ENCOUNTERS Issue - PEACH Magazine 2021/2022

OU N T E RS C E N

EDITOR’S NOTE Our Dear Peaches, Welcome to PEACH Magazine’s second print run of the year!

What an honour it is to encounter all your wonderful works of art for this issue (please forgive us for the pun, it had to be done). But on a more serious note, we can’t thank you all enough for continuing to share your work with us. We hope you enjoy reading all the stories, poems and prose that shape the Encounters issue.

When we think of ‘Encounters’ we immediately think of all the wonderful memories we have made from PEACH this year. From messy hot chocolate socials to cozy workshops in the Chaplaincy living room, everything that we have experienced with you this year has been magical. We wanted to say a massive thank you to Ella for providing a space for these moments to be cherished in.

Truly the most fulfilling encounters have been meeting all of you and having the pleasure of experiencing your art, in whichever form takes.

We’ve said it before but we’ll say it again: PEACH Magazine would not be able to exist and thrive if it wasn’t for all your engagement, love and creative contributions.

All our love and hugs, Maya Barter and Alexandra Craveiro PEACH Editor in Chief & Deputy Editor

TABLE OF CONTENTS Untitled - Mads Stevens The Hammersmith & City Line - Cara McKee À la Paris - Salena Melodies Old Friends - Eleanor Cox RENCONTRE - Shemona Safaya Smart Dodd - Alisha Isherwood Power of Nature & Discovery - Mariam Yusuf Our Ship Is Afloat - Hasnain Ali Genie and Benny at 5 - Talitha Cherry The Sea - Elisabeth Stringer The Cerulean Girl - Alexandra Craveiro Love in Metaverse - Atharva Deshpande Artwork - Esin Aynal Mind over Matter - Melisa Ela Ozer Encounter - Simrun Kaur-Rathore Apparition - Anastasia Gremyakina Paint me a river - Zehra Valentine - Laila Ali Little parallel universe of mine - Holly She Comes Home - Maya Barter No more encounters - Cerys Clark So Many People - Sofia Renzi the yin and yang card - Esin Aynal Sapiens - Aditi Sigar Full Stop. - Yanisha Luckhea Lovestruck - Mariam Yusuf Living in Neverness - Anwen Venn

Untitled

by Mads Stevens (she/they) the rain beats down and i lose you. it happens in an instant, your flash of auburn hair swept away in the masses of businessmens’ umbrellas. i try and look (in case you’re looking back) as i stumble towards aldgate east station and for a second (i think i see you) the flame amidst the grey, the shock under my skin, but it’s just a girl with a burnt orange jacket. she walks past me (unaware of my connection.) there are people jostling me down the grimy station steps there’s no time to stop and so i board the Hammersmith and City (and think of seeing you again.)

The Hammersmith & City Line

by Cara McKee (she/her) My body swings around the poles dodging eyes and ankles.

If the track I intended could evoke any tension If I chose the wrong seat, too close or too far.

If my journey will leave uninterrupted If I must depart to catch the next.

If I cross my legs now which will look?

If I look up, will I catch an eye?

If I do not look, do I submit to observation?

My body an ornament here Am I being paranoid?

by Salena Melodies (she/her)

Old Friends

by Eleanor Cox (she/her) I wish you’d held onto me Like you hold onto the past.

You said “I wish I was 18 again!”, when I saw you last And I thought well, how are you imagining it would be, With me, or completely differently?

So seeing you wouldn’t feel like wanting to cross a bridge But being too scared it’ll break.

And sometimes I think would it be so bad if I fell Back into our old conversations on love, and how we think it’s fake, Then “I REALLY like him, do you think it’s Fate?”

But the thought of that feels like falling into a shallow sea, So ill try to tread lightly enough to leave the past for 18 year old me.

It’s something precious, smoothed over by Time, Polished, like the way you tell me your stories, And buried, like the memories of when those were just as much mine.

RENCONTRE

by Shemona Safaya “Okay. You hold it with both hands and drape it from right to left and just unfold it with suave. Easy? This way it comes off and settles on the table with finesse. No more dodging and pulling the tablecloth from one end or the other. This is how we set tables at Rencontre.”

