothing but a membrane I wonder if my pain will ever be seen beyond the skin If I’ll ever measure time in something other than height and weight and I remember where I got that scar and childish mistakes and I remember I remember I remember the skin remembers my skin remembers Perhaps I am just the afterbirth The remnants of a snake shedding A body made of memories Incapable of forgetting.

@ shebebutapoet

shebebutapoet@gmail.com

from page, to stage.

writing. editing. creating.

grxmx magazine

24

“I’m Anna, an 18-year-old poet and student from Glasgow who mainly writes about mental health, lesbianism, Christianity and mythology. Poetry is so incredibly important to me and I’m grateful to be able to share mine with others.”

aem Walking in a Graveyard with My Mother We lament on the moments of our lives already gone And grieve the futures yet to come Burying trauma and grief under a willing headstone There is so much pain in us Pulling on the strings of our weary tongues Pouring soil over the people we were before We sift archaeologically through the bones of years gone by How fast and precious does this decaying life fly Laying down flowers for the things we left behind We talk of pain and loss and faith in test Traversing through the coffins of this mess The things we need to lay to rest She tells me to forgive It’s so much harder than it sounds It’s amazing how, in this deadened cemetery So much love and life abounds We sprinkle ashes of our memories Lighthouse fingers glowing last farewell The trails of sand drift slowly out to sea Past harbours we’ve sculpted out of elegies And hope some day that someone walks past Reminiscing on the fact that life will never last Reminiscing on the fact that death is not the last She tells me, casually, that she wants a stone dog on her grave I carve an understanding face Forever planning funerals in my head Wondering all that there would be left unsaid Silence tends to come to bowing heads We walk My father’s wedding was on the day my aunt died We lay that, too, aside Shrouding with soft sighs Adept at becoming undertakers in a surviving life.

grxmx magazine

25

G RO U P S TO J O I N P O E T RY L OV E R S POETS & WRITERS THE MODER N POETS O I L PA I N T I N G A RT I S T S LEAR NING TO CODE THE SINGAPORE MUSIC G RO U P

FOLLOW @ABBYSBOOKS @MOONGIRLREADS_ @MAT TCHESSCO @ K E L LY E M M R I C H @LAIKASTUDIOS ON TIKTOK

SOCIAL M E D I A STO P

FOLLOW @GRMXMMAGAZINE & # G R X M X M A G A Z I N E T O S TAY U P TO D AT E .

TWEETS OF THE MOMENT

“I’m a writer. I don’t have to be normal.” @byMorganWright

“An artist is a sort of emotional or spiritual historian. His role is to make you realize the doom and glory of knowing who you are and what you are.

James Baldwin” @WritersQuotes

“FASHION SHOOT BRIXTON MARKET, Armet Francis, 1973” @artistsofcolour

“Happy Publication Day to the 2022 editions of the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook and the Children’s Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook!” @Writers_Artists

“bebe youz a firework ok”

“is history gossip?”

@katyperry

@lucydacus

grxmx magazine

26

illmackiei w @ l

tio tra

lus

@KRISTY N I TA BROWN BOOKS

od_stu o g @ (PHOTO)

ff

n ega _v

@R4CH4EL READS

n

Freelance illustrator Will Mackie specialises in children’s and young adult books, graphic novels and zines. Does your next project need an illustrator? And not only that, he does poetry too. So he does it all. But I’m sure you’re following him already ....

@THE WOMAN WORTH

@JUICE_CODE

Looking for your next plantbased fix? @good_stuff_vegan has enough recipes, green plates and advice for vegan experts and novices alike.

C R E AT I V E I N S TA ACCOUNTS TO FOLLOW grxmx magazine

27

NOT ANOTHER HOW TO

How to write smart Utilize your time, Utilize your mind.

JEAN FRANCIS

Want to write at least 100,000 words of a novel? Can’t figure out how you’re going to get through that 3,000 essay? Looking for that short and sweet tweet?

I

t doesn’t take a genius to figure out that creative content can’t just look pretty. It takes more than just a few primary colours and a big audience to keep people interested.

Apparently, on X% of social media followers are actually engaging, and that’s without factoring in all of the ever-changing algorithms that the frienlies down at Facebook, Twitter and Instagram HQ are fiddling with on a daily basis. And even then, who says anyone will want to read that book you put together last year? Who wants to hear your slightly dodgy wedding speech?

The answer is simple. People want what interests them, sure, but what has always been clear is that you, the creator, has to be intersted to begin with.

Obvious, I know, but I’ve been ther. I’ve written countless poems, stories and plays over the years and the most yawn-inducing ones were the pieces I

grxmx magazine

either spent ten minutes on, hated, or was forced to write in the first place. You know what I mean. That feeling you get in school when the teacher tells you to write about your summer or write a short story or a haiku. If you;re not into it, you’re not into it. So this article is less about how to write, it’s about how to write smart by only writing what you want to in the first place.

Authenticity and Inspiration School aside, in the big, wide world, writers mostly write about their own lives, or research the hell out of things, adding in their own emotional or tenchinal experience in the parts that are required, but too many times we have seen, particularly working at a publisher, submissions from people who just want to be a writer but have no idea what to

28

write. This is absolutely fine, but the best answer to this is to just get going and write anything and everything. If you dont know what you;re writing, even better. let life inspire you. Authenticity is what publishers want and authentitcy isn’t found when someone decides they’re going to be the next J.K. Rowling (we hear this a lot too).

a few hours, future you will appreciate the time and dedication you gave yourself - because we all need to be a little selfish sometimes. If writing, or indeed anything creative, makes you happy, make it happen.

And keep doing it. Over and over and over again.

Prioritse you and your passions

Be the Next You

Your passion will keep you going, whatever the weather, whatever the world is throwing at you. As seen on page X, your mental health matters, but that doesnt mean it can’t affect other parts of your life.

Your passion can make you smile or make you money.

Never doubt that your passion isn’t marketable. Your parents or friends might doubt you, but passion is massively important in motivation and hard work.

Never aspire to be the next anything other than ‘INSERT NAME HERE.’ Otherwise, you’re doomed. Teddy Rooseelt said, ‘Comparison is the thief of joy’, and this is very true. You’ll only be shooting yourself in the face by aiming for the stars and trying to be like the topgrossing novelist a la Rowling. Find your own style and make your own way. I’m sure Rowling didnt realise that her book sales would only be second to the Bible.

Utilizing your time and your mind will mean that you can find a way to work smartly and passionately, even if you have little motivation or havign a bad day.

Whatever you manage to get on the page is a triumph.

Even planning or thinking about your project counts as work, so if you have to get ten pages of notes done first, do it. The key is to start and to love it. If you don’t love it, your reader will be able to tell as soon as you share it.

