VAINE MAGAZINE: ISSUE 01 COVID-19 EDITION

2 Welcome to VAINE Magazine, and our first ever edition - you lucky, lucky people!

Congratulations, dear readers, you have officially got here before it was cool.

VAINE is a new quarterly literature and arts magazine, made for and by emerging artists and writers. Whether you’re reading this online, or indeed (as we soon hope will be possible) in print, we thank you for supporting us at the very early stages of what we think and hope will be a long-running and successful project.

Our aim is to bring together emerging artists and writers from all over the world in one place in order to showcase their talents to an audience, and give them some of the much needed exposure and recognition their work deserves.

car park no less), I (Dom) would often catch sight of it while taking the bus from the station opposite, and ponder its meaning.

I used to look at this sign and wonder if it was talking to me. Telling me to stop being lazy, and write more. Or if it was encouraging me, telling me that my writing, and all poetry, would always find its place, despite changing cultural tastes and reductive market forces.

Then I reflected again, and realised it meant more than that. It wasn’t just talking to me (as only a teenager boy could think it was) but to the world.

That poetry is necessary, whether you write it or not. Whether you read it or not. It’s a necessary condition of life.

Around the time that the magazine was conceived of, two important things happened. First, I became (temporarily) unemployed. I had too much time on my hands and as a result, reverted to spilling my emotions like over-zealously sloshed wine onto any page I could get my hands on.

We have big plans for the future, and hope to grow VAINE into a community of artists who can meet, share and critique each other’s work, and perhaps even become collaborators.

I wrote a lot of poems, and like many times before sent them to various litWe hope to become a hub for emergerary journals and magazines, from all ing creatives, looking to make the early over the world, and then commenced steps in order to reach their next level. the ambiguous 4 - 12 month period of waiting for them to get back to me (or Our ethos is summed up by the above not, as has been the case with many). statement (and for poetry please read all other forms of writing and art) and Then the second thing happened. A its place in our current world. global pandemic like no other before, drew life all over the world to a halt.

Growing up near Swansea, where this Around this time I conceived of the sign is located (in a department store idea of creating a magazine issue based

3 around the concept of the pandemic, and the art that would spawn, from young, creative people like myself.

The idea slowly morphed, over the coming weeks and months, in conversation between us, into what we all know and love as VAINE today.

wordy and complex, and vary according to jurisdiction, but hearing these debates being played out re-confirmed in me something I had known all along, or at least since seeing that poster. That more poetry is always needed.

So welcome, one and all to the first edition, we hope you enjoy the works featured here. From Lisa Krawczyk’s Our ethos was solidified by the disastute observations on the political cussions in the passing months over unrest in the USA, F.E. Lehane’s imaginwhat the new necessary tenements of life were to be defined as by people ing of a lockdown ‘survivor’ gone rogue, or Nigel Evans’s satirical take on the UK and governments around the world. government’s handling of Covid-19. We hope you enjoy this landmark issue, and How often was it necessary to leave many more to come! the house? How necessary is it that I go to the office to work? (Do I need this much toilet paper?) Which members of the workforce are absolutely necessary in order to stop society Thanks from, from crumbling?

Dom Thomas and Siria Ferrer The answers to these questions were

Sainz-Pardo, VAINE Editors

‘More Poetry is Needed’ by Jeremy Deller, 2014 Swansea Photo: Jeremy Sergott

Marco Ferrari Conor Pitchers Catrin Harrison Evelyn Maritz

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Lauren Gale Conor Pitchers Siria Ferrer Nigel Evans Phoebe Harris Robert Padley

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Eve Radville Victor Iain F. E. Lehane Aya Vandenbussche

Thea Mangatal Ishtar Witt Lisa Krawczyk Jacob Cain Dominic Thomas Clay Stewart-Larson Ruth McBride

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6 1. MARCO FERRARI · ‘Nightmares and Tigers: a lockdown journal’ · ‘In Photos: Black Lives Matter Protests - Manchester’

pg.10 - 11 pg. 12 - 15

2. CONOR PITCHERS · An interview with a Junior Doctor who tested positive for Coronavirus pg. 16 - 19 3. CATRIN HARRISON · Featured Artist: Catrin Harrison (Interview)

pg. 20 - 23

4. EVELYN MARITZ · ‘Falling from a great height’

pg. 24 - 27

5. LAUREN GALE · ‘Garden in a Space Helmet’ · ‘Milk Carton Aqcuarium’ · ‘Relationships in lockdown’ · ‘Lightbulb Ecosystem’

pg. 30 - 33

6. CONOR PITCHERS · ‘Town’ pg. 34 - 40 7. SIRIA FERRER · ‘Homo no-sapiens’

· ‘Love in the time of coronavirus’ · ‘Summer look 2020’

pg. 41 - 43

8. PHOEBE HARRIS · ‘Working from home’ pg. 44 9. NIGEL EVANS · ‘King of the World at Last’

pg. 45

10. ROB PADLEY · ‘Departure 20.3’ pg. 46 - 49 · ‘Departure 20.24’ · ‘Departure 20.30’ 11. EVE RADVILLE · ‘An Offering’

pg. 52 - 57

12. VICTOR IAIN · ‘Short Breaks in Ambrosia’

pg. 58 - 61

13. F. E. LEHANE · ‘An Insider’s Guide to Surviving the 21st-Century

pg. 62 - 65

7 14. AYA VANDENBUSSCHE · ‘The Stranger’ pg. 66 - 67 15. THEA MANGATAL · ‘Patient’s Name: John Lewis’

pg. 70

16. CLAY STEWART-LARSON · ‘Exotic’ pg. 71 17. ISHTAR WITT · ‘Syrian Boy’ pg. 72 - 73 18. LISA KRAWCZYK · ‘53206’ pg. 74 - 75 · ‘Target’ 19. JACOB CAIN · ‘Cummings’ pg. 76 20. DOMINIC THOMAS · ‘Hill Walking’ pg. 77 21. RUTH MCBRIDE · ‘Photo Booth’ pg. 78

MARCO FERRARI CONOR PITCHERS CATRIN HARRISON EVELYN MARITZ

MARCO FERRARI CONOR PITCHERS CATRIN HARRISON EVELYN MARITZ

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Nightmares and tigers: a lockdown journal

by Marco Ferrari About two weeks into lockdown, I jotted down some of my thoughts on the whole situation. The column was a strange mix of bravado and panic. On the one hand, I professed that I had no fear of getting infected, but at the same time admitted terror about the social consequences. A few months on, my feelings haven’t changed much, but I do have the benefit of perspective, seeing how society is reshaping itself. It doesn’t look good.

Nearly 700,00 lives have been taken, but millions more have been torn apart.

A great disappointment throughout this whole thing has been the way that the British government has failed its people.

In early weeks, I felt let down by the public who responded to then-seemingly drastic government measures unquestionably, with the zeitgeist being one of moral servitude, echoing the blitz spirit, with no thought about the psychological and economic consequences of being stuck inside doing nothing for months. Looking back on it now, I understand the mass panic a bit better.

Shoppers clearing shelves and piling up supplies without considering their neighbours were not only selfish, but afraid.

Illustration by Siria Ferrer

11 The lady taking pictures of lockdown-breakers through twitched curtains (lockdown-breakers who may very well have been depressed by a complete lack of human contact, subsisting on an informational and social diet of the most apocalyptic kind, desperate to escape their four walls and enjoy just a few minutes of glorious sunshine) was not only lacking empathy, but terrified and depressed herself, grasping out towards any means of doing her small part to get things back to the way they used to be.

I had this recurring dream in those first few weeks. I’m in the family home, saturated with feelings of comfort and security. Suddenly, the front door bursts open and in roars a tiger that proceeds to savage the family pets, tear apart the furniture and send siblings and parents scrambling for safety. Then, as the dust settles, the tiger is revealed, on closer inspection, to be a hologram, and dissolves into the air leaving the abode in complete carnage.

a much more severe recession than in 2008.

But perhaps eventually I will be able to look back at what I’ve written here, with the benefit of a bit more perspective as the months and years roll by, and know that there is some unforeseen positive to this whole catastrophe yet to come.

We can hope.

My point isn’t that the deaths caused by this terrible virus are anything to downplay. It is just that now, in July, the thing that no one seemed to be talking about in March is starting to sink in, and one would hope that our leaders are starting to feel some shame in their complete mismanagement of the whole thing. The economy is in tatters and we are facing

Marco Ferrari is a journalist, photographer and occasional musician. Raised in Sharjah, UAE, he flew the desert nest to eke out a living by writing words in the West. He spends his free time playing with synthesizers, smoking fine cigars and ranting about society to anyone who will listen. @marcofshj

In photos: Black Lives Matter Protests - Manchester

by Marco Ferrari

Manchester’s Black Lives Matter protests on June 6 were a strange, inspiring, worrying and soon-to-be historical affair.

Thousands marched from Piccadilly Gardens up Market Street, circling round via Deansgate and Mosley Street in solidarity for the worldwide movement sparked by George Floyd’s brutal killing.

