The narrator observes their neighbors through an open window, witnessing an argument that turns passionate. Later, the narrator finds their partner asleep on the couch after a restless night, reflecting on the state of their own relationship which seems strained, as indicated by the partner recoiling from the narrator's touch earlier. The neighbors appear to have reconciled, dancing happily together, which the narrator finds both beautiful and painful to watch in their current circumstances.

1. INK 2016
ENGLISH &
CREATIVE WRITING
WITH
PLYMOUTH
UNIVERSITY
New Beginnings
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2. Paperback edition first published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by the
University of Plymouth Press, Endsleigh Place, Drake Circus, Plymouth,
Devon, PL4 8AA, United Kingdom.
ISBN: 978-1-84102-403-5
© University of Plymouth Press 2016
© INK 2016
The rights of this work have been asserted by Plymouth University Students
in accordance with the Crown Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of INK 2016 may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system or transmitted in any form or by any means whether electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of UPP.
Any person who carries out any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Typeset by the University of Plymouth Press in Avenir Next Ultra Light 9pt
Printed and bound by Document Production Centre, Plymouth University, UK
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3. Contents
Bluebeard 10
Dryad 12
Eternal Embrace 13
Explore, Dream, Discover 15
Our Guest 16
Faith Through the Restlessness 17
Shadow Waves 18
Love 19
Poetry
The Journey 42
Sanctum 44
Wanderlust Heart 46
A Zimbabwean Childhood 50
Giallo 56
Dregs 58
Non-Fiction
Editor’s Letter 06
22 A Sliver of Glass
26 Losing Ryan
28 Youth
30 The Feel of the Thing
34 The Voices
38 Waves
Fiction
64 Artist Feature: Claire Masters
Gallery
With special thanks to:
Miriam Darlington, Rachel Christofides, Stacey DeAmicis, Katharine Clayton, Christie
Pritchard and the Learning Development Team at the Writing Café, Paul Honeywill
and many thanks to our super talented contributors
General Editor:
Managing Editor:
Associate Editors:
Poetry Editor:
Asst Poetry Editor:
Fiction Editor:
Asst Fiction Editor:
CNF Editor:
Asst CNF Editor:
Design and Illustration Editors:
Web Editors:
Social Media Editors:
Cover photo:
Chapter Images:
Aimee Dewar
Robert Currall
Elliott Simpson
Andy Mills
Neja Steer
Laura Reinbach
Freya Cottrell
Greta Galimberti
Sophie Holman
Erin Crocker
Rhiannon Izard
Maggie Niewiarowska
Christopher Hawkins
James Terris
Caitlin Pearce
Seren Kiremitcioglu
Wladyslav Rawinski
Claire Masters
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4. 6 7
Editor’s Letter
INK Journal 2016 is here!
We welcome you to delve into these pages filled with passion, talent,
ideas and innovations of language and visual art. Get lost in metre and
prose, penmarks and pixels, and enjoy a brief moment of escapism.
Our chosen theme of New Beginnings, and its sub-themes of Love,
Natural World, Culture and Journey, brought with them an influx of
diversity and an overwhelming amount of submissions – we were so
impressed with what we received this year. We read stories about your
childhoods, poems about socks and nonfiction with vivid descriptions
that transported us into the heart of nature. I want to thank everyone who
contributed to INK this year; whether or not you appear in these pages,
we appreciate every last one of you and your new beginnings.
This year also presented some new beginnings for INK itself. It saw us
team up with the Marine School, run creative writing workshops with the
Nature Writers group, and invite more students than ever to contribute to
the journal, from Environmental Science scholars to Photography
undergraduates. Our decision to incorporate the sadly unrealised
Squid INK into our plans for the journal allowed us to make surprising
connections and forge new campus-wide friendships, including the
fantastic Learning Development team at the Writing Café who
stepped in to host our writing workshops earlier this year.
As INK comes to the end of another annual transition from a collection
of ideas to a finished product, I feel proud to reflect on what we
have achieved on our journey to publication. In our efforts, we have
endeavoured to secure the legacy of INK as a project that can belong to
the University as a whole, and that anyone can be a part of no matter what
their academic background. We hope we have encouraged a potentially
innumerable amount of students to give submitting to INK a go – after all,
what have you got to lose?
Aimee Dewar
Editor-in-Chief, INK 2016
Photography Wladyslav Rawinski
Digital Art and Technology, Stage 2
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5. Poetry
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6. 10 11
Bluebeard Love
Illustration by Kaisa Koisti
BA Illustration, Stage 2
Dana Snow
BA English, Stage 1
My wives. I hunted them down,
I observed their beauty and
Talents, and when I snatched them up,
I spoiled them to death.
Immortal jewels, clothes, flowers and my
Tender love.
The first (I no longer care for their names,
That’s not what matters).
A model, a looker, a true gem, a sight to behold.
The second. An actress of some sort.
She had a skill of tease and temptation,
Oh boy, did she!
Such a shame that lily flower had to go.
She was loyal too,
With her caresses.
The third. The last.
A musician, or so she said.
I never knew what to believe.
She, unlike the others, was disloyal,
A child,
The one who disobeyed me.
Marriage, a subjective term,
A binding term.
They must understand that.
Their portraits sit upon my mantle.
My collection will continue to flourish.
Except the last wife,
Her head collects dust under the bed.
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7. 12 13
Eternal
Embrace
Love
Hidden within the seagrass,
As two lovers we embraced;
With intertwined tails.
Together dangers we faced,
Since our days in the ocean,
I would tell you so,
That even trapped in a jar,
Our tails will never let go.
Alex De La Fuente
BSc Marine Biology, Stage 2
Dryad Love
I took a woodcutter for my lover.
I never knew his name, only that I hated him
more than I had hated anything else.
It had been some years since we had met;
he laid is rough palms on my flesh and declared me
“Handsome, but far from ready yet”.
I quivered.
He moved on and steely death took us all in from over his shoulder.
It whirred. We were fewer.
He left merry, with the start of a fire
and we were left with tears.
It went on.
Every week or so, he would come to the clearing
and another one of us would fall to whatever he had planned.
Consumed by fire, I suppose.
Propping up some cabin wall.
Kicked by brats and pissed on by dogs until rotted and then burned.
My friends died to make handles for his axes,
my children came home in splinters and heaps.
One night, there were few of us left.
I crept out of myself, laid a cloak of leaves over my new skin
and stole down in darkness to his window.
I remember him, clear as day.
Woodcutter at his fire, at his – wooden – table
all alone of an evening, with nothing but memories rubbed raw.
I lifted the latch.
He turned. I smiled.
That was the first time.
He never asked questions, never cared.
There I was, handsome, and bare and so, so ready.
Nathan Adams
BA English and Creative Writing, Stage 2
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8. 14 15
Explore, Dream, Discover
Journey
I say to you, pick up your sword.
Raise your bow and rattle your shield;
shatter the skies with that mighty proclaimation,
“I am alive!”
I was never dead.
Sleep encased this soul,
a heavy fog, whose duty was
to render me unworthy.
To make me small.
I am a knight amongst knaves;
see here, my fierce heart and righteous blood?
My banner flies for us,
poor creatures!
We, who were unheeded,
rejected,
battered and neglected.
Under this banner, all wear crowns
of courage.
We welcome all arms.
Where there is no path,
we will carve one.
Where there is no bridge,
Our vessels will guide us.
Silence that drake!
Lord disturb us not.
We will sail ourselves to the horizon of our hopes.
We are the captains of our own ships and
our course is mighty.
Friends, throw away your compass.
Together, we can dream more
than this.
