Ink book Final proof Alex

INK2015
Ink book CMYK.indd 1 02/04/2015 18:33

Editor in Chief
Michelle Phillips
Managing Editor
Richard Thomas
Associate Editor
Christopher Waller
Assistant to the Editor
Rosemarie Corlett
Poetry Editors
Caro Bushnell
Assistants: Dan Collins,
Rhiannon Eschle-Retallick
Fiction Editors
Elliott Simpson
Assistants: Hannah Stamp,
Hannah March, Robert Harris
Non Fiction Editors
Christopher Hawkins
Assistants: Rosemarie
Corlett, Tracey Ikerd,
Angela Mcmillan-Goss
Reviews and Artwork Editors
Alexander Shipman
Assistants: Matthew Gilbert
and Kirsty-Louise Gillings
Website Creators and Editors
Leticia Atkinson and
Anna Williams
Social Media Editor
Freya Cottrell
Cover Illustration
Sammie Brooks
Book Designer
Emma Fletcher
Paperback edition first published in the United Kingdom in 2015 by University of Plymouth
Press, Endsleigh Place, Drake Circus, Plymouth, Devon, PL4 8AA, United Kingdom.
ISSN 1353-8837
© University of Plymouth Press 2015
© INK 2015
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 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 University of Plymouth Press in American Typewriter 10 point.
Printed and bound by Document Production Centre, Plymouth University, UK

Dear reader,
It is my very great pleasure to present to you INK 2015.
The journal this year has been known as many things
to many people. For some of you, it was INK: 2084 and
for others it was INK: New but I think that you will agree
as you read it that its truest name is INK: Celebrate.
This year, we have celebrated the journal’s roots: it really is
a celebration of Plymouth University’s creative community
and is a testament to the talent that is produced throughout
our studies. In addition to our totally themeless approach
which has seen writing and art work on a plethora of subjects,
this year we added a new genre for your reading pleasure:
‘Creative Non Fiction’ and we’ve overhauled the ‘Reviews’
section with our Editors’ Takeover, so flip to ‘Reviews’
to get the low-down on our editorial team’s thoughts on
the amazing work included in the journal this year.
I am incredibly proud and feel honoured to have been a
part of INK 2015. It has been a privilege to have been able
to read and engage with such a high calibre of work and
let me assure you, it has been no mean feat to create this
year’s journal. The amazing standard of work from such a
wide range of courses and from our partner colleges, as well
as our main campus, made our jobs as editors incredibly
difficult and so much fun. I hope that you will agree that
the journal this year truly is a reflection of the diversity
which is fostered and encouraged in our work at Plymouth
University, showcasing some of the very best fiction,
poetry, non fiction and art work by emerging creatives.
Of course, INK 2015 simply would not exist without the hard
work and commitment of my wonderful editorial team. We’ve
been a large and sprawling family this year and I’m so grateful
for everything you have done for the journal, your enthusiasm
has been incredible — thank you. Special thank yous this

year must go to Richard Thomas for his unwavering support
and to Chris Waller who was so helpful in handling your
wonderful work and delivering it safely to your genre editors
and also to our wonderful web and social media team for
taking us online and ensuring that we have remained present
since the beginning. Thank you also to the amazing Emma
Fletcher for her design expertise. I would also like to extend
my thanks to the English and Creative Writing department
for giving me the opportunity to work on INK this year.
To Miriam Darlington whose belief in me and support of
my decisions from beginning to end has helped me take
the journal into print and to Rachel Christofides for being a
support system and advice giver from the start. Thanks also to
the staff on MA Publishing who encouraged me to get involved.
This year’s journal really has taken us all on a journey, one
which I can certainly say has taught me about the incredible
people I work and study with and the talent which is just
awaiting discovery. As I come to the end of my editorship of
INK, I leave you with this thought: “There is no such thing as
an ending. There is simply the place where you must leave the
story” and I leave you as INK: Celebrate enters a new phase
in its journey, the part we’ve all been waiting for: engagement
with its audience. So, turn the page and celebrate the amazing
work on these pages with us and please, keep creating!
INK would not be possible without you. We hope you enjoy
reading it as much as we have enjoyed creating it for you.
Michelle Phillips Editor in Chief, INK 2015.

Poetry
Blackless Sky - Oliver Portillo
Artistic Endeavour - Lauren Nicholls
‘Ourglass - Jenna Bamford
A Waiting Woman - Hannah Stamp
Ella - Rosemarie Corlett
The Poet Makes the Most of a Bad Situation - Herman Frank
Beach Seining - Laura Traister
The Mermaid Pool - Caro Bushnell
Fiction
Mother Nature - Bethan Taylor
Business Was Good - Sam Carr
Memories of Sailing Aboard the Pont-Aven - Hannah Mae
Violet - Leticia Atkinson
Hope is the Thing with Feathers - Jordan Wood
I’m Sorry - Zoe Jenkins
Pockets - Tyrone Burman
Artwork
Illustration By Elizabeth Foster-Turner
‘Humankind vs Environment 1’ By Lauren Brookes
‘Mermaid Pool’ By Caro Bushnell
‘The Last Judgement’ By Saul Woodford
Illustration By James Sibthorp
‘Baba Yaga’s Hut’ By Coralie Ayres
‘Poor Richard Hooker’ By Laura Traister
Creative Non Fiction
The Arrival of Kermit - Gemma Symons
Echeveria - Spike Davies
Alcedo Atthis - Laura Traister
A Warm Smudge - Elliott Simpson
My Dressing Table - Hannah Stamp
Reviews: Editors’ Takeover
INK 2015 A Year to Celebrate - Michelle Phillips
A Review of Poetry - Caro Bushnell
A Review of Memories of Sailing Aboard
the Pont-Aven - Elliott Simpson
A Review of The Arrival of Kermit - Christopher Hawkins
9
10
11
12
14
15
16
18
22
26
31
34
38
42
44
8
13
18-19
48
49
50-51
52
53
74
76
79
82
56
60
62
66
68

Cara Davies

POETRY

Elizabeth Foster-Turner

I lay down beneath the dark, my empty palms upturned
on my frozen chest, with no hand of yours to hold.
Aren’t you the rose that bloomed out of the concrete?
If so, conjure yourself out of this air and stop these stars
bleeding their shine onto me; it’s twilight’s leaking lake.
They flurry and swim in pools of gold and then die, and die.
A soft heartbeat, like the ticking of a ceasing clock,
can be heard here. I’m alive, but not forever.
I shall smother, smother and drown myself
in all of the world’s warming colours.
Oliver Portillo
English Literature Stage One
Blackless Sky
INK 9

Little piece all strung up in harmony
sits in the corner collecting the dust.
I wish I could play you and hear your voice,
but how could I ever do you justice?
So though I hold a melody in mind,
I know these hands weren’t
meant to make music.
You twang and cry at the touch of my thumb,
I can never please you, or play your song.
Artistic Endeavour
Lauren Nicholls
English Literature Stage One
10 INK

I heard you’ve moved her in. And her boxes of black leather
heels that wandered through our bedroom. And her
tight rubber dresses, the sticks of Ruby lipstick
that stained my pillows, your lying collar.
She’s the Jessica Rabbit type.
A perfect six.
A ten.
She’s one of those
women who go in and
out at the waist. You always did like them
like that. The kind you can run your hands down,
a human wine glass. Venomous. She looks the Prosecco girl,
flicks her head back as she laughs, stains the glass with her poison
red lips. I know she drinks from my glass, the crystal we once shared over
dinners and deaths. She drinks from our glass
every night. If only crystal could talk.
‘Ourglass
Jenna Bamford
English and History, Petroc
INK 11

