VAINE MAGAZINE: ISSUE 02 THE ENVIRONMENT

Dear reader, Welcome (and to those of you who’ve been with us since the beginning - welcome back!) to our second edition!

We have a small confession to make this edition was due for release as our Autumn edition, although unfortunately was unexpectedly delayed, hence its release in what is now officially winter (rather fitting I thought, for 2020!) but hey-ho, such is the world of independent publishing.

So, let me explain how it was, that with the autumnal leaves falling all around us here in South Wales, we were prompted to think about the natural environment as our topic for this edition.

Autumn is a time where nature gives us so much, so visibly: so much colour, so much wildlife scurrying about, harvests to be collected etc, and so it was in this way that we were inspired to make the environment the focus of this issue.

Along with of course, the ongoing global pandemic (which birthed our first edition, and continues to cause great disruption to every one of our lives this year) giving us pause for thought on the state of our planet as a whole and its future. And although this may be one of the most globally disruptive events in 100 years, it is also the mere tip of the iceberg in comparison to what could await us and future generations, if the effects of our environmentally unsustainable actions are not dealt with now.

The environment is also an issue which has been gaining more news traction recenty, with the emergence of groups

like Extinction Rebellion getting headlines in the UK for their activism (although sadly mainy more in ridicule than in solidarity) while being pitted against, on the other side of the debate, a (now former - thank God!) President of the US who outright denied the existence of global warming in news conferences.

When looked at that way, through a ‘media lens’, its not hard to see why progress is so painfully slow. And that’s without thinking about it from the perspective of industry or of social conditioning for example.

Its also hard to guage the difference we on a personal level can make, when faced with the enormity of the problem and how it is affected by almost the entire structure of our civilisation - our transport, farming, politics, lifestyles and of course, the weight of history itself.

How do we go about trying to reverse (or even just mitigate) the damage of centuries of harmful, polluting practices, especially when they have become so engrained into the fabric of our everyday that we literaly can’t live without them?

Maybe I should start by asking: what can we, as artists, do about it?

We tend to imagine that these enormous global problems will be solved only by people in white coats with a scientific breakthrough, or by a political leader who for once can take a green stance on world issues, or even the Sili-

con Valley entrepeneur with an innovative new technology.

But what about the artist? Will we not play a part in helping to solve or at least reduce the size of this titanic problem?

The answer is of course we can (and will)! As artists we are in tune with the conscience and the consciousness of the world at large, and our skill is in using that connection to transmit, through our words, sounds or images, the ideas that can shape our future (and help us more clearly see our present and past).

many more of us, with less power and influence, not think about it too much (apart from when it benefits them, or when they would like to curry favour), and so it is our job to reach those people with our art, and transmit to them what we think it is important to say.

In this issue, we feel blessed to have found some amazing artists who’ve done just that, in using their medium as a platform for such an important social and political message. Our thanks to many of the incredible artists and writers who express so beautifully and poigniantly the state of the world right now. I’m sure many of you will be incredibly moved by their works.

There are many, including those with Thanks from, great power and influence in the Dom Thomas and Siria Ferrer world, who still live in ignorance of the reality of the environmental crisis Sainz-Pardo, VAINE Editors we are facing and living through, as well as those who would rather that

Photography Siria Ferresr Sainz-Pardo

Table of

CONT ENTS

1

FEATURES //

· FEATURED ARTIST: LIINA KLAUSS · SERGEY GUSEV · SAM WILKINSON

2

ART //

3

FICTION//

· CÒISEAM MACNEILL ( PHOTOS BY VICTORIA SENDRA) · F.E. LEHANE

· KIYARY · VIRGINIA LEKUONA · SIRIA FERRER SAINZ-PARDO · MELANIE WICHLEIN · KIRSTY MEADE · BEN CARTER · LAURA GARCÍA BORREGO

4

POETRY// · AARON FACER · AMY JASEK · JIM HILTON · BELLA PELSTER · DANIELLE ZIPKIN · MEADOW Z · OSKAR LEONARD · JACK STACEY

‘Belarus Protests in Moscow: An Experience’

by Sergey Gusev / Photography by Darya Matsynova. // Pag. 18 - 25

‘Daydreaming is good for you’ by Sam Wilkinson.

// Pag. 26 - 27

Virginia Lekuona: ‘Maskification?’ // Pag. 37 - 39

Siria Ferrer: ‘New Species’ // Pag. 40 - 41

Melanie Wichlein: ‘Back to Normal’ // Pag. 42

Kirsty Meade: ‘Plastic Ocean’ // Pag. 43

Ben Carter: ‘Recycling....If Only!’ and ‘Unwanted Evolution’. // Pag. 44 - 46

Laura García Borrego: ‘Save the oceans’ // Pag. 47

Còiseam MacNèill: ‘Listen’ // Pag. 50 - 55

Victoria Sendra: Photographs for ‘Listen’ . // Pag. 50 - 55

Featured Artist: Liina Klauss (Interview).

// Pag. 10 - 17

Kiyary: ‘The time is burning out, it’s time for change’, ‘Mother Nature’, ‘The amazon is on fire and every living creature too’, ‘Save the planet is in our hands’ and ‘We made plastic. Now we are drowing in it’. // Pag. 30 - 36

Aaron Facer: ‘The robe of the moon’, ‘Wired to the moon’ and ‘Equinox’ // Pag. 64 - 67

Amy Jasek: ‘Battleground’ // Pag. 68

Jim Hilton: ‘Cove’ // Pag. 69

Bella Pelster: ‘Qualified in Destruction’ // Pag. 71

Danielle Zipkin: ‘When America declares it’s time to heal (After Ada Límon)’ and ‘Neighbors’ // Pag. 72 - 73

MeadowZ: ‘The burden you have to carry’ // Pag. 75

Oskar Leonard: ‘Mud Pond’ and ‘The Twisted Tree’ // Pag. 76

Jack Stacey: ‘My ball of yarn thinking’ // Pag. 77

F. E. Lehane: ‘The Sermon’ // Pag. 56 - 61

LIINA KLAUSS SERGEY GUSEV SAM WILKINSON

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FEATURED ARTIST: LIINA KLAUSS Interview Liina klauss is a German land-artist who explores visual and conceptual perceptions of waste, specifically marine pollution. She translates environmental pollution into over-flowing installations of screaming colours and horrifying beauty.

After quitting her career as a fashion-designer she began making environmental art and has since realised several environmental art projects in Malaysia, Indonesia and Taiwan. She collaborates with various schools, universities and corporates facilitating art-awareness-activism projects. Her installation ‘5000 lost soles’ is a permanent feature of the Potatohead Beach Club in Bali.

How did you first become interested in environmental activism?

I never became interested, I always was. It’s more about connection, about being in tune with nature. A communication, not with words but with my whole being, my skin, touch, smell and my intuition, if you want to call it that.

We all have that connection, just some listen and trust more in it than others.

I grew up in Germany in the 80s with my hippie mom in rural Bavaria with little financial means. We grew our own veggies, improvised a lot and were creative with what is gerneally considered ‘nothing’: leaves, soil, twigs. The stream nearby, the apple trees, the witches’ forest (Hexenwäldchen) were my childhood community. I think I was an environmental activist from the beginning.

VAINE // FEATURES 11 What initially inspired you to make art out of waste?

