The King's Journal: Issue 16

16

coming together

The king’s journal Issue 16 - est. 2012 winter 2021

poetry - prose - essay -visual arts

Autumn/Winter Issue 2021

Autumn/Winter Issue 2021

Committee

Blandine H. Social Media Secretary

Aditya V. Editor-In-Chief

Andres J. M. Treasurer

Maisie A. Non-Fiction Editor

Harriet H. Graphic Designer Lucile D.L. Poetry Editor

James M. Prose Editor

Stella G. Graphic Designer

Committee

Blandine H. Social Media Secretary

Aditya V. Editor-In-Chief

Andres J. M. Treasurer

Maisie A. Non-Fiction Editor

Harriet H. Graphic Designer Lucile D.L. Poetry Editor

James M. Prose Editor

Stella G. Graphic Designer

Editor’s Note

Contributing Editors

Poetry Masarra Haider Palak Dhandhi May Zaben Sidhi Mittal Olivia Kim Karolína Silberová

Prose Tom Denham Gordon Wong Karolína Silberová Victoria Langfod

After many blurry lines, shabby scribbles, and countless attempts in trying to come up with the “ideal” note, I’ve decided to put out an honest one. As my final year of undergrad at KCL seems to be going by in a blaze, I’m penning down the first of my two letters for KCL Journal, now “The King’s Journal.” It’s bittersweet to say the least. This edition is very close to my heart not because I’m editor-in-chief, but because in an attempt to pull this issue together I’ve made new friends and found new people, but more importantly, I’ve found my people. Spending 1.5 years back at home and missing out on most of my “university life”, I came to London only to be pushed into the deep end soon after, which hasn’t been the easiest ride. (However, not going to deny that cheap beer at The Vault helps for sure.)

“Coming Together” is much more than just a theme consistent with the timeline representing our past editions, leading on from “Beyond Time” and “New Beginnings”. “Coming Together” is living and reliving again. Thousands of people flooded campuses again. While some of us were running around trying to make up for a lost time, others were in a constant state of nostalgia of the time spent here before lockdown – but I hope this edition has something for each one of you, whether it be to inspire or to reignite. It could rejuvenate friendships, times lost, love forgotten, and memories in frames that gather dust in your lofts.

The process of putting together this edition has not just been food for the soul, but a rather humbling journey full of learning and new experiences. I’ve made countless mistakes throughout the learning process, but I’ve had a very amazing group in James, Lucile, Maisie, Andres, Stella, Blandine, Hari and an amazing team of contributing editors who’ve come together in its truest sense and helped me navigate my way through this journey.

However, most importantly, we at The King’s Journal are extremely grateful to each and every one of our fantastic writers, photographers and artists. Having had the privilege of reading every writer’s work and being awestruck by the photos submitted, something I shall forever cherish, has been an extraordinary experience. Some of the works are emotional, tear-jerking rollercoasters, while others are wholesome and like a warm blanket on a cold winter night.

Every line of this edition is carefully read, re-read, and delicately edited to the best of our capabilities. We’ve truly weaved this issue together, one page at a time.

And finally, to you, dear reader – I hope that this edition serves a soft touch, from our hearts to yours, and plays a small part in your journey as you take baby steps back into the world after the pandemic, for this edition is much more yours than it is ours.

On a closing note – Years and years and years’ll go by, You and I shall meet again.

Reminisce tonight, must you and me, Break bread and make memories to keep.

Aditya Verma -

Editor’s Note

Contributing Editors

Poetry Masarra Haider Palak Dhandhi May Zaben Sidhi Mittal Olivia Kim Karolína Silberová

Prose Tom Denham Gordon Wong Karolína Silberová Victoria Langfod

​​ After many blurry lines, shabby scribbles, and countless attempts in trying to come up with the “ideal” note, I’ve decided to put out an honest one. As my final year of undergrad at KCL seems to be going by in a blaze, I’m penning down the first of my two letters for KCL Journal, now “The King’s Journal.” It’s bittersweet to say the least. This edition is very close to my heart not because I’m editor-in-chief, but because in an attempt to pull this issue together I’ve made new friends and found new people, but more importantly, I’ve found my people. Spending 1.5 years back at home and missing out on most of my “university life”, I came to London only to be pushed into the deep end soon after, which hasn’t been the easiest ride. (However, not going to deny that cheap beer at The Vault helps for sure.)

“Coming Together” is much more than just a theme consistent with the timeline representing our past editions, leading on from “Beyond Time” and “New Beginnings”. “Coming Together” is living and reliving again. Thousands of people flooded campuses again. While some of us were running around trying to make up for a lost time, others were in a constant state of nostalgia of the time spent here before lockdown – but I hope this edition has something for each one of you, whether it be to inspire or to reignite. It could rejuvenate friendships, times lost, love forgotten, and memories in frames that gather dust in your lofts.

The process of putting together this edition has not just been food for the soul, but a rather humbling journey full of learning and new experiences. I’ve made countless mistakes throughout the learning process, but I’ve had a very amazing group in James, Lucile, Maisie, Andres, Stella, Blandine, Hari and an amazing team of contributing editors who’ve come together in its truest sense and helped me navigate my way through this journey.

However, most importantly, we at The King’s Journal are extremely grateful to each and every one of our fantastic writers, photographers and artists. Having had the privilege of reading every writer’s work and being awestruck by the photos submitted, something I shall forever cherish, has been an extraordinary experience. Some of the works are emotional, tear-jerking rollercoasters, while others are wholesome and like a warm blanket on a cold winter night.

Every line of this edition is carefully read, re-read, and delicately edited to the best of our capabilities. We’ve truly weaved this issue together, one page at a time.

And finally, to you, dear reader – I hope that this edition serves a soft touch, from our hearts to yours, and plays a small part in your journey as you take baby steps back into the world after the pandemic, for this edition is much more yours than it is ours.

On a closing note – Years and years and years’ll go by, You and I shall meet again.

Reminisce tonight, must you and me, Break bread and make memories to keep.

Aditya Verma -

Contents

visual arts BLANDINE HAUSMANN pg. 31-34

poetry I USE LEMON JUICE SO MY FRUIT SALAD DOESNT GO BROWN, Simran Garcha pg.1

MY ARMS ARE BIG ENOUGH TO HOLD ME, Eden Chapman pg. 18

HAYFEVER, Eden Chapman pg. 2

DIHYDROGEN MONOXIDE, Saba Ahmed pg. 19-20

DECEMBER SONG, Arya Sharma pg. 3

CLOSURE, Francis Fowler pg.21

YOU AND I, Daria Sommerhoff pg. 4 WHAT TO DO WHEN PRAYING, Saul Levene pg. 5-6 SAND OR WATER, Masarra Haider pg. 7-10 ON LOVE, Jules Sokolowksa pg. 11 WOE, Anon pg. 12 WHEN WILL THIS ETERNAL FLAME COME FORTH, May Zeben pg. 13-14 BLOOM, A.C pg. 15 THE BALCONY, Francis Fowler pg. 15 GILGAMESH, Teal pg. 16 MY BODY AND I, Daria Sommerhoff pg. 17

WALKING HOME IN WINTER, Francis Fowler, pg. 21 SETTLERS, Francis Fowler pg. 22 FIRST RAIN, Arya Sharma pg. 23-24 BIANCA, Lara Mae Simpson pg. 25 THE MANOR, Eden Chapmen pg. 26 GALATEA, Lucile D pg . 27 PRAYER, Saul Levene pg. 28 VELOUR, Eden Chapman pg. 29 FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS, Teal pg. 30

HARI HENSHALL pg. 35-36 ANA OANCEA pg. 37-38 SHAUNA MCCALLION pg. 39-40 YUSSEF HUSSAIN pg. 41-46 GABRIELLA NILES-EWEN pg. 47 AWANIS REZE pg. 48 VALERIE TSOI pg. 49 AGATHE PLENIER pg. 50

non-fiction KAFKA, Clara Chalmers pg. 51-54 BLANCA BUSQUETS - CATALAN WOMEN WRITERS, Anna Reig Caballeria pg. 55-58

prose COMING TOGETHER FOR THE LAST TIME, Khatija Ahmed pg. 59-60 CAPYBARA, Saul Levene pg. 61-64 IF MY FLESH WERE THOUGHT, James Mumford pg. 65-68

Contents

visual arts BLANDINE HAUSERMANN pg. 31-34

poetry I USE LEMON JUICE SO MY FRUIT SALAD DOESNT GO BROWN, Simran Garcha pg.1

MY ARMS ARE BIG ENOUGH TO HOLD ME, Eden Chapman pg. 18

HAYFEVER, Eden Chapman pg. 2

DIHYDROGEN MONOXIDE, Saba Ahmed pg. 19-20

DECEMBER SONG, Arya Sharma pg. 3

CLOSURE, Francis Fowler pg.21

YOU AND I, Daria Sommerhoff pg. 4 WHAT TO DO WHEN PRAYING, Saul Levene pg. 5-6 SAND OR WATER, Masarra Haider pg. 7-10 ON LOVE, Jules Sokolowksa pg. 11 WOE, Anon pg. 12 WHEN WILL THIS ETERNAL FLAME COME FORTH, May Zeben pg. 13-14 BLOOM, A.C pg. 15 THE BALCONY, Francis Fowler pg. 15 GILGAMESH, Teal pg. 16 MY BODY AND I, Daria Sommerhoff pg. 17

WALKING HOME IN WINTER, Francis Fowler, pg. 21 SETTLERS, Francis Fowler pg. 22 FIRST RAIN, Arya Sharma pg. 23-24 BIANCA, Lara Mae Simpson pg. 25 THE MANOR, Eden Chapmen pg. 26 GALATEA, Lucile D pg . 27 PRAYER, Saul Levene pg. 28 VELOUR, Eden Chapman pg. 29 FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS, Teal pg. 30

HARI HENSHALL pg. 35-36 ANA OANCEA pg. 37-38 SHAUNA MCCALLION pg. 39-40 YUSSEF HUSSAIN pg. 41-46 GABRIELLA NILES-EWEN pg. 47 AWANIS REZE pg. 48 VALERIE TSOI pg. 49 AGATHE PLENIER pg. 50

non-fiction KAFKA, Clara Chalmers pg. 51-54 BLANCA BUSQUETS - CATALAN WOMEN WRITERS, Anna Reig Caballeria pg. 55-58

prose COMING TOGETHER FOR THE LAST TIME, Khatija Ahmed pg. 59-60 CAPYBARA, Saul Levene pg. 61-64 IF MY FLESH WERE THOUGHT, James Mumford pg. 65-68

poetry

poetry

I use lemon juice so my fruit salad doesn’t turn brown I am always thinking about you and fruit; Strawberry lips, raspberry cheeks. Blueberries covered in new dew, your eyes.

That first bite into a mango after a long and bitter winter, your laugh.

I want to peel oranges for you and split them in half. Not down the middle, piece by piece. I dangle them above you, your neck arched back, your Roman nose.

Feed me grapes, I’ll take them in any form. Hold me like watermelon, with both hands. The crunch of red apple, the sting of pineapple. You lick my teeth, unpick all the seeds.

This is love, I’ll never be hungry.

Simran Garcha

Hayfever Sitting in the blazing sunshine With the trees plush with leaves, sitting around little pots of fruits.

Strawberries, watermelon pieces, grapes.

The air is sharp and fresh from the oranges We’ve been peeling together. The picnic Blanket is strewn with our coiled attempts To smoothly peel the whole thing in one.

Maybe we have a pack of pink panthers!

Maybe we have a baguette we grabbed from the bakery! Your head resting In my lap, we revel in the delight Of watching the heat melt the sky, of being In the middle of Summer, and the only reason It’s hard to breathe is our hayfever.

