COBALT March 16 by Cobalt Magazine

SPRING

2016 FEATURING

PUT A SPRING IN YOUR STEP COBALT’S NEW EXEC PHOTOGRAPHY ARTICLES POETRY FICTION AND MORE

MAR 16

ISSUE 5 CONTENTS

Contributors 004 Editorial 005

Put a spring in your step 006-007 “Singapore” - 008-009 photography

“Mussel Memory” 010-011 A Paper Aeroplane 012-013 “in moments such as 014-015 these” “After Rain” 016-017

1000 WORDS - 018-029 photography showcase Meet your new exec 030-031 “I remember her last day” 032-033 + photography WUDS Wuthering Heights 034-035 Professional wrestling 036-039 Poetry by Alick McCallum 040-41

All images reused with permissio

Fiction by Harry Puttock 042-043

“Time Like This” 044-045 “Song of America” 046-047 Boys can pay with dolls 048-049 too “The moon is lovely 050-051 tonight” Me Without You + 052-053 photography “Ash-pile” 054-055

on of owner or licensed for reuse

“The time he 056-057 contemplated death” The Horse 058-059 “Surrender” 060-061 Look who’s back 062-063 The Milkman 064-065 “Birdwatching” 066-067 sleeplesspoetess blog 068-69 “manin densche” 070-071 photography

CONTRIBUTORS

Ahlam Al-Abbasi • Gemma Albin • Azfa Awad • Mehma Bagga • Chris Baker • Sofia Benincasa • Dominic Blaquiere • Abi Browning • Moniva Bv • Kambole Campbell • Hannah Campling • Frederick Chen • Katie Hall • Zoe Harrington • Ellie Hastings • Kristen Helmick • Hebe Hewitt • Jess Holt • Angela Huang • Joanna Jakubowska • Jessica Kazmin • Lee Min Hui • Alick McCallum • Hope McGee • Abbie Neale • Sophie Petrie • Harry Puttock • Carrie Roberts-Martinez • Elena Sandu • Agneh Raj Sikka • Howard Smith • Armani Syed • Sophie Teer • Radu Vlad • Lizzy Yarwood • Jonny Young • Irene Zahariadis

EDITORIAL T his is it. The last Cobalt Magazine issue that I will

make. I reckon I’ll be meddle with upcoming issues (I just won’t be able to help myself, so sorry in advance to the new exec for that!) but, officially at least, this is the end. What with submissions, editing, exec elections, formatting, the launch party, and the new issue coming out, I’ve been drawn back into this publication and I am absolutely gutted to be leaving it behind when I graduate in the summer. It has been a huge part of my university experience and I have met so many amazing people. We have grown from an idea to an online magazine to a society and beyond, building a community of creative thinkers and artists from all over campus. The amount of interest for the new exec posts last week made me feel crazy emotional – it’s amazing to

see that so many people have the same level of love and commitment for this project as I have. We started in my Rootes bedroom in February 2014, and we just had one hundred and fifty four individual voters deciding the future of this magazine. Last year we had thirty. Now that’s what I call progress. You can see the smiling, friendly faces of our new exec on page 30 - they’re going to do an excellent job. This issue of Cobalt is the biggest we’ve ever had, weighing in at 72 pages in total. We’ve got Jonny Young filling us in on the important stuff in life as always (page 36). We’ve got a review of WUDS’ week 8 show Wuthering Heights alongside an interview with the director (page 34). We’ve got aweinspiring photography and

poetry coming out of our ears (or pages). There are short stories and flash fictions, lifestyle pieces tailored to spring and the onslaught that is term 3 (page 6), and everything is packaged in the usual top-shelf design and layout. We’ve tried to mix it up a bit with some new graphics, but it’s still the Cobalt you know and (hopefully) love! All that’s left to do now, I suppose, is to thank each and every one of the people on the opposite page, as well as you, dear reader, without whom none of this would be possible. You all inspire me every day and it is because of you that Cobalt Magazine has a future at all. Thank you. Now, I’m off to the launch party tonight in the basement of The Robbins’ Well. I should be pretty easy to spot - I’ll be the one hugging everybody and crying as I shove cake in my mouth. Lots of love, your president (for a teeny bit longer, anyway)...

put a S P R I NourGst y in

Sure, it’s cold outside, it’s still ra that doesn’t mean we have to p still winter! Here’s our guide to g spring feeling - look out for th icon throughout the issue for p we think will put a spring in

Every season, Pantone brings out a colour palette - well, we've done the same, and we’ve named them too!

Moleskine notebook in underwater blue BEST for revision notes

aining, but pretend itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s getting that he SPRING pieces that your step!

SanDisk 32GB Extreme USB 3.0 BEST for essay storage and backup

et p

TOP 4 Alibi sparkling blueberry BEST for maintaining focus without caffeine

Oclock OCNW03 in capri blue BEST FOR watching the clock

> THE SOUND - THE 1975

playlist

Switch up your sound

> WORRY - JACK GARRATT > HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE - JONES > FREQUENCY - BIELFIELD > THE SILENCE - CLAUDIA KANE > RUN - TIGGS DA AUTHOR > LUSH LIFE - ZARA LARSSON

SINGAPORE I struggle to write an introduction of any kind for this series of photographs, SINGAPORE. It’s a collection of 30 photographs extremely dear to me, & which I never really intended to submit. I took each of these photographs during my -final3 months back home before coming over to the UK specifically because I wanted to consolidate particular memories that would remind me of my favorite places & neighborhoods back home if & when I got homesick! As its turned out, I’ve only had to scroll through this album about 2 or 3 times so far; I think I’ve done quite well in that respect haha! My other motivation for this project, which is perhaps more provocative (I hope), was the inundation of photos showcasing Singapore’s city skyline in 2015 in celebration of SG50 (Singapore celebrated her 50th birthday last year just as Warwick did!). I don’t have anything against this, I absolutely love it! Somehow, though, it just doesn’t sit well with me that so many of us were only interested in celebrating the cosmopolitan, third world to first successes of our country on this special occasion. Singapore is much more than the Infinity Pool atop the Marina Bay Sands Casino, the ‘Best Airport in the World’ Changi Airport or the artificial beaches dotted across Sentosa Island. It’s about the heartland neighborhoods with the sand playgrounds (all but one has been replaced with new rubber playgrounds today unfortunately ): ) we grew up playing in & getting sand in our eyes every other evening, the illegal red light districts which every true blue Singaporean knows serve up the best hawker food in the country, and the ‘kopi’ (Malay for Coffee) uncle making coffee at five in the morning, every morning. These snapshots represent my interpretations of what’s truly & uniquely Singaporean. I hope they provide glimpses into the Singaporean way of life that I know & treasure ever so dearly.

