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The Past

kiloran : issue #4 2


co n t r i b u to rs Editor : Lucy Harbron Eliza Caraher Ines Cardo Rachelle Cox Elizabeth Evans Tayla Halfacre Ethan Hemmati Simmy Hoonjan James Huxtable Lucas Jones Maya Kearney Bridie Lonsdale Cia M Jade Millard Hope Naisbitt Fred Ostrovskis Jordan O’Shea James Pollitt Laia Rodríguez Nabeela Saghir Clarissa U Josh Verdon Beth Waite Sophie Wilson 3


A letter from the editor

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It takes effort for me to live in the present. Since I can remember I’ve always been playing a game of hide and seek, hiding from the past, running towards the future, always struggling just to stop for a while. And I don’t think that’s uncommon. As much as we can all say - ‘you shouldn’t live in the past’ - god it’s a glorious place of possibilities in replays and replays and curiosities. I write only in past tense or future tense, and issue 4 is about the past. The creation of issue 4 has been strange. It was the first time I’ve really felt intense pressure to pick a half decent theme since the reception to issue 3 was so incredible and suddenly my brain chain is starting to feel like a real life thing with realistic goals and plans. So the issue was a slow starter and born out of a mess of moodboards and old diaries. But I think the creation of issue 4 perfectly mirrors it’s subject matter. The present has kept on moving to the past as this issue was made, and each day I feel like I’ve seen it become more and more relevant. I’ve been through 2 breakups, moved away from home and friends and seen present plans and feelings fade to distant. With Brexit and Trump the world has fallen asleep and woken up in 1920. I’ve read old books that are more relevant than ever (read 1984), watched old films I fell so deeply for I thought I was in them, wore clothes that were my aunties, my mothers, the 90’s. In a period of so much upheaval and change, I feel more lost in the past than ever, both voluntarily; clinging onto it all, and involuntarily as we live through decisions we saw the consequences of almost 100 years ago. 5


But god am I happy, and endlessly, dizzily proud to present issue 4. Never did I think it will come this far, or stretch this wide. So thank you. Other people to thankThank you to everyone that tells me I’m cool for doing this. Thank you to the new contributors; your excitement made me excited again. Thank you to Sam Binstead; for having an eye for fonts and really just for everything else. Thank you to my mum. Thank you to Josh Verdon for being an absolute tech hero. Thank you to Lucas Jones for pushing me to do more, not because I’m jealous but because I long to live up. Thank you to UoS £2.40 chai lattes, and Morrison’s hummus. Thank you to me. Thank you to you. The strangest thing is that kiloran feels so firmly in the present right now. Right on the boundary of the future, and I can’t wait to spill over.

- Lucy

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Issue #4

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I ’ m s o r r y f o r w h at I s a i d last night Lucy Harbron & Lucas Jones 20


I’m sorry for what I said last night, I did not mean it. I promise I didn’t, I never could, I just don’t seem to think things through. I have butter fingers and wet lips that let knives slip. I don’t believe it, I swear. I’m sorry that I hurt you, that you got caught up in the blow as I detonated. I’m sorry you were hit in the cross-fire of a fight that never once involved you; you were just the face of it, the propaganda, the motivator. I will decriminalise you and take your place in exile regardless of whether you unlock the door again. I know I shouldn’t have left. I should’ve stayed there in silence or shouting back, either is better than void. I should’ve yelled my apologies again and again until they were louder than your response attack. We were two smashed bottles, overfilled and burst; yours with anger, mine with mindlessness. I’m sorry. I’ll excuse myself no longer. I’m sorry for what I said, I hope you can see past it.

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… I’m sorry for what you said last night; But I’m glad you said it because you meant it. And maybe you don’t yet realise that at midnight this morning Screaming at each other, one slightly more accurate smashed glass away from ruining the rest of our lives - Was the first time in a long time that we’ve been honest with each other. And maybe you’re not ready to face the reality that I am everything you said I am. That your worst fears about me came true. That I am not enough. And maybe that’s OK. Because what if none of us are? What if every night spent doting each other to sleep, wrapped in sheets that felt as if they had grown organically around us like petals, protecting the importance of our co-existence, was all just an illusion? An amalgamation of film scenes, love songs and poetry, projected onto our reality, blinding us to the fact that maybe we’re simply addicted to the concept of what our love represents and not the reality of what our love actually presents. You apologise, but who am I to be granted the right to subside your guilt with forgiveness? Each bloodthirsty syllable you spoke was handcrafted in a fire that’s been burning deep within you for a long time. You suffered; Suffocating from the smoke and razor blade repressions. Coughing violent truths from a torrid throat. What is there to forgive of someone who has not spoken dishonestly? 22


You once said that your love is your religion; So then is our relationship not Biblical? Are we not the apostles of the belief that two hearts beating in synchronicity is the only cure for brokenness? Is sex not our salvation? You may curse me in conversation to your friends for denying you the comfort of the illusory Universe that we created from within our bedroom. I will not hold it against you. Do what you must to rationalise and mourn for the death of our love. ..If ever it truly was. And you will have to excuse yourself again, because there is nothing to see past. No romanticised version of events. No film script. Nothing but decaying petals on torn bed sheets, a doused fire and shards of glass on the living room floor. And for this you may hate me, but in keeping with our faith, I ask; ‘Have I now become your enemy for telling you the truth?’

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A m e r i c a n N o s ta l g i a Ethan Hemmati 24


My real day started when everyone in my house was asleep, and I was out the window. I had done this many times before. What had surprised me initially was how easy it all was – how little planning it required. For someone like me, it came like second nature. One time, before Chloe Banks moved, we stole a police car in the early hours of the morning. I didn’t steal it though – I was just watching. She was trying to drive around Mirror Lake, with the door open, though. The police left the keys in the car? Yeah, the population’s, like, 1200. We would go to Montreal on the weekends, because we almost looked eighteen. We listened to a radio station that doesn’t exist anymore on the way there in the car. We were the upstate kids in the bar. We were cool stories to tell on a Monday morning. Reagan was President. That Thursday night was pretty similar – I mean, it started off pretty similar to any other night. I last saw my parents around ten; I listened to them pad around the kitchen, and then follow each other upstairs about an hour or so later. I waited fifteen minutes in the dark, staring at the back of my bedroom door, letting my eyes and breathing adjust. I turned on my bedside lamp, and got dressed in my favorite hoodie and jeans. I remember wearing my middle school graduation ring on my middle finger. I was out the window by 11:47pm.

