Liminality

// P h o t o g r a p h y : A u r o V a r a t P a t n a i k

L i m i n a l i t y

THE INKWELL

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P r e f a c e // L I M E N / A L / I T Y // F l a m e D a r i n o v P a g e 1 // E d i t o r ’ s N o t e // Y a s m i n K a n a a n P a g e 4 // T h e F e r r y A c r o s s t o N e w f o u n d l a n d // A l e x a n d r e M a r c e a u P a g e 9 // A W o r l d o f O n e ’ s O w n // E m m a L a n d s b u r g h P a g e 14 // M o n o p h o b i a // C a l l u m O s m e n t P a g e 20 // T h e S o u l ‘ s W a i t i n g R o o m // C h l o e H u l s e P a g e 25 // O b j e c t P e r m a n e n c e // S a r a h R e y n o l d s P a g e 26 // J e t s a m

// W i l l

S t a v e l y

P a g e 28 // 2 P o e m s // E v e l y n B e n n e t t - S t o n e P a g e 30 // L i g h t s o f f i n t h e V i l l a g e H a l l //

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P a g e 32 // T h e H a u n t e d P a l a c e // G u q i n g W a n g P a g e 34 // B r e a t h a n d W o r d s // W i l l N y e P a g e 36 // P r e s i d e n t ’ s N o t e // J a n a P h i l l i p s

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P h i l l i p s // P r e s i d e n t

L a r a F a r r o w // V i c e - P r e s i d e n t P a n a s h e

N d o u

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S e c r e t a r y

O l i v i a J o h n s t o n // T r e a s u r e r D a l i a I m p i g l i a // F i r s t Y e a r

Rep

R h i a n n o n A u r i o l // M e d i a E d i t o r Y a s m i n K a n a a n // E d i t o r i n C h i e f M a r i a G a r c i a V a l d i v a // G e n e r a l E d i t o r O l i v i a J o h n s t o n // P r o s e E d i t o r A a r t i M u k h e d k a r // P o e t r y E d i t o r A b i g a i l B l a d e s // C o p y E d i t o r 1 L a u r e n G a l l i g a n // C o p y E d i t o r 2 E m i l y H u g h e s // H e a d o f D e s i g n

L i m e n / // F l a m e

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‘Language is an odd thing’ says I, I, a linguist, a linguaphile, I, a lie-men, (a liar-to-men), I, a limen, a threshold, I, a live man: To all a border To none a wall – so says I, a lie-men.

Beyond me there is no existence, For language creates us: LIMEN / AL / ITY And we create language: LIE-MEN / AL / ITY I strive then to be a lie-men (Though I lie to more than just men); I see how now and again The sign of the line arbitrates: LIMEN / AL / ITY LIMEN / AL LIMEN LIMENNENO LIMENIJUA – “The word knows me.”

It takes one to know one; How come I’m so unlike the word?

In the in-between, under destruction, Under chaos, under uncertainty, undecidedly, we create meaning: LIMEN / AL / ITY LIMEN / AL LIMEN LIMENNENO LIMENIWA – “The word is me.”

E d i t o r ‘ s N o t e // Y a s m i n K a n a a n

I

n this century, there has been no period that has been as liminal as the present. With uncertainty and change at every corner, we cannot help but feel like we are in a period of transitioning from one state of ‘normal’ to another. Whether it has been adjusting to online learning or isolating alone, we have come to accept that our lives will not be the same. Though interactions may have been limited to Zoom meetings or household restrictions, we have still managed to push ourselves to grow and adapt. Instead of losing to unpredictability, our generation has used these feelings of limbo to fuel words on a page.

In this issue, you will see how our writers have used their time in quarantine to ask existential questions, reflect on their past relationships and traverse foreign and local spaces. You will experience commanding tones, dynamic structures and beating rhythms. You will be transported into gothic realms and abstract worlds. You will realise that the pandemic’s challenges have not stopped the artists of 2021 from creatively pushing the barriers of language to create compelling new realities to which we can escape.

