[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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Anthem for a Structural Engineer

[Written By: Andrew S George]
[Photographer: Silvia Sani]

Column: A vertical beam
In compression
How could support
Elicit depression?
Here I sit, broken hearted
With dreams of Greeks
Gone, departed
Column: A vertical beam
In compression
Computers were built
To answer these questions
Now, paper and pen firm in hand,
I feel my brain buckle and turn to sand –
Verify general solution and constants;
It can’t just be me that thinks this is nonsense.

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Selling Us Pearls

[Written By: Jennifer Constable]

[Photographer: Gabriela Saldanha Blackwood]


How accomplished are we, to possess the

means to loop a leash on Mother Nature herself.

No more “accidental leaking” and goodbye to

those days spent doubled over our duvets.

At last! We have outsmarted our own bodies,

no longer to be enslaved to the sullen waves of

hormonal tides and currents of cramps that toss us side to side

in a monthly cycle of aches and pains to be braved in silence.

We are now prescribed our silver foiled sachets of

twenty-eight pink hued pearls, popped

into the innermost pockets of our purses;

discreet and dainty like the pamphlets had promised.

We have scheduled each bodily function to

be timed to our exact convenience.


How naive were we, to believe that leash would be

looped on Mother Nature so easily.

Those peals that once held so much wonder

now sit weighted in ever-younger wombs of

calcified cysts and infantile tubes blocked with

clots from the bleeds we’d thought we’d managed to staunch.

The aches and pains we endured still exist now

paired with the constant panic of something which

burns just below the surface. The hormonal tides still turn

ever more turbulent as we struggle to keep our heads above water.

Blindly, we ingest those pink orbs like polymer prayers to

swell our stomachs and bloat our breasts

until every inch of our skin has been

stretched over limbs made puffy by our own pride;

the artificial regulation of our own menstrual system,

that we thought was ours to command.

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RIP Cecil

[Written By: Isabelle Hunt-Deol]

[Illustration By: Lara Delmage]


Man of the house

Señor of Cecil Street

Look at his paws

So tiny and sweet


Rustling his whiskers

Scurrying around in his ball 

‘He’s in the kitchen!’ 

‘Running straight for the wall!’ 


3 short lived months 

In a cold student flat 

Should’ve got a tortoise

Or maybe a rat ..


Six spoons in the garden 

Resting peacefully, under the leaves 

Lies dearest little Cecil

In the crisp, autumnal breeze 

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Valid Love

By Diana Wei Dai 


We didn’t believe the nice things we said to each other

 at the same time, we took it too personally when we were being mean.

We always focused on what we want 

but ignored what the other person wants.

We love them the way we want to be loved

but we never ask how they want to be loved.

The love is always there, and valid.

We put our eyes in the perfect faraway future

and the beautiful image blurred our eyes of seeing the true meaning of each other. 

Of living in the moment.

We tried so hard to let the other person understand us,

but we never saw what the other person wants to express

We were hard on ourselves.

We were also being too hard on each other.

We use excuses and personal histories, 

projecting the unsatisfying part of ourselves on to each other,

and then we ask;

Why it wouldn’t work? 

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First Love

By Annegret Maja Fiedler


“I only care about what happens ten minutes within a moment”

I just wanted to hold you

I didn’t want you to be left in that Southside McDonald’s in a drunken haze


And so

You let me hold you

You let me draw you


From freshly developed film, I found you sleeping in my bed

There was a smirk on your face, before you left, supposedly, for good

“Do you think I care about you 10 minutes within a moment?”


Feeling numb and empty isn’t foreign to me

That night is an involuntary photograph engraved in my fragile heart


“This will be the last time I ever see you”

I knew you would apologise a month later


But your words still sting

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Autumn with a low sun //

Written By: Rachel Shnapp

On the first of the month, write a letter. It doesn’t have to have an address, it doesn’t have to be finished. Write a letter and find out what it is you haven’t let go. Don’t let it eat at your mind, but breathe in fresher air. 

I don’t like to leave trails. I see myself as a piece of string, getting longer and longer the more traces I leave. An unused email address. Three library cards. Two copies of the same book. The truth is closure does not exist, but time brings with it peace, and the knots slip away. What you don’t keep will erase itself eventually. 

Try new things all the time; coffee, people, music, theories, places. Treat yourself like a stranger you want to know everything about, and let that person change as easily as the leaves on the trees.

The fast way isn’t always the best way. Slow down. You aren’t in a hurry. To feel and smell and hear is part of being. I don’t take trains because I don’t want to stay on the tracks, a lonely A to B, as though there aren’t a whole other 24 places to see. Take time to be as happy as you can. Moments of grace come to those who have time for them.