I was staring at Sebastian blankly and he could make sense of how lost I was.

He was a flirty and fun senior and this was my first part-time gig. The woman at the front porch kept giving me the side-eye so he motioned to follow him and introduced the rest of the staff. I’ll get the rest of the cutlery and tell you where the forks and spoons go.

Dressing a table isn’t hard but for starters, look at that man? There? He seems ready to pay. Ask him politely and clear the table.” And boy was I ready to serve him. Asian-American, tall guy. Well-trimmed black hair. Neatly adjusted, not a single strand out of place. He was fidgeting with the pen while scribbling words and crossing lines in a hurry; scratching at his dimples occasionally in confusion. He completed the aesthetics of the room and I did not want to disturb him.

I adjusted my skirt and tie one last time, tightening the apron around my curves and with a long, deep breath went to him. “Sir, do you mind if I clear the empty dishes?” No answer. “Ah, excuse me Sir, do you mind if I clear the empty dishes?” He looked even more dazed than I did learning dress-up from Sebastian. I went in the third time with a polite smile, a little closer this time, “Sir...”

“Ah, yes, yes, sorry. I have been trying to write something, this thing for a while and I can’t seem to get one thing right, you know? Will you read it once for me? Sorry, am I overstepping here?”

“Sir, can, can I clear the table first?”

“Yes Miss, of course, please, I am just...yes.”

Cute. My brain kept saying that aloud in my head. Cute.

It took me exactly five minutes to get rid of the half-eaten cheesecake and the dried cup of espresso with coffee lines inside. It always fascinates me, little details like this. His eyes were moving with me, wherever I went, with every stance. He was eager to show me his writing. Outside validation, my brain hinted.

“Yes, sir, and you were saying!”

Seconds later he shoved the paper right in front of me. His handwriting was muddled but in a satisfying way. I could make sense of the words in-between the crosses and lines drawn; words barely breathing at the margin ends.

It took me an hour the other day browsing through Netflix and we ended up watching the same movie I intended to let go — Gehraiyaan, to depths. Aren’t all these skewed romances toxic? (the love setting both ablaze while the passion is unmatched) I got hooked to the title song though.

“The ocean is mesmerising yet treacherous,” you whispered this while I struggled to look straight into the camera so you quietly sifted through moments and clicked me. I was in the queue for coffee later, dabbling between americano and hazelnut latte but both seemed absurd so we took a cup of extra hot, hot chocolate. I don’t like my beverages lukewarm. Is that the reason you waited till I stepped out of the shower before pouring the cup of tea this morning?

Sweet.

I was drenched from the light drizzle at the beach and the stale salty ocean smell stuck to me but it was fragrant. This is how I remember you now. The extant memories are stale and no more fragrant in my head.

“Chance encounters darling!” Isn’t this what you said?

Before I had the chance to ask him about the girl, an annoying voice tapped my shoulder, “Madam, this was the last show for the day. Can you please clear your popcorn tub and drinks now, we are wrapping up.”

Smart Dodd

by Alisha Isherwood (she/they) I found the pictures, there but lingering barely a month premature But somehow arrived in arms anyway, Born on a day without significance But significant to you – Placed in an incubator like a bad egg.

And I heard that you cried, Let the hamster die from stress And purchased stuffed gorillas Because you didn’t know what to do with your hands.

You knew me best then, when my brain wasn’t big enough to know you at all, Touch and feeling and reflex alone, With the early 2000’s aftershave that Still sticks in my throat like an instinct; I don’t know what you smell like anymore.

Hands navigating walls in the dark (though I’m used to it) I’ve had to fill in the blanks myself, Undead fossil in memory, Unchanged and static in view, My foot is in the door.

I never let anything be missing – Hole in the wall smoothed over, Wound in the celebrations tin covered, Grief – It burned with pictures in the sink And replaced with a scalpel.

If you try hard enough, You can train eyes not to see The ghosts in the walls And the noises they make, The floating – I’m convinced – Comes from my ribcage, instead.

All mine, It was all me.