I cannot thank the members of our committee enough for their unwavering perseverance and commitment. Even though we have had another semester online, they have brought their enthusiasm and imagination to every meeting. From the perfectly placed full-stops to the overall design and flow of Inkwell - we hope that you can feel our passion for writing leap out of the pages.

We collectively thank all of our writers and submitters. There were so many fantastic pieces to choose from, and they were all a delight to read!

Thank you for all your hard work and efforts. Lastly, but certainly not least, I would like to thank our readers for supporting us. I hope that you will be inspired by the words of our writers as much as we are.

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// P h o t o g r a p h y : C l e m P r i m e

T h e T o

F e r r y

A c r o s s

N e w f o u n d l a n d

// A l e x a n d r e M a r c e a u

Early August morning, Eastern Canada. The red beach rocks shine like salamanders, and somewhere behind the sea mist, a pale sun is getting out of bed. Catherine and I have nearly forgotten about Montreal and its humidity, which this summer, has managed to suck water out of near-dry pores. We were heading to North Sydney to catch the sixteen-hour ferry to Newfoundland. Gulls flew above the sea. It was a calm morning.

In North Sydney, we parked by the dock to wait for a boarding call. A gentleman eventually guided us toward the parking platform of the vessel.

“Welcome aboard!”

“Hello,” I said.

“Quebec license plate, eh? Musta been a long one for yous.”

“Fifteen hours!” Catherine said.

“Well, I’m glad yous made it! You’ll need to pack all you need for the evenin’.”

“We can’t come back to the car?” I asked.

“No, sir! While the ship is movin’ the car park will be locked, unless, you know, there’s an emergency. Yous got a few minutes. Enjoy!”

He waved and moved to the car settling in behind us.

“Everything, eh?” I teased, as Catherine packed the wine.

“Should we bring our sleeping bags?”

“I suppose.”

“Anything else?”

“The cribbage board?”

“It’s in there.”

I locked the car and we headed up the staircase.

On the fifth floor, we were greeted by a large neon-coloured carpet and the

{4}

smell of coffee and beer. Aside from the few families on board, whose kids were snaking through the rows of seats that lined the length of the windows, it was obvious that Catherine and I were the youngest. In the cafeteria line, everyone spoke and laughed at the cook’s jokes as if they were one acquainted group.

“So this is what it’s like outside of the big city,” I said.

“Aren’t you glad?”

“Yes.” “Good.”

We embraced by the door and heard the loud horn outside. The St Lawrence River undulated beneath the boat. We were off to the “Rock”—the easternmost part of our country.

Catherine and I watched the sunset from the top deck. We ate tuna sandwiches, saw a flopping pod of whales, played cribbage in a windless nook by the stern, and drank wine. The sky tumbled through every colour imaginable, and in each ripple, a mutating marble reflected a new hue, on and on, until the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the pinks hung like a robe waiting to cloak the ferry.

Back inside, two gentlemen sat facing the round tables and the bar, one with a guitar and the other with a fiddle.

“Seems like we’re not the only planners, eh?” Catherine said.

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone’s got their own mug and liquor, too.”

The gentlemen played traditional music from Newfoundland and recounted tall tales that made us all keel over with laughter. I wondered how many of those

{5}

seated were part of these stories, or if they too, had similar ones from their towns along the ribbon of rock that enveloped the island.

When the last song ended, I went to the bar, light from laughter. A man sat by the till spinning a loonie on the counter.

“How’s you gettin’ on, cocky?” he said.

“Good! It’s beautiful out there.”

“Sure is.”

I scanned the selection of beers.

“Ever drink Black Horse?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t. Is it from Newfoundland?”

“Brewed on the Rock alright, though once in Quebec.”

“Really? I’m from Montreal.”

The barmaid joined us.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

“Two Black Horses, please.”

“Montreal, eh?” the man said. “Hah! My buddies and I, oh, years back, we used to hop on the freights from Labrador and head on down there!”

“Really?”

“Big bricks of hash we’d get, eh b’y!” he said, holding his thick-calloused hands in the shape of an encyclopedia. “We’d get right drunk too, and in the mornin’, hop back on a freight home!”

“Here you are,” the barmaid said.

I took a seat.

“Thanks. I wonder if we can get these in Montreal?”