Eden Chapman

1

2

I use lemon juice so my fruit salad doesn’t turn brown I am always thinking about you and fruit; Strawberry lips, raspberry cheeks. Blueberries covered in new dew, your eyes.

That first bite into a mango after a long and bitter winter, your laugh.

I want to peel oranges for you and split them in half. Not down the middle, piece by piece. I dangle them above you, your neck arched back, your Roman nose.

Feed me grapes, I’ll take them in any form. Hold me like watermelon, with both hands. The crunch of red apple, the sting of pineapple. You lick my teeth, unpick all the seeds.

This is love, I’ll never be hungry.

Simran Garcha

Hayfever Sitting in the blazing sunshine With the trees plush with leaves, sitting around little pots of fruits.

Strawberries, watermelon pieces, grapes.

The air is sharp and fresh from the oranges We’ve been peeling together. The picnic Blanket is strewn with our coiled attempts To smoothly peel the whole thing in one.

Maybe we have a pack of pink panthers!

Maybe we have a baguette we grabbed from the bakery! Your head resting In my lap, we revel in the delight Of watching the heat melt the sky, of being In the middle of Summer, and the only reason It’s hard to breathe is our hayfever.

Eden Chapman

1

2

December Song Melt into me. I am cold mornings and fingers gripping hot mugs of coffee. I am the feeling of settling into your sheets after a long London day, shift till you are snug and still. I am something in the morning, between four and five, when you are only half-awake.

The curtains hang slightly open while a sliver of blue light hovers by the window – everything is a still-life painting, so – Melt into me, I want nothing but your company.

You and I

When words no longer suffice as carriers of my soul, I reach for you.

Against the sand you are softer, muted by the moon, your hands illuminated by the path the moon has forged on its disciple below, two silhouettes against the dark sea.

Removed from all thought, existing outside of time, I reach for you, and your touch connects my limbs, my shoulders, my fingers and my lips all at once, giving contentment and a sense of kinship – between you and the ocean, myself and the moon.

As the water paints our skin with intricate patterns, I reach for you, for your skin, like a map of the night sky, and feel the weight of the Atlantic calling out to me, I see you. I see you.

Your mouth breath-giving, as little ripples play on the surface of the water between us, torn between your body and mine as You reach for me, and your awareness of my body is so beautiful, I feel as if you are bestowing on me a newfound gift– I demand attention and am devoted all of yours, and that suffices, then, to smooth over the rough edges of the in-between, so I reach for you when I need to make myself known to your mouth.

Daria Sommerhoff

Arya Sharma 3

December Song Melt into me. I am cold mornings and fingers gripping hot mugs of coffee. I am the feeling of settling into your sheets after a long London day, shift till you are snug and still. I am something in the morning, between four and five, when you are only half-awake.

The curtains hang slightly open while a sliver of blue light hovers by the window – everything is a still-life painting, so – Melt into me, I want nothing but your company.

You and I

When words no longer suffice as carriers of my soul, I reach for you.

Against the sand you are softer, muted by the moon, your hands illuminated by the path the moon has forged on its disciple below, two silhouettes against the dark sea.

Removed from all thought, existing outside of time, I reach for you, and your touch connects my limbs, my shoulders, my fingers and my lips all at once, giving contentment and a sense of kinship – between you and the ocean, myself and the moon.

As the water paints our skin with intricate patterns, I reach for you, for your skin, like a map of the night sky, and feel the weight of the Atlantic calling out to me, I see you. I see you.

Your mouth breath-giving, as little ripples play on the surface of the water between us, torn between your body and mine as You reach for me, and your awareness of my body is so beautiful, I feel as if you are bestowing on me a newfound gift– I demand attention and am devoted all of yours, and that suffices, then, to smooth over the rough edges of the in-between, so I reach for you when I need to make myself known to your mouth.

Daria Sommerhoff

Arya Sharma 3

What to do when praying

of paper. Ask for that too.

Think of your grandparents.

Walk in and show your face.

Find your place in the book on the wall.

Say what you need to When you see them, as you do every time you fall into the tar

Wonder. If they’d be proud Of you - Come back tomorrow.

It’s The Day Of The Lord.

and repeat the motions.

Wait for a sign

Saul Levene

to continue, and respond in kind to The Kaddish.

Remember. Wander a little.

If there’s time, try to hear the roar of the voices in the back, the faint smell of liars who help the blind and feed the sick.

A tall Order.

Pine for the Lebanon and the wind that gyres through the forest, that time in Israel when you really felt something, anything and would wrestle heaven to go back despite the line and the fear 5

6

What to do when praying

of paper. Ask for that too.

Think of your grandparents.

Walk in and show your face.

Find your place in the book on the wall.

Say what you need to When you see them, as you do every time you fall into the tar

Wonder. If they’d be proud Of you - Come back tomorrow.

It’s The Day Of The Lord.

and repeat the motions.

Wait for a sign

Saul Levene

to continue, and respond in kind to The Kaddish.

Remember. Wander a little.

If there’s time, try to hear the roar of the voices in the back, the faint smell of liars who help the blind and feed the sick.

A tall Order.

Pine for the Lebanon and the wind that gyres through the forest, that time in Israel when you really felt something, anything and would wrestle heaven to go back despite the line and the fear 5

6

Sand or water Achy torrents cling to my veins, every pulse serving as a Tick Tock A countdown To the day i’m plunged.

Plunged in icy freezing depths Not knowing my way to shore Seeing other people floating – But i grew up in the desert Where pyramids Monumental - crystallised and kissed The velvety sky; Where horses and camels carried our weight.

Riches – A platinum infused bubble Barricaded us from the clouds, From the sky’s great metal staff Whereas those quirks of nature Wreaked its havoc On the frothy blue plain Where every man found themselves.

That is the water i find myself submerged in Right Now —— If i were to swim back to shore, Could those diamond infused candies That once clouded my vision and polluted my air Save me from the animosity of the blue tides Licking my bones now?

Could it teach me to float upon them?

Swim?

How those who donned my head with these candies Would muse If i kept swimming back to shore Into this bubble To get a taste once more?

But what if I really had to keep swimming?

What if i could Make it to the murky horizon that lies beyond?

Is it the edge of the earth?

An emerald embossed paradise?

Or is it just another plain of land?

But mine?

To my

7

8

Sand or water Achy torrents cling to my veins, every pulse serving as a Tick Tock A countdown To the day i’m plunged.

Plunged in icy freezing depths Not knowing my way to shore Seeing other people floating – But i grew up in the desert Where pyramids Monumental - crystallised and kissed The velvety sky; Where horses and camels carried our weight.

Riches – A platinum infused bubble Barricaded us from the clouds, From the sky’s great metal staff Whereas those quirks of nature Wreaked its havoc On the frothy blue plain Where every man found themselves.

That is the water i find myself submerged in Right Now —— If i were to swim back to shore, Could those diamond infused candies That once clouded my vision and polluted my air Save me from the animosity of the blue tides Licking my bones now?

Could it teach me to float upon them?

Swim?

How those who donned my head with these candies Would muse If i kept swimming back to shore Into this bubble To get a taste once more?

But what if I really had to keep swimming?

What if i could Make it to the murky horizon that lies beyond?

Is it the edge of the earth?

An emerald embossed paradise?

Or is it just another plain of land?

But mine?

To my

7

8

Own… making If i were to swim the gold dust, Infused into the sands of the desert I was once Raised upon This heavy dust would cling to my skin, weigh me down, Drown me even.

If i were to swim, i would do so bare – Bare of gold, platinum, desert sand donning only what I’ve crafted with my own Tooth and nail Alongside other crafters and swimmers I met along the way.

The only skeleton stopping me from swimming Is the fable, Woven in the pyramids That I’m not made to swim.

But this too Is a weight I cannot bare And must disband, Back in sandy dunes, Where my own ghost kisses me farewell Promising me riches on the other side of the wavy turf That no gold, platinum, diamond infused candy Could replicate.—— And I will meet myself, and swimmers, and crafters alike On the other side.

Masarra Haider

9

10

Own… making If i were to swim the gold dust, Infused into the sands of the desert I was once Raised upon This heavy dust would cling to my skin, weigh me down, Drown me even.

If i were to swim, i would do so bare – Bare of gold, platinum, desert sand donning only what I’ve crafted with my own Tooth and nail Alongside other crafters and swimmers I met along the way.

The only skeleton stopping me from swimming Is the fable, Woven in the pyramids That I’m not made to swim.

But this too Is a weight I cannot bare And must disband, Back in sandy dunes, Where my own ghost kisses me farewell Promising me riches on the other side of the wavy turf That no gold, platinum, diamond infused candy Could replicate.—— And I will meet myself, and swimmers, and crafters alike On the other side.

Masarra Haider

9

10

Woe Woe to those who fall to lies Who plead for truth with muted cries To reach for love, meaning,

on love i am spun from a heart i do not want into a self i cannot forgive. i am contained in a lifetime of swimming in revulsion but her touch is pure and she can pull me out. her fingers comb through the greasy mist that clings to me and tug at the strings to make our chests align and i feel clean. pull me close, whisper into the sweetness, kiss me free of guilt light, silk-like, like i barely exist.

Jules Sokolowksa

Or mere purpose, Still, they’ll perform In your malevolent circus

Slow at first, all hope dies And happiness gives way To deep long sighs; To live for more, friends?

What purpose?

What is there to life, If even God seems to curse us.

So woe to those who fall to lies, Who rage against their unjust demise To fight the torrent, This flood of injustice Is to drown alone, As in death you can’t hurt us.

12

Woe Woe to those who fall to lies Who plead for truth with muted cries To reach for love, meaning,

on love i am spun from a heart i do not want into a self i cannot forgive. i am contained in a lifetime of swimming in revulsion but her touch is pure and she can pull me out. her fingers comb through the greasy mist that clings to me and tug at the strings to make our chests align and i feel clean. pull me close, whisper into the sweetness, kiss me free of guilt light, silk-like, like i barely exist.

Jules Sokolowksa

Or mere purpose, Still, they’ll perform In your malevolent circus

Slow at first, all hope dies And happiness gives way To deep long sighs; To live for more, friends?

What purpose?

What is there to life, If even God seems to curse us.

So woe to those who fall to lies, Who rage against their unjust demise To fight the torrent, This flood of injustice Is to drown alone, As in death you can’t hurt us.

12

WHEN WILL THIS ETERNAL FLAME COME FORTH? I look at a globe and I think of how I am outside of it.

Not exactly outside, but just outside enough that I am Disconnected from it, Eternally.

I sigh to myself musingly and I wonder who will come to collect me “Who will come collect me?” I say.

Who will put me together?

“When will we come together?” I ask.

This beautiful art of mine sets your prose in stone I am emeraldYou are gold!

I don’t know what color your eyes are But, I am willing to find out, I am willing to find a soulmate within youThis beautiful globe Is actually a snow globe I am looking from the outside in There is a tiny figurine of the Eiffel Tower.

We come together like lost-and-found souls And though I am unsure of who he is just yet, Just yet.

My romantic self should continue to muse Continue to wonder and brood, “When will he come get me?

When will he come get me?

When will my soulmate’s eternal flame come forth, as emeralds always do?”

Together Forever When?

May Zaben

I fell So deeply, So suddenly, For something which does not exist Just yet.

But, then, hands clasp mine, Fingers grasp my own.

A shadow melts away into tilted snow and then I come togetherI am dust!

He is gold.

I am fervor!

He is cold.

13

14

WHEN WILL THIS ETERNAL FLAME COME FORTH? I look at a globe and I think of how I am outside of it.

Not exactly outside, but just outside enough that I am Disconnected from it, Eternally.

I sigh to myself musingly and I wonder who will come to collect me “Who will come collect me?” I say.

Who will put me together?

“When will we come together?” I ask.