They tell me a can explore more, o’
what blissful findings await
O’ sails, I promise,
I will discover more than this.
Emma Eastgate
BA English and Creative Writing, Stage 3
Illustration by Thomas Simpson
BA Illustration, Stage 2
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9. 16 17
Faith Through the Restlessness
Natural World
My feet squelch into the pliable floor,
its rich mustard colour darkens when it’s licked by the water’s edge.
Small crustaceans hang on the rocks,
their tiny feet have learned to grip through the offending breakers.
The up-shore drift makes the water murky,
Out to sea, by the teal sails of a boat, the drink is a tear’s clarity.
A garland of immature seaweed wraps my ankles,
the ground underneath me collapses, I have to reposition my weight.
The waves lap against the sand continuously,
and toss the shingle and life in the air, a playful game then ends
as the seagulls plunder and strip my coast.
Jasmine Creswell
BA English, Stage 1
Our Guest Journey
unfamiliar hands
That cling on or set free
Hello reflection, you’re unfamiliar
But you’re copying me.
And that boy who’s stood beside you
Watching expectantly.
He took your shadow, held it up so you could see.
‘Home’ resonates
In a space in my chest
I’ve no idea where it is
Or if there’s anything left.
He asks you to follow.
My shadow seems deaf
So we walk in single file, the boy and I and our guest.
whistling wind
Tuned by the end of the land.
Hello salt on our skin
Reaching us wherever we stand.
Footprints disappear
Where the waters kiss the sand.
My shadow dives into the ocean and the boy takes my hand.
Jasmine Tribe
BA Environmental Science
Hello
Hello
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10. 18 19
Love
Love
Aren’t we all
Just mismatched socks?
Clashing colours together
Always inside out
Joanne C Martin
BA English and Creative Writing, Stage 1
Illustration by Laura Hole
BA Illustration, Stage 2
Shadow Waves Natural World
They scatter, no scheme or plan,
Just a mad dash for life.
Running, streaming, gliding,
They don’t fight; just flight as
They stream through the rayless cyan sea.
Three points of glistening gold strike,
Breaking the pattern of the shoal.
The chase begins.
One gets separated and
The trident follows like a gleaming shadow.
Closer, closer, closer.
The waves thunder, rolling and turning
The lone fish weaving its way to freedom,
The three-pronged spear strikes and
The sea is stained rusted obsidian.
A new body replaces the lost.
The shoal is one once more.
Lucy Hensley
BA English, Stage 1
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11. Fiction
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12. 22 23
*
“Do you ever think about having an affair?”
“Sometimes. Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
*
I take a deep breath in, feel my lungs fill with smoke. I relax, watch the smoke spill out
of me. They’re watching a movie – neither of them have moved for a good hour or so.
His arm around her shoulders, her head curled onto his chest.
He’s talking, and she’s listening, so I can only see the back of her head. He catches her
chin with the tips of his fingers and tilts her face up towards his. They kiss. And they don’t
stop. His shirt comes off, and then her blouse. Her body settles in flat on the sofa as he
fumbles with his belt.
I look at you. You’re transfixed.
He kisses her neck, her breasts, her stomach. The inside of her thigh. Her hands come
up to either side of her head and grasp at the covers on the couch cushion. Her back
arches. Her whole body tenses. We can hear her through the open window.
“Are we going to be okay?” you ask.
I don’t know what to tell you. The smoke alarm goes off.
I’m half way out of the room when your voice stops me.
“Wait …” Your face is cast in a half wince. I can’t tell if it’s saying the words that hurts
you or something else. “I love you.”
The words live and die like three drops of blood falling on a clean white sheet.
The smoke alarm keeps on blaring.
I force myself to maintain eye contact. To smile. To breathe.
“I love you, too.”
*
I wish I could take it back. I wish I hadn’t said it when I wasn’t sure I meant it.
*
A Sliver of Glass Love
We wake up on opposite sides of the bed. For a moment we just lie there, staring at the
brown stain on the ceiling, at the shadows the blinds cast on the wall, at that naked bulb.
I stretch my arm. The backs of my fingers brush against yours beneath the duvet and you
recoil. You sit up, swing your legs over the side of the bed, and stand.
There’s a crunch, gasp, creak of the mattress as you fall back into bed.
“Are you okay?”
Blood trickles from where a shard of glass is embedded in the pad of your big toe.
It drips three times onto the white sheet and blooms before you gather up enough
tissue paper to stop it.
“I’m fine,” you say, and you pull the glass out and drop it on the ground.
“Don’t move.” I get up and go get the dust pan and brush. As I’m sweeping up the
pieces of the broken bottle I look up at you. I think I almost caught you staring at me,
but you turned away just in time.
“I’m sorry about last night,” you say.
I bow my head and gather up the last of the glass pieces.
*
You sit with your bandaged foot held straight out in front of you, resting on the coffee
table. We both look forwards, over the top of the TV, out the window and across the
street. The neighbours are just unpacking their Chinese food, but something is brewing.
Their exchanges are cut short. They barely touch.
After a while he says something, and her body tenses and she pulls away from him. Then
we hear the white noise of them yelling. I pull a magazine from the coffee table and try
to bury myself in it. You get up and open the window to hear them better. Fragments
of their conversation filter across the alley and chew me up from the inside out.
“Why do you want to listen to that?”
You stand there, inches from the glass, face to face with your own reflection.
“Because it’s beautiful.”
There’s a pause in their yelling, and they stand with their arms by their sides, their chests
heaving. Then all at once they crash into each other, kissing wildly, her legs around his
waist as he stumbles backwards into the bedroom.
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13. 24 25
When I wake up the middle of the night, my throat and eyes feel bone dry and you are
not beside me. I think maybe you finally did it – finally worked up the courage to do what
I couldn’t. And then I think about living in this apartment without you and the weight
from my shoulders falls heavy into my stomach.
I guess the neighbours just got in. Her cheeks are rosy with champagne and she’s a little
unsteady on her feet. He catches her, holds her gently and presses his cheek against her
cheek. It is such a marvellous gesture that I can hardly breathe as they turn and sway and
tiptoe around the room.
I find you asleep on the sofa on my way to get a glass of water. The light from their
apartment filters into ours and I can see the outline of your face in the darkness, your
head resting on your shoulder, the blanket halfway down your body. I pull it up to rest
at the curve of your neck.
You stir, awaken. Your body moves and you wince. “My foot is killing me.”
“Here,” I say. “Let me take a look.”
I pull your foot onto my lap and inspect the wound. I pinch and squeeze and you gasp
and a sliver of glass eases out of your skin. Our eyes meet. And then the light goes off
in the apartment across the street and we’re plunged into darkness.
“Thank you,” you whisper. My hand rests on your ankle.
*
I pull down the blinds and settle beside you. I look at that brown patch on the ceiling
from all the Sundays we spend smoking in bed, at those streaks of light coming in from
the street lamp outside.
The backs of our fingers brush against each other beneath the duvet, and you take my
hand in yours. It feels like holding a butterfly in my fist. I can feel its wings beating against
my palm. It’s small and it’s fragile, but it’s still alive.
Natasha Ley
BA English, Stage 3
Illustration by Fi Smart
BA Illustration, Stage 3
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14. 26 27
Declan Clark
English with History, Stage 1
Driving to Cornwall, the Pixies are playing on the stereo, making
everything bright and colourful. I tell Mum that when I’m older I’ll move
to a big city and be a writer or an artist, or an actor or something. I want
to do something great and interesting, all by myself. He’s sat quietly in
the back, I ask what he wants to be when he grows up, and he says he’s
going to live with Mummy forever. I laugh, he’ll soon grow out of that,
see the hell in it.