See the full collection at cobaltmagazineblog.wordpress.com

Frederick Chen

MUSSEL MEMORY a poem by

Lizzy Yarwood

Wretching, that's what it sounded like mussels twisted off petrol rocks, strands of matted rope snapping in completely, trails of crumbling teeth like salt and pepper ground on rocks swept up into plastic bags for dinner. The inky, cornflower petals boil in briny cider opening up to soft wet breasts of marigold. Their brittle black crusts spread apart, beetle wings, litter the table amid sopping hunks of bread, wet, and orange fleshy buds melting on my tongue. Sitting in a pen of cloned tables, picking at insipid mussels is not the same as slipping sliding across moist rocks hung with green seaweed salt drops in my eyes. (Perhaps a mussel will never again slither across my tongue, since The smell of the waning world fills my nostrils, but I can lie on my bed and savour this.)

A PAPER AEROPLANE by

Chris Baker

12 24

Lewis sat patiently beside his window. The sky was getting darker. He could just make out the vapour trails of distant aeroplanes. He traced them with his finger. Behind him, scattered about on the floor were coloured pencils and torn sheets of construction paper. The smell of dinner wafted up from the kitchen beneath him. Broccoli. Lewis hated broccoli. ‘Come down, Lewis. It’s time for dinner!’ He drummed his fingers on the windowsill. ‘Lewis!’ Reluctantly, he rose and went downstairs. He diligently ate his greens and then returned to the window. The vapour trails were gone. The sky was almost black. He waited. * The snow had risen halfway up the front door. Mia had been snowed in for a week now. Her family were running out of food. She had eaten canned vegetables for dinner for the past two days. Mia hated canned vegetables. She sat on her bed, huddled in her duvet, listening to the radio. Her room was on the second story of their little house. She had filled it with thousands of drawings. She looked at them all, the little sketches pinned to her walls and ceiling. There was one patch of visible wallpaper which she spotted, just above the window frame. She ought to fill it, she thought. She picked up her sketchbook and a pencil from her bedside table. The wind howled outside… No ideas came. A thud at the window. Mia looked around and saw something fluttering on the other side of the windowpane. It leapt and danced as the wind pulled it this way and that. She dropped her sketchbook and pencil and ran to the window, opening it quickly and pulling the object in through the crack. She shut it. In her hand was a paper aeroplane. It had unfolded slightly. She scurried back to her bed, got beneath the covers and began to peel it open. Written there in coloured pencil was an address. It was in London. She had only ever seen London on the television. Beneath the address was a sentence: ‘Come quick! Bring pudding!’ Mia had an idea. She picked up her sketchbook and began to draw a house with a boy beside it. When it was finished, she pinned the picture above her window. * It was Christmas. Lewis’ mother had made Brussels sprouts. She brought them to the table. Lewis smiled. He hated Brussels sprouts. He was happy though. Work had allowed him to take a few days off during Christmas to be with his mother. ‘Your Dad loved these,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been too fond of them myself.’ She looked wistfully into the sprouts, and then set them on the table. ‘Dig in,’ she said. There was a knock at the door. His mother sighed. ‘I’ll get it,’ Lewis said. He rose and walked to the porch. His back had started to ache when he walked. He opened the door. ‘Hello,’ said Mia. ‘Hello,’ said Lewis. She was holding a paper aeroplane. Lewis remembered making it long ago. ‘…I brought pudding,’ she said.

in moments such as these a poem by Radu C Vlad

press your right ear against the cool unyielding sand i will cover your left with a shadowy palm and it will yield like never before like a casual sea shell you pluck from the noon tide like a gramophone too old to ring a novel chord within you can you hear the white smiles of a dark sea in the pitch black night the tiny looming fish across the rainbow coloured reef or the tall athletic people whose hurried gait leaves craters within that ruddy ear of yours in moments such as these do not tell me that you miss the snow which spreads from heart to heart in winter like christmas lights over the city rooftops the only lights today must be your fingers they cling to the sand in an eternal process of never letting go their purring noise is simple and rewarding if i were to ask you what are you thinking about you would be annoyed so i shut up and mingle my own thoughts with the fragrance of this salty place and watch with closing eyes the horizon drawing closer until it swallows the boundary beneath our lazy bodies the boundary between what might never last and what might never be

after rain The dark, soft soil that I step onto in the woods is like a freshly made chocolate cake. Strewn on the earth lie limp leaves, too saturated still to twist in cartwheels and chase each other in the rising breeze. The wind shakes branches and dozens of pearls echoes of the cloudburst drop onto freshly washed hair and a rustling waterproof. I wander down my familiar path, the trees bent from the weight of sodden buds, oval water-green emeralds shifting, sometimes, to reveal a blue-white canvas a watercolour base, waiting for the sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rays to dry it out for paintings new.

a poem by

Lizzy Yarwood

17 photography: Kambole Campbell

r Inspired? Garnaybpyhooune camera (oerra will work) with a camsnapping this and get

SPRING

worth 1000 words

We have chosen our favourite photograph, displayed in all its beauty, to showcase each artist. To see the full collections (and you absolutely should, they are stunning), see our blog.

featuring...

Howard Smith Kambole Campbell Hope McGee Agneh Raj Sikka 19

Elena Sandu

Howard Smith

see more of Howardâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work at cobaltmagazineblog.wordpress.com

Kambole Campbell

see more of Kamboleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work at c o b a l 23 tmagazineblog.wordpress.com

Hope McGee

see more of Hopeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work at cobaltmagazineblog.wordpress.com

Agneh Raj Sikka

see more of Agnehâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work at cobaltmagazineblog.wordpress.com

Elena Sandu

see more of Elenaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work at cobaltmagazineblog.wordpress.com

FORMATTING

E D I S E R P

Simran Sandhu

Zoe Ha

r e r u s Trea

M E Y O N E E X

Aisha Zahid

EDITING

Karisma

Jess Holt

MED PUBL

ENT

Y H P A R G O PHOT

arrington

Frederick Chen

Y R A T E SECR

E T U R E W E C

Adam Levy

EVENTS

a Rajurkar

DIA & LICITY

Gemma Albin

SPRING vibes

I remember her last day vividly. It was a cool afternoon, and the soft breeze lingered just slightly in that little clearing. Surrounded by pear trees on every side and sunlight that dipped against the horizon and painted the sky pink, purple, and orange as the swallows chirped happily, twittering along above us. The dew from the grass was tugging at my shirt as I lay back off the beaten path and breathed a deep breath of silence in, then looking lightly over at her, half a metre away to find her searching the painted sky for some empty verse that could never come when asked. The bitter-sweet smell of bonfire was light on the air, drifting lackadaisically through the afternoon scene like some memory of the past, now transient and untouchable. She stayed, staring almost blankly at the sky, so I turned back to look at the little pond on the other side of the cobblestone path. The water, though I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see it now, was always bright and clear, reflecting the unperturbed skies above, cloud or shine. Occasionally, a small fish would jot up to the surface, causing ripples of colour to echo across the pond. You were never sure to find one in there though, since they couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be prompted to appear by bread or call, and would appear by chance, so as if to appear unobtainable, despite being there the entire time. The pond shimmered often, moved by some other gust of wind, but always seemed to regain its composure, steady and calm. She sat up and I looked over, lost in the tangle of thoughts that pooled inside the lone tear tracking its way down her face. I got up, treading gently over to her, forgetting the pond now and glancing furtively towards the path before reaching her. I smiled as softly as I could as I held her hands, soft as ever and pale as ice. I looked up into her light green eyes and kissed her then. She smiled at me, the tear dropping down to join the dew on the newly sown grass and walked off down the path without me.