Know Your Limits We don’t all have the time that James Patterson has, throwing out more books a year than we can all keep track of. Set realistic goals for yourself. This counts for essays or other works of non-fiction. There is no way you’re going to write 30,000 words in a weekend. It’s not going to happen. Even if you have to set a timer, or an alarm, or ignore your family and friendship group for

MY NAME IS NATHALIA, AN UNDERGRADUATE STUDENT WHO STUDIED CREATIVE WRITING AND AS A WRITER I GO BY ROSEBUD. MY WORK REFLECTS ON MENTAL HEALTH, PAIN AND MOST IMPORTANTLY RECOVERY. I OFFER A INSIDE LOOK INTO A POETIC WORLD OF MENTAL HEALTH WITHIN THE BLACK COMMUNITY.

Rose bud

Homework Exercise - I can’t believe this.

- She kept it all in for all those months and said nothing.

- She lied that’s what she did.

- Okay maybe she did but she’s our friend.

- Friend?

Silence - Yes friend.

- Nope she ain’t no friend of mine.

- All because of him.

- Of course, don’t you see he’s changed her.

- I feel you’re being a little dramatic.

- The hell I am.

- He didn’t mean it.

- Yes he did.

- No. - And how would you know?

- Don’t be silly you sound jealous.

- Jealous?.

- Yes jealous.

- Of?

@rosebudthewriter

- Of them.

- Ha don’t make me laugh.

- It’s true.

- It really isn’t.

- Maybe so.

- So you admit it?

- What?

- That this fantasy isn’t going to last.

- Why don’t you admit it?

- What?

- That you’re just bitter.

- No. - Yes. - You sound dumb.

- And you desperate.

- Desperate?

- Yes and bitter and alone.

Silence - I just want her to be safe that’s why I’m so mad.

- I know.

- Want it to go back the way it was before it’s too late.

- I know.

- Whatever happens don’t leave me okay?

- Okay.

grxmx magazine

FEATURE 29

FEATURE

Daffodils of Tomorrow

Yashika believes in the power of words and what they make. I write on days when sun shines with winter in my eyes. I love my Jo March’s wise words in Little Women – “I intend to make my own way in the world.”

This compilation of poems “Daffodils of Tomorrow” is basically the legacy of Wordsworth’s “Daffodils”; a symbol of joy, brightness and the era that it was written in.

To Be The warmth that we perceive Is often there for us to be deceived The soft, delicate touch of the hands; The colossal storm that my heart withstands A silly grin, I stick to my face While inside, thousand emotions I chase Will they come back, will they not Brimming with confusions; doubts unthought My heart finally decides to stay Filled with unsaid words, that it wants to say.

They hover my head, all around Their ends and limits they haven’t found.

But there will come a day, when this will change Acceptance will emerge, the hurt will fade And in those moments, my heart shall realise That they were nothing, but a blessing in disguise For then, it will know, what it is to be free.

To love, to give and still, to be.

I have stopped seeing the poetry in life They call me a poet, a scribbler of art.

In whose mind, beauty flows with frivolity.

A notepad rests in my slightly creased hand, vaguely.

As I stare into nothingness, a chunk of unsung music ringing in my ears.

Your voice.

A rusty laugh, a face christened with tears.

I lay my head on the half-crooked wall and think of a thousand hopes sprung a million suns faded behind the ends of the horizon.

They tell me the clouds have parted, that it shines on me, the moon.

Words rain in hushed whispers, a gleam of gloom.

I used to see it before. Before you.

In cheery laughs, in the winds on days of autumn. in her eyes as pride shone, in the good rhythms on a rainy day. in trees and mud soaked streets in ballads of brave and those innocent eyes In the clock ticking by and by.

In the shadow of sunsets, in guitar strings in my hands, in the person in the mirror.

I see water dripping from above, I let it fall in my eyes searching for it I try to fly in the arms of the icy wind hoping to take me there.

I close my eyes as I inhale nostalgia in every breath And I see you, I see me I see poetry. grxmx magazine

Image: Andreas Brun

30

Yashika Mathur

Coward His roar reverberates through the sleek mud and the tall canopies Vigor gleams on his chest as he sits uncannily The King, they hail and bow their heads down She brings life to the herd, bearer of no crowns.

So is it demure or humility, that he shows? or is it unknown fright that we all enclose?

Voices in my head grow louder everyday Coward, I call myself. Disbelief at play.

I count the ends of dry maple against my skin A vague peace emerges, but fear sits therein The ends speak to me about the seasons they missed Of growth, of distance. Of their cowardice.

The lioness caresses them softly and looks ahead With dreams, hopes, angst and courage embed I juggle complexities to create magic, failing everytime.

For even the bravest are weak inside.

New old, unused books peeping outside nails half-bitten, wax melted bright. lose corners of wood, lonely screws fragments of me on the floor, something new. cold fires warm the ice within broken spectacles and glass of tin.

Sun falls through cracks, a crushed roof Sorrow stays, yet hearts move.

Wilted thorns and blank, stale winds a tinted piece of nickel, gap- toothed grins As it changes from dry to dew they turn pink, tiny buds, and you.

Old we get up, old we sleep Old we work and old we reap Todays become yester, as full to few And that is how Old becomes New. WordS was in love with the moon, ‘till the sun shone of whys and why nots; the strings long torn as I fail to connect two to four, to learn I turn to you, to you, my words. the simmering of water, the aroma growing Ceramic waits as warmth is poured in and I wonder, what happens when it’s found a ritual at four everyday, the tea leaves leave trails of brown. star gazing till the eyes burn out, silhouette in acrylic Thinking why blue turns into flames of crimson and garlic the last page wears out, a gut feeling is stirred And then I turn to you, to you, my words. when I’m out of you, or have nothing to say of unvisited homes, of hope, when broken comes to bay when city lights dim and the birds peck their grain in gloomy morns and when loneliness rains

@_magical.mist_

I still turn to you, when I know you’re not there words, oh words, I turn to you, here.

grxmx magazine

31

Home hir•aeth a home-sickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

It is 10 am right now, quiet. living in my own bubble of lyrics. sitting in the bus, I’m going home. glances and looks at the outside world, fog has covered my nose. what stays?

It is 2 pm right now, the walls narrating tales in silence, a library. the lines on the hard-cover tell me that it’s already been read, the last pages have been ripped yet, i trac my hands again on it, the air in my lungs is gone. still, something stays.

Picked a flower at 4 today.

Spots of grass across the road, limping and jumping to get that one yellow wild taking one strand of the leaf at the corner of the road, half destroyed in water and dirt back home.

Drying it and putting it in a book.

Heart is still on the flower I couldn’t get.

I think I know what is staying.

Unwanted nostalgia gracing my heart, I know it’s 11 pm.

Scented candles, existential questions and sadness without reason Letting foreign fragrances of the hearth take my worries away Soft winds have churned the smell of Gulmohar in my nose and I still am figuring out, what and how can it stay?

Nothing that is not been written about, all aesthetic and academia Nothing that has not been spoke about, all words and woes Nothing that has not been felt till now, the subtle and the hyper And nothing that has not been created, everything and nothing. still, something remains unique and nameless but all our minds can come up with, is home, that stays.