There was a trigger moment in 2011 when my family was camping on a remote beach on an outlaying island of Hong Kong. For a full week I explored that beach from the waterline to the rocks to the vegetation. What I found was knee-deep marine plastic pollution: very recent plastics as well as plastics decades old already broken up into micro-plastics. What astonished me most was that I have never read or seen any reports on this environmental disaster. I transformed the shock into creative expression: a rainbow made from rubbish, ocean plastics and natural materials side by side, just as I found them. Sharing the image of that very first trash-land-art on facebook stirred up a big discussion and eventually the attention of the press and media.

Art is powerful because it lets you see the truth from a different angle. The German word “wahrnehmen” sums it up: it translates into “perceiving truth” and “taking truth”. Taking it in and, at the same time, taking it out of context and out into the world for others to see.

How many volunteers typically take part in helping you create an installation?

Anywhere from 1 to 50 volunteers help create an outdoor trash- land-art. They come from all walks of life: elementary school kids, corporate employees, marine scientists or artist friends. I want to show them a different perspective on what we consider “waste”. Everything we throw away comes back to us

eventually via the air we breathe, the water we drink, and the soil we grow crops and raise animals on. Everything is circular, not linear. In nature this becomes so obvious. It is exactly this direct, physical confrontation with man-made pollution, in combination with pristine nature and a creative task that starts a process of positive change. Touching and letting yourself be touched. This change is visible in the landscape as well as in people.

Is it difficult for you to get permission to install your works in public places?

Yes, it is. There is a social taboo on waste. It is perceived not only as worthless, but as dirty and unhygienic. Our society is used to making waste “go away”, by bagging it up and putting it out of sight and out of mind. It literally disappears from our visual radar.

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Protesters take a knee in Picadilly Gardens

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My artworks do the opposite, shining a bright flash-light onto this taboo.

We don’t need more things. We need to look at what we have in a different way. Each material is full of possibilities. We are limiting ourselves when we only associate its initial function with it. There are countless other ways of looking, repurposing, reinventing and using these materials.

In Nature there is no such thing as waste. Everything is a big circle: life and death, decay and rebirth, giving and taking, all feeds and off of each other in a big web of communication and support. We can learn so much.

What happens to the waste when the installation finishes? Do you reuse it for other artworks?

Trash-land-art installations are ephemeral and ususally get disassembled just after we take photos.

In rare cases they stay over night until the next day. I want to make sure that the plastics don’t get washed back into the sea or blown away by the wind. Natural materials like driftwood and shells remain on the beach, recyclables (somewhere around 5%) are disposed of into recycling bins. 80% of the plastics go into landfill, because they are usually too old, unidentifiable or non-recyclable in the first place. Some materials I take back to my studio to give them a new life. Flip- flops become mosaics for large-scale canvases, plastic straws are made into pigments for paints.

Demonstratios later moved to the city’s Albert Square

Has your artwork been in part a reaction to your previous career in the world of fashion?

I think it was a reaction to the fashion industry first and then to capitalism in general. Once you see one industry you kind of know how they all work. I channeled my creativity into making clothes, only to discover how the fashion-industry is the second most-polluting industy after Big Oil. But the triggering moment was not the wastefulness and insanity of over-production. It was when I realised that as humans we have the capacity to determine and define our own desires. We have a choice. We can choose clothes, or we can choose an experience in Nature. It depends where we put our awareness and our values. As long as we value products over experiences and connections, we’re on the wrong path.

What are your views on the fashion industry and their culpability in terms of causing environmental problems?

The fashion-industry is causing tremendous environmental pollution.

Most harmful is our disconnected perception of what we consume and what the effects of that consumption are. There’s the shiny shopping-mall where products are presented like relics and on the other side there’s environmental collapse. But we don’t bring these two realities together.

VAINE // FEATURES 15 This is the normal insanity of our consumerist culture. I wish there wasn’t any advertising, but big billboards showing polluted rivers from dying run-offs, water shortages from cotton farming, synthetic fibres clogging up rivers, seamstresses working on minimum wage in inhumane conditions.

Just imagine the difference! We really have to put 1 and 1 together. Ignorance is not an option anymore. Buy less. Value more. Mend. Borrow. Swap.

And see how these practices don’t take away anything, but they add: fun, friends, communication, skills...

There are progressive movements out there tackling exactly these problems. I recommend to look at #whomademyclothes from @fash_rev or #JeansRedesign, an example to make fashion-production circular by @EllenMcArthurFoundation.

Most of your installations have been done in Southeast Asia - how did you end up there? And has living there changed your perspective on environmental issues?

I worked for a fashion brand in Tokyo in 2001. I loved the value placed on textiles, the sophisticated craftsmanship and the sesnsitiviy to colours. When in 2007 my husband got offered a job in Hong Kong we decided to move there as a family.

Hong Kong is a very condensed and extreme place: there’s the city packed with high-rises and busy consumerist culture on the one hand, and beautiful islands and wild forests right next to it. The extent of our consumption is tangible: multi-million dollar deals are made, production-lines confirmed and executed. As a result the air is heavy with smog, beaches look like dumps and the oceans are full of trash. Because the production in China is only 60 km away, you experience the direct results of industrial mass-production and consumption. Living in Hong Kong has changed my perception through my direct experience here. It’s not something you read about in the newspaper: it’s your daughter developing asthma and yourself wading knee-deep in Styrofoam on a non-maintained beach.

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“This is the normal insanity of our consumerist culture.”

Do you think people in the West are less aware of environmental problems?

I don’t think they are necessarily less aware, but they are less impacted. The direct effects of pollution are far away in Asia. They get the products but not the environmental impact. This physical distance creates a disconnect.

Do you think your art makes a difference in the long term?

My art is about seeing, recognizing and acknowledging the mess we’re in. It is by no means the solution. My installations merely show the scale of destruction we have arrived at. The next step is to think of alternatives, to find creative sustainable solutions. This is already happening amongst certain environmentalist circles and designers, but it needs to go mainstream to have large-scale impact. Yet sustainable solutions are not only coming from the head. The calculative mind got us into this mess after all. True change comes from an innocent and intuitive openness to imagine a more beautiful world: be alive, keep your awareness wide awake. Breath, walk barefoot, lay on your back and look into a tree, feel the sun. Notice how all that makes you feel immensely alive. Know what is truly important to you.

What are you currently working on?

I’m working on an exhibition called “Involuntary Pairs, Man-made lost in Nature” which is comprised of more than 200 found objects all collected from beaches in Asia over the past 7 years. The objects look identical, yet one is man-made plastic, the other is natural. The pairs examine the merging of culture and nature to a point of inseperability. It’s very scary and beautiful at the same time. The exhibition will open at Hong Kong Maritime Museum on 17th of December 2020 and will run until 31st January 2021.

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Photography: “The police forcing people away” Darya Matsynova

BELARUS PROTESTS IN MOSCOW: AN EXPERIENCE WORDS BY SERGEY GUSEV PHOTOGRAPHY BY DARYA MATSYNOVA Following the reelection of long-standing leader Alexander Lukashenko to the presidential post on 9th August, Belarus has seen the largest series of anti-government protests in its history, in reaction to what is alleged to be a fraudulent result. The ensuing protests, now on heir 18th week, have seen violence against civilians and arbitrary arrests by state police.

Internationally, the authoritrian president and his government have, for decades, consistently been condemned for violating human rights (by both the UN and the EU as well as various Western nations) and have frequently described as “Europe’s last dictatorship“.

A few days after the result, protesters also gathered in Russia’s capital of Moscow, to stand in solidarity with their former Soviet neighbours. What follows is an eye witness account of the protests on 12th August.