A Waiting Woman
I am like the wind as it whips and wails,
for it howls as if it has a fractured heart.
Neither can rest without the healing sun
that longs to rise that yellow face.
Counting raindrops on misted glass,
trickling gently gently down like
lost waves returning to calling sand.
Flowers wilt and once again bloom,
for soon they droop as seasons turn,
and a mother wastes her tired soul,
longing as the never-ending desert
prays for rain to bring hopeful life.
Time melts away and there I gaze
horizons multiplied by blurring tears
that overflow a set of greying eyes.
My vessel rots through empty moments,
trapped and diseased by the serpent grief.
As weeds strangle youthful buds
and flowers prepare to burst anew,
I will still sit here waiting for you.
Hannah Stamp
English and Creative Writing Stage One
12 INK

INK 13

Your Spine.
I daren’t study it.
Like the rib cage of a lover,
we play with fire to linger long on the body of another.
It is straight
and true, with rivets.
Little hills, forts and tors all lined up -
The country of your Body. A network of new cities,
part planned, part accidental, then filled out with idiosyncrasies.
You are real
Flesh, Bones and Liver.
A beating Heart inside your chest!
Your Hair not once replenished yet, as mine goes grey at the roots.
Fuck.
I’ve been so cavalier.
A breathless sentimental
with all my truths and affections.
Good God my lungs were once like yours.
And you are Here.
This anchor of pearls
that remembers all and harbours all -
my whole life gently captured in the seascape of your birth.
I cannot fall apart just yet.
Ella
Rosemarie Corlett
Masters in Creative Writing
14 INK

The skin is skun,
the heart halved like a melon,
and the bone bowed in each direction,
to get to the beauty
buried beneath the bogus-ity of it all,
but it is there, it is there,
and he knows to work hard to get it:
it’ll be a swollen grapefruit
sat squat in his hands,
overly bitter at first taste
but throbbing and ripe with juices
and lingual opportunity,
and most vitally of all,
it will be a warm pink:
plenty and ever so bright enough
to nourish a lively lot of poems.
The Poet Makes the Most
of a Bad Situation
Herman Frank
INK 15

Beach Seining
You probably haven’t fished like this unless
you have lived near the ocean, but they say
that experience is the best teacher, so first,
you’ll grab one of the poles and allow the net
to hang vertically as you wade into the sea.
Corks float along the top length, weights
anchor the bottom of the net to the sandy floor.
Your partner will hold the other pole.
It’s impossible to catch anything alone.
You have to walk, but the waves work for you.
When the weight of the catch nears capacity,
your partner calls in. Glide toward each other,
16 INK

Laura Traister
English Exchange Programme Stage Three
slowly, to close the net, and move toward shore.
Carelessness now will cost you everything.
Sift through the kaleidoscope of tiny creatures,
laid out like stones across a jeweler’s worktable.
Emerald algae and amber Sargasso weed
teeming with shrimp, crabs, baby fish, and snails.
Place them in a bucket of saltwater while you look.
Then return to the sea and feel the current reclaim
its treasures, sweeping them to oblivion, or perhaps
some ancient city, and beckoning you to come too.
INK 17

Still. Gathered alone
the lady of the pool weeps,
underground sirens she can hear
of the sea.
Sing! Sing! Your uncharted melody.
Shell shocked memory of me,
unmet love an impossibility.
Sea snakes and charms come to me
drowned in love and little fate.
Shipwrecked pirates and ghosts murmur
faint
sea shanties that get lost in seaweed skies.
The mermaids listen quietly and
comb bones through hair and smooth
rainbow scales
then
dive,
The Mermaid Pool
18 INK

Caro Bushnell
flicking their shine as tails descend depths unknown to mankind.
The mermaid lady will wait and wait
by the pool that casts no shadows;
she has time
a mortal knows nothing of.
Slick skin and cloudy eyes to swim and surrender in.
Her lament heard by sisters who will
abandon her.
He does not come
and so she sits humming
a great symphony and dies
a little more each time as
one by one her sisters cease and time is but a memory.
‘Mermaid Pool’ By Caro Bushnell
INK 19

FICTION

San Francisco’s siren goes off. The daily ritual of
the people who haven’t left their city behind. A
thick smog of yellow dust fills the sky, the sun blocked out
as it sets behind the once great city. The iconic red bridge
is now orange with rust and the rest eroded by the fog
surrounding it. The parts of it that remain stick out of the
rampant water and reach up through the permanent toxic
clouds and disappear into them. These streets, once cramped
with chaos now lie out as a barren wasteland. The sirens of
the police and the horns of angry drivers have been replaced
with the singular deafening alarm which screeches through
the remains of buildings and echoes along the seafront. The
tracks of the cable cars that once never stopped now line
the rubble, marking out where roads once were. The entire
ground is filled with cracks and pot holes. A boy runs through
the streets quickly, heading for the manhole cover in the
middle of the street. He skillfully lifts the lid, slides into the
sewers,and secures it back into the floor. The siren continues,
rattling San Francisco and then drowning it into silence.
The silence also leads to a sudden stillness. Even the
turbulence of the sea slows down to a gurgle and the city sits
still, patiently. The earth suddenly seems to ripple. It is as if a
stone has been thrown into a still pond. In this pond, however,
the ripples become more violent. The ripples turn into waves.
The ground begins to shiver, the anger building, as if the low
grumbles are coming from a hungry wolf that is about to blow
down the house with the food inside. The trembles build in
Mother Nature
22 INK

violence and the entire city begins to move. The roads creak,
the smog is stirred up and releases a sulphuric scent over
the mausoleum that was once a city. The water surrounding
the city spills into the streets, crashing away at the rubble
which is dislodged. The waves gnaw at the foundations of the
buildings that once lined the streets. A building takes its final
toll and crumbles into the ground, as if it were built upon a
foundation of sand. This continues until the sun has fully died
away and the night has overcome the city. The aftershocks
keep lapping up and taking over the city once again. The
hands of the natural elements have full control over San
Francisco. The destructive force of nature taking back the city.
Finally, the city remains still once more and the siren
is sounded again. The manholes on the street
lift up and out pour minute groups of survivors. The young
boy, Kyle, is now under the care of some older boys. The skin
around their eyes all adopt the same deep shade of purple
and the smaller amongst them are quivering, the earthquake
resonating in their bones. The biggest of the group - Mike,
almost a young man in appearance, calls to them.
‘We need to find somewhere secure and warm to spend the rest
of the night, we can’t stay in the sewers again. We have already
lost too many of our brothers,’ his voice cracks, the boys bow
their heads. ‘If we can find somewhere safe, we can sleep late
into tomorrow morning before we start looking for food again.’
The brothers all agree. Kyle is among these boys, looking
up to Mike, feeling his heart warm as he takes the words
from his mouth as rule and begins to search around him.
Their safe spots always seem to be the first to crumble
under the force of the natural disasters. When the boys
INK 23

have found a place, they light a fire and sit around it. They
feel like boy scouts again. The leader of the group begins
to tell the story they’re told most nights and Kyle’s eyes
are lit up with fear, the colour running from his face.
‘For ten years, this city has been reduced to dust every day.
The floor begins to lose control from under us. We hide away
underground, like moles, crawling towards the centre of the
city to meet. We blame past generations for this. They filled
the air with their poison, they built their nuclear weapons,
they invaded land that belonged to her. Now, every day, San
Francisco tries to shake us off. She wants us out of the picture.
Mother Nature once kept us safe, but we threatened her. The
myths say that once she has picked off every last one of us,
these permanent clouds will roll away and the sun will once
again shine on America. She can’t get rid of us that easily. We
won’t go down without a fight. We are young. We cannot change
the past but we will ride out this storm and prove to our new
mother that we are strong enough to join her in her utopia.’
Kyle’s palms begin to sweat. He wants the utopia at the end of
this nightmare, but he doesn’t want to live with the ground
shaking under his feet. He doesn’t want to feel the bitter
touch of the rain on his skin and watch it burn away as he
finds cover. He cannot face another day hungry. He decides
to sleep. He has been told he can sleep well into tomorrow.
A few hours later, the boys are woken up by the quiet
rumblings of the belly of the monster. The
wolf takes in his deepest breath.
‘The siren, the siren...’ The eldest boy shakes his head, he
cannot understand. Mother Nature has snuck up on them.
24 INK