See rubbing goop in my eyes, drool on my sweater arm, a bird cries the damp dainty silhouette of the tree bark meets my eye and I, I see my weary hands letting go of hope in the tiny atom that flew away The bygones come rushing back to me, I sit up straight. thin as ice, I plaster it meticulously one saw here, one drill there, all that’s left is debris Saw and screw, I put everything in Chisel as I must, atleast, its there, hope stays thin.

These trembling purple veins try to make amends I fight hope inside to put you down on paper; it ends it bugs me to write of things I can’t/ didn’t see gloom in the eye, glee on the cheek, there stands my empathy For if all I’ve seen is dusk and dew how do I write of bright and blue if all I’ve seen is stitches and scratches how do I write of, say, o reader, you if all I’ve been is a dot of grayish hue, slowly fading away how do in write of spectacles unseen, of carrying unfelt weight. phrases of grief fail to confine me and joys of tomorrow don’t feel free and beyond that lies something holding me, and that is all I see.

grxmx magazine

32

Verbs TW: Suicide. This piece is from the point of view from a person who is trying to understand how people with suicidal tendencies feel and cope up.

Be : being, living, breathing, You live, breathe you do and you be you feel and you know You leave, for me, maybe Comfort : beginning, finding, giving You let in, you need you make and you mean you start and look for you tell and try to see Ask : hesitate, relax, know you understand, you keep you run and tire, you seem you ask, hope and think help doesn’t turn up at your doorstep you reveal.

Exist: paper cuts, phobias and phews The “ifs” and “ands”, the “buts”, the “ors” The “tos” and “yous”, the “dos” and “fors” they tell you to believe in them, the verbs in between but I wish for you the land of adjectives and conjunctions the peace of adverbs, of nouns and of all vocabulary for what is speech and grammar, if not the reason why we be.

Ugly Undone laundry has become my scent, the soiled mucky kitchen sink winks at me.

We don’t see eye to eye, my mop and I. Grace is overrated, I like unclean, ugly. little pores of hair, everywhere in sight my shaver lies with drops of red inside.

Heavy is the chin that hangs, I’ve heard, yet, pressing at right angles, it’ll vanish, you’ll learn disarranged, disheveled and muddy, my normals have become Limpidity isn’t a virtue I possess, it was snatched from me when I was taught about beauty. the hair above my lips welcomes sweat like an old friend from time to time, the white little heads appear as if to greet them with cursive smiles.

The gorgeous dead skin under my feet loses its way to walk. as I pick out the last follicle out of angst pedicures can’t comfort them, they’re calling it self love these days.

Calamine doesn’t cure my blisters anymore, it knows of the chemicals I’ve been cheating on it with. a delivery bag at the wrong place, my bulgy bladder, am I to embrace?

The poetry that my dark pouches recite, you should listen, sometimes.

Cavities in my mouth don’t feel that hollow now, they have a charm, you know. brows out of shape seem to be aware of the people I meet, epilating the strains of extras away. my curvy ill shaped fingers have a way of their own, they own my palm like no jem could.

I sit comfortably without those thigh gaps, I’m told of the midnight irritable scratches on my navel speak of my wars.

It’s parched, of love, the nit picked hairline on my forehead so is this world, future wrinkles whisper to my rough skin.

Outgrown intentions and doubtful shames are waxed off in the parlour this time.

(PHOTO)

grxmx magazine

33

rotten bougainvillea has become my scent, Dusty drawers smile and mosquitoes dance around ugly, I’m labelled, and so I’ll be but aah, how will the filthy tapestries in your head, ever compete with me. we still don’t see eye to eye, my standards and I looks like we’re all out of sanitizers and wet wipes.

My little dandelion It’s been a few days since I saw you, a deeply toothed grin and a bright rosette of tiny leaves they sway in solitude, or the wind forces them to. as the seeds mature, they elongate into those white collars they’re taught about.

Their breath snatched, a tiny ounce of dignity in the mud nearby.

The sky turns red and the rivers turn blue as the howls and shrieks of yester, turn true Blue and orange and green and white, they’ve painted their sins into the fetus has his hand cut off, the lotus shrinks in two Nani tells me Alexander cried as Indus bled, he too was brought to doom she says Peace has given up, empathy is buried alive I’ve heard of a tea stall being built on a thousand death tombs.

It’s been a few days since I saw you, it seems you’ve shed your irrationalities way You’re ready to jump and jazz through the grass, your strands appear to be intertwined with your roots your stem is stronger than ever it seems, mum doesn’t leave without a tight hug you see.

It makes me happy to see one prodigious among many soon you’ll be a ball of feathery bristles with the seed, the stem and the leaves.

It’s been seven years, my little dandelion and I never forget to walk past you.

Toppled, plucked, torn and bruised over and over I tried throwing in a seed or two some years ago, an unseasonable dove flew and pecked that too.

I stare at your roots, whatever is left of them. the weeds weeped and your bristles shrieked.

The stem was cut, the leaves left shelterless.

It’s been seven years now, even moss doesn’t grow there.

Blue and Green Oh how we grew and grew together my slippers are clogged with the earth beneath the untouched warmth in between the silence spilled separately in distant solitude the end to the line, the semicolons of those incomplete idioms oh how we grew and outgrew each other my toes remain ingrained with those mid soles a phoenix circling around by yearns, a stag steering me through a conscious cavern, the forgetfulness of the sunflowers to not feel the sun it’s the silhouettes we spoke about, the loves we laughed at the fingers tapping away restlessly, wrong words at right times Hypothesis of their soul with hyperboles of our own The jealousies that fleeted by, the aesthetics still not captured my insecurities we slurped down, your flaws we calmly sealed I see new skin on your wound today, As though nowness of the world got to us

(PHOTO)

Oh how we grew and grew again in the poetry that ushered in our hearts, in the oxymorons that turned opposite through the dreams we urged each other to feel, through all that jazz and empathy for when nostalgia was my saviour and humour was yours Prayers unasked for, the grins we wallowed as I put those slippers away, freedom decorated my feet we could be turquoise after all, blue and green.

Translucent We used to believe in the sun, and tear the grass beneath Dusk tethered it’s being and the rabbits dug their holes.

To gasp, heave and sigh, was what I thought writing could be,

grxmx magazine

34

And then she told me, to mould and weave my mind into stories Tales only told by a figment of me, I asked, why not all?

Was let out of the theatre group, swore off writing stories.

Today, I crushed a dry root in the midst of my fingers One part hatred, another vigour and one of familiar foreign tears.

Bones crack and muscles collide, as a family of four walk past me; a picnic of formalities Some thousand miles away, a motherless child lets out a giggle martyrs were never celebrated as much.

Onset of autumn, my vocabulary curbs and folds on its own.

Who will understand my poetry, who will look at the rust intertwining the iron antique.

It appears translucent all of a sudden, I’ve rubbed the glass so many times.

The follicles of Brown home up in my palm, maybe this is all to just pass through.