We’re playing king of the castle on the rocks by water. I don’t pay much
attention. There’s a few of us, the older ones playing on the top, we’re the
kings. He’s too small to climb the pillars on his own, I laugh and thumb my
nose.
A wave is angry, it smashes against the rock. I look down but am shocked
to see him standing six feet above me. He’s still holding out his hand. The
wave pulls back into the ocean and falls behind its comrades. I can hear
his shout on the wind.
I can’t move, I’m panicking. Calling for him. I swear I see a little beige
body fly between waves in the distance. The sun is so beautiful against
the water, the sea looks like another world, chopping and churning in
the wind.
Losing Ryan Love
We lie on a mattress on the floor, him with his head on my left arm as I
read a story. The soft duvet is pulled up to our chins. There was envy and
anger here once but tonight I feel calm.
I’ve wet the bed and walk through to the big bedroom and climb in next
to him, it’s a hot night and his pyjamas and sheets are sticky, my arms fix
to him like Velcro as we cuddle.
On the beach we play king of the castle on the rocks that jut out of the
sea, the tide meets them and only the peaks are safe. I proclaim that
I’m King Arthur and no one can challenge me to the top.
In the morning we walk along the cliffs, the land is bare and beautiful. The
sun breaks through mist and falls upon low thorn bushes and heather.
The cold air burns my lungs and we climb an abandoned tower. Pretty
plants with drooping red curtains litter the side of the path. I’m told
foxgloves are poisonous. I ask what would happen if I touched one and
then put my hands to my lips, would I die? I move him out of the way.
Later, we walk along a different cliff, this time a long beach stretches out
from the steep descending rock. The sand reflects the sunlight and glitters
like diamonds, blinding us. I pull him away from the side and walk down
the meandering, twisting path.
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15. 28 29
Today’s walk was not too dissimilar to yesterday’s. My joints were still crunching with each
movement, my mind still fantasising about my youth. Something today, however, caught
me eye. Dumped by the side of the stream that runs through the park was an image
befitting of my thoughts on childhood innocence and charm.
Twisted and contorted, an unnatural image of innocence. It lay tarnished, abandoned
and reclaimed by nature. I thought to myself at one point in time it carried some of the
most creative and brilliant minds of our generation and, on further thought I suppose,
some who were not so brilliant. It was a place where we all sat and pondered the world’s
mysteries and lay and investigated foreign objects. It can evoke happiness in those
who strive to one day fill it with a creation of their own, and for those like me who have
already been fortunate enough to walk behind it. It can also evoke sadness, the most
distraught and desperate of times for those who know that they cannot fill one of their
own, or those who have been robbed of what little time they had with it. In this moment,
however, I feel envious. Not because it lies in the mud, all broken and bent over but
because it reminds me of a better time, a simpler time, which is so abruptly snatches
from all of us. You see, envy is a strange thing. I and most are envious of rich tycoons in
glass towers with their extensive wealth. Envious of underwear models and their tightly
sculpted muscles. Envious of those who have found love, and envious of those who
are happy without it. Mostly, I feel envy towards those who don’t even understand the
meaning, the ones with few cares, the ones who only understand three things: food,
sleep and play. The free spirits who embrace all of the simplest of life’s pleasures before
they begin to fade. The ones who are reckless and bold. Not afraid of the world beyond
where they sit, for they are innocent, untainted and pure. They don’t fear monger,
hate or preach ideology. They just exist; happy, playful and free.
Oh, I was this lucky once. We all were lucky to imagine and to play, no bills, no
homework, no concept of time and space. Imagine it. Food when you demand, no
need for a porcelain pot. Chauffeured around in a chair made for a king, watching
and learning and living free. Then, reality takes hold of us. Food becomes fast, sleep
becomes infrequent and play comes last. The time passes, the chair is whipped from
beneath your feet, and you’ve got commitments, work and no sleep.
What a cynical thought to have. It sounds like I’ve given up; I haven’t. I suppose that
although it does lie muddy, broken and forgotten, it is merely paving the way for a
newer generation. Those like me fantasising about their youth, played and pondered
life in this seat. We seem to forget that we all stepped out into the world, on our own
two feet, and we went on to create, innovate and to teach. Although I still crave the
chance to be a child again, this chair, the way it has been left, no longer makes me
envious, or self-piteous or even scared.
It could happen any day now.
Oliver Howley
BA English and Creative Writing, Stage 3
Photo by Cara Green
BA Fine Art, Stage 3
Youth Journey
Although the fatigue and joint pain has set in early this morning, it’s a beautiful day.
Autumn leaves, an amalgamation of yellows and oranges, a subtle mist, a breeze that
offers a cold pinch. I don’t have many more of these days left in me. Lupus, it wasn’t
terminal. Then the headaches came, the swelling, and I was pissing what looked like
half a bottle of Merlot every morning.
Lupus nephritis, kidney failure. Now it was terminal.
I suppose it would be easy to fall into a state of self-pity; I already had, I’m past that now.
You see, when you’re being hunted by something that you cannot see, there is nowhere
to hide, you just have to wait. It could happen any day now. Tuesday, Friday, Sunday.
It doesn’t faze me, there are just days and if each is as beautiful as today then I am lucky.
Did I mention the yellows and oranges of the leaves? Magnificent.
I walk every morning through the park for my newspaper, not because I like the daily
dose of drivel that is churned out, but because our local park is something to be
admired. I’m also a dab hand at a crossword. My mother used to buy the newspaper
and leave it in the kitchen for the rest of us to tirelessly slave over. I lived a sheltered
childhood. Not to say that it wasn’t good though; my childhood is something I quite
often reminisce and, in my final days, something that I strive to relive. You know, the
freedom, the nonchalant attitude of youth, the creativity of thought. I often question how
I would think in a particular moment as if I was a child again. Today’s walk to the shop is a
perfect example. The birds were out in numbers and the trees are flaunting their autumn
leaves, but the fatigue was punishing and my joints were giving way. My childhood alter
ego would have me believe that I was an injured solider trying to make his way to safety,
weaving in and out of the cover of the brush, hiding from a swarm of fighter pilots.
A child’s imagination, an amazing thing, turning the mundane into the fantastic. It’s
these thoughts that make me crave the chance to be a child again, not to feel the
weight of anxiety, or the ailments of a busy life.
INK 2016 FINAL.indd 28-29 4/9/16 7:17 PM

16. 30 31
A woman’s voice. He straightened up, turned his
head to the sound of the voice and smiled.
“That’s quite alright. I have a tendency to
take up the whole path without realising.”
He held out the object towards her.
As he did, he ran his still throbbing
thumb over it and felt a small
ridge down its centre. She took
it from him before he could
inspect it further.
“No!” She panted. “My
fault. You were – no!”
“What is it?”
Illustration by Becky Hughes
BA Illustration, Stage 2
The Feel of the Thing Love
Tap… tap… tap… tap
The chill November air felt the way he remembered blue to look before. Crisp, biting,
a world after rain and aching with bone chill. He shivered, gripped his stick more firmly,
and used his free hand to tighten his scarf. He quickened his pace, tapping the ground
as he went.
Tap-tap-tap-tap
He could feel spots of sunshine fall upon his cheeks and nose. Small patches of warmth.
He turned his face in their direction, imagining the way they danced on the surface of
the lake he knew he was walking beside. The gentle sounds of ripples through reeds
and the giggling of stubborn ducks brought life back to his numb skin.