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There’s a good joke told by a Russian stand-up comedian to an American audience: “You think Russians had a say in your presidential election? Russians don’t even have a say in their own!”

Sadly, it sums up the political situation in certain post-Soviet countries: the promised democracy is merely a de jure cover-up for the next re-election of a power-hungry and corrupt politician deceiving his people once again.

After the Crimea situation in 2014, Russian national currency lost half of its value, which led to massive discontent, which, in turn, led to increased censorship, political arrests and doubled-down state propaganda. Russian protests are local and rare - they only happen after particular events when the regular patience bursts into rage and fades away just as quick – unlike what happened in Belarus.

Alexander Lukashenko has been the president of Belarus since the fall of the Soviet Union and lasted five re-elections. Stalin once said: “Voters have no power, only those who count the votes have” – this has become the motto for Russia and Belarus. However, the last re-election sparked a nation-wide protest, massive strikes and riots.

On August 9th this year Lukashenko claimed yet another triumph over puppet-candidates with astounding 80% of votes. As we stand on Maroseika street in Moscow on August 12th, we talk with a middle-aged woman, who is observing the police with utmost attention. In front of us the police are forcing people away – across the street from the protesters is the Belarussian embassy. She says: “I am from Belarus, I worked on the exit-polls. We surveyed around four thousand people, and Tihanovskaya had a rating of 78% (Tihanovskaya is an opposition candidate that was forced out of the country shortly after the escalation of riots). Even in the embassy there were harsh falsifications. I came here on the 9th. At first the embassy had its lights on. Now it hasn’t”.

VAINE // FEATURES 20 This was the boiling point for the people of Belarus: not only were these 80% obviously fake, but Lukashenko just swapped his small percentage for the percentage of a popular opposition candidate.

The crowd of protesters on Maroseika street this evening consists mainly of young people carrying the colors of the national flag of Belarus: white, red, white. These colors are formed in balloons tied to the metal fence behind the crowd standing near an old church, colours are painted on cheeks in three simple stripes, they are on posters held in people’s hands. One of the posters depicts Lukashenko with a bloody mouth, it says: “LUKASHENKO IS A CANNIBAL”. Another poster in the hands of a middle-aged man says: “WE HAVE DEFEATED FASCISM, WE WILL DEFEAT LUKASHENKO”. Some posters say just “3%” – the estimated real rating of Lukashenko.

As we approach the crowd of roughly two hundred people with my photographer friend Dasha, we hear music blasting through the speakers: it is a song by Viktor Tsoy, a late Soviet music icon, which has become an anthem to any post-Soviet protest. The song has energetic music and lyrics that say: “Change! Our hearts demand change! In our thoughts and our hearts and the pulsation of veins! Change!” Across a long building on this side of the street we see teenagers lined up against it: it is a replica of a Belarussian manouvre called “the line of solidarity”.

Off the sidewalk in front of the crowd there are two policemen walking back and forth with a speaker repeating the same words: “RESPECTED CITIZENS, PLEASE DISSOLVE THE CROWD, YOUR ACTION IS NOT ALLIGNED WITH THE GOVERNMENT! RESPECTED CITIZENS…” – the policemen are interrupted by rapid honking of a car passing down the street, then another car starts honking after the first one, then another, and the protesters respond back to them with cheer and applause.

On the other side of the street we see two freshly arrived avtozaks – police buses with windows covered with metal bars: armored policemen quickly come out of the first one, forming a line, holding each other’s shoulders. The second avtozak is empty – it is for the arrested protesters which are sure to come. As the line of policemen quickly marches toward the crowd, I look for Dasha jumping around with her camera. Finally, I see her bright yellow jacket in the crowd and rush towards her: “C’mon, let’s go” The police have forced protesters out of the initial zone and kept forcing them farther while holding a strict line across all of the sidewalk. I see that we

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“RESPECTED CITIZENS, PLEASE DISSOLVE THE CROWD, YOUR ACTION IS NOT ALLIGNED WITH THE GOVERNMENT! RESPECTED CITIZENS…” Photography: “The initial gathering area secured” by Darya Matsynova.

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Photography: “Russia Today reporter” by Darya Matsynova.

Photography: “«Lukashenko is a cannibal»” by Darya Matsynova.

VAINE // FEATURES 23 can turn slightly to the right and go up the stairs toward a shop entrance to evade the police line and get a better view. We stand there looking at the crowd. By now they have reached a pedestrian crossing to the other side of the street. Soon they were right across from their initial gathering zone. They were standing outside an eatery when it suddenly started playing the Viktor Tsoy’s song, and the crowd cheered again.

Meanwhile the police returned to the initial gathering zone by a church and secured the area, forcing even passers-by to cross the road to another side. We see a Russia Today reporter with a cameraman.

The reporter is talking in English about the events. I go downstairs to listen to what he says when a girl in her late teens asks me: “Do you understand? Please, translate” “The riots continue…police have cleared the area…In Minsk two police vehicles crushed citizens’ cars…Twenty journalists arrested…

Police brutality soars…Human rights violations…”

“Oh, I was shouting “fake news” into the camera…I thought he was lying about what is going on” “No, he is clearly on the side of protesters” “I am from Gomel, Belarus, I study in Russian Institute of Theatre Arts” she said, while holding two white flowers and one red between them.

– “It’s the fourth day I’m here. At first it was quiet, but then provocateurs came and shouted something like ‘Minsk today, Khabarosvk tomorrow, Kremlin next’” (at the time there were also massive protests in the city of Khabarovsk due to another rigged governor election) “We don’t say things like that. After that the police were here every day”.

Across the street a guy held up the national flag of Belarus in both hands and the police immediately took him into the avtozak.

“He is the fifth arrest I’ve see today,” said the girl from Gomel.

I look around and realize that all of the cafes and restaurants and shops in the area have Viktor Tsoy in their speakers. This protest was as much about politics as it was about conscientiousness. It was a

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“Across the street a guy held up the national flag of Belarus in both hands. The police immediately took him into the avtozak”

Born in a provincial town in Russia in 1999, Sergey Gusev is currently studying in Gorky Institute of World Literature in Moscow and trying to make it as a writer. @kafkaonwheelz

VAINE // FEATURES 25 unanimous fight for freedom against “the last dictator in Europe” - as people call Lukashenko.

It was almost midnight by then and it was starting to get really cold. The protesters remained where they were, taking up the entire sidewalk on both sides of the road next to the embassy, and the secured zone next to a church. The girl from Gomel started shouting: “Zhive Belarus! Zhive Belarus!” – (“zhive” means “live!”). This simple slogan has become a symbol for Belorussian national protest. Not long after, the entire street was shouting it with the girl: “Zhive Belarus! Zhive Belarus!” The passing cars kept honking and the protesters kept whooping and applauding.

To date, Alexander Lukashenko has not resigned despite all the protests and strikes in the country’s most important industries. The people of Belarus are still fighting for their freedom, sometimes literally. Countless injured, at least six dead, more missing and estimated 13,000 arrests were the result of police brutaity – the price Lukashenko is willing to pay in order to keep his power. The future of Belarus remains uncertain: it seems that neither side could possibly admit defeat or come to a compromise.

The only thing people have is hope and a modest slogan:

“Zhive Belarus!”