“Sure! But ya don’t want to buy them in the winter,” he said. “The St Lawrence freezes and no boats go to the Mainland. If you’re buyin’ in February, beer’s been sittin’ on a pallet since October!”

I laughed, and Catherine joined us.

“Francis! I knew you were chatting away,” she said, grabbing her beer.

“I’m Brocky,” the man said.

“Gwendolyn,” the barmaid added.

“I’m Catherine. Pleasure to meet you both.”

We all sipped our beers.

“So, wadda ya folk headin’ to Newfoundland for?” Brocky asked.

“Well,” I said, “in a bookstore back home, I stumbled upon beautiful photographs of small, bright coloured houses by the sea. It’s also the only province I’ve yet to visit.”

“Is that so?” he said, finishing his beer.

{6}

“I think,” Catherine began, “well, at least more so than the other provinces— which are accessible by road—I think there’s a certain allure to Newfoundland.

People don’t talk about it much back home in the city.”

A brief silence fell between us.

“Gwen, I’ll have another beer, please,” Brocky said. He spun the coin again, chuckling, until he got his Horse. “You know, we’re lucky to be on this boat here.

My father never left the island—last generation of independent fishermen, out there every mornin’ for cod, back home for lunch, and if the catch was real good, back out for the afternoon.”

His deep blue eyes were creased at the corners, and there seemed to be salt in his pores.

“Where are you coming back from?” Catherine asked.

“Alberta! Been on the oil rigs for a while and feelin’ a little landlocked. Miss the sea, you know. Since the government took over the waters, most fishermen lost their jobs in exchange for cheap compensation. No more fishin’ for my old man or myself.”

“Are yous driving around the island?” Gwendolyn asked.

“That’s the plan,” I said.

“You’ll love it. It’s beautiful.”

“Sure is,” Brocky said. “But them coloured houses you seen, well . . . there are more abandoned ones nowadays. Most people brought their labour to the Mainland.” We each took a heavy sip. “But you’re in good hands! Newfoundlanders are a kind bunch.”

“That we are,” Gwendolyn said, laughing.

“Say, if yous go to Twillingate, stop by my brother Mark’s,” Brocky said. “Green house by the church—16 Preston Street. He’s got a spare room, too.”

“That would be lovely,” Catherine said.

“Two young city slickers in Newfoundland, eh b’y?” Brocky mused. “Just missed the icebergs, but it’s supposed to—” “Icebergs?” I exclaimed, sitting up in my seat.

“Ah, fella! Bigger than Parliament, I’ll tell ya.”

We all laughed, and through the gentle hours of the evening, the stories sailed along the St Lawrence between the two different Canadian regions Brocky knew, and that we’d come to understand. When Gwendolyn shut the bar and Brocky retired to a seat by the windows, Catherine and I sat outside by the bow, watching the hues of green stretch across the horizon.

It would be a calm morning.

{7}

// P h o t o g r a p h y : A i y a h S i b a y

{8}

A W o r l d O f O n e ‘ s O w n

// E m m a L a n d s b u r g h

The other day, I noticed a grey hair growing in. Ever since the beginning of lockdown, every night I study myself in the mirror meticulously to notice any changes. In the reflection, I see myself in my childhood bedroom; I am the only thing that physically changes. I haven’t left my house or hometown since last March, and the place feels haunted by the mismatched belongings I’ve collected over the years. Mine is a fairly dark room, it doesn’t let in much light, so it doesn’t let on to the time of day. It feels like an eternal night.

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The grey thread appears to glitter amongst my dark brunette hair. It appears almost regal, but I don’t let that thought fool me. The strand sits there, taunting me, making me aware of the passing time stuck in this room. It’s like I am frozen in some eternal recurrence, a loop of unmoving time, but my body defies that. It trudges on; moving, aging, birthing thin grey sprouts from a mind that dissects them. In the background, my bedside clock begins to whizz as the numbers blur.

Time is simultaneously speeding up and rewinding, yet I remain stuck in the same spot, the same room I have spent the majority of my life.