Tap-tap-tap-tap
The wedding had gone off perfectly. Seamless transitions from ceremony to reception;
no hiccup or stresses. Another tick on his already perfect record. As always, the happy
couple shook his hand and thanked him with smiles and scarcely contained disbelief
dripping from their voices. As always, it amused him. People didn’t know that wedding
planning had very little to do with sight. It was all in the feel of the thing. Magic
concealed itself in the feeling of flower petals on fingertips and the atmosphere
of a room wild with anticipation. Sight had little bearing.
Tap-tap-tap-tap
He felt around in his jacket pocket. Fingers probed through lint and business cards to
find his keys. A sharp jab struck the pad of his thumb and he flinched. That damn arrow.
Small, silver, and irritatingly sharp, it was one of many keyrings just like it that he gave to
his clients. They were supposed to serve as a reminder of the happy day he’d helped to
create, but sometimes he wondered just how many thumbs had been similarly pricked.
He really ought to remove his and put it somewhere less dangerous – hanging from one
of the empty hooks above his desk perhaps? – but he doubted he would. Somehow,
he’d grown quite attached to it.
Tap-tap-tap-tap
He heard the drumming footsteps of a runner behind him but didn’t clock their close-
ness in time before a shoulder knocked into his. A clattering – something like a phone
– fell to the ground near his feet. He quickly crouched and felt around until he found it,
gathering it up into his hand.
“Oh. Sorry!”
INK 2016 FINAL.indd 30-31 4/9/16 7:17 PM

17. 32 33
Kaia Nisbet
BA English and Creative Writing, Stage 3
not sure how much more that phone can take.”
A small laugh fell from her lips then and his cheeks sung as they stretched into another
smile. It reminded him of the way the water caressed the reeds. So gentle and soft.
But altogether too short. He wanted to hear more. But she was already taking steps
away from him and with a quick “Goodbye”, she jogged away.
He stood and listened to the sound of her running for as long as he could. A light scent
of sweat and lavender lingered about him and as her footsteps faded, he was left with
no sound but the reeds and the ducks and the water and the faintest rumble of traffic in
the city. He sighed, imagining the way his breath plumed into the cold air. He wondered
whether her short, sharp, running breaths did the same. Sy. What was it short for?
Tap… tap… tap… tap
He tried to picture her. Gave her blonde hair, brunette, auburn, blue. Hazel eyes,
green eyes, grey eyes. Pale skin, dark skin. Short, tall. Thin lipped? Or full? Had she
been wearing makeup?
Tap… tap… tap… tap
He couldn’t settle on an image. It almost infuriated him but the sound of her laugh
tinkled against his ears still. What a sound. Like her voice. Smooth and rich with a low
rasp in its undertone that brought a flutter to his heart. It was like music. Like flower
petals against skin.
Tap… tap… tap… tap
When would she call? Later that evening? As soon as an hour? He quickened his pace.
Tap-tap-tap-tap
“My phone –” so it was a phone, “–the screen’s cracked.”
“Is it insured?”
“No. Damn!”
“How much will it be to replace?”
“I don’t know. Money I don’t have.” Her voice was more of a murmur – probably
distracted, inspecting the screen.
“Well here,” he dug back into his pocket, trying not to wince as he caught himself on the
arrow again, until he came across the familiar outline of one of his cards. “My number.
It’s just as much my fault that it’s broken and I’d be happy to pay to fix it.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly ask you t–”
“Please. I’d be much happier knowing I didn’t end my day leaving someone with
a problem they can’t fix.”
There was a pause as she gingerly took the card from between his fingers.
“How about this?” she said. “We halve it.”
He resisted the urge to protest, feeling the pride in the tone of her voice. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
He smiled in her direction again, hoping he was actually looking towards her and not at
some point over her shoulder. She sounded pretty and a blush crept under his collar at
the thought of looking like a fool. If he did, she didn’t comment.
“Well, then, I’ll find out the cost and call you, Mr… Eros?”
“It’s just a business name. Call me Matthew.”
“Thank you, Matthew. People call me Sy.”
“Is that short for something?”
“It is but it’s embarrassing, so just Sy is fine.”
“Sy it is.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Well, I better get going then, still got another lap of the lake so…”
“No, of course, don’t let me slow you down. But do try not to run into anyone else - I’m
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18. 34 35
“You have, I know you have. That’s why you’ve had a face like a slapped
haddock all week.”
“Thanks…Gee, with friends like you… Besides I don’t know what you’re
talking about, but even if I did… just because I may have heard the words
it doesn’t mean anything bad is going to happen.”
“Mary heard the words before her sixteenth. Then she vanished,”
Clara stopped walking, flicking her wayward hair back over her shoulder
she said, “Mary Roberts was the school flirt she probably ran off with the
traveling circus last year.”
“Tina didn’t run off with any circus,” murmured Lucy.
“No, well… no Tina didn’t, but I’m sure your sister went off to study at
some university and is a great doctor or lawyer these days. Remember
how she liked her books, and what did your dad do?”
“He threw them in the bin and set fire to them when she missed her shift
in the shop.”
“I know at the time we were only little, but I reckon if your dad threw your
comic collection in the bin you’d up and leave too.”
Clara saw the faint trace of a smile at the corners of her friend’s mouth
and added, “Just because I’ve heard the voices doesn’t mean anything
bad is going to happen to me.”
“Is your mum scared, is that why you have to go straight home?”
“She shouldn’t be and neither should you.” Clara replied as she began
walking again.
“What do they say?”
“Who?”
“The voices, dummy”
Clara thought for a moment and smiled, “I can’t remember the words,
but I just know it’s nothing bad, if that makes sense?”
“It doesn’t,” her friend said.
They’d arrived at Clara’s garden gate. She smiled and said, “Stop worry-
ing. I’m fine, everything will be fine. Well, not fine we’ve got a History test
tomorrow with Specky Four Eyes but you know what I mean.” With that,
she swung through the gate letting it clunk shut after her.
The Voices Natural World
Walking quickly through the drifts of fallen leaves Clara heard her friend
cry, “Wait up…wait for me.” Clara slowed, but didn’t turn.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” asked Lucy with her shoulders back and her
chin raised, trying to make herself taller.
“I just need to get home.”
“Why?”
She should have known better than to think Lucy would be palmed off
with a half-hearted excuse, but she tried again, “I just told Mum I’d help
her finish off my dress.”
“Your party dress?”
“Sort of”
“Clara you’ll be sixteen, why aren’t you happy about it?” said Lucy kicking
a pile of leaves and scattering them.
Clara shrugged her shoulders looking at the scuffed tops of her shoes.
“It’s just an age, nothing special.” Even as she said the words Clara could
almost see her friend’s head dissecting the words and untangling their
proper meaning.
“You’ve heard the words, haven’t you?”
“No.”
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19. 36 37
Photography by Andrew Clarke
BA Photography, Stage 3
That night the voices came to her again,
“Clara, it’s time. Now is the time to join your
sisters of the wood. Come. Come to us now.”
It was as though Clara was watching
another version of herself get out of bed walk
down the stairs, past the sleeping figure of
her mother on the living room sofa and out
into the darkness of night. On and on she
walked, until she came to Morwellan Wood.
She heard laughter and, there amongst the
trees, she saw girls of her age run and play
together. They approached her, greeting her
as though she were expected. Clara instantly
recognised, Tina and Mary and a few other
girls from the village, but she wasn’t scared.
It was as though she was home, where she
was meant to be. Any questions in her head
went as quickly as they’d appeared; all she felt
was the magical glow of moonlight on her
skin. She danced and played until the sun’s
first sliver of light burst over the horizon and
then Clara and her sisters froze, their bodies
encased in fallen leaves, their contented faces
as translucent as the morning dew.
