Peach Pip - Issue One

A N O T E FR OM T H E ED I T O R S Dear Peaches, Welcome to the very first issue of Peach Pip, PEACH Magazine’s new online zine! What started out as an idea for a mini zine alongside our print runs, can no longer be described as ‘mini’ as we received such a large number of wonderful submissions.

Peach Pip was born with the aim of providing all our members with the opportunity to create the work they want to create with no restrictions or prescribed PEACH themes.

We were so delighted to see the wide range of ideas, feelings and themes explored within all the submissions we received for this issue.

We continue to be amazed and inspired by all the enthusiasm and continued dedication to all our peachy endeavours!

Our hope is that PEACH continues to be the thriving community of skilled creatives, that we feel so lucky to be a part of. Thank you for trusting us with your creative work.

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

C O N T EN T S The Lake - Emma Rothweiler pages 1 - 2 Trying - Genevieve Jones page 3 1 & 2 - anonymous page 4 The Phantom Effect - Simrun Kaur-Rathore page 5 Through the Birdcage - Simrun Kaur-Rathore page 6 phototropism - Yanisha Luckhea page 7 No One Left Behind? Really? - Maria Pakpahan, page 8 shift pain into power - then back into pain - Imaan Asim pages 9 - 10 in the clouds - Maya Barter page 11 Childhood, revisited - Ana Rosales pages 12 - 14 When someone asks how I am - Muskaan Aleeza Admani pages 15 - 16 Substance Use - Salena Pudaruth page 17

C O N T EN T S the honour toll - Innisha page 18 Comfort in your Company - Zehra page 19 Other Home - Zehra page 20 Velvet Heart - Zehra page 21 Shrine - Zehra page 22 DREAMWALKING - Luna Moon pages 23 - 25 Locked Perception - Alexandra Craveiro page 26 The Other Side of the road - Maria Pakpahan page 27 Smoking alone in the midst of Glittery - Maria Pakpahan page 27 Where Dramaturgy Meets Demonology - Shwetha Mahendran page 28 smile, you’re on CCTV - Simrun Kaur-Rathore page 29 Mind Palace - Simrun Kaur-Rathore page 30

The Lake

by Emma Rothweiler (she/her) On a walk in someplace new I noticed movement and a couple appeared on the other side of the street and behind them a gap between two buildings and between the buildings a flash of blue and a sailboat bobbing gently I walked until I came to the water with its colour that mirrored the sky until the horizon zipped them up together and now in front of me and now around myself enough people to feel a second-hand sort of excitement.

Everyone was very old or very young the elderly sat on benches overlooking the lake and the sailboats and the larger ships in the distance while small children ventured fearlessly to the waves rolling up their pants and stepping in.

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A small boy played with a swan drawing close and retreating close and retreating when she realized his game she paused before him and moved her long neck forward with dignity and the boy became still and apologetic I watched as to the right another less cautious child stood at the end of her mother’s extended arm thigh-deep in the water good morning! good morning! she spoke to each swan that floated past her and each one regarded her with curiosity I made a seat of the wide, shallow stairs that led to the water I folded my arms across my knees and felt the sun on my hair

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Trying by Genevieve Jones (she/her)

1 & 2 by anonymous 1.

Every now and then I place my hand on my bare thigh And squeeze A mockery of desperate intimacy A grapple at understanding sexuality Another broken eye line Another hand on exposed skin, Weighing up the magnitude of fat That presses my legs together Refusing a gap The light finger tips tracing my own sides, Making me giggle I’m ticklish, I almost forgot Because I am clueless about you And I blame you for the lack of attention You wean from the eyes of immature boys While you yearn for warmth and Hands that won’t judge the pockets of fat That bookend my not-so-life-bearing hips 2.

I recently learned the feeling of a heartache Its deep and immovable gnaw on your soul Like its own shuddering heartbeat in your chest An empty place where my stomach would be I feel incomplete My lips cannot describe it But even if my brain momentarily forgets My body will remind me that it hasn’t, And burn with loss.