The heaviness is like the brand new journal I’m scared to stain, Like the clutcher forcing my hair to settle but the wind slaps it ahead, Like when I stole the lyrics from the country song and my soul stole the rhythm like the shrug of hesitation she knitted into a blanket.

I tear the grass roots alone now, with the sun still up as rabbits dig their holes.

We’re two words pushed in a sentence together, the world and I. Reminiscing the ukele I broke, the strings that homed up in my palm; Harps and violins attempt to pull me, mix my mind with minstrelsy But they belong to those who act, and now the stage appears translucent.

To pretend comes to me with great difficulty, maybe that’s why I can’t write stories.

Of him Of him On a blue pale evening, he lay unturned Grandpa, I said, tell me about the world His lips were parched and eyes were glazed Cheeks shriveled up and bones decayed.

Ah, my child, there is so much to learn Of trees and treasures, of tales unheard.

Of life, he said, is a lovely verse A poem so potent, a song to rehearse To give and love, he said, is the key To laugh with your heart, is to live truly.

Of death, he said, is a soothing sleep A calming oblivion, a dark pit too deep For It knows not bias of valour and defeat When breaths are traded but souls decease.

Of love, he said, is a rather tricky task For it takes longer than life to last To let the sweet warm blaze consume And yet, feel the joy of the ashes bloom.

Of nature, he said, will always be A home to you and all things of beauty In simple lilies and parrots chirping by, In the babbling brooks or a cuckoos cry.

Of happiness, he said, I can’t tell you much.

For there is no one thing as such It could be in a small hut where the kids have one meal a day Or in the bungalow where the walls have more to say.

It could be lying under the soft sun Or on the sofa talking to your little one.

On that blue, pale evening, he lay unturned I asked him, grandpa, will you return ?

His lips were parched and eyes were glazed Cheeks shriveled up and bones decayed.

Ah, my child, there is so much that is ours and still gone But you must remember that if dusk is yours, so is dawn.

grxmx magazine

35

BOOK T OW AT

CH

BUILD YOUR BRAND

“Everything in this book is either based on actual advice given to start-up entrepreneurs who have been successful, existing business owners who have added substantial value to their businesses and sold them and learnt from others who have successfully set up, grown and sold their businesses.”

ONE STEP AT A TIME WITH ADRIAN SMITH

B

AN EXTRACT FROM 7 WAYS TO DOUBLE THE VALUE OF YOUR BUSINESS

efore jumping straight in, I thought I would tell you a little about me and how this book came to be. This is not a self-help book, which helps you get into the entrepreneurial mindset, it will not tell you about the attitudes you need to develop, it is not intended to get you into the “state of mind”. It is not about positive thinking, thinking clearly under pressure or any of the leadership and self-development books you may see around. This is not going to be about psychology of an entrepreneur. Rather, it is devoted to working on your business, whether it is at the idea stage, or whether you are running your own business.

Everything in this book is either based on actual advice given to start-up entrepreneurs who have been successful, existing business owners who have added substantial value to their businesses and sold them and learnt from others who have successfully set up, grown and sold their businesses.

There are also a few points learnt from those businesses and start-ups, including my own, which failed.

I have run my own advisory business since 2005, and my company specialises in providing three services (or solving three business problems): • Start-ups and getting businesses off the ground (so, in problem-solving speak, “just because you’ve got a great idea, it doesn’t mean you can turn it into a great business”).

• Growth: when business owners realise that doing “more of the same” will not continue to drive the growth and the owner realises that they need to do something different (so, in problem speak, “just because you’ve got a business, it doesn’t mean it can grow”) .

• Making your business more valuable and selling it (so, in problem speak, “just because you’ve got a business, it doesn’t mean it will sell for the value you want”).

The expertise I needed to be able to do this was based on the fact that I used to be a marketing and strategy consultant

for a number of businesses and worked in corporate finance, where we used to do c. 30–35 deals a year and as part of my role I would analyse announced deals (which in the tech sector was around 4,000 a year), so I got to see a lot of fundraising, acquisitions and business sales.

I saw companies raise money successfully, sell for large amounts of money (our range was £5m–£20m). More importantly I think, was that I saw an awful lot of companies fail to raise money, fail to survive if they had managed to sucker a few investors, and fail to sell. The other thing about those projects is that I would often go from knowing nothing and no one, to being an industry expert with the network to call on (or rather the network my client could call on).

This book is based on the work done with a lot of companies to help them identify what they do well, what they need help with and what is holding them back and helping them face a range of hurdles, and as an end result sell for more money.

After a few years of running my own business, I sort of drifted into training, something which I had never planned to do, but really liked it, so I developed a training course and thisbook is based on training I have delivered.

I then realised that what I was saying could be equally applied not only to existing business owners, but also to entrepreneurs at the start-up phase of their journey. The earlier you learn these lessons, the quicker you will be able to attract the stuff you need to get going, and the quicker you will be able to build the sustainability in your business idea, and the higher the value you will get out of it.

This book, three years in the making, is based on information gained through the substantial experience and research conducted and then applied to deliver real advice on a one-to-one basis, and training courses given to start-ups and business owners across the UK.

7 Ways to Double the Value of Your Business by Adrian Smith is available now on Amazon and ghostandribbon.com.

grxmx magazine

36

INNOVATE. MOTIVATE. MAXIMISE.

Me

nto r Gr ing oup str wit aigh h le t f ctu rom rer Ad the rian Ro Sm ckst ith ar .

(PHOTO)

grxmx magazine

37

Image: William Moreland and G&R

FEATURE I am an undergraduate with immense love for reading and writing. I am currently nineteen years old and reside in Pune, India. I hope to inspire many with my pieces of literature in the future!

Love or an Illusion previously published in The Write Order’s anthology named Tryst.

LOVE OR AN ILLUSION?

A

SHRUTI AWATADE

yesha shut her bedroom door with a loud thud and stalked over to her cluttered desk, searching for her laptop. “Why was I ever born in an Indian family?” she wondered aloud.

After having a heated argument with her mother all Ayesha could think of was writing an article for her blog. She switched on her laptop and started typing with such furiosity that the clicks of her keyboard echoed in her room. She typed the title in big bold letters, “The hardships of a common 26-year-old Indian”.

Ayesha’s mother was not a typical Indian woman. Having lived all across the world because of her husband’s transfers in want of a promotion or an update in his job title, her mother had been exposed to the cultures of different countries. Her character had been shaped by these visits and she had developed a sense of tolerance towards opinions and ideas that did not match with hers. However, the notion of getting your 26-year-old daughter married to some wealthy, handsome, and intelligent man remained rooted and innate in her mind. This had become the reason for the frequent quarrels between Ayesha and her mother. Her father no doubt, stayed out of all of this and only intervened when things got out of hand.

Ayesha never understood why her mother was so eager to marry her off to some stranger, and that afternoon, after being suggested to upload her profile on one of those trivial matrimonial websites, she had decided that the serenity of her bedroom would be a great place to cool off. She was not one of those people who did not believe in love or marriage, it was just the concept of these matrimonial websites which she could not bear. She wanted more time to develop in her career and at this peak point, she could not afford to be in a relationship or even think of marrying. “How can you possibly know the character of a person through a screen?