Lesley Clements
BA Illustration, Stage 1
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20. 38 39
South and back into the Atlantic – Cape Horn. Journeying towards it, I was
nervous. This would be the end of my month stay in the most relentless
environment I’d ever experienced, and I was absolutely determined to
get out on top. The ever-evolving black walls of water swelled as high as
fifty feet, swamping over and threatening me at each moment. The boat
lurched and leered over each wave, crashing through the peak of each
one, drenching the entire deck in salty floods. Looking at the AIS, I could
just make out my main competitor Armel le Cléac’h storming along in the
distance, his bright blue boat Banque Populaire creating a stealthy lead.
With the wind at its greatest and the waves at their most powerful, I had
to take advantage of the conditions – I had to change route to get ahead.
As the darkness descended and the waves beat on, I thought about my
family back at home. It was rather a depressing thought, thinking about
them all together and spending time as a family while I was thousands
of miles away, alone and soaked to the bone in the middle of the ocean
with at least a month more to go. Although this was quite self-pitying,
for I was extremely lucky to be taking part in the most honourable race in
the world, the wind only contributed to the fury of my surroundings and
sometimes it felt like I was in a swirling vortex of terror; after all, Musto
salopettes can only protect you so much from these shrieking, endless
waves. However, I knew that as soon as I saw the headland of Cape Horn
I would be able to let out my sails, slow the boat down and adjust to
calmer and relatively more blissful shores. But so the night crept on.
Travelling into the dawn, I could finally feel the waves calming, the wind
dropping, a new adventure arriving. Adjusting my sails and letting the
wind into them, I finally caught sight of the landmark that had been
infiltrating my dreams for the past month. The mighty green headland
rose in front of me and finally I felt a sense of peace.
Seren Kiremitcioglu
BA English Literature, Stage 1
Waves Journey
Waves. They’ll beat you up and take you down, their angry forms
swelling, rising, to the point where their monstrous gaping mouths come
crashing down onto you, engulfing you, their unfathomable splashes of
white foam holding no mercy for your mortal form. But then they can be
kind too; they, along with the wind, are your helper’s home – your light in
the dark. The one thing to remember about the sea is that it is far greater
and far more powerful than any human could ever be; its natural form
could choose to destroy you at any given moment.
But life was mine for the taking.
I’m a single-handed sailor in the Vendée Globe Race. That means I’m
out at sea on my own for at least 80 days. If anything were to go wrong,
help would take a long while to arrive and I would have to rely on my own
ability to keep myself safe. I’m 55 days into the race; I’ve sailed from the
Vendée region of France, Les Sables d’Olonne, down the Atlantic Ocean,
where I’m now sailing over the Southern Ocean and around the Antarctic,
keeping it starboard – which, for any non-sailor, means to the right of me.
Sailing along the notoriously dangerous Southern Oceans meant that
every manoeuvre, every move on board, every decision was critical. One
wrong move could render you fatally injured or worse. Any negligent
moment could lead you into a Chinese gybe where, SMACK – you were
flung mercilessly into the ocean with at least an hour until the boat could
rescue you. By that time, however, those angry black waves had claimed
you like a vengeful, unforgiving siren.
As the situation stood, I was at the most intense point of the race.
Thundering along at 35 knots, the boat was in the midst of a ferocious
battle with the ocean. I’d passed two out of three of the great Capes;
Cape of Good Hope and Cape Leeuwin. The last remaining Cape was
the furthest South and the last one to pass before I headed out of the
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21. Non-Fiction
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22. 42 43
longer support their weight.
Their protruding arms have become
rounded and softened, and their smaller arms have
been reabsorbed into their body with only one pair of their outer
lateral arms remaining. Before they begin to sink, their last pair of larval
arms are reabsorbed and their new adventure as juveniles begins. They float down
gracefully like snowflakes in the boundless sky. As they fall, the juveniles find a strange
hard substrate awaiting them; here on the muddy sand they will be able to use their
new developed arms to instinctively row themselves across the seabed.
The serpent star juveniles still occasionally feed on plankton but mainly consume the
dead. Slithering across the sea floor, they carry their mouths close to the seabed. The
competition is fierce and the serpent stars are constantly wrestling with each other
and other species over scraps of food. In this environment, competition isn’t the only
obstacle; predators are constantly roaming and lurking from above and below. Not
all juveniles will live to reach adulthood. Some will die from starvation and many
others will become food.
Once the few survivors reach adulthood, the day will come when they will mark the
cycle of new life. When the sun sets beyond the horizon, the sky softly glows from the
last rays of the sun. On this particular day at this particular time, masses of serpent stars
have accumulated beneath the waves. The females simultaneously release their eggs
into the flowing water, followed directly with the release of the male’s sperm, like snow
being carried by the wind. They collide, joining to form new life. Others will be swept
up by hungry fish or lost to the sea. Those that survive will develop into larvae and
begin a new cycle, undertaking their uncertain journey to adulthood.
Ana Chaverra
BA Marine Biology and Coastal Ecology, Stage 3
Illustration by Lydia Knight
BSc Marine Biology, Stage 1
The Journey Journey
The rising of the sun illuminates the dark sky into a pale blue, marking the beginning
of a new day. The hot, piercing rays of the sun diminish the previous night’s chill and
bring warmth into the morning. The atmosphere is peaceful, embraced with the crying
of gulls and the gentle crashing of the waves, filling the air with activity. The water has a
dark blue coloration and is like a veil, limiting the visibility to only the top layers of water.
It may appear murky and silent, but surprisingly these layers of water are teeming with
life. The water is filled with organisms thousands of times smaller than a pin head,
varying in shapes, colours, patterns and sizes: plankton. Like land herbivores, there
are also microscopic herbivores known as zooplankton. Larvae from a variety of
species that drift in these waters for but a fraction of their lives.
In the midst of this hidden world are the larvae of the serpent star: Ophiura Ophiura.
The larvae of the serpent stars have a conical shape; their apex bears four pairs of
upwardly pointing, narrow arms in a symmetrical arrangement. Tiny hairs cover the arms,
which are used to sweep the phytoplankton into their centrally positioned mouths. The
larvae constantly feed as they drift into food transported by the sea currents. Their small,
light bodies and protruding arms extend out, increasing their surface area to prevent
sinking and instead remain in the surface waters.
The sun has begun to withdraw behind the horizon. The sky is growing darker with every
beating wave until all that is left is the light of the stars reflecting on the still surface of
the sea. In the dimming light, small creatures with eager eyes have been waiting in the
depths, anticipating the arrival of darkness. When the sun sets, these predators attack
at the surface. Some of these creatures are elongated and tube like, with fins to help
them swim upwards; they have sharp hooks and teeth ready for the siege. They attack
with shimmering movements, quick darts and voracious assaults. Unfortunately there
is nowhere to hide, just stretches of open water. Ingeniously, the serpent stars have
developed ways to protect themselves, their arms acting like thorns on a rose and
their transparent bodies camouflaging against the clear waters.
As the early morning hours return, and the sun peaks over the horizon, the predators are
chased back into the darkness deep below the sea. The wind has picked up, dragging
its body across the surface of the water; it ruffles the sea’s surface. Waves are emerging,
growing larger with each stroke of the wind. The turbulence infiltrates to the depths of
the sea, churning and mixing the layers of water, bringing up the rich nutrients from
below. The larvae sway along with the constant blending of the sea, unable to propel
themselves towards against the swell of the water. Some are swept miles off shore;
others are taken to shallower water where they may become entangled in the
mucus nets of razor clams.