Photography: Flowers with the embassy in the background

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DAYDREAMING IS GOOD FOR YOU

BY SAM WILKINSON

Ideas machine, surrealist-in-chief and my all-time hero David Lynch has taught me many things: how to nail a jump scare, the importance of never relinquishing final cut, believing in your own storytelling prowess, but it’s his love of daydreaming that’s stuck with me most. Lynch is a vocal proponent of daydreaming, and often likens having ideas in a quiet state to catching fish: “If you want to catch little fish, you can stay in the shallow water. But if you want to catch the big fish, you’ve got to go deeper. Down deep, the fish are more powerful and more pure.”

There’s something in Lynch’s belief that’s achingly poignant and resonant for many emerging writers at the moment. The world is experiencing an unprecedented and collective slowing down, with elongated periods of nothingness stretching out as far as the next press conference. It’s an uncertain time, but banking this recaptured diary space is one upside to cling onto. I myself am taking a leaf out of Lynch’s book and cherishing this time, using it not to overthink, but to daydream and fish for the next big idea.

Daydreaming is an oft misconstrued pastime, one that’s systematically drummed out of us from a young age. It was considered ‘bad form’ and symptomatic of idleness or laziness to let your mind wander at school, instead of a normal, healthy expression of creativity, and a natural part of being a kid. And now, under the dark clouds of a dying planet, a global pandemic, a president more focused on golfing than the G8 summit, collective feelings of anxiety, sadness, frustration, dislocation and discombobulation, I’m convinced a resurgence and celebration of daydreaming has never been more vital.

It’s crucial in stating my case to first make a distinction between daydreaming and overthinking: the former can help battle stress, fatigue and allow ideas to spring forth, the latter, regrettably, has the complete opposite effect. Daydreaming is not the same as overthinking, it’s a state that coddles you in a blanket of unmeasurable calm, and allows a stream of pure consciousness to take precedence. Casting logic, reason and structure aside in this way is not only a healthy way of staying sane in an increasingly frenetic world; having the time to ‘wander off’ helped me find my way back to writing.

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It’s a daunting feeling opening a laptop or notebook and seeing an empty page leering back at you. Team that with the warm glow of distractions and better offers, and that page is staying blank for sure. Though when lockdown hit London back in March, familiar distractions were no longer in abundance, so I decided to push through this feeling, and heed the words of James Joyce, “Write it, damn you, write it! What else are you good for?”. Those countless hours spent staring out at the skyline or up at the stucco ceiling unearthed an abundance of ideas, and for the first time in years, I wasn’t only itching to get writing, but I believed in my ability to execute them.

There’s no doubt that the luxury of sitting still and doing nothing is increasingly under attack. Though for writers in their infancy like me, it’s so important to find space in the day to float away, have imaginary conversations, tell stories and escape to a pool of ideas bubbling just beneath the surface of your subconscious.

So to all the budding writers reading this, spread the good word, put daydreaming solidly back on the agenda, because as Mr. Lynch so poignantly states:

“THE WORLD IS GETTING LOUDER EVERY YEAR, BUT TO SIT AND DREAM IS A BEAUTIFUL THING.”

Sam Wilkinson is a creative producer working predominantly in design, animation and live-action. Spurred on by curbs and restrictions, he has used his free time to begin a freelance writing career, and has written articles centred mostly around love, relationships, film and culture. He lives and works in Bethnal Green with his partner Esther.

VIRGINIA SIRIA MELANIE KIRSTY BEN LAURA

KIYARY LEKUONA FERRER WICHLEIN MEADE CARTER GARCÍA

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‘Time is burning out, it’s time for change’ by Kiyary

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‘Mother Water’ by Kiyary

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‘The amazon forest is on fire and every living creature too’ by Kiyary

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‘Save the planet its in our hands’ by Kiyary

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‘We made plastic. Now we are drowning in it’ by Kiyary

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Kiyary is an artist, storyteller and illustrator. A native explorer born in Peru, a traveler, mountaineer and adventurer who is always hungry for knowledge and new places to discover. She is a defender of human rights, and a passionate advocate for nature and the environment. She illustrates these subjects to reach others about current issues and concerns, she also loves to plein-air as an homage to the natural world. She works on digital media using Procreate; and traditional media using Oils, Gouache and pastels. @kiyary ‘We are drowning in plastic trash’ by Kiyary

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‘Maskification’ by Virginia Lekuona

Virginia Lekuona is a graduate of Advertising and Journalism. She loves visual poetry, playing with images to evoke their ‘ironic power’. Using objects out of place, taken out of context, and relocated to seek new meaning. Her ‘optical poems’ propose a different perspective that tries to provoke the desire to play with the words and the objects. @vlekuona

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‘New Species” by Siria Ferrer Sainz-Pardo

Siria Ferrer is an artist, photographer and illustrator from Ibiza, Spain. She is the co-editor of VAINE. Her work, which encompasses many disciplines, is her way of expressing what she sees to the world. @siriaferrer_

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‘Back to normal’ by Melanie Wichlein

Melanie Wichlein is an illustrator and stage manager based in Berlin, Germany. She graduated from Bremen University with a BA in Art and Culture. Since 2012, she has illustrated and designed books on global warming, environmental issues and coloring for children. In recent years her artwork has focussed on raising awareness of environmental issues and climate change. A percentage of her earnings is also donated to environmental organisations, and she gives workshops about the subject to children and teenagers. She is currently looking for a publisher for her next book, a guide on what to do to help reduce global warming. @everyarthelps

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‘Plastic Ocean’ by Kirsty Meade Kirsty Meade explores the subject of life and nature within her work, to present a message of environmental or social importance. Her work and intention are centred in benefiting the areas of life which humanity, and more so, our leadership, has failed. These areas focus on speciesism, unethical production and consumption. She uses her practice to encourage better decision-making. She also uses material as sustainably as possible in its production. @kirstyelenart

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‘Recycling......if only!’ by Ben Carter

Ben Carter is an illustrator and graphic designer based in London. His artistic approach has evolved and moved between several visual mediums over the course of his career, in playful and experimental ways. More recently he has returned to his passion for the natural environment, working with different mediums to explore how art can be used to communicate environmnental issues. @bencarterlu

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‘Unwanted Evolution’ by Ben Carter

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‘Save the oceans’ by Laura García Borrego

Laura García Borrego is graduate in Fine Arts and works as graphic designer and illustrator in Madrid, Spain. Illustration has played an important part in her life, beginning as a hobby and now as her work. Ecology, equality, nature and wildlife are essential subjects in her designs. Her art is an expression of her personality and interests, together with a delicate style, carefully-selected colours and attention to minute detail. @lauragb_design

‘”King of the World at Last “ Oil on paper

CÒISEAM MACNÈILL F.E. LEHANE

50 VAINE // FICTION 50

LISTEN WORDS BY CÒISEAM MACNÈILL PHOTOGRAPHY BY VICTORIA SENDRA It has been raining in very short bursts. Barely a moment at a time. The sun is bright, but seems to be coming from all the sky at once, as thick clouds, pale grey, disperse its light widely to hide its origin.

The trees, barely more than saplings, dangle their limp branches out to angle nascent leaf-buds towards the sky, hoping to soak up the first bright day of April when it comes. There are no old trees here.

Their age bowed them, and the ones that were not felled by storms and gales were carved into shapes.

Owls and foxes and waterfowl. A vast graven image stands regal over them all. A kind faced bear, with an infant’s tusks. Long past, children were warned of wolves and hobs who would eat them up, or steal them away if they ventured into the mirk of the trees.

This tree, rendered in the likeness of their gentle guardian, stands so that they know that no child will ever have to fear the wild.