The lesson is old, and often told. Let yourself be filled with all the best things. Pick yourself flowers, make yourself a cup of tea, and be bold and kind, always. 


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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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Hipster: A Coming Out Story


As I walk down Byres Road, I ask myself the same questions that Bilbo asked himself when dwarfs overtook his home. Where did they come from? What do they want? And for how long do they plan to stay? Ten years ago nobody had heard of a “hipster”, much less seen them or knew what they were. One day, they began to appear and, suddenly, they were everywhere. There was never a first hipster, a father of hipsters nor the Adam and Eve of hipsters. Nonetheless, similar to an alpine avalanche, hipsters have become unstoppable and they are multiplying exponentially for each passing day.


I don’t think anyone has ever met a self-professed hipster (if you have, please leave a comment, I would surely love to meet them). No one has ever introduced him or herself to me and openly declared “Hi! My name is _____ and I am a hipster”.


It seems we cannot be sure hipsters exist at all. Even though, everyone knows what signs to look for: retro clothing, broad-rimmed glasses, tote bags and an unread copy of Kafka or Camus under their arm. There is no way to prove that someone identifies as a hipster unless they say so themselves.


As I continue my walk down the road, I watch them closely. They roll their skinny cigarettes or carefully apply wax to their moustaches. I feel the urge to grab them and shake them and shout: “Who are you? Why are you doing this? Take me to your leader!”. But that would be crazy. They do not have an ideology. They are not a movement or a subculture as such. There is no charismatic leader and they do not geographically belong. There seems to be no point to their conceptual existence at all.


I begin to wonder where my hipsterphobia (my innate fear of hipsters) comes from. It’s a burning question for any reader who made it this far. I am a young vegetarian woman with a straight fringe, who studies English Literature, loves to go on angry feminist rants and only buys clothes from charity shops. I seem to check all the right boxes. Yet, I have never identified as a hipster, and I know I have not always been this way. I wasn’t born riding an old stripped-down bike with the urge to go to Berlin and visit underground nightclubs.


So, how did it happen? Perhaps, I woke up one day and felt the inexplicable urge to play vinyl records and wear Doc Martens boots. Or maybe, it happened by slow degrees through careful societal manipulation and social pressure to be different from the mainstream. I must have bought into the trend for some reason. But I still don’t want people to call me that word. Hipster. It fills me with dread.


I tear my hair because I can’t figure out why the word feels so shameful. The concept contains an inherent contradiction. As everyone attempts to be different, mainstream becomes difference and the essence of difference continually slips away and stays slightly out of reach. It becomes a competition and a race: who has the artsiest tote bag, who went to the most underground party and who read the most obscure book…


I’ve made a decision. It is time to let go of the shame and step out of the closet. This is who I am. I accept. I cannot hide it anymore. My desire for woolly sweaters and delicious cups of tea is too great to be contained. So I step forward and in a loud voice I declare: I am hipster, hear me roar!


By Sofia Linden

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Bambi – Iona Lee





I would wet my tights for him in puddles,

so that he might notice the way my toes curled

and be distracted from the fact that

I don’t know how to carry my teeth.



My eyes are positioned perfectly

for him to notice just how blue they are,

but, his gaze is fixed to the buds which bloomed

earlier this summer.



Him? Him sitting alongside me?

He is a child, with pointed hair.

Spiked to a crown,

the king of our castle

in his clammy cardigan.



And with sweat soaked hand he might stretch,

and cautiously touch my shoulder,

which I have let slip, like a secret,

pale and sly from its strap

so that he might not see the way

that I don’t like my face today.



But, never mind.



He stinks of Lynx

and adolescent self loathing

and his clothing is what was picked for him.

And I am Bambi,

in ridiculous heels that make me ten feet tall

yet I still feel small

and all they play is House

yet I don’t feel at home.



But, never mind.



I know,

that one day that crown will thin

and fall on to his pillow.

And I know,

that he is a rabbit

caught in the flashing lights

which caught my carefully crossed arms

and he likes the angle that I make.




Iona Lee



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The Seizure- Scott Campbell

The Seizure

When one runs as frequently as I do, it is easy for various jaunts to simply blend into one. By the weight of

their number and steady accumulation there is, for each run, a stealth to the quirks and features that obtain

and thus stands in defiance of individualisation. They are though, all different. Even if one deploys the same

route (or a ‘routine course’), one is unlikely to feel the same, or to run at an identical pace and time.

My run that day was notable in that I only managed to traverse the first couple of kilometres of a (planned)

longer run. This, and the fact that it was a full five hours following my departure before I returned home

distinguished this particular bout of exercise. I had, it emerged following an impromptu hospital visit, check-
up and diagnosis at the Western General Hospital, suffered a seizure at some point, presumably about ten

minutes after setting off.