a poem by

Dominic Blaquiere 32

photography: Howard Smith

INTERVIEW WITH THE DIRECTOR

I met up with Director, Lottie Titcombe, in week 8 to talk over her production of Wuthering Heights with the WUDS team of cast and crew. She told me all about her excitement for the show and about a new way of ‘reading’ Emily Brontë’s novel. Working on April De Angelis’ dramatization from the classic novel, Lottie and her team had a lot pack into the Arts Centre Studio! She started off by telling me how she came to decide on the choice of Wuthering Heights for the WUDS show. Starting with a love of the novel and interest in Brontë’s world between the Heights and Thrushcross Grange, Lottie wanted to challenge the concept of student drama and classical adaptation with a promenade performance (where the action takes place in and around the venue and audience, with no set stage). She has extensive experience with WUDS and Codpiece here at Warwick, as well as the National Youth Theatre, all of which have spurred her on to apply for a funding application in term one this year. Since then, the show has developed and grown into a fully-fledged production. Once a budget had been agreed, the creative process kicked off by trying to decide on how best to set the whole of the Yorkshire moors into the Arts Centre Studio. Using a promenade style, they could utilise all the space and challenge the audience to re-imagine their own preconceptions of a world-renowned story (without just revising Kate Bush’s haunting melody). Music was a big part of the show, with an original student-composed soundtrack worked on by Ellie Popham in collaboration with the director and producer. Lottie built on her interest in Brontë’s world by researching adaptations and films (cue the 2009 mini-series with Tom Hardy - now that’s what I call research!). With an intense structure of rehearsal days and lots of extra work with fundraising and interviews (Cobalt included, obviously!) Lottie and her team were incredibly busy setting up for performance week. But of course, an interview of any adaptation of Wuthering Heights has to include details on the beloved Cathy and Heathcliff, played by Rosie Shufflebotham and Sam Kirby respectively. The lead couple of this ensemble group have a long friendship outside of the show world, which allowed the whole team to produce a love story with plenty of chemistry. Lottie wanted to encourage her audience to enter the studio with open minds and a willingness to experience a new Wuthering Heights. Her project was a huge challenge to take on and compromises had to be made, but with the crew and cast’s unending energy, passion, and interest for the performance, the outcome was worth all the work. This is a show that encouraged all levels of preconceptions to be challenged and explored - to find out more about WUDS and all of their past and future productions, head over to their profiles on Facebook and Twitter.

Abi Browning

Heathclif Cathy- Rosie Edgar-Ral Young CathyNelly- Ha Mr Lockwoo Hindley/Haret Joseph/Mr Lin Frances/Mar Isabella/Zill

CAST

ff- Sam Kirby e Shufflebotham lph McKeever - Tansy Parkinson anna Panton od-Max Kennedy ton- Ed Butterfield nton- Nat Norland ry-Maud Haddon lah- Emily Taylor

WUTHERING HEIGHTS Wed 2 - Sat 5 Mar 2016 REVIEW Armani Syed WUDS brought a sinister taste of the North to the Midlands in their stage adaptation of Emily Bronteâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Wuthering Heights. For a novel that is so rich in detail, it was impressive to see how they had prioritised the story to satisfy the time constraints of the stage. Through interjections of monologues from Nelly, Lockwood, and Heathcliff, we kept up with the lengthier passages of the novel while remaining invested in the story. It was through the use of free space where the play truly became interesting. Audience members were free to roam the area and even follow characters to truly gauge the minute details of the play that interested them most. Whilst this resulted in brief moments of cast-audience collision, thi smoothed out as the play continued. If I were to be picky, the show might have benefitted from a more creative use of set dressing - the moor was recreated with a strip of AstroTurf and scattered leaves, with vines around the room to pay tribute to the novelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s themes of nature. However, the well-furnished domestic components that made up the Heights and the Grange were a nice touch that balanced out the simplicity of the moor. Sound and lighting also helped to recreate the isolated atmosphere. The play boasted a live soundtrack, using both instruments and singers. This built suspense, complemented emotive moments, and further impressed audience members. Wuthering Heights is a novel that has some pretty lengthy passages to build an emotional response from its audience, and this would have been a lot more difficult without the non-diegetic sound. With all the obstacles that a student production faces, be it time, money or resources, the show remained innovative and captivating, and certianly transported us from Warwick Arts Centre on an average weekday to the stormy Yorkshire Moors.

Jonny Young

A WORD ON...

Why I watch professional wrestling

ome things can be hard to explain; quantum physics, the offside rule, why some women go to the bathroom in small herds. Do they need moral support? Are there bodyguards? Is there some complicated hive mind thing going on where their minds automatically flip to BATHROOM mode like a weird urinary Roomba? Anyway... One thing that’s often been the trickiest to explain, however, is what the appeal of professional wrestling is. While still popular on TV and in pop culture, it’s never quite managed to shake off some of the stigma associated with it over the years. “It’s a combat sport without the competition,” some decry. “It’s stupid, gross and fake,” others calumniate. “Where’s my sandwich,” asks Bob. To these diverse and varyingly valid arguments I give this answer - that’s the point. Professional wrestling is not supposed to be a sport; it’s a wildly varied circus stunt show dressed up as the already ludicrous world of professional boxing mixed with car crash American TV, and your sandwich is in your lunchbox Bob. Where else would it be? Because it’s a predetermined ‘sport’, wrestling shows are a unique kind. They can essentially tell any story they want as long as it ends in two people throwing each other over their heads and into tables. Wrestling characters are by and large fairly simple, denoted as either a “heel” (bad guy) or “babyface” (good guy), with a few marketable character quirks around it to “get over with” (get a reaction from) the crowd. These “gimmicks”, as they’re known, include the red and yellow “Hulkamania” of Hulk Hogan, Kurt Angle the Olympic gold medallist, and literally every part of John Cena’s clothing, vocabulary and anatomy. This way, it becomes fairly easy to get people to care about two people having a fight - the heel does something horrible to the babyface/his friends/his

