Creativity - Spring 2011

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Photos, Arts and Words by Cardiff StudentsSpring 2011

Editor Megan King

Sub editors Sarah Pritchard Anna Grudeva

Photography and art Sarah Pritchard

Graphic Design Anna Grudeva Proof readers Sarah Powell Laura Amey Morgan Applegath

Front Cover by Jie Chen

It’s a dangerous thing to romanticise creativity; it can alienate all those who think, those who create are wrapped up in their own importance. So an easy way to explain the process is through dream-ing. Every night, though we might not always remember, our minds piece to-gether the day in ways we couldn’t even conceive when we are awake. Coleridge even claimed that his epic poem Kubla Khan was conceived in a dream and that !"# !$%&"#'%!$()*#+),-.$)#()#/01)#.2#+)-fore the end. Creating something - art, a poem, a photograph, is really a process of dreaming. An exercise in imaging how you can manipulate reality to suit your vi-sion of the world. Therefore, it seemed '""!%3#"0#*)*!,-")#-%#!$$.)#04 #Creativity to the concept of dreams. The submissions take a multitude of perspectives on the subject; psychoanalysis, nightmares, the surreal and sleep itself. Together, they create our own little fairytale of what it is to be creative.

MeganMarch 2011.

A Note from the Editor

The train pulls into the station at platform six, every night without fail. Guilt, regret. Such punctual emotions,

!"#"$%&"'()"&*%+,"%-./-%!"0/%/1%2"*%3"$%4'524%$"&%'.4-%$"-/%'.6"%(%4(.$%17 %85$'"&%4144)%4"/('-9%,"$%:"-,%"/,"$"('*%;'-though her jaded, half-empty eyes are dimmer than I remember. There’s only so much my imagination can do.

The train doors open and clusters of passengers, faceless and blurred, manoeuvre on and off. I am getting better at

dismantling this scene. Slowly whittling away at the details every night until hopefully, one day, I’ll be able to take us

somewhere better.

We were happy once, it’s just getting her to remember that.

You ruined it. Erase the people, bend the tracks and burn the train. You’ll never stop her from leaving.

% <19%=%8(!%/(6"%,"$%(>()%7$12%,"$"*%?.''%15$%:"-,%>./,%,"'.52%(!&%:1(/%549%4(-/%/,"%&($6%@"8"2A"$%-6)%/1%/,"%B$""!%17 %+/$(&")%3.''9%>,"$"%>"%C$-/%2"/%/,(/%D5')*%E$%4.86%54%/,(/%&.-8($&"&%,1'.&()%A$18,5$"%1!%/,"%-/(/.1!%:11$9%:.86%/,$15B,%(!&%C!&%"#"$)%4(B"%.-%(!%(&#"$/.-"2"!/%/1%(%212"!/%.!%15$%2"21$."-*%;!&%>,"$"%-,(''%>"%B1%/1!.B,/%2)%'1#"F%;%/.2"%>,"!%/"($-%>"$"%'(5B,/"$G-%'.H5.&9%>,"!%-,15/.!B%>(-%"08./"2"!/%"-8(4"&9%>,"!%)15G&%A1($&%(%/$(.!%and I could come with you? Isn’t that what dreams should be like?

‘If only we could choose what to dream…’ I tell her.

‘My name? My name is Kaitlin’ she replies.

She’s wearing an expression I eventually robbed her of. Happiness creases the nose; laughter dimples the

cheeks, her dark eyes halcyon polished. I exhale. How cruel that at our end my mind sends her back to the beginning.

My dreams feed me the encapsulated version of our relationship, the bitter nightly dosage; the reminder of how much

better I used to feel.

‘I’ve never been with a Kaitlin before.’ She smiles. Eyes go vacant, a record skipping, fragmented and frac-

tured.

‘Tell me that this’ll be forever’ she asks.

I try to lean forward to offer her my limp kiss, but my body possesses no presence, no dimensions. I exist

as a gossamer trace of this prosaic land, an apparition in limbo.

‘This will be forever’ I assure her.

She smiles again. I treasure it. It is the last one I’ll see tonight. Her eyes go vacant; her thoughts scratch

skipping to another time.

She cries now.

Finally the autumn leaves are falling and she thinks she is amid them. Summer liked to write our story, but

now it disregards every yellowing page, and the details of each leaf are slowly lost, muddied and trampled into slush.

With every truth I tell a new one falls, until our relationship is at our feet.

Whatever colour remains in her eyes is washed out, she is cleansed and I am taken with the tears. She gets

/1%,"$%7""/%(!&%>('6-%/1%/,"%/$(.!%&11$-9%-,"%,(-%71$B1//"!%2"%(!&%=%8(!%&1%!1/,.!B%A5/%$"2"2A"$%,"$*%;%>,.-/'"%.-%blown, sharp and clean, the train wheels begin to roll, unstoppable, inevitable. I sit defeated, my vision tear-stained as I

>(/8,%,"$%'"(#"*%;!&%(-%-,"%.-%8($$."&%(>()%7$12%2"9%15/%.!/1%/,"%7$.!B"%17 %/,.-%>.!/"$%!.B,/9%7(&.!B%(>()%.!/1%/,"%$.2%of my unmapped imagination, I declare my usual.