And you expect me to marry some stranger like that?” was what she had said to her mother 10 mins before she decided to retire to her bedroom.

After finishing her piece of writing, she leaned back in her chair and admired her work as if it were one of those hideous prom dresses which the 16-year-olds drool over. She knew that she could write passionately when she was angry. All her emotions flowed from her soul on to the keyboard through her fingers whenever she found herself in this mood. It was this peculiarity that helped Ayesha write articles for her blog. But today, she wrote something different. Usually, her articles spoke about the everyday difficulties a young adult faced in this fast-paced world especially in finding a job and she recommended tips that may help these distressed souls

to come out of their slump. But today was different. Today, she dared herself to write about how a person’s thoughts concerning marriage are conveniently ignored by one’s parents.

“Why are these websites so hyped up anyways?” she asked herself.

“Well, might as well find the reason by myself,” she thought, as she reluctantly opened the first website that appeared below the search bar. A box full of blanks to be filled in by the user for required information popped up on the screen. She pondered for five minutes whether this was going to be worth spending her time on, and finally filled in all her details as well as a photo of herself, which her mother had got her to click explicitly for this purpose. “I am likely to get ghosted anyways,” she thought, as she remembered that time when she had learned from her friends that people get disinterested as soon as they find a better profile. Nevertheless, after checking all the details again for surety, she uploaded her profile, quickly shut down her laptop, and went downstairs to tell her mother of the great deed.

Months went by, but not a single notification came for her from the so-called ‘love guaranteed’ matrimonial website. It was time that her parents started searching for a groom themselves instead of desperately waiting for one to approach their ignorant daughter.

Ayesha sat on her plushy chair with a book in her small hands, close to the window, so that she could bathe in the juice of the morning sun while she devoured the third book in the ‘Shatter Me’ series.

Today her parents would earnestly start searching for her groom after Ayesha’s father came home from work. Today was going to be the first day of her doom. Reluctantly, she kept her book back on the shelf and made her way to her desk. She switched on her laptop, took a deep breath and opened the website to have a look for herself. One way or the other, she was going to have to face this at some point of time. As soon as the tab opened, a notification flickered at the right corner of the screen. Her heart skipped a beat.

She clicked on the tab and a handsome man stared back at her from her laptop. Below the photo, she read, “It’s a match!”. She looked through his profile carefully.

His name was Armaan. Having passed from Shri Ram College of Commerce, Armaan worked in a renowned company and was earning enough to be called rich by her parents and relatives.

He lived in Hyderabad, which was considerably far away from where Ayesha lived, the ‘Oxford of the East’. He had one younger brother, unlike Ayesha, who did not have any siblings. “I can’t believe this”, thought Ayesha. “This has to be some mistake”. She picked up some courage, clicked on the chatbox, and typed, ‘Hi’.

Embarrassed by the stupidity of her action, she decided to close the tab and take a good nap to subdue her thoughts. That was when another notification popped up.

It was a message from Armaan - “Hey there”.

Ayesha stared at the message with disbelief. She typed – “I guess

grxmx magazine

38

my specifications matched yours... ha ha”.

“After reading an entire library and writing articles for a blog, this all I can come up with?”, she thought. Armaan seemed to have not noticed her childish attempt and continued the chat – “Well it seems so. Can I get to know you better? Your profile caught my attention.”

“What seemed so different in my profile?”

“Your blog.”

“What about it?”

“I always keep myself updated with your articles. I really love the way you write.”

“Oh… well thanks.” And this is how their conversation began and lasted for two hours.

When it was time for lunch and Ayesha’s mother had called for her from downstairs, they exchanged goodbyes after which she got up from her chair and walked over to the mirror. Ayesha was definitely that person who you would turn around to look at twice. She looked pretty with soft brown curls cascading down her shoulders. Her hair went well with her lustrous almond-shaped, dark brown eyes. She was beautiful for an accountant and very amusingly broke the misconception that accountants look like nerds. And after those two hours, a blush had crawled to her cheeks to flood them with colour, making her look like one of those dolls she used to play with when she was a small girl. She snapped back from her thoughts about Armaan and walked down to the kitchen.

At dinner, Ayesha told her parents everything she had learned about Armaan with excitement. Their dinner was full of talks revolving around Armaan. Her parents were only all too happy to know that Ayesha was finally beginning to socialize on the website. She even showed his profile to them so that they could be assured of its legitimacy. However, Ayesha was not credulous, and so, she decided to give herself and Armaan a few months to get to know each other before her too excited parents decided to dress Armaan in a traditional wedding suit. The next day, she told Amraan about this idea, to which he unhesitatingly agreed.

Summer transformed into Winter and the chilly breeze started to creep through the small cracks in Ayesha’s window frame. The leaves had taken departure and fallen to the ground leaving the trees bare in the cold, but the sweet relationship between Ayesha and Armaan had bloomed into a lovely flower. The bond between them like a tether had only tightened during these months and they became lovers.

Gone was the insecurity Ayesha had had when she had first put up her details on the website after scanning through the profiles of the other girls who had achievements that towered over hers. Now, she spoke to Armaan without hesitance and with confidence.

However, this distance between them stood like a barrier as both of them longed to meet the person who they had found so casually on a matrimonial website. This longdistance made their hearts ache with the longing to meet each other. That was when Ayesha decided that it was time to pay a surprise visit to her beloved Armaan. She acquired his mother’s phone number with great difficulty and asked her parents to make a call regarding their surprise visit. Ayesha couldn’t control her excitement and squealed with glee when the arrangement was done.

She picked out the best outfit she could find for this occasionan elegant salwar kameez in the colour of her cheeks, which turned the faintest of pink whenever she thought about Armaan. Surely this would be a decent attire that would be appreciated by his parents.

Soon everyone was ready and seated in the car which would take them to Ayesha’s to be in-laws. Ayesha’s heart began to hammer against her chest as the engine started.

rang the bell, for she was frozen in her place and was too feverish to do it by herself. It was Armaan’s mother who opened the door and greeting them with a warm welcome, ushered them inside.

Ayesha’s heart skipped beats as she set her foot inside the house.

Armaan’s house looked even more appalling from the inside. But Ayesha’s eyes did not care for the glamourous details inside the house, they only searched for her Armaan. That’s when she heard someone coming down the stairs and looked up to see his brother.

She had known that it was his brother for Armaan had once sent her a photo of his family and had introduced his brother as Ishaan.

Ishaan stopped midway and stared at Ayesha with wide eyes.

She was just about to greet him when Armaan walked into the living room and looked at her with a puzzled face. Ayesha’s face brightened at the sight of him and she stood up. She had finally done it. She could finally talk to him in person and do all the things she had planned to do after meeting him.

But Armaan still didn’t show any sign of recognition and glanced at his parents with a questioning look. Ayesha slowly walked over to him and said, “Armaan I’m so delighted to see you!”