Bethan Taylor
English Literature Stage Two
‘Run!’
‘Quickly! The sewers!’
The boys stand. They scramble out of their den. Kyle crawls
after them. Their world begins to fall around them.
The ground splits.
The dust chokes.
The boys are alone. Kyle is alone.
INK 25

There was this sound. This constant, throbbing, tapping
sound that swallowed Baldwin’s world. He woke up in a sweat,
throwing off his blanket, nearly screaming. He panted like
a wild dog as his vision returned in splotches. Catching his
breath, he ran his hands through his hair trying to calm
himself. The sound began to fade as he returned to reality.
‘Hell,’ he muttered, sitting up. Looking around, everything
was as he left it. The cup of water looked the same,
the curtains were still pulled shut and the air was just
as thick. He was in Birmingham, he told himself. He
was fine. Baldwin tried to drink from the glass but his
hands wouldn’t clench it. Cursing, he fell back on the
bed defeated. ‘It’s okay,’ he whispered. ‘You’re fine.’
The curtains were pulled open and Simmons stood
there with a tray, looking down on him.
‘How are you?’ he asked, almost managing to sound
sympathetic. Baldwin looked up at him with disgust.
‘How the hell do you think I am?’ he whispered from his
slump. The smoke from the bar was wafting through the open
curtains, polluting the air with the smell of incense and meth.
‘Coming down?’ Simmons asked, placing the tray on the side.
Business was Good
26 INK

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Well, an easy fix if I ever saw one,’ Simmons said, making
Baldwin frown. ‘It will be another hundred though.’ He nodded
at the table. Baldwin sat up and looked at the tray. A needle
and a pod full of grey liquid stared back at him. He gritted
his teeth, running his tongue along the back of them.
‘Just one more,’ he sighed.
‘Right then.’ The little man set to work. ‘Your card please,’
he said as he screwed the needle to the pod, flicking
the side of it with his finger. After rummaging through
his pockets, Baldwin pulled out his citizen chip.
‘Just the one,’ he warned, pointing his finger at the drug
lord. ‘A small dose. Not another one of your specials.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ The crooked man smiled again.
‘Lean back,’ he said taking the card from Baldwin’s
half formed fist. ‘Open up.’ He nodded at his arm.
‘My hands...you’ll have to.’
‘Right, of course.’ Taking a screwdriver from the table,
Simmons began tinkering with the node in Baldwin’s hand.
‘Just tell me if it hurts,’ he said, unscrewing. Baldwin hated
this doctor act of his. Caring, patient, calm. The bastard. If he
didn’t have that card with him he knew he’d get a different
act. Wincing as the little man pulled out the bone screws
imbedded in his arm, Baldwin watched as he worked. Once
they were all out, he looked up at him with another wiry grin.
INK 27

‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’ Baldwin looked away. With some pressure the
plate in his arm came free, revealing the wire veins.
‘Hold this.’ He gave Baldwin the cover plate.
‘Your hands are bothering you still then?’ he
asked absentmindedly as he worked.
‘I couldn’t pick up the glass,’ Baldwin said, ashamed.
‘No matter, no matter.’ The little man stopped,
picked up the glass and held it out.
‘I’m not a baby,’ Baldwin cautioned.
‘No, but you are a customer. Drink.’ He nodded at the
cup. Leaning forward, Baldwin took a sip unhappily.
‘Better, right?’ Simmons put the cup down.
‘A little.’ Baldwin looked over the dealer’s head, just able to see
a ration line out of the window. Through the little glass panes
stained with the orange dust that was everywhere, he just
about made out the faces of the gaunt ghouls standing in line.
‘The line looks longer today,’ he mumbled, passing the time.
‘Oh yes, lots of people today. I think the boiler-
yard let out its workers for the night.’
‘That was nice of them,’ Baldwin chuckled sarcastically.
‘One night off from the furnaces to stand in line
for maggoty bread. What gentlemen.’
28 INK

‘Ha, well I don’t see you helping them,’ Simmons
chortled as he picked up the needle.
‘Why should I?’
‘Exactly. Why should you?’ Simmons said as
they locked eyes. ‘Right, then. Ready?’
‘Sure.’ Baldwin prepared his mind. Simmons placed
the pod into the hollow of his arm, slotting it into the
socket buried in there. Pressing a small release on
the pod’s side, the grey liquid turned royal blue.
‘Here you go,’ Simmons said, taking the plate from
Baldwin. He began reassembling the arm instillation
as Baldwin began laughing. He watched the giant man
as he crumbled under the weight of the serotonin
flowing into him. “Just like the others,” he mused.
After replacing the screws, he led the big man’s head down
onto the pillow and pulled the blanket back over him.
‘Mother of drug addicts,’ he said to himself dejectedly. He
looked around his saloon. With the law changes he thought
business would have been better, but it hadn’t changed much.
All it meant was he could now sell opiates as well as Dry Salt
everyone like Baldwin came for. He closed the curtains as
he heard Baldwin talk in his sleep. He always had the same
dreams. Simmons knew the war had done something to
everyone, but he’d never seen someone quite so affected
as Baldwin. He sighed and went to check the stocks.
INK 29

Behind the bar the Methadone cylinders seemed to be in
order. The beer tap seemed to be pumping. The acid press
seemed to be pressing. Everything was as it should be.
He remembered the prohibition days. He remembered
running crack houses and slimy dens full of slimy men.
He remembered all the faces and he remembered all the
names. Business was good these days, he thought to himself
as he looked around the room full of patients behind closed
curtains. Their groaning, mumbling and coughing was almost
cathartic. Business was good, he thought. Business was good.
Sam Carr
30 INK

“Knowst thou the land where the lemon trees bloom,
Where the gold orange glows in the deep thicket’s gloom,
Where a wind ever soft from the blue heaven blow,
And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose?”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
At the end of history, as the flood waters rose, the women
of the Dorchester WI commandeered a cruise ship as their
husbands sat in front of their televisions and drowned. Now
the two women tending the garden on top of their vessel,
with withering hands and failing eye sight had begun to
expect nothing more than the passing of their own final
days, as they drifted in a now nameless sea. Time had gone
out of the window, direction was not needed and the weather
was no longer predictable beyond what the ladies could
immediately see. The ship they sailed on had run out of fuel
a long time ago, though, since their concept of time was
now so simple it may well have only been a few weeks back.
But this was of no concern to anyone aboard the Pont-Aven
now, especially not the two old friends Nora and Edna, who
lovingly cared for the myriad plants upon their floating Eden.
The ship had originally sailed from Plymouth to Roscoff, as
a large ferry boat hauling up to two thousand four hundred
passengers, their cars and their baggage, emotional or
otherwise. Now the gigantic sailing boat only housed around
twenty old women, though they had originally numbered
thirty or more and were, in comparison to the ferry’s usual
crew, a meagre effort towards keeping the ship in shipshape
Memories of Sailing
Aboard the Pont-Aven
INK 31