I didn’t know what to expect, having had been stuck in a flat with little human

13 contact for the previous three months. The crowd had an incredibly tangible, powerful energy, made even more intense by the fact that it was the first time many had left their homes since mid-March.

There are two moments from this time that I will always remember. The first: Reading the news of George Floyd’s death. The killing came at the worst possible time – the world’s population was perfectly primed for mass unrest.

We had had moths of the most unsettling news being piped into our social media feeds, the social isolation and lack of work creating a deeply troubled mass consciousness into which entered the symbolism of a crime of the most unjust kind. All I could think was “Oh no. Not now.”

The second moment was at the protest itself. Having had nothing to do and almost no one to talk to for so long, I was more than ready to indulge some of my journalistic instincts.

I delved into the stream of people, camera in hand, and tried to get some decent shots without being trampled, and maintaining whatever social distance I could.

At one point, a few protesters started to take a knee, others noticed and followed suit. I saw an opportunity and climbed on top of an electric box to get a shot.

There was something visceral about being in the middle of this throng of people after months of isolation, with what felt like thousands of eyes staring at me as I snapped away. The adrenaline rush was like no other.

Protesters were of all different backgrounds. Black, white, young, old. The level of sincerity for an atrocity that took place on the other side of the world was impressive.

Protesters take a knee in Picadilly Gardens

Crowds march through the city centre in their thousands

Demonstratios later moved to the city’s Albert Square

15 I was struck by the undercurrent of emotion that ran through the demonstration – it was obvious that the symbolism of a black man being slaughtered by a police officer conjured up memories of the deep-rooted, if somewhat more subtle, racism that pollutes British society.

The most touching moment was meeting a father who had brought his young daughter along, the girl holding a placard demanding “Justice for all Black Lives”. I couldn’t imagine the difficult conversa-

tions that were had in that household.

I only saw a group of three or four police officers on the day, nervously approaching the crowd before changing tack and ducking into a nearby building.

The protest turned out to be a peaceful one, with the leader of Manchester City Council Richard Leese later praising demonstrators for their good behaviour, according to the Manchester Evening News.

A young skater shows his solidarity amid the protests

Words and photos by Marco Ferrari @marcofshj

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An interview with a Junior Doctor who tested positive for Coronavirus

by Conor Pitchers After seeing a Facebook post from my friend Jamil saying that he had tested positive for conoravirus, I thought it would be a good idea to conduct an interview with him. I felt that it may interest and benefit people to hear the experience of having the virus. I never realised that Jamil was actually working in a hospital as a junior doctor.

What’s your job role?

I’m a first year doctor, I’m currently based on a haematology and general medicine ward but I had done very little haematology and general medicine as I contracted coronavirus shortly after starting there. On the ward that I’m normally based on, I have to swab as negative before I go back to work there as it’s a haematology ward and some of the patients might be immuno-suppressed.

How did you contract the virus?

So, I can’t be too sure of course, but on our ward, a lot of our side rooms were taken up with patients who were either confirmed with or suspected of having coronavirus, so there’s always going to be some degree of exposure through patients needing various procedures.

Had you mentally prepared yourself beforehand?

Yeah, most people in hospitals, the doctors, nurses, healthcare professionals, anyone who’s in the hospital, are at risk of getting the virus and I feel like most people are generally accepting of it. I mean, I don’t feel like anyone’s entirely pleased about it, but it’s expected with the exposure that comes from being in hospital. When I started getting symptoms, I felt like this could well be it, although I wasn’t massively worried.

What was the procedure after you’d found out?

So after I found I’d swabbed positive, the policy is to self-isolate for 7 days. I live with two other guys who aren’t medical, they had to isolate for 14 days. After those 7 days are up for me, I’m good to go back to work, just not to my ordinary ward until I swab negative.

17 Were you in work when you found out?

Yeah I was in work. I’d woken up feeling a lot achier than normal and my back hurt, my elbows hurt, my knees hurt and there was one point in the afternoon where I just felt very warm but it wasn’t preventing me from working. I could still work and I was in work until 9 o clock at night, but then the next day, I felt much worse, I hadn’t slept very well. Our hospital has a policy where if you suspect you might have Covid, you call your occupational health and they essentially make a call on what to do, so I called them, explained my symptoms and they said I should isolate and they organised a test to be done. It’s quite surreal.

Having seen this virus starting in China months and months ago and now it’s crept across the world and now here I am having it as well. It did feel kind of surreal in that respect.

Do all the medical staff have adequate PPE? So there is PPE available, I mean, at least in our Trust*. There is PPE in the hospitals but it’s limited for which procedures it’s used for, generally on a patient to patient basis. Everyone wears just the single use gloves, a single use apron and a single use surgical mask. That offers some protection, but the surgical masks, they’re not tight fitting to the face. They don’t stop virus particles from getting in, they pretty much only function if you, the wearer, cough or sneeze. It can stop a lot of the particles from being ejected that way.

So would you say the quality of the PPE is poor?

I would. There’s certainly not enough of the top quality PPE, the PPE that would prevent you from breathing in the virus. If there was more than enough of that, then it wouldn’t have to be rationed. However, for the procedures that definitely require that PPE, I’ve never been able to not find some. So, I think on the whole there’s most certainly not enough. People shouldn’t have to go into bays with Covid patients not being fully protected.

“I mean, medical professionals passing away could’ve been avoided by having good PPE to begin with.”

Are there many Trusts without it?

Absolutely, there’s not quite enough. Something which my Trust has recently implemented is that everyone now wears scrubs every day. I mean that’s probably how it should be. But of course, scrubs still leave your upper arms uncovered and if you’re spending time with Covid positive patients who are coughing/ sneezing, there’s a chance that you’ll get the virus on parts of your body where even the strictest of hand hygiene won’t help. There’s still going to be some contamination and exposure, I think what you said about having full gowns, that’s the best way forward but then there’s this problem that there’s not quite enough fresh gowns for every doctor or every patient. There’s certainly not *An Trust is the body responsible for provision of NHS services in a given area of the UK

18 enough. I think more funding would contribute to more PPE being readily available and not having to be rationed as much, which I feel has the potential to be saving lives.

So how do you feel about the government’s approach?

I mean, in the early days, I saw a video of Boris Johnson saying that he was shaking hands with patients, you know, that he’s not worried about it so much (Jamil laughs) What kind of approach or response would you recommend people to take if they don’t have the virus?

Follow the government guidance as best they can. I saw something great on Facebook that described the coronavirus as glitter and after you’ve played with glitter, just once in your house, you’re finding the little glitter particles everywhere, all over your house. Just treat coronavirus like glitter. It’ll just be everywhere, it’ll be in places you don’t expect it to be and that emphasises the importance of washing your hands, because anything you touch could have the virus on it. That’s not meant to scare people, it’s just that now is the time for good hand hygiene.

And when do you think the point of being very unwell is? When is it important to get seen by a medical professional?

So, it’s hard to say because of course everyone’s course of the illness is different. I was very lucky in that I only had some muscle aches, joint aches and a headache. Other people can become much more ill, much more quickly so I’d be cautious in giving any sort of one size fits all advice out. But generally, I feel like the time to be seeking proper medical help is when you do start having trouble with your breathing, so any shortness of breath, any fiercely persistent cough.

If you really are feeling quite unwell with it then that’s the time to be seeking help. But like I said, I’m cautious about giving any sort of one size fits all medical advice.

How was the atmosphere where you work? Were you strong together? Was morale good?

Yeah, I’d say the atmosphere at work has been very good to be fair. Everyone that I’ve spoken to felt that there’s an understanding that yeah, we’re all going to get it and that yes, things might get incredibly difficult at work either due to staffing or due to the amount of patients that might come in but from what I’ve seen, everyone has been very strong.

I caught up with one of the consultants from my first rotation in hospital. I had a nice little catch up with him. He’s one of the consultant surgeons and so lots of elective operations for his specialty have been postponed and cancelled and a lot of the surgical team, there’s been discussions on retraining them and moving

19 them into medical specialties so they can help out with the added workload. So there’s a lot of stress on them. But he said something to me just as I was leaving.

He said: “You’re going to remember this time of your life. Forever. There probably won’t ever be anything quite like this again, hopefully.”

It’s not cool situation at all, it’s a horrible situation but that kind of struck a chord that the magnitude of the situation is huge. How this has been such a change from everyone’s normal, this social isolation, the lockdown, not being able to go out, not being able to see your friends. It’s been a massive change from normal. It’s very strange times that we’re living in but the community in the hospital has been great and has pulled together and there’s generally a very good mood in the hospital I’d say.

If governments just came out and said they’d made a mistake, there’d be some understanding, because no one has any real idea.

(Jamil laughs) I don’t know the most about it but I feel like there have been some shortcomings from this. As a government, we haven’t carried out contact tracing. Countries like Singapore, South Korea and New Zealand implemented contact tracing measures well and, through those and other measures, have kept their mortality numbers low.