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The Phantom Effect

by Simrun Kaur-Rathore (she/her) Air soothes hot skin Untouched; but not unclaimed Softly parted lips gasp and tingle As if they were flowers to be pressed How can thousands of miles fail to prevent: The feeling of thousands of kisses, littered upon miles of skin; Sensation of wondering fingers, Across a soft jawline Along a gently arched spine, in the midst of parting legs; Only elevating pressure.

Every light breeze feels like a light breath When smitten in the memory of a stranger Who remembers anything?

In yearning for someone else, You forget yourself, your touch becomes theirs But they’re nothing but a phantom.

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Through the Birdcage by Simrun Kaur-Rathore (she/her)

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phototropism

by Yanisha Luckhea (she/her) beautiful flower, how you bloom in the sun, with the warmth of those compliments, likes comments and tags. photo synthesising and photo tropising, you use the brightness of your screen to grow and move, following it to different lands sunny beaches and snowy mountains, where its luminosity produces a surge of electricity in your brain, a rush of serotonin, dopamine, oxytocin. suddenly you stand in darkness, disoriented hugging yourself in the cold, for your screen is dead, until the warmth of a flame guides you forward, and leaning towards the light you drop the phone to clasp the hand reaching out towards you.

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No One Left Behind? Really? by Maria Pakpahan (she/her)

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shift pain into power - then back into pain

by Imaan Asim (she/her)

to write is to be complete to glue myself together with words piece by piece comma by comma after taking a dagger to my mind trying to escape this web of lies i’ve cocooned myself into as i set my past on fire and watch as her ashes fall soaking, disintegrating into the wet ground my language will never be freed from her pact with violence i’ve tried to tread lightly pass through life like a wave but i can’t - instead flames ignite at my fingertips scorching white paper red translating numb emotions into shame and fear writing is supposed to be an act of revolution because my name bears the weight of generations of women before me who ripped out their lungs and screamed so i could speak whose shadows stretched within them and blood seeped out of their mouths so my tongue could be a weapon of destruction who ached and howled for me to write the legacy of their memory 9

but instead writing overwhelms me tirelessly these words my suffering and my liberation stitching up the dagger in my mind with ellipses and dashes as i destroy everything i once was taking the first step to shift pain into power evolution and recreation this is the only way to survive to spin old lies into new ones pretend life is a moving prayer a poetic act of worship a sacred revelation art reborn so i say i’ve been blessed with rage with beauty and pain i tell myself cannot be weak no longer drown in the deep no more suffocating within my body lifting the veil to reveal the sinister perfection of an empty, hollow, shallow throat writing tears me apart limb by limb her fury is agonosing engulfing every inch of me yet i continue to write i write, i write, i write.

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in the clouds by Maya Barter (she/her)

Childhood, revisited by Ana Rosales (any pronouns) It’s easy to forget how far I’ve come as an artist while constantly comparing myself to others, but this old crayon drawing from 2000-something reminded me.

I knew Younger Me would be totally amazed by what we can do now, so I decided to re-imagine my old childhood characters with new tools and new knowledge, but the same heart. This piece was made to impress my inner-child, and it’s probably the most fun I’ve had with any illustration ever.

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When someone asks how I am

by Muskaan Aleeza Admani (she/her) Content warning: depression I want to say I really do feel Unloved And Worthless And like A burden This depression Is a ravenous parasite Sucking out all the light I have left I have lost my sight.

I want to say That my thoughts Are incessantly pushing weight against my shoulders And that is why I shake sometimes I am relentlessly fighting a boxing match That you cannot see But my energy Is now fleeting.

I want to say That Smiling Has become a Magic trick But I’m probably the worst Magician You know Yet I’m a master at Pretending fine.

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I want to say That I am Drowning These walls are caving in And I no longer know how to survive It’s like I’m trying to swim But my hands and feet are tied.

I want to say That this sadness Has infected my lungs So breathing has become an Abomination.

I want to say That life has torn At the verge of my strength I am numb.

I am empty.

My grave Is this body.

But I’d rather not ravage Someone’s mood With my tragic honesty So I goof away Like everything is a laughing matter And I say something acceptable, like: “I’m alright. How are you?”