This beautiful art of mine sets your prose in stone I am emeraldYou are gold!

I don’t know what color your eyes are But, I am willing to find out, I am willing to find a soulmate within youThis beautiful globe Is actually a snow globe I am looking from the outside in There is a tiny figurine of the Eiffel Tower.

We come together like lost-and-found souls And though I am unsure of who he is just yet, Just yet.

My romantic self should continue to muse Continue to wonder and brood, “When will he come get me?

When will he come get me?

When will my soulmate’s eternal flame come forth, as emeralds always do?”

Together Forever When?

May Zaben

I fell So deeply, So suddenly, For something which does not exist Just yet.

But, then, hands clasp mine, Fingers grasp my own.

A shadow melts away into tilted snow and then I come togetherI am dust!

He is gold.

I am fervor!

He is cold.

13

14

gilgamesh

Bloom

once when you were young and foreign to the concept of loss you travelled to the end of the world with your most precious friend

As sunlight moves in mottled dance Across porcelain complexions, Two souls dare gaze in earnest Past a silence rapt in Bloom Hands interlock, as bastions Of guarded futures, move forward Ever fortnight in lockstep adoration

and when they crumble in your arms you make the journey once more caring not if you would die for you wanted to find your fear from where you lost it at the edge of the sky.

Adorning crowns of mirrored shells, A self unspoken, vicarious, Though pierced only by the faintest vice, Delicate to tranquil desire Yet daubed with spectral beauty, sketched bare On plains of endless Folds, lies embraced And intertwined, our endless life in Bloom

A.C. The Balcony

Yesterday’s rain fell with a virtue, Soaking the roads in a fairy coat, Smelling of moss and linseed, Onto high-rise allotments; And evening smokers On solitary balconies, Thinking about their jobs, Their children, their first loves, Whether it all panned out in the end, Right here, right now, under London fog, Petite liquid lasers, bitter on sleeveless arms.

Are we being baptised anew, or merely pissed on?

Francis Fowler 15

but when you find it a snake swallows it and you laugh and laugh and lau g h. for what is death to a king? a creature that sheds its skin? nothing has changed because you are alive and they are not and there are no victors here – not even the gods. but first and foremost you are a king with your kingdom and your people so when the sun rises you return to your kingdom and to your people. in your chambers you run your fingers over the animal skins on the bed, wondering if they have aged in your absence but what would make them too old? they are already dead, and you have found no way to bring anything(anyone) back with you, even from the end of the world.

16

teal

gilgamesh

Bloom

once when you were young and foreign to the concept of loss you travelled to the end of the world with your most precious friend

As sunlight moves in mottled dance Across porcelain complexions, Two souls dare gaze in earnest Past a silence rapt in Bloom Hands interlock, as bastions Of guarded futures, move forward Ever fortnight in lockstep adoration

and when they crumble in your arms you make the journey once more caring not if you would die for you wanted to find your fear from where you lost it at the edge of the sky.

Adorning crowns of mirrored shells, A self unspoken, vicarious, Though pierced only by the faintest vice, Delicate to tranquil desire Yet daubed with spectral beauty, sketched bare On plains of endless Folds, lies embraced And intertwined, our endless life in Bloom

A.C. The Balcony

Yesterday’s rain fell with a virtue, Soaking the roads in a fairy coat, Smelling of moss and linseed, Onto high-rise allotments; And evening smokers On solitary balconies, Thinking about their jobs, Their children, their first loves, Whether it all panned out in the end, Right here, right now, under London fog, Petite liquid lasers, bitter on sleeveless arms.

Are we being baptised anew, or merely pissed on?

Francis Fowler 15

but when you find it a snake swallows it and you laugh and laugh and lau g h. for what is death to a king? a creature that sheds its skin? nothing has changed because you are alive and they are not and there are no victors here – not even the gods. but first and foremost you are a king with your kingdom and your people so when the sun rises you return to your kingdom and to your people. in your chambers you run your fingers over the animal skins on the bed, wondering if they have aged in your absence but what would make them too old? they are already dead, and you have found no way to bring anything(anyone) back with you, even from the end of the world.

16

teal

My Body and I A part of me does not comprehend how a softness, a rounding can be so seemingly in place in one territory, and at the same time so perfectly out of place in another (they said), my body an angry exclamation mark(ing) our mouth to mouth replaced by its own finger to mouth, lungs that imbibed your scent sentenced to insufficiency by their own hands: the throat aches after so that you do not speak of what you have done. legs intertwined on linen replaced by feet fighting against asphalt: turn the more into less, only way to compel our success(ion). touch (me) especially yours gentle! gentle fingers that trace over my veins exchanged for angry maps of blue by their own fists– blue fades to green before the realization hits: (no one told me) your lack cannot be borne by my excess. the curve of my shoulder, the slant of my wrist– roundness so unexpected, so apt– so at peace in between your fingertips and your thumb, a question mark(ing) less resistance when confronted with your rough edges. How can this skin feel so foreign when subjected to its own eyes, and at the same time so artless when exposed to yours?

My arms are big enough to hold me My company is good company.

We do yoga together, we laugh at shows together We share disbelief, panic, and solidarity.

The last time I was in this place We did not get along. We fought, screamed obscenities At each other, wanted to rip each other’s eyes out.

It’s more peaceful now. I’ve gotten better at listening, I think. It’s because I have tuned my ear that I hear The plaintive cry when I get ready for bed.

‘No one loves me enough to fill up my hot water bottle For me.’ I can’t dispute that, I was there when did someone. ‘No one loves me enough to want To hold me as I fall asleep.’ I can’t dispute that either.

But I will fill your hot water bottle for you and put it By your feet that get so cold. I will wash the sink Without you asking me because I know it bothers you.

I will wash the dishes before bed because I know Waking up to a dirty kitchen upsets you.

And when you’re falling asleep, I am holding your every Thought. I tie them together and string them into poems for you. because I love you enough.

Daria Sommerhoff

Eden Chapman 17

18

My Body and I A part of me does not comprehend how a softness, a rounding can be so seemingly in place in one territory, and at the same time so perfectly out of place in another (they said), my body an angry exclamation mark(ing) our mouth to mouth replaced by its own finger to mouth, lungs that imbibed your scent sentenced to insufficiency by their own hands: the throat aches after so that you do not speak of what you have done. legs intertwined on linen replaced by feet fighting against asphalt: turn the more into less, only way to compel our success(ion). touch (me) especially yours gentle! gentle fingers that trace over my veins exchanged for angry maps of blue by their own fists– blue fades to green before the realization hits: (no one told me) your lack cannot be borne by my excess. the curve of my shoulder, the slant of my wrist– roundness so unexpected, so apt– so at peace in between your fingertips and your thumb, a question mark(ing) less resistance when confronted with your rough edges. How can this skin feel so foreign when subjected to its own eyes, and at the same time so artless when exposed to yours?

My arms are big enough to hold me My company is good company.

We do yoga together, we laugh at shows together We share disbelief, panic, and solidarity.

The last time I was in this place We did not get along. We fought, screamed obscenities At each other, wanted to rip each other’s eyes out.

It’s more peaceful now. I’ve gotten better at listening, I think. It’s because I have tuned my ear that I hear The plaintive cry when I get ready for bed.

‘No one loves me enough to fill up my hot water bottle For me.’ I can’t dispute that, I was there when did someone. ‘No one loves me enough to want To hold me as I fall asleep.’ I can’t dispute that either.

But I will fill your hot water bottle for you and put it By your feet that get so cold. I will wash the sink Without you asking me because I know it bothers you.

I will wash the dishes before bed because I know Waking up to a dirty kitchen upsets you.

And when you’re falling asleep, I am holding your every Thought. I tie them together and string them into poems for you. because I love you enough.

Daria Sommerhoff

Eden Chapman 17

18

Dihydrogen Monoxide s

n o w f la k e

s cling together, falling to the ground dendritic branches entangling, touch-ing blanketing over a two-some ’In bed’ ‘Dans le lit,’ they embrace. another

look extended another arm invitation to stay

Sleeping spine-to-spine [tracing out memories in snow] love extend ing and occupying the room until four walls cannot contain it anymore and

the window opens love pours into the streets soft, crystalline fragments melt in the hands of pedestrians l a t long itudes t u d e s away

Saba Ahmed 20

Dihydrogen Monoxide s

n o w f la k e

s cling together, falling to the ground dendritic branches entangling, touch-ing blanketing over a two-some ’In bed’ ‘Dans le lit,’ they embrace. another

look extended another arm invitation to stay

Sleeping spine-to-spine [tracing out memories in snow] love extend ing and occupying the room until four walls cannot contain it anymore and

the window opens love pours into the streets soft, crystalline fragments melt in the hands of pedestrians l a t long itudes t u d e s away

Saba Ahmed 20

Closure To the ethereal night sky That stole my sight With pitch black solitude And freckled light.

Returned to earth, my stature small Mouth agape at the plains galore, I spoke briefly, without a pause To make one see what is not lost Like childhood semaphores And fleeting thoughts.

I broke the sky Returned to nought.

Walking home in winter In serpentine trails, following each other, Moonlight guides us along.

The same snow-trodden path That we’ve always known, might trip us And we’d fall like children With happy sirens blaring into empty night.

But tonight our strides are stoic This December gale, merciless With all it’s daggers and frustrations, Halts at this barricade of our frostbitten hands, Glued together, as elders might do the same Not for comfort, seemingly, But because warmth is only warmth when shared.

Settlers To pine for those days, the world sublime, The way it was left before illness and grief.

The sky painted, shades of nonchalance; Tender air perfuming a silken plain.

And all is loud, not with voice or song, But spirit, and intimacy.

Hearts swell and burst, To be mended, each purple night As fingers interlace, breaths conjoin And volume fades; Dormant til morning’s first ginger strides.

As light breaks the apex, our eyes collide Again with flaw; again with purpose.

Of the outsiders, I askHad they any idea?

That they walked stainless, on pure desert Skin is cloud and touch remembers, The whispers in my ears are biblical passages that the next traveller will misunderstand Completelykeeping me pensive, That which breaks me; More than love.

Francis Fowler 21

22

Closure To the ethereal night sky That stole my sight With pitch black solitude And freckled light.

Returned to earth, my stature small Mouth agape at the plains galore, I spoke briefly, without a pause To make one see what is not lost Like childhood semaphores And fleeting thoughts.

I broke the sky Returned to nought.

Walking home in winter In serpentine trails, following each other, Moonlight guides us along.

The same snow-trodden path That we’ve always known, might trip us And we’d fall like children With happy sirens blaring into empty night.

But tonight our strides are stoic This December gale, merciless With all it’s daggers and frustrations, Halts at this barricade of our frostbitten hands, Glued together, as elders might do the same Not for comfort, seemingly, But because warmth is only warmth when shared.

Settlers To pine for those days, the world sublime, The way it was left before illness and grief.

The sky painted, shades of nonchalance; Tender air perfuming a silken plain.

And all is loud, not with voice or song, But spirit, and intimacy.

Hearts swell and burst, To be mended, each purple night As fingers interlace, breaths conjoin And volume fades; Dormant til morning’s first ginger strides.

As light breaks the apex, our eyes collide Again with flaw; again with purpose.

Of the outsiders, I askHad they any idea?

That they walked stainless, on pure desert Skin is cloud and touch remembers, The whispers in my ears are biblical passages that the next traveller will misunderstand Completelykeeping me pensive, That which breaks me; More than love.

Francis Fowler 21

22

first rain

Look down at the grass.

The dew is shattered glass, watch its kaleidoscope.

But hey, The grass is Green.

Green! Green means new and hope and tentative trust and the local barista with a soft shoulder and a listening ear, who remembers your order. Green swallowed a butterfly and carried it for its entire life.

My eyes are drawn to blue. Blue is not a lament – think bigger.