‘Tomorrow, I’m going to wake up and come for you. Tomorrow... tomorrow!’

The last train carriage fades evanescently. The sound of my morning alarm blares over the platform loud-

speakers. I’m about to wake. But just as there’s having dreams and dreaming. There’s waking up and there’s being

awake.

‘Tomorrow… tomorrow.’

by A. P. T Mathias

4

The hourglass

Parenthesis

Robert Walton 5

Rhyn Williams6

I held the girl close as we swept across the chess board, the taffeta rustle of her dress roaring in my ears. As we swayed between pawns and spun past a red bishop, the clouds around us broiled and rolled, and a scalding rain began to gush from above. We hurried into a castle, but when I turned to face the girl she looked at me and I stumbled – where there should’ve been eyes, a nose, a mouth, anything, there was just blank space. I scrambled up to the top of the turret and gazed out over the board at fallen or broken !"#"$%!&'"(%')*#+,'#-.'/(0"%')#""*%1%*.'!+#22%.')3'#'"#-4*%'56 '*07)!8'9':$""%2'56 ')*$%'from behind a collapsed queen. I looked closer. Two grey eyes beneath a thick black fringe peered over a shard of cracked pottery. I knew those eyes. I knew her. I know I shouldn’t run over to peer at him at every twitch. The doctors have told me that not every little movement means he’s waking up, but I can’t help myself. Any sign of humanity from him is enough to have me falling out of this particularly dif-1+$*"'%#!3;+(#02'#-.'.#!(0-4'"5'(0!'!0.%8'<%=!'(55,%.'$>'"5'!5'7#-3'>0>%!'#-.'"$)%!'"(#"'he looks more like part of a plumbing system than a living, breathing man. My living, breathing man. I settled down in the chair, one leg hooked over the arm, and tried to ignore the penetrating beep of the monitor as it checked for a heartbeat within the knot of pipes and bandages. I ran. Leaping over rocks and clumps of seaweed, I ran. I ran so hard I almost fell into the mouth of the cave which gaped black and wide, a steady stream of bubbles issuing from the depths. I pulled up just short of the entrance, and watched as the bub-)*%!'25!%'"5'"(%'!$26#+%&':#!(%.'0-'"(%'!$-*04("&'#-.'"(%-'6%**')#+,'"5'"(%'!%#;)%.8'?')%-"'and picked one up. It wasn’t a bubble, it was a peach. The furry skin felt faintly warm )%-%#"('73'1-4%2!&'#-.'#!'?'!"$+,'#'-#0*'0-'0"'55@%.'#'"(0-')*5"'56 ')*55.'/(0+('+$2*%.'and twisted, hanging in the water before my eyes. I blinked. The peach hurt. Wincing, I looked away as the doctors withdrew the needle. They insisted he +5$*.-="'6%%*'0"&'52'0-.%%.'#-3"(0-4'#"'"(%'757%-"&')$"'?'!"0**'.0.-="'*0,%'"5'!%%8'<%'(#!'enough bits of metal and glass stuck into him at the moment that I don’t want to watch "(%7'>$"'#-3'752%'0-8'<%=!'*0,%'#'A5>;$>'A02#"%'B'"(%3',%%>'!"0+,0-4'"(0-4!'0-'(07C'%D%--"$#**3'"(%3=**'1-.'"(%'204("'5-%'#-.'"(%-'$>'(%=**'E$7>F'G(%'/#0"',%%>!'7%'"#$"'#!'#'4$0"#2'string, but I tried to relax under my blanket as I cosied into the hard chair back, my cheek 2%!"0-4'5-'"(%'/55.%-'#278'?',-%/'"(%3=.'1-.'"(%'204("'5-%'!55-8'G(%3'(#.'"58 Right at the top of the lighthouse, out on the roof, I tap-danced. I had to keep my feet moving, the surface beneath my feet was like fresh cement. If I kept still for too long, I’d get stuck, so I danced. I lifted my face up to the sky as it started to hail, and !+2%#7%.'#"'"(%'625@%-'-%%.*%!'>0%2+0-4'73':%!(8'?'!+2%#7%.'#"'"(%'+2$%*'755-'#!'0"'(0.'like a coward under a duvet of cloud. I screamed at the boat on the horizon which held the girl with the black fringe and grey eyes that was sailing away from me. I screamed and I danced, and as I danced the lighthouse started to shake, then to list from side to side. I struggled to keep upright, but the lighthouse crumpled as though it were made of wet cardboard, and I fell down onto the rocks. The last thing I saw was the seagulls +02+*0-4'7%&'/(0"%'14$2%!'#.D#-+0-4'#-.'>%%20-4'.5/-'#"'7%'/0"('"(%02'07>#!!0D%'6#+%!8'?'+*5!%.'73'%3%!8'?'5>%-%.'"(%78'H(0"%'14$2%!'>%%2%.'.5/-'#"'7%'/0"('07>#!!0D%'6#+%!8 “Welcome back, Mr. Ravenscroft. There’s someone here who’d like to speak to you.” Black fringe. Grey eyes. She came back.