The space has become a sinister waiting room, furnished with objects from every period of my life. Here I sit, scrolling, staring, impatiently waiting for the world outside to gain a semblance of normality. Now I only travel through my phone screen, remaining in the same spot each day. Looking around my room is like watching an eerie compilation of teenage me and present me. My walls are littered with old punk band posters ripped out of Kerrang magazine from when I was fourteen, and the bookshelf is now filled with books for my university course and photos of past summer days. The strand of grey that lies upon my head has made me realise that as I age, this small corner of the world will not change. The world is at a standstill, yet I still can’t keep up.

The photos on my wall come alive and move like a reel of film from a world that I remember faintly, playing out in front of me like a classical movie. I can hardly recognize myself in those memories. My body can no longer act them out, the muscle memory is gone. My old self, much like my current one, has become

{9}

a stranger. Now, it is like being stuck in a movie or tv show where the character wakes up on the exact same day every day. I go between my phone, laptop, TV, book and repeat. The exact same thing, day in and day out. It’s like an incessant purgatory, an in between world where I end the day to wake up and do the exact same thing. Yet I am not physically cemented to this space; my body continues to grow in a room that is a time capsule of my life up to now. I am not living out the symphony of my days, my early twenties, yet I hope I will be able to do so, once this is all done.

Days have disintegrated and I along with them.

Looking into the mirror makes me aware of my changing face, yet it is also somehow the only thing that brings me comfort. The regal grey hair growing from my scalp reminds me of one immutable truth: change is the only constant.

I am not stuck; time will go on and I with it.

My dad got his first grey hair at nineteen, my mother twenty-one. She smiled slowly after finding that very first smoky lock, whereas I was horrified. My first memory of it retains a painful reminder about mortality. Out of fear, I had the immediate urge to dye it, to somehow conceal my inevitable fate. I wanted so desperately to ignore what it meant. Yet I recognise now, as I stand staring in the mirror, that I adore what that grey hair represents. The silver strand reveals how part of me has been able to progress in this stagnant foyer. Time may feel stuck in this space, but it continues on and I am a testament to that. Within these four walls, I have changed, and will continue to do so: this cannot be stopped. Life has entered into a new phase and this space prepares me for it. I will be able to grow alongside my body. These dreary days will pass, and the sweltering sun will be seized. For now, I will remain in this small room as I continue to grow in this world of my own.

{10}

// A r t w o r k : S a r a h D o b b s

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// A r t w o r k : J o a n n a H o o p e r

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M o n o p h o b i a // C a l l u m O s m e n t

All in all, it takes about fourteen hours: six hours to Birmingham and another six to Exeter, with a few service-stops along the way. I get onto the bus around six am, and my seat is cramped and doesn’t recline. I’m exhausted, but I can never sleep on these things, so I attempt to read under the pale overhead light. People get on and off at various points, but I’m the only one who stays on for the full journey.

Families, couples, loners —all of us running away from something in our own way. I wonder what they would think of me if they knew me.

Of course, she had blocked me. When someone blocks you, they are trying to erase you; they think their life would be better off if you stopped being in it. I guess it was just her way of dealing with it all. I shouldn’t have cared, but I did.

I step off at the bus station in Exeter around eight. My legs are stiff, and the air is warmer than I remember it being, so I strip off a layer, then check my phone to see where my mother is waiting to pick me up. She is in the wrong place, a couple minutes down the road - I begin to haul my bags along the tarmac. A flash of orange hair steps out of a Volvo I’ve never seen before on the far side of the car park.

I walk over and hug the woman, who is my Mother, but it is the sort of hug that you’re both in a rush to get over with. It hasn’t even been that long, yet it seems odd to think of her as a physical person, as someone that could be hugged. During the half an hour journey home, she asks me what’s wrong; I tell her I’m just not in the mood to talk about it, she tells me that I’m ‘ruining a nice moment’. People are always asking me what’s wrong; I think I just permanently look miserable, like my dog has died or something.

{14}

We pass the sign welcoming us into the town and I find myself unable to remember exactly where we are, which turn we will make, or what building we are passing. A few years ago, I could’ve walked home from school blindfolded; each step was so ingrained into my memory from the countless times I had done it.