Blue is fond melancholy, tube-trip nostalgia, blue

At the end of the line, Green will spit out the butterfly and shudder and metamorphose into whatever you like

means remembering your first ever best friend and her dark curls and accidental eyebrow slit because you’re not even eleven you don’t know how to do your own eyebrows and her jumper is too big but she cut holes in the sleeves to push her thumbs out and she’s so nice she makes you laugh but your parents think she’s a useless friend and friends must be useful – but they feel bad about that now because she’s gone and you don’t know where she is no one knows where she is she’s somewhere but no one knows where she is no one seems to remember her you remember her but her face is fading and now there’s just blue blue and curls and eyebrows and blue

23

Arya Sharma

first rain

Look down at the grass.

The dew is shattered glass, watch its kaleidoscope.

But hey, The grass is Green.

Green! Green means new and hope and tentative trust and the local barista with a soft shoulder and a listening ear, who remembers your order. Green swallowed a butterfly and carried it for its entire life.

My eyes are drawn to blue. Blue is not a lament – think bigger.

Blue is fond melancholy, tube-trip nostalgia, blue

At the end of the line, Green will spit out the butterfly and shudder and metamorphose into whatever you like

means remembering your first ever best friend and her dark curls and accidental eyebrow slit because you’re not even eleven you don’t know how to do your own eyebrows and her jumper is too big but she cut holes in the sleeves to push her thumbs out and she’s so nice she makes you laugh but your parents think she’s a useless friend and friends must be useful – but they feel bad about that now because she’s gone and you don’t know where she is no one knows where she is she’s somewhere but no one knows where she is no one seems to remember her you remember her but her face is fading and now there’s just blue blue and curls and eyebrows and blue

23

Arya Sharma

Bianca

The Manor

Scrubbing coffee off your tongue you awake to birds in Bloomsbury & smile, at least two trains away from Paris; a caramel latte waiting for you at the end of the zebra crossing.

The mist blossomed silently in the night.

It collects on my ankles as I stand here, My shoes glisten from the disturbed dew

You like the day Thursday; I like any time I can see you & I would forever keep open my bookshop at the early hours of the morning so you could browse Louise Glück and Richard Siken, that three a.m. medicine best taken along with Mitski & a hint of playlist making.

Walking man emoji towards the door— I love how we don’t have to text all the time anymore. & yet we still do. I say, ‘Let’s meet in Pret at two’, & we let Citymapper figure the rest out.

Two birds flying north & south to meet in the middle.

Lara Mae Simpson

I see you in the kitchen, windows wet with Condensation from the hesitant meeting of The oven’s warm breath on the cold glass.

I have been in this house on the moors For many years; I have made this place Strange with my presence.

There is no one allowed here but me— I read The books in the libraries, I write my anger Into missives on the mirrors of every room.

When you arrived, I threw the books on the Floor. You looked curiously at the noise And laughed. I flickered the lights But you lit and re-lit the candles with a Smile. You are aware of me, I’m sure of it.

But you do not attend to my anger.

With your chequered apron around your waist You remove the crumble from the oven.

Your forearms flex with the weight, As you knock the oven door shut with your hip.

The lights flicker as I catch my breath.

My body is buried on these moorsI know not where. With you here, the anger Of it sloughs off me, with the patient certainty Of taking off layers of winter clothes before Sleep. I do not know how long you’ll be here.

But while you are, calm reigns.

With you in this manor house, I find myself.

Eden Chapmen 25

26

Bianca

The Manor

Scrubbing coffee off your tongue you awake to birds in Bloomsbury & smile, at least two trains away from Paris; a caramel latte waiting for you at the end of the zebra crossing.

The mist blossomed silently in the night.

It collects on my ankles as I stand here, My shoes glisten from the disturbed dew

You like the day Thursday; I like any time I can see you & I would forever keep open my bookshop at the early hours of the morning so you could browse Louise Glück and Richard Siken, that three a.m. medicine best taken along with Mitski & a hint of playlist making.

Walking man emoji towards the door— I love how we don’t have to text all the time anymore. & yet we still do. I say, ‘Let’s meet in Pret at two’, & we let Citymapper figure the rest out.

Two birds flying north & south to meet in the middle.

Lara Mae Simpson

I see you in the kitchen, windows wet with Condensation from the hesitant meeting of The oven’s warm breath on the cold glass.

I have been in this house on the moors For many years; I have made this place Strange with my presence.

There is no one allowed here but me— I read The books in the libraries, I write my anger Into missives on the mirrors of every room.

When you arrived, I threw the books on the Floor. You looked curiously at the noise And laughed. I flickered the lights But you lit and re-lit the candles with a Smile. You are aware of me, I’m sure of it.

But you do not attend to my anger.

With your chequered apron around your waist You remove the crumble from the oven.

Your forearms flex with the weight, As you knock the oven door shut with your hip.

The lights flicker as I catch my breath.

My body is buried on these moorsI know not where. With you here, the anger Of it sloughs off me, with the patient certainty Of taking off layers of winter clothes before Sleep. I do not know how long you’ll be here.

But while you are, calm reigns.

With you in this manor house, I find myself.

Eden Chapmen 25

26

Galatea

Prayer

By Lucile D.

after Jorie Graham

Behind the synesthesia of your wake, My eyes felt what your heart read, And what you spoke, my mind embraced.

The light of extinguished cities, whose cry, Strident, cradles the long void of the night.

Words, buried, deep in the rhymes of bygone days, When the quivering of your malicious reign, Shattered my universe of acumen.

Let me drown in the euphoria of your play, Let me sleep in the inebriation of your plight.

Let me dance with the voluptuous body Of colors, that your palette ceaselessly carries.

Roman skies and Greek twilights, be the Persephone to my Pluto, an abundance of lethal flowers whose divine smell Incenses the last movement of my beggarly halting breath.

Come to me, merciful angels. Come at me, burning Queen, Your Crown won’t even hurt my grazed skin.

Take me to the place your haunted mind rests; My lips proclaim your reign, and my hands adore your face.

Down on my bare knees, tracing the furrow of a hundred Years spent searching, wandering for your sign, hundred Stars ridden and Suns fought in hope that, one night, you would be mine.

What of My whole hope

the burning dying to know

What torque twists in the undergrowth Or of the cinder settling in Perhaps we’ve searched enough.

Then the light goes streams out

and the breath - looking to find something

to rest on. It’s you and you didn’t ask for a sigh of that size or strength weighing you down in the dark but you say you can bear it. One of us must until the candle is raised again and the droplets cleave oh lance-light - like a small rainbow burning in a silver ash tray.

Arise says the dark.

In your hands now I lay. Close your fingers on me for eternity, And sing me to expire in your veins; I am yours, finally.

Saul Levene

28

Galatea

Prayer

By Lucile D.

after Jorie Graham

Behind the synesthesia of your wake, My eyes felt what your heart read, And what you spoke, my mind embraced.

The light of extinguished cities, whose cry, Strident, cradles the long void of the night.

Words, buried, deep in the rhymes of bygone days, When the quivering of your malicious reign, Shattered my universe of acumen.

Let me drown in the euphoria of your play, Let me sleep in the inebriation of your plight.

Let me dance with the voluptuous body Of colors, that your palette ceaselessly carries.

Roman skies and Greek twilights, be the Persephone to my Pluto, an abundance of lethal flowers whose divine smell Incenses the last movement of my beggarly halting breath.

Come to me, merciful angels. Come at me, burning Queen, Your Crown won’t even hurt my grazed skin.

Take me to the place your haunted mind rests; My lips proclaim your reign, and my hands adore your face.

Down on my bare knees, tracing the furrow of a hundred Years spent searching, wandering for your sign, hundred Stars ridden and Suns fought in hope that, one night, you would be mine.

What of My whole hope

the burning dying to know

What torque twists in the undergrowth Or of the cinder settling in Perhaps we’ve searched enough.

Then the light goes streams out

and the breath - looking to find something

to rest on. It’s you and you didn’t ask for a sigh of that size or strength weighing you down in the dark but you say you can bear it. One of us must until the candle is raised again and the droplets cleave oh lance-light - like a small rainbow burning in a silver ash tray.

Arise says the dark.

In your hands now I lay. Close your fingers on me for eternity, And sing me to expire in your veins; I am yours, finally.

Saul Levene

28

friday night lights another night in this red light city with the macabre of the sunset and the supernova of the stars cluttered in the dark of the sky.

by Teal

but tonight you’re sprawled on my bed watching the rain and smiling in the way you do for cameras, fingertips wet with ink. and you’re so peaceful in this moment watching the deluge outside your hair haloed by the moonlight. i want to tell you: we don’t need wings to fly just you and i are enough to get us through the night.

Velour I want to greet you when you enter your flat after a long day.

When you lay eyes on me, see the messages I hold In my velour cushions; once written in giggles.

so even though you speak chinese and I failed spanish, our language barrier is but a matter of translation; an unspoken dialect that far transcends dark and light sound and sight, and we’re altogether instantaneous, universally speaking.

Lay down and watch how the touch of your hand turns me From emerald to jade.

The city has relinquished you, so come.

Sit back. Pour another glass, let me hold you.

I’ll ask how your day was.

Eden Chapman

29

30

friday night lights another night in this red light city with the macabre of the sunset and the supernova of the stars cluttered in the dark of the sky.

by Teal

but tonight you’re sprawled on my bed watching the rain and smiling in the way you do for cameras, fingertips wet with ink. and you’re so peaceful in this moment watching the deluge outside your hair haloed by the moonlight. i want to tell you: we don’t need wings to fly just you and i are enough to get us through the night.

Velour I want to greet you when you enter your flat after a long day.

When you lay eyes on me, see the messages I hold In my velour cushions; once written in giggles.

so even though you speak chinese and I failed spanish, our language barrier is but a matter of translation; an unspoken dialect that far transcends dark and light sound and sight, and we’re altogether instantaneous, universally speaking.

Lay down and watch how the touch of your hand turns me From emerald to jade.

The city has relinquished you, so come.

Sit back. Pour another glass, let me hold you.

I’ll ask how your day was.

Eden Chapman

29

30

visual arts

visual arts

29

29

33 34

BLANDINE HAUSERMANN

33 34

BLANDINE HAUSERMANN

お 婆 ち ゃ ん と お 祖 父 ち ゃ ん

35 HARI HENSHALL

お 婆 ち ゃ ん と お 祖 父 ち ゃ ん

35 HARI HENSHALL

ANA OANCEA

37

38

ANA OANCEA

37

38

P: Shauna McCallion

39

This photo is part of a series of photos that were taken shortly after the first lockdown, depicting a fictional world, perilously true to our own, where two lovers who are desperate embrace are restricted by physical boundaries of sanitation

P: Shauna McCallion

39

This photo is part of a series of photos that were taken shortly after the first lockdown, depicting a fictional world, perilously true to our own, where two lovers who are desperate embrace are restricted by physical boundaries of sanitation

Together Again Yu s s e f H u s s a i n

The easing of lockdown has allowed us to get back to the people and things we love. Yet, we should take a moment to thank the people, enabling us to come together again. Among them are three people I portrayed working in the healthcare and transportation sector.

42

Together Again Yu s s e f H u s s a i n

The easing of lockdown has allowed us to get back to the people and things we love. Yet, we should take a moment to thank the people, enabling us to come together again. Among them are three people I portrayed working in the healthcare and transportation sector.

42

Photography

Photography

No. 2

No. 1 Jihad works as an independent Uber driver. He loves his job because he meets new people and discovers new places every day. Throughout the pandemic, Jihad did his best to bring friends and families together.

43

Mithak is a general practitioner in Berlin, Germany. As she speaks five different languages, her patients are from all over the world.

This year, she and her colleagues are focusing on the Coronavirus vaccination to flatten the curve.