Sometimes, it was just the walking that I enjoyed. Going out in the winter was too uncomfortable – the cold existed as a constant reminder of your made-up curfew. I only used to go out in winter if I knew I had a method of transport, and I was being transported to somewhere with promised warmth. But the night summer air was something different - it still is. It was more inviting. 25


It never chased you back inside; it never wanted to suggest to you that there was somewhere better you could be. It coexisted with your hopes and desires for the evening. It was friendlier than most of my friends. That Thursday night, I walked past the library and out of my street. Past the park. I didn’t necessarily have anywhere to be that night, but I knew where to go if I wanted to. What many kids my age found hard was keeping their strength when it got dark outside, retaining a confidence that was easier to maintain when they knew what was going on. At night, there would never be anyone around – it was a given. No cars. No dogs. What are you afraid of? I used to ask. I know that you are. What are you afraid of? Getting lost, it usually was. It wasn’t true that you would always find your way back; and knowing that, I was still never afraid.

One night I met a girl called Dianne, who went to a different school but had dated this boy I used to run around with. She wasn’t the one who stole the police car, but she did steal my wallet at the end of the night. I came back to get it from her a week later. She hadn’t taken anything from it – I counted the money. She said that the universe was so big that there was an infinite amount of possibilities of what could be out there. Somewhere out there, there were identical versions of you and identical versions of me. Somewhere out there, I was having a good time. Somewhere out there, I didn’t get my wallet back that night. Dianne was there that Thursday night, lurking around the street that our parents used to tell us wasn’t safe. It was the one place that seemed to look the same during the day and during the night. It looked like something dying. The trees had been sick for years, and the grass was all mangled on some of the front lawns. 26


We didn’t really know anyone who lived there – Dianne had a friend who swore that her and her boyfriend had turned one of the abandoned houses into their love den, but we all knew for a fact that she really lived with her family in the north – so we used to make up stories about the people who were inside those dead-eyed houses. A girl called Lucy, who had been practicing black magic since she was nine. An old man called Ray, who was so sick with various types of terminal cancers that his body wasn't even a body anymore, just some limbs clinging onto a rotting, decaying heart. A former actress, who owned a greyhound who tore through the streets in the dark, gathering dead things and tearing them to pieces, and then brought them back to the actress who used them for inspiration for a new project. We told these stories so many times that eventually they became true in our heads. It didn’t matter that we had no evidence of Lucy’s magic, or Ray’s cancer. They only existed at night, and none of us ever had the courage to go looking for evidence anyway. We couldn’t bear to think that they weren’t real. That Thursday night was the night that my friend Jonathan went missing. No one noticed until three days later. The adults caught on to the fact that all of their kids were sneaking out of their houses every night, and the neighborhood was suddenly on lockdown. Windows were clamped shut; regular bedtime checks were made. I heard that a baby monitor was placed in Charlotte’s room so that her insomniac mother could listen to Charlotte’s breathing all through the night. Everyone was held hostage until Jonathan was found. But what they didn’t know was that Jonathan wasn’t missing. All of us nocturnal creatures knew where he really was. 27


He wasn’t gone. He was moving through time, transcending further than any of us had ever reached. He had found a way to make the nighttime permanent in his head. He was in the forest. He was in the lake. He had pinned his heart to the night sky. We saw him every night, in our dreams. We longed to make it to where he was, but we knew that wouldn’t be possible. Not yet. Some of us had to stay behind and guard the fort. We waited for a sign from Jonathan to tell us to come through, that everything would be ok, but it never came. We knew that we understood everything he was telling us, and that our parents couldn’t fathom any of it at all. In their original form, the Monday morning stories soon seemed stung with the realisation, which would come to all teenage narcissists sooner or later, that we were all in over our heads. The stories soon became so brash and fantastical that we eventually came to understand that we had gone too far down the line. We had mythologised our nighttime experiences to an impossible extent; it was almost as if we were now talking about other people, bigger-than-life characters who were running our childhood streets instead of us. Our pride was hurt, and so were our thoughts. Things began to fade, until we could barely remember Lucy the witch, or the actress’s greyhound. Or Jonathan. His face was fading fast, and there was nothing we could do about it. So we grew up. Amongst other things, we started to realise that the adults with whom we all used to come in contact with were not all operating with our best intentions at heart, twenty four hours a day. We began to notice things that hadn’t been there before, like the price of sugar, or the trajectories of future goals. We never looked at rivers or streets or abandoned houses the same way again. Songs sounded repetitive and unoriginal. 28


The specialness of life was drowning somewhere in the lake behind our school, the same lake where, just a few months later, girls would wade into to get the attention of boys, and boys would flick ashes into and talk about sex. Our nighttime wasn’t a sacred thing anymore, and none of us could exactly put our finger on who had taken it away from us, or why. All that was properly left, after we had all dissected every part of our bodies and picked at every emotion we had ever felt, was the growing feeling of nostalgia for times we weren’t even sure we had properly lived, and things we weren’t even sure we had ever even seen or touched. We took these memories, gathered them up with what little innocence we had left, and stumbled back into the night, looking to see if we could put the pieces back together. But we never could.

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Modern Love Rachelle Cox

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The rock and the hard place : pt. 1 & 2 James Huxtable 34


I am lying on my back in an alleyway. And the stones are digging into my skin, as I rack my mind, about all those times that I refused to let you in. Do you remember this? When I needed someone, and you texted me on your phone. But I told you not to worry, and I watched the clouds align perfectly on my own. A part of me wishes I had told you how I felt. And I wish I had the courage to speak. My face is covered in bits of soot and sand, I don’t want you to think that I’m weak but I’m lying on my back in an alleyway. And I’m struggling to stay on track. Still, my girlfriend was expecting me half an hour ago, so maybe I should hurry back.

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We were sat out on my couch, hanging out, having fun. And I never really expected what occurred to have begun. But as our eyes connected for that moment I have one sole regret, that I will hold forever. I keep my cards close to my chest all the time, I’ll never change. Chase me out your village, for I am sick, I am deranged to think for even one second that I could ever waste your time. With idle staring into space when the ticker doesn’t chime inside my head. God! I wish that I was dead. Maybe if that was the case I wouldn’t rip my brains to shreds every single day this week. You’re only ever there for me. I haven’t got the words to speak. But you’re only ever there for me. And it all now looks so bleak. But you’re only ever there for me. And our connection, it feels antique but you’re only ever there for me. So why wasn’t I there for you?