family/his gerbil or whatever. The babyface wants revenge. You see them fighting for a month or so.Then they have a big blowoff match. You get to make a load of money and roll around in it like Scrooge McDuck in the Federal Reserve. Perhaps the two most influential and memorable storylines occurred roughly opposite each other in two different promotions in the late 90s; namely the rise of the nWo (New World Order) in WCW and the ‘Stone Cold’ Steve Austin vs Mr McMahon feud in WWF. The success of these angles led, in no small part, to the most profitable period of professional wrestling there has ever and possibly will ever be. The former was a genuine revelation for the industry, debuting a small band of invaders who wanted to take down the company from within and who were booked as unstoppable badasses, beating every challenger to a pulp without much resistance. It introduced the world to “cool heels” (they wore black leather, beat everyone up and had awesome entrance music), turned Hulk Hogan heel for the first time in his career and built up the inevitable babyface victory over them. It was possible to make a new star in one night just from that feat. Naturally, that moment would never actually arrive as a result of backstage politics, and they watered the concept down and made it meaninglessness by adding a million people to the gang. Still, the beginning of the angle was red hot and the main catalyst for WCW managed to pretty much double WWFs ratings for most of the year. Austin v McMahon was what swung it back in the other direction, along with WCW becoming astonishingly atrocious after the quality plummeted at a rate that any respectable plane crash would call a bit dramatic. The story was based on the frustrations of its major audience,

that being lower class working Americans, where Steve Austin played the angry frustrated blue collar worker trying to constantly get one over on his vile hateable boss. This featured many memorable scenes, including filling McMahon’s sports car with cement. The two men involved played their characters perfectly, becoming genuine megastars in the industry. Steve Austin’s catchphrases are chanted by fans at WWE events to this day. Other great angles have revolved around relationships. Such as the time a very real backstage affair was made public in the form of Matt Hardy and Edge feuding over Lita. Or the famous breakup of the Mega Powers, with Randy Savage becoming over-paranoid about Hulk Hogan’s blossoming relationship with Savage’s valet Elizabeth, subsequently turning heel on his tag partner. Shawn Michaels v Chris Jericho started due to a simple dispute over

match tactics. Hogan v Andre the Giant started only because Andre wanted to beat up the Hulkster. All of these feuds are very fondly remembered, and feature motives no more confusing than “I think you’re being a bit of a dick”. These are all rather simplistic ways of writing storylines but have been proven to work. However, given that wrestling companies are generally run by billionaire carnies with the emotional intelligence of a satsuma, the people in charge can sometimes get bored of normalcy and instead do something bugger nuts ballistic. For instance, there was that time a giant turkey thing hatched out of an egg halfway through the same show an undead wizard/ zombie/gravedigger man made his debut. This “undertaker”, as some called him, would go on to become one of the biggest ever stars in professional wrestling and, in addition to that, a pop culture icon; despite having a midlife crisis where he fell madly in love with motorbikes and started wearing leather vests and bandanas. Thankfully, the turkey didn’t last the month. This is where the car crash nature of wrestling comes in - wrestling ability is certainly a large factor, but fan interest in a feud will only really ignite because of the storytelling. While a good story can make for amazing programming, a bad story becomes amazing for completely different reasons. Some infamously awful examples: two Mexican best friends beating each other up with ladders to decide who got custody of a small child; a man climbing into a casket to shag a mannequin before holding up some goo and saying ‘I screwed her brains out’; the current WWE power couple initially getting together by one drugging, kidnapping and

marrying the other without their consent; a Viagra on a Pole match; a tag match where one of the participants is God; an old woman giving birth to a hand; a man being buried in a desert in Nevada for several months; the male tag team champions at one point consisting of a wrestler and his mother; a tournament where more points were awarded for kidnapping an audience member than winning a match; a character called Mr Ass whose gimmick is exactly what you think it is; a Hog Pen match wherein the winner is the first to throw his opponent into a pig pen filled with mud and shit; and a reverse battle royal, where everyone started outside the ring and raced to get in it. How that match managed to last more than 3 seconds I have no idea. While this sort of writing can be entertaining in retrospect, however- now that there are at least 5 hours a week of WWE programminghaving to sit through all the inane gibberish can be delicately referred to as a mind numbing chore. This, combined with an incredibly stubborn

management that seems to actively enjoy doing precisely the opposite of what fans want, can be frustrating and

often boring: such as the current attempt to “push” (make fans warm to) Roman Reigns as the next big hero character despite him looking like a greasy Expendables villain and being the least talented of a very well regarded trio. Roman’s push has been going on for about 16 months now and hasn’t started to look like it’s working. He has the charisma of a large plank of wood with a drawing of “The Rock’s” face glued on it upside down. He has about three moves, one of which is called the god damn Superman Punch, and he gets to wear bulletproof armour in his matches for some reason. This last part is a rather apt metaphor for how management is treating him at the moment, and the fans have repeatedly voiced their disapproval at WWEs recent picks for main event talent. Due to the clashing styles of PG13 TV and management not being able to evolve their ideas beyond things done twenty years ago when you could show boobs and poop on screen and nobody cared, the WWE is currently in a lean period of too much empty predictable nothingness happening on their shows.

Luckily, it’s not the only game in town - promotions like Ring of Honor, New Japan and Lucha Underground have had room to breathe away from mainstream attention and corporate sponsors, and have turned out much the better for it. Lucha Underground isn’t really a wrestling show. It’s headed by Robert Rodriguez, of all people, and portrays a strange noir Aztec meta-show (it’s a TV show about a wrestling show, for all intents and purposes), played relatively straight but with a knowing Grindhouse-esque mentality about how ridiculous the whole thing is. There’s a phoenix, a dragon, the living embodiment of death itself, and a man called Prince Puma who’s spirit animal is the jaguar. It’s oddly brilliant, and something completely different to the often flavourless corporate WWE. You may have noticed I’ve barely mentioned the act of physically wrestling in this article. Put simply, most modern wrestlers are fantastic. While the overall shift from “do things that don’t hurt but look like they do” to “hurt yourself immensely but pretend you’re fine” is generally a bad thing, both for the wrestler’s health and the minds of the audience, wrestling nowadays is a much more athletic venture than in the 80s and 90s. People like Chris Jericho, Daniel Bryan and CM Punk help to shift the tide away from immobile giants like King Kong