A coarse gravel path leads my way, between the managed trees by the water’s edge, and the unkempt bracken of the high embankment. There the trees are allowed to grow. No forester comes to tend them, few deer eat back the ferns. There is life there, fresh life, that grows each spring, but still it is quiet. No verdancy of the hunting ground, nor the slow rumble of the primordial forests. The trees grow, and wane, and die, and grow again, but never with new theme, never with variation in the cycle.

Along this path, moving grit and leaves out of my way as I go, the space opens. A beach of hardened, compacted sand borders nearly stagnant water, barely fit for the ducks, and the moorhens, and the signets who’s feathers have only just blanched. Another felled tree lies there, carved into a long throne for the people who have built their stone houses all around the lochan. The high back of this seat, made

Photography by Victoria Sendra

VAINE // FICTION 51 in the shape of a heron, watches the young lovers who look out over the reeds and the fowl. No heron has lived here in the years that these two have seen, but they nestle under its stoic protection. Hair moistened and smelling from the showers.

I pick up the smell of damp earth and bring it to them, casting it to their faces. I run between her fingers, then his, tangling her hair around her neck, and brushing his from his eyes so she can see them. I want to listen in to them, to hear what they say under their breaths, so close that the barely need their voices. I often cling close. People would be surprised how often I can hear the thoughts they keep hidden. When they are alone they lend voice, just a fraction of a voice, to these thoughts. Too quiet, too weak to ever reach another’ ear, their lips barely moving, but I am there, to snatch the words and bear them safely away. I want to take a little of what these two say to each other. Just the shape of it, the warmth of their breath. To carry it with me a little, but this is a peaceful moment. Nothing needs to be said between them and so nothing is. After long seconds I pass. I’m unable to stay.

I am not the only voyeur upon this moment. By the water stands a solitary tree, slant, whose trunk looms precariously over the water. He has lasted this long, but some day, as the years of snow weigh on his branches, he will fall in.

Whether it is wind or frost or the least fortunate child to climb him, his roots’ grip in the earth will be too little, or the trunk’s strength will give, and he will join the mud below. I was there, long centuries ago, when his roots first met the earth. He had a name, poor boy. I might have known him. I’m not sure. Long ago, when this water was a mirror in which the trees and hills saw their own majesty.

Long ago, when the spit of land in the middle was less overgrown, and people had reason to go there. This poor boy had seen his father disappear into the black water, who has seen his father before him. The still surface belying the grasping mirk below.

The poor boy was so afraid. I heard him yell.

Not for attention, or surprise, but something more dissonant. As his balance left him, and the water seemed ready to open

Còiseam MacNèill spends his time meandering around the sodden walks of the West of Scotland, when he’s not studying philosophy in Kent. Many of his stories pick up from where someone finds themself in conversation with the land around them, the trees, the rain, and the Sìdhe who wander in and out of his work without regard for invitation, theme, or genre. When in less mystical moods, his writing paces around over memory and the stories we tell ourselves in life.

VAINE // FICTION 52

up and accept him, he reached out, desperate. One inarticulate entreaty, begging, for anything to anchor him to the ground. On the very shore’s edge, far from the depths, he would have escaped the water once he had fallen in, but he was so focused, so eager. Anything, to remain on land. His desire was granted. He is secure, for now, his feet running deep into the dry earth. Two branches spread, frozen halfway between flailing wildly to recover balance, and outstretched, desperate for a hand to grasp him and pull him to safety.

At the right angle, I can see his face. That scared boy, still visible in the grain of the wood. I pass him often. I could still hear his yell, long after, but no more.

Opposite, engrossed in each other, the young lovers take no notice. Some day he will fall, join the water he was meant for. There is nothing they can offer him, and they do not know to listen for plea.

I leave them behind. I cannot look behind me. In a few minutes I might pass again, if I can find a path round the trees or over the water.

*** Winter has passed, and spring is ready to break into summer. In a few weeks the Bel Fires will be lit in secret places across the land.

The smoke shall spread in morsels and I shall help it on its way. I have the year before I am called once more to join Zephyr’s host.

Wherever I might be, come winter, the Great West Wind will sweep me up. I shall be twisted together with every gust and bluster. There will be no luxury for picking up my favourite scents or listening in to catch intimate words spoken. All is lost in the howl of the host. We will scream through small cervices and thunder across wide surfaces.

Each winter I am summoned, swept away by the Wild Hunt. For months we run, without direction or quarry. Lifting anything we can and bearing it up until it slips our grasp. I have torn rooves from homes and trees from their soil. I try never to return to anywhere that I have done harm. It is the nature of our host to disrupt and maim, though few would over act so alone. Occasionally, I can peel

VAINE // FICTION 53

off from the host before winter’s end, find my way to the outside of the rabble and then some body to obstruct me, or some opposing wind to take my away.

Other years, I am kept in the throng till the last days of winter. The weather breaks into spring, and I can begin my slow journey across lands and seas back to the winding ways I prefer. It is near the end of spring, and I have only just returned to these trees and this water. I have carried this scent or that leaf across Europe. Each moved to the next locale, before I exchange it for another trinket.

Every year I return here. I think it is where I am from. I know it well, far more than any other paths or crevices. Here I remember the old days, when the trees were verdant, and spoke in their own tongues. When old magic was there, and I could bear messages between trees, to pass to the stones, to pass to the soil, to pass to the grass, to pass to the children who listened out for these things. But every year I returned, the world had grown quieter.

Photography by Victoria Sendra

VAINE // FICTION 54

*** I must take the longer way to return to the lovers. Past trees and over the footroad. The water is gently agitated, the suggestion of waves being pushed in all directions. Under canopy and through the dark places I find my way to the oldest trees. Here, for a few precious yards of woods, human hand has scarce made a mark.

Here, the trees’ roots have delved far and broad, breaking out into the depths of the water, and curling around the vast rocks below. The stones and the earth and the water all whispered to the roots of the trees. The trees spoke to the wind and the witches and the mad people. And so the wind, the witches, and the mad people all knew the secrets that were hidden in the worlds deep places.

This was when magic could be found in the world. When rivers could grant or refuse passage over them. When bramble bushes would twist into barriers to shelter their favourite people. When no murderer could ever hide their shame deep enough to escape it. In days when the wind would sing, and listen, and be called upon to conjure lost things, summon wanted people, and speak what it had seen in far places. There are so few trees old enough, now, that were there in those days.

None now speak, or listen. I have not heard word from the water or the earth in more years than I can remember. No leaves salute my passing as they did, and none seem to hear my call. Even the West Wind’s host has grown inarticulate.

We do not sing, anymore, as we did. We do not disseminate the tidings of the world. I might even be the last to have a voice. Here stand the participants in magic, and strong as ever he was before. Senile, and silent. Their leaves to not rise to meet me as I pass. I push them aside, just as the dead ones that have fallen thick about their roots.

I might well be the very last who remembers that time. The last who is hearing secrets and finding things, and trying to petition the world about me to help the pitiable souls of the world. Far I could travel searching for an open ear or a whisper in my direction. And far I could fail. Year after year I grow wearier of the call to the West Wind’s host, and year after year I miss more the fellowship of the throng. The lovers are here still. I will pass them again, and hope to steal a word, a kiss, a gesture. Something warm and living that I can nurture for a while. Maybe if I could keep that I could make it far enough to find an ear open to hear it. Maybe some river or flower yet listens out for tellings of strange place and young love. I will pass again, and again, until they leave. I am not sure I will again.