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Sonder Jordan O’Shea 37


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R o m a n t i c i s m o f t h e pa s t Beth Waite 48


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Although the nature of this metaphorical poetry may portray this particular love as an object of envy, upon reflection of this past relationship, I can conclude that it is not. I wrote his poem over two years ago, after a break up with the first person I had ever felt strong romantic feelings for. The “Crashing, rippling and thrashing” described, were the symptoms of a doomed, emotionally manipulative relationship from both individuals. Romanticism of the past is an element of life that we can all admit to being guilty of. However, when it comes to love and relationships- particularly among young people- this is something which should not be taken lightly. All poets, from Duffy to Kaur, are culprits of this common tendency, yet this had not become aware to me until after rediscovering my own thoughts. Lies, deceit and a lack of trust weaved their way through this specific relationship, however my poem depicts a loving relationship in which passion is the primary drive. These contradictory viewpoints, both from myself, highlight the worrying significance of romanticising the past, and how it can be threatening to your perception of the world, along with the relationships which surround you. The fact of the matter is that there never has been “another glorious storm”; there has been beaming sunlight, intercepted by a few instances of rain, which make the sun even more worthwhile. This therefore recognises the belief that something brighter is always coming, and romanticism of the past can do nothing but distort your views of the future. 50


P e o p l e a g a i n s t t h e pa s t Eliza Caraher 51


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“I feel like my childhood has been taken away from me, stolen. I’m 32, my childhood should already be over but it wasn’t. Up until now I felt like I was still living it, I still had that care free attitude and love of the world. Not anymore, Donald Trump stole my childhood.” – -American woman at Paris Against Trump protest 19/11/16 55


On 9th November 2016 Donald Trump was elected president of the united states. On 9th November the world protested. On 20th January 2017 he became the leader of the free world. On 21st January some of the largest protests ever seen formed a worldwide ‘women’s march.’

On 24th January he signed an ban on federal money going to international groups that perform of provide information on abortions. On 29th January he brought about what is know as the ‘Muslim ban.’ The world is still protesting, as history continues to repeat itself. …

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S h e C o u l d s ta r t a wa r i n 1 0 seconds Lucy Harbron 57


Dear Mrs,

I don’t know you but in a way I do, for we are both privileged, western white women. We are both blessed with rights; a vote, a voice, power. Yet I can’t for the life of me recognise myself in you. You blocked me out. I can’t see myself at all in the reason or motive for your shrugged off opinions that threw we back 100 years and pushed the fingers of our sisters off the cliff edge, because clawing for visibility is not their job, sit down and wait for the men. What was meant to be a satirical video has haunted me. I rewatched and rewatched, begging for a change in intonation, a laugh, any form of sarcasm when you allowed the words to pass your lips. I’ve wondered endlessly about you, and if you had never once in your life, an infinitely able life, dreamt of power, of authority. Have you never thought about standing higher and being heard, being president? Or did that thought never occur because even as a child when you heard “president” you thought “man”. Backed up by the image on the screen of suits and slicked back hair, it was not your fantasy to have. But the first lady sure was pretty. “T h e p r e s i d e n c y i s a m a n ’ s j o b . ” I don’t know you, nor your family. But I break my own heart over the image of your daughter; bright and bold and unapologetic. Had you a daughter with the dream your forbid, what would you have done? Would you write her a list? 58


‘Here sweetheart, those aspirations are for your brother, pick one of these.’ I imagine that would be the moment it clicked. She notices a divide that she has fallen into the inferior side. She is a woman. She’ll cry and wonder why, though she is perfectly able. She has the rights, you just didn’t deem it right. Striving is not becoming of a lady. “ A female has more hormones, she could start a war in 10 seconds.” Why does your opinion should like indoctrination? Your views sided with an excuse of lame biology, painted over in a shade of red for DANGER! THE FEMALE BODY. Maybe you were the daughter I imagined; told to pick a new dream as your body was not suitable. And so you did, and continue to do as you cover the weapon with a Trump t-shirt and vote for the man that sounds most like your father, your grandfather, your mother, your husband. What caused you to put your power down to shame? Who made you mistrust your femininity so much that you cannot allow the thought of an authority figure with the same body as your own? Probably the same person, the same reason, that’s made you hide your tampons for as long as you can remember and never utter words like ‘period’, ‘menopause’, ‘contraception’, ‘feminism’ – For if your body is a weapon of mass destruction, those are the secrets of the SS. I am blessed. I was raised by parents that allow any and all dreams, and remain surrounded by people who remind me that my body, although beautiful and powerful, is still but a vehicle for the 59 mind. And that’s all that matter.


I think daily upon my mother, my sister and the suffragettes. The women that opened doors and that hold them for me. I think daily upon you, and weep. For I can’t help but feel like you have never quite felt the same. Never quite in love with your form, your femininity. Always afraid. It was 1920 when women in the USA got the vote, 1928 in Britain. Each time I place my tick, I give thanks. I thank the sacrificers, I thank the soldiers chained to posts and starving in prisons, I thank those too frightened but still fighting the internal ideology. And I am thankful, daily, that they never listened to the critics that claimed them too hormonal.

Your argument is 100 years old, it is stale. It is hurtful. It is heartbreaking. You could’ve been president, and your body, your brain, would’ve done nothing but allow, allow, allow. You are not a bomb; you are a book, you are a flower. But when you opened your mouth to speak, all I heard was the voice of your ancestors, their oppressors, our past.

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Pa s s e d Tayla Halfacre

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Passed The past exists presently. Lingers by association – It lives on red fingertips Bred and born upon temptation Infinite, but so full of wait…wait? Just weight here and feel, (now) See how it clings quietly – This dark lulling of what once was Or is that really what IS? Time: a (consistent) concept, it drags Minds can run anti-clockwise ‘Mindfulness’ is some sick state. Are we in the present now? In this so-called “present moment” When living in the moment Has become some kind of earned skill?

We look back on history. Like it doesn’t still exist now.

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dereliction Fred Ostrovskis

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M at u r i n g Cia Mangat 69


“Only four pounds for a box of four!�

Southall's own sun hovers over the high street. A brown, skin-like membrane presents itself across the surfaces of dozens of cups of masala chai. In this suburb, steam rises from the windows of the shops selling warmth (sometimes bottled, smothered with ghee, or deep fried in vegetable oil) in various sizes. Throughout Decembers like this one, children, husbands, and grandfathers are lovingly swaddled in the layers of knitwear bought by wives and knitted by grandmothers. One of these husbands sits at a street corner. The folding chair he has selected is twenty minutes away from giving up on him and the years of afternoon samosas (lovingly prepared by his wife, Paramjeet) bulging over the waistband of his trousers (lovingly made elasticated by Paramjeet as well). According to the handmade sign taped to the front of the table he sits behind, he is selling Fresh Authentic Indian Mangoes.

Noor notices the stack of red boxes lined with shredded printer paper first. The man sitting at the street corner behind them tells her that they'll be nice and juicy, just like the ones at home. That the insides are as soft and sweet. He smiles after telling her this, his lips drawing back to reveal two rows of browning teeth. No one else has thought to buy mangoes in the dead of winter from him. Reaching into her purse, Noor fumbles around for a fiver. He chuckles.