by Becca Eustis

The Dance

Rhyn Williams7

“They were masked.” I croaked. Dr. Lebowitz leaned across the table. “Go on.” I tried to swallow. The effort grated in my throat. “They were masked. We attempted to take the place by force because we thought we had greater numbers. Turns out, they knew we were coming and managed to split us up. I ended up on my own. One of them passed the doorway. I saw the colour of his gun and then nothing.” The doctor was silent.! "!#!$%$&!'(!)!*+$,-.!/01234*+!0!,5-3!67 !,$&!-8,$0&!16!13$4,!148-9!:3$!70'4;40,!8,42<;$!67 !0!1365-0*&!84*-!-8$2<;$&!02,6--!'(!)!*+$,-9!"!-10,$&!01!'(!30*&-!0*&!3$0,&!13$!&6216,!-8$0<!6*$!/6,&9 “Good.”

~~~ Dr. Lebowitz closed the door quietly behind him and walked briskly to the reception area where the com-mander and Dr. Reid were waiting.! =>,6+,$--?@!:3$!26''0*&$,!/0-!$7)!24$*1!0-!$A$,9 “He spoke. First time in three sessions. If that’s not progress then I don’t know what is.”! :3$!26''0*&$,!84$,2$&!34'!/413!0!-10,$9!=B66&!/6,<.!C4;A$,'0*9@! D,9!E$4&!*6&&$&9!=:34-!'0(!088$0,!5*6,136&6%!F51!47 !3$!20*!;$0,*!16!,$26+*4-$!(65.!13$,$!'4+31!F$!hope left for the rest of his memory to return.”! C4;A$,'0*!,$'6A$&!13$!8;0-142!*0'$10+!7,6'!34-!23$-1!0*&!8;02$&!41!6*!13$!,$2$8146*!265*1$,9!:5,*4*+!16!13$!26''0*&$,.!3$!-04&G!=H3$*!/4;;!3$!F$!16;&.!-4,?!:301!41!/0-!7,4$*&;(!)!,$?!:301!41!/0-!'$?@ “When he knows it for himself.”!! :3$!&6216,!-1,04+31$*$&!34-!14$!0*&!26''0*&$&!C4;A$,'0*I-!+0J$9!=:34-!30-!16!3088$*!4*!34-!6/*!14'$9!Only his comrades can come close to understanding what he has seen. It’s a nightmare world and one that none of 5-!0,$!80,1!679!H3$*!3$I-!,$0&(.!47 !3$!$A$,!4-.!3$I;;!26'$!F02<9!K*14;!13$*.!L5-1!F$!130*<75;!1301!41I-!*61!(65!30A4*+!136-$!&,$0'-9!M$I-!0!A4214'!67 !34-!6/*!2,$0146*9@! :3$!26''0*&$,.!13$!-6;&4$,!0*&!13$!8-(23401,4-1!;$71!13$!;6FF(!0*&!/0;<$&!651-4&$!4*16!0!2,4-8!N6A$'F$,!'6,*4*+9!O$34*&!13$'.!4*!0!-'0;;!,66'!;4*$&!/413!2$,14)!201$-!/413!0!A4$/!6A$,;66<4*+!0!241(!80,<.!0!'0*!&,$0'1!67 !colour, pain and of understanding it all.

by Jenny Lambourne

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I tried gnawing through those lucid momentsspent at the tip, watching the jaws of the crusher close around mattresses, tables, photo-frames;but I need a sharp knife, a scalpel, to puncture !"#$%&'()#*(+',#(%-#./#!(0'#.*'#1#&2.#3%4323/%2#3%./my terrifying daydream. I am the traumatised surgeondissecting his past with steel teeth and iron palms, squirming as memories become splinters, ash, and dust.

5*'%#6'#1#&2.#(&&37'-#(.#"/$&#*/$2''7'&".*3%8#6(2#(2#9#0%'6#3.:#$%./$4*'-antiques and porcelain cats – ;$.#.*'#!(..&'22#3%#.*'#)373%8#&//!,#and the drip by the window - were new memories.Mum threw pillows into black bags, Daddisturbed the fragile silence with the stab

of shattering china. We worked for hours, peeling the skin from the walls, stripping furniture from guts; amputating a human life.*(.#*(-#;'4/!'#3%.'&6/7'%#63.*#(#*/$2'<

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by Richard Gills

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at H

ills

10

I thought I saw myself the other day, caught a glimpse, saw a wisp of myself in the air. But I couldn’t be caught. I grabbed too hard and too fast and I watched myself blow away.I thought I saw my dark mark on the road where I stopped light with myself, but it was night, and I cried out as I heard threads tear away from myself. !"#$%&'$#"#$(#"!")(&'$#"*+"%,-".+./"012."("3"4$"%-"("$%%2/"4(,"#$.",$1#.4"5"(4$"1-"'0(44/"6&#"*+"7%&60."#(2.",(4"#%%"late, and that moment passed. I thought I saw myself in my face, tried to trace out its lines, but I watched as I tried to hide from myself. And the moment passed, again.I thought I heard myself speak, but that couldn’t be me. I was too weak to make sense of a sentence or string things together made up of letters. My words were too thin and they withered and weathered before I could hear them myself.I thought I could smell myself but I smelt of thin air, and water, and smells so bare that I barely felt there. So I whis-pered a prayer for myself.I thought I could taste my own tongue, so it leapt from my mouth, crawling south down my skin. I was numb, so my body ran from itself, left its bones and collapsed on itself. I wasn’t myself.