Power of Nature by Mariam Yusuf (she/her)

Discovery by Mariam Yusuf (she/her)

Our Ship Is Afloat

By Hasnain Ali (he/him) All of a sudden, the music was just flowing. Like the river in the middle of the city, each note was seamlessly heading in the right direction. Every strand of the guitar felt like a current, rippling through Coras blood stream each time she touched the string. Just like this, nothing else matters. Only the sound.

Her ears became a sonar, searching for the perfect rhythm, understanding every little noise, all the little changes in the beat.

Within the studio, there was a faint echo, Coras stream bouncing off the walls and then relaying back to her all of her creations. The sea of noise was progress, it was continuity. Like waves, she refused to stop, her noise always pressing on, with her right hand setting the tone on the strings. How many times before had she touched the same notes? She was not aware, but one things for sure: this was the first time she had felt like this.

In this moment, the loneliness of the studio was a beacon of noise. Like a lighthouse, the notes were guiding her onto the path, the shine of music not failing her any longer. but who turned the lighthouse to me? Was it Selephia?

Or perhaps god? she smirked at the thought of it, the cliché of the divine being, coming to rescue the dispossessed.

I would rather it be Selephia. Or perhaps it was herself? I think I like this answer best. After all, Selephia was not in the room. Maybe god wasn’t, either. the only entity whose presence she felt in the studio was hers, just as she was used to. Looking around her, she could see the remnants of her long voyage: the golden plaque on the wall for their first single; she can still reminisce about the moment they had found out about it, as if they had already conquered the waves, Selephia letting out small drops of water at their success. Cora had only let out a small smirk upon hearing, not being overtly impressed, but not being a joy kill either.

There will be larger conquests ahead, she had thought. And so it was: the plaques became a constant fixture, each of them markings of their success.

It was not until a little bit ago that she had begun to look upon these pieces of material with venom, each of them becoming her trojan horse. The only thing stopping her from putting them in a bonfire was Selephia’s stubbornness.

There was a reason why both of them only recorded with each other sporadically now, the feelings between them as they were. But, like all things, what should be and what is are two different things, as Cora had realised too late.

Three years ago, the Blonde haired Cora and dark haired Selephia had the best of both worlds, the perfectly balanced ship with the blessings from the tides. Now, it was as if the entire journey had been hijacked by pirates, their destination now no longer their own ambition. It was not over, but it took everything for Cora to not jump ship.

Continuing playing, the guitar that had sat on her lap was now serving as her only vessel for expression, the finest of her collection. Moving through the chords like this had become Coras escape, the final stop before complete assimulation. Placing the mic fittingly towards her mouth, she did not know what would come out of her mouth. Another love song? As if this is the time for that. No, Cora thought, there was no need to think ahead: just use your fingers and above all, trust your voice. If she could do it once, she could do it over and over, until the entirety of her soul had been blueprinted onto the song. Giving one final mic check, she tuned her guitar again and let out a deep sigh. I’m still on the ship.

Lets have fun until this voyage ends.

The music began playing.

Genie and Benny at 5

By Talitha Cherry (she/her), @talicherry When they were both 5 years old, they stood together on the beach of their hometown, having just met an hour ago, bursting into uncontrollable giggles as the water crashed over their small feet and they lost balance, sinking further down, eyes wide at the feeling of wet sand in between toes, grasping for each others hands. The last rays of sun had disappeared beneath the water, clearing the stage for the stars to sew their own, scattered patchworks of glowing dogs and bulls and belts and fish and families.

When she pointed out the sisters in the sky, he didn’t say anything in response and, already, as though out of an instinct just born, she asked if he was okay, or that he was bored with looking at the stars and wanted to go home. And she had hoped not. She thought she could stay here until those shining stitches came undone again. He said that, no, he would just like to have a family as big as seven sisters too. I’ll be your family, she replied. They smiled at each other.

It was a small promise. A promise that multiplied into one more promise, and then another and another and another. A promise from a little girl to a little boy, that they would stick together. A promise that both blossomed and wilted in the cool waters and hot sun of their town. Both towns; the one they grew up in and the one they ran away to. As day turned to dusk turned to dark, Benny’s mother came to take him home. Genie hesitated for a moment, and then trailed behind them, stepping in the indents left by their feet in the sand, knowing even then that she would follow his footprints anywhere.