44

Photography

Photography

No. 2

No. 1 Jihad works as an independent Uber driver. He loves his job because he meets new people and discovers new places every day. Throughout the pandemic, Jihad did his best to bring friends and families together.

43

Mithak is a general practitioner in Berlin, Germany. As she speaks five different languages, her patients are from all over the world.

This year, she and her colleagues are focusing on the Coronavirus vaccination to flatten the curve.

44

Photography

No. 3 Jorge is a flight attended working on most flight routes connecting London and major European cities. While he enjoys making people from different cultures, languages, and backgrounds his guests on board, safety is his foremost concern at all times, as it is at the very heart of everything he and his colleagues do.

45

Photography

No. 3 Jorge is a flight attended working on most flight routes connecting London and major European cities. While he enjoys making people from different cultures, languages, and backgrounds his guests on board, safety is his foremost concern at all times, as it is at the very heart of everything he and his colleagues do.

45

Aw a n i s R e z e

Gabriella Niles-Ewen 47

48

Aw a n i s R e z e

Gabriella Niles-Ewen 47

48

Va l e r i e Ts o i

Agathe Plenier 49

50

Va l e r i e Ts o i

Agathe Plenier 49

50

non-fiction

non-fiction

Kafka In Franz Kafka’s 1915 novella Metamorphosis, the character Gregor Samsa, despite being transformed into an insect, does not lose his humanity. Using evidence from the text, this essay draws a distinction between Gregor’s inhuman appearance and compassionate thinking, sustained throughout the narrative. Further, by comparing Gregor’s selflessness to his family’s indifference, as well as Gregor before and after his metamorphosis, this essay argues that Gregor is more human as an insect.

The notion that Gregor lacks humanity is rooted in the reader’s understanding of the term.

Humanity is generally equated to what is familiar and usual. As a bug, Gregor is repulsive and unfamiliar. Kafka intensifies Gregor’s repugnance with ample visual detail; equipping his protagonist with a ‘hard, armour-like back,’ a ‘curbed brown abdomen, divided by archshaped ridges,’ and ‘many legs, miserably thin in comparison with his size otherwise’ (29).

By contrasting the width of his old and new legs, Gregor standardises the signifiers of humanity; reflecting that our notion of humanity is tied up in familiarity. As much as Kafka seems to stress Gregor’s grotesque appearance, he is simply relaying the details. Indeed, the tone of his story is mostly devoid of bias; ‘As Gregor Samsa woke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed into some kind of monstrous vermin’ (29). This first sentence is relayed in a matter-of-fact manner that allows readers to form their own interpretations and feelings of what it means to be human throughout the narrative.

A closer analysis of Gregor’s thoughts and behaviour reveal his inhumanity as only skin deep. His inner musings and desires, relayed objectively by an omniscient narrator, portray a sensitive, selfless, passionate human. For example, after waking up as an insect, Gregor’s main concern is getting to work on time, as his family relies upon him financially. He even empathises with his parents’ lack of tenderness; ‘Who, in this worn-out and overtired family, had time to care for Gregor more than was necessary?’ (61). Evidently, Gregor’s grief stems second-hand from his family, as bodily ‘he felt perfectly well, and was even particularly hungry.’ (34) Gregor is apt to put the needs of others above his own. For example, although Gregor longs to see his mother, ‘he didn’t want to show himself…if only out of consideration for his parents,’ who recoils from his new appearance (52). To his sister, the only family member who shows him an iota of kindness, he ‘weep(s) in gratification’ (46). His graciousness never ebbs. Indeed, even whilst dying after his sister’s betrayal and father’s violence, Gregor’s last thoughts are ones of affection and love for his family (71).

Gregor’s internal world changes just as his physical form does. However, this is not necessarily a devolution. He begins to crave food among the likes of ‘bones from yesterday’s supper covered in a white sauce that had gone solid, a few raisins and almonds, some cheese which two days ago Gregor had declared was uneatable’ (46). Although revolting, this change in palette reflects a deeper, psychological shift. To himself, Gregor reflects ‘I do have an appetite…but not for these things.’ These ‘things’ might not only reference food, but also the values that society deems fit and fulfilling; namely, industry. Before becoming a bug, Gregor ‘thinks of nothing but business,’ as affirmed by his mother (36). Without such a distraction, Gregor is able to develop his personal tastes and desires For example, when his mother and sister attempt to remove a much-loved painting from his

51

52

Kafka In Franz Kafka’s 1915 novella Metamorphosis, the character Gregor Samsa, despite being transformed into an insect, does not lose his humanity. Using evidence from the text, this essay draws a distinction between Gregor’s inhuman appearance and compassionate thinking, sustained throughout the narrative. Further, by comparing Gregor’s selflessness to his family’s indifference, as well as Gregor before and after his metamorphosis, this essay argues that Gregor is more human as an insect.

The notion that Gregor lacks humanity is rooted in the reader’s understanding of the term.

Humanity is generally equated to what is familiar and usual. As a bug, Gregor is repulsive and unfamiliar. Kafka intensifies Gregor’s repugnance with ample visual detail; equipping his protagonist with a ‘hard, armour-like back,’ a ‘curbed brown abdomen, divided by archshaped ridges,’ and ‘many legs, miserably thin in comparison with his size otherwise’ (29).

By contrasting the width of his old and new legs, Gregor standardises the signifiers of humanity; reflecting that our notion of humanity is tied up in familiarity. As much as Kafka seems to stress Gregor’s grotesque appearance, he is simply relaying the details. Indeed, the tone of his story is mostly devoid of bias; ‘As Gregor Samsa woke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself transformed into some kind of monstrous vermin’ (29). This first sentence is relayed in a matter-of-fact manner that allows readers to form their own interpretations and feelings of what it means to be human throughout the narrative.

A closer analysis of Gregor’s thoughts and behaviour reveal his inhumanity as only skin deep. His inner musings and desires, relayed objectively by an omniscient narrator, portray a sensitive, selfless, passionate human. For example, after waking up as an insect, Gregor’s main concern is getting to work on time, as his family relies upon him financially. He even empathises with his parents’ lack of tenderness; ‘Who, in this worn-out and overtired family, had time to care for Gregor more than was necessary?’ (61). Evidently, Gregor’s grief stems second-hand from his family, as bodily ‘he felt perfectly well, and was even particularly hungry.’ (34) Gregor is apt to put the needs of others above his own. For example, although Gregor longs to see his mother, ‘he didn’t want to show himself…if only out of consideration for his parents,’ who recoils from his new appearance (52). To his sister, the only family member who shows him an iota of kindness, he ‘weep(s) in gratification’ (46). His graciousness never ebbs. Indeed, even whilst dying after his sister’s betrayal and father’s violence, Gregor’s last thoughts are ones of affection and love for his family (71).

Gregor’s internal world changes just as his physical form does. However, this is not necessarily a devolution. He begins to crave food among the likes of ‘bones from yesterday’s supper covered in a white sauce that had gone solid, a few raisins and almonds, some cheese which two days ago Gregor had declared was uneatable’ (46). Although revolting, this change in palette reflects a deeper, psychological shift. To himself, Gregor reflects ‘I do have an appetite…but not for these things.’ These ‘things’ might not only reference food, but also the values that society deems fit and fulfilling; namely, industry. Before becoming a bug, Gregor ‘thinks of nothing but business,’ as affirmed by his mother (36). Without such a distraction, Gregor is able to develop his personal tastes and desires For example, when his mother and sister attempt to remove a much-loved painting from his

51

52

wall, he ardently defends the portrait by ‘covering it completely.’ (45) Further, drawn outside his room by his sister’s piano performance, Gregor considers: ‘Was he a beast, that music should move him like this? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for was being revealed.’ As an insect, Gregor is nourished by his once undefined desires. In such a form, he is able to follow his heart, a distinctly human action.

In contrast, ‘Metamorphosis’ is populated by cold-hearted characters. From a work associate of whom is ‘the boss’s creature, stupid and spineless,’ a metaphor that erases his humanity, to a set of boarders who, following Gregor’s death, ‘gruffly’ ask: ‘Where’s our breakfast?’ Gregor is surrounded by those who lack his sensitivity. His own family is the most deprived of this particular sentiment. His mother screams and ‘faints’ (50) at the sight of him. His sister plots to ‘get rid of it,’ (69) in reference to her brother. His father, in one scene, ‘threw apple after apple’ at Gregor, leaving a ‘visible memorial in his flesh.’ Because apples are a common symbol of betrayal, referencing the biblical duplicity of Adam and Eve, readers can assume this ‘visible memorial’ is one of his family’s treacheries. After Gregor dies, his family take leave from work to enjoy a picnic. Amidst greenery and sunshine, his parents observe their daughter ‘had blossomed of late into a handsome, full-figured girl.’ (71) This serene sketch strikes false to the reader, who have just read of Gregor’s death, and the betrayal of his ‘full figured’ but soul shrunken sister. Perhaps Gregor’s family is human-shaped, but here ends the resemblance. The family lacks what Gregor has in excess, feeling. Appearance aside, the reader must ask: who is more repulsive?

Thoughtful Gregor, or his chillingly selfish family?

Admittedly, Gregor also exhibits disturbing behaviour. Against his will, he enjoys crawling ‘over everything, walls, furniture, ceiling’ (57). Similarly led by his instincts, Gregor lashes out; ‘Gregor was so incensed when the charwoman started using her pet names again that he turned on her, however slowly and feebly, as if to attack her.’ However, these violent episodes can be perceived as Gregor articulating his feelings in the only way a ‘hissing’ (45) insect can. After all, intense feelings, such as burning curiosity or blinding anger, are part of being human. As the book progresses, Gregor becomes more active in actualizing his desires. He finds himself capable of acting for himself rather than others. As vermin, he is able to sleep in, feast, enjoy music, and feel; none of which was possible in his human-shape.

Indeed, a reader can argue that Gregor, prior to his metamorphosis, lacked humanity. Early on, he reflects on his job: ‘What a strenuous calling I’ve chosen! Day in, day out on the move. The stresses of making deals are far greater than they are in the actual business at home. And on top of that, I’m burdened with the misery of travelling; there’s the worry about train connections, the poor, irregular meals, human contact that is always changing, never lasting, never approaching warmth.’ (31) This monologue highlights how, Gregor not only detested his life, but suppressed his most basic desires. He awoke at 5am each morning, despite believing ‘a man must have his sleep.’ His meals were rushed, though his appetite was hearty; ‘he wanted…above all (to) have his breakfast. Gregor is a man of habit, ‘used to sleeping on his right side amidst ‘four familiar walls,’ who ‘in all the five years he had been in employment… hadn’t once been ill until now,’ (30). He needed a dramatic change in order to propel himself out of his misery.

53

Perhaps ‘Metamorphosis’ thus indicates the metamorphosis into humanity. After all, ‘metamorphosis’ is defined in the oxford dictionary as ‘the process of transformation from an immature form to an adult form,’ and thereby possesses positive connotations. Further, Kafka does not specify what breed of ‘monstrous vermin’ Gregor adopts, suggesting his frightening transformation is a metaphor for the frightening process of maturity, particularly in a society that has different values than your own.

In ‘Metamorphosis,’ Kafka creates his own version of humanity; one defined by compassion, individuality, and varied forms of expression. Despite appearances (literally,) the only character to embrace this fashion of humanity is Gregor.

In a globalised age, where we are exposed to many different forms of human expression and appearances, Kafka’s key message resonates; humanity comes in all shapes, sizes, and sounds.

words by: Clara Chalmers

54

wall, he ardently defends the portrait by ‘covering it completely.’ (45) Further, drawn outside his room by his sister’s piano performance, Gregor considers: ‘Was he a beast, that music should move him like this? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for was being revealed.’ As an insect, Gregor is nourished by his once undefined desires. In such a form, he is able to follow his heart, a distinctly human action.