With this new supply of nutrients, the phytoplankton take this opportunity to reproduce
and, in a frenzy, they duplicate their number, colouring the water a murky green. With
plentiful food available, the serpent stars have eaten so much that the water can no
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23. 44 45
I have always thought this is my own little secret place. I convince myself
that surely no one besides us can know that this magical sanctum is even
here. I remember the many summer evenings spent here as a child,
racing around on muddy ponies with the idyllic backdrop of a lilac
heather cloak and golden yellow gorse flowers, caramelised with the
last of a burnt-orange sun as it dipped behind the beacon. We used to
build little jumps by weaving together old branches, or we would play
Cowboys and Indians and hurtle around bareback with feathers and
flowers decorating the bridles and use mud to paint on our faces
and around our ponies’ eyes.
Everything seemed possible on those hot, clear evenings, where the
seamless sky was dyed with crimson purples and deep magentas that
amassed in streaks and swirls like a living watercolour. We forgot the
burden of school and exams, the pressure of teachers and parents and
the fear of our future that had been instilled in so many of us from such
a young age. Instead, we would stay out until the glittering stars
littered the sky and our t-shirts clung to our backs desperate for warmth.
I remember heaving the aged, solid oak front door and lifting the latch as
slowly and delicately as I could as to avoid the clunk ringing through the
entire house. I don’t think I ever succeeded. Far too heavy handed, I was
always caught by Dad, gingerly confined to the doormat due to the sheer
amount of Devon mud I had managed to cover myself in. But he never
minded. Instead, he would chuckle, eager to hear of my latest adventure
on the beacon.
Eleanor Halton
BA English, Stage 2
Sanctum Natural World
Negotiating the winding track to the moor is always the hardest part. The
peaty water rushes off the beacon polishing the large slabs of granite as
it gushes down towards the village. Here, it unknowingly meets the River
Erme and begins its winding passage to Bigbury Bay where it disperses
amid a restless and weary ocean. The deep grey, marbled effect of the
rocks, dappled with the dancing shadows of sheltering trees, contrasts
with the emerald green velvet cushions of moss that creep over and
encapsulate everything. Early morning sun pierces through the branches
and snowdrops peek out from the thicket as we clamber through an
enchanted and magical landscape. The rhythmical clatter of hooves
alongside the creaking of leather and the delicate choral hum of birds
soon drown out the distant drone of the dreary main road. That familiar,
faint smell of tack polish mixed with sweet haylage and the slight
dampness of a fur coat remind me that I’m home.
As the track nears its end, the rich, honeyed scent of wild gorse and
heather fills my nostrils. The track unfolds into a familiar opening. The last
of the heavy morning haze lingers just beneath the summit, concealing
the deep auburn coats of those few deer brave enough to venture onto
the moorland after sunrise. There is a small area of open meadow,
naturally enclosed by wild shrubbery, which is more often than not
guarded by the fending shadow of the beacon. At the top end of the
opening, there is a small verge, right on the foothill, and we turn around
to look back down at what we’ve accomplished so far. I peer in between
those pricked, silver dappled ears, fringed with a coarse blonde mane
and look down on the South Hams countryside, quilted together by
hedgerows and tiny tarmac veins connecting the sparse villages like
a dot to dot all the way to the coast.
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24. 46 47
For me, every new beginning lies in travelling to a new place. I could mark my life by
every trip I’ve ever taken, every country I’ve ever visited and the moments when I most
strongly felt a wanderlust hunger in my heart. Like most people, I grew up thinking my
little house was the centre of the universe. Everything came back to me and my little
bubble. Everyone was just like me, or so I thought.
I can’t pinpoint the moment that wanderlust was born inside me. It wasn’t an instant
explosion catching me off guard like a flash of lightening. It was a slow burn in my gut,
a gradual realisation that I wanted more from life. I probably wasn’t the most obvious
candidate for travelling the world. I’m not particularly outgoing; I’ve always been more
a quiet thinker who drinks too much tea and talks out loud to her cat. My friends and
family know my sense of direction is non-existent. Unlike most first time drivers, I wasn’t
nervous about the actual driving, but more about finding my way on the roads. The only
time I’m ever really vocal about anything is when someone dares to insult my favourite
books or films, and, on reflection, maybe that’s where it all began.
Reading was like travelling into another world, one where anything was possible. My
favourite novels were the first adventures I fell in love with, the ones that made me long
to live out my own. My predictable daily routine only grew more stifling as I aged, friends
changed, school finished and real life became a reality. I knew more than ever that I
needed to see the world. I needed to live without regrets and know that I didn’t miss
out because I was too scared to take a chance. I needed to feel there was more to life
than what I already knew.
Five years on, I’ve seen and done more than my teenage self could ever have dreamt.
I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa, raising thousands of pounds for charity. I studied
at Shanghai Maritime University for a month in China. I went to a beautiful beach side
wedding in Mexico, dancing all night long in sandy barefoot paradise. I climbed the
Eiffel Tower in Paris, wondered through old town Rhodes in Greece and read too many
books in Turkey. As I write this I’m living in Switzerland, studying at the University of
Zurich for a semester. Yesterday I wondered around Zurich’s beautiful lake, the Alps
bordering the background, and questioned how much chocolate I’d be able to
smuggle back across the border.
Yes, it’s not always easy. I have responsibilities at home and had to work hard to pay
for all my trips. Balancing a full time degree with a Monday to Friday job takes some
juggling. I don’t always get to go to that party everyone’s talking about or watch that TV
show that’s really popular. I trained hard to climb Kilimanjaro and nearly broke myself
getting to the top on summit night. I studied Mandarin all day every day in China and
never got any better at it. I’m now doing an intensive German course and discovering
that languages are not my natural talent. I always tell myself I’m allowed to be nervous,
to have no idea what I’m doing. The most important thing is to just do it anyway.
Wanderlust Heart Journey
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25. 48 49
Hannah Stamp
English and Creative Writing, Stage 2
When I walked along the Great Wall of China, something I thought I’d
only ever see in Disney’s Mulan, I felt awed at the sight of it wriggling
into the distance. When I swam with dolphins in Mexico I got as close
as I ever will to feeling like a mermaid. When I stood on the Eiffel
Tower and watched the lights of Paris slowly flicker on, I felt like I was
standing in a church and every member of the congregation was
holding a candle that only I could see. These moments make it
worthwhile. Knowing there’s a new beginning on the horizon, a new
country to get lost in, makes life bloom with colour. I even stayed in
Bristol for a week to take care of seven cocker spaniel puppies. Not
particularly exotic, but I can vouch for the fact that my stone cold
heart became a melted mess!
I never know where I’m going next, but every place has something
special to offer. Travelling teaches you to look for beauty wherever you
go, to be open to new worlds. I am learning about different cultures
and languages and constantly being asked if living in England is really
like Downton Abbey. I have witnessed the multitude of ways in which
people live their lives, everything from the types of food they eat to the
careers they strive for. The world is bigger than my little bubble and
sometimes the size of it scares me. There’s that feeling of insignificance
that comes from realising the world will keep turning long after you’re
gone. Sometimes the knowledge that I will never have time to see
everything, and the loneliness of feeling like a small fish in an
overflowing sea, still catches me off guard. But I also feel wiser and
more educated than a classroom could ever have made me. I can
put my phone down and be completely present in a moment. I am
interested in the lives that intersect with mine. This is my new
beginning and when it becomes an end, there’ll be another
one on my horizon. The case is simply, where next?