- so to speak. But still they had managed an unimaginable
feat, from loading the ship with as many provisions as
they possibly could, to creating a garden on the top deck
with enough vegetation for them to enjoy the occasional
vegetable growing competition. They had endured, with great
efficiency, the changes imposed upon them and had sailed
through the worst of the metaphorical bad weather. They
had even managed to load a few animals into the various
out-houses and extremities of the ship; though these were
not doing so well, probably due to the lack of dry air and
general warmth in their surroundings. This, however, was
of no cause for concern since the women were not shy of
practicing their butchery skills and the leftovers provided a
nutritious compost for the plants. They had even managed
to figure out how to launch the ship, with the aid of some
superfluous experience and a good deal of patience of course.
The life they now came to lead was one of hard work and
perseverance but it was comfortably enjoyable nonetheless.
They enjoyed afternoon tea, home baked cakes and all manner
of quintessential English delights. They even arranged for
themselves days of celebration and fetes, in order to punctuate
the passing time with something more extraordinary than
the evacuation of their own bowels, which formed the majority
of their usual conversation. For these days they hung out
bunting that they had made from the leftover uniforms found
around the ship. They were also fortunate enough to have
set sail with enough alcohol to last them the rest of their
lives, since the bars were very well endowed indeed. The
ladies frequently enjoyed a good party, complete with Doris
on the piano, previously used for the ship’s entertainment.
Whenever these parties began it was usually because
Francis could not let go of the past. Although the ladies had
left the world they used to inhabit behind them a long time
32 INK

ago, Francis was the first to begin regaling, with delight
and horror, stories of their previous lives. Stories of their
families, of their homes and most importantly, as with
many of the women, of their group the Women’s Institute
of Dorchester. Naturally, the contingency plan for this had
been to bring out the gin and plenty of glasses and so this
had become a regular event in the ladies weekly routines.
The ladies’ really knew it was a party when Betty began a
round of ‘Bring Me Sunshine’ whilst tap dancing on one
of the tables as Doris accompanied her on the piano.
At these times, Nora would retire to her cabin with a heavy
heart full of old memories and sink into her favourite armchair
with her personal stash of whisky to help her dull the pain of
all that she had lost. For many aboard this ship talking was
a cathartic practice, as they nattered away like squabbling
birds, with speeches that gibbered into each other and began
and ended all at once. But Nora was more reserved than her
companions and it was only when Edna came to say goodnight,
or rather put a blanket over a sleeping Nora, that anyone would
see Nora’s tears still drying on her cheek. This was, however,
the way it had needed to be since most of the ship’s new crew
had come to see Nora as a surrogate captain in the many years
that had passed since the ship had set sail. Since that time they
had sailed over towns and cities, hills and mountains alike, with
no thought to where or if the water would ever find its shore.
In fact they had presumed for a long time now that there was
no longer a coastline anywhere in this world at which they
could dock and as far as they knew there weren’t any people
either. So what a surprise it must have been, on this undated
afternoon in a year unknown, for Nora and Edna to be the first
of their battered clan to experience a greeting, when for so
long they had only expected to say or hear the word ‘goodbye’.
Hannah Mae
INK 33

How balmy it was that morning. The sun had burst
from the horizon at five o’clock and I had risen with it,
dressing and taking myself outside to read the paper
on the lawn. In a pressed white shirt and slacks still
warm from the iron, I crossed one leg over the other and
settled down to read the columns. The sun filtered down
on me from between the willow-tree feathers. I closed
my eyes and watched with fascination as the willow
played a shadow-puppet show for me on my eyelids.
Eight o’clock came and with it a disturbance, carried to me
across the park-land that lay before my house. I lived on
the crest of a sloping hill in an early Georgian manor with
eight bedrooms, one of which I lived in and one of which
belonged to my mother. The position of my house gave me
an advantageous view of the curved white-gravel drive and
the road beyond and this disturbance was a motor of some
kind, the revs brought gently to me on a warm breeze.
‘Molly?’ I said, twisting around in my chair.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Are we expecting company today?’
‘No, sir.’
Violet
34 INK

I jiggled my foot impatiently. A minute or two later, the motor
erupted from the woodland directly across the valley from
where I sat. I winked briefly against a flash of sunlight on glass.
‘Somebody’s definitely coming this way, Molly,’ I called.
Molly was our maidservant and a pleasant and
tolerant woman. She was sitting on the front steps
and mending one of my shirts for me, but she rested
it down in her lap to squint down at the road.
‘They could be lost, sir,’ she says. ‘Or…’
She raised her eyebrows a little.
‘Oh, of course! They’ve finally let the Lake House,’
I cried. ‘That must be it. That must be. We’ll have
neighbours, Molly. How marvellous.’
The Lake House was a large white summer-house that
lay half a mile away from us, sitting alone in its own
ten acre garden that included a swimming pool and a
miniature ornamental lake. It was almost as grand as my
own house and it would have certainly not been cheap.
The motor-car clattered up the driveway just ten minutes
later. The smell of it! The noise of it! It stank to high heaven of
burning rubber and hot metal and was the colour of the sky in
winter. The driver tried to slow down so he could shout across
the lawn to me but the engine cut out with a guttural groan.
‘Oh goodness,’ he laughed, waving a hand in front of
his face. ‘Useless machine. Give me a horse any day,
won’t you?’ Then looking at me, ‘Hello there!’
INK 35

‘Why, hello,’ I replied.
He whipped off his gloves and beckoned to
me. ‘Are you my new neighbour?’
I threw down my paper and went down the lawn to him, the
grass springing me along, propelling me down toward that car.
‘I think I may be,’ I told him. ‘Would you
like me to crank your engine?’
‘No, it’s quite alright. This thing has a key,’ he said.
He drawled a little when he spoke. He tapped the
door of his car with a slender, suntanned hand.
‘Oh, so I see. I’m William, by the way. Have
you leased the Lake House?’
‘How did you know?’ he said. When he grinned he
showed off a set of brilliant white teeth. ‘William,
this is my sister Violet. Do say hello, Vi.’
She was not visible from where I stood until she leaned
forward. Her head emerged from the window like a young swan
pushing its white face out from some dark place, eyes blinking
in the light, white neck exposed and bright in the morning
sun. Hair the colour of damp sand framed her face, cut sharply
to her earlobes. Two dark sapphires hung trembling at her jaw.
‘Hello, William,’ she said.
‘I’m Lester Beaumont,’ the man said. He sounded very proud.
‘Violet Beaumont,’ said the girl.
36 INK

I was stunned. Struck dumb. My neighbours!
I was tremendously excited.
‘Well, it’s lovely to meet you,’ I said.
‘I hope to see much more of you, William,’ said Lester.
He started the winter-sky car and it roared to life.
Black smoke whirled over my damp lawn.
‘I’m quite certain we will,’ said Violet, and
even to this day, I’m sure she winked.
Leticia Atkinson
English and Creative Writing Stage Three
INK 37

“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -”
Emily Dickinson

Plumes of mist spilled over the septic craters and bloated
bodies. The scene was blanketed in wisps of grey; the
shadows only shadow. Sparse splinters of what once were
trees littered the horizon, scattered in the murk. The
soldier looked out over the dying land and contemplated
the massacre that the new day would bring.
A crow roused its winged blackness and pierced the
shroud like a shard of shrapnel. Its plumage, tarred
and feathered, shone out against the drab with which
it flew. He felt lost in its blackness. He was used to
only greys, browns, khakis and deep reds.
He laid his rifle against the lip of the parapet. Sandbags
crystallised with frosty jewels piled over compacted
soil. His hands, blue with cold, were cupped at his
mouth, thawing on the warmth of his breath. He often
wrote poetry on sentry duty but his mind was too
busy visualising his non-existent breakfast. Eggs fried
until crisp, yolks bursting over fried bread. A cup of
sugary tea to fill the void left by the morning chill.
Hope is the Thing with Feathers
38 INK