These were also countries to implement social distancing measures and border control measures early. Comparatively some Western countries didn’t seem to attempt to ‘contain’ the virus in the same way, and expected it to spread across the population until we reached a stage of herd immunity. I think the UK was one of those countries, and as such we have had a large number of deaths.

Throw the PPE issues into the mix, such as the government apparently choosing not to join an EU scheme to bulk buy ventilator and PPE and yeah, I think that the government could have handled aspects of this better.

How do you feel about the social media/mainstream media presence?

Social media has always got the potential to be adding fuel to the fire and adding to hysteria. People seem to have come together as a country at this time, social media has played a large role in that, organising everyone to be clapping at 8 o clock on a Thursday. Of course there was Captain Tom Moore, the 99 year old veteran who has raised something like 17 million (eventually 32.8 million) now I think? That’s awesome and that’s all through social media. It’s got its good and it’s got its bad. At this time, I’ve mostly seen it’s good but I suppose everyone’s Facebook homepage is different isn’t it? It just depends on who they’re following and what groups they’re in. I guess everyone has a very unique perspective of social media.

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Featured Artist: Catrin Harrison Interview

Catrin Harrison is an artist from Ross on Wye, UK. Her art caught our eye after she submitted some of her latest work, portraits painted in miniture that we later found out were part of the social media challenge #100HeadsChallenge.

Intruiged, we decided to interview her to find out more.

What inspires your art? How did you start off?

Each piece I produce has inspirations of its own, visually and emotionally; but I think most of my work (aside from the 100 heads challenge) takes inspiration from my own experiences and feelings. As for artists that inspire me, I feel very blessed to be able to look online at the work of Ines Longevial, Jenny Saville, Aleksandr Rodchenko, the Stenberg brothers, Francis Bacon, Keith Haring, Patti Smith, and Tracy Emmin.

What art forms do you practice?

I practice with a lot of traditional mediums such as oil, acrylic, and watercolour painting, as well as pencil, pastel, and digital. And for forms, I do a lot of contemporary portraits, but also do a lot of character design and illustration.

How did you come to take up the #100HeadsChallenge?

I saw another artist, Darren Butcher’s take on the project in which he was painting all of his portraits rather than simply drawing or sketching them like I’d seen before. The thought of an oil painting every day to me felt like something I’d never manage to do but I’m glad I decided to because I’ve already come so far with it.

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What do you do aside from your art?

I’m a very creative but also very lazy person, so I spend a lot of time binging TV and films, but I also have a lot of other ‘hobbies’: I write and sing songs, and have released a couple of them under the name Catrin just for fun and for my friends to listen to. Although I have a huge love for songwriting, it’s literally just a hobby that allows me to talk to myself!

I sew and do painting commissions for clients, and... I’m drawing a blank sorry.

How has your lockdown been?

My lockdown has been very up and down - I’ve been through a lot mentally, as I know most people likely have too, but overall I feel as though I’ve become a lot more comfortable in my own company.

Creatively, I really struggled at first to find the motivation to get out of bed at all - I guess I began to slip into old habits and it somehow felt comfortable even though it was incredibly draining. Halfway through lockdown, something happened and I suppose I felt awake enough to create something painterly and since then I’ve been making art pretty much non-stop.

What are you views on the current situation where you are?

I’m living in the countryside right now in a town called Ross on Wye where I’ve mostly grown up- I’ll be moving to London to study illustration at UAL in October, but as of right now: I think most people have sort of forgotten the actual dangers of covid, admittedly including me sometimes. But I’ve noticed a lot more masks lately and social distancing seems to be picking back up in town which is encouraging.

22 I think that there was sort of a manic lull at the start of July when restrictions were lifted a little and everyone got a glimpse of what things used to be like. I think for the next year, or maybe even two, everyone will begin to get normalised to this kind of social behaviour and it’ll get much much easier to deal with emotionally.

I also think that, thanks to this situation, a lot of art will be inspired. I cannot wait to see all the wonderful creations made by artists across the world from this crazy time, because there has been such a huge outpouring of love and emotion and artistic experimentation. @catrin.ltd

@catrin.harrison.art

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FALLING FROM A GREAT HEIGHT

by Evelyn Maritz The Coronavirus pandemic has caused an unexpected and unprecedented crash in the airline industry. Major airline job losses around the world are estimated to be around 100,000 people, with American airlines yet to make the bulk of their cuts.

It is an industry shutdown on a scale never before seen, with the consequence of mass redundancies and a downgrading of workers’ employment rights and conditions.

Workers for the major international airlines, who had relocated to the company’s base while under contract, now face being left out in the cold in a foreign country, often under threat of deportation after the expiry of their visas.

VAINE’s source, a cabin crew member for a Middle Eastern airline, gives their personal account of an abrupt dismissal by one of the biggest airlines in the sky. *** The life that I began six years ago was turned upside down on the 10th June 2020.

This was not just a job loss but a loss of lifestyle that my colleagues and I had quickly become accustomed to, and the lives we created in a foreign land that were our own recharging stations.

From the tarmac to the clouds, our homes were the order in the chaos of what was to us, in fact, a normal life.

It all disappeared with an email named ‘Business Update’.

Six years of service, giving body and soul; professional and personal life, all to represent the image of a global brand. Gone.

The struggles of being treated like a number and working like a robot behind the red lipstick. The decisions not fully explained on performance in comparison to peers. After a quick 10 minutes it was all over.

But not before suffering the humiliation of being summoned by an email sent in the early hours of the morning, to a dubious meeting the same day.

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After arriving at the training centre in groups of 30, we were ushered out by security guards to make way for the next swathe, after being told the news.

Just like a plaster left on for a few days, in this case six years were ripped off at the speed of light.

Others didn’t even have the chance to attend a meeting, with some being made redundant while grounded in other flight destinations on unpaid leave. Some others were told while on maternity.

Luckily for me, this chapter was only intended as a year of fun that turned into five more, with a backup plan, an education and a great network of family and friends behind me, from a country with a steady infrastructure and government support and health care.

But other colleagues are sadly not as fortunate, and have now been thrust into the unknown, with dependants and the world on their shoulders - a downside of the company’s ‘cosmopolitan’ image.

They were also swiftly made to exit after a lifetime given to the company, even raising their children in the new homes they had created. Children who have never even been to their parent’s country of origin.

We’ve been given weeks to miraculously create a new life and start again. For me it is without regret, but for others it has been too much to bear.

Weeks later and it’s apparent the after care is dismal, and many are still in the dark awaiting instructions before the final departure out of here.

Investing in their employees with support and compassion was never their strong point - for example refusing to address several suicides of staff over the last few months.

They have also been less than transparent throughout the process, promoting messages in the media that they are loyal to their staff, while in reality dismissing us without any explanation.

The state that bailed them out is willing to welcome in tourists to spend money on its glittering oasis, while their not-so-valued employees are struggling on a continually reduced basic salary.

26 I am ready to finally throw away the lipstick and the uniform and wave goodbye to all it represents.

To my fellow colleagues who became friends but most importantly became family - you were the real gold hidden in those sand dunes. Now is your time to really take flight.

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LAUREN GALE CONOR PITCHERS SIRIA FERRER NIGEL EVANS ROB PADLEY PHOEBE HARRIS

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fig.1

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fig.2

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fig.3

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fig.4

fig. 1 “Garden in a Space Helmet” fig. 2 “Milk Carton Aquarium” fig.3 “Relationships in Lockdown” fig.4 “Lightbulb Ecosystem”

Lauren Gale is an illustrator currently based in Bristol with a love of abstract artwork. Much of her work is based on escapism, as well as abstract interpretations of her surroundings living on the river Avon.

She has a fascination with flora and wildlife, especially birds and marine life. Lauren loves to partner contrasting objects and subjects in her compositions with playful and joyous colour palettes, reflecting a childlike wonder through her artwork.

She currently produces graphic designs and illustrations for a clients and undertakes private commissions. Her passion project is her online shop where she sells prints of original digitally illustrated artworks; along with stickers, greetings cards, and enamel pin badges. @laurengale.makesandillustrates www.laurengalemakesandillustrates.com

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‘TOWN’

by Conor Pitchers 'Town' reveals the stark expressions of the people in towns and cities, and the undomesticated nature of people in their modern setting. In response to the mainstream media’s shaming of drinkers following the goverment lifting of Covid-enforced restrictions on bars and pubs in the UK, Conor Pitchers examines what is really at the heart of Britain’s sometimes wild, messy and often demonised drinking culture. *** Alcohol culture feels like the right kind of romanticism to indulge in.

It’s a magical drink as long as you don’t sip at it; it relieves the burden of pain and breaks up the monotony of everyday life. It helps to open up your world.

The UK’s reopening of pubs and bars during the Covid pandemic had people flocking. After three months of being told to stay home in order to act like a responsible member of society, social distancing took a backseat and people enjoyed themselves in a unwittingly careless and carefree way.

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But what did people expect? Britain has a prominent alcohol culture. The NHS has a large share of people seeking medical care because of alcohol induced ailments.