There is a hallucinogenic quality to my recollections of the seizure itself. I can recall brief impressions and

sensations that flitted across my mind’s eye (or mind’s ear; or mind’s extremity) though they are mere

synaesthesic snapshots that defy any attempt at re-ordering, or chattelling them into some kind of storyline.

There are flashes of light; the brush of a branch (or bush) as my hand mis-gropes in attempting to break a

fall; voices of others elide with mumbled replies from me.

When attempting to imprint a timeline or narrative thread on otherwise abstract sensations the logical step is

– as with frayed wool or thread – to look for a start point. I can just about remember walking out the door at

the foot of my stairwell, I think. Am I recalling That Day’s exit, or merely another identikit run? I would like

to think that I can recall jogging downhill onto the walkway beside the river Kelvin. But these final, pre-
seizure and ‘conscious’ steps are sufficiently embedded to preclude divorcing any one instance from the


One is left instead with piecing together the story from the shards of memory that emerged from the

shattering of sanity, and attempting to weave backwards from the tendrils of impressions that occurred in the

ambulance and, later on, in the hospital.

x X x

The sharp and jagged pain to the rear of my tongue only really emerged as I half-sat, half-lay on a hospital

bed-cum-trolley in the corridor adjacent to the A&E department. Borderline supine, I was also still in the

process of resuming acquaintance with most of my autonomic responses. [I should add that at roughly the

same time that this pain began to command attention, I alighted on the bed-heads of the hospital trolleys

likeness to a tombstone. Coincidence?]

I had been relatively lucid – or recently returned to lucidity – for about an hour by this stage, and had talked

at length to the paramedics who retrieved and admitted me, though had yet to alight upon this source of pain.

It was a strange and delicate sensation as flaps of skin flit over the surface of my teeth, as if an errant piece

of food has become stuck there. Despite the general viscosity of the skin on our tongues, they are nonetheless

tautly affixed to the organ itself – as with any other part of our upper dermis.

Furthermore, had the doctor examining me not queried as to whether I had bitten my tongue, there is every

chance that I would not have volunteered it. As it was, this was apparently the clincher (no pun intended…)

so far as my diagnosis was concerned. The pain, over a week later, was still occasionally sharp and severe

depending on the temperature of the food imbibed.

x X x

‘Do you know why you’re here?’ a male voice demands of me, fairly insistently. He repeats the question,

primed, no doubt, by my shocked and vacant demeanour for little in the way of insight. This interrogatum

gives way to a minor personal reverie as I take in the apparatus that surrounds me in the back of the

ambulance. It is said of presidential (and prime-ministerial) bunkers that such is the infrastructural network

contained within that a war can be waged and managed from one. Ambulances may be constrained by their

dimensions, but the sheer variety of ailments and conditions that they are equipped to deal with – to staunch,

to splint, to revive – is never far from one’s attention, no matter one’s confusion.

‘Do. You. Know. Why. You’re. Here?’ A female voice this time, though less questioning than designed to

command my errant focus – the explanation hot on its heels: ‘You were found running around in circles; you

didn’t know where you were/what you were doing.’

Still I glance between the faces of the (three, in total) paramedics, my gaze alighting on some tube or

tourniquet. I may at this point have mumblingly interjected that I did not indeed know, or that I didn’t

understand. Didn’t understand any of it. One faceless soul proffered the factoid that many runners wear

bands or some form of neck-wear that bears details of prevailing health ‘issues’, or emergency contact

details. This catalysed my own sense of alarm, and momentarily sharpened my focus.

‘This has never happened before,’ I mumbled, or something to this effect. I padded around my midriff for

possessions that I must presumably have left the flat with. My only pocket bulges with keys and my running

hat, though my mobile phone is missing. The male paramedic – the other two being female – peels off; to

look for the phone? I think I supplied him with a number, though I’m simultaneously struggling to recall my

address. I tell them my name, and there is a palpable release of tension as I am addressed as ‘Scott’ where

previously I was but a nameless, and wholly unwilling convict of circumstance.

Am I a student? Do I have a job? What do I do for a living? Am I supposed to be at work just now? The

sheer variety of probable, and likely, responses to these queries returns me to mass-confusion. How many of

these questions were put to me by the paramedics, and which merely flitted across my mind I cannot at this

stage recall with any confidence. Before long, it was deemed appropriate to take me to A&E, and I readily


On the journey over lunacy jockeys with lucidity for primacy, and there are snatched conversations with the

two female paramedics about running in general, and races ran and entered, before some form of reflection

eventually seeped out of the patient. The walk from the driveway entrance to A&E is deemed an insufficient

and inappropriate addendum to the episode, thus far, and I was squired by a hospital bed upon a trolley to the

bowels of the Accident and Emergency department of the Western General hospital.

x X x

The paramedic who had wheeled me in stated that the couple who had found me claimed I was speaking

‘gibberish – as if a foreign language.’ I assured them that I speak no other language fluently, though did

briefly wonder whether my episode had afforded me a savant-like, near-perfect command of a foreign


The clinical aroma that shrouds one’s apperception of the frailty on show lingers in the memory. One

wonders if actual doctors and nurses can ever completely free themselves from this psychological anchor.