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This man is the sort who throws his head back whenever he laughs. Noor sees his teeth softened, sweetened by the immigrant fruits that he sells to second-generation desis like her. She hands over a note and he gives her a box. He spits his paan at the shop window behind him after he folds the note in half and places it in a box underneath the table. The shop window curses at him, threatening him with an £80 fine for spitting paan again. He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief found (lovingly) by Paramjeet in a drawer last week. Noor has never understood paan and its appeal to the men whose saliva is rust-coloured because of it. Someone told her that it prevented bad breath, indigestion, relief from the back pain of lifting suitcases and sitting upright during the traffic on the way to Heathrow. Last week, she read an article in the paper about paan being illegal if it contained Substances that Produce a Psychoactive Effect upon the Person Consuming It. Her grandfather and the rest of his ilk spent their seventies in the paan shop a few minutes away from where she is now: perhaps that's why he laughed so whenever he won at their Punjabi version of Texas Hold'em. The man who sold her the mangoes shares the same glassy demeanour. She accepts her change (a pound exactly; it fits into her palm nicely). If her mother was here, she would’ve scolded Noor for accepting his price instead of haggling it down - she could’ve easily gotten fifty pence off, at least. As the fruit of her mother’s efforts, she ought to know these things. 71


~*~ On the 427: top deck, right at the front. Southall’s own sun filters through the expansive brow of the bus. Noor is lucky. The bus is relatively empty. The only other being present on the top deck is a man across the seats in the rear, clearly taking advantage of the fact that it’s always warmer towards the back. Noor’s seat seems less special now no one’s here to compete with her for it. She sits with the box of mangoes on her lap. Four pounds now seems a little steep for the lack of weightiness of this box. Perhaps they’re the smaller type, she thinks to herself. Like the ones on the kitchen table in her relatives’ house during the summer: the ones so sweet that they were almost sour. Perhaps. Noor has spent several afternoons sucking the very last bits of sweet flesh from the skin of mangoes and then biting into the skin itself. As if it were a sort of forbidden fruit. There is no one - save the momentary glances of pedestrians whenever the bus stops at a traffic light - to watch her now. Noor hasn’t eaten one of these since September. She opens the box (taking care not to upset the paper, lovingly shredded by Paramjeet) and feels around for a mango. The cold hard yellow sunlight streaming through the windows in front of her eggs her on. Most of the mangoes that she’s consumed throughout her lifetime have been devoured underneath the eyes of dozens of various suns. Noor can’t wait for the familiarity of soft orange skin, of cheeks sticky from saccharine pulp. The thought of eating a brightly-coloured fruit on a greying bus excites her more than 72 she’d like to admit.


The lid of the box is thin. She lifts a mango from the box and rinses it in the light. A thousand Technicoloured Bollywood gasps sound as she inspects it: the mango is completely green and hard to the touch. Somewhat like a tennis ball. Noor has bought mangoes so unripe that they’ll probably be white inside, tart to the touch. There is no yellow sea on this little misshapen earth; only stiff green land. Four pounds for a box of four mangoes which are now good for nothing. Noor has been ripped off. A small defeat, of course things like this happen - but an avoidable one, nevertheless.

~*~ Southall’s own sun hasn’t followed Noor home because it forgot its Oyster card. Instead, a row of smaller, fluorescent suns light the premature darkness of her street. There is nothing remarkable about the decaying greyness of the pavement. It can be said that Noor’s efforts to relive the past have borne no fruit. She could take them home. Put them in a paper bag, wait for them to come into their own. It wouldn’t take that long. But then she walks past a bin, where she leaves the box of mangoes to eventually rot amongst the urban decay of her neighbours. It will not come. It will not come.

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P e r s o n a l p a s t s : a p l ay l i s t Bridie Lonsdale 74


C o s m i c d a n c e r : T. R e x

505 : Arctic Monkeys Ta n g o i n t h e n i g h t : F l e e t w o o d M a c The killing moon : Echo & The Bunnymen

Do you remember the first time? : Pulp Musician, please take heed : God Help The Girl Movin’ on up : Primal Scream

We were children : Tribes Precious time : The Maccabees History book : Dry The River

Someday : The Strokes Islands : The xx Walkaway : Cast

American pie : Don McLean Music when the lights go out : The Libertines 75


20 Lucas Jones

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I've recently realised that I consume art obsessively.

As a child, when I thought art was simply entertainment and escapism, I wouldn't just watch a film once or twice and then forget about it. I would watch the film, leave the cinema pretending I was the lead character, carry on the story post-credits and play out entire sequels in my garden. I'd keep that up until I found myself somewhere with social consequences too dire to be anything other than my unusual, nervous, little self, forcing me to break character. E.g. A school classroom. But the second I hit the playground, you best believe I've got my sword in hand chasing ghosts and saving the day. Even if it meant playing by myself (usually because everyone else wanted to play football and even now, the thought of that makes me feel nervous). But I didn't mind that, I've always been a bit of a loner by choice. Maybe that's the result of being a loner not by choice to begin with but that's cool. I'm not complaining. I remember watching the TV series Prison Break when I was 10 and, of course, made a cunning plan to break out of school. Now, to be fair to myself, it was a fucking good plan. I asked my teacher - who was a wonderful man who cared so much about people and the world that he created an 'Eco club' to protect the local environment* - If I could have a map of the school to put in a scrap book about my time there. He thought it was a lovely idea and obliged, handing me an A3 size, birds-eye-view map of the school. I felt like the smartest human on Earth. I now had Blueprints. I rustled up some pals; My team of fellow convicts who said they were down to escape with me. I worked out a route to get us from the playground to the field through the forbidden school woods, into an even more forbidden alleyway which, after crawling 77 through a thorn bush, lead to the street.


I then found a bus route to take us from town to a village a few miles away and there I planned to live happily ever after with my mates, on the run, drinking cheap cream soda, listening to Eminem. Until it came to the day of the escape and they all fucking bottled it and went to play football instead. I couldn't believe it. The betrayal. (Actually I could believe it because that's the kind of thing I hoped would happen. It added to the drama.) I carried on alone, all the way through the forbidden woods but then realised that my plan B was in tatters because my parents didn't have a car and wouldn't be able to come and pick me up if it all went to shit. Plus I had no money for the bus, so I had to scrap the whole breakout. But this is what I mean, as far as I was concerned, it wasn't me escaping from school, it was Michael Schofield, the protagonist of Prison Break, escaping from maximum security prison Fox River Penitentiary. I was living it. I hadn't considered otherwise. And it’s not just film and TV; Music, photography, literature, whatever elicits some kind of metaphysical reaction. I'll listen to a song one hundred times in a row until it stops making me feel something (That's not an exaggeration). I'll read the same line of a poem again and again until it doesn't mean anything. I'll stare at a photo until it feels as uninteresting as staring at the back of my eyelids. And I think this even spills over into my relationships with people. I'll pour myself into someone. Too much of myself in fact. An intrusively intense amount. Everything I have to give until the dizzy, butterfly, excited feeling has vanished. And then it's not dissimilar to a cat with a ball of string, releasing this interesting little curiosity soaked thing from it's paws, and letting it roll away under a sofa somewhere never to be seen again. Or maybe to be seen, but never to be noticed and enjoyed and loved. Not in the same way. Not with such absoluteness. Fucking ‘ell. That went78 pretty bleak pretty quickly. Anyway..