One in 10 people in the UK who use a hospital bed are dependent upon alcohol and 1 in 5 people’s health is deteriorating due to excess, I mean; this is a pretty large burden on the NHS. Of course, Britain’s dependency on alcohol runs much deeper than we’d all probably like to actively take into consideration. But we probably wouldn’t talk about how detrimental it is to our general wellbeing after we’ve had a few pints.

I suppose the way Britain has this mundane and seemingly unimportant ailment of a drinking culture, that saps at the NHS and acts as some kind of crutch for a lot of people, isn’t something to bring up in light conversation?

I spent time photographing Swansea’s popular ‘Wind Street’, hence the images.

It’s a long winding street with clubs, pubs, bars and fast food restaurants.

Soberly photographing this culture turned the romanticism on its head for me. I found it ugly and depressing.

I saw a lot of fights which never needed to happen; people ending up in a critical condition with their heads broken open and others bleeding out onto the street.

Vomiting was common. It was a true place of banal and meaningless conflict.

The acts of desperation I witnessed made me physically cringe; men drunkenly plucking up the courage to entice women into massaging their egos, women wailing into the street like a scene from some ghostly urban legend, and often people hunched alone under doorways silently shivering.

It was exciting to be in the thick of it. I often got into my own disputes for photographing people. In its defence, there’s something natural about people booting their inhibitions under the rug. All the pent up stress and dark thoughts released into the gutter, only to suffer for it the next day in a physical and very real way. I’d drink to that sentiment.

I’d rarely see many acts of kindness or friendliness, I’d like to tell you that I did, because I’m not one to just put a negative spin on things, but it really felt like I was looking under the sheets and peeking at the sick and dark underbelly of people’s inhibitions.

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“The real issue is that Britain doesn’t have a strong sense of meaningful culture and alcohol is just an easy thing to fall back on.”

The solutions are pretty simple, and it’s clear that those in power who could fund a greater focus on the well-being and meaning in people’s lives have no real intention to ever do that.

There’s a general sense (in the media and the estabishment) that it’s mostly just down to the individual. If they have baby brains and can’t decide what’s right for them, then boo hoo to them. It’s a clever charade and people love living a good lie where their meaner self makes them feel better than other people. (That’s been pretty evident over the past few months.)

One solution would be to simply invest in the community - there are a huge range of projects that people could benefit from.

To illustrate my point, there was a great clinical study in the 70s published by Bruce Alexander known as the ‘Rat Park’, which tested the theory that drug addiction is mainly influenced by the environment.

There were two environments that four groups of rats were placed into, the first was a small laboratory cage where the rats had a choice between normal water and sweetened morphine water. The rats almost always chose the sweetened morphine water while living in this small laboratory cage.

Rat Park was 200 times the size of the small laboratory cage and it had more rats included to socialise. It had good food, nice housing, lots of things to play with and the same normal and sweetened morphine water.

The rats resisted the sweetened morphine water and tried it occasionally just to let their fur down. The small laboratory caged rats drank 19 times more of the sweetened morphine water than the rats in Rat Park.

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One group of rats was placed in a small laboratory cage and then placed in Rat Park after 65 days. So when placed in rat park, these rats chose the normal water but began to drink the morphine water when it was diluted more and more.

They drank it as much as the rats that had lived in cages throughout the experiment but only up until the point where it began to affect their normal social behaviour.

In short, they would maintain a healthy life and preferred the diluted morphine solution that they’d been brought up with. When they added new water with Naloxone in it, a solution that helps reverse the effects of opioids, those rats then preferred to drink the Naloxone water.

Another group of small laboratory rats were forced to consume the morphine-laced solution for 57 days in a small laboratory cage. When they moved into Rat Park, they chose to drink the normal water.

So how much does this tell us about our civilisation and what we could be doing for our environment, instead of berating the people for being careless, maybe we should look at the psychology behind our environment and behaviour so that we can learn to understand exactly what it is that’s holding us back.

Words and images by Conor Pitchers @conorpitchers

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SIRIA FERRER Siria is an artist and photographer from Ibiza, Spain. She studied Fine Arts in Valencia and finished her Master in Photography last year. In her photography, she usually prefers taking artistic portraits, but is also interested in fashion, architecture and nature photography. In terms of illustration, Siria likes designing logos, personalized portraits and calendars, among other things. Her artistic influences come from movements in art history such as surrealism; literature, music and cinematography. @siriaferrer_

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PHOEBE HARRIS Phoebe is a 22 year old student at Cardiff University, going into the 4th year of a psychology degree. Lockdown has encouraged her to pick up art again and spend more time on it. She illustrates both digitally and non-digitally and is excited to expand her portfolio and see where it takes her. @pheeillustrates

‘Working from Home” Freehand digital illustration

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

NIGEL EVANS Nigel is a recently retired NHS psyciatrist, born in Aberdare, Wales. Brought up in a working class community he graduated as a doctor in 1988. Married for 29 years he has two adult children. He says his interest in the arts developed in his late teens when exposed to different ways of conceptualising the world through music, literature, cinema and the visual arts. He started painting as a non verbal counterweight to the prolixity of psychiatric practice and as a means of emotional expression.

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ROBERT PADLEY Highly disciplined and dedicated to experimentation, Robert’s current practice explores the relationship between paint and movement. Originally training as a graphic designer before moving to sales in 2007, he now concentrates on art full time. He is influenced by graphical elements like graphs, maps and pixelated images, and tries to recreate these in paint form while also representing landscapes that he finds interesting, such as seascapes and foggy beaches. His current paintings involve many repeated actions to achieve the desired effect, requiring intense concentration and lots of experimentation behind the scenes, exploring the way oil paint behaves when repeatedly applied horizontally and vertically, like weaving with paint. @robertpadleyart

‘Departure D20.3’ Oil on plywood, 20x20cm

‘Departure D20.24’ Oil on plywood, 20x20cm

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‘Departure D20.30’ Oil on plywood, 20x20cm

EVE RADVILLE / VICTOR IAIN / F. E. LEHANE / AYA VANDENBUSSCHE

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An Offering

by Eve Radville ‘Ding!’ She could feel the butterflies, launching themselves against her stomach, each flap an assault that made her feel giddy, as if any moment now, she might implode with the force of the excitement within her.

She savoured the seconds before she glanced down to check the notification on her phone. She knew it was him. She had always been gifted with a sense, a gut feeling about the things that would happen to her, and she was never wrong.

With Gabriel (she whispered the name to herself, letting her tongue languish as it curled around the sound of the ‘el’, a secret only she understood), with Gabriel, she knew, instantly. It was fate.

It wasn’t just his curly hair, or green eyes, or his flawless olive skin. It wasn’t that crooked smile, which made him look like he was mentally undressing her while at the same time brimming with kindness. The kind of smile you would only see in men who make good fathers. No, it was the electricity between them. It was monumental, it was insurmountable, it was something that no one else had ever seen before.

Smiling to herself, she opened his message. “U up?”. Two sweet, simple words.

Two words that let her know he was hers forever. She would make him wait, she decided. No point in looking too eager. ** They had met in the traditional fashion; a swipe of a profile, a dick pic there, a nude here. He wanted her to break lockdown, come to his house. He had cajoled her sweetly, offering dinner, sex, everything short of marriage. Instead, shortly following the “U up” text that she had carefully ignored, she had agreed to meet him at a park. Two metre distance. Not even a hug. There was no way in hell she was letting some Tinder date infect her.

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Things changed when she saw him. It was as if the roles had completely reversed. He explained that a relative had gotten sick, and how he was so scared of the virus now. He hadn’t taken it that seriously before but his auntie could still barely breathe, despite having recovered so many weeks ago. It had started to give him nightmares, the thought of losing his family, of being intubated alone in a hospital somewhere, unable to take a breath. He was so glad that she was cautious too, he said, he had felt so incredibly stupid about wanting to break the rules.

She barely heard him. So intense was the desire to touch him, to feel him, to consume him, that she could barely hold herself together. She imagined herself like one of those big snakes, swallowing him whole, feeling content with the shape of him in her belly. He would be hers, and she would curl proudly around her prize.

She lived alone and hadn’t hugged or touched another person in a month, and now, here before her, was a god, asking her to stay away. It was cruel.

She couldn’t see his mouth because of the mask, but she knew from his photos that even underneath that hot fabric it would be luscious. The dewy drops of sweat on his upper lip, the sheen of spit on his tongue. The thought nearly made her keel over. She found herself numbly nodding along to his story, reminding herself to look a little sad in the right parts, stopping herself from imagining her hand reaching for his girthy cock.

Nonetheless, she knew she could bide her time. They had sat at opposite ends of a big picnic blanket, drinking separate cans of gin and tonic, eating different supermarket sandwiches. But she could still smell him, and that’s what mattered.

He told her he’d had a great time, that it was a shame they couldn’t go back to his place, and she, who would usually be offended at such presumption on a first date, found herself pouting and giggling instead. She found out that he lived in Tooting, only an hour long walk from her house. He told her about his favourite bakery, how it was still passing itself off as essential, so he would go there every Wednesday to buy fresh bread, or maybe a cream puff, if he was feeling naughty. He had winked at that point.