Now the street names look unfamiliar, and I only get flashes here and there like pieces of an unsolved jigsaw. The road carries on winding.

The relationship started and ended in the smoking area of the same club— a year apart. I still don’t feel like we did actually break up, because by that point, I wasn’t myself, and she wasn’t herself, we were completely different people - somewhere along the way I had forgotten why I loved her.

When we pull up to the house, I notice the new coat of paint, and I am struck by its size. I feel like it hasn’t always been this big, but then compared to my box room, everything else seems like a palace. When I ring the door, my sister answers — I had been told over the phone that Suzy was very excited to see me, that she had missed me very much, but there is little evidence of this in the feeble hug I get on arrival. The dog waddles up, he is old and half blind and I doubt he recognises me. He genuinely might die soon, which would be convenient for us both.

I was always waiting for the day we would run out of things to talk about, so much so I think that I willed it into existence. Sometimes it felt like we stayed together only because we were both afraid to be alone.

{15}

My room is still where I left it, except now it’s been converted into an office —all my old posters, books, records are boxed up neatly in the corner next to my mother’s yoga mat, the rest of my clothes have been donated or redistributed to friends and neighbours with similarly gangly teens. The light flickers for a while before turning on, casting the same eerie glow as the light on the bus did—it all makes me feel a bit nauseous. I remember not really giving it much thought when I left; it all seemed so separate and far away. I forgot that this is actually where I used to live, where I grew up, my most formative years spent within these four walls, and now it’s just a room where somebody does yoga.

It wasn’t like either of us didn’t have other options, I saw guys looking at her, the way I had once looked at her. I felt like we were inconveniencing each other, like we’d both be better off if it were just over.

The whole place has changed slightly, imperceptible except to me: little things like a new sofa or the dog bed moving or there being less food in the fridge. The world keeps going on without me, it doesn’t phase out of existence when I round the corner. I look out the window and see my old school, closer than I thought it was— except now it isn’t my school, it’s just a collection of buildings I used to go to, all boxed up.

I said that we should see other people. She said that she wished we’d never fucked. I said I wished that too. I walked away and didn’t look back, because if I did that would make it real.

Later, I try to help my Mother with dinner, but I feel like I’m only getting in the way, so I just sit at the table and wait. After, I have to wait until she goes to bed to smoke, because it pisses her off: she thinks I quit years ago. I smoke two cigarettes in the front garden, then lift up the old plant pot under which I had always left the cigarette butts, but they’ve all been cleaned away. Looking up at the house’s tall, beige facade and into the window for each room, I couldn’t tell you which one is mine anymore. Here, there, with Mum, with Her - it’s all the same now.

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// P h o t o g r a p h y : A i y a h S i b a y

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L i f e

a n d

D e a t h

// P h o t o g r a p h y : A d a p t e d

F

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A i y a h

S i b a y

T h e S o u l ‘ s W a i t i n g R o o m

// C h l o e H u l s e

Agatha lay in her bed; her grown children sat and knelt around her, grasping their mother’s frail hand. Her eyes flickered to each of their faces, traced the curves of her daughter’s cheekbones and the small lines around her eyes. Agatha looked at her son, the image of his father who died ten years since. Her youngest son lingered in the doorway; he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and swayed gently, his hand cupped his chin and rubbed his mouth tightly and his brows furrowed with pain as he watched his mother.

Agatha’s daughter gently lifted her mother’s head slightly and rearranged the pillows underneath. She smoothed the white wisps of hair that framed Agatha’s face and sat back into the wooden chair beside the bed. The chair legs were rooted firmly in the aged, floral carpet —that familiar pattern of roses, as unchanging as the washed red of the bedsheets, and the curtains that were bleached from years in the sun. In the silence, her eyes travelled to the bedside table and pondered at the photograph of herself and her brothers as children with their mother and father on a beach somewhere, cased in a gold frame and coated with dust.

She returned her gaze to her mother. Agatha lay ever so still, closed her eyes, and breathed through her nose softly. Her wrinkled mouth fell open slightly as she let out a final, small breath; her lips parted. A small whimper came from her daughter as she pressed her eyes tightly together, a tear rolling down her cheeks.