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Substance Use

by Salena Pudaruth Content warning: substance abuse & suicidal ideation Drown my pain, empty the bottles Transfer the damage from my heart to my liver Let me feel numb, disassociate me I need powders to mix in liquids The sounds of you crying still weigh my heart down So let me fly, give me pills You want me in Rehab So send me back to Him

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the honour toll

by Innisha (she/her) honour is a unsurmountable weight they place it upon your shoulders when you cry for the first time. it is a suffocating anchor one that only serves to kill, a flock of tragedies could befall me but their honour will be what does me in. their honour has no place in my life I have spent lifetimes chasing it away, screaming, lungs burning, yet it seeps into my mind, exploring it like the nosiest of neighbours, i have not let it in, I would never brandish my key for honour never let it pollute me the way I have seen it slaughter others but honour is a thief, a thief of happiness, of control, their honour knows how to pick locks. it doesn’t fear crawling in to rob your time and sanity it feels no burden in slinking up to your shoulders and sitting plump, waiting patiently to finally steal you off your days.

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Comfort in your Company by Zehra (she/her)

Other Home by Zehra (she/her)

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Velvet Heart

by Zehra (she/her) i have a dainty velvet heart, a fitting muse for Renoir’s art; its gem-encrusted flesh mirrors the fabric of the universe. with fond care, like Minerva’s kin, i’ve sewn into its scarlet skin, pearls filled with love unrestrained, love that just can’t be contained. it gushes out, it pours, it streams, as all the starry gemstones gleam; when pain tugs at the seams so fine, of this dainty velvet heart of mine. for even in the face of plight, as the world unsheathes its blight, come what may, as long as i live, love is all i will have, to give.

*Renoir - A renowned French artist *Minerva - The Roman goddess of handicrafts If you’re someone who feels everything deeply and loves without restraint, this poem is yours. I see myself in you. You will never be ‘too much’.

Embrace your sensitivity, don’t ever change.

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Shrine

by Zehra Azim (she/her) The holy sanctum of my soul – As sacred as a shrine – Is not built of clay and mortar, And masonry, and brine.

It’s a framework of fears conquered, Of bones veneered with faith; It carries my weight unwearied, No matter how strait the gate*.

Draped in flesh that is manoeuvred Into soft dips and folds; It shelters my resilience, Much gentle grace it holds.

Often I poison my mind with All-consuming loathing: It inflames my blood like acid, Cloaks my skin like clothing.

Yet everything that this mind births Is brilliant and sublime, This heart pumps blood infused with love; It renders me divine.

I can’t not be a godly being; No earthling can sustain Such fatal wounds, and still create Poetry out of pain. *strait the gate: allusion to Invictus, by William Ernest Henley 22

DREAMWALKING

by Luna Moon

I startle awake in the middle of the night and reach for a glass of water. I look outside my window and notice the shadow of an eerie, little, curlyhaired girl staring at me, cackling.

For a second I look back, stunned. Next, fear overcomes me and I flee into another room, but she appears again. I change rooms once more, yet there she is still. Always at the window. Always staring. Always cackling. In every room I go she is present, mocking me from behind the glass. I can no longer take it, so I run out the house.

It’s dark outside and I suddenly find myself being chased by a pack of wild dogs. They have strange cartoonish features, as if drawn from Disney’s Lady and the Tramp. I come across a steel, chain link fence in front of me and clamber over it, splashing into a puddle as I fall to the ground. The dogs continue yapping aggressively on the other side.

I look directly in front of me and find one glaring back. Its eyes are bloodshot and saliva is dripping out of its mouth. I’m afraid they’ll find a way to the other side of the fence and tear me to pieces.

I get up and begin running once more.

I’m now in the middle of a tube station. Hustling, bustling people are trying to get to places only known to themselves. To put as much distance as possible between me and my horrors, I hop onto a carriage just as the doors are closing.

Inside, there are people dressed up in extravagant outfits, among wild animals. It appears to be some kind of carnival. Trumpets are blasting and many are dancing.

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It’s strange how they would choose to take the tube, I think to myself.

Maybe the bus was crowded.

After a few stops, I step off the tube alongside a normally-dressed person, and walk towards the exit. I try to stay close to my new companion, but we are separated as I push my way through a sea of people.