He watched the crow as it settled on its resting place. Its
sprig feet clawed around the cold spirals of blood-rusted
wire. A death grip. The black orb of an eye absorbed all
from his scuffed helmet to his mud-caked boots.
I see you - caw! caw!
He tore his gaze away from the creature and looked back
down the line. Somewhere, Macca and Irish lay locked
in the illusion of sleep. Sleep was the real enemy; a relief
before abandonment in the unblinking of an eye.
The black menace sparked into flight once more,
hanging high over the waste. He watched the crow as it
climbed the greyscale, its ashen wings beating. Up, up
it soared, spreading its doom over the churned land.
* * *
He held Julia by the waist; her rose petal flesh bare.
Delicate fingers, entwined behind the nape of his neck,
pulled him closer. Her golden hair, draped over her
breasts, like a blanket of buttercups. Her scarlet lips
parted to reveal the white of a tooth. He kissed her,
allowing her tongue to brush over his. The warm plumes
of her sticky breath seared through him like wildfire.
She tore away from him; her deep blue eyes
wider than usual, pierced into his.
‘Please don’t go. I don’t know how I’ll cope.’
‘Julia, I have to.’
INK 39

Her ocean eyes began to swell, not from sorrow but from
understanding. She masked her anxieties with a pitiful
smile. A single tear sailed down her cheek, before a shaky
hand wiped it away. She buried her golden head in his chest
and choked out inaudible sobs. He ran his fingers through
her flaxen hair and promised he would be back - for her.
* * *
Caw! Caw!
The black bird was closer now, its feet gripped the edge of
the parapet. A sleek coat of waxen feathers ruffled by the
chill. The crow’s head twisted downwards. Its bayonet beak
chiseled at the ice-white ground. The head burrowed beneath
the surface, beak lost to the wasteland. He wondered how
far the crow could dig. Might there be an escape beyond the
corpses? A tunnel leading to meadow greens and daffodils?
The crow’s head rose from the mud, a black grotesque
against the grey. A worm hung from its beak, thrashing
in an attempt to delay its fate. The bird turned to face the
soldier, worm brushing against tarred feathers. With a snap
of its neck it tossed the worm above its head, the larvae
recoiled in flight. The crow’s beak gaped to reveal a black
hole, facing up to the abyss. The worm fell into the blackness
and bulged down through the slick feathers of its neck.
He heard the crunch of footfalls behind him and felt a
firm palm on his shoulder. The smell of tobacco smoke
washed over him. It was Tweaks: “Lancashire’s finest”.
‘Time’s up lad, ya can ger get some shut-eye. Good job.’
40 INK

Jordan Wood
Tweaks took a drag on his cigarette. His eyes narrowed
as he savoured the inhalation. He withdrew a tin from
his top-pocket, flicked it open and held it out.
The soldier took a cigarette. Warmth filled his lungs,flowed
through his veins, revitalised his senses. He heard the crackle
of burning tobacco with each drag, tasted the bitterness.
He looked back out over the land. The black crow, a mere
speck, was seeking out a new place, a new life. The soldier
picked up his rifle and stubbed out his cigarette. The
orange glow extinguished against the frozen grey.
INK 41

I watched the old woman’s eyes glaze over as she finally
slipped away, a sight I’d become too familiar with. ‘I’m sorry,’
I said quietly as I closed her eyes. I think I meant it. Luckily
she didn’t have any family left, so there was no one I had
to lie to. No ‘She passed away peacefully’ or ‘She looked like
she was falling asleep’. No one would have to know she was
in agony, convulsing and sobbing, that she’d begged me for
more morphine and I’d lied to her face and said the doctor
had ordered against it. I think I meant it. I did feel sorry in a
way. I was sorry that it had happened, like how you apologise
to someone when their friend dies even though it’s not
your fault. Because it wasn’t my fault. Did I get myself into
morphine? Yes. Did I steal it regularly from dying people
to feed my addiction? Yes. Did I lie to their families and tell
them that they’d built up a tolerance and it would no longer
be effective, or that the doctor had said it was dangerous, or
even audaciously suggested that they were addicted to deter
them? Yes. Was I accountable for any of this? Absolutely not.
When you‘re addicted to something, you’re not accountable
for your actions. You lose all reason. You don’t think about who
you’re hurting or where this is going. You don’t even know
what you’re going to say until it comes out of your mouth,
or what you’re going to do until you’ve done it. You can tell
yourself over and over I’ll never inject again and without even
realising, you’re picking up a needle. I’ll never lie again as the
words ‘Just before she passed, she said she loved you,’ tumble
from your lips instead of ‘One of the screams could’ve been
I’m Sorry
42 INK

your name, maybe, I’m not sure.’ You’re on auto-pilot. You’re
in survival mode. You need what you need and you need to get
away with it. Our bodies do the rest. I need morphine. Have
you ever tried to do anything productive whilst enduring
morphine withdrawal? ‘Oh, here you go, Ms. Green. Take two
of these after each meal. No, please, ignore my shaking hands
spilling pills on you, the sweat dripping into my mouth, the
way I look like a week old corpse strung up by a puppeteer.’
Yeah, I’m sure that’d instil confidence in my patients. The
truth is, I have to keep hurting them now if I stand any
chance of helping them. Granted, I could’ve not started in
the first place, but I think it’s a little late for lectures now.
I held the old woman’s hand. She wasn’t even really that old.
She was sort of pretty. I wondered why she had no family, no
one that cared enough to visit her on her deathbed. I checked
her notes; her name was Sandra. I don’t know why I was
holding her hand. I don’t know why I wanted to know her
name. This one just felt different. Sandra had had a little life
in her, unlike the others. She really begged for the morphine,
like a dog or a sinner. The others just looked scared and
desperate, but she looked angry. She really looked like she
hated me. I felt like Sandra would’ve been a fiery woman in
her youth, opinionated and hateful. Maybe that’s why no one
liked her enough to visit. I realised I’d been holding a dead
woman’s hand for a few minutes and let it slump onto the bed.
I was actually seeing these people as real people. That had to
stop. Think I left my needle in the loo on the paediatric ward,
I thought. Nope, tell a lie. It’s in the vent in the stockroom.
‘Bye, Sandra,’ I coughed out as I left for the stock room.
Zoe Jenkins
INK 43

She opened the door from the inside, causing it to seem as
though it opened by itself. It was as if I was Sinbad shouting
‘Open sesame’. Shutting the door after me she gave a look
of surprise; as though I hadn’t been what she’d expected,
as though she’d expected something less. I admit I blushed
a little at this and a small grin crept across my face as she
gazed up at me, but it soon faded. I had to shake off that
feeling and come to realise that look probably isn’t exclusive
to me. She stroked down my arm gently, taking my hand
and guiding me up stairs. The narrow cream walls seemed
to corral me with a gentle violence – leading me to the
bedroom like a cow to slaughter. The thick smell of sweet
perfume hung in the air like smog; I felt ambushed by it,
my face made this clear and she seemed to take note of it.
‘Here, sit on the bed. I’ll be back in five minutes darling.’
I could taste the sound of her voice, it was like honeyed
mead. It ran down my ears, warm. I couldn’t stop staring
at her lips. Painted rouge, adding volume to them, black
eyeliner framed green eyes and long black hair rolled
down her neck. Sometimes the clichés are true and in this
case they were. You couldn’t put it into words what she’d
done to me, any guard I had put up she had let simmer
down into a warm pool of comfort and anticipation.
She stroked the back of my neck and held my chin up,
inspecting me for a moment, taking a measure of me before
Pockets
44 INK

adding a hesitant kiss and leaving down the stairs. She played
me like a master violinist, compiling each note into a melody,
seductive and confusing. Those next five minutes felt strange
to me, a mixture of excitement and fear; that blend of emotions
that you got as a child when you did something bad. Time
moved in a mire. I looked at my phone several times, listening
for her to come back up the stairs. I went through my list of
contacts, trying to stem the flood of anxious boredom that
affects us when we wait. I scrolled away from the numbers
of old girlfriends, some that hate me, some I hate and some
I still talk to. I hover, only for a second, over the women
that never made it past a one night stand and I wonder. I’m
holding a sordid mirror of the past when I go through these
names, not necessarily bad but definitely not good either.
The slow click of high heels announced her return as
she faded back into the room, black lace and a knowing
smile. The kind of smile that turns a man into a Cheshire
cat and lets his logic take a nose dive into concrete.
‘Hope I didn’t make you wait too long.’
With those red lips she could have been gone a second
and it would have felt like an eternity… More sense
flies out the window with each word pronounced.
‘But first, put the money on the table, darling.’
120 notes manifest on the bedside table like some magician’s
trick. I don’t even remember reaching into my pockets.
Tyrone Burman
INK 45