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As their date ended, she offered to collect all the litter, under the pretence that she had seen a bin on her way there. Surreptitiously, she found herself pocketing the wrapper from his sandwich.

Later, she touched herself, thinking about how the wrapper had been in his manly, yet elegant hands. A brief moment of guilt passed through her mind. She probably should have disinfected the wrapper before using it. But how else was she supposed to get close to him? *** It was Wednesday. The time had come. She had walked for an hour in the rain, desperate to pee, but enjoying the added anticipation this awoke within her.

Her maps app kept glitching out on her, so she found herself having to stop and refresh, frantically aware that she only had a limited amount of time.

The streets were busy, filled with people taking advantage of the newly opened shops. But those sodding distancing restrictions still applied. She found herself repulsed at the people almost brushing past her, ignoring the carefully crafted rules of the government-mandated lockdown. If she couldn’t touch him, how dare they come close to touching her?! Didn’t they realise we were all living through a pandemic?!

She had found a spot, just outside a Greggs. She had pulled her cap down low and had sat down on the pavement with an old, empty coffee cup in front of her. She’d found some pennies on the street on her way here, and took the time to drop them inside - it had to be authentic, after all. And no one could say she wasn’t keeping her distance. There was no way he would even recognise her.

The dirt she had rubbed on her face, and the rips she had made to her clothes made sure of that.

Settled now in her disguise, she felt a flash of excitement. 11am. George’s Bakery in Tooting. Every Wednesday. That’s what he had said. She had arrived a little early, at 10.45, to set up shop. He had spoken about the bakery with affection, it was a slice of normality in such a difficult, odd time. How could she not take the day off work, just to see his beautiful frame walk into the shop? His broad shoulders gracing the cheap glass door...The temptation was too much.

It’s not like she wasn’t making any money either – that kind old gentleman had dropped a fiver in her cup earlier, giving her a bit of a saucy wink as he did so.

She shuddered to herself. Men are such perverts. As if anyone except Gabriel

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would ever be allowed to touch her again. In a pandemic, no less. She was his now.

It was happening! He was going into the bakery. Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might faint. His back was an even more perfect combination of lean and muscular than she had remembered. She knew she couldn’t stand up, for fear of being caught. Not that there was any way he’d see her, or recognise her. Not in these clothes.

Patiently, she waited for him to come out again. She thought of his lips biting down on the bread roll he was going to buy. Or perhaps he would get a nice cream tart, and emerge with the filling spilling out of the corners of his mouth, his eyes closed with pleasure. She squeezed her legs together.

No matter what, he couldn’t come out and see her sitting there. It’s not like she could go up to him and pretend she had just been in the area. He would think she was fucking crazy, especially in this outfit. Wouldn’t he?! Maybe it would feel like fate. She shook her head and smiled to herself. Take it slowly, Rosie, it will be worth it in the end.

She was so lost in her reverie she nearly didn’t notice him coming out of the store. There was that face again. She couldn’t wait to see how kind he would look when he was playing with their children. When he gazed at her and told her he loved her for the first time. All the stress and isolation of lockdown would have been worth it, because she had found her true love. She couldn’t wait to tell her friends. It would be a funny story for everyone, the fact that he had wanted to meet and hook up, but had then changed his mind because of social distancing rules. And how she had changed her mind, because of how stunning he was. It was funny. They would laugh over glasses of white wine, sitting on lovely little picnic tables outside sunny pubs in the countryside, framed by bunting. She would post beautiful pictures of them looking happy and healthy together, having found each other in the midst of this awful pandemic. Her friends would be so jealous.

She felt a sudden punch to her gut. A rush of panic. He was crossing the road towards her. Had he recognised her?! Was he just being the good guy she knew he was and giving some change to a poor woman in need? She didn’t know what to do, she had been so lost in her fantasy she hadn’t thought this far ahead. She had no choice now. She had to play it cool. She lowered the brim of her cap and looked down, trying her best not to even glance at his incredible, perfect face.

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“Spare some change, love?” she muttered, trying to sound like she was from South London. They would laugh about this, too. She was a country girl, well bred. Not a ‘filthy Londoner!’, they would joke together, in unison, remembering her antics. They would tell their kids this story, how mummy had gone a little mad with love. She was normal, really, it was just the lockdown. Everyone had gone a little crazy.

But she couldn’t help herself. As he reached down, she looked up, desperate for a glimpse. His hand was travelling down towards her cup and she couldn’t resist engaging with this (almost) breach of the social distance between them. He wasn’t so careful with the homeless. But not to worry.

“Rosie?!” He looked shocked. A little disgusted. The recognition washed slowly across his face and she could see his thoughts, so clearly written within those lovely, gorgeous green eyes. He wasn’t happy with her, but that made it even more exciting. Their first fight.

She couldn’t see his mouth behind the

mask, but she could see a cream puff, neatly wrapped in paper, in his hand. In surprise he clenched his fingers, ever so slightly, spilling some of the filling onto the paper wrapper.

That was a step too far. Maybe it was the excitement, maybe it was a defense mechanism. She no longer cared, she had been so lonely for so long. Too long.

A warm stream of piss started to trickle from between her legs, pooling gently at his feet. An offering.

Eve Radville is a charity communications professional, writer and artist based in London. Previously published in the Huffington Post and the Guardian, she is interested in politics and amplifying the voices of the marginalised and vulnerable in society in her press and fact-based work. In her artwork and creative prose, however, she enjoys playing with the fine line between a dark sense of humour and the darkness within. @eveofradville

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Short Breaks in Ambrosia

by Victor Iain It is five minutes to six, and for forty seconds now, my alarm has opened fire.

I have dragged myself to a sitting position. From the bed, it is two steps to the door, and from the sound of pattering water, I know that one of my flatmates has beaten me to the shower. I can instead go downstairs, and occupy the kitchen. I should do this. Instead, I browse Twitter. I dial into the minds of others.

Contrarian stock market players whose wisdom I hope to absorb, wise men from all across the world. They have made it. I hope to follow in their footsteps.

They illustrate for me the coming societal collapse, and describe perfectly my part in it. Crucially, they do not offer me a plan of escape.

This is futile.

I step from the bed, onto the mound of clothes that decorates the floor. I would have washed them yesterday, but Rosie beat me to the machine. She forgot to move her clothes after it was done, and left for an important meeting – some mix of the masturbatory and the flagellating; feeling bad about the plight of this week’s worthy while rewarding one’s self for braving the world. I am too polite to move her clothes myself.

I step out onto the balcony, to a roar. I hold my arms in the air, and salute my people. The troops have returned from the border, victorious, and they march towards the Palace in neat rows, bearing aloft the standards of defeated enemies. As they draw near the Palace, they split, and march off at right angles, flinging the standards to the floor. A band triumphantly whoops and hoots, the crash of cymbals, the blare of horns. The air is stirred by thousands of banners, waved. The microphone gives the faintest squeal of feedback, as I take a breath, and say “Mind if I get to the toaster mate.”

“Sorry Mo.” I was holding the kettle after pouring a mug, and yes, I was standing in front of the toaster, my mind a thousand miles away. Mo is not my mate. We live together, one of eight. After I graduated, my mates all moved back home.

I was the only one to find a job in this city. Accordingly, I moved into a flat with strangers. Next week, I will be thirty.

Mo has his toast on the run. He gets his coffee from a shop on the way in to the City. I tap my nose, and smile to myself. I am smarter than this. I make my tea in

59 the house, and put it in a travel mug. Most mornings I do not have time to eat. I crunch a Rennie’s and smoke a cigarette on the way to work. The cafeteria will have something to my liking at ten.

I clamber back up the stairs. Rosie over-did it last night, and she is stirring five minutes too late. With a triumphant grin, I seize the bathroom, and the Captain flips the lock on the door.

“That should hold them a minute,” he says with a wry grin. Dozer heaves a wardrobe to block it. We look around. It’s a nice bedroom, we’re in a pleasant neighbourhood. Our boots sink in deep, rich, red carpeting, and equally sumptuous drapes run from ceiling to floor. The bed is four-poster, and the Captain jokes that it’s bigger than his entire bedroom. He’s probably right. We ignore the suicide lying on it. I creep to the window, and look outside. It’s a lovely dawn, the sun casting reds and yellows over a broad horizon. There are similar, palatial houses on this estate. Every one of them is on fire.

“Head count,” the Captain orders. We call off. Ramirez is missing. Van Alden stood up at the wrong moment and took a shot meant for Dozer Plemmons. Lee got cut off by the crowd. He calls for an ammo count. I have two mags spare. I give one to Dozer, who has run out. There is hammering on the door. The voices assure us they only want to talk. They only want I have been in here too long. Rosie wants to use the shower. I hastily dry off, and hand the room over. She gives me a filthy look as I leave. She’s not my mate either.