Sizing up Ayesha, he asked, “Who are you?”. She took this as sarcasm and with a soft laugh replied, “Oh so you want to crack jokes on our first meet?” There was still no sign of joy or excitement on his face.

He said, “No, why would I joke with a person I have never met?”

The colour started to drain from Ayesha’s face. Everyone in the room looked confused and puzzled. One look at him told Ayesha that Armaan wasn’t joking. Tears started to cloud her eyes.

Then, as if in queue, Ishaan spoke from a quiet corner of the room, “It was me.” Tears rolled down Ayesha’s cheeks as she turned around to look at the person who she had devoted her heart to, who she had unconditionally loved all these months and who she had longed to meet.

She whispered, “Why?” Ishaan looked at Ayesha and everyone remained silent. His love for her was visible from the way his eyes scanned her tear-stained face.

He started, “I wanted to be in a relationship and find someone who would overlook my weaknesses, who would love me for my character and for who I am. I have always been insecure about the way I look and with a brother like Armaan, I had no chance.

Armaan has always been the good-looking one of us two. Despite being just a year elder than me he earns much more than I do and in front of his achievements mine are not even worth noting. I thought of using his photo and details to make my own profile so that for once I could speak to a woman with confidence. And that’s how I found you. You made me realize that there is nothing more important in this world than loving yourself. And in all of this, I decided to keep my identity a secret till we decided to meet. I had no idea you were planning to come to meet me otherwise I would have told you sooner….”

Ishaan was cut off by Ayesha’s father who looked furious enough that she thought he was about to explode. “Well you didn’t tell her anything of that sort and we have no interest in keeping any relations with an imposter.” With that, he stormed out of the house with his wife following him in disappointment.

Ayesha took one last look at Ishaan for she knew she would never see him again. Although he had committed such a horrendous act, she knew she would still have a place for him in her delicate heart.

With one pained look at Ishaan, she turned around and walked towards the doorway as a tearful Ishaan watched her stepping over the threshold of his house.

@shruti_27121

/in/shruti-awatade-58a53220b

Armaan’s two-storied bungalow was surrounded by a beautiful garden which seemed to have been withered by the winter cold. Ayesha and her parents did not waste time and headed towards the front porch. It was Ayesha’s father who grxmx magazine

39

THE REMINDER AT THE WINDOW

JENNIFER C. BALL

M

y Uncle Frank was lying on the couch in our living room when it first happened. He looked to his left to the glass window that normally displays a sizeable evergreen tree in our side yard. That day, we had a surprise visitor. The bird was red with a tiny mohawk and black around the eyes like a raccoon. Tap. Flutter. Tap. Flutter. Tap. The tip of its red beak kept hitting the glass as it flapped its wings.

Several months earlier, my family and I were pinning teal ribbons on dark clothing. Teal is the symbol for ovarian cancer, which claimed my Aunt Sue’s life. The cancer had finally taken her, leaving her husband, my Uncle Frank, and two children on Earth. We provided hugs and comfort to her sons and my uncle.

Life continued to unfold without Aunt Sue, or so we thought. ~ While Aunt Sue struggled with ovarian cancer, Uncle Frank took her to doctor appointments and made sure she was as comfortable as possible. Amid the activity, he neglected his own health. He had already survived a bout of kidney cancer a few years before, but he was so busy working and caring for my aunt that he started missing his own doctor appointments. Her needs were more important. He’d return to the doctor after she passed away, he thought.

When he did, it was too late. The cancer was back. After a couple months, we realized he was getting worse, and my mom suggested he move in with us to facilitate his care. So he did. ~ And that brought us to the moment we first saw the bird at the window. The back of our house was wooded, full of insects, deer, and rabbits. Growing up, my dad would often call me over to the back window to see a hawk soaring high above the sky or a wily coyote sneaking through the yard.

@jenniferclareball

This time he said: “It’s a cardinal.”

At family dinner a few weeks later, my uncle explained that he started noticing the same bird coming back to the same window, day after day. We discussed the visitor—and its spiritual significance. A cardinal sighting is supposed to be a message from a spirit.

“The spiritually sensitive often experience a red cardinal sighting as a message from Spirit, and for good reason. When Spirit wants to attract your attention in a positive way, Spirit will find a way to do so, and in a way that brings you joy . . . It bridges the gap between Earth and Spirit, and it also brings the wisdom of the Universe to our doorsteps in a bright and beautiful way. All we have to do is pay attention,” I read to my family from a blog post devoted to cardinals.

While I grew up in a Catholic home, we had lost our devoutness after I entered high school. Weekly church attendance dwindled to a couple times a year, on major holidays. We were “Creasters,” as some might say, only attending mass on Christmas and Easter.

But even though we weren’t as religious as we used to be, our family maintained a sense of spiritual belief.

At dinner, the next part didn’t need to be said. The cardinal was a sign from Aunt Sue. She was his angel, and she was sending him a message.

The cardinal returned to the evergreen tree on the side of our house day after day. Tap. Flutter. Tap. Flutter. Tap. “Look who’s back,” Uncle Frank said, a wide grin lighting up his face.

The cardinal liked the evergreen tree next to the side window in our house. Evergreen trees stay thick and provide shelter through the winter months. They offer safety and protection by surrounding the bird with foliage. I can relate—it’s nice to feel surrounded, protected. It feels like home. Also, when cardinals mate, they mate for life.

On Uncle Frank’s final night, he knew what was happening. “I think you should call the boys. Just in case,” he told my mom.

She knew what he meant.

She called his two sons. It was after midnight, but it didn’t much matter. We sat up until the early morning hours talking and

@jennifercball grxmx magazine 40

@jennifercball

FEATURE sharing memories. I fell asleep on the small couch next to the hospital bed that now took up half our living room. He fell asleep after me that morning. And never woke up.

My mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law, cousins, and another uncle were present when it really happened, late the next night. My mom heard a gasping sound. The hum from the television in the background was silenced. Everyone froze, then got up and stood around him. It was quiet. He softly breathed several more times until he just didn’t anymore. We surrounded him as he took his final breaths. Tears streaming down everyone’s faces, we decided to pray. I was the voice, thanking God for the time we had with him and asking that He take my uncle into His arms. I asked that Uncle Frank be united with Aunt Sue. After the prayer, my dad said, “He’s going to Heaven.”

The next morning, my parents and I sipped coffee in the living room. It was quiet. Suddenly, we heard that familiar tap on the glass window. The cardinal was back, but this time, there was not just one cardinal but two. Two teacup-sized redbirds with tiny mohawks. We exchanged wide-eyed looks. My uncle had joined my aunt. They were both back to visit.

Time after time, when my uncle was alive, he said the familiar words: “Smile.” In every situation, Uncle Frank would make you laugh. Even at Aunt Sue’s funeral, we found subtle humor in the fact that the florist misspelled my sister’s name, replacing Molly for Millie. I confided in him while he lived with us about my tribulations finding a decent boyfriend.