Bundy and The Great Khali, with a new emphasis on mat moves and technical grappling. It’s almost as if you should be good at wrestling to be a professional wrestler, and not just be really really really tall. The best wrestlers need more than just moves, however; legends like Shawn Michaels, Bret ‘The Hitman’ Hart, Ric Flair and The Undertaker know it’s a constant performance from the moment you enter the arena to the moment you leave, and all the little things such as facial expressions, body language, and selling moves to make them look more dangerous than they are make you forget it’s all predetermined and they’re not actually trying to hurt each other. Watching a match often requires significant suspension of disbelief, especially when a lot of moves are set up by one wrestler not being able to stop running, but when you’re invested in a match it can be exhilarating. The recent blossoming of women’s wrestling with the help of NXT can only be good for the business as well, and makes for a fantastic change from the damn Bra and Panties matches that were prevalent only a decade ago. So back to the title; why do I watch professional wrestling? Well, I watch it to see impressive physical feats of strength and endurance. I watch it to be engrossed in storylines, both wacky and serious. I watch it to see what’s coming next for my favourite wrestlers. I watch it because it’s a pantomime, a comic book, a soap opera with powerslams, almost a parody

of sports in general. It often gets looked down upon, sometimes for extremely good reasons. But I watch it, basically, because it’s fun. Oh and Brock Lesnar’s fucking massive. Recommended matches: The Undertaker v Shawn Michaels, Wrestlemania 25 (2009) The best match I’ve ever seen. No words will do it justice, just go watch it. Samoa Joe v Chris Daniels v AJ Styles, TNA Unbreakable (2005) If only TNA had kept up with this sort of thing instead of the Dupp Cup. One of the best three way matches of all time. Bayley v Sasha Banks, NXT TakeOver: Respect (2015) The first ever Iron Woman match, and a modern classic. TLC2, Wrestlemania 17 (2001) Absolute carnage from start to finish with some classic spots that will live long in the memory. Fabulous mayhem. CM Punk v John Cena, Money in the Bank (2011) While the match was brilliant, it’s worth mentioning just for the crowd’s reactions alone. CM Punk saved WWE in 2011. Mankind v The Undertaker Hell In A Cell, King Of The Ring (1998) If you still think wrestling doesn’t hurt because it’s fake, watch this match. How Mick Foley is still alive is a mystery. Not one for the squeamish.

The bigge st match of happenin g in Dalla the year is s on April 3 so if you r like what you’ve he d, here, you ard can watch it live this

SPRING

irretrievable slumber and eyelids propped open – two occupied pupils – the curved upper globe even asleep blood tributaries stream away

November breeze shifts abroad a lonely spindle spinning regretful thread a one way ticket unravels in the homeland

i saw with no eyes the sense that – minus? just a distance closer than is far a starving child found water that he could not drink

this odious night where a gale sings

i see only one chestnut un-withered in this gone past summer experience decay and decay tomorrow again

when dawn spits out one more day a hen erupts and curdles on the floor

parched without water

i am caesura, stopped breaking the twig with too much

sometimes i wish for enjambment the flesh of a tree branches never in

a river stumbles over the cobbled course of a bridge desperate not to fall into the soil below smoke escapes from meat thimble grey like grit – clouds

an unexplained leaf falling from a skyscraper itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feathers give leave to the wind

three fishes swam up the anaemic river only one fish swam back and I remembered Russian dolls

flying shards like glass of trees metal crustaceans in rain houseless homeless litter on the streets

I open up a newspaper and read cement setting over the page

I sit One world away now, looking As continents collide; An ejaculate of firelight Just out of reach Of reaching arm And desperate mind; A diagnosed heart.

poetry by

Alick McCallum

I We stood in line. Facing the light. Ignoring the hum of the dark. The more it hummed the more we stared. The more we stared the more it hummed. We stood in line. Our eyes filled with light. The light should. The darkness shouldn’t. A difference. Dark was not light. Difference meant distance. So bright we can’t hear. We said. So light I can’t see. I thought.

III “What do you think about the dark?” I said. “I think,” they said, “it’s there”. I smiled. My periphery gave way and it all took shape for me. Dancing. The light on the dark. The dark on the light. I could see. They felt it too.

When they started to sing. I knew the words. That hum became our song. It swayed in the silence; light found life in the dar It wasn’t long before more of them dropped their A thousand voices that knew. They felt it too. It all feels closer.

II I drop my head. Sometimes. I shouldn’t. But it’s too bright. All that empty white. There was a hum. I know it’s there. Our eyes filled with light. This time, they’ve dropped their head too. Like I do. Sometimes. They shouldn’t. They’ve never done it before. Any of them. We stood in line. They turn to face it. They know it’s there. They shouldn’t. But it’s fine, actually. I know it’s there. I turn to face it. I shouldn’t. But it’s fine, actually. It all feels closer.

V We thought it shouldn’t be, you see, because it wasn’t too light. But it’s easier to see without your eyes filled with white. Should and shouldn’t became were. The emptiness fell away. It all became one.

rk.

Tinnitus became birdsong.

heads, and started to sing.

by 43

Harry Puttock

Time Like This a poem by

Azaf Awad

They say... You will never have time like this. To lay on your back, and watch the clouds kiss each other. To admire the baby-blue of the sky and measure the exact angle that branches are tilted at when it's winter, and the trees are naked and raw; and you are naked and raw.

It's a winter afternoon in late December, the sky is blue, and I feel like I am inside a painting of an endless summer sky. Tell me, is it possible to be afraid of yourself? To be scared of your own shadow and how fast and thick your heart beats when you think of tomorrow? If you answered 'yes', then that is why you are afraid of greatness. Your greatness. You are shit-scared of your own pulse. You want to live, but petrified to dive into what it means to be alive. Of water rushing through your nose at a speed your lungs haven't been trained to breathe at. They say... You will never have time like this. To lay on your back, and watch the clouds dissapear. And the origami wings of birds float with a rigidness only planes know, and then bend again, and flap, and bend again, and rest. Fully trusting the arms of the sky, to hold them up.

SONG OF AMERICA

God help the girl cigarette She has come to look fo (We will be Free in A Open your thighs She has come to Instead she fo Open your Life hyp Instea Dri L

a poem by

Jessica Kazmin

e dangling or America America) for mercy for fate o look for America ound him with Tennessee bourbon r thighs for mercy for fate permagical nothing will hurt ad she found him with Tennessee bourbon ink down the medicine savour the void Life hypermagical nothing will hurt Mad hustling kids are never alone Drink down the medicine savour the void Please don’t go my country ‘tis of you Mad hustling kids are never alone Discarded and broken, liberty is mute Please don’t go my country ‘tis of you (We will be Free in America) Discarded and broken, liberty is mute God help the girl cigarette dangling