VAINE // FICTION 55

Victoria Sendra is a photographer born in Alicante. It was while studying Journalism that she first discovered her passion for photography and visual art. On finishing her degree she took a Masters in Photography at the UPV Valencia, which helped her solidify her technical and artistic knowledge. She currently works as a fashion and product photographer in Alicante. @victoriasendrafotografia

Photography by Victoria Sendra

VAINE // FICTION 56

The Sermon AN EXTRACT FROM ‘UPON THE SMALLEST WIRES’

BY F.E. LEHANE By the time I finished, it had clouded over and began to spit with rain. It grew torrential as I trudged out of the park, hammering on the bus stop rooftops, seeping through clothes and eyelids.

I wandered on through the downpour, and before I realised it I was in the centre of the next burough, by the local multi-church. The original church building, which must have stood as the defining point in the local skyline for centuries, is now dwarfed by the overflow structure. This is a giant prism-shaped concrete theatre with angular figures of Christ and the Disciples plastered over it, occupying what I assume was once the church square and part of the cemetery. The rain was running down its sanded walls in sheets.

As usual, the original service was being held in the church and broadcast to a far larger, louder audience in the adjacent block. As engineered for containment, acoustics, and sound efficiency as it is, even in this weather you could hear the shrieks of the congregation echoing out of the building, rattling the gargoyles on the old church opposite.

I got a push notification.

It’s not too late to seek forgiveness. Coming to terms with your imminent departure?

In your time of need, He will be there. Rejoin the fold, while you still have time.

Today, we’re trialling a special discount for those nearing the end of their earthly lives.

Use the QR code below for entry at half the minimum suggested donation. Only with the Red-Earth Church of England.

In a spirit of unusual religious fervour (or perhaps just seeking shelter from the storm), I wandered into the overflow building - skirting the crowds of more persistent believers who crammed the doorways of the old church for a glimpse of the live version.

VAINE // FICTION 57

Two thousand worshippers cheered at the video feed of the Bishop, blown up to the size of a giant on a screen that covered the whole back wall. At this resolution you could see the sweat that glistened on his forehead as he preached The Word into his microphone headset. Long church robes streaming behind him as he ran to and fro across the front of his crowd, he administered the supplicant faces of the lucky few near the front, each collapsing in ecstasy at the power in his touch. One, who, paralysed with his grace, remained standing, was returned to conformity with a particularly strong push.

Meanwhile where I was standing, attendants in a nylon mock-up of the robes and beard ran too, delivering the same blessing to some amongst the 5,000 or so who thronged this secondary building. At this moment I was struck anew by the beautiful chain of hands that remained, connecting each believer to the Lord - Touch from God, to holy man, to holy men, through electromagnetic spirit waves, to holy overflow building assistant, to churchgoer.

You see up until now I’d always preferred the more quiet, reflective type of religion - if any - rather than these big passionate displays that characterise worship in most of these larger suburban London places. But in my current state, something about the raw emotion, the unbridled love and grief, spoke to me in a way it has never been able to before. I found myself wrestling through the scrabble of nails and hair, reaching out to grasp the robe of an attendant and, with the pure weight of my fate before me, fell to my knees and sobbed.

It all hit me right then. For the first time in years, I prayed for salvation.

If this is the end, what do I have to show for myself? What have I done, what have I brought to this world, that’s at all worthy of any meaning? I’ve turned my back on the Lord so early, without even realising it. And now, is it too late?

Have I wed myself to emptiness by ignoring His light, sleep-walking through my key-clacking life without Him on my mind? I’ve doubted His power, His existence even. I haven’t been to church in years, and barely donated when I did go.

I couldn’t even stump up a reasonable donation for the service, jumping on that discount instead. And just as importantly, can I truly say I’ve fully put my faith behind the new Red-Earther doctrine the church has embraced? Honest to God I’ve paid it lip service, but at the back of my mind after all the delays I’ve always thought it too fantastical to be true, this long-dreamt-of mission to a new, clean planet.

VAINE // FICTION 58

And almost at the same time, I became aware of his mercy. I lay there prostrate on the damp and crowded floor - my knees doubled over, neck crooked on a stranger’s calf - and screamed with the rest in gratitude and remorse. ***** At long last, my contrition was relieved by the well-awaited sermon. The Bishop limped up into the pulpit, and with a dry and cracked voice he began to speak: <Loudspeaker sermon recording 0:00> We have ruined God’s once-green Earth - make no doubt about it. The clouds, saturated with soot and smoke, pour burning rain upon our fields and cities. The winds, aggravated with filth like an infected sore, make furious storms and hurricanes. The land, its secret treasures drained, is dry and impotent.

Like children we have spoilt our cradle, and launched our tools from the pram.

And yet we slumber, still, in this filthy bed.

But our Father, in his limitless indulgence, will not leave us to lie in our mess.

The time has come, as was once prophesied, to leave our leafy nursery. As Moses wandered through the desert on the Lord’s command, so too shall we journey to our new world, once our neighbour, the Red Planet.

TOO LONG, ladies and gentlemen, have we clung to our green, overcrowded crib. It is time to open our hearts to our next stage in God’s universe.

Yet there are those among us who harbour guilty doubts. Have no doubt. There are enemies within and without who would, with malice and misguidance, have us remain in childish squalor, in unmade filth, and cling degenerately to the earth as our one planet.

Many would deny the infinite mercy of our Lord. Many would have you believe that, as this earth is now ruined and broken, it is our fault. Our responsibility.

Our chain, and our prison. And these doubters have their ears bent by the misguided overreachers, those in white coats who would tear open and re-write the secrets of our genes for the answer, ignoring the haven the Lord has prepared for us.

Do not follow them back into the darkness. They are the materialists in our midst, misled by dark, naive forces. They deny the higher things, the greater design our Lord has for us.

VAINE // FICTION 59

It is the faithlessness of these people, and the weak of heart who listen to them, that is holding us back, delaying our progress, impeding our kind government in their efforts to prepare for our great migration.

The ruin of the earth is not punishment of the faithful, but a sign of impending revelation. Have we not seen the antichrist, the heat and the cold, the plagues of insects, sevenfold in seven years? Have we not known for over two millennia that these are the signs of the end of earthly days?

We have outgrown our cradle, and the Lord will change our foul sheets for fresh, dry ones. These sheets fit for grown humanity will be crisp, clean, and red as Jesus’ blood, which was spilt for us in love.

As it is written in Corinthians: When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

My children, it is time now to put away our childish things.

May our thoughts and prayers be with the technologists, the planners and the financiers, who every day are toiling for our release from this sour, stale old planet, to a new, red horizon.

Please join us in prayer: Our father, Who awaits us in Red Haven Focused be our aim.

That your kingdom comes Lord, guide the sums Of our shepherds to Red Haven.

F. E. Lehane is a writer from Bristol, now getting by in locked-down London. His work explores the impact of technology in our increasingly isolated lives. He is currently finishing a dystopian novel exploring the changing limits of life, death and targeted advertising. @fflehane

VAINE // FICTION 60

<End sermon recording, 22:18> That’s when it all got too much and I rushed out to sit here on the nearest bench outside. The rain has subsided.

Another push notification.

We’d love to hear from you We noticed you left our service early today.

Was everything alright with your visit?

At the Red-Earth Church of England we’re constantly working to improve the experience of our congregation. Please let us know what we could do to make your experience better next time we’d welcome your feedback!