Photography Wladyslav Rawinski
Digital Art and Technology, Stage 2
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26. 50 51
A Zimbabwean Childhood
Culture
6.12.03
I brushed my fingers over the soft white materials. Despite the scruffy
stitching visible through the plastic quill of each synthetic barb covered
rachis, I imagined this was probably what real angel wings would have
felt like. I stood in the corner of the classroom for a long time simply
stroking the handmade feathery tuff. I was so dazed and fascinated that
I only faintly acknowledged the sounds of excited chatter and clattering
from rest of the class. It was the first ever class play and, as it was close to
Christmas, we were performing the Nativity – I was playing the role of
the angel. As we stood at the side of the stage peering through the
curtains at the audience piling into the assembly hall, most of my
classmates began to point out their parents in the crowd. Despite
knowing no one was showing up to watch me, my eyes still scanned every
face in the crowd trailing over every feature, hoping I’d see something
familiar. It was completely illogical and I was aware of this, but my eyes
still continued to trail over endless features in the crowd. It had been a
euphoric feeling when everyone clapped as we all took a bow. Afterwards,
my classmate’s parents had congratulated them, praising them on how
well they’d done – I felt a dull ache in my chest the whole lonely journey
back home that day. Both my parents were now in England. The
Zimbabwean economy was on edge, so they had decided to go and
work abroad, deciding it was better safer than sorry. I had never been an
overly emotional child, I never had that option; however that afternoon
when I had seen all my class mates basking in the attention of their
parents, I was suddenly painfully aware that something was missing.
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27. 52 53
4.7.06
During primary school, every lunchtime without fail, I found myself at
the tuckshop waiting in line to buy a candy apple. It cost me the same
amount of money every time, yet I started noticing that the notes were
rapidly morphing into vast spectrums of colour with more and more zero’s
littered on the paper. The changes were so rapid that I’d barely been able
to catch sight of them, but I was unsettled. I could feel the panic prickling
in the air, I’d heard frightened murmurs of it, tense mentions of its nearing
approach, and I could feel it spreading like a heat rash – hyper inflation.
At this time no one could deny that the Zimbabwean economy had
begun to collapse. People didn’t know it at the time but it would soon
get much worse.
5.8.07
Queues became a way of life in Zimbabwe. I was older at this point, but
not old enough that I should have been so aware of the political situation.
In Zimbabwe, we grew up fast – we had no choice. I could say a lot of my
memories of that time involved waiting in lines for basic necessities such
as bread. It gets easier the more you do it – the restlessness that once
simmers through your body, as your foot anxiously twitches, gradually
numbs into a dull patience. Very soon the sharp ache of abused feet
becomes a blunt throb. The bread line was intense. At 5 a.m. every
morning we were waking up and getting ready to get in line by 6 a.m.
so we’d be in a good place. After that, all we had to do was wait until the
shipment arrived. Food was getting scarce at this point. The ZANU-PF
(Zimbabwe African National Union-Patriotic Front) Party were now
promising that they would import food as a solution to our lack of
resources (because it was election time again) though it was more about
keeping up morale as it was common knowledge that ZANU-PF had
always rigged elections. People were almost losing hope of any other
party taking over and giving the country some much needed reform.
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28. 54 55
3.12.07
We’d always moved around a lot when I grew up (currently we were on
our twelfth move) and I had long given up on making new friends. I often
found that they could never really relate to me. Admittedly, having the
shell of a parent censoring them from the world seemed to preserve their
naivety. I spent most of my time alone; there was a big age gap between
me and my siblings, which meant I could never really connect with them.
During this time, I acquired a love for reading. I’d often sit on the balcony
and engulf myself in foreign ideologies, while in the background I could
hear the muffled sound of the TV. I’d lost interest in it since Jonathan
Moyo had decided to remove all other channels except ZTV, which was
just packed full of pro ZANO-PF propaganda. The government had
gotten more intense when the MDC (Movement for Democratic Change)
party had started to lead somewhat of a revolution. ZANO-PF were
responding violently; a lot of the leaders of MDC were being brutally
killed and detailed news of it was circulating. Back then I thought it was
forbidden information. Now I figure they had wanted us to know, for
their purpose was to extinguish fear upon the hope that was lighting up
amongst the people. Protestors and campaigners were now being
attacked by the army. In school, the hot topic had been brutal horror
stories of people being slaughtered by the government. I felt so far from
it as I stared out of my balcony at the calm avenues I couldn’t begin to
place myself in those horrors. I didn’t see past the view I had outside my
balcony. I didn’t want to. I told myself none of it mattered anyway,
because I was getting out of there soon. It was two weeks away but
my bags were already packed. I was finally going to join my parents
in the UK and leave this life for a new one.
Ropafadzo Mugadza
BA English, Stage 1
Illustrations by Mei Lee
BA Illustration, Stage 2
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29. 56 57
Alice Beatty
BA English, Year 1
It was everywhere, scattered like jewels with pierced skin of citrus sourness.
The lemons continued in their thousands, dripping down the metal cages
and shining between their dark, earthy leafs so tempting and close I could
have reached out and plucked one from the branches. Sorrento was
famous for its lemons. I had seen them in the market; some had grown
to the size of my head. Woven baskets lay full of the overgrown fruit and
every street corner contained a flash of vivid saffron yellow as they hung
from tattered rope in shop windows. Even when it rained and the sky was
grey, the streets never dulled because of the yellow. It always stood out
wherever we went; perhaps that’s why I’ve never forgotten it.
The train chugged on, past the fields and cages of lemons until I could no
longer see them, no matter how much I strained my neck. We passed the
mountains and more wooden crosses, and then the carriage started to
slow and the vibrations ceased. We arrived in Rome at around 10 o’clock,
but the heat was already fierce and prickled on my shoulders. I stepped
out into the platform, ready to explore this new place with the colour
of yellow still fresh in my mind.
Giallo Culture
It was early, the sun was only just rising over the misshapen rooftops and
there was a cool breeze travelling down the train carriage. It was almost
empty; the only noise came from the hard plastic seats rattling from the
vibrations of the track.
I remember tall houses surrounding us. They looked so different to
anything we had seen before or since. The brown clay windows enclosed
no glass and the small balconies had clothes drying in the morning
warmth. No one had woken yet and it would have been silent if it weren’t
the train rumbling through. Everyone’s lives were hidden away behind
the bright knitted curtains and the small potted plants that were nestled
amongst the rough exterior. Every doorway’s chipped paint had fallen
to the street below; the concrete littered blue and red. Wooden crosses
hung through the street, nailed to walls with pictures and beads
surrounding them. These shrines became bigger the closer we
got to Rome.
After the houses came the cages, criss-crossing metal wires spread over
miles of land. We passed so many I lost count. The green, tangled vines
enveloped the metal; they looked strong and overgrown, inches from
my face. I then caught sight of bright yellow.
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30. 58 59
Dregs Journey
Typography by Kate Pollard
BA Graphic Communication with Typography, Stage 2
On the wall to the left of the urinals in the Gent’s lavatory of the Nowhere
Inn, at about eye level, scrawled in black marker ink, are the words:
Fuck Josh Edwards! He’s a cunt!
The handwriting is suspiciously reminiscent of my own and matches many
other sentiments littering the walls. But that character assassination by the
urinals is the graffiti my eye is drawn to whenever I enter the W.C. It is a
beacon; a constant anchor I have to the place that was a communal living
room for me and the people I cared about for a long time. The place
where I played numerous gigs and watched substantially more. The place
where I met most of my closest friends. The place I went to celebrate the
birth of my daughter.
