Love-me-nots

[Written by Sherlock Crockett] [Image by Alice Hill-Woods, Creative Writing Editor (@alice35mm)] I ask myself the same question until I can’t remember the answer. I figure that I can reach my limit, that I can choose to lose truth’s whisper and lose myself in the process. I struggle to make it so that maps will never matter. I want to forget the street under my feet until I’m standing in a garden

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TOMORROW: Zine Making Workshop

Last week we ran some of our first workshops of the year including a wonderfully well-attended zine making workshop! To coincide with our Fresher Week mini-theme of 'Tomorrow' we collected pages together to create a zine on the theme and the result is absolutely fantastic! This is just a taster of the kinds of workshops and events we'll be running for the next year. Always with a goal to be inclusive, encourage collaboration and engage in creative pursuits, regardless of experience or ability!

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TOMORROW: The Poetics of Tomorrow

[Written by Alice Hill-Woods - Creative Writing Editor] The future has been analysed, fortified and deconstructed; met with elation, met with anxiety; always written about. Writing about tomorrow can be an act of rebellion, or a manifesto for the future, because it requires the intention for change. In this sense, it is a wonderful prompt for creative outlet, as it finds its place between dichotomies such as the known/the unknown, hope/fear and change/rigidity. It presents itself as an opportunity to reimagine and reconstruct our environment or ourselves on the premise that it is a fresh start.

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Unter den Linden

Written By: Gabriel Rutherford   The world shines in a loud bright grey The glory of humility Getting louder every new old day Who decided you have any say? Man muss ihre Hertz jetzt finden Neu Welt, auf Unter den Linden

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Pale Blue Eyes

“You might want to pad that box with tea towels or something, to soften the blows if it gets knocked about a lot in the van.”             “I know that, do I look like I’m five? I was just about to get to it.”             “Fuck, Emma, sorry, I was just trying to help. I know you can get a bit absentminded. And that’s the box with your grandparents’ wedding china, right?”             “Yeah, I know, I know. Shit. Sorry. This is…”             “Really weird.”             “Yeah. Super weird.”

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Look on Me a Little Child

I stood in the car port waiting for your hand on the handle. Through the blur of glass, I could see your chair-lift slowly descend knowing your legs couldn’t reciprocate their desire to run and see me. You greeted me with the warmest smile and a loud hello in your Irish accent making all the cold bones that structure me feel heat. I slowly pushed myself up the stairs ensuring you didn’t feel left behind whilst we exchange our recent news. Your home was warm, pleasantly cosy and comfortable. It wasn’t because your love of the heating being on for 12 months of the year but it was because you filled me with heat. Everywhere smelt faintly of your home-cooked meals and as you brushed past me your Lancôme perfume comforted me. As we walk into the living room, the green carpet was lit by your four gold art-deco lamps that were spotted around the room on the mahogany cabinet and desks. I then walked into the kitchen from the living room and made us tea while you ambled your way to your chair. To all the family it resembled a throne, it stood alone and didn’t match any of the rest of your aqua blue settee suite.

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Stories Sunday: The Bird Catcher

The Bird Catcher

 

He peaks,

out of withered broke feathers

 

He’ll jump Mr death

                                           one more day,                                           

sizing up the ripe horizon

where are those shiny pretty things?

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