BOYS CAN PLAY WITH DOLLS TOO I

recently stumbled across this question a mother posted to an online forum: “MY SIX YEAR OLD SON WANTS A DOLL’S HOUSE. WHAT DO I DO? Hi. I just want advice. I have 4 boys but have never had this question! My 6 year old wants a doll’s house; is this ok? I said it’s ok but his dad said no so I don’t want him teased but I think he should choose what he plays with. Please help anyone????” Unfortunately, I was not surprised by her predicament. The problem – which is most certainly not that a boy wants to play with a doll’s house – is that we are still so confined to restrictive gender roles, so much so that the people who are brought up to believe in these roles then enforce them upon their own children, particularly in buying gender specific toys. Why shouldn’t a boy play with Barbie or a girl play with a Hot Wheels racing car? If not the parents, who may inadvertently be participating in the ‘vicious cycle’ by expecting certain genders to behave in certain ways, then the culture and societal pressure we are surrounded by has influenced kids. Some girls do not want others to know they like playing with pirates instead of princesses and some boys cannot wear their favourite pink top in case they get bullied. Why not put all the toys into one space where not even the word ‘unisex’ subjects them to a particular label? Children understand the gendered messages they receive. The ‘Let Toys Be Toys’ campaign was set up in 2012 to prevent toy and publishing industries from limiting

children’s interests in promoting toys and books as suitable only for girls or for boys. It has revealed some upsetting anecdotes from people within the movement. For example, Tricia Lowther’s daughter, Marianne, was six-years-old when she fell in love with the Pixar film Cars. Yet when Tricia brought home some Cars-themed juice cartons, Marianne hid them, explaining: "It's boyish". When her mother enquired, “But you like cars, don't you?” Marianne’s reply was simply, “I do, but I don't want anyone to know.” One answer to the forum post attempted to be helpful by suggesting that the mother “…explain and reassure his dad [that their son] won't become more feminine” by playing with it. The word ‘reassure’ here throws me off slightly; I do not understand how being feminine could be a negative attribute. Not only does this recall the idea of the male’s role being limited to only possessing a certain amount of femininity, the word ‘feminine’ is a difficultly to tackle as being emotional, lacking aggression or athleticism should not make one any less of a man. Not that having a doll’s house would even result in these personality traits in the first place. It is as if men must hold back a part of their own humanity. Since when was a man showing his sensitive side the same thing as a man showing his feminine side, and therefore a part of himself not considered ‘manly’? Men who are seen as feminine typically have ‘women’s interests’; this is basically another way of saying they cook or sew or engage in ‘women’s work’. Oh look, another gender stereotype! The next member advised the poor parents that

Abbie Neale they “…probably don't want something with too much pink”. Colour is another element used bizarrely to divide the sexes and enhance gender norms which are culturally and socially constructed. We should not be discouraging children from wanting to play with particular toys or liking certain colours. Children are essentially taught that pink is a girl’s colour but the truth is that boys are not born disliking pink in the same way that girls are not born liking it. This is proof that people are drilling in gender stereotypes from an early age. In 1918, an issue of the Infant's Department, a trade magazine for baby clothes manufacturers, said: "The generally accepted rule is pink for the boy and blue for the girl.” The reason they gave for this separation was that pink is more suitable for the boy being a more “decided and stronger” colour, whilst blue is more “delicate, dainty and prettier for the girl”. Females are clearly portrayed here as the weaker sex. But just as many would point out that a girl might like to be strong, one should also understand that a boy might like to be pretty. It became apparent when reading these posts and similar threads to it that a few people believed a child playing with ‘girls’ toys’ could ‘turn him gay’. One post on the forum stated that their own child had “tried to relate to females in certain circumstances, and found interest in girls’ shows/ clothing”. I hardly think these mannerisms are indicative of someone being gay. If the “teasing” the mother is concerned about is an allusion to homophobia or transphobia, then this only highlights how the progress of both gender equality and sexual equality is

still so underdeveloped. Even if the children’s preference for toys had anything to do with their sexual or gender identity, it should not be an issue anyway. It is crucial that in order to develop as a society we must make feminism more accessible to males. Feminism, whilst based on achieving equal political, economic, cultural, personal, and social rights for women, is also about establishing a society where men do not feel the need to fit into a stereotypically masculine role, surrendering to the traditional views of what it means to be a man. With men openly identifying as feminists too, masculinity will no longer be defined by the patriarchy. The social conception is that men are not allowed to express themselves emotionally as it is seen as a weakness. Emma Watson, Goodwill Ambassador for UN Women, stated in her inspiring speech for the HeForShe campaign that “In the UK, suicide is the biggest killer of men between 20 to 49, eclipsing road accidents, cancer and coronary heart disease”. This only illuminates how serious the issue is. Suicide is like an escape for men. A newspaper article in the Guardian reads, “Poverty and mental health issues affect both genders. The variable factor is culture and society; how we expect men to act, and how they feel they can behave”. By convention, men are supposed to be strong and successful. Developing something as serious as depression and having to ask for help is viewed as failure. As well as this, the suicide risk for men doubles after divorce. Emma Watson acknowledged in her talk on gender equality as part of International Women's Day that she gets “…disturbed by this idea that men can’t cry”. She adds that: “Being able to express yourself is what makes you human – it’s not what makes you a girl”. Men and women should be collectively explor-

ing both their ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ sides and embracing feminism, allowing younger generations (six-year-old boys who want doll’s houses, for example) to live wholesome, balanced lives and grow up with an untainted belief in equality. The forum post only highlights how the pressure we put on males to conform to a certain perception of masculinity starts when they are incredibly young. Both girls and boys grow up with ide-

as of how they should have to act or

what they should have to look like. But children should be able to play with whatever they want in order to learn for themselves who they are and what sort of things they like. My suggestion to the mother on the forum would be this: buy him a doll’s house. If he starts to grow green scales or a second head as a consequence, take it away. Simple.

THE MOON IS LOVELY TONIGHT a poem by

Angela Huang

The moon is lovely tonight, Her pearly shoulders draped with cloak of heaven, Pulling the tides of waves she sings.

The stars are lovely tonight, Beacons alighting upon celestial paths, Guiding lost souls on ethereal wings.

And you are lovely tonight â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Your gaze ascends to our Nocturnal Mother. Gather my heart strings, see how they ring.

ME WITHOUT YOU by

Zoe Harrington

photography: Kambole Campbell 52

I don’t really know what to say. I don’t know why I’m addressing you directly with all these people here. But it’s the only way that feels right. It’s August, and we’re driving down the A15 with the windows are rolled down. We have music on (some guy you saw in concert last year) but I can’t hear it. All I can hear is the wind. We’re driving west to some rock formation you’ve been excited about since before I met you. The sun is at an awkward angle; the visors and rear-view mirror block most of it out but there’s a band of light across your face. All I can do is stare. All I could ever do was stare. I know you said you weren’t blonde but I wish you could’ve seen it that day. It was like you were the sun and each strand of your hair a dazzling beam. I could see all of the individual shades of gold that make up what most days was simply a ‘mousey’ brown. And in that moment you were radiant. Perfect. Inhuman. It was your eyes that had me though. Their colour always hovered somewhere between blue and grey. But that day... in that light – They were pure starlight. Brilliant, speckled starlight. You were happy. That little crease you get when you smile was there at the left side of your mouth. You looked directly at me. And I can honestly say I’ve never been as happy as I was in that moment. I don’t think I ever will be again....