by Jessica Williams

Mistaking Yourself

11

After months of sleepless nights, Sophia fell into a coma-like slumber. It was a cowardly way for sleep to

approach; after all, she had been coaxing it, requesting for it, pleading with it for weeks. Night after night, she had

closed her eyes and willed the comforting quilt of tiredness to overcome her. “I need you” she said into the ethereal

!"#$%&'(()*+ ),'-)*&'.!'/-**0)1)#2)3&)4#(2)5*&/*&6)#)!"#$%&'(()2,#2)7#()8'&'2-#2'/)*&"9)!9)2,')(:;#-')-'/)&;0!'-()*&),'-)-#/3*)#"#-0)$"*$%<)7,3$,)1)#(,'/)=>?@A#0<)=>?@B#0<)=>?@C#0D)E*8,3#)"*F'/)&;0!'-(<)(,')F3'7'/)2,'0)#()#&)artistic medium like clay or paint, waiting to be manipulated into something new. She noticed that if she stared at the

numbers on her radio alarm they blurred around the edges; the red bled into a deep crimson and their shape bent and

distorted. It comforted her that time was not sleeping either.

In the day, Sophia worked for DrugsCorp., an international drugs company that bought new pharmaceuti-

$#")8-*/;$2()!'+*-')"#;&$,3&G)2,'0)*&2*)2,')$*&(;0'-)0#-%'2?)H"2,*;G,)E*8,3#),#/)*!2#3&'/)#)I)-(2)$"#(()/'G-'')3&)mathematics, her boss had said – in not so many words – that he didn’t trust her with anything important; so far, she

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on. Sometimes Sophia would become absorbed by the numbers on these sheets of paper, rearranging them into new

patterns until she had eventually changed their outcome all together.

It was a Tuesday like any other, and Sophia was at work photocopying posters for a new sleeping pill which

Drugs Corp. was launching. They were marketing the sleeping pill with the slogan: ‘Because we all need our beauty

sleep!’ On the posters, each ‘e’ had long black eyelashes. Next to the slogan there was a photograph of a beautiful

woman with photo-shopped white eyes. Sophia was doodling on one of the photocopies of the poster, giving the

bright-eyed model drooping eyelids and dark circles - much like her own - going over and over the eyes with a black

biro, making them heavier and heavier, darker and darker.

) L&)2,')7*-"/)*;2(3/')E*8,3#K()03&/<)53M<)2,')-'$'823*&3(2<),'#-/)#)2,;/)#&/)7'&2)3&2*)2,')8,*2*$*89)-**0)2*)I)&/)E*8,3#);&0*F3&G)*&)2,')1)**-?)53M)7'&2)!#$%)2*),'-)/'(%)#&/):;3$%"9)/3#""'/)+*-)#&)#0!;"#&$'?)N,3"')(,')7#()waiting to be connected to the emergency services, she clicked onto her e-mail inbox - having seen a message that was

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No rest for the

Wicked

12

fraud… Miss S. Landerhou...Police Investigation.’ Unsure of the context of the e-mail, Liz temporarily forgot what she was doing; only snapping back into the moment upon hearing a lady’s voice on the other end of the line, ‘Emer-gency Services. Hello? Can you hear me?’ Oblivious to the commotion, Sophia slept on: a very different series of events unfolding beneath her eyelids. The events did not seem particularly connected, or appear to follow a chronological path. She did not dream about the best or worst moments of her life; you could say it was the in-between situations that sprang into her mind. !"#$%&#'#()$#*+($#,- #%&(#.(&+/#)%&#0+)#+1,2$#)34#,(#)&5&"6#*7+83"9#,"#+#)03"9#03$%#+"#,(+"9&#)&+$#+".#+#-(+8&.#172&#(,*&:#!$#0+)#)2""8#+".#$%&#0%,7&#0,(7.#0+)#9(&&"#+".#172&6#+"#+7$&("+$3"9#53&0#,- #'#&7.)#+".#);8:#<%&#-,2".