There is an aphorism that states that much of what we recall is based in – and can thus be triggered by –

smell, and this is especially pertinent in a hospital setting. Much of my visit was, initially, expended in the

corridor, and thereafter waiting in an examination room as various blood samples and heart-readings were

taken and filtered through the medium of my responses and recollections.

Once ensconced in a room of my own I was permitted a moment of privacy to relieve myself. Having taken

on a fair bit of water during the course of the day, my bladder was now full; mercifully so, I ought to add: it

is not uncommon for minor bouts of incontinence to afflict the seizure patient. This aspect of my hydration

levels was at some odds with my other symptoms, which spoke to prevailing states of dehydration. My lips

felt dry, and the skin on my face rather pinched. I could almost feel the friction of my eyelids against the

surface of my eyes. My brain felt as if it had shrunk to a quarter of its size, and was now bashing around my

parched skull. The resultant headache is the one ailment that was medicated during the course of my visit, as

the young doctor attending me dispenses a pair of aspirin.

I’m left alone for a little while whilst a vial of my blood is ferried away for analysis. In the room next to me

a patient awaiting further consultation – and perhaps diagnosis – manages to sound both resigned and

concerned at the same time as he claims to be cognisant of a figure looming over him. I glanced across the

hallway where one of the tombstone silhouettes hooks my gaze once more. I occupied myself by pacing

around my temporary commode in my hospital gown – a loose-fitting, backless number.

Shortly before being discharged, an elderly female patient and I were afforded the luxury of a visit to the tv

area where Question Time is showing. My concentration had not yet recovered to normal levels, though I

would, without hesitation, question the holistic appeal of the political squabbling on show. I was eventually

released, and trudged resignedly uphill to my flat, a short walk from A&E’s back door, making it home

shortly before midnight. Weariness and an adrenal exhilaration sparked by my ordeal keep me awake for a

while, before putting the day to bed.

I recorded much of the preceding account in the days immediately following the event, whilst various

impressions were fresh in the memory. A couple of weeks later I was referred to the seizure clinic of the

Western General Hospital where a specialist groped for a fuller diagnosis. This isn’t intended as criticism of

any of the care or insight that I received; but the primary diagnostic feature of seizures (particularly first-
time or isolated incidents) is their unpredictability and – therefore – an inability to attribute them to any

particular cause or menu of lifestyle factors.

As such, the offerings of the consultant supplied little in the way of succour, though retained the capacity to

focus the mind, somewhat. I currently occupy a hinterland between the experience itself and a fuller

diagnosis that could in turn presage a prolonged period of medication. I was packed off with a bulk of

literature on epilepsy, and how we might come to regard it as less of an affliction than a mere challenge.

Once again, much of the insight contained within is slightly eye-watering. I cannot, for the time being, drive.

Marathons of partying and nightclubbing are verboten; alongside retiring the dancing shoes, climbing

ladders without supervision is now also a feature of my past.

The ‘missing’ phone was at home all along (I never run with it). I can only offer grateful and belated thanks

to the paramedic who both attended to me and partook in this fruitless treasure-hunt.

Independence. Efficacy. Fallibility. Frailty. These are some of the synonyms that I had jotted down in the

margins at various points over the course of crafting this piece. I don’t feel different, though have never felt

more alien in those moments immediately following the seizure. I am relatively free of concern as to my long-
term, life prospects, though too often we are labile as to the short-term implications of our lives. The fact that

another seizure might strike me, without warning, at some point in the future ought to be alarming, though

really I’m ill-disposed to live life on such tenterhooks.

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Stronger Than Fiction: Writing Competition


University of Glasgow Narrative Non-fiction Writing Competition

We’re inviting you to submit pieces inspired by any research at the University of Glasgow, past or

present, from the sciences to the humanities. So you might write a personal essay about the origins

of Scotland’s oldest museum, or maybe you’re more interested in writing a moving memoir on

ultrasound, developed at Glasgow University in 1956. The competition is open to all and we are

also running free writing workshops in Glasgow on narrative non-fiction to get people started,

along with monthly social evenings where researchers, writers and readers can meet and discuss

their interests over a glass of wine. More details can be found at

Give it a go; we’re looking forward to reading what you come up with!

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