I think about you every day and it hurts.

People keep telling me that it’ll get easier and I have to believe them: a lifetime without you will be unbearable, but a lifetime feeling like this? I can’t think of anything worse. I’ve never really believed in the afterlife, but I hope you’ve found it. You deserve eternal happiness... One day I’ll join you and finally be able to tell you that I love you.

41 53

A pile o the i

The gui as th b

in its wo all the t han

ghost-g

a poem by

Sophie Petrie

of perfect cuts curves of a mountain its face lonely with cold lapped at rosary beads the burnt face curling in on itself becoming a curl of ghosthood a wisp of unwant antiquated dust queen

ilt-reeds shimmer hey pass the bodies along bruising the sepia-bled tangle of swollen hands that cannot reach but only curl and claw that old cruelty singing through those bright pebbles laid over childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes guilt-sheaths now with still tongues glob and bubble of red lips now brown, now black, now back omb-juice taste pressed out into the folds of some trash-bucket nds playing games with themselves over the crumpled hillock old crone junk we all look better as dust gear

to puckered nothingness

fragmented

that hag-slide slag-piled sleep ash-spewn, un-spun

THE TIME HE CONTEMPLATED DEATH

The time he contemplated death Was before he even knew the breadth of it The way it could devastate The way it could cripple He embraced the very thought of it. The time he contemplated death He sat wide awake in the depths of the night Watching, waiting More shadow than actual human Death, he found, was a far better companion. The time he contemplated death How very easy it all seemed to him Could anyone possibly understand The beauty of a knife Running smoothly across skin? The time he contemplated death No one would understand The gasps, the cries, the screams of pain, Of course they were silent He never cried out loud He never uttered a sound. The time he contemplated death He found himself afraid It could all go wrong It could be all a waste But then the darkness flooded in again Scraping the recesses of his mind Filling his soul with murky emptiness And there it was again, Death. And in the final throes of light He sat there drinking in the sight If only someone could understand, Just how alluring death was to a broken man.

a poem by

Lee Min Hui

The horse came back alone. It took him a moment to notice the hunched silhouette of the animal in the distance, the sun blinding him as it trotted on step by step, sunken in on itself with exhaustion and hunger. Its coat was no longer white. Dried-up mud coated its sides and legs in a thick grey crust. Its once round belly was non-existent, hidden away under rows of visible, protruding ribs and joints. He would have recognized that horse anywhere, no matter the distance, no matter the weather. But the horse was alone. There was no one riding it. No saddle cloth or bag on its back. It was coming from where the swamps had once been, long before the first circle of Zone 1. Now maps showed only deserts there: long plains of blue sand and never-ending sunsets that scorched the ground till only stones and smoke were left. It was coming from a different direction to what they had planned. This was not the route she was supposed to take back. He stared at the animal, the wood he had been carving tumbled from his hand to the dusty ground. “No, no, no, no-” He felt faint as he rushed from his makeshift look-out chair. Blood filled his head with full force, roaring in his ears. Thoughts swirled, each one louder than the last. It had been a bad idea from the start, he knew it now; he should have never had agreed to let her go. He should have known better. She should have known better. He should have gone with her and not stayed behind. “No-” He muttered, choking back a sob, “Izra, no-”. Others spotted the animal; they shouted at him, pointing it out with fingers and weapons, too far to notice what he has seen. “They’re back. They’re back Roy!” “Roy, Roy, it’s her horse!” “She’s back, she’s finally back! Izra’s back!” He knew what they thought it meant but he knew but wasn’t true. There was no one on top of the horse, there was no one leading it. Only the horse itself, trudging on, whickering pitifully with each step it made. He tightened his fist, the polished glass handle of the knife he still held cracked loudly. It felt as if it took an eternity to close the distance between him and the horse. He moved as if in a fevered dream: eyes glued to wheezing animal, limbs lead heavy and unresponsive, wishing his eyes had betrayed him. Maybe, just maybe, Izra was indeed nearby. The closer he got, the closer his unwilling legs carried him to the bony horse, the more painful his heart thumped and the shallower his breath grew. There was an ache behind his eyes that pulsed when the horse levelled its head at him and whined softly. Its dark eyes clouded, unseeing. There was a piece of a chewed-up bridle still nestled between its teeth, faded and wet from saliva. He patted its side gently, hand catching in the mud and hair, and felt something break inside. Roy was crying when the town’s military caught up, all glistening caps and black boots standing in line between the town and him. Their Colonel spoke, voice muffled, and touched him on shoulder. He squeezed it tentatively. “Why did you make me stay?” Roy asked, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes, muting the pain inside with another kind. The other hand was still at the horse’s side. It felt as if he would collapse any minute, collapse never to stand up again. The Colonel kept him upright for the moment, his hand heavy and steady at his back. “Why-?” “I’m sorry.” Roy clawed at his own throat, feeling knees give up under him. He fell to the ground and wept even harder. The horse nibbled at his hair, its breath smelling of dead plants and stale water. The Colonel shifted his weight, the heavy leather of his coat crinkling. “I’m sorry.”

Joanna Jakubowska

THE HORSE 59

â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;It is probably better off this way We knew it was going to end this day. A part of me was sure we would concede I guess quitting is the only thing you need. To love or not to love? That is the question: The truth was behind my first impression. Sorry is not enough, when words weigh so low We gave our best, yet we stopped to grow. Relationship not dictatorship, this is what I seek I am seeing clear now- I am blinded when you speak. Present tense- yes. I can see you in my dreams Past tense- no. I can only hear your screams. This is not what we want, no, not anymore Actions and memories are laying on the floor. All I ever wanted was to make you laugh All I can think about is how you spoke on my behalf. Truth is I was shallow, blind, stupid and narrow It ended with my heart shattered and an arrow. Nonsense. Babble. Absurdity. Foolishness. Madness. I now surrender and return to a state of sadness.â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

SURRENDER a poem by

Elena Sandu

Look who’s back Iasfobsessed you are anywhere near with telly as me,

you are currently getting pretty excited for Spring. There are a whole range of incredible TV shows that are starting a new season in March, April, and May 2016, which coincides with two very annoying dates - the Easter holidays (loads of free time) and the revision period (plenty of need for regular distractions). Well, there goes any hope of getting a degree... First up we have season 2 of Marvel’s Daredevil, airing Friday 18th March. After the first season, aired on Netflix, our cravings for gritty, moody superheroes were satisfied by the excellent Jessica Jones, but now Matt Murdoch (Charlie Cox) is

back and he has a new foe - a mean-looking Punisher (Jon Bernthal). If the trailer is anything to go by, season 2 will be even more incredible than the first. The next show I’ve chosen is Outlander. The gorgeous landscape of season 1 Scotland has been replaced with the finery and pomp of season 2 France in this