Last year I turned 20 and I didn't like it. It felt wrong. It felt like a trick. Probably because it meant that I indisputably had to say goodbye to my childhood. 'Teen' was a little safety blanket that I had to throw away because it had become all stained and ripped. And so with my obsession with art and romanticising literally everything in mind, I bought a camera from 1964 and decided to take twenty photos of things that felt - and will always feel - like childhood. Figured if I can turn the most essential part of my past into art, then maybe I’ll be able to keep it forever; Without the death of a single butterfly. These are the most important of those photos‌

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1. Childhood home

2. Forever scarred

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3. First toy

4. Brother

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5. PS1

6. Rain

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7. The most exciting place in town

8. My flat when I’m 20

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9. Child return please

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10. Friday after school


I’m Not so profound James Pollitt 85


I'm not so profound or so I've found... i don't like art... and i don't like, when you're not around, but did you miss me enough to drink? or did you drink enough to miss me? did you kiss me enough to think? or did you think enough to kiss me? I don't always astound or so I've found... i don't like that, and you don't like when I'm not around, but did you miss me enough to drink? or did you drink enough to miss me? I've had time to think, but me and you is wishful thinkin, our love is abound, or so I've found, i don't like you, but i don't like, when you're on the town, but did you miss me enough to drink? or did you drink enough to miss me? i don't think that I'm worth it, but i hope that you're still riskin,

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i don't think that I'm worth it, but i hope you're feeling frisky, but did you miss me enough to drink? because i hope you want to kiss me... I'm not so profound, or so I've found, you're so cool, and when I'm with you, I am never down, but did i miss you enough to drink? but i sure hope that you miss me? i hope you're still around, and i hope that you're still listening... did you miss me? enough to drink? or did you, drink enough to miss me? ‌

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W h at w e c a n l e a r n f r o m t h e 60s Sophie Wilson 88


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Give peace a chance The ‘60s were a decade for teenagers, artists, hippies, lovers. They were far from perfect, but from their disarray rose movements, musicians and Mary Quant, changing the landscape of popular culture forever. Did the youthful optimism of the ‘60s make much of a difference? A lot of positive change did happen towards the end of the decade and into the next; that much is nearly impossible to argue. The decade did change the world, for a bit. Now we need that scale of change again, because it didn’t last. “ S t a y h u n g r y, s t a y f o o l i s h ” - t h e W h o l e E a r t h Catalogue We need hope. It can be easy to become passive and just look on from afar. The hope of the ‘60s seems innocent in retrospect. Every day when we log on to Facebook, we see a new Trump scandal or negative Brexit prediction. The internet itself is a progression from the ‘60s and the need to connect people across the world and spread useful information. The Whole Earth Catalogue, first published in 1968, was described by Steve Jobs as, “sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along.” Before the internet, when useful information was still a commodity, the Whole Earth Catalogue focused on self-sufficiency, environmentalism and alternative education. Now there are almost infinite educational paths and90 interests to discover thanks to the internet.


Sometimes it’s worth setting aside the porn and memes that we spend most of our time on the internet looking at and harnessing that hope and optimism of the ‘60s. Just think about all the information we have literally at our fingertips. Use that information. The Black Lives Matter movement gained support with a hashtag. We can express our opinions and call out people in power now that the way we receive news is not always from the same biased newspapers. Start your own campaigns, tweet about what matters and stay hungry for new information. “Get dressed, get blessed, try to be a success” Bob Dylan, Subterranean Homesick Blues

Young people had always been a disenfranchised group. The teenager was invented in the ’60s and suddenly, society’s tastemakers were aged 13-19. Beatlemania exemplified celebrity obsession in a way that fan Twitter accounts can never rival. Fashion was for young people, and it wasn’t just for women to have fun with anymore either. Carnaby Street was the place to be; where psychedelic prints and short hemlines reigned supreme. Twiggy was the new face of a generation, rising to fame at the age of 16 and representing the fun attitude towards fashion that defined this new era. We are still taking control of this phenomenon. 91


Publications like Rookie show the collective creativity of teenagers and the internet has allowed a widespread ripple effect for the voices of young people. This isn’t about fetishising youth or about being forced into careers where you are controlled by the same people you were fighting against. It’s about making our voices heard, which, if nothing else, is what we can learn from the ‘60s. Start a blog, or a zine, pick up a camera; create collectively.

The young people of the ‘60s were the first group to start thinking about the environment en masse. It may have been a case of too little too late, and an example of big corporations not listening, but today the environment is more at risk than ever. In the ‘60s there was a focus on how lifestyle and diet impacted the planet. Vegetarianism began to gain support as people realised that not eating meat was not only an ethical concern, but also an environmental one. People started to form self-sufficient communes outside of society. It is of increasing importance that we pay attention to our impact on the environment and try to reduce it. “ Yo u ' l l f e e l j u s t f i n e n o w. B u y a b i g b r i g h t g r e e n pleasure machine”- Simon & Garfunkel, The Big Bright Green Pleasure Machine

Of course, there were a lot of things that the ‘60s got wrong. Sexism in adverts was still very prevalent. 92


Whilst the women’s liberation movement was tackling serious issues like equal pay and the right to choose, television screens were showing women in bikinis to sell credit cards and implying that they couldn’t drive in car ads. Everyone was seeing these, too, because consumerism was on the rise and nearly every family had their own TV. Whilst this materialism invaluably aided the growth of capitalism, the fact that everyone had their own TV also helped the antiVietnam movement as, for the first time ever, people could watch the reality of the war from their living rooms. Now, we can access videos of war everyday from our laptops. It can make you feel helpless when all you can really do is sign petitions and donate money, but remember that John and Yoko literally just stayed in bed for two weeks in 1969 to protest for world peace, so even the smallest thing you can do is more proactive than that. “Please, please me woah yeah”- The Beatles, Please Please Me Towards the end of the ‘60s, “we we we” turned into “me me me”; a phenomenom that is still prevalent today. We live in a culture of caring what other people think; of what we post on Instagram, what we wear, how much we share on Facebook. We have more choice than ever before, so let’s make the right choices. Sometimes people jump on the bandwagon of looking as though they are supporting a cause without doing anything about it. 93