I’ll never forget what he said: “You have every reason to smile. Look at all the boys chasing after you!” I still recall that memory to this day, and when I do, a wide grin appears on my face. I can only hope a simple smile brightens other people’s days the way Uncle Frank’s words brightened mine.

These two birds at the window were our joyful reminders of Uncle Frank’s legacy. Maybe this was what the cardinal’s purpose was: a bright, vibrant bird placed on this earth to make us smile. Be happy, laugh often, smile. This was his legacy.

Jennifer Clare Ball is a science writing graduate student at Johns Hopkins University. She lives in Chicago, Illinois, and spends her free time reading, writing, and cycling through the Windy City. Her work has been featured in WIRED, Popular Science, and

Sierra Magazine. Find her online at www.jennifercball.com.

~ Significant losses in life are called cardinal losses. Unlike losing your keys or even a distant relative you never got to know, cardinal loss is the loss of a human life, a human that was close to you. With cardinal losses, you start measuring life in terms of before and after. In the Roman Catholic Church, senior Church officials are called cardinals. The Choctaw tribe believes the redbird is an omen regarding relationships—if you are single, a cardinal may signify that you will meet someone. In other faiths, there are four key archangels, and they are called Cardinal Angels, or angels of the highest authority. In Christianity, cardinals symbolize the blood of Christ. In our family, cardinals play an important role, too.

Years passed since my uncle’s death and the duo of cardinals tapped on my parents’ window. I moved into an apartment, this time in a big city, all by myself, in the middle of a pandemic. Not being able to see or hug or touch other people was, at best, mildly depressing.

One rainy morning, I saw a redbird with a tiny mohawk and black around the eyes in my kitchen window. I moved closer.

Surely, I thought, it would scare and fly away, but it didn’t.

I watched the cardinal on my windowsill for nearly half an hour. I knew. Uncle Frank was checking on me, reminding me that he was still present and giving me every reason in the world to smile.

/in/jennifercball

grxmx magazine

41

Image: Patrice Bouchard

Ramyani Deb

grxmx magazine

42

Frida Kahlo X Starry Night

I’m 18 and from india. I have an immense love for art, poetry and literature. I like to illustrate and write in my free time. Even though I’m relatively new to both these fields, they keep me sane.

TONIGHT

I Wait For You

As you wrap your arms aroun me And whisper the word LOVE into my ears My anxiety mistakes it for LEAVE Again.

You see, Me and anxiety are like roomates.

We don’t always get along that well But she never leaves my side.

I understand how hard it is to be with the two of us I understand that when you moved in with me you weren’t expecting to share the bed with a third person.

I know nights like this are especially hard Nights when she lies in between us Like barbed wire separating two pieces of land.

You can see that the grass is greener on the other side But you odn’t wanna risk ending up with wounds and scars.

And then there are days when I have to fight with her before I talk to you.

She’s possessive, she doesn’t like me being around you.

She wants me all to herself.

Sometimes she traps me in my head Stands with the keys in her hand Looks me in the eye and dares me to unlock it.

I remember my mother telling me about the legend of Hamlin as a kid How the rats crawled towards the sound of the pipe knowking very well it is humans that destroy them.

Every time I try to take the keys from her She looks at me And I can feel my body stiffen Like Medusa’s gaze, she turns my body to a mere cold, lifeless stone.

I cannot move And she just smiles at me like she knows I will keep crawling back to her no matter how much it destroys me.

She knows I need her She knows I need her and she loves it.

On days when I try to tell her that she hurts me That her words fell like a child dipping his hands into a bowl of ice expecting to find warmth there I can hear her say “look around, Watch how the whole world dances to the

@ramyani._

sound of your heart breaking inside your ribcage.

It’s music for them, honey” So I keep breaking my own heart over and over again Just so I can give people something to like about me Something that they won’t get bored of.

No one gets bored of music, right?

Right?

My mothere used to tell Life is like a puzzle You can always break it up And start over.

But she never told me that no matter how many times you break up a puzzle and redo it It is always going to form the same picture The picture of my anxiety with her arms stretched out waiting for me to crawl back inside them.

But you see, I do not tell you all this I let you whisper words of love into my ears As she sits there translating them into the only language I ahve never known A language that destroys me/ it’s funny how her mouth just never seems to run dry.

The next day when you wake up in the morning You tell me About how you think it’s best if ewe live separately for some time How we all need ample space sometimes, don’t we?

I keep quiet.

You tell me you hate my anxiety.

And I want to tell you about how I’ve heard people say if you spend too much time with someone You start becoming like them.

I have lived with anxiety for sooo long that she’s a part of me now.

Say my name and you’ll hear these walls echo her voice into your ears.

But instead I watch as you walk out the door.

You don’t look back You never do.

I walk back into my room And I see her sitting on one side of the bed.

She laughs and says “Didn’t I tell you I’m the longest relationship you’ll ever have.

Come over now. Lets’s lie down, shall we?

There’s extra space on the bed now.”

grxmx magazine

43

I wait for you like the leaves wait for the wind to sweep them off their feet and dance like the greatest music you’ll ever need is tucked in the corners of nature.

I wait for you like the waves wait to be reunited with the shor like they are secret lovers fighting against the world that breaks them apart every second.

I wait for you the way sunflowers wait for the sun.

The way spring waits for flowers.

The way a goodbye waits for another hello.

I love you I love you the way a poet loves words.

Or the way words love a poet’s mouth like the wombt hat gave birth to them.

Or the way a womb stretches and makes room for a life that isn’t even born yet.

The way an artist loves a piece of paper like it can change the world.

Or the way he loves his unfinished paintings.

Kept in the dark, hidden from the eyes Like they can change his world.

Or the way he loves his paintbrush like it is his world.

I long for you But I have never met you.

How do my hands long for something they have never held?

How does my body crave a touch they have never felt?

I love you the way the sun loves the moon.

Forever craving a feeling never felt Forever reaching out for something unattainable Forever wondering Forever longing.

FEATURE

@Rachel Parker

@rachel_parker_

/in/rachel-parker-650984202

The Truth about Gods.

The Story of Atlas

If only they told the truth about the gods.

You tell me you believe,

About how Athena turned Medusa into a gorgon to protect

But the weight was too heavy to bare.

her from being used as a man’s toy as she was by Poseidon but

That I would struggle to breathe,

later still turned on her and was the one who told Perseus how

I wouldn’t get enough air.

to kill her.

But how could I do anything else?

Because it’s all well and good protecting fellow women until a man

When the choice was to carry the world on my shoulders, Or to lose my love under the weight of a thousand boulders.

with a so-called greater mission comes along.

Or about how Persephone, first named Kore, was enamored

I gained the respect of a Goddess.

by the Underworld and Hades and chose to bite into the

Made a Titan feel restless.

pomegranate but was renamed Chaos Bringer regardless while

But all I could think of was how I had to get through this.

they believed her mother instead of her.