In contrast, ‘Metamorphosis’ is populated by cold-hearted characters. From a work associate of whom is ‘the boss’s creature, stupid and spineless,’ a metaphor that erases his humanity, to a set of boarders who, following Gregor’s death, ‘gruffly’ ask: ‘Where’s our breakfast?’ Gregor is surrounded by those who lack his sensitivity. His own family is the most deprived of this particular sentiment. His mother screams and ‘faints’ (50) at the sight of him. His sister plots to ‘get rid of it,’ (69) in reference to her brother. His father, in one scene, ‘threw apple after apple’ at Gregor, leaving a ‘visible memorial in his flesh.’ Because apples are a common symbol of betrayal, referencing the biblical duplicity of Adam and Eve, readers can assume this ‘visible memorial’ is one of his family’s treacheries. After Gregor dies, his family take leave from work to enjoy a picnic. Amidst greenery and sunshine, his parents observe their daughter ‘had blossomed of late into a handsome, full-figured girl.’ (71) This serene sketch strikes false to the reader, who have just read of Gregor’s death, and the betrayal of his ‘full figured’ but soul shrunken sister. Perhaps Gregor’s family is human-shaped, but here ends the resemblance. The family lacks what Gregor has in excess, feeling. Appearance aside, the reader must ask: who is more repulsive?

Thoughtful Gregor, or his chillingly selfish family?

Admittedly, Gregor also exhibits disturbing behaviour. Against his will, he enjoys crawling ‘over everything, walls, furniture, ceiling’ (57). Similarly led by his instincts, Gregor lashes out; ‘Gregor was so incensed when the charwoman started using her pet names again that he turned on her, however slowly and feebly, as if to attack her.’ However, these violent episodes can be perceived as Gregor articulating his feelings in the only way a ‘hissing’ (45) insect can. After all, intense feelings, such as burning curiosity or blinding anger, are part of being human. As the book progresses, Gregor becomes more active in actualizing his desires. He finds himself capable of acting for himself rather than others. As vermin, he is able to sleep in, feast, enjoy music, and feel; none of which was possible in his human-shape.

Indeed, a reader can argue that Gregor, prior to his metamorphosis, lacked humanity. Early on, he reflects on his job: ‘What a strenuous calling I’ve chosen! Day in, day out on the move. The stresses of making deals are far greater than they are in the actual business at home. And on top of that, I’m burdened with the misery of travelling; there’s the worry about train connections, the poor, irregular meals, human contact that is always changing, never lasting, never approaching warmth.’ (31) This monologue highlights how, Gregor not only detested his life, but suppressed his most basic desires. He awoke at 5am each morning, despite believing ‘a man must have his sleep.’ His meals were rushed, though his appetite was hearty; ‘he wanted…above all (to) have his breakfast. Gregor is a man of habit, ‘used to sleeping on his right side amidst ‘four familiar walls,’ who ‘in all the five years he had been in employment… hadn’t once been ill until now,’ (30). He needed a dramatic change in order to propel himself out of his misery.

53

Perhaps ‘Metamorphosis’ thus indicates the metamorphosis into humanity. After all, ‘metamorphosis’ is defined in the oxford dictionary as ‘the process of transformation from an immature form to an adult form,’ and thereby possesses positive connotations. Further, Kafka does not specify what breed of ‘monstrous vermin’ Gregor adopts, suggesting his frightening transformation is a metaphor for the frightening process of maturity, particularly in a society that has different values than your own.

In ‘Metamorphosis,’ Kafka creates his own version of humanity; one defined by compassion, individuality, and varied forms of expression. Despite appearances (literally,) the only character to embrace this fashion of humanity is Gregor.

In a globalised age, where we are exposed to many different forms of human expression and appearances, Kafka’s key message resonates; humanity comes in all shapes, sizes, and sounds.

words by: Clara Chalmers

54

Blanca Busquets – Catalan women writers Words by Anna Reig Caballeria

Blanca Busquets is a Catalan writer, but she’s also a journalist and a philologist. She has been working for Catalunya Ràdio, a Catalan public radio broadcaster, since 1986. She lives between Barcelona and her little hometown near the Pyrenees, Cantonigròs. She has published 10 novels in total, including La nevada del cucut (The cuckoo snowfall) which received the Bookseller Prize from Catalonia in 2011. Moreover, she was honoured in 2015 with the Alghero Donna Prize for Literature and Journalism for the Italian translation of The House of Silence, another of her novels that has been translated into English by Mara Faye Lethem. Busquets is an author with an international profile, as her works have been translated into more than eight languages.

How do you remember your childhood?

I was born in Barcelona, but I immediately moved to Pamplona - the capital of a region in Spain called Navarra -, because my father worked there. We were there when the ETA terrorist movement was still going on and we came back to Catalonia in 1972. Then I started going to my mother’s family town, Cantonigròs. I admit that this town has been my particular literary universe, because of the inspiration the silence and the mountains give me. At first, I just went there in the summer season, and my friends and I started organizing a big festival, Cantonigròs International Music Festival, which was also promoted by my father. It was inspired by the Llangollen International Music Festival in Wales, which we had visited on some occasions.

55

Blanca Busquets – Catalan women writers Words by Anna Reig Caballeria

Blanca Busquets is a Catalan writer, but she’s also a journalist and a philologist. She has been working for Catalunya Ràdio, a Catalan public radio broadcaster, since 1986. She lives between Barcelona and her little hometown near the Pyrenees, Cantonigròs. She has published 10 novels in total, including La nevada del cucut (The cuckoo snowfall) which received the Bookseller Prize from Catalonia in 2011. Moreover, she was honoured in 2015 with the Alghero Donna Prize for Literature and Journalism for the Italian translation of The House of Silence, another of her novels that has been translated into English by Mara Faye Lethem. Busquets is an author with an international profile, as her works have been translated into more than eight languages.

How do you remember your childhood?

I was born in Barcelona, but I immediately moved to Pamplona - the capital of a region in Spain called Navarra -, because my father worked there. We were there when the ETA terrorist movement was still going on and we came back to Catalonia in 1972. Then I started going to my mother’s family town, Cantonigròs. I admit that this town has been my particular literary universe, because of the inspiration the silence and the mountains give me. At first, I just went there in the summer season, and my friends and I started organizing a big festival, Cantonigròs International Music Festival, which was also promoted by my father. It was inspired by the Llangollen International Music Festival in Wales, which we had visited on some occasions.

55

The novel The House of Silence talks a lot about music, what role has it played in your life since it is very important to your family?

I was three years old and I learned the musical notes before I learned how to read a tale. When I was older, I also learned how to play the piano and that was amazing!

With my band, we travelled all around Europe during the cold war when it was very difficult to visit some places. I felt I was very privileged. Anyway, later I realized that I was not a musician but a writer. When I completed the last piano course, I had to choose between giving up the piano or the life I wanted to have. My father and my uncle dedicated all their lives to music, but I didn’t want to do that.

The portrait of loneliness is also a constant in your novels. Do you consider yourself a person who likes to be alone?

Of course, I love to be alone. That's why I write, to talk about loneliness. I believe that everybody is alone - and so are my characters - although they seem to be accompanied. I think the writer’s profession has a lot to do with being alone. You need to read a lot and spend many hours by yourself with your thoughts and characters to create a novel. I am a little bit like my character Lali in La nevada del cucut (The cuckoo snowfall), because literature for her, and also for me, is like a balm for an incurable disease.

57

Which authors inspired you the most to write your literature?

Well…. I started writing when I was nine years old, then I knew I wanted to be a novelist.

So, then I read all the Happy Hollisters and Enid Blyton books. I went through them all fifty times each maybe, I was obsessed. When I grew up, I started loving Agatha Christie’s ones, which I also read many times even if I already knew who the murderer was. Agatha was a huge inspiration for me, and she taught me how to create suspense. I learned from her how to drive the lector’s attention away from one idea by emphasising another one, so then I could surprise him or her in another novel’s moment.

What projects have you been in recently?

Sure! This week my new book, Constellations, has been published in Catalan. It’s a family-centred novel that occurs around the 100th anniversary of the grandfather.

They spend the weekend all together and every family member explains their own story. They have all gone through the experience of the war, starting with the grandfather, who lived during the Spanish Civil War conflict. Constellations is a way to honour my own father and report what he lived in Pamplona with the ETA terrorist movement.

58

The novel The House of Silence talks a lot about music, what role has it played in your life since it is very important to your family?

I was three years old and I learned the musical notes before I learned how to read a tale. When I was older, I also learned how to play the piano and that was amazing!

With my band, we travelled all around Europe during the cold war when it was very difficult to visit some places. I felt I was very privileged. Anyway, later I realized that I was not a musician but a writer. When I completed the last piano course, I had to choose between giving up the piano or the life I wanted to have. My father and my uncle dedicated all their lives to music, but I didn’t want to do that.

The portrait of loneliness is also a constant in your novels. Do you consider yourself a person who likes to be alone?

Of course, I love to be alone. That's why I write, to talk about loneliness. I believe that everybody is alone - and so are my characters - although they seem to be accompanied. I think the writer’s profession has a lot to do with being alone. You need to read a lot and spend many hours by yourself with your thoughts and characters to create a novel. I am a little bit like my character Lali in La nevada del cucut (The cuckoo snowfall), because literature for her, and also for me, is like a balm for an incurable disease.

57

Which authors inspired you the most to write your literature?

Well…. I started writing when I was nine years old, then I knew I wanted to be a novelist.

So, then I read all the Happy Hollisters and Enid Blyton books. I went through them all fifty times each maybe, I was obsessed. When I grew up, I started loving Agatha Christie’s ones, which I also read many times even if I already knew who the murderer was. Agatha was a huge inspiration for me, and she taught me how to create suspense. I learned from her how to drive the lector’s attention away from one idea by emphasising another one, so then I could surprise him or her in another novel’s moment.

What projects have you been in recently?

Sure! This week my new book, Constellations, has been published in Catalan. It’s a family-centred novel that occurs around the 100th anniversary of the grandfather.

They spend the weekend all together and every family member explains their own story. They have all gone through the experience of the war, starting with the grandfather, who lived during the Spanish Civil War conflict. Constellations is a way to honour my own father and report what he lived in Pamplona with the ETA terrorist movement.

58

prose

prose

Coming together for the last time The silence that we had gone through for months renewed itself as quickly as it had begun. I only wish I had known sooner. With all the optimism in the world I sent one of my last messages to her, not knowing this would be the last time we came together.

This optimism quickly diminished as the awkward small talk began. With so few words, the heaviness felt immense. The emptiness in our words lingered. News that would have otherwise been immediately shared with me was almost reluctantly pulled out to try to mend the void in conversation. The friendship I had been so desperate to salvage was now irrevocably lost. All of this in McDonald’s. It felt almost laughable. A place where we had come numerous times after school was now etched into my memory as a setting of lost hope. I knew she would come back tomorrow to get her 99p cheeseburger. I’d try to avoid it for at least a few months.

As I turned to walk away after hugging her and smiling, that bittersweet feeling began. What had been weeks of me trying to fix what was broken was time wasted. No more attempts to mend something that had disappeared in our last artificial conversation. Some things cannot be saved.

words: K hat ij a A hme d

60

Coming together for the last time The silence that we had gone through for months renewed itself as quickly as it had begun. I only wish I had known sooner. With all the optimism in the world I sent one of my last messages to her, not knowing this would be the last time we came together.

This optimism quickly diminished as the awkward small talk began. With so few words, the heaviness felt immense. The emptiness in our words lingered. News that would have otherwise been immediately shared with me was almost reluctantly pulled out to try to mend the void in conversation. The friendship I had been so desperate to salvage was now irrevocably lost. All of this in McDonald’s. It felt almost laughable. A place where we had come numerous times after school was now etched into my memory as a setting of lost hope. I knew she would come back tomorrow to get her 99p cheeseburger. I’d try to avoid it for at least a few months.