ARTWORK

‘The Last Judgement’ By Saul Woodford48 INK

INK 49James Sibthorp

50 INK

‘Baba Yaga’s Hut’ By Coralie Ayres INK 51

‘Poor Richard Hooker’ By Laura Traister52 INK

‘Humankind vs Environment 2’ By Lauren Brookes INK 53

CREATIVE NON
FICTION

Sometimes, when I was younger, I’d push my face into my
pillow so hard a kaleidoscope of colours would appear in the
darkness behind my eyes. Just because I’d be so pleased to
see it. For as long as I can remember, I have always had an
undying love for my pillow. Its lilac hue, always peppered
with numerous stains; toothpaste, mascara, miscellaneous
food splodges, reminding me of the times it has served
me. I remember my mum would always shout ‘Stick that
grubby thing in the washing machine!’, but I would often
refuse. I much preferred the smell of my assortment of
stains to the overly sweet smell of honeysuckle fabric
conditioner my mother used to love. My stains had more
character, they were comforting. They smelt like home.
The most recent stains, mascara, from the great break up
of May 2014 and food, from the resultant binge-eating, are
both worn on my pillow’s sleeve with pride. Now undoubtedly
embedded in the pale purple of the pillowcase forever, they
stand out as beacons of melodramatics. The salty tears
have long since dried up, leaving the furry looking black
marks from flickering eyelashes trying to blink the tears
away. My pillowcase is peppered with them. Small spiders,
the outline of my lashes like their little legs and a reminder
of all those waterworks over what seems like nothing now.
The food stains, however, remind me of that ridiculously
full feeling you get when you try to eat your emotions.
The Arrival of Kermit
56 INK

My weapon of choice during comfort eating season was
always mashed potato. The richness of the creamy mash
always soothed the pangs of swallowed tears. No matter how
careful I always was not to get any in the bed, I’d always end
up with a dry starchy mess on my pillowcase, probably from
where the spoon would flop out of the bowl after diving to
my phone to see if it was him calling. Although the blood red
of Shiraz and the milky brown of the hot chocolate stains
clash horribly with my pastel bed sheets, their stubbornness
is sometimes a positive thing to me. Each time I look at
them they say ‘Hey, you were sad, but you’re okay now’.
A pillow is a person’s best friend, their salvation. They
never judge, just listen silently to muffled cries and bear
the brunt of our emotions. If pillows could talk, if their
deep set wrinkles were to suddenly form a mouth like a
sock puppet, the stories they could tell! They are chambers
of secrets, their mixed fibres like cobwebs to hushed
phone conversations in bed and muttered sleep talk.
Shortly before the breakup of May 2014 came the arrival
of Kermit the frog, who lies sleepily amongst my pillows.
He sits there, his stringy limbs bent awkwardly, his tag
wrinkled and flaky, reminding me of better times, before
the arguing over whose turn it was to settle the food bill and
so on, took over. I remember when we won him at Paignton
amusements, I remember the dying hope as we put in the
last pound coin into the metal slot, our fingers sticky from
sugared donuts and candyfloss. But Kermit and I were
meant to be together and approximately ten pounds and
sixty pence later, he was out of the grip of the metal claws
and into my arms, polystyrene still stuck to his bum.
INK 57

I remember the salty smell of fish and chips as we sat on a cold,
wet bench whilst we cooed over the new addition to our family,
who looked up at us, wide-eyed and inanimate, yet somewhat
cheerful looking. The bench, with its wood surface slimy from
the rain, meant we left with wet behinds but we didn’t mind.
After carving a commemorative smiley face and other doodles
into the slimy green layer on the bench, we got up, grimy
fingers intertwined, my other hand holding Kermit’s stubby
webbed fingers, bound together by green cotton. He dangled
from my arm almost like a reluctant child. We clambered into
the car, raucously making jokes about how Kermit was our new
baby and he ‘Must be strapped into his car seat!’ followed with
jokes about the impending custody battle when we got home,
and had to go our separate ways to our childhood homes.
I bought him home that night; propped up on my lap in the
front of the car, earnestly looking over the dashboard with
his bulgy pom-pom eyes. I made him wave goodbye as the
car sped out of our street, the glare of the headlights making
his white eyes pop with brightness before being plunged into
darkness when the car left and we turned to go into the house.
Kermit lies in my bed now. People have come and gone,
much like the stains on my pillowcase, but Kermit remains a
constant, probably against his will, sharing the secrets with
the pillows, Winnie the Pooh,and even occasionally the odd
sock that always manages to wriggle into the bed. I picture
him rolling his eyes as I blab down the phone to someone
about my awful day at work, thinking ‘She doesn’t half go on’
and besides, she told me they’d broken up the other day, why
is she all sugar and spice all of a sudden?!” But I’d narrow my
eyes at him whilst he stares at me judgingly and turn again
to my pillow, ignoring the sarcastic crease in Kermit’s sock
puppet smile. It’s annoying because I always know he’s right.
58 INK

It’s funny how he started off as my baby and ended up as
my emotional rock, I’m sure he’s thinking to himself ‘I
didn’t sign up for this!’ every time I nuzzle my face into
his pointy felt collar. So I’m sorry, Kermit, for dragging
you, buttocks first, out of the warm, womb-like safety of the
grabber machine’s belly, but I was selfish and I needed you.
I would let you leave, but you know way too much already.
Gemma Symons
INK 59

My room has no windows, so it sits in the kitchen, nestled
between fairy washing up liquid and coffee. It’s an Echeveria, I
didn’t know its name for a while. Before I was happy to just call
it the fat one. We’re a little more kindred now. I wasn’t told the
name by a shop-keeper, or a label, or a friend, because I stole it.
The little hill annexed to my street is mobbed by school-
children everyday on their commute. On it lives a thin,
coy, orange mog that likes to grind its face on the hands of
kids. Super bummed out, about horrible things that weren’t
horrible enough for me to remember, I lingered after school.
Too blue to go home, where people would be worried,
would ask questions, I meandered the scenic way
and hung out with the ginger cat. Cats go where they
want, so I was led into the garden and I spotted it.
A rosette composed of shards of rounded, chubby flesh,
with a pair of minute fuchsia teeth at the end of each
alien leaf. It’s a pale snowy little glob of a plant, frosted
with pink that radiated down to its centre, the source of
all the petite spikes. Perfectly symmetrical and polished,
I know it’s holding some spooky cosmic golden ratio.
Anyway, this one was only an offshoot the wee junior
babe of a Brady bunch consisting twenty or so members,
some were more ball-ish , small, spherical and defensive.
Others were flattened matriarchs, watching their brood.
Echeveria
60 INK

I was sad, it was small and easily forgotten and so I
kidnapped it. A victimless crime. Probably. The persons
of this house wouldn’t notice one would they? Maybe at
worst think they’re seeing things, phantom baby plants
that run away to join the circus. Snatched slowly, with
care from the roots and plopped in a lunch box with a
generous amount of soil, it’s been living with me.
Had babies of its own in the first year and once produced
a slip of a flower, a darling pink bluebell, that shot straight
up in a cosy kind of asymmetry. It’s still doing good.
Spike Davies
INK 61

And look! He’s
-gone again.
Spark, sapphire, refracted
From beyond water
Shivering the spine of the river.
-Ted Hughes

The pink-walled entrance of Exeter’s Royal Albert Memorial
Museum is guarded by a statue of the Prince himself. The
husband of Britain’s Queen Victoria, Albert loved science
and the arts and so the museum was built in his memory...
Beyond old Al, a series of winding passages lead to a room
filled with animals—specimens, rather. Unmistakably dead. If
it crawled, snapped, hooted, or flew, chances are it is here. A
stuffed boar bristles behind the glass, its sharp tusks curved
into a wicked smile. Around the corner, a solid polar bear
stands on all fours, stuck staring at its reflection in a glass
cage. Several wall-mounted deer and antelope heads gaze
down at the bulkier animals, a smug smile playing across their
stiffened snouts. For once, they are out of the predators’ reach.