VAINE // FICTION 61

‘The Pile’ by F.E. Lehane

62

AARON FACER AMY JASEK JIM HILTON BELLA PELSTER DANIELLE ZIPKIN MEADOW Z OSKAR LEONARD JACK STACEY

VAINE // POETRY 64

THE ROBE OF THE MOON POEM BY AARON FACER ILLUSTRATION BY SIRIA FERRER

From the blackest corner of space I watched a small blue pearl grow from nothing, swell like the breath of an ocean, retreat like the tide, fade into the white of the purest star, before turning dull, diminishing until it no longer existed and there was no shade of memory except a small pomegranate seed on the tip of my tongue: its bitter taste is still the sweetest thing I remember.

VAINE // POETRY 65

WIRED TO THE MOON

BY AARON FACER

At the back of the stage are the digits of a digital clock counting thirty minutes nothing is happening… and the dancers are pulsating onstage as they let the rhythm under their skin nothing is happening… and a line of sand cascades like a thin shaft of light down the stage’s centre nothing is happening… and on the screens on the stage is the moon exploding in static absolutely nothing… and on the screens on the stage is a crowd bursting through the traffic none of this… and our eyes in the audience are pale blood vessels like tiny circuit-boards nothing is happening… and the synthetic vines grip the screens like the constricting gag reflex in our throats nothing, nothing… the dancers’ bodies move by tiny increments our eyes follow by tiny increments this isn’t happening… the guilt comes like the sand and falls through the space between our fingers it isn’t happening and the space between our eyes and the stage feels like miles because this isn’t happening… and the numbers on the clock could be years could be lifetimes or eons or half-lives because it couldn’t… and the numbers are so very close and the line of sand is winding down none of this… and the lights on the stage grow dark and the dancers’ bodies turn to mist it isn’t happening… and all that is left in the dark room are empty screens the delicate dune settling and silence pressing down on us

VAINE // POETRY 66

EQUINOX POEM BY AARON FACER ILLUSTRATION BY SIRIA FERRER

At this moment geese are slipping into two branches from a single barbed point and you are standing on the threshold evening opening on the rooftops laid over the street like a marble veil and you move from this door to the next without noticing each small difference the clear and starless sky the air void of evensong leaves as mute as stones windows sliding like silent aquariums (how many lives do you live in this moment) and right now names called down cavernous hallways the bodies of winter-coats pulled around trembling infants this night flips you on its hinges it pulls you to the crossing where road-signs glow like neon-red flowers but you notice none of this not even the million-legged traffic of woodlice scurrying through hedges you will never know if that was your own shadow twisting round doubling and coming together you will never know if those were your own echoed footsteps breaking under the railway bridge

VAINE // POETRY 67 your own face looking back through tight rows of wingmirrors stretched from insomniac cars but you see the soundless ones at the corner slipping into their mother’s slipstream carrying with them their names that you will never understand and they so quickly become an afterthought as you pass the corner and tail your own shadow up to the doorstep (what lives have brought you to this place) strange as your face in the mirror (to this place of all places) with no idea whose footsteps you’ve followed

Aaron Facer grew up in a small village in North Wales. For as long as he can remember, he has been an obsessive maker of ‘stuff’ – dens, paintings, songs, pyramids made of twigs and twine – and the ‘stuff’ he makes these days tends to look a lot like poetry.

He has a MA in Creative Writing from Cardiff University and his poems have appeared in Lucent Dreaming, the Cardiff Review, Kosmos Journal and Verse-Virtual. He currently lives in Cardiff with his wife and two rabbits. @faceraaron

VAINE // POETRY 68

BATTLEGROUND

BY AMY JASEK

this land was forged in battle guerrillas defending what they loved and had built with the sweat and blood of their own two hands canons fired from the stronghold of a faith unfettered now their ghosts murmur from a ground disturbed by many hands working to cleve this country in half blood flows both red and blue tears sting in the smoking fury vision cancelled ideals compressed into tight little balls warning shots fire across furrowed brows what headlines, what veracity? tidings spun around like a bottle who dares to meet in the middle with a kiss? conflagration reigns on the field one battalion douses flames another fans them whole states are consumed the infantry is called to duty some soldiers are a no-show they’ll mail in their effort instead hold the line, stay the course level ground is all in the eye of the beholder.

Texas born and raised, Amy Jasek graduated from the University of Texas at Austin with a BA in Theatre and Dance in 1999. She then spent a decade in other, colder places, ignoring her passion for writing, before settling back down in the Lone Star State and eventually picking up her pencil again. She is also a dedicated, sometimes-professional, film photographer and cyanotype artist, and mother to one precocious teenage hopeful-author, science-minded daughter. Amy is currently based in Round Rock, TX. @amyjasek

COVE

VAINE // POETRY 69

POEM BY JIM HILTON PHOTOGRAPHY BY SIRIA FERRER Swivel the dark glass sunward past the docklands and the three-in-one casino: there’s a prosthetic shadow moving up, high as a megapolis and not a breath of wind but the palm trees waver and the seabirds swift and narrow, lacking necks, plunge in burning pools by the beach.

The rafts are all ashore and the captain’s nowhere to be found.

Against prying currents the weeds fleet heavier than dead men’s locks, growing aromatic, tendering. Our clients are feared drowned. The market’s underwater. But we remain confident.

Already, pink bonfires glow up the headland.

Waiters line the lungomare with flambé platters wading to their vests, greeting calmly this fresh remit of the tides. Perhaps the holidaymakers returned too soon, but then good taste could never stand the coast.

Jim Hilton is a teacher and writer from Bristol. He graduated from the University of Cambridge in 2016 and then completed an MA at University College London. He is currently based in Naples

VAINE // POETRY 70

Bella Pelster views writing as a way to create something out of chaotic, pure emotion, no matter how strange and unseemly that something is. As we increasingly spend more of our lives online, there’s a tendency to filter out the ugly - and this is something that Bella tries to avoid in her writing. If we honour what’s undesirable, we may take inspiration from it. When she’s not scurrying to and from part-time jobs or doing university work, Bella loves visiting charity shops and watching stop-motion films. @bellapelster

VAINE // POETRY 71

QUALIFIED IN DESTRUCTION POEM BY BELLA PELSTER ILLUSTRATION BY SIRIA FERRER

A murmur has begun among the trees Their greenness finally dulled sunken shapes etched into their leaves soon to appear in your flesh.

You who have let the misshapen rot Sliced their sisters up and served only the best cuts To that thing in the corner with the eight beady eyes and the drooling mouth.

You who crush the fae underneath your feet great hunks of meat stuffed in brogues.

Pushing their corpses into the soil And plucking them out, one by one only to shove them into your gaping maw.

You who erected your towers Piercing them into the hearts of the angels and drowned them in great grey gas.

Poisoned them from the inside With pompous plastic promises.

Your greying moustache cannot hide That sickening stench of death of the kraken’s swollen corpse, tossed back and forth with the tide dark oil decorating its grave.

Too long has the Dreamtime burned great red flames lick at its fabric turning dream to nightmare to reality as you watch in your great tower unassuming of what is waiting below.