#$%&#*&"=dular motion relaxing and its monotony soothed her. Next, she was in a life drawing class many years later. Looking at the naked male model, she noticed how delicate the male form is, how men can be curvaceous in a different way from women, how the essence of a body is so hard to capture. Suddenly, she was laughing with her grandmother - just before her death - laughing about the way her grandmother used to put wool in her hair to make it look longer because she wasn’t allowed to grow it. She remembered desperately wanting to hide in the comforting creases around her knowing, loving eyes. Her grandmother used to say: ‘You can sleep when you’re dead. While you’re alive, dream.’ The next moment she was in a giant maze, and the walls of the maze were made up of lots of tiny numbers. The walls kept moving and changing, so that her path was constantly obstructed. After a while, she realised she had to move the numbers herself to clear a path. In the centre of the maze she found a clearing, and in the clearing there was a man in a black suit. Behind the man was a small metal safe with her name on it, but as she walked over to it, the man disappeared. In the safe there was a piece of paper that read: DrugsCorp. Cordially Awards Sophia Landerhou Fourty-Eight Thousand Pounds, but then she felt herself surfacing, half-way between her dream and the photocopy room.

In the world outside she could hear voices, the receptionist Liz was talking about an e-mail - something about fraud - there was panic and she could sense bodies all around her. She plunged back into her dream, but now she was in her old classroom learning about prisoner detention centres. The teacher was speaking in a slow, patronising tone, saying ‘sometimes people deliberately don’t let other people sleep, as a form of torture. A lack of sleep makes you reveal all your darkest secrets.’ In the classroom the teacher suddenly turned into a little girl, yet her clothes were still the same size as before, drowning her now shrunken frame. The girl was chanting ‘You snooze, you lose, you snooze, you lose...’ After days of being in a coma-like sleep – her body’s reaction to extreme exhaustion - Sophia woke up. The '#()$#$%3"9#)%&#%&+(.#0+)#",$#$%&#*,73>&/+"#3"#$%&#%,)*3$+7#>,((3.,(#,"#%3)#/,137&#)+83"96#?!@77#A2&)$3,"#%&(#0%&"#)%&#wakes up. She must be bright - stealing all that money from under their noses. It’s going to be very embarrassing for DrugsCorp., spread all over the papers.’ She did not hear the nurse on her daily round saying ‘Sophia. Sophia can you hear me?’ She did not hear the rain as it beat the hospital roof. She did not hear any of these things. What she did hear was the sound of the clock ticking, and she felt sorry that time had still not slept.

by Nicol Phyllips

Photo by Tom Armstrong

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Treason of my treason tears

lament my youth, and cork my years

Break this paper rhythm,

my heart’s weeds

strung into ribbons

Scratch out this date,

this endless line.

Fold over this page,

and forget my rhyme.

by Caitlin Maggs

Treason of my

Treason tears

A!"#$%&'#'!(')*(+,$-%!$'*($(.'(!'/0."(.'$%- $'*($1&230),$#*($)!&)04(#$*(!#(3- $.05*'367$Inside the great Cathedral of billowing red and white plastic, in this house of clowns,

she works to feed her family. The children are here tonight, small faces round and rosy,

snuggled among the crowd. She doesn’t feel well. Her head feels heavy and full, her

hands weak. The faces of her children blur, suddenly unfamiliar. Strangers in a dream.

The show must go on. She grips the sword, holding it high above her head as if to

13&.5($0'$0.'%$/$#/)!04)0/3$3/"27$8(!$*/.+#$/!($%.36$/$30''3($#*/96$/#$#*($#30+(#$'*($#:%!+$almost vertically down her throat. Almost vertically. But not quite.

by Tazine Bogue

Sword-

Swallowing

18

!"#$%&'#$()&*"%

19