In the corner of the room, the eldest brother tightly cupped his elbows, his eyes swollen and face red from the hours spent crying. He looked at his sister and she nodded: their mother had gone. The youngest brother left his parent’s bedroom, walked to his childhood bedroom, sat on his old bed, and sobbed. *

{20}

Soul hovered on the ceiling and watched the room they had slept in, cried in, made love in for the past fifty years. Out of all the physical beings that they had been placed into, Agatha was Soul’s favourite. Soul levitated higher through the ceiling and left the family cottage behind. They glanced at the children they had raised for a final time, before closing their eyes, and ascending. * Within moments, Soul was surrounded by other Souls who waited to be placed into their next physical being, glancing down to the Earth with excitement, trying to imagine a new life. Soul pondered at who, or what, they would become next; although they were sad about no longer being Agatha, they knew the memories of Agatha’s life would follow them into the next.

The Waiting Room for Souls was a peculiar place. It was encompassed by darkness, lit only by the auras of the other Souls that awaited their next life. Colours beamed from the Soul Stars in shades from red through to warm oranges and yellows, purples and pinks alike. The coloured fragments that reflected every kind of soul that any physical being had—good or bad. Soul weaved between clusters of other souls and found an empty corner, took a deep breath, and relaxed. Other souls that they had not seen for millennia fluttered past them and nodded and whispered greetings. Soul sat back in their corner, rested, and anticipated being called upon.

{21}

Other souls lined up to meet with the Creator, one by one, and Soul watched for minutes, hours, days. They observed as lives, romances and legacies were handed to the other souls and wondered where their next adventure would take them. The time disappeared into the space between heartbeats, and Soul continued their wait. * “Soul number 62534702”, a loud voice announced, “the Creator will see you now”. Soul was whipped from their trance at the mention of their number and was compelled through a maze of darkness and stars and auras—their instinct took over and lured them to the Creator’s Palace.

The air around Soul flashed and turned from the darkest black to a brilliant white. Soul drifted and danced through wisps of clouds, delicate petals and swarms of butterflies and knew in an instant that they had entered the Palace. The Creator sat atop a golden throne that stood hundreds of feet tall. Scrolls levitated in the air, unravelled, and rolled back up when the Creator flicked their wrist and dismissed them. A set of dark eyes peered down and watched Soul’s every move as they halted before The Creator’s feet. As the Creator began to hastily read their scroll, Soul held their breath, waiting anxiously in the silence that followed until the Creator bowed their head and spoke at last.

“Soul, I commend thee. Agatha was a success; you lived a full life of happiness and selflessness as Agatha. The scroll informs me of children having been born — yes, oh and grandchildren too, wonderful. As a reward for such, you will be placed into a new being in due course”, the Creator declared.

{22}

Relief seeped from Soul; their aura spread wider and glowed brighter.

After thanking the Creator and quickly leaving the palace, a surge of exhilarating volcanic heat erupted from within Soul and pushed them through the sky. From below, others gawped at the shooting star and marvelled as they watched a soul as it met its new being. Soul soared through the shadows triumphantly, an immense feeling of pride filled them as they collided with the Earth and began their new life. * Tendrils of sweat dribbled down Christina’s forehead as she breathed out a loud sigh of joy. She looked to her husband; tears welled in his eyes as he looked at their newborn. The child’s lungs erupted to life and let out a wild scream.

Christina’s husband grasped his wife’s hands in his and pressed passionate kisses upon her mouth as they became parents after what had felt like a lifetime of waiting. In a matter of moments, the nurse had the tiny babe wrapped in a towel and carried it away to be weighed and washed. Seated on the armchair next to the hospital bed his wife lay in, the husband waited eagerly for his babe. As he sat, adrenaline and excitement filled his body; mere moments felt like hours.

Finally, swaddled in a soft, white cloth and with a hat placed atop their head, the child was carried to their father.

“Congratulations”, the nurse said, “you have a son”.