The Sea

by Elisabeth Stringer (she/her) do you think about me when your sat by the sea my love made you a martyr trapped memories oh the curse of me was only scared you’d leave the tide comes in as it took you out left behind my anger i let you in as you took me out curse of loving harder sinking further would you think to call me when your sat by the sea i’m a siren to your storm oh the curse of me i’m sorry but you broke down all my walls the tide comes in as it took you out left behind a fever i let you in as you took me out scarred me in the water sinking harder you left me in the water consumed by my anger i’m the fool that never alters sinking further you left me in the water

The Cerulean Girl

by Alexandra Craveiro (she/her) The boy sits by the seashore, the sand embracing his toes below, the shells cascading love onto his hand from their crevices. As he watches the delicate curves of the waves caressing the shore, the boy finds comfort in knowing that the sea, and all its elements, will always remain nearby.

Sometimes, however, he wishes he could bottle them up and take them home with him. Plop them in a small glass jar and place them on his bedside table to study the intricacies of the ecosystem he so desperately dreams of belonging in. And so, he always takes care to gently bring his jar with him in his royal-blue backpack, placing it neatly near the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches his mother adoringly makes him every morning. The boy does so, hoping that one day he will be brave enough to try to encompass it all in this compact space so that he never experiences the sorrow of longing for its sight again.

Today the boy feels rather brave, and so he begins the process of bringing the seashore home with him. As his coral shovel dotingly labours away to fulfill his fantasy, the boy spots a minuscule girl hiding behind the algae-covered rocks nearby. The girl is so small that the boy at first easily mistakes her for an insect; she could not be taller than the length of his fingertips. Yet through her smallness to the boy, her aura shines brightly.

With green scales covering part of her dainty arms and ceruleancoloured hair that flowed down to her tiny toes, every aspect of the girl’s glass frame seems to lace itself with untold stories. Stories that now had formed a newfound intrigue, bubbling fervently inside the boy.

He thinks for a second of how nice it would be to see the small girl in his small jar with her small shells on his small bedside table. As the thought runs through his mind, he spots the girl forming crystal tears in her eyes, looking at him as if pleading for her life. The boy thinks for a second of how the seashore must be her home, realising that to take grains of sand means taking the carpet she feels under her toes every morning and to take shells means taking her toys.

He disposes of his treasurers back on the ocean floor, the girl watching him quietly through the corner of her eye. When he finishes, she thanks him with a smile, and the boy cannot help but feel teary, knowing he cannot take her home with him. Their childish eyes lock, and an agreement forms, transcending speech. Just like his mother trusts him to return home for dinner every night, the boy too will trust that this will not be the last time he sees the cerulean girl.

Love in Metaverse

by Atharva Deshpande (he/him) I encountered you on a digital river, lying there, a mermaid, zany, that my soul would quiver as it tangled itself to thy braid, a face exquisite, of beauty, a mosaic, Lips so soft I never dare touch; what the poet says would sound archaic, I only feel my keypad, so did I firmly clutch.

I need you now, I need you forever, in the digital realm to be together, a trippy place that tricks my mind.

In a world of two, cloned one of a kind, this cyber bond is what keeps me awake, this cyber bond my only escape.

Is this for real, or is my world unravelling in my dreams?

Along with the heart, do take my soul this social network bond is what makes me whole; the time has come, and I can feel it in my spine when I see you online through the melancholic light.

Artwork

by Esin Aynal (she/her)

Mind over Matter

by Melisa Ela Ozer (she/her) There’s nothing sexier Then a clammy hand Round a plastic cup £6 wine from Tesco [Can you taste the barrel?

The barrel?

It’s got that woody scent Not really] The words are on the water On the water?