When I first wrote the incendiary statement about myself, I didn’t tell
anyone I’d written it. I simply waited for people to notice. Friends would
ask me if I had seen it and I would look suitably disgruntled whilst inwardly
loving the fact that I’d had some small hand in crafting my own
mythology. Eventually, somebody (my best bet is Dave) added a little
arrow between the last two words and wrote underneath, in black biro
scratched block capitals the word PREDICTABLE.
I had been rumbled and this filled me with joy. People there knew me and
cared enough to take the time to scorn me, and in biro no less, which I’m
sure you are aware does not readily lend itself to writing on walls.
Outside the toilet door, the Nowhere itself is not a huge pub - it’s a
building that looks as old as it feels. Support beams line the main room,
like a more homely Mine of Moria. There used to be a fireplace, but that
was before my time. Oddly, the familiar warmth of burning wood still
seems to fill the room on cold winter nights, but maybe that’s just
the booze.
The pool table is pushed back whenever bands play at the pub. The
partition acts as the divide between band and audience, a border that
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31. 60 61
wasn’t happy in the Droogs anymore. I walked over to him and put my
hand on his shoulder. Every band I had ever been in, Phil had been with
me. It was his bass amp that I had hidden behind at our first gig. We had
toured Spain together with our school orchestra, accidentally singing a
Spanish swear word across the loud speakers of a little Catholic village.
He had helped me home the first time I’d concussed myself on stage,
bleeding, crying and wearing a prom dress. Both of us had used Justin
Credible and the Droogs as a way of finding our feet after the suicide of
a dear friend. I had just told him that not only did I not want to do it
anymore, but that I’d actively be looking to make music with someone
else. I could understand his bad feelings.
“Pretty fucking big crowd tonight. Come on, they’re not gonna disappoint
themselves,” I said to him.
He smiled back at me. “You disappoint them if you like. I’m gonna
be awesome.”
I probably said something self-deprecating and offensive before we
launched into it.
I bled again from a self-inflicted, mic-wound to the skull. Later on, I
remember singing upside down and balanced on my head, leaning on
one of the support beams. Friends joined us on-stage, band members
swapped instruments, but throughout all of the hijinks, there was a sense
of finality. At least I wouldn’t be Justin Credible anymore. I’m Josh
Edwards, even if he is a cunt.
We played the last song on the set list. I was again sat on the floor, but this
time facing out. My breath was thick. Roars of appreciation descended
upon us. I remember just sitting there, allowing it to wash over me. It was
humbling. My eyes moistened quickly and I second-guessed myself;
perhaps I had been too hasty? Perhaps the band had more life in it.
“Encore?” I enquired into the microphone.
Joshua Edwards
BA English and Creative Writing, Stage 1
is broken whenever a young lady needs to spend a penny.
Usually, for the bands I like, I park myself front and centre of the
‘stage’. When I say park, I mean just that. I will sit at gigs, cross-legged,
watching the show at roughly groin level flanked by skyscraper bar stools
and amateur whirling dervishes. I sit admiring the bands at a level from
which I can also see that the underside of the jukebox could do with a
clean. That position has been inverted a fair few times. I’ve done my fair
share of both, singing and shouting and ranting and convulsing and
occasionally bleeding to scratch that filthy itch I caught in my teens.
One of the most memorable instances was the last gig of Justin Credible
and the Droogs. The name comes from the gang in Anthony Burgess’
novel A Clockwork Orange, and the ring name of a little known wrestler.
I would introduce us often as Britain’s second most popular quartet,
named after a professional wrestler and a fictional gang of rapists,
after Hulk Hogan and the Merry Men.
That night at the Nowhere, we had been playing live together for two
years and six months. The reason I’d decided to call it off was simply
frustration. The Paul to my John, Phil had different ideas about what we
wanted the band to sound like, and we’d clash over it. I was anti-pop for
the most part. Phil wanted us to sound like Bon Jovi. It just seemed like
the time to shelve it and move on.
We had played a few times at the Nowhere, not as many as some other
venues, but my emotional ties to the pub were already strong and it’s
where my friends liked to go. The Fuck Josh Edwards graffiti didn’t exist
at that point because most people knew me as Justin. Indeed, all the
pitches of woo in the Ladies are written to Justin, not Josh.
After the support bands had finished, I hastily smoked a cigarette. There
were more people in front of me than there ever had been in that place
before. It was confidence building; right up until the point I realized that
I had to kill the band for this many people to want to see it.
I looked over at Phil who seemed hurt; like a clueless husband in a
stagnant marriage, he was completely blindsided when I told him I
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32. 62 63
Gallery
Isabelle Woodward
BA Illustration Stage 3
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33. 64 65
My work explores the theme of ‘landscape’, particularly notions
surrounding wilderness, place and space. Over the last year my work has
attempted to look at the way in which human beings use and understand
the landscape. I seek to answer the question of whether ‘true wilderness’
exists anymore, or has every corner of the planet been tainted in some
way by human interference.
Stylistically, my work is very minimalistic. As a landscape photographer,
my practice has gone beyond the superficial or picturesque landscapes
we are all familiar with. I travel to remote landscapes such Bodmin Moor
and Dartmoor.
To the viewer my work seems isolating and barren, however, it is not as it
appears. This ancient landscape is steeped in history and over the years
the moor has been shaped and re-shaped by humanity. Mankind and
the landscape are in a constant state of transition, so naturally as human
values change so too does the landscape, but at a much slower pace.
Never the less the transition still takes place.
I use a Nikon D800 with a 50mm lens on site; this allows for fantastic
detail. I print these images on large sheets of Rag paper, as I want to
almost overwhelm the viewer. By transporting them into the landscape,
I encourage the audience to think about their own sense of place,
and what wilderness means to the individual.
Artist Feature
Claire Masters
BA Photography stage 3
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34. 66 67
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35. 68 69
Wladyslaw Rawinski
BA Digital Art and Technology, Stage 3
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36. 70 71
Alex Brissenden
BA Illustration, Stage 3
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37. 72 73
Natasha Clemo
BA Photography Stage 3
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38. 74 75
Dean Gregory
BA Illustration Stage 3
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39. 76 77
Cara Green
BA Fine Art Stage 3
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40. 78 79
Yi Hong Lim
BA Illustration
Stage 3
Lorna Cowley
BA Illustration Stage 3
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41. 80
Want to find your voice? Hone your craft as a writer by studying others.
Immerse yourself in the words that have shaped our world. Learn how to
write poetry, fiction, non-fiction, screenplays and more. Get published
and experience the professional writing process. Throughout this course
you’ll write, think and grow – discovering what sort of writing sets your
imagination soaring. Studying English alongside creative writing will
broaden your horizons preparing you for many rewarding professions.
Boost your career prospects by working with a publishing house, literary
agent, arts organisation or magazine on our work-based learning module
or extra-curricular internships. Write and be published as part of INK, the
English and Creative Writing student-run magazine, and experience other
cultures by studying or working abroad in either Europe or the US.
BA (Hons) English and Creative Writing
& BA (Hons) English
Do you want to develop your own original writing whilst engaging with
the best contemporary work being published? You’ll refine your craft
with guidance from the award-winning writers who teach on this
workshop-based MA, as well as from visiting writers. Make the most of
an opportunity to produce a substantial written project in a nurturing,
creative environment. The writing skills you’ll develop will help ensure
that, upon graduating, your work is ready for submission to publishers
and agents.
Students of these programmes, among many others, have the chance to
work on publications such as INK including Short Fiction, the national
literary journal published by the University of Plymouth Press.
For more information about any of our programmes, please visit:
www.plymouth.ac.uk/faculties/arts
MA Creative Writing
ENGLISH &
CREATIVE WRITING
WITH
PLYMOUTH
UNIVERSITY
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