There will be thick sleep tonight. Drugged on the dull anaesthesia of lullabies, even the anchorless feel the tug of the deep, consuming like a love, a hunger. Above, the moon sucks in the sky like a craving, wide-eyed. Dilate. Diana ditched the forest for the midnight; she’s stitched herself to the undersides of stars. She spears and speaks through the mouths of clouds. Moondrunk, she’s sunk into the currents of our mumbled conversations; our fumbled demonstra-!"#$%&#' &()*+$"!,-&.)$!"$/&+&(0+1!20+!&+*#$/&+&3&00!&#' &/(#%!%- Sleep is her uncountry; the estuary that feeds her sea of sky. She steers past the arms of drowned suns and daughters that reach from the waters. Taking names, notes. Traces of heartbreak in the wake of her boat. & 4+15!#1$&6"%(01%7&60&3&"!&+$8&'+99&9":0&%,;+*#10&%008%7&'009"$/&$#!&("/(7&2)!&+3&#+!-&<=0$&(010&%(0&(#)$8%&)%7&%*"9"$/&9":0&+&;("987&8#/5(0+1!08-&>(0&"%&099"?%"%7&0;9"?%07&!(0&;+99&#' &!(0&6"98&%9"??08&20("$8&!(0&%;,!(0%&#' &(01&@&$/015nails. We close on the guise of the city, the immutable face of a father, and collapse back to our tiny premature deaths: sleepscorched breath and the smell of surgery. Flight, distilled. Diana sits and sighs, the virgin queen, unravelling the night into morphine; saline; the salt of sleepdust rusting round the eyes.

by Jen Burrows

DianaHannah Caddick

20

When sleep came tonight she found herself in a ballroom, and the party was in full swing. The room was packed with men and women in rich silks and velvets. Some were !"#$%#&'()*'+)"+$(*&()"+(,(**$(!"#%+(*)"+$-(%*.&'+/(#&/*%+&)%0(1'1#&-)()"+(2#%%1$-3(-#242#&'(1)()"+(-)$*&'(%#5.*$(#&()"+#$('%1--+-6(7)(-++8+/()*("+$()"1)(+9+$0*&+(4(%*$/-3(%1/#+-3(1))+&/1&)-(1&/(:**)8+&3(4(!+$+(!1);"#&'("+$(;%*-+%0<()"+#$(+0+-('%#))+$#&'(=+&+1)"()"+#$(masks. Her face was bare.(( >"+(!1-(/$+--+/(%#?+(1(%1/03("+$('*!&(:.%%4-?#$)+/(1&/(;.)(%*!3(1&/()"#-(-*8+"*!(81/+("+$(.&;*8:*$)1=%+<(.&.-+/(1-(-"+(!1-()*(;%*)"#&'(%#?+()"#-6(>"+(!1-&@)(+9+&(-.$+("*!(%*&'(-"+@/(=++&("+$+<(#)(;*.%/("19+(=++&(8#&.)+-(*$("*.$-6(A.)(-"+(?&+!()"1)3(1-(1%!10-3(-"+(/#/&@)(=+%*&'(1&/()"1)()"+-+(2+*2%+(!*.%/(&*)(%+)("+$(:*$'+)(#)6(7)(!1-(B(&+()"*.'"3(=+;1.-+("+("1/(#&9#)+/("+$6(>"+(;*.%/&@)(0+)($+8+8=+$(2$+;#-+%0(!"*(C"+@(!1-(but she knew as well as she knew her own name that everything would be alright once he arrived, and until he did so there was nothing for it but to wait.(( >"+(-)**/(-)#:,(0(1'1#&-)(1(2#%%1$(!#)"(1('%1--(*: (-*8+)"#&'()"1)(1&(1))+&/1&)("1/(2$+--+/(#&)*("+$("1&/6(D(/1$?4"1#$+/(81&(#&(1(-#%?(-"#$)(*2+&()*("#-(!1#-)(1&/()#'")(9+%9+)(=$++;"+-(1-?+/("+$()*(/1&;+(!"#%+(*2+&%0(1--+--#&'("+$(B('.$+(4(-"+(=$.-"+/("#8(*::3("+$(+0+-(,(#;?#&'(&+$9*.-%0(=1;?()*!1$/-()"+(/*.=%+(/**$-6(E"+(/1&;+$-(;*&)#&.+/()*(1().&+(that had her feet tapping, though as she watched she grew dizzy. Finally, when she could bear it no longer, she told a voluptuous woman in a tight silk gown who was sniggering at her from behind her fan that she was going to go and look for him. As she passed through the double doors her heart pounded in a fear that she could not understand. Outside the ballroom it was no better. In the half–light of the torches she caught glimpses of several couples twined sensually together against the !1%%-<(?#--#&'(1&/(:*&/%#&'(*&+(1&*)"+$(*2+&%06(F8=1$$1--+/3(-"+(19+$)+/("+$(+0+-(1&/(looked frantically up and down the corridor for him – she might not have recalled, just now, what he looked like but she was sure she would know him when he did appear. He !1-(&*)(#&()"+(;*$$#/*$(&*!6(>"+()**?(1(/++2(=$+1)"(1&/("+1/+/(1%*&'(#)<()$0#&'()*(-++8(as though she knew where she was going, but behind her the couples had stilled and !+$+(!"#-2+$#&'(=+"#&/()"+#$("1&/-6(>"+(/#/&@)("19+()*().$&()*(?&*!()"1)()"+0(!+$+(1%%(staring at her.

by Catorina Camacho

The fair Folk

21

Rhyn Williams

22

I went to Sigmund Freud for the dreams. The dreams that kept myself and my husband awake night after night. On the narrow mattress on the cast iron frame that creaked like deathbed wheezes, oh, I had such dreams. ! "!#$%&'!#()*+!'(,-!.*/)!(.'!01$%&'*20+!0%/1!'*0-*2(34$.!1$3!4.!,*5!"!