Yes – on the water, The letters have floated to the top Like ducks relaxed with the ripples On the Regent’s Canal [A for Eito B for Karan C for Me D for Dariusz] City lights tickle the water Hugging the waists of the canal boats There are no stars tonight Just us, the moon, and the letters A asked if I went to Oxford too I pretended I hadn’t heard A sip of wine – another The cup crinkles Under my grasp Maybe I could convince him That I was smart enough If I talk enough about communism And how attractive young Stalin was To the half-built buildings And the night sky above Red flags aside, He had something going for him

No, I don’t go to Oxford Or Imperial I don’t have that STEM brain I guess it’s all mind over matter Not enough mind And too much [the] matter He’ll never understand The importance of poetry [to me] When something disconnects Between brain and mouth I’ll always have the page It’s funny really In an interview Where I discussed The unusual connection Between Endymion, Sailor Moon and The Great Gatsby I claimed I couldn’t write poetry In fear that I would be inadequate Surely, that was poetry within itself The words had found themselves Off the page And I hadn’t even noticed My words spilled out On the water liked red wine On the water?

Yes – on the water.

Encounter

by Simrun Kaur-Rathore (she/her), @simkrathore All emotions expressed Further fights suppressed Disdain stained faces Tear stained screens You hoped for fate To tie us together I hoped to be: Permanently, perpetually, indefinitely Far from you Do you want me near while you hold others close? obsessing over me at night forgetting your insecurities investing all secrets founding insecurities in me pretending I’m a priority I’m just a distraction from friends you’re secretly in love with I’m cursed with the knowledge Of all your secrets You’re blissfully unaware Of your own secrets and of me

so why do you ask the universe for an impromptu reunion?

Don’t ask me to fix you Fix yourself Stop breaking me With seeds of hope and grainy daydreams Maybe one day, I’ll see you In a supermarket, Or at a wedding Perhaps in traffic I’ll be praying I never encounter you I won’t look the other way I’ll smile As if everything were fine And is forgiven You won’t know any better Hard feelings will have dissolved I’m good at self-fixing sealing resentment with self-love one day the universe might ‘bring us together’ By that encounter I’ll be in a new skin

Apparition

by Anastasia Gremyakina (she/her) You are still Raindrops do not dare to touch your porcelain skin Brittle as a sweet candy cane, tender as a young daffodil I long to feel those chills, to hold your chin, To whisper a love letter, a poem, no, a sonnet into your lips Finger entwined with finger, gaze with gaze, breath with breath Until not another soul on the street lives To see me drown myself in your depths Your eyes meet mine They lock together and My sweaty palms electrify Sending minor shocks through my spine all the way to my agitated mind Your tangy, musky smell slowly oozes from the soft spot behind your ear And as the wind carries it towards me I desperately try to engrave it into my system, nerves, bloodstream Holding your spirit in my arms before you flee I close my wearied eyes in hesitation Yet once I open them — your figure disappears My fingertips still sense your recent apparition Unchaining oldest, deepest fears Your face still haunts most pleasant dreams And even though the rain has washed away your presence I see that misty morning’s first light beam Land on your cheek. As if you never exited the entrance

Paint me a river

by Zehra (she/her) last night I asked you to paint me a river, and basked in the honey glow of your eyes, as simpering softly at me, you held out a rosy palm – a stream of starry dreams, with dregs of liquid moonlight gliding lazily through its sleepy waters; and flecks of a dewy glimmer strewn over its flittering stillness. and i was mesmerized.

Valentine

by Laila Ali (she/her) Oh, sweet youth, slipping away with ghostly shadows of deep regret, Now encircling the mind of this ageing young girl, Like vultures waiting to descend of their prey, She wants to capture those passions left unspoken, From his flawless persona which stuck with her like a never-ending love song, Her eyes followed him, in an anguished longing, She reminisces and suddenly he’s there, Ocean eyes gleaming into her soul, a spiritual awakening, The cause of her euphoria, ‘Alas’ , she says, left alone by her window, Looking out into the night, for her lost Valentine

Little parallel universe of mine

by Holly

I don’t know if I can say I ever met you We crossed paths so closely So intrinsically made for each other I have never been without you I may have appeared alone But I literally have never been I question if you are me If you look exactly like me So it would be like looking in A past mirror That shows me my favourite version Of myself Because we would have been identical I wonder if you would have made Me love or infuriate myself more But I would have adored you I love the idea I have imagined of you Even if I never met you And all you are is a lost soul Floating around in the ether Or neverland Or some divine heaven Never aging but growing with me Growing more complex as I do too Into a little parallel universe of mine

She Comes Home

by Maya Barter (she/her)

Her hair, her clothes, her shoes are damp, dripping, shivering.