If you live in a small town, there’s rarely much more you can do, but if you live in a city, especially if you’re at university, join groups that are fighting for a better world; whether you’re marching in the streets or making protest art, there’s always something you can do. “ Tu r n o f f yo u r m i n d , r e l a x a n d f l o a t d o w n s t r e a m ” - T h e B e a t l e s , To m o r r o w N eve r Kn o w s

Young people may have been tasked with fighting against a number of oppressions, but it was not all serious. The 1960s expanded popular culture more than any previous decade. Like today, artists fought back through writing, film, music and fashion. The defining musicians of the ‘60s were The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix and The Rolling Stones. In 1969, Woodstock was the first major music festival. Advertised as three days of peace and music, the festival has become legendary. It represented a hippie utopia; a social harmony of great music and ‘60s optimism. The festival itself was poorly arranged and organisers worried that it would descend into anarchy, but by the end they saw it as a triumph of peace and love. Festivals have become so expensive and commercialised now, but many still hold onto fragments of the Woodstock dream. In France, New Wave cinema revolutionised film, with Jean-Luc Godard and Anna Karina stylish tastemakers for decades to come. For reading material, look no further than the Beat Generation. 94


Though the Beats preceded the ‘60s (Jack Kerouac’s iconic ‘On The Road’ was published in 1957), their ideas inspired the following decade, particularly Bob Dylan, who said that ‘On The Road’, “changed my life like it changed everyone else’s.” Recent years have seen a huge revival in ‘60s fashion. The rising popularity of vintage clothing has shifted our sartorial gaze back towards shift dresses, mini skirts and bold prints. At the helm of American Vogue as editor-in-chief from 1963 to 1971, Diana Vreeland stated that, “It’s not about the dress you wear, but it’s about the life you lead in the dress.” The 1960s were an undoubtedly stylish and exciting era, but satiate your nostalgia with the art it produced. In the 21st century, you can listen to The Beatles, but with less racism and sexism all around. “Yesterday don’t matter if it’s gone” - The R o l l i n g S t o n e s , R u b y Tu e s d a y

The 1960s changed the world, widened our cultural and political horizons. As we start a new year, with uncertainty, anxiety and, sometimes even fear, with the state of the world, it’s worth pondering what we can learn from the decade that rocked. Will we overcome? Yes, we shall. …

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35mm Elizabeth Evans 96


A selection of ten photographs taken in Pennsylvania, New York and Washington dc on a 35mm camera in July and August of 2016

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T h e pa s t u s Lucy Harbron 105


The past us Would’ve clawed at sheets and clung to skin. Not content until the scent was merged and all was bare. Now the bed is not cold but burns as we pull away irritated by touch and held hands only tug and nip; so we turn away. The past us, We would’ve talked this through. Crossed-legged on your bed at 2:15pm on a Sunday. But now ‘your goddamn leg hair is just so fucking itchy and why do you look at me like that, I’m getting a drink.’

The past us, They would kiss despite the clumsiness and laugh through, embrace through, love through; try to keep on. But slopes slip down and so do mouths, do I miss you now we’re gone? 106


The art of a woman’s choice Eliza Caraher

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Throughout history it can be argued that a woman’s greatest crime is not only having a body, but being self aware of said body; unashamedly walking on this earth admitting that yes, she does have body parts below the neck and above the feet. She has arms, a stomach, boobs, nipples and ohmylord even a vagina. Now even the most twisted meninist must admit that a women is not merely a floating head, her body does exist. God forbid however, other people notice she has limbs and shit, the thought of this provides that anger that meninists live off. The world has never liked to admit that women have bodies (of course unless that existence is defined by their bringing of pleasure to men). Some of the most controversially received art has been that which depicted women nude for their own enjoyment, rather than that of the male audience member. Diego Velazquez’s, the leading artist of the Spanish Golden Age, arguably most known and most criticised painting was that of ‘Rokeby Venus,’ completed in 1651. Inspired by Titan’s ‘Venus’, Velazquez’s painting depicts Venus in a sensual pose, lying on a bed and gazing into a mirror held in front of her by the Roman god of physical and erotic love, Cupid. Up until this point all seem innocent, jut a nude goddess, her son and a mirror. However, it is this mirror that becomes that main point of issue as Venus looks into the mirror, yes at the audience, but also at herself. The simple act of her looking at herself rather than aiming all her attention at the male getting off on seeing a nakey ladey. This happened again in 1865 with the debut of Edouard Manet’s ‘Olympia.’ Another white women, she reclines on her bed as her slave brings her flowers, assumedly from an admirer, which she pointedly ignores. Also modelled after Titan’s Venus, Manet made 112 a point of drawing clear yet contrasting comparisons.


In Titan’s painting Venus holds her left hand out in enticement, yet again exciting that male, whereas Manet’s Olympia holds out her left hand appearing to block, which is interpreted as a symbol of her sexual independence - combined with the ignorance of the flowers - from men including that one in the audience. It also acts as a clue to her role as a prostitute; ‘Olympia’ was the name given to prostitutes at the time, which when put alongside the symbolic hand gesture presents her ability to both grant and restrict access to her body, in return for payment, even when nude (take note on consent people). Olympia also gazes out into the audience, as did Venus, and it is this that caused the most shock and horror because of her defiance and lack of shame. She is a woman who uses her body and men for monetary gain and shows no shame at the fact of this. The confrontational gaze of Olympia is often referred to as the pinnacle of defiance towards the patriarchy. Classy high society freaked out. These were revolutionary paintings in their time, in the sense that there rarely was anything with a similar symbolic meaning in regards to the female body produced and displayed. However, it was a trend in art that continued and evolved over time. Continuing on into the 20th century with the beginning of the feminist art movement which emerged in the late 1960s as a means of protest and attempt to change the world surrounding women and their bodies, only this time is was through art created by women themselves. As Suzanne Lacey described it, ‘the goal of feminist art was to “influence cultural attitudes and transform stereotypes.” One of the most revered feminist artists of the time was the incredible VALIE EXPORT who’s repertoire includes pieces such as, ‘Tapp- und Tast-Kino’ (Tap and Touch Cinema) 19681971 where VALIE wore nothing but a ‘tiny movie theatre’ over113her naked body.