/$.6'*'!in my husband. But he couldn’t help. And every night after, lay further from me, one eye open. We both became insomniacs, sleep-walking through our lives by day and snap-ping, bleary-eyed, beneath twisted sheets by night. My, how we would bite each other’s heads off. In Vienna, March 1860, Mr Freud sat me down on his couch. It was covered in a heavy throw, woven geometric patterns which made me feel even more sick than I did already. I had heard good things of him and his new methods. I had heard he was the man who could unlock my Unconscious mind. Whatever that was. I explained: I dream of... male parts. I couldn’t see him, as he sat behind my chaise. I had thought this terribly rude, but, as I spoke, I was thankful, blushing freely. I continued: I dream... of putting them in my mouth, biting down. Hard. I heard a slight constriction of his throat. It’s a serious matter, Mr Freud. My eyes sank despair-ingly into the sepia coloured kaleidoscope of that hideous throw. Castration, Mr Freud.I had heard good things of him. I had heard he would ask me about my childhood, my mama, my papa, my siblings. My Sinful Desires. But he didn’t. He stood, he paced. And then, he advised: “You should buy a sharp pair of scissors, frau. And take up hairdressing.”! "!'4'.73!1(8*!*.$%91!/2*(348*!:(425!;%3!31*!0/400$20!/(,*!4.!1(.'<!#1*.!"!=$%.'!my husband and some pretty young fraulein squeaking the joints of the bed. Much sharper than teeth for sure.

by Hannah Caddick

March, 1860

23

II am walking to get away. Just to get away. Sometimes I can’t breathe around him, let alone talk, smile, laugh. All the

things I know he wants me to do.

My path runs out as it reaches the trees, but I fade through them like smoke. The sun strokes the canopy outside

but here in the deep it cannot reach me. The Forest is like water and I am submerged in it. My heart creaks against

my eardrums. Leaves lick my arms and roots pull at my stumbling feet. My legs grow heavy and cumbersome. I am

drawn into the trees. Bit by bit. Limb by limb. I fall to the ground without a sound because there is no-one there to

hear me.

III watch her hurry away and the red haze of the afternoon’s argument disappears with her. The hallway echoes with

!"#$%!&'(')*$+, $!"#$*&-).,-!"#&$/0+/(1$2"#300$4#$45%6$"5**')*$%+7#$!&##$-).$"-8#$,+&*+!!#)$!"#$!'7#1$9$5%#.$!+$:).$'!$cute, the way she’d press her ear to a trunk and insist she could hear it whispering. Now it is an infuriating reminder

that she is always just beyond my reach. Never wholly with me. At the window, I wait and watch. The treacly

%"-.+;$+, $!"#$:&%!$&+;$+, $0-5&#0$!&##%$.&'<%$.+;)$!"#$"'001$="#$405%"')*$%(6$4#*')%$!+$*&+;$.-&(>$-).$9$;+).#&1$

I fall asleep at the window until the sun rises again. I call her name in all the rooms but she is not here. So I follow

the path to the forest and force my way through snarling branches. I walk past the same trees in ever decreasing

circles.

9$:).$"#&$+)$!"#$*&+5).$/+8#&#.$')$0#-8#%>$"#&$,-/#$;++.#)$-).$"#&$!;'%!#.$-&7%$%!',,1$9$<'/($"#&$5<$-).$4&5%"$"#&$off, but the leaves stick and when I smile, she cannot smile back.

III.

I have grown old and fuddly. My paper skin crackles and the years that have passed creak in my joints. I visit her

every day.

She used to berate me for telling her she had wrinkles. Now she is cracked and creviced. Her lips mossed. Her eyes

clouded by lichen. Bleached arm bones waver and struggle to uphold a mass of auburn leaves. Ankle deep she

teeters, sucking nutrients through her toes. Inching her way towards heaven with every slurp.

=+.-6$9$('%%#.$-;-6$!"#$7+%%$45!$-%$5%5-0$9$&#/#'8#$)+$-)%;#&')*$<5/(#&1$2"#$%!-&#%$5<$-!$"#&$:)*#&6$!;'*%>$-8+'.')*$my eyes. Arms always reaching out of my embrace.

I will never have her.

But I carved my name into the bark of her belly.

Now she will always have me.

by Sophie Long

Daphne and the

Forest

24

Harry Sutton

25