Across the room, one display case contains a menagerie
of man-made objects. My eye rests on a delicate hairpin
perching atop a thin stand. It is the shape of a capital
letter ‘D’ lying on its straight side, but more stretched out,
like an old hunting bow. A patient hand has long since
coaxed the silver pieces into enchanting shapes. Wavy
Alcedo atthis
62 INK

flourishes dance along the outline. In the centre, a large
flower unfolds, its petals hovering above the pin’s frame.

On either side of the flower, I think I see two leaves etched
with ridges, but when my eyes trace where the stems should
stick out, I find they are attached to another mysterious
shape. All at once, I pick out the eye and beak of a bird. Two
of the creatures stand poised in opposite directions, their
backs to the flower in the centre, their noodly heads and
necks craning to see beyond their cage. Their plumage,
like the rest of the pin’s details, is startlingly blue.

At first I guess the metal is inlaid with stone, but I can’t place
the striking colour of the object. Not sapphire. Not exactly
aquamarine, but almost. I peer closer. Something not so solid
as stone. I glance at the identification cards and find the
corresponding number: 20. Hairpin with kingfisher feathers.
19th century. China. The pin’s silent neighbours are other
hairpieces of various sizes. One, a South American comb made
of tortoiseshell, looms high above its companion. Its teeth
hang down like insect legs, ready to scuttle away and settle
in some unsuspecting woman’s hair. Behind it, a rumpled
fan seems to protest being forever unfolded. On a pair of cold
snakeskin boots, diamond patterns narrow like eyes casting
venomous glares. They are all beautiful, but it seems strange,
rude, to look at these pieces divorced from the living.

I’m sure I have seen a picture of a kingfisher before, but
nothing specific comes to mind, so I do what any Millennial
would do and grab my iPhone. I Google the creature, scrolling
through the crisp images that surface. There are about 90
different types, but the kind I am looking for is the common
kingfisher, scientific name Alcedo atthis, habitat throughout
Eurasia. It is much smaller than I expected and wields a
INK 63

tiny sword as a beak. Sometimes also called a halcyon, it
shimmers in a kaleidoscope of colour. In Greek mythology,
Halcyon was a goddess who, along with her mortal husband
Ceyx, was transformed into a seabird after Ceyx died in a
tempest. The bird’s breast and belly are a muted sunset,
while the nape of its head, back and tail are a solid blue,
royal. The captivating colour of the feathers used for the
ornaments—the unreal azure of tropical oceans you see on
post cards or travel brochures—flickers in specks across
its crown and spreads in patches down its backbone.

To make a pin, a craftsperson would fill a silver framework
with strings of feathers individually dipped in glue before
placement. The thin glue, called funori, was a mix of animal
hide glue, or seaweed extract paired with isinglass, a substance
made from the swim bladders of fish. The Chinese name
for the process, tian-ts’ui, translates literally to ‘dotting
with kingfishers.’ Kingfisher hair pieces were traditionally
worn by the women in China’s Imperial household and
court. Later, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries, feathered ornaments of any kind became a fashion
craze in parts of Europe and North America and birds
were harvested from near and far to meet the demand.

The adornments were a sign of wealth and status for their
owners, but they were mostly prized as a way to accentuate
beauty. Gracing the back of a fixed hair style, the pin was
a crown of sorts for women fortunate enough to parade
the emblem. I think it must have looked best nestled in
a twist of red-orange hair that reflected the kingfisher’s
own curious blend of hues. But still, how strange to adorn
ourselves with the deadened parts of another living thing.

64 INK

Humans have yearned to fly for as long as we have existed. We
have attempted to get close to the water, to glean its shimmery
inhabitants and feed our families. We do both now, flying and
fishing, but only through the clunky apparatus of a Boeing
757 or a fibreglass fishing rod. The kingfisher just can. It
darts like an arrow from that old hunting bow, parting its beak
right before piercing the river’s spine and before the splash-
spray can land, it catapults back to the surface, victorious.

Perhaps our admiration is an admission of our weaknesses
compared to other creatures in some ways. The cerulean
feathers I cannot turn away from are not part of the human
body’s palette. The bluest pair of eyes, the boldest orange
tresses may come close, but nature seems to have bestowed
some gifts—the ability to wind-glide, to conquer a river, to be
born and just know—on only the most regal of creatures.
Laura Traister
English Exchange Programme Stage Three
INK 65

I notice him in one of the bushes, sitting in a cocoon of leaves.
A burst of colour among these muted shades of green. If it
wasn’t for the incessant chirping I never would’ve found him –
or even thought to look here. The centre of the city is a place for
perusing shops and buying things you probably – no, definitely
– don’t need. Beyond the scavenging seagulls and the animal
calendars in W H Smith, I don’t expect to see the slightest
hint of nature here and yet there’s a robin sat in this bush.
Although he’s made an admirable effort of hiding himself,
the orange beacon of his chest is impossible to hide. A
warm smudge sitting in bush’s tangled bowels. The only
other inhabitant of the bush is a discarded high heel
sticking out of the top. A monument erected in the name
of drunken idiocy. Its purple body is as eye-catching as
the robin’s orange chest, but elicits groaning and head-
shaking rather than any sense of wonderment.
The thought of what the robin is doing here – and what
he’s twittering about – intrigues me. I’d like to imagine
that he’s some sort of spy, his beady eyes surveying
us unsuspecting humans. The truth is probably much
less exciting. He could simply be stranded; stuck in
an unfamiliar land filled with tarmac roads and stone
buildings. Just like I’m inept when it comes to the
countryside, perhaps he’s inept when it comes to the city.
A Warm Smudge
66 INK

But the level of intimacy that exists between humans and
robins seems to suggest that they must at least know cities
a little bit. They adorn our Christmas cards every year and,
much like the magpie and jackdaw, they possess a human
name. There’s a simple, almost cartoonish charm to the
robin’s appearance. With his bloated chest it almost looks
as though someone simply covered a balloon in glue and
rolled it around in some feathers. The way the wind ruffles
his plumage even creates the illusion that he’s perpetually
inflating and deflating. It’s hard not to love robins.
Though, apart from me, no one seems to have paid this little
spy the slightest amount of attention. Not even a glance. Maybe
they’re simply mistaking his colour for a discarded packet of
crisps? Or perhaps they simply don’t care. Christmas has come
and gone and so has their interest in robins. Now they’re just
a reminder of a time before everybody had to go back to work.
We live in a world where if you wanted to see a robin you
could simply Google its name and get an image in a couple
of seconds. But there’s nothing quite like seeing one in
the wild – it almost feels personal. No one else has had this
particular encounter with this particular robin before. It’s
the same with all animals; there’s something missing from
every photo that only the original creature can possess.
I take one last look at the robin – its chest bright and
swelled. Nature always seems to sneak up on me when
I least expect it to and that’s what I love about it.
Elliott Simpson
English and Creative Writing Stage Two
INK 67