As I turned to walk away after hugging her and smiling, that bittersweet feeling began. What had been weeks of me trying to fix what was broken was time wasted. No more attempts to mend something that had disappeared in our last artificial conversation. Some things cannot be saved.

words: K hat ij a A hme d

60

Stained coffee mugs littered the desks, computers from the ‘90s haunted the hallways. Smith was a lawyer on King’s Street. Eyes boring through the stacks of paper on his desk in the corner of the office, he knew he’d never finish on time for the next morning.

The hours drifted on and the anxiety was building. A male colleague walked by, waving. One by one the office emptied out, leaving only the frantic typing and Smith’s scanning eyes. He was instructed by the manager to turn off the last of the lights in the office before he left. Smith jolted up and went to pour himself another coffee. He struck the mug with the least schmutz on it and, head down, went into the coffee closet.

Capybara Words : Saul Levene

Once there, he started to hear a voice.

“I know what you need,” the voice intoned. Smith’s hand froze while pouring and he looked around.

“Don’t bother,” the voice said.

“Where are you?” Smith asked before pouring the coffee over himself, yelping.

“Gone,” it replied.

“But I can help you, if you let me,” it said. “And all you need to do is…”

The next day, the stacks of paper were gone, the mugs were clean and the praise for Smith flowed throughout the office. The court case had gone fantastically. It was like he was a new man. Now for his side of the bargain.

Again, he waited for everyone to leave and went to the coffee cupboard. He took under his arm a small, open package with holes.

Soon, people began to complain about the smell. But he was on top of the world. So the packages kept coming, larger and larger. When the voice asked for different kinds, better traps, that was when Smith felt he was getting out of his depth. But there was no stopping now.

“I asked for a larger package this time.”

“I know, I’m sorry. There were no larger ones,” Smith apologised. There was a long pause.

“I think it’s time you went shopping.”

The back-alleys were laced with them. Soon, he had a collection in his house. Brown, black, white and striped. It started with cheese. Now, he was cutting holes not only in the packages but in the contents. Rats.

And it was appeased for a while.

“I asked for bigger, John.”

“There are no bigger! I’ve been spending all of my time in the goddamn sewers! I barely see my family anymore, not between my job and...and you.”

“No one forced you, John. You chose this,” the voice paused. “And you will find me more.”

Now Smith used his collection to find other gifts. Unlike before, there left no stench, no remains afterwards. He only picked up the cardboard in the morning.

62

Stained coffee mugs littered the desks, computers from the ‘90s haunted the hallways. Smith was a lawyer on King’s Street. Eyes boring through the stacks of paper on his desk in the corner of the office, he knew he’d never finish on time for the next morning.

The hours drifted on and the anxiety was building. A male colleague walked by, waving. One by one the office emptied out, leaving only the frantic typing and Smith’s scanning eyes. He was instructed by the manager to turn off the last of the lights in the office before he left. Smith jolted up and went to pour himself another coffee. He struck the mug with the least schmutz on it and, head down, went into the coffee closet.

Capybara Words : Saul Levene

Once there, he started to hear a voice.

“I know what you need,” the voice intoned. Smith’s hand froze while pouring and he looked around.

“Don’t bother,” the voice said.

“Where are you?” Smith asked before pouring the coffee over himself, yelping.

“Gone,” it replied.

“But I can help you, if you let me,” it said. “And all you need to do is…”

The next day, the stacks of paper were gone, the mugs were clean and the praise for Smith flowed throughout the office. The court case had gone fantastically. It was like he was a new man. Now for his side of the bargain.

Again, he waited for everyone to leave and went to the coffee cupboard. He took under his arm a small, open package with holes.

Soon, people began to complain about the smell. But he was on top of the world. So the packages kept coming, larger and larger. When the voice asked for different kinds, better traps, that was when Smith felt he was getting out of his depth. But there was no stopping now.

“I asked for a larger package this time.”

“I know, I’m sorry. There were no larger ones,” Smith apologised. There was a long pause.

“I think it’s time you went shopping.”

The back-alleys were laced with them. Soon, he had a collection in his house. Brown, black, white and striped. It started with cheese. Now, he was cutting holes not only in the packages but in the contents. Rats.

And it was appeased for a while.

“I asked for bigger, John.”

“There are no bigger! I’ve been spending all of my time in the goddamn sewers! I barely see my family anymore, not between my job and...and you.”

“No one forced you, John. You chose this,” the voice paused. “And you will find me more.”

Now Smith used his collection to find other gifts. Unlike before, there left no stench, no remains afterwards. He only picked up the cardboard in the morning.

62

A week later.

“You’ve really been working hard, Smith,” Simon, the manager, said. Simon was tall, pudgy and self-assured in the way that men were when they were as rich, sad and pudgy as Simon was.

“You’re gonna have to tell me your secret one day,” he said and leaned in close, squeezing his shoulder.

Smith went rigid and simply smiled.

A month later.

It was late. Smith was tired and hungry and wanted to go home. But the Warden called and the ‘package’ was waiting outside, chained to a lamppost two streets down. When he arrived in the alley, a homeless man was sitting outside, with ragged hair, holding a cardboard sign asking for food. The chain was around the lamppost but without the cargo.

Smith turned to the man. “Who took that? Did you see?”

The man was taken aback and shook his head vehemently.

How could he not have it? How could it have escaped? The voice was so much louder now, he could hear it even during the day. Where can he find a bulldog at this time? There are no pet shops in town.

He looked at the homeless man again, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Would...you like a coffee in my office?”

Months later.

“I can’t get you any more, it’s wrong!”

“I can take everything away again, John. Sally will be so disappointed.”

“Don’t you dare talk about her!” he paused. “How...do you know her name?”

“I know everything about you John,” the naked lightbulb flickered in the closet and Smith flinched.

“So scared… so fragile.” The coffee dispenser started to bubble at the tip and the water boiled.

Behind the shelves, Smith saw motion.

“What... do you do with everything I bring you?” he whispered.

Laughter answered and Smith left, determined to find someone, anyone.

Some days later.

Simon rolled his legs one after the other past Smith’s office. He knocked on the door and leaned his toupee’d head through the door, one arm around the door post. “Sir, one question for you, if you don’t mind?” he asked, timid.

“Yes?” “CCTV’s showing that someone’s been taking homeless people into the building late at night.

It always cuts out around this floor though. I was hoping to employ someone to keep watch at night. Nothing’s been taken, but it seems pretty strange, right?”

Smith put down his fountain pen and looked him in the eye.

“That sounds like a good idea. Why don’t you start on that tomorrow? And hey, let me get you a coffee tonight if you don’t mind staying late.”

“Well, I was actually planning on having an early night,” he smiled and trailed off as Simon saw Smith’s hardened face.

“But I’m sure I can catch up on sleep another time.” He disappeared and closed the door carefully.

One week later.

“I can’t bring you any more! I’ve lost so many… it’s mostly me and a few of the temps now on the whole floor. It’s hard to believe we’re still running,” “Isn’t it? I think you know why you’re still running, John,” it said. “I think you know very well.”

“But don’t worry. I don’t need anymore. Just...some cheese. For old time’s sake. Then I’ll move on. No harm done.”

Smith licked his lips nervously. “No more harm done. No more.”

It was as if he could hear it smiling.

The following day, the CCTV saw John Smith walking out of the building at four in the morning and into the alleys behind it. Despite this, he wasn’t seen leaving the floor. He could be seen walking into the coffee cupboard and then a separate camera saw him leaving on the ground floor. He was reported missing two days following that.

64

A week later.

“You’ve really been working hard, Smith,” Simon, the manager, said. Simon was tall, pudgy and self-assured in the way that men were when they were as rich, sad and pudgy as Simon was.

“You’re gonna have to tell me your secret one day,” he said and leaned in close, squeezing his shoulder.

Smith went rigid and simply smiled.

A month later.

It was late. Smith was tired and hungry and wanted to go home. But the Warden called and the ‘package’ was waiting outside, chained to a lamppost two streets down. When he arrived in the alley, a homeless man was sitting outside, with ragged hair, holding a cardboard sign asking for food. The chain was around the lamppost but without the cargo.

Smith turned to the man. “Who took that? Did you see?”

The man was taken aback and shook his head vehemently.

How could he not have it? How could it have escaped? The voice was so much louder now, he could hear it even during the day. Where can he find a bulldog at this time? There are no pet shops in town.

He looked at the homeless man again, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Would...you like a coffee in my office?”

Months later.

“I can’t get you any more, it’s wrong!”

“I can take everything away again, John. Sally will be so disappointed.”

“Don’t you dare talk about her!” he paused. “How...do you know her name?”

“I know everything about you John,” the naked lightbulb flickered in the closet and Smith flinched.

“So scared… so fragile.” The coffee dispenser started to bubble at the tip and the water boiled.

Behind the shelves, Smith saw motion.

“What... do you do with everything I bring you?” he whispered.

Laughter answered and Smith left, determined to find someone, anyone.

Some days later.

Simon rolled his legs one after the other past Smith’s office. He knocked on the door and leaned his toupee’d head through the door, one arm around the door post. “Sir, one question for you, if you don’t mind?” he asked, timid.

“Yes?” “CCTV’s showing that someone’s been taking homeless people into the building late at night.

It always cuts out around this floor though. I was hoping to employ someone to keep watch at night. Nothing’s been taken, but it seems pretty strange, right?”

Smith put down his fountain pen and looked him in the eye.

“That sounds like a good idea. Why don’t you start on that tomorrow? And hey, let me get you a coffee tonight if you don’t mind staying late.”

“Well, I was actually planning on having an early night,” he smiled and trailed off as Simon saw Smith’s hardened face.

“But I’m sure I can catch up on sleep another time.” He disappeared and closed the door carefully.

One week later.

“I can’t bring you any more! I’ve lost so many… it’s mostly me and a few of the temps now on the whole floor. It’s hard to believe we’re still running,” “Isn’t it? I think you know why you’re still running, John,” it said. “I think you know very well.”

“But don’t worry. I don’t need anymore. Just...some cheese. For old time’s sake. Then I’ll move on. No harm done.”

Smith licked his lips nervously. “No more harm done. No more.”

It was as if he could hear it smiling.

The following day, the CCTV saw John Smith walking out of the building at four in the morning and into the alleys behind it. Despite this, he wasn’t seen leaving the floor. He could be seen walking into the coffee cupboard and then a separate camera saw him leaving on the ground floor. He was reported missing two days following that.

64

if my flesh were thought

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way; For then despite of space I would be brought, From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.

–– W. Shakespeare, SONNET 44

The low haze of a cloudless July evening rose into a pink lustre, and Louis’ cheekbones were painted with the light of a dying day.

‘Don’t you think it’s odd?’

The pensive, mechanical movement of his jaw was rendered in oscillating shadows of purple and red; his head rested listlessly against the cobbled wall as he gazed out to the water. The Seine-side footfall flowed past with its ambient, unintelligible chatter, from which the indelible sound arose of waves breaking against the bank.

My gaze was fixed on him. His exposed clavicle retreated beneath the collar of an open shirt, and in the slanting light I noted the mauvish flecks of his brown eyes. It seemed like a secret only I knew –– his iris the plaster, the sun its gilder.

‘I don’t know whether it’s genuinely unaccounted for, or whether I’m just blind.’

It often happened that he would catch upon a train of thought like this. There were clear markers one could chart, as if predicting an earthquake: pauses, false starts, punctuated by moments of idle reverie which could retrospectively be called foreshocks. I was well-acquainted enough with the yield of these trains of thought to know better than to interrupt their genesis. Plus, he looked very pretty.