Because everybody knows better about what a girl wants than the girl herself, and when they go against it, it is seen as chaotic

Constellations

and destructive.

The Gods are screaming our names in the night.

Or how Icarus was so in love with the sun and the idea of

Can you hear them?

freedom that he flew against caution and loved every second

Do you hear them?

of his fall.

They’re holding a place in the stars for us.

Because it’s so easy to turn a story about love and freedom into one

Can you see it?

Don’t you see it?

about caution and control.

We’re going down in history, For taking back our destinies.

The Weight of the World

We made it!

Oh and you waltzed through life with the strength of Atlas.

Oh how we made it!

Shoulders held back with your head held high,

Fighting back the misery,

Even beneath the crushing weight.

At last, we each found our victories.

It’s a shame you died that way too,

Together,

Buried underneath the rubble of your youth.

We will travel the stars forever.

RACHEL PARKER IS A WRITER AND POET WHO FOCUSES ON SMALL COLLECTIONS OF POETIC PROSE THAT HOPE TO BRING FICTION INTO REALITY IN WAYS THAT CHALLENGE PEOPLE’S PERCEPTION OF WHAT THEY ARE TOLD. BASED IN LIVERPOOL, SHE IS CURRENTLY STUDYING BUSINESS AND LAW AT UNIVERSITY AS WELL AS WORKING A PART-TIME JOB WHILE LIVING WITH HER FAMILY. THIS IS THE FIRST PUBLISHED WORK OF RACHEL’S, THOUGH SHE HOPES TO HAVE MANY MORE.

grxmx magazine

44

Rachel Parker

Imagination I lock myself inside my own mind Living rent free with no noise

FEATURE

I let my imagination get the better of me But I like it like that Life outside is scary I get sad and angry I scream with agony But I can’t express myself With all my emotions I struggle to put words together Only to be misunderstood I lock myself in my imagination It’s much safer there I can feel I can express And most importantly I am me Hidden pain I tell myself keep your sad feelings hidden They will go away soon And happiness will take over But sadness takes over too I smile to keep people from telling me to smile But I don’t want to I don’t feel like smiling This hidden pain I keep inside So others can sleep peacefully But what about me?

I cannot keep this up no more This hidden pain Is keeping me hidden From loved ones

Hope In dark days like these we are frightened of what life has become our fears are now in front of us left right and centre “the end is here” they say all hope is lost or so we think A shining light awaits us from afar Though we are unaware What the future would be Our hearts and minds are bursting with with fear and hope The two words that cannot be mates One is a enemy and one is a friend We must decide our fate

www.iwritestuff.site123.me/

Fear was a cruel person

www.thecwordmag.co.uk/ wellness/epilepsy-and-me

But hope is the friend we need when we need cheering up

Always letting our feelings down Hope will save us from the horrible fear Hope is like a songbird

“Growing up in England , I have always wanted to be a writer.

I have already published poetry in different anthologies and is hoping to find more writing opportunities.I am passionate about writing stories and I continue to find inspiration.

Writing has been nothing but a joy and a motivating activity that I wish to continue to do. I have always been interested in learning about the writer’s ability create powerful emotions and how it can influence readers like myself to see the world in a new light. I want to prosper in her writing and prove to myself that I am able to write to the best of my ability in the long run. “

It will fill your soul with the beautiful tune and melodies It will make you feel warm And refreshes your soul.

In dark days like these, hope is your only friend An invisible guardian angel We can’t seem them but we can feel their presence In our heart and soul

Ubah Hussien Image:Malachi Brooks

CR

LISTINGS

Books Cheltenham Literature Festival When: 8–17 October 2021 Where: Cheltenham Town Hall, UK Who: Bernadine Evaristo, Susie Dent, Michael Morpurgo London Book Fair When: 5–7 April 2022 Where: Olympia, London, UK Who: Publishers and various speakers Online Book Club www.onlinebookclub.org Saratoga Book Festival When: October 15, 2021 Where: Saratoga Springs, NY, USA Hindu Lit For Life When: 12–14 January 2022 Where: Dehli, India Emirates Airline Festival Of Literature When: 2–7 February 2022 Where: Dubai, UAE

St Paul’s Cathedral Image: Lukas Blaskevicius

Free Virtual Events

Art Exhibitions

IDP IELTS Writing Workshop (SEA) When: 18 August, 15 September 2021] By: IDP Education Limited (SEA)

E

‘Côté Jardin: from Monet to Bonnard’ When: Until 1 November 2021 Where: Musée des Impressionnismes, Giverny, France

The Future of Food When: 16 August 2021 By: UNSW Centre for Ideas UNSW Centre for Ideas When: 10 August 2021 By: Black History Walks

Online: Welcome to St Paul’s Cathedral A Virtual Tour When: 18 August 2021 By: Guildhall Library

Intro to Mobile: Designing on your Device When: 3 August 2021 By: Canva Design School Out in Tech | Pixel Party 8-Bit Style Networking Event When: 5 August 2021 By: Out in Tech

Podcasts The Allusionist Language & Lexicon

T

Answer Me This!

Comedy Savvy Painter Art The Go Creative Show Art, Film, Visual Art Design Matters Design Australian Design Radio Design Wire Frame UX Design

One of a Kind Spring Show When: March 24–28, 2022 Where: Enercare Centre Exhibition Place, 100 Princes’ Blvd, Toronto, ON, Canada

A

Shanghai Contemporary Art Fair When: 11-14 November 2021 Where: Shanghai Exhibition Centre, China

Music

I

All Points East When: 27–29 August 2021 Where: Victoria Park, London Who: Jamie xx, Kano, Slowthai, Arlo Parks, Bicep, Foals

V E S

Glastonbury When: September? Organisers have cancelled but also submitted an application to hold a smaller, one-off concert on Worthy Farm in September, although that show is still unconfirmed.

Where: Cancelled/Online Coachella When: April 15, 17, 22–24, 2022 Where: Indio, CA South by South West When: March 11–20, 2022 Where: Austin, TX

The Passion People Podcast Philosophy

The Habit Coach with Ashdin Doctor Health Six Pixels of Separation Marketing

Ashley For The Arts 2021 When: 12–14 August 2021 Where: 551 Memorial Park Dr, Arcadia, WI, USA

Guns N’ Roses When: 14 November 2021 Where: Stadium Australia, NSW Bangalore Open Air When: 4 December 2021 Where: Ramada by Wyndham Yelahanka

Bengaluru

Escapade Music Festival 2021 When: 3 September 2021 Where: TD Place, Ontario, ON, Canada Delta Festival When: 27–30 August 2021 Where: Plage du Prado, Marseille, France

grxmx magazine

46

subscribe THREE ISSUES: JULY, OCTOBER, DECEMBER 2021 ANNUAL: PRINT & DIGITAL £20 DIGITAL (VIA ISSUU) £10.00 2021 PER ISSUE: PRINT & DIGITAL £7.50 DIGITAL (VIA ISSUU) £5.00

SEE

EVERY WORD

feel

EVERY WORD typesetting | design | delivery