By the time I leave the house, it is twenty past six. I dawdle a little on the way to the station, and miss the twenty-two past. By some infernal laws of wizardry, the twenty-six past will get me to work quarter of an hour late. I’ll have to stay behind. I dutifully march on to the train, and cram myself in with all the other sardines. Fortunately, this morning I am given a view of the city as the train rattles along. I like to watch the view. The sun is coming up, and the sky is pink.

We plunge into a tunnel. We shan’t emerge again, the train is now in the City proper. In the dark, I think of my grandfather, who was a miner.

“Eee, John, you evva hord of this Car-Pall toonell syndraam?”

“Nee, George, Ah’ve nivva.” They both laugh. That night, they’ll go to the social club, and have a whale of a time with all the lads.

I’m in work. Avi comes to give me a telling off. Avi is my mate, however, or we both have to pretend he is, and so his telling off is very supportive. He stresses

60 that here at ********* we are a team, and we all have to pull together. He really appreciates my effort, and if I ever need anything, I need only ask. How are things at home? I drown out the rest. I’ve heard it before. Every day, one of us here at ********** is late, just happened that I drew the short straw today.

My computer is already booted up. I know how to manipulate the spreadsheets, and send emails. I make the numbers dance, though I don’t understand why. The emails are very important. I have been taught how to do this task, like a thousand others before me, a proud tradition spanning back through the years to the late nineteen-eighties at least. I am a craftsman, working feverishly. Outside my hut, the trees have been cleared away. It is sweltering, but still, ten men are smoothing the ground. The women have made squares of cloth, decorated with red stripes, and white stars on a blue square. The cloths fly from poles. On top of the chief’s hut, a wooden cross has been painted red.

We are building a sky canoe. I am making the spinner for the canoe. We do not have enough wood to make one of the monstrous canoes that John Frum and his comrades flew in. Some years ago, before I was born, John Frum and his comrades dropped from the sky. The older men remember it well. They came first by regular canoes, though bigger than any of the tribe had made, and grey.

They cleared strips of trees, and then the sky canoes came. The older men remember John Frum gave them food, clothes, and medicine. They worked for John, clearing strips as he asked them, and showing him where he could find fresh water. Some of the braver men took John and his friends to the far reaches of the island, where other men had built similar things to John. That night, John and his friends waged war with the other men. I never believe the older men when they talk about it.

The Chief joins me. I’m almost done with the spinner. Outside, some of his men are wearing green shirts, like John did, and are walking back and for, in formation, like John did. He says that by clearing strips of land, and building a sky canoe, we can encourage John to return. The Sickness is spreading, and many villages have fallen silent. It will soon reach our village.

I don’t know Avi’s surname. Perhaps thirty years ago, I would have called him Mister Whatever instead, and I might even have done so sincerely. There are no walls here at **********, to encourage us to bond. There’s a relaxation room downstairs, with arcade machines and pool tables. We work hard, and play hard, here at **********. Then we found out that use of it would come up in our yearly evaluations, which was a cause for concern. No one uses it any more.

“Pass me the stethoscope, Bromley.”

Bromley does so. He’s a professional. Mr Big wanted this blag done by the book.

61 I’m good with security systems, but not like Bromley. I can bust the locks, he makes sure no one finds out. I don’t know his real name, and he doesn’t know mine. He calls me Heaton Depot, betraying my Geordie accent, and his being a railway anorak.

I’ve enjoyed working with Bromley. The last guy was a total doylem and cost me five years’ porridge. Bromley’s smart, and attentive. He’s planned it throughand-through. But what’s more, in a changing world full of ‘Awbanians wot’w stay-pw yow FFACKIN’ ayes owpun’ he’s something much more than that. He’s of my own, reassuringly familiar, even if I’ve never met him before. He’s an Englishman, just like me.

There’s a clatter in the shop upstairs. We both freeze. I’m almost done.

“If that’s Glamorgan, he ought to be in the car,” Bromley whispers. Who ever heard of a getaway driver milling around in the shop? We each slip a truncheon from the bag, hold our breath, and wait.

I duck into a cubicle to avoid the HR manager. The occupant understands.

The day comes to an end, here at **********. I do my quarter hour penance, but Avi really wants to get this spreadsheet done and emailed off, and he’d really appreciate it if I could stay behind to do it. It would mean a lot.

It’s this or aimlessly mill about on Twitter until midnight.

At length, the spreadsheet is done. Ah, shit, I forgot about the clothes. Mo will have the machine by now. I’ll just have to wash them tomorrow. The sniff test has yet to fail me. I’m thinking about it as I get on the train back. It’s dusk now.

Three young men get off a train. They talk about everything and nothing, and laugh all the while. There’s a still in the air, the wind isn’t blowing. The sun is setting, the sky a muted yellow. All around the trees, crisp brown leaves have gathered. A conker bounces from one’s shoe, and draws up some childhood memory.

There is Grainger’s house, and Duggan’s flat, by-and-by a neighbourhood cat, that greets them as it understands how. Cigarette smoke melts in the crisp air, now that October is here, it is noticeably colder. The girls are already in the pub, they went to the library earlier, and were rewarded for their efforts. Soon we shall join them. There’s beef stew in the slow cooker, and it won’t take long to make some rice. Here is our house, here is our table. We sit around it, and eat.

Victor Iain is a native of South Wales, where he has lived all his life, save for a short period in the North. He maintains an interest in old things, the railway, and current affairs. Previously published in newspapers both student, and local. He stresses that his name is spelled with a capital I, and not a lower case l.

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An Insider’s Guide to Surviving the 21st-Century

by F. E. Lehane

And finally, the barely awaited announcement: the lockdown is completely finished. Of course, it was over in all but name a while ago, saving a few specific measures - and by the looks of it most people have been going about like normal since a few months in. But the official news has come, bringing it all to an end not with a bang, but with a sigh.

You won’t catch me going out there any time soon though.

You see, over the course of the ban I’ve carved out a comfortable life for myself on the inside. Food, and all the other necessary (and unnecessary) supplies come straight to my door like clockwork. Everything I do is virtual anyway; the jobs come in, I crank them out. I can email or instant message people if I need more information, even video call them if they insist, although I find myself doing less and less of all these things as the months go by. And so the four walls of this flat, which initially felt like such a prison, are now my self-sufficient kingdom.

I’ve held out against the company-wide return to office life long enough to earn myself a reputation. Sure, there were other outliers at the start, and many negotiated the odd half-week home-working agreement; but after seeing the meetings and socials and catch-ups and promotions they were missing out on, one by one they all returned. When that long transition period finally lapsed and only I remained absent from the office, my manager asked tentatively if I wouldn’t like to come in and see my colleagues face to face again. But I requested a few more days at home.

They called it a ‘compassionate exception’ (no doubt in reference to the unfortunate events surrounding my living situation early on in the pandemic) and said I could stay away for another week.

But when the next week came, I said I wasn’t ready. And what started as a temporary indulgence from the company slowly established itself as the new status quo. It did nearly come to a head when the boss firmly requested my presence

63 for some face-to-face meetings on ‘just one day’ the following week; I reluctantly agreed, only to pull what I’ll admit was a shamefully overacted sickie when the time came. He let it slide and, after a few weeks of screwing up his face and gingerly asking if I might be ready to come back in soon, just stopped bothering.

They’ve probably got a file somewhere in HR, marking me down as a special case. There’ll be someone else at my desk now, re-adjusting my monitor, calling my old chair his own, getting crumbs in my keyboard from his supermarket lunch.

And no, no it’s not what you’re thinking. I’m not scared. I stay in here because it’s just… better.

I’ve got my home-office setup, a comfortable chair and desk position, closed off from the relaxation space with a partition I built myself. And then when work’s over I can relax on the sofa or the bed. I can watch TV and play video games and see the world go by outside the window; I can even still talk to my friends, those who’ll make the time for a video call at least. And now, with the room next-door empty, disinfected and cleared of his remains, there’s space for an indoor gym.

If anything, it’s better for my health. I’m breathing easier, eating better, working out more and getting fitter, more muscular. I’m the best me there’s ever been.

So why would I go outside?

Life in here is just so much easier. When I was still living out there I thought I liked it, no doubt like you think you do now. Life was bearable, sure. But I couldn’t, if I really searched myself, have called it pleasurable. And now, after seeing the brighter side of life, I simply don’t have the tolerance to go back out to the old ways.

No, I’m not scared of the virus. If it finished him and I survived, then I know it can’t harm me. I’ll admit, though, that germs and contamination in general do unnerve me. It’s just another reason not to live on the outside.

It wasn’t until the pandemic hit that I realised just how much cross-contamination there is in the outside world; how many filthy unknown hands have caressed everything you must touch, and how infrequently these common spaces are cleaned in-between. The handles and handrails on doors, tubes and trains; bus seats, shared with a thousand other arses, not to mention plenty of filthy shoes, too. And if the plastic seats on buses aren’t bad enough, there’s the hot furry fabric of tube and coach seats. You can feel the sweat sinking into them, almost see the germs crawling between those hairs. The outside world is a filth cycle, sucking up dirt from the ground up into the sky like a plant draws up wa-

64 ter - grime from the sodden ground slowly climbing from the shoes, past the legs, to the hands, the lips.