The light-switch flipped -

A moment.

A puddle has already formed beneath her feet A moment too long She’s been seen. The dog barks twice.

The ocean felt warmer than the hallway The lightbulb flickers She turns the handle squeaks She’s gone.

No more encounters

by Cerys Clark (she/her) The daily routine, paws on the floor, Hearing that meow as I walk through the door.

A simple black cat, three legs and tail, But our years of encounters had left poor Sam frail.

Fourteen years with a little fluffy friend, And yet these encounters had come to an end.

Soon enough his distance started And we knew it wouldn’t be long til he parted.

A final encounter, at the street door, Feeling the tears starting to pour.

Encounters are forever, I had believed, And with the absence of them I felt so grieved.

From the first encounter to our last It’s hard to believe the years have passed.

And so the encounter ends with my cat Sam, I hope the afterlife greets him with a packet of ham

So Many People

by Sofia Renzi (she/her)

the yin and yang card

by Esin Aynal (she/her)

is it infatuation or love that draws us together I can’t help this curiosity your differences to mine the inconsistent texting coffee gone cold converations at 2am speaking words of promise will it ever come to fruition?

Sapiens

by Aditi Sigar (she/her) Retaliation is for those who fear, Premonition is for those who doubt.

Now ash blows under their vesture, and the dead heart wants out.

When the poison hits And where the demons hide We’ll mark it up to moonshine and gild.

But where do I suspire and where do I subsist?

And how am I supposed to see the dusk?

Because my reason is binding and my phantoms don’t exist.

Full Stop.

by Yanisha Luckhea (she/her) You didn’t put a full stop after writing what you believed to be the stab to the jugular, The killing move.

Where’s the finality in your words?

As you close the envelope and press your insignia into hot wax, You’re leaving it open to be ripped apart.

Sitting on your virtual dais, You exemplify your moral superiority Spilling your heart onto a silver platter You try to plead your case I hold the gilded dagger in my hand I have the ability to destroy Yet I place it into its scabbard And walk away.

Lovestruck

by Mariam Yusuf (she/her) “What do you want me to do?” Questioned the irritable check-in staff member, as she glanced behind Jess at the 100-person long queue building up.

“Perhaps not split my husband and I up?” Retorted Jess, who was purposefully ignoring the woman’s annoyance.

“I’m sorry Madam, as I have already said, we reserve the right to move seats in case young passengers are travelling with their parent and cannot be split up. I am happy to offer you a discount for next time?” The woman added, desperate to abide by the ticking clock counting down to the departure.

“Oh, believe me, there won’t be a next time” Jess spat, grabbing her husband Jace who was attempting to distance himself from his wife to avoid the embarrassingly dirty looks from fellow passengers. The airbridge seemed to extend for miles, feeling more like a marathon to reach the aircraft than the promised short journey.

Finally Jess and Jace were greeted by the forced smiles and tired eyes of the cabin crew requesting their tickets, a further reminder which began to make Jess’s blood boil again, only to be calmed by a soothing, though somewhat patronising grip on the shoulder from her mortified husband. As they navigated their way through the jumble of children’s toys and neck pillows, Jace and Jess eventually located their distanced seats of 31C and 31D respectively, whose names were deceptively indicative of a proximity, despite being separated by a rather large isle. ...

As the plane took off, Jess stretched her hand to try find Jace’s but after touching a very distressed lady who ending up yelling at her; she figured that Jace was proceeding by the “don’t block the isle” rule.

Of course, all that Jess needed after the early starts and the trauma of being separated from her husband was – her daily cup of coffee. When the waitress was walking round in her starched uniform and false smile, Jess politely asked for her cup of coffee in which the lady bustled off to fulfil that need. Conveniently, as soon as the waitress came and was about to hand over the piping hot coffee – an ominous rumbling occurred over the plane.