Every day the Fisherman sat out in his boat on the scarlet sea. Every day was the same. He waded carefully through the shallows, unfurled the sails, gave his companion a loyal pat and nudged it out onto the water. Then he hopped in. As they drifted through the brine, the waves lapped against the bleached wood, caressing it with warm watery arms. When instinct allowed, the Fisherman cast his rod, sank back on his bench and waited. His face was weather-beaten, kissed by the indigo sunshine and blessed with the patience beyond years. He was accustomed to waiting. Every day was the same. But this day would not be like the others. On t his day, a jaded storm was broiling overhead. Squat clouds nestled in the sky like bruises and rain began to fall, shattering the liquid glass of the ocean. The Fisherman started and sprung to his feet; something had snatched at the !""#$"% $!&'$('!&)*$+",-$,+.**&)*$/!0$1&)0$.2.3$4),0+$/!0$5"./6$7!0$'#3$8+.8#0,$2&/!$distorted music. He caught the instrument, and man and water wrestled beneath the cantankerous thunder, locked in battle for their prize. I wonder, thought the Fisherman &)$")0$1&*!/)&)*9:.'!$'08"),-$2"41,$.)3")0$*+&0;0$20+0$<$/"$50$/"''0,$";0+5".+,=$>+$2&11$<$50$'"?0$?3/!-$'"?0$,+0.?$%"+$/!0$.*0'=$7!0$1&//10$5"./$@&/8!0,$5.8#$.),$%"+/!$;&"10)/13-$54/$2&/!$.$/+&4?@!.)/$'!"4/$!0$().113$2+0)8!0,$%+00$!&'$/+0.'4+0$.),$@+"4,13$reeled it in. Gruff laughter rang through the dewy air and a wrinkled hand wiped sweat from a wrinkled brow. He waited. He cast the object away through the sheet of lilac rainfall. Today, the Fisherman had caught a little Time.

by Sara Bellanato

Catching a Break

26

!"#$%&'#$()&*"%

27

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8/$%#$%&/(#3*7(&00)+.#8%/-%#7044*#0/6&#70)-6#(4+&+:@04"&.#5(/2%$&"&'.#")*&0&++#/"#$%/+#+$/"6/"2#%40&.$%&#123(&#7&+/'&#943#$44#47</43+.#&*&(2&':

@"'#$%&(&.#7(/"6#45 #'&+,)/(.#943#)(&#$%&#)3'/&"-&.</&8/"2#943(+&05 #/"#$%&#%)(+%"&++#45 #')9:

by Darren Freebury-Jones

D&&,09

28

Tom Armstrong

29

Jacqui Brooks 30

My words have lost their way

to you, my untutored rose.

In this puzzling calm,

uprooted, you blossom,

as I have never seen.

On sheets, so calmly you dance me

round my dreams.

As if you knew.

Sleep on, my love.

With the light on, my love.

You can read me there.

by Caitlin Maggs

Sleep on,

My love

Jacqui Brooks 31

Would you like to be part of Creativi ty?

We are looking for an Art &Photog raphy Edi tor and anEditor-in-Chief to work on the mag az ine nex t y ea r. Ema i l [email protected] t o r e g i s t e r y o u r i n t e r e s t .

Next issue on the theme

‘Seven Deadly Sins’Autumn 2011

The words trembled on the tip of my tongue.

The masked face came closer.

!"#$%&"'( ")$*+",-.$/0"$"*'$*"'( "1$234The masked face hovered.

The words tripped from my lips.

I went under.

“And what do you think this means?”

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stress at the tender age of 28?

" @!"+-6"1$*."'( "6':*"*-&$=2/2.$.2'3"2%"$3":3)-*%.$3)237"'( ".&-%-")*-$,%D"&-"%$2)0"@E$/+237".&*':7&"$3)"$..-,1.237".'">3)"$3%?-*%"?2.&23".&-,",$6"&-/14D" @I6")*-$,%GD"5"1$:%-)4"@J':"?$33$"+3'?"?&6"5K<-"7'.".&-,G"KL'%",6"&-$)K%"%9*-?-)0"B'90".&$.K%"?&$."the real problem is here. I don’t need to talk through what I think I saw. I saw it. They won’t let me back without it

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

-.$7"&-"&$)"$..$9&-)".'"&2%"9&-%.4"@L'37*$.%",$30"6':"%--,".'"&$<-"2."7'')4"M'?"2( "6':")'3K.",23)"5"3--)".'"7-."back to the real world.”

“The real world? So you see this exchange as distinct from reality. Confronting your dreams is almost as

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remained silent.

“You have continual nightmares of an event that occurred when you were on patrol in Helmand

province in March of last year during a raid on a civilian establishment.” He turned from the window and walked

.'?$*)%"&2%")-%+0"/-$3237"'<-*"&2%"9&$2*".'"*-$)".&-")'9:,-3."23"(*'3."'( "&2,4"@J':"?-*-"23<'/<-)"23"$">*->7&."between armed rebel forces and you were separated from your troop. An armed stand-off occurred and you were

shot. That is the last you remember.”

" 5."?$%"$"%.$.-,-3."3'."$"S:-%.2'34"A*',".&-"9'*3-*"'( ",6"-6-"5"%$?"$".$:.0"?&2.-"9'/':*"$3)"*-$/2%-)".&$.",6"&$3)%"?-*-"9/-39&-)4"5"%.*-.9&-)".&-,"$3)"(-/.".&-"&-$<6".&:)"'( ",6"1:/%-"-9&'237"=$9+".&*':7&",6">37-*%4

Shell Shock

8