VAINE // POETRY 72

WHEN AMERICA DECLARES IT’S TIME TO HEAL After Ada Límon

BY DANIELLE ZIPKIN

Enough of the eucalyptus oil, the candle, the standing desk’s flexing legs, enough of aloe and blender, of living room vinyasa, of sourdough swaddled in a twiggy basket, enough of the weaving, of hands posing offering, of careful pruning herbs on the windowsill, enough of salt and coffee ground scrubs, of ten-day diet challenge, of lavender field road trips, enough of the phone quiet on the charger post posting, enough of the hike and handstand, of the sunset and someone else’s cat, of news cleanse, of liking the last green stalk in America’s burning orchard, enough of apple vinegar and upcycled spoon, of self-care magic fix, sparkling before smoking before glove-snap vanishing, this wellness floury as American allyship. I am asking you to march outside.

NEIGHBORS POEM BY DANIELLE ZIPKIN ILLUSTRATION BY SIRIA FERRER

A few years ago scientists learned that American crows can recognize and remember human faces, particularly faces they associate with bad experiences. Now, new research published in the Proceedings of the Royal Society B shows that the birds can share that knowledge of dangerous humans with other crows. – Discover Magazine

VAINE // POETRY 73 We don’t share systemic in common anymore, but we do share Brooklyn housing. Eruv and wired electric bundle our blocks together like sage to burn.

The same circling hound marks us scavenge, making game of our skin.

We know what it is like for a murder of uniforms to experiment our veins and script it treatment. We remember the march and the shovel. Warm memories slick our wanting throats open into a first yell.

Fleshy inheritance is upgutted here.

Who cares how tall our trees are when there’s trauma unshingling the bark, when our canopies lean body-heavy like storm-sogged cardboard? The deck is long stacked against both our houses, rooked by desert and plantation whips.

Nile and Nachez mouthed prey of our babies both, down snatched from careful nests.

Our scattered clocks tick almost in the same ancient language, jumbled as they are by jagged handling in purses and tinker play. Still, our mothers crow regardless, unbelly hazard upon any capable shoulders like a noisy wake. They will warning into every daughter’s echo. A good neighborhood spots the road-kill in a bad man’s face and sticks it to the loud side of another wanted sign within our woods. We’ve landed here before, contesting our hollow-boned burdens from a buckling branch, even as nearby marrow stickies lusting fangs, even as it hungers for the rest of us, too.

Danielle Zipkin lives in Brooklyn with her husband, plants, plecostomus, and roomba. She has poems published or forthcoming in several publications. When she’s not educating middle schoolers, writing, or quarantining, she enjoys dancing, scuba diving, and getting lost in bookstores. @dalyssaz

74 VAINE // POETRY 74

THE BURDEN YOU HAVE TO CARRY POEM BY MEADOWZ

Welcome to earth.

Welcome to life.

Welcome to the destruction from the inside.

A long time ago, Before any creature had walked the lands, We had been nothing, But a tiny breath in this vast universe.

Then Nature was born, And came every child, every soul, Every newborn.

Nature was powerful and dedicated.

She has been nurturing us, protecting us, For an indescribably long time.

The earth, the trees, the water, the rocks, Have been our brothers and sisters.

We have belonged to a perfect circle of life.

We have been a family.

At this very moment, You are our newborns.

You are our legacies.

You should be our precious hope.

But we are sorry.

MeadowZ is a writer from Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.

She loves reading, writing and taking photos whenever she can manage during her journeys. Always a storyteller, MeadowZ hopes to see more of the world, learn new things, meet amazing people and work harder for the voices of women and people who are struggling to find their way in life. Her motto is “Your true value lies in your stories, experiences and memories. @meadow.z

We’ve failed you.

Badly.

VAINE // POETRY 75 Every river, blackened.

Every forest, burned.

Every mountain, fallen.

Every ocean, poisoned.

Every creature, wounded.

We have been dying, Since the day we were born.

Since the day we were naive, And young, and reckless.

We entrust you, to help us save this planet.

We beseech you, to live, to fight, and to cherish.

Because life is one of a kind.

Because you can, and will be, better than us.

But we are dying faster, Our hearts corrupt sooner, Our hair quickly turns grey, Our bones become more fragile, Our lungs dyed with dark smoke.

Learn from our mistakes, And make it right.

Pay the debt, and your life shall shine bright.

Once more.

Who has done this to us?

To you?

Who has been killing our family?

We are sorry.

It’s us, your ancestors.

With our greedy, careless ambitions.

We may leave you our achievements, We make you our legacies, But we also give you a burden, You shouldn’t have had to carry.

We are sorry, precious hope.

We regret our sins.

We blame ourselves for your suffering.

We are sorry.

However, We also beg you, With our utmost remorse, To be stronger, To be smarter, To be more careful, and thoughtful, To every single being around you, Than your ancestors have been.

VAINE // POETRY 76

MUD POND POEM BY OSKAR LEONARD

The ducks sit on the mud pond. Legs stuck, eyes wide: panicked. Their quacking attracts more and more feathered victims, flapping over to the murky water, setting off ripples which brush against the cement-bottom.

Help me, the first one screams, bill quivering, webbed feet kicking.

Help us, his rescuers reply, help us.

THE TWISTED TREE POEM BY OSKAR LEONARD ILLUSTRATION BY SIRIA FERRER

I pass it now, but once I stayed and sat with friends, and food, and a hyperactive dog with a habit for knocking over iced coffee.

Oskar Leonard is a seventeen-year-old transgender author and poet from the UK. He is also a senior editor at The Altruist, a poetry and prose editor at All Ears India and a creative writing intern at FOURALL Magazine. He has written six books: three novels, two poetry anthologies and a novella. His work often covers the natural world, using it as a mirror for our current society and social issues, as well as reflecting his personal experience as a trans person. His short works have appeared in publications such as Potted Purple Mag, ARMONíA ZINE and Fever Dream Journal. @ozzywrites

The trunks--both of them--twist together, gnarled and fungus-eaten but growing harmoniously, together, just as we were, when we sat there.

Now I only walk by it, alone, the hyperactive dog slowed by a tumour, the friends sent home by a virus and my joy eaten by the isolation.

VAINE // FEATURED ARTISTS 77

MY BALL OF YARN THINKING

BY JACK STACEY

I decided to kidnap the Sun. I wouldn’t use it for my own benefit, I’d keep Sun in one of the spare drawers under the bed – no one looks there.

Keep people away from the Sun, I say.

Keep them from their happiness, fake happiness causing surreal body odour in their brains.

Make people listen to the clouds give clouds time to explain themselves.

Fuck, I just want a burger right now.

Streamline fat, salt and succulence, with a mouthful of ale and tell everyone how I’m gonna ‘half-inch the Sun.’ But no one cares. Not really.

Jack is a writer and poet born 1985, Salisbury, Wiltshire. He has a BA and an MA in Creative Writing. During his time at university, he won a poetry award and directed a play for the Theatre Royal in Winchester. Most notably, he likes tea and converting tiny life particles into poems.

Jack uses his vast knowledge of film and television for quizzes. At the moment, he’s co-writing a television script and dabbling in acting. @jack_stacey12

VAINE // FEATURED ARTISTS 78

FEATURED ARTISTS

@gabrieleparisi_

@eveofradville

@giuda_ballerino__

@maxbabini

VAINE // FEATURED ARTISTS 79

@mileswrites

@earth2tj

@victoriasendrafotografia

@meadowz

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1st Edition, 2020 vainemagazine.com vainemag@gmail.com Instagram: @vainemagazine Twitter: @vainemagazine Facebook: @Vaine_magazine

Cover artwork by Siria Ferrer Sainz-Pardo Editor: Dominic Thomas Co-Editor: Siria Ferrer Sainz-Pardo

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