Great TV coming this

SPRING

Ellie Hastings

timetravelling romance. Will Claire get back to the 1940s? How on Earth will their family tree work out now that they’re expecting? Will we get to see Jamie in tartan ever again??! We’ll find out April 9th. The sumptuous Penny Dreadful is third on my list. Returning for its third season on 1st May, this show promises even more bodies, corsets, walzes, seances, and werewolves than ever before. Look out for Frankenstein

(Harry Treadaway)and what becomes of his monster (Rory Kinnear), as well as the stunning Eva Green as Vanessa Ives, dashing Timothy Dalton as Sir Malcom Murray, and a few new gothic legends that we haven’t seen before in the show. I almost wrote a whole article about Game of frickin Thrones season frickin six. Who is alive? Who is dead? Who is coming back and who is gone for good? Will we ever know what was happening with that ice-

zombie baby? Has Hodor left the show to prusue a career as a DJ? HOW MUCH BIGGER WILL THE DRAGONS GET?? So many unanswered questions, so little time (now to 24th April) until none of them are answered. I feel a bit like Jon Snow at being kept guessing. It seems like a really good use of my time to go back and watch every episode of seasons 1-5 in addition to all the other shows listed here to remind myself what the hell is happening. Yep. That sounds like a great idea.

It seems as though I have been waiting all day for the milk man. I sit and shrug and squirm and still he doesn’t come. It’s dark outside and he’s not here. My neighbor Susie walks in. “Susie,” I ask, “have you see the milkman?” She looks at me. She doesn’t answer. An hour passes. Or a minute. I start to get angry. Who does he think he is? I think, looking around. I pull at my hair. I’m waiting for him. Does that make me a good person? I am good. I told Susie that but she just looked at me. My head hurts. I still can’t see anything. I start to scream. “Susie!” I say. “Susie, where is he?!” Susie never shows up. That makes me sad. I decide to lie down on the floor. That makes me feel better. I close my eyes and open them a minute later. Or an hour later. Is that him? No. Is he close? Maybe. I start to think about the milkman. Or just milk. Or just men. Men. That makes me want to cry. No, but I can’t cry because Susie will be mad. Like that time she saw me talking to the milkman. But he’s different from other men, he wants to help me. Susie doesn’t care, she doesn’t want to help me. God, I can’t breathe. God, God, God… I’m screaming. I taste blood. Now I hear Susie. And I start to cry because I finally see the milkman. “Pick her up,” he tells Susie. “Get her off the floor!” I cry harder because they’re so mad. “I swear she wasn’t like this this morning,” Susie says. I start to scream again. Susie told a lie. “I told you to let me know if she ever gets like this!” the milkman says back, and he sounds angry. Like me. I start to laugh because we’re so alike. “I’m sorry, doctor,” Susie tells him. I don’t like it when she calls him that. “Stop it!” I say to her. She puts the rubber in my mouth. “Have her brought to my room for another round of treatment,” the milk man tells her. He is so beautiful, all dressed in white. White like milk. “Yes, doctor,” Susie says, and she puts me against the padded wall.

50 64

THE MILKMAN by

Irene Zahariadis

51 65

a poem by

BI R

DW AT CH

IN G

Alick McCallum

i cannot go on bird watching sat under foliage and with a periscope three kestrels will not dance and I am not an audience imagining shrubbery like a cartel leaking opioids from a feathery shell the wind that rustles my bag of crisps sits dry - cannot penetrate through beneath a plasticine mould that makes me finally feel that I am still in nursery and have never left the womb it is not strange that a placenta is magic â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the new herbal remedy that is used for nearly everything and yet despite being ill i have never known the word for the doctors or an ambulance head squinting at life we drive too fast to see what species of butterfly just died right there perfectly on the windscreen and I am thankful for the touch sensation because finally colour can be removed without asking for black and white i might have spent life breathing and whittling away snow unaware that no-one wilts opposite wearing jeans and a go pro despite the gig being cancelled and a mobile phone being adequate to click delete i apologise to the tree when I take its arm and sell it to my dog hoping that he has not stolen my wallet that I dropped in a drain aware that plastic can grow from mud and paper from trees and perched in camouflage as if - I am made of wood despite the seasonal expectancy and despite the perfect habitat despite the clear sky i still do not see a kestrel but instead a solitary pigeon and a hollow chip coated in gravy

Answer step after step I go up and up till I feel like I will tumble down again tell me everything there is to be known about you now my sleep burns as I wake up just behind my eyelids I feel it cracking slowly with each breath I take wait for me wait for me here I know I will crash again soon enough I will know what to do now what to do? I am not ready for so much but not tested how will I be? can I feel something without risking everything in its wake how can I be open when everything crashes everything burns and melts before I can fully grasp and taste the sweetness of the fruit it bore? so many promises within your arms and eyes and yet I know I know this is not for me or is it actually? so many questions and the answers I have compiled so far lead me nowhere

sleeplesspoetess

Joanna Jakubowska talks about her creative writi 68

My blog is mainly about my prose and poetry, original stuff written only in English. I have a separate profile specifically for my fan fiction activities. I write mostly love poetry in free-verse, sometime erotic, sometimes purely platonic. I like playing with the rhythm and seeing how the thing flows. I’m not really a fan of rhyme. I try to write dark, twisted (or at least more mature) stuff based on music, films or books. Recently, I have started to focus on my experiences and base most of my works on my own “romances” and thoughts. I also started writing short-stories as I planned to write at least 5000 word chapters for my new fan fiction last October. Time constraints got the better of me, so I started going with smaller pieces based on prompts. I also started experimenting with using GIFs I find on Tumblr with my works. I’m planning on writing film and maybe book/music reviews on the blog, as well as introducing my photography which I have sadly neglected since high school! Once I graduate, I hope to make this blog more personal and rounded – and as an outlet for my creativity, since I won’t be able to write for The Boar or Cobalt anymore! I recently revamped my blog completely with a new theme. It’s a lot simpler now, and gives me the platform to maybe include recordings of me reading my writing to make it more accessible and fun.

s.wordpress.com

ing blog.

We’re all too familiar with the Tokyo peak hour “sardine” train situation, of oshiyas (train pushers - that’s the job title!) pushing commuters onto train carriages and ensuring order in the train transport system in Japan. Upon my arrival in Tokyo at seven in the morning in May 2014, I set out to experience this chaos for myself. What I found, however, was quite the opposite. I felt a whole lot of stillness and quiet. Not lifelessness or soullessness but, rather, a curious kind of calmness. I endeavour to capture this in the below series.

Frederick Chen 70

満員電車 (manin densha; Japanese for crowded train)

see you at the launch party

TONIGHT (15TH MARCH) // ROBBINS WELL BASEMENT // 7:30PM

ISSUE 5 15TH MARCH 2016 WARWICK UNIVERSITY