{23}

} // P h o t o g r a p h y : A i y a h S i b a y

O

b j e

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c t

Permanence

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O b j e c t P e r m a n e n c e

// S a r a h R e y n o l d s

dollhouse room filled with 1 cherrywood dresser cir. 1999; 3 cracked-spine novels toted across seas; 1 decrepit dictionary missing the M’s; 1 impotent key to an abandoned apartment; 1 half-filled suitcase starving for movement. welcome to this shadow box: six-sided exhibition hall (four walls one ceiling one floor one window). this showcase of life in static, frozen butterfly pinned flat amongst a field of objects that describe half-circle me, but circumventing, eradicating years when i built a girl, stand-alone.

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rubber band stretching through the years and the miles -snap. it blinks away a world and brings me home.

9 (i’m sticking neon-green stars to the ceiling so the dark won’t be so scary) 14 (i’m painting the walls bright blue because fuck you mom this is my room) 17 (i’m sprawling on the carpet dreaming about summer days) 20 (i’m watching ghosts of younger selves smear memories of an already-lived life over my lens of the present, obscuring the road ahead four walls. one ceiling. one floor. one window.

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j e t // W i l l

s a m S t a v e l y

I cannot say what happens when I dream For I am not inside, and someone else is.

Every day is a wingless float to this end: I have woken up too late again; I am tardy, have missed it I am bedracked.

I am faint of feeling to pretend.

I am not alive; this is not seeing I am apneic I am the breathless sealing Suggestion of sound Echoic alarm bell pealing (Come, come my God, O come) But no hearing A caterpillar’s cocoon shell squealing Sunken in comforting catatonia was Something else I’d forgotten to remember Above and to the right of this drifting life...

{26}

// A r t w o r k : M o l l i e R u s s e l l

{27}

// E v e l y n B e n n e t t - S t o n e

Thirsty Waters From ashen hippocampus-hollows Came crawling An unremembered memory Ethereal curtains shiver Caught in the currents, The breaths of unbaptised babes Blows across the counter tops Sins washed away by the salt-sea Maggots mature in your absence Filthy coins collect in draws, Which limbo do you dwell deeply within Were you a father Or child?

Suffer until purity is found The red string-tangle of us exits without any shiny-clarity.

You were always impatient Can you stand eternity?

Ambivalence is purgatory Certainty is death.

{28}

Will the Void Take You? I long for a fitful aching sleep, To hold the dull dark soul-close So to unsee the lurid blood eyes, And the death pallor of pore-pocked skin That’s wraps a raw face, Familiar, but unreal and unrecognised.

Fear came across me in the bath, Lungs liquid weighted Mind bathwater-cloudy Soul saturated I watch as I am lost in submersion, Familiar bodies bloated by the thirsty waters, Weed-hair seeping stagnantly Rootless And yet embryonic, Sickly strands furl and unfurl Waiting for damp death to blossom.

{29}

L i g h t s v i l l a

o f f i n t h e g e h a l l // V i c t o r i a R o b e r t s

A single chair stands in the centre of the village hall.

It has been used precisely four hundred and twenty-nine times since it was bought. Last year, it played an important role in the nativity (having the honour of six-year-old Rebecca, the virgin Mary, sit on it) and every week it underpins one of the twelve members of the weight loss support group that gather there (this is its least favourite occupation, a very stressful job)

{30}

Today, because Frank didn’t stack the chair like he was asked, the chair is alone.

The windows are shut and the curtains are drawn.

It is dark inside.

The moon is in its Waxing Gibbous phase.

(This means it is nearly full, but not quite) Two metres and thirty-four centimetres north from its upper left leg is an abandoned Haribo packet, which was left there by Ethan (a scrawny member of the scout group).

The chair considers this packet for a moment; It decides the packet should go in the bin. go on! you can do it The other chairs are insisting, they are against the wall.

I’m right here!

The bin encourages, it is in the corner of the hall.

The chair attempts to get closer.

But the chair is forgetting itself and that it simply cannot help, so it falls on its side instead.

There it lies, slightly rather embarrassed.

The next morning, Zoë (the only cleaner employed in the hall) sees our chair, thinks nothing of it, stacks it with the others and puts the Haribo wrapper in the bin. oh! The chair wishes it could be more like Zoë.