Once I’m out in the open, a big clock tower looms over me. I look up and check the time, it’s 3:15. Wait. I look at the clock again. It now reads 5:30. A lightbulb goes off in my head, but I have to be sure of what I’m thinking. To prove it, I pinch my nose. I can still breathe.

This is a dream. I’ve just triggered my brain to lucid dream with reality checks.

But, wait. I’m always alone in my dreams, at least the ones I remember.

It’s just me and no one else. This isn’t my dream, it can’t be. The beginning could have been my dream, since I was alone, but not this part. I just walked myself - or better ran myself - into someone else’s dream.

But whose?

Think, think! I tell myself. I look around. The man from the tube carriage! It’s the only person that I really noticed, that truly stood out.

I walk towards the clock and sure enough, directly under it, the guy from the train is at the centre of the attention. He’s being lifted up by the circus from the tube and tossed up into the air, as if they were cheering him.

Out of the corner of my eye, in the shadows, I notice a man in a suit with a painfully wide cartoon of a sneer. As he heads towards the person from the tube carriage, he slowly morphs into a clown. This can’t be good. I want to shout Look out! But I can’t seem to find my voice.

I just stand there, gaping at the scene that is unfolding in front of my eyes.

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The clown joins the circus aggregation where they are tossing up the Tube Carriage Man. He finally reaches the man, who shrieks. The circus is all of a sudden replaced by a mass of clowns. They have malicious smiles plastered on their faces while they grab at the man, who is engulfed by the pile of clowns. I see him looking at me, begging for my help, but I’m too afraid to do a thing.

I need to get out of this dream. It’s getting way too out of hand (and in some strange way, also oddly personal). Wake up! I tell myself. I look around. My eyes are open because I can see the ceiling of my room, but the dream is still playing, like a thin film coating, on top of my eyes.

Everything is spinning and I start to panic. Wake up! WAKE UP! I beg myself.

It takes every ounce of strength I have to force my eyelids open. The only thing I see is my bedroom ceiling. My alarm clock is going off. I check the time, once, twice, three times and it’s always the same. I sigh, relieved.

I get out of bed and take a shower, washing off all that remains of the dream from the night before.

As I’m walking to the tube station, I stumble and bump into someone.

I look up. For a second, I’m surprised. It’s Dream Man, as I’ve now decided to call him. He looks at me as though I were familiar. An expression of recognition passes over his face. He opens his mouth, as if he’s about to say something, but then thinks again. All this must have taken a fraction of a second, but it felt like ages to me.

I feel like I know this man somehow, in an unusual and perhaps intimate way, but in reality, I don’t know him at all.

I smile politely. “Pardon me,” I say. And then I walk away, deciding to move on with my separate life and becoming just another stranger. Just another face in the crowd.

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Locked Perception by Alexandra Craveiro (she/her) 26

The Other Side of the Road by Maria Pakpahan (she/her)

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Smoking alone in the midst of Glittery by Maria Pakpahan (she/her)

Where Dramaturgy Meets Demonology

by Shwetha Mahendran (she/her)

I think I’m alone when I sit in my room with hands that spasm one second and still the next under the weight of my Betaal brain— he piggybacks on a body that belonged to no king.

But when he whispers into my tear-bordered ears, I realize I’m up, spotlit with him as a seated spectator; I am nothing but the thing he implies, “Glycerine helps, doesn’t it?”

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smile, you’re on CCTV by Simrun Kaur-Rathore (she/her)

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Mind Palace

by Simrun Kaur-Rathore (she/her)

So I guess that’s it We’re done talking I feel empty There was never weight, on my shoulders More of a pressure, On my conscience Like a piece of furniture You moved out of my mind palace you never belonged there you acted like an insult to what I’d previously put there to what I’d so delicately nurtured with my own confidence confidence you used to love confidence you tried to overpower, with the musky stench of your insecurities so I couldn’t be happier that There’s an empty corner in my mind Where you used to reside I get attached to my furniture, yes but I won’t let one replaceable item jeopardise a priceless palace.

A C K N O W LE D G E M E N T S Thank you to the peachiest of teams for making this first issue of PEACH Magazine’s Peach Pip possible!

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 A special thank you to Abbie Harrison for creating our beautiful front and back cover of this issue of Peach Pip. Illustrations by Abbie Harrison and Maya Barter.