Sound crazy? I’ll tell you how it happens. Shoes and coats, bags and bums each hop between the ground, the public transport seats and the indoor furnishings, transferring dirt into hands and houses, regrouping on doorknobs and keychains, nestling into the unwashed carpet, and before you know it that smear of dog shit barely traceable on the pavement is inside your house, on the cupboard handles, the cutlery, settling on your food.

That’s why I ensure everything from the outside world arrives through one single, controllable point of entry. Anything that comes in I immediately disinfect.

I dispose of the packaging, and then wash my hands again. I make sure nothing which has touched those outside objects - by chance or by necessity - escapes the decontamination area without cleansing.

And look, you’ve got me side-tracked. Got me talking about the germs and bugs and how I contain them, sounding like I’m some paranoid freak. But it’s quite the opposite. I’ve no fear of that virus. I’ve already defeated it. I’ve stared into its victim’s dying eyes, and remained unscathed.

Don’t worry, I barely really knew the guy. It was sad and all, obviously. He was a good flatmate, did his share of the washing, didn’t disturb me too much. But he had no family, and fewer friends than me.

No one to miss him. Sad, really.

It’s quiet, but at least I’ve got space now. And no I’m not scared, scarred, or traumatised, or anything like that. Sure, it wasn’t pleasant, especially cleanup afterwards. And yes, if he’d gotten to the hospital in time, things could have been different, but they also might not have. I know it’s not my fault.

I’m not scared; I‘m just prepared. I’ve learnt from his mistake. So even if this or some other new disease were to mutate and come back stronger, I have my systems to destroy them. Germs and viruses are no longer a threat to me.

Anyway, that’s not what keeps me inside. Nothing keeps me inside at all. It’s just that I don’t get the point of it any more. The thousand meaningless, draining exchanges: not just with friends who don’t appreciate or listen to you, or with large groups that leave you out, but even those little interactions, rude people on the street, surly drivers nearly running you over, every single micro-transaction of social energy which is really never worth it. I used to suffer through it, on the outside. I thought it was just something you had to do - be seen socialising, travelling, exploring. If I took a weekend to myself - didn’t go to that party I was tacitly invited to, or god forbid one of those New-in-London meetups - I’d be

65 racked with guilt, a sense that I’m wasting my time, suffering from what they used to call the ‘Fear of missing out’.

Then, suddenly, everyone was in the same boat. No one was meeting up, and no one had to. I could reach the real people, the handful of souls I really care about, online - more easily than ever.

I was finally free. So why would I ever stop that now? You should try it. ii Three weeks since the official end of the lockdown, and it’s worse than what I feared. I hadn’t thought everyone else would leave, everyone would betray the new life, even the ones I thought were my equally cautious allies. But my fickle friends, so enamoured by the artificial ‘closeness’ of the outside, flock to bars, to outside meetings, to buses and taxis and trains to the other side of the city, even the country, risking it all for the paltry compensation of in-person interaction - rather than staying in for even an hour to talk to me from the comfort of their own home.

Can’t you see what you had was so much better? No wasting hours travelling in-between, stopping for food, finding activities: all that time devoted just to connection. No need to get dressed up, none of the outside worries of queues and bar fights and interrupting strangers, just us, one-on-one or chosen group, talking together like we’ve all the time in the world.

Apparently not. I reach out, more than I ever had the strength to before, to arrange Zoom calls, facetimes, skypes;

but everyone is out in the sunshine, pubbing or picnicking, far too distracted to settle down in front of a screen.

Even if I beg and plead with them to stay in just one evening, or bring events online, they say the time for that, for staggered conversations and screen time headaches, is over now. Come out, Herm, they say, join us. Why should I endure the journey into that filthy, bustling world?

So now all the other lights have flickered out on my digital throne. I’ve been left adrift in empty cyberspace. But I refuse to turn to the basement nuts of Twitter and Reddit for companionship.

The few people that care enough to throw a solitary text my way say they’re worried. That I should get dressed, eat some more. But why should I bother?

No one really cares, no one really wants to see me.

So that’s why I’m making my final Zoom party tonight. Me, the gin, a warm bath and a razor. Maybe someone will tune in for that.

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. @felehane4

66

The Stranger

by Aya Vandenbussche The Universe was wandering slowly, contemplating its existence, when suddenly it saw a creature outside it.

To say it was surprised would be an understatement. In all its existence, which admittedly might not have been exceptionally long in cosmic terms, was nevertheless a vast one, the Universe never met anything outside itself.

Come to think of it - and the Universe did think of it at that moment - it never considered that anything existed outside its own boundaries.

In fact, up until the moment it saw the creature outside it, it didn’t even realise it had boundaries. It has always thought of itself as infinite. This was quite a shock to the Universe.

The Universe was aware of living creatures within it, they were tiny, they were fleeting, and they were mostly insignificant. It had never seen one. The Universe wasn’t very introspective usually, though recent existential reflections had made it take time to look inwardly, but since it was so big it would have been several millennia, if not longer, before it would begin to consider the life within it.

The creature was unfamiliar to the Universe and it wanted to communicate with it. The only language it knew was mathematics, after all, it was a universal language.

With great virtuosity, the Universe created a mathematical “Hello” to present to the creature. The equation was perfect and beautiful, but the creature was only small. Its brain would probably struggle to grasp the enormity of the Universe, which was constantly expanding, and the magnitude of the mathematical “Hello”.

Whatever the significance of the mathematical “Hello” was, or the size of the Universe, it didn’t seem to have any impact on the creature. The creature didn’t even seem to notice the Universe in front of it. This, the Universe realised, was because of the size of the creature, who could only see an extremely limited part of the Universe, and couldn’t possibly comprehend it. Communication is going to be difficult, thought the Universe.

67 The Universe wished to understand the creature, even if the creature couldn’t understand the Universe. First, the Universe took basic measures of the creature’s dimensions, which wasn’t easy to do since the creature was practically microscopic to the Universe, but it managed to do so without the creature noticing. The Universe was now ready to quantify the creature.

This was the first time the Universe has even known anything other than itself and it pondered the question of quantifying a strange creature. The only point of reference the Universe had was itself and as a subjective Universe, it thought of itself as a quantity of one, being one Universe.

However, and this the Universe considered carefully, it was made of what, until recently, it thought was an infinite number of parts, particles, matter, and energy. Though it was one, the Universe was also many. It examined the creature, thoughtfully.

This creature looks too small to contain many parts, particle, matter and energy, thought the Universe, but perhaps its size is deceiving and it may be made of the kind of stuff that was so small that just as the creature was too small to see the whole Universe, the Universe was too big to see the whole creature.

It considered the matter of communication once more. To allow the creature to grasp the whole Universe, the Universe would have to move several light years away from the creature, it would take the Universe what some would consider an eternity to reach the kind of distance from which the creature would be able to see it, and since the Universe keeps expanding, it would have to keep moving, to remain within the creature’s field of vision. An eternity was not long for the Universe, but it might be a long time for the creature.

With that thought, the Universe took it’s mathematical “Hello” and started the long journey to the distance which will allow the creature to see it.

An eternity and a bit later the creature was long gone. Its distant descendant lifted its head and was astonished to see a whole magnificent Universe and a mathematical equation that equalled “Hello.”

Aya Vandenbussche is a writer, researcher, a consumer of culture and voicer of opinions.

She sometimes makes up words. Born in Israel, Aya graduated from Tel Aviv University with a BA in Film and Television studies. Developing a career as a Camera Assistant in film and TV productions, she moved to London. During that time she started writing.

Aya currently writes short stories and is working on a novel, as well as scripts. @writingbyaya

N O S R A L T R A W E T LAY S

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K Y Z C W A R K A S I L

T T I W R ISHTA

N I A C B JACO

E D I R B C RUTH M S A M O H T C I N I DOM

L A T A G N A M A E TH

70

Patient’s Name: John Lewis

by Thea Mangatal Things are different through the scope of a broken skull.

Through this lens you know, history is not a stair.

Lived Bloody Sunday and saw my efforts annul when he stopped breathing and the others, “They just stared.”

Through this lens you know, history is not a stair, It is a long plain ramp, with small curves and small bends.

When he stopped breathing and the others, they just stared, it reminded me of my skull, how it bended.

It is a long plain ramp, with small curves and small bends: I have asked for my freedom times and times again, (it reminds me of my own skull, how it bended) They gave me a fraction and kept the rest locked then.

I have asked for my freedom times and times again, asked with my speech, I attended cities’ marches, they gave me a fraction and kept the rest locked then, left to amend. They mended my skull with stiches.

Asked with my speech, I attended cities’ marches.

Things are different through the scope of a broken skull.

As an amend, they mended my skull with stiches.

Lived Bloody Sunday and saw my efforts annul.

Illustration by Siria Ferrer

Thea is from France, she studied one year at the University of York where she developed her writing skills. She is still currently a student.

Lately she has been inspired by her grand-mothers’ lives, which has led her to write poems about women’s daily lives, among other topics. @theamgldpr

71

Exotic

by Clay Stewart-Larson I will be brown before I am human.