She visited various European cities, inviting onlookers, unable to actually see her body, to reach through the curtain and touch her. So great was the horrified reaction to this piece that one media outlet aligned her to a witch. In 1968 in her performance, ‘Aktionshose: Genitalpanik’ (Action Pants: Genital Panic), she entered an art cinema in Munich, wearing crotchless pants and walked through the audience with her exposed genitalia at face level with the aim to provoke thought surrounding the passive role of women in cinema and confrontation of the private nature of sexuality with the public nature of her performances. In her performances, the female body is not a packaged, perfect product sold by males (in the form of directors and producers), but is controlled and offered freely by the woman herself in defiance of social rules and state precepts, similar to that of Manet’s Olympia’s role as a prostitute and her granting and withholding of her body as she so chooses. EXPORT’s cinema performance also contrasts the ordinary state-approved cinema, an essential voyeuristic experience similar in that to the old nude painting of women in a gallery. As in her piece the “audience” not only has a very direct and tactile contact with an exposed female body, but does so under the gaze of EXPORT herself and all other bystanders. She exposes both herself and the audience through her chosen nudity. The later horror of the “civilised” individual then exposes societal prejudice to the female form and the women who utilise it. Now, around 50 years later, many of the artists of the past’s points and aims have filtered into society and the work of the modern day average feminist. 114


From “glow up” #bodyposi and #feelinmyelf, which see women (and men also) celebrating their own bodies publicly through their own choice of photo, platform etc and sharing this pride with the world, to the new slut marches of LA which loudly confront the continued association of free women and derogetary terms in eyes of society. The art of the past has both inspired and allowed women to reach a point where, with the help of the internet and social media, we can challenge the world view and stereotypes with our own bodies and voices. We can make our own oil paintings in the photos on our phone and political art through mass protests and emerging trend of spoken word poetry. This ability and trend is also reaching into deeper feminist issues facing those of women of colour and the lgbt+ community as they also explore their own bodies and push the old and outdated boundaries of societal beauty and grace, constantly challenging the audience (other social media users) to question their reactions and their views and better themselves as a result. As women we grow to learn how our bodies have always been and continue to be political battlegrounds for us to fight for and watch (most often men) fight over. It is through art and the modern day ability to control the world view of our own bodies that we begin to regain this battleground as one we can enter and exit when we choose and this is something that must continue to be fought for as we help bring other women up with us and prevent us being dragged back into the dark past of male control. I’m looking at you Trump. (this article is written from the perspective of a white cis women and therefore is restricted in it’s experiences of women of colour and trans women and details of the struggles surrounding their bodies, mostly through a lack of wanting to speak for those groups or offer opinion/ perceived history of their struggles from the view115 point of a white cis person.)


Toxi c love Jade Millard

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I think I have finally realised where I have been going wrong all this time. Every boy that’s been mine has been ‘mine’ for a different reason. He was the cigarette. He was slowly burning out my lungs with lethal love, scorching away at my emotions and wilting them down one by one like limp, lifeless petals, hanging on by their stem. He was simply toxic. A poison that was coursing through my veins Tearing away at any life that was left in my body or any trace of character that was left in my mind. It wasn’t love It was torture; it was possession. You don’t damage someone to prove that you care for them. It doesn’t work that way. Things were gradually becoming more complicated as time went on. For the majority of our relationship, the touch of your fingertips on my skin made my insides light up like a ferocious fire. Clearly, your love is the only thing that I desired. I knew by this point that you were no good for me, but I couldn’t deny that obvious spark I couldn’t deny that obvious chemistry. Why couldn’t I seem to resist? Every time we kissed, you left me wanting more. Craving your touch Lusting after the taste of your lips Feeling your hands caress the curves of my hips. 117


You were different. You weren’t like the others. It seemed to be real, true love. You came along at just the right time when I needed saving. Right when I desperately needed someone to come along and save me. Yet again, everything went pear-shaped after a while. When you were in her presence, nothing else seemed to matter. You were always dominated by the thoughts that she smothered you with. Could you not see that she was pure poison? Coursing through your soul Destroying your dreams As far as she was concerned You belonged to her You supposedly adored her Spoilt her with envious affection Shouldn’t that have been me? Shouldn’t that have been me playing with your hair? Shouldn’t that have been me cherishing you with love Covering you in kisses? One day you will realise, One day you will see. …

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Moving on Maya Kearney 119


trauma[1] ˈtrɔːmə,ˈtraʊmə/ Noun noun: t r a u m a ; plural noun: t r a u m a t a ; plural noun: traumas a deeply distressing or disturbing experience. "a personal trauma like the death of a child" synonyms: shock, upheaval, distress, stress, strain, pain, anguish, suffering, upset, agony, misery, sorrow, grief, heartache, heartbreak, torture;

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It’s not uncommon. If you look closely enough into almost any person, you’ll find it supressed into a small, confined area. But it seeps out. Spreads through the body, lining the psyche. The quirks of a person, their little mannerisms, decisions they make, all come from it. It’s made of moments. Critical, hopeless moments that pain one to even to think about. I know that you know what I’m talking about.

There are times when it can get too much. It rises from its place of rest and decides to taunt you. It laughs as it reminds you that it’ll always be with and in you. That until you can accept it as a part of yourself, you’ll never be free. For me, that time was New Year’s Eve – the most optimistic day of the year. The streets of London counted from ten to one in synchrony, millions of couples leant in to each other to share their midnight kiss, fireworks painted the sky, and every club, stage and bar in the country was packed tight with happy people, whilst I sat on my second hand sofa, panicking. 2016 was the worst year of my life. If I told you what happened to me over that year, you’d think I was unlucky. If I told you about 2015 you’d think I was a liar. All the bad shit that has supposedly happened to me, it can’t all happen to one person in two years, you’d say. And I’ve told myself the same. But it has. And though it no longer haunts me, it cast a dark shadow over my celebrations at the end of the year. My family did the same as we do every year – we invite another family to stay over and have an open house to the rest of our friends. The same people, the same place, the same night. Every year. We cosy ourselves in a bubble of love, and each time, I look 121 forward to the future, and vow to bring happiness to my family.


This year, I watched my mum dancing to Blondie the same way she did exactly a year ago, two years ago, three years ago. I thought about all the horrible shit that followed on from that moment. How spectacularly happiness had avoided our family. How I’d give to be someone who would hear about my year, and react by saying “Jesus, that sounds awful.” Neurosis. I examined everything we did that night. We didn’t drink the champagne exactly on midnight – what if that’s what brought us all the bad luck last year? But wait, what if drinking it on time brings us bad luck? Or was it because I swore? Because I made a joke about God? How am I supposed to be able to deduce this? Trial and error won’t cut it. There are too many variables and not enough years. What if it’s already decided, and every year from 2014 gets progressively worse and there’s nothing I can do about it? Things go wrong, and when it doesn’t make sense it’s normal to look for answers, but I feared what would happen when things went right. It began with one thought. I just want my family to be happy before one of us dies. This grew darker. What if literally the moment we become happy, one of us develops a terminal illness, and we die only knowing what pain is like, and the rest of the family feel awful and empty for the rest of their lives? I warded these thoughts off. The future holds infinity, and worrying about something that might not even happen is irrational. Rather, I should take what I can from everything I’m faced with, and make the best of it. My mind was cast back to who I was before all this crazy shit happened. I remember wanting to help people for a living, by being 122 a doctor or going into research.