{31}

T h e

H a u n t e d

P a l a c e

// G u q i n g

Around the old palace, weeds grew long By greyish green its shattering tiles dyed Hearkened the passing maids an old song Doleful, ethereal, ebbing with the tide Some beheld a spectre in lunar white Lingering over the deserted site at night, Some caught sight of his rosy eyes Of subtle solitude and tender light Weeds in the winds, flowering quince Murmured the tale of a deceased prince A prince that suffered innumerable pain And by a silver knife, ended the life in vain Transience as ephemera, vanished his life An encounter remained in his flashy prime With someone stranded in the crack of time Vagrant, fettered, deprived of afterlife Some recognized the silhouette aloof Sitting still on the dilapidated roof Moonshine shed on his fluttering hair Of snowy white, and petals in fragrant air In a bleary vesper, he gazed at the dew To await someone who’d never return Memories mellowed into boundless rue — Was it hope frail, or affection overflown?

If haunted was the palace, did the past die?

Buried their reminiscence in tiles crashes.

Had the loving hearts burned into ashes, Or left a trace, for the futurity to sigh?

{32}

W a n g

// A r t w o r k : S a b i n e W e b e r

// W i l l

N y e

we must be the carbon capture technology of their reverie as i breathe you in on a tuesday morning our open palms graze cool white walls before they join, a confluence of twined tributaries splayed

limbs stretched sinew tangled touch, for a short while we’re not much but we are bound, affixed to one, an other we are inter - laced - locked - rupted as we share breath and words on an empty morning.

{34}

// A r t w o r k: J o a n n a H o o p e r

B r e a t h a n d w o r d s

{35}

P r e s i d e n t ‘ s // J a n a

N o t e

P h i l l i p s

T

hank you so much for reading this semester’s edition of ‘The Inkwell’! I am so proud of our committee and editing team for producing yet another amazing issue; and many thanks to all the writers who wrote such lovely and engaging pieces on our theme ‘liminality’.

The difficulty of attending university, being on committee for a society and putting together a magazine all virtually this year should not be understated. I have continued to be impressed with all the dedication and effort our committee has put into this society, especially at a time when it is often difficult to feel fully connected to our members and our society’s purpose. I do really miss the in-person Open Mics, Write Drunk Edit Sobers, ‘Inkwell’ launches, and speaker events that have been such a large part of my university experience over the last four years; and it is my greatest hope that those committee and society members who just joined us this academic year, and have not had the opportunity to experience these events, will be able to do so next semester.

{36}

That being said, I have been delighted with how much we have been able to engage with members online. From writing workshops last semester, to our joint speaker event with SYP Scotland, and our stand as a part of the university’s Creative and Cultural Careers Festival, I am very proud of our efforts in these strange times.

I would like to thank our entire 2020/21 committee once more: it has been so lovely working with all of you. I will be rather sad to say goodbye to PublishED as I graduate this year, but I am sure the new committee will continue to nurture PublishED as a supportive and creative space for writers, artists and aspiring publishers alike in the year ahead.

Wishing you all the very best, Jana

{37}

C r e d i t s // O u r A r t i s t s a n d P h o t o g r a p h e r s

{38}

P

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t

o

g

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a

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F r o n t C o v e r // B a c k C o v e r // A u r o V a r a t P a t n a i k @ a u r o v a r a t P a g @ r

e 2 // C a t t

l e m y . s

P p

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P a g e 8 // P a g e 18 // P a g e 19 A i y a h S i b a y @ i n n _ p a s s a g e

A

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P a g @ t

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e 11 // S h e _

r

a

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D

o b

b

i

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s e

P a g e 12 // P a g e 13 // P a g e 35 // J o a n n a H o o p e r @ j o a n n a a h o o p e r a r t

P a g e 27 // M o l l i e R u s s e l l @ m o l l i e _ s _ r u s s e l l P a g e 33 // S a b i n e W e b e r // @ m u l t i n i n g u a l w o r d e m b e d d i n g s

{39}

// P h o t o g r a p h y : A u r o V a r a t P a t n a i k