Shades of delight in the player’s eye, played in a game as twisted as the ankles that held my ancestors.

A colour before known, a tone before a soul.

Afraid to be seen as anything less than pristine, pristine is the colour white.

Exotic just to be your erotic, colonisation of my sensuality.

A shell before the centre, failed to be seen.

Confusions erode identity, a lost place in the world that fails to see me before the colour, the tone before the soul.

Dehumanised by the systematic lies to keep us in line, running the wheel of the race, to keep up another’s fortunes with the price of our own misfortunes.

Clay is a young creative based in Bristol. They study and practice holistic therapies and use artistic outlets as a tool for deeper healing and self-expression. They write from the perspective of a queer person of colour, exploring a variety of topics including, but not limited to; emotional experience, identity, spirituality and the intersectionality between race and the queer experience.

72

Syrian Boy

by Ishtar Witt

Planes over head, you won’t see me pointing up shouting ‘Mummy! Mummy!’

Instead I’m fear filled, everyone’s fled.

Panic and cries, as white Westerners jets rip by, then broadcast who in my family will die 8 years old too scared to look to the sky.

Why? Boom! Ring...

Mummy! Mummy!

Clouds of smoke, the crowds just broke, metal rained down from the heavens up high.

These weapons that fly hit my home.

Bits of foam, walls, chairs, family members and all their prayers, Crushed in the ruble along with Syrian dreams.

See I’m 8 and even I can see the themes, bomb those refugees.

Dust settles, ears stop ringing, Mummy! Mummy!

Shouts the boy from under a pile of his favourite toys.

Through the community’s screams, caught in the breeze, a whisper of opportunity beams.

‘Son it’s me your mother I’m right here don’t worry’.

BOOM RING.....

MUMMY MUMMY! Buried further down under the foundations of his family’s town.

The boy hears nothing.

No longer fears the crushing.

Above, no one remains, the life flow and energy drains, from this boy with vengeance coursing through his veins.

73 Years later those same planes, deliver round after round of the same pain.

While we, over here go crazy over who votes stay or remain.

And preach peace while still scrubbing our hands from the last blood stain.

See I for one can not contain the little boys cries, and I won’t be told to refrain.

Because that boy new love in his ears, moments before his mum was blown away while wiping her tears.

And I bet his family will have to rethink all of his thoughts, but will you put down what you were taught, and re-engage your mind and help stop this onslaught.

MUMMY MUMMY! the boy knows love.

Do you?

Currently living in Skewen, South Wales, Ishtar is a climbing coach and outdoor instructor. Born in France, schooled in mid Wales with teenage years spent in Devon, there has always been plenty of movement in his life. Drawing inspiration for his poetry from his childhood roaming festival fields and living off the land. Turning more towards the inward journey, spiritual connections, truths and mistruths in his newer writings. Hoping to challenge, call people into deeper authenticity and connection, wherever he can. With a baby boy expected this summer he can be found kicking back enjoying the quiet times while

Illustration by Siria Ferrer

74

53206

by Lisa Krawczyk The numbers & fractions that define our reality whirl around us in 2020. The days in quarantine are unnumbered. Those who seek to reopen the city light a flame under us. We follow the numbers where they lead—the delineations of our neighborhoods, an autopsy of power (where is it you won’t go) remain dissected. You don’t know who protects them. Borders in Milwaukee are drawn in blood and an eyeroll of the freeway. 53206. 62%. Ignore it, like the ramp you refuse to take off the Mitchell Interchange. Look. 62% of Black men. Incarcerated.

53206. The highest rate in the country. 62%. One zip code. 53206. The redline where we’re fooled by our fake heritage. The lie of Bad Neighborhoods you’re scared to drive down, and you—locking the car door twice. I-794 the Hoan Bridge loops into I-43, I-94, I-894, a circulation of ramps that seek to draw the blood themselves. There are no Bad Neighborhoods, only the Bad Neighbors we have been. How can we use these numbers, the dollars and cents measured in labor per hour—to act together: Our blood, boiling Milwaukee now is our chance Burn the fucker down

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Lisa Krawczyk is a poet originally from Milwaukee, and is currently quarantined and viciously writing in Philadelphia. Their poetry has been published in Lullwater Review, Esthetic Apostle, Levitate, and has forthcoming publications in the West Review and the Wisconsin Historical Society Press. @urbanheatislander

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Illustration by Siria Ferrer

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75

Target

by Lisa Krawczyk Your neighbor, the big red spot, never asks after your family, or sends a card; & certainly doesn’t pay taxes.

As the hammer is raised you feel the pane of glass shatter. But who’s life is shattered? Your neighbor, a white woman in wheelchair, defends it with a knife—her neighbor. She is blown out with a fire extinguisher as she cries, “Antifa attacked!” She feels a target on her back.

Target, your neighbor, never deals with the pain of a scraped knee, instead develops its own boundary, redline.

What is the feeling to you, the feeling of smashed glass?

76

Cummings

by Jacob Cain

I get anxious when I watch any TV shows, as nobody is socially distancing Everything was made before the pandemic.

I get anxious when I go out for walks, as nobody is socially distancing Is it because they were made before the pandemic?

I am struggling to cum Because of Dominic Cummings I mainly just sit on a chair so much that my back hurts while I don’t do any work Then I lay on my bed so much that my back hurts while I don’t do any work, Then I feel guilty of not doing any work so I go back to sit on the chair until my back hurts.

I bought press on nails to make myself feel more queer at home but I haven’t put them on yet as I am depressed and I make too much bread. Only because I eat too much bread.

I hate zooms for work but I don’t mind them to see my friends or to dance or to do something that isn’t eating or reading or pretending to work.

Some of my housemates hate zooms for work and hate zooms for everything else.

I hate going out for anything but to do shopping once a fortnight, because that’s when I feel the most normal but I also hate going out for anything else because we shouldn’t be.

Some of my housemates hate going out to do shopping as there are too many people, but they like going out for reasons they probably shouldn’t as that is what makes them feel the most normal.

I feel like the government love that we are all self-policing and shaming each other but I also feel that people who go out too much are selfish.

I want to feel like I can be mad, because I am, but I know I just need to be mad at the government for allowing there to be any grey space apart from stay indoors.

I wish the guidance was to stay alert for Tories.

Will I be able to cum once Dominic Cummings resigns.

Jacob is a Cornwall born; Bristol based support worker and sometime poet. He supports disabled children and adults to navigate the complex benefit system, and he also supports LGBTQ+ youth for the charity OTR. In his writing he likes to explore his relationship with his own mental health and queerness and how that affected him growing up in a small town; but most recently the coronavirus pandemic has reignited his desire to write. Outside of work, he finds himself most relaxed when he is in water. @cobipoetry

77

Hill Walking

by Dominic Thomas

I climb a hill for peace, twice a week if possible I oversee the houses in their rows and the to’s and fro’s of seagulls in the wind I watch the daily walking of the dogs the fathers, mothers, girl and their dog trailing along.

I smell the spontaneous, midweek barbecue for two, in the gardens with the honey suckle and hydrangeas, grown around the skipping ropes that lie like flat snakes I see the beauty all around me clutching for breath, among all of that which holds it down.

I see nature in urbanity the pets, the bees, the plants, the trees spring up among the alleys and the scrap heaps and the litter, and the patios, and the decking, and the foldable chairs I see nature, like myself stifled by an urban heat and so I climb a hill for peace, twice a week.

Dominic is a writer from south Wales, who currently works as a librarian. He spent the last three years living in Spain, where he taught English and wrote a lot about Wales. He is the co-founder of VAINE, along with his long-suffering partner Siria. Aside from poetry, he also writes songs and scripts. He hopes to one day write a “Welsh Trainspotting” or make an album that’s “as good as Definitely Maybe” @d.thomas.writing

78

Photo Booth

by Ruth McBride 9 months on and some days it’s a fresh as newly laid tarmac.

Choking fumes and watery sunken eyes, Did I know that photo would be our last?

I think I did. I still made us take it.

Taken then to be able to look at now?

Torture at 1:36am; a prolonged stare at the black and white.

But I was wearing orange that night.

I held the hammer, felt the weight and heard your heart crack.

Haunted by its deep echo, bouncing around the walls of my chest.

Made a mosaic of the pieces.

The mural a reminder of perfect betrayal.

You wouldn’t be able to tell by my reaction, but I was in bits.

Pieces, parts; that mural has fragments of us both, Bound by measly determination then, and hiraeth now.

9 months on I still hold the hammer.

Was it Too Real for me?

You knew it before I did.

Illustration by Siria Ferrer Ruth McBride has lived in Wales for the majority of her life. She uses the landscape, relationships and people’s experiences to write her verses.

Poetry is her way to process, but also offer a space reflect and connect.

If she isn’t writing poetry, she’s walking the countryside or playing music @ruthmcbridepoetry

The editors would like to give special thanks to James Dawson, Mehdi Bensalah and all the contributors for the support in bringing the magazine to life.

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

All rights reserved

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