I avoided hurting people in almost extreme measures, because I feared them and was desperate for their approval. I placed justice and fairness above my own feelings. I saw life as an opportunity to maximise good. And now? I hope for a career in investment banking. There are a few people whose needs come before my own, but mine closely follow. I don’t care about other people enough to fear them. I try to do the right thing, but only if it doesn’t cause problems for me. I have no problem lying, even to friends, if it benefits me. I see life as a game with winners and losers. I want to maximise good, but I need to win. As much as I hate what’s happened to me, it’s changed me for the better. I’m by no means perfect - I’ve become selfish and arrogant - but I now have the tools to become successful and happy, and can regain some empathy as I do that. The world won’t change in my lifetime, but I can. And I’ve coped with the worst of it. Anxiety and trauma have been such integral parts of my life that I can deal with them now, so even on nights like New Year’s, I can distract myself, rationalise my thoughts, and recognise that bad feelings will pass. And despite all the horrific things that have happened to me, the end of the year was pretty sick. University was one of the weirdest and best things I’ve done, I’ve had some mad nights out, and my sister and I have shared some fantastic moments. I enjoyed Christmas immensely and grew closer to my younger brother. In between the bad parts of the year, I met some brilliant people, fell in love, and gained confidence of the most solid form. I can’t say what my life will bring. I don’t think anyone can.

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As I move forward, I’m not excited, but I’m not anxious anymore. I’m numb and calm, and I believe that I’ll cope, whatever happens. …

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W h a t I w a n t e d t o s ay Alice Redfearn 125


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Seven billion stranger Nabeela Saghir

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Seven billion people, It’s a mind-blowing number.

Human number 672 Sits opposite me on the train, Hair the colour of pomegranate Seeds like jewels when the light Dances at the right angle. She sings of poetry, How it will change the world. Her friend, human number 2091 Talks politics and world peace, I imagine them at protests Youthful fire against bitter winds. Human number 672 pulls out An anthology I recognise, We exchange excited words She tells me of her travels Reading poetry to Wide-eyed strangers. My stop draws near I exit through the doors Onto the platform Fingers itching, head spinning. 131


Letters to words to lines of poems Heavy in my chest Desperate to kiss the pages To change the world To revolutionise Seven, billion, people.

The past does not place a Noose around our necks, History does not repeat itself If human number 672 and 2091 and 76 and 812 and 108 Refuse to allow it. ‌

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M y Pa s t Simmy Hoonjan

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Well if this isn’t a fitting topic then I don’t know what is. Everyone has a past and everyone has those parts of your life that you just want to keep hidden forever. Everyday situations from my past play a part in my decisions and how I approach the present. The truth is that you can try to escape your past but it will not work. You can constantly envy other people’s lives from a far but without accepting your own history then how will your life get any better? If you accept it then nobody else can use it against you – I promise you. People constantly used to tell me that moving schools wouldn’t change anything – but I wanted a new routine, new faces and distance. I stubbornly went on to do what I wanted and yes it has helped my mental health but at the same time I know it hasn’t. The lasting effects of the actions of some people may always be with me however the difference is that I know that I can’t let them define my life anymore. I am allowed to move on and I am allowed to be happy without them. I don’t blame myself for their actions anymore. I deserve to be living my life to the fullest and I cannot let people influence my own development out of fear. Once I accept my past and take it on board as part of my own story with many lessons to learn from then I know that I will be okay. A fresh start meant that I got to create a new version of myself – the one I have always seen myself as and I wanted to be seen as to others. It felt so amazing. I also thought that I was exempt from everything bad because I have already had my so called struggle however that is probably the most childish attitude I have ever had because trust me; life keeps throwing things at you but you can handle all of them. 134


My favourite book by Robyn Schneider is called ‘Severed Heads, Broken Hearts’ and it discusses this concept in so much detail and I would completely recommend it. Ever since year 10 I have suffered with my mental health however mental health is deceiving. You think you’ve moved on by pages and chapters but suddenly one night you just end up experiencing everything all over again – and this time it feels as if it is 1,000 times worse because you are just so shocked its happening when you have made so much effort to distance yourself from it. The only way to move on is self-acceptance. Please start each day knowing you have a fresh start and you can change the direction of your life at any time as soon as you acknowledge the place you are at now. …

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For what it's wor th... it's never too l a t e , o r i n m y c a s e t o o e a r l y, t o b e whoever you want to be‌ I hope you live a life you're proud of, and if you're not, I hope you have the courage to start over again.

- F.

Scott Fitzgerald

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Doppelganger Laia RodrĂ­guez

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H e r e ' s t o t h e pa s t Rachelle Cox

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The words in which I once shared with a crumpled piece of paper revealed more about my inner most thoughts than what has ever come out of my own mouth The blistering navy blue of the pen smudged with the salt water running down my puffy cheeks Short-breathed clutching my heart as I fell to the floor I cannot begin to recall that night A distorted crack in time I do not want to remember for I fear the worst and I know the end is coming

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My demons tried drown me in an ocean of self-doubt the tide swept me under his vicious depth and anxiety called an order for the water to be frozen whilst I was trapped descending sputtering breathless blank Gasping for air on the floor as I read my own words my sweet girl what did you do to yourself Bruises hid beneath your skin like sunken submarines cuts sunk into the surface like imprints in the sand precious girl, your skin was as fragile as the remains of your consciousness I want to protect you

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If I could I would go back and tell you how it all plans out you are fighting the storm when you were the first drop of rain in the hurricane to begin with an uphill battle with yourself and the demons you created My brave girl grab your armour gather your unapologetic courage and throbbing heartbeat the blood running through you will get shed in the battlefield but you will survive and you will come back fighting stronger resilient alive.

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T h e Pa s t Y e a r Hope Naisbitt

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W h at I ’ v e l e a r n t f r o m t h e pa s t Clarissa U

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When I was younger I used to let the past linger over me like a dark cloud. What I didn’t know was that the past, no matter how dark, plays a crucial role in who I am now. The past is exactly what it is, the past. This is coming from someone who used to live in fear because of her past. Whether it were past mistakes, friendships, relationships etc. For example, in this generation that we live in a lot of people are afraid of relationships and falling in love because they fear getting their heart broken, or cheated on or lied to. All because of one person who put them through that experience. When you come to terms and accept that things like that are bound to happen at least once in your life then you can move forward. The past should never be a bad thing. Embrace it, learn from it and more importantly grow from it. Acknowledge what you went through and more importantly forgive yourself. Don’t live in fear because you think the past will affect your future, because it’s all about now. Everything happens for a reason, don’t let a thing of the past haunt you. Use the memories to self reflect on the person you are now.

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thank you

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Profile for KILORAN

ISSUE #4 - THE PAST  

ISSUE #4 - THE PAST  

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