The waitress tripped and Jess immediately felt hot searing pain all over her. With Jess hurling insults at the waitress, she stopped dead as soon as she felt that touch on her leg. When she looked to her right, she saw that there was a clean-cut man, just casually mopping up the coffee that was spilt everywhere.

“Oh? Don’t worry you don’t have to do that!” Jess said, silently pleading him to stop.

“It’s no bother honestly, I’m a stickler for putting things in its right place. Especially someone as beautiful as you who didn’t deserve coffee to be all over you.” he softly said as he was staring in Jess’s baby blue eyes.

Jess, at first wasn’t used to there being much intensity with other people. Things would always be so light and breezy whenever she met other people. But with him... it was different. As they immediately started chatting away about their personal lives, favourite things, books etc., they were both unaware that Cupid was shooting his arrow (in which he never missed). ...

When the familiar sense of landing came in Jess was so happy (yet disappointed) to get off that plane and find her husband. As Jess and Jace got their suitcases and went off to the resort – Jess still had that lingering feeling that she wasn’t finished with that mysterious fellow yet...

Living in Neverness

by Anwen Venn (she/her)

“What are you doing in a place like this?”

Breath hitched, enveloped in an abyss, The ignorance of bliss destroyed, By the words that were lisped.

It takes me seven hitched breaths to comprehend, The immateriality of this forgotten end.

I can still feel the pressure of bones on my palm, Even when they aren’t here to hold me evermore.

I am not their problem anymore, But another’s, Michael’s furrowed brows emphasizing, That I’m at the will of the other.

His appearance is incomprehensible, His form ever shifting, But, Not like what yours felt like, Not in the way that kept my mind drifting.

“Speak,” he demands, Bringing my thoughts back to the matter at hand, And subject to his command, I can only think to say, “I don’t know.”

He huffs in mild irritation, Inconvenienced by my cessation, Knowing he has better things, A better purpose, Than to play fiddle with my heartstrings.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?”

But he’s learnt by now to make do, With ignorance and fear, And lost forgotten youths.

He fiddles through paperwork, Looks me up and down, Snorts at my averted gaze, Smirks, And declares, “You’re lucky, you know, To be here.”

Do they want a standing ovation?

To grovel on my knees and thank them, For saving me from damnation?

To allow further cause for their ego’s inflation?

This time I snort and snap back, “You took away my potential.”

He frowns, In a way that fills my soul with lead, And snarls, “I saw Satan fall like lightning from the sky, And you have the audacity to make me the bad guy?

You are the cause of your own demise, How ungrateful can you be?”

“I didn’t ask to be rescued-“ “You are not saved!” he cries, “You are sly to think, You are here without the help of him.”

Water patters on my thighs, Since when did tears begin to arise?

I barely choke out, “Please, I miss them.”

He stamps the files, Work complete, And with a saturated smile, He waves, As the distance between us grows for miles, His bittersweet hymns dancing along his vocables, His gaze upcast and proud.

“Silly human.”

I miss life wrapped around phalanges, Kindness hidden by the blankness of their expression, The presence of an unknown that provides more comfort, Then I ever gave them credit for.

I miss the feeling of being alive, And knowing I was right beside them all this time.

“We all miss them.”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS We want to say a huge thank you to all our incredible PEACH members.

PEACH magazine’s thriving creative community would not be possible without all of you.

We cannot express enough gratitude to the peachiest of teams: Editor in Chief Maya Barter Deputy Editor Alexandra Craveiro Assistant Editor Emma Inez MacPherson Event Producers Tali Stowell & Anthony Crittenden Workshop Leaders Alisha Isherwood & Abbie Harrison Social Media Managers Shwetha Mahendran & Laila Ali Welfare Officer Zo Sajjad Secretary Yanisha Luckhea We would also like to thank QMUL’s Student Union, for their continued support as well as WFM prints, for printing our magazine.

Cover design by Alexandra Craveiro and Maya Barter.

Poem illustrations by Maya Barter.

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