‘Just a second, I can get this straightened out.’

In the moment’s silence I let my attention sink into my periphery, not taking my eyes off him. I had visited Paris once with my mother years before, and, now, my ears rung with the phantom chimes of memory: a woman’s laughter rose above the chorus; a street vendor’s wide pleas bled into closer mocks and indiscernible retorts; a stray dog’s bark, calls for group photos, faint music spilling out of nearby cafés – and beneath it all, like the theme of a novel or the wash behind a painting, the ubiquitous breaking of water.

The crimson limestone beyond his hair gave him a sort of halo – I loved adorning him his way, the angel of evening. Often, when he spoke, his words would spill out of him as if on the breeze, as if the riverside zephyr were speaking through him, his low tones flowing over

65

cobble, searching, eager to whirl into profundity. Though, in truth, whether or not anything profound lay at the end of this particular gust mattered little to me; it didn’t matter what he said. I would sit transfixed all the same, his voice curling around my neck and running a finger along my collarbone. It was always the same. He was the air; I drank him.

Though, as the moment wore on and on, the silence crept in like a vignette. I became acutely restless, begging with my eyes for him to speak, to renew the scene. Suppressed questions started rearing their heads: how, exactly, had we come to be here? What time was it?

‘That’s what it was – I was reading the other day,’ he said. I exhaled; the creeping dread flushed from me; the chorus of my periphery resumed. His eyes were flecked with mauve.

‘You? Makes a change,’ I said, feigning placidity.

‘Hilarious. I was reading a Woolf for class – one of the more out-there ones.’

‘They make you read English modernists in France?’

‘There’s only so much Proust a man can take.’

‘And how much Woolf can an Irishman take?’

‘Oh, I assure you, I was streaking three fingers of green white and orange across my cheek with a copy of MacNeice under my arm,’ he said.

I could sense real fatigue simmering under his sarcastic tone. Louis was the only outspoken nationalist in his Belfastian family – a fact which, in no small part, contributed to his leapfrogging his expected destination of Trinity to seek refuge at the Sorbonne – and loathed being teased about his de facto hatred of all things English. It’s an oversimplification hung, an unspoken mutual acknowledgement, between us.

The wry crinkle at the corner of his mouth was cast in shades of plum; a golden tint was laced through his thick brown curls. Off to my right, a large crashing of water was followed by a bout of playful screams and laughter. The vague conversations of evening-goers beginning to populate the pavement seating impressed behind us. The cool, tart breeze flew by, gently lifting his collar; he needed a shave, and for a moment I imagined delicately running a straight razor over his Adam’s apple.

‘Proust is as good an example as Woolf in this respect anyway, as it turns out,’ he said.

‘Enlighten me,’ I replied.

‘What I find odd is the – what seems to be – completely pervasive custom in literature to depict the recapturing of memory as a movement from one place to another.’

‘Uh huh,’ I said, apprehensive. He’d brought this up before. ‘Doesn’t that kind of make sense, though?’

‘Oh, sure, it’s fine enough. Proust’s narrator’s framing the slipping from present into past as the transgressing of a spatial boundary as well as a temporal one is actually a useful organisational tool – without it you’d not know what the fuck was going on.’

‘You know you speak like an essay?’ I jibed, hoping he’d become distracted. As content as I usually was to sit and listen, I felt a distinct gnawing sensation that he was treading in an area I felt sacred; asking questions where I vitally needed ignorance.

‘But the issue is,’ he continued unimpeded, ‘that this movement from one place to another, this transgressing of spatial boundaries, this being in one place but also another’ – here I froze – ‘is for some reason resigned only to the recapturing of memory.’

I said nothing.

‘What seems to be far less represented is a simultaneity of being in the present moment – the notion of being here and there, now. Rather than sublimated into the now and then, being allowed to be felt, at once, now. Look, I’ll grab an example.’

66

if my flesh were thought

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way; For then despite of space I would be brought, From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.

–– W. Shakespeare, SONNET 44

The low haze of a cloudless July evening rose into a pink lustre, and Louis’ cheekbones were painted with the light of a dying day.

‘Don’t you think it’s odd?’

The pensive, mechanical movement of his jaw was rendered in oscillating shadows of purple and red; his head rested listlessly against the cobbled wall as he gazed out to the water. The Seine-side footfall flowed past with its ambient, unintelligible chatter, from which the indelible sound arose of waves breaking against the bank.

My gaze was fixed on him. His exposed clavicle retreated beneath the collar of an open shirt, and in the slanting light I noted the mauvish flecks of his brown eyes. It seemed like a secret only I knew –– his iris the plaster, the sun its gilder.

‘I don’t know whether it’s genuinely unaccounted for, or whether I’m just blind.’

It often happened that he would catch upon a train of thought like this. There were clear markers one could chart, as if predicting an earthquake: pauses, false starts, punctuated by moments of idle reverie which could retrospectively be called foreshocks. I was well-acquainted enough with the yield of these trains of thought to know better than to interrupt their genesis. Plus, he looked very pretty.

‘Just a second, I can get this straightened out.’

In the moment’s silence I let my attention sink into my periphery, not taking my eyes off him. I had visited Paris once with my mother years before, and, now, my ears rung with the phantom chimes of memory: a woman’s laughter rose above the chorus; a street vendor’s wide pleas bled into closer mocks and indiscernible retorts; a stray dog’s bark, calls for group photos, faint music spilling out of nearby cafés – and beneath it all, like the theme of a novel or the wash behind a painting, the ubiquitous breaking of water.

The crimson limestone beyond his hair gave him a sort of halo – I loved adorning him his way, the angel of evening. Often, when he spoke, his words would spill out of him as if on the breeze, as if the riverside zephyr were speaking through him, his low tones flowing over

65

cobble, searching, eager to whirl into profundity. Though, in truth, whether or not anything profound lay at the end of this particular gust mattered little to me; it didn’t matter what he said. I would sit transfixed all the same, his voice curling around my neck and running a finger along my collarbone. It was always the same. He was the air; I drank him.

Though, as the moment wore on and on, the silence crept in like a vignette. I became acutely restless, begging with my eyes for him to speak, to renew the scene. Suppressed questions started rearing their heads: how, exactly, had we come to be here? What time was it?

‘That’s what it was – I was reading the other day,’ he said. I exhaled; the creeping dread flushed from me; the chorus of my periphery resumed. His eyes were flecked with mauve.

‘You? Makes a change,’ I said, feigning placidity.

‘Hilarious. I was reading a Woolf for class – one of the more out-there ones.’

‘They make you read English modernists in France?’

‘There’s only so much Proust a man can take.’

‘And how much Woolf can an Irishman take?’

‘Oh, I assure you, I was streaking three fingers of green white and orange across my cheek with a copy of MacNeice under my arm,’ he said.

I could sense real fatigue simmering under his sarcastic tone. Louis was the only outspoken nationalist in his Belfastian family – a fact which, in no small part, contributed to his leapfrogging his expected destination of Trinity to seek refuge at the Sorbonne – and loathed being teased about his de facto hatred of all things English. It’s an oversimplification hung, an unspoken mutual acknowledgement, between us.

The wry crinkle at the corner of his mouth was cast in shades of plum; a golden tint was laced through his thick brown curls. Off to my right, a large crashing of water was followed by a bout of playful screams and laughter. The vague conversations of evening-goers beginning to populate the pavement seating impressed behind us. The cool, tart breeze flew by, gently lifting his collar; he needed a shave, and for a moment I imagined delicately running a straight razor over his Adam’s apple.

‘Proust is as good an example as Woolf in this respect anyway, as it turns out,’ he said.

‘Enlighten me,’ I replied.

‘What I find odd is the – what seems to be – completely pervasive custom in literature to depict the recapturing of memory as a movement from one place to another.’

‘Uh huh,’ I said, apprehensive. He’d brought this up before. ‘Doesn’t that kind of make sense, though?’

‘Oh, sure, it’s fine enough. Proust’s narrator’s framing the slipping from present into past as the transgressing of a spatial boundary as well as a temporal one is actually a useful organisational tool – without it you’d not know what the fuck was going on.’

‘You know you speak like an essay?’ I jibed, hoping he’d become distracted. As content as I usually was to sit and listen, I felt a distinct gnawing sensation that he was treading in an area I felt sacred; asking questions where I vitally needed ignorance.

‘But the issue is,’ he continued unimpeded, ‘that this movement from one place to another, this transgressing of spatial boundaries, this being in one place but also another’ – here I froze – ‘is for some reason resigned only to the recapturing of memory.’

I said nothing.

‘What seems to be far less represented is a simultaneity of being in the present moment – the notion of being here and there, now. Rather than sublimated into the now and then, being allowed to be felt, at once, now. Look, I’ll grab an example.’

66

‘No, please don’t––’ I tried, and with the dreadful realisation of something one already knows, a succumbing to an inexorable fact which one, out of a vital necessity, must vehemently deny, I realised I could not hear my own voice. ‘“She could return to that dream land, that unreal but fascinating place, the Mannings’ drawing-room at Marlow twenty years ago,”’ he said. An exact quote. Impossible to organically conjure. ‘See? Why must “that dream land, that unreal but fascinating place” coincide with the past? Why is it not possible to be, in a moment, in one’s physical space, but to, by some means, feel with utter vividness that one is somewhere else?’

Aware of the fragility of the moment, I said nothing.

‘Here, look: https://shibbolethsp.jstor.org/start?entityID=https%3A%2F%2Fsrbidp.srb. fr%2Fidp%2Fshibboleth&dest=https://www.jstor.org/stable/63849917&site=jstor.’

As I attempted to attend to each element of the scene, each ceased to be. In an instant, I became aware of the absence of sound: no screams or laughter, no ambient chatter, no water.

All that remained was the dull ringing found only in absolute silence. I looked to Louis, but where he sat all was black; black beside me, black above me, black around me. Where once I felt the last dregs of sun on my skin and a breeze around my neck, now, all was uniformly warm and still. Purple hues and golden haze dissipated, and in their stead came washing down a rectangular flood of cold, white-blue light.

67

02:31

James Mu mfo rd

LOUIS QUINN OLIVER? IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?

‘No, please don’t––’ I tried, and with the dreadful realisation of something one already knows, a succumbing to an inexorable fact which one, out of a vital necessity, must vehemently deny, I realised I could not hear my own voice. ‘“She could return to that dream land, that unreal but fascinating place, the Mannings’ drawing-room at Marlow twenty years ago,”’ he said. An exact quote. Impossible to organically conjure. ‘See? Why must “that dream land, that unreal but fascinating place” coincide with the past? Why is it not possible to be, in a moment, in one’s physical space, but to, by some means, feel with utter vividness that one is somewhere else?’

Aware of the fragility of the moment, I said nothing.

‘Here, look: https://shibbolethsp.jstor.org/start?entityID=https%3A%2F%2Fsrbidp.srb. fr%2Fidp%2Fshibboleth&dest=https://www.jstor.org/stable/63849917&site=jstor.’

As I attempted to attend to each element of the scene, each ceased to be. In an instant, I became aware of the absence of sound: no screams or laughter, no ambient chatter, no water.

All that remained was the dull ringing found only in absolute silence. I looked to Louis, but where he sat all was black; black beside me, black above me, black around me. Where once I felt the last dregs of sun on my skin and a breeze around my neck, now, all was uniformly warm and still. Purple hues and golden haze dissipated, and in their stead came washing down a rectangular flood of cold, white-blue light.

67

02:31

James Mu mfo rd

LOUIS QUINN OLIVER? IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?

A u t u m n / Wi n t e r

2021

coming together

A u t u m n / Wi n t e r

2021

coming together

issue 16 w w w. k c l j o u r n a l . c o . u k | @ k c l j o u r n a l