My daily appointment with the mirror is here, a troubling
meeting. Rain or shine, I arrive to paint on my face, plaster
on a smile and soldier on. Will it be bold red or subtle pink, a
heavy layer of mystery or the bare skin nature provided me
with? A whole identity can be formed at this unassuming table
as a new day begins and brings with it a host of possibilities.
A black perfume bottle catches my eye, sleeker than the
others, carrying an air of sophistication, a womanly grace
in the curves of the lid, the swirl of the centre. One gentle
spray will reveal the scent of my Gran and with her, a
wealth of childhood memories. I remember her house, small
and terraced, decorated with precious china that would
be carefully hidden away before we invaded her home. I
remember possessions like a patched up orange teddy bear
living in the spare room and a shelf of flower fairy books full
of magical poems. Taught to read using Cicely Mary Barker’s
words and encouraged to imagine a world of dreams by
pouring over her intricate illustrations, my love of words
and stories can be traced through these memories.
Fractured images flicker through my mind and I imagine
myself as five years old again. A ragged teddy bear drags
behind me as I lumber down my Gran’s old spiral staircase,
the black metal rail clamped cold against my small hands.
Miniature boxes of cereal line the kitchen table and prepare
to be argued over in the highly important breakfast selection
process. My Gran’s life often seemed to be drenched in
My Dressing Table
68 INK

the exotic layers of Paloma Picasso, the perfume that used
to make me dream of fantasy lands and fairytale queens.
I always imagined then that I would know I was a grown
up for sure when I wore perfume for the first time.
Underneath this bottle lies a dark wooden tray, an ornate
pattern of shapes adorning the oval handles. Picked up at a
second hand market several years ago, it marks one of many
trips across shops and craft fairs. Tavistock Pannier Market,
Saltram Christmas Fair, Covent Garden and Bristol’s beautiful
Clifton! I instantly think of gaggling friends dawdling along
pavements, buying pointless trinkets with precious pennies
of pocket money whilst undertaking the eternal quest to
find the ultimate hot chocolate. The reigning champion is a
delicious sample served by Donella’s, hidden down a cobbled
alleyway in the heart of Tavistock. The friendly service, local
produce and art adorning the walls are as much a winner
as the drink itself, adorned with a hint of cinnamon and a
mountain of marshmallows resembling a wizard’s hat. A
close runner up would have to be the perfectly proper tea
house overlooking the stunning grounds of Saltram house,
the setting of Emma Thompson’s Sense and Sensibility. The
mismatched teapots and crockery are not far from the world
of Jane Austen themselves and in spring the lawn is often
transformed into a valley of snowdrops, breathing the first
rays of light into a setting beaten down by a harsh winter.
Guarding the other end of the table is a bowl, comfortably
conveying every shade of lilac, purple, burgundy and violet
imaginable in a clash of stunning mess. Reminding me of
a perfect summer in Greece and the white washed town of
Lindos I discovered it in, I can run my fingertips over the
ridges of dots and lines as if I’m reading the secret language
of Braille. The motherly curves now hold my discarded items
INK 69

of jewellery, released from duty at the end of a long day for
a well earned night of rest. A glittering ring, a bracelet of
charms and mismatched earrings, together resemble the
secret stash of a magpie. Even a few loose bits of change
pulled from pockets and buttons separated from their owners
sit hopefully amongst the jewels waiting to be claimed.
I mean to get to them but somehow never do and now I
know I won’t, because they have started to belong there.
I face the mirror and wonder who I will be today. I could
be the child with the teddy bear and a cereal addiction, the
girl next door shopping for unique items with a gang of
girlfriends or the adventurous tomboy, backpacking across
Greece in the glorious sunshine. I examine the facets of
my personality and wonder if one of them is more real
than the other or if I have the ability to change, to reflect
my surroundings like a chameleon. I feel a flush of guilt
warm my cheeks when I think of all the times I find myself
nodding along with conversations I don’t really understand
or agree with. I think of all the radical views on feminism
and animal rights that I secretly harbour but never really
tell anyone about for fear of sounding too opinionated.
I hope I’m not one of those people to disguise themselves for
the public, to put on a false face and yet I fear we all might
be like that sometimes. I reach for my favourite make-up
brush, flat and round for a smooth finish and start to paint
my face as if it were a blank canvas. I deliberate over colours
and decide that today could be the day for something new.
Hannah Stamp
70 INK

INK 71
Coming soon…
INK Journal’s baby brother…
SQUID INK
An all new publication from Plymouth
University showcasing a collaboration
between Marine Biology, English
and Creative Writing and Art.
Look out for this brand new journal
celebrating science and nature writing
and artwork around campus soon!
For more information and to find out
how YOU can get involved, contact:
Dr Stacey DeAmicis: stacey.
deamicis@plymouth.ac.uk

REVIEWS:
EDITORS’
TAKEOVER

INK 2015 really is something to be proud of, a real achievement
for all involved. This year, we — the editorial team, the
contributors and the readers — have truly come together to
celebrate the burgeoning creative community at Plymouth
University. This year’s journal is a testament to what can
happen if you challenge boundaries, pushing them and
knocking them down until what you have is a true reflection
of what we as students, writers and creatives now, in 2015,
want our work to say about us. I know what it says to me:
the journal this year is a showcase of work to be proud of.
The decision to go completely themeless, to take INK back
to its roots, could have been a risky one but we found that
the moment we did, the possibilities for the journal became
endless. We asked you, our wonderful contributors, to send
us work that you wanted celebrated and the response was
overwhelming. We had submissions on an array of subjects:
from words that made us laugh to words that made us think
and cry. The one thing that was clear was that the standard
of writing and the number of responses far exceeded our
expectations. That was why we were incredibly grateful for
our online journal which was yet another platform for us to
showcase the talent of this year’s writers and creatives upon.
If you haven’t already, please check it out: INK 2015 lives on!
In every genre, we have been able to present you
submissions which concern a wide range of subjects
from writers with diverse backgrounds, proving that
INK 2015: A Year to Celebrate:
A Review of the Journal
74 INK

writing is a passion which can be fostered whatever
discipline you study. We have surpassed the boundaries
of our campus reaching our partner colleges proving
that writing and creating really can bring us together.
I have also been astounded by the incredible standard of
art submissions we received for this year’s journal. It has
been wonderful to engage with artists whose methods and
approaches have been wide ranging. This year, in addition
to some of the art work being used to accompany the
writing we have chosen, illustration and photography has
also become a standalone genre in the journal which has
been celebrated as a big part of our creative community.
I have learnt a lot about the publishing process and the
journey that INK takes every year and I can honestly say that
it has been a pleasure to be a part of the team and to read
and engage with the work of my fellow students who truly
make the publication possible, thank you again to everyone.
Michelle Phillips Editor in Chief, INK 2015
INK 75

This year, we received a large amount of poetry submissions,
the most of any genre. Making decisions was an onerous
and enjoyable task, with each poem having their own
merits. After much discussion, we decided to include
the writing that didn’t quite make the shortlist to be
published on the INK Journal 2015 website, alongside
the shortlist of poems; this gives new writers a platform
to showcase their talents and add to their portfolio. At
the heart of INK is a talented group of students from the
university that we are proud to support and encourage.
The published shortlist showcases the many styles and
formats that INK embraces. We have a strong entry from
Rosemarie Corlett: ‘Ella’ a passionate poem about the map
of a young body in juxtaposition with ageing. The body is
celebrated with ‘a network of new cities’ and it marvels at
the powerful imagery of new life with the stand-alone line
‘Fuck’ and the need to hold it all together: ‘I cannot fall apart
just yet’. Jenna Bamford and her ‘Ourglass demonstrates
excellent attention to detail. Its contemporary format functions
in synchronicity with the context of the piece. There is the
betrayed woman at the centre- ‘that stained my pillows, your
lying collar’- with her ‘in and out at the waist’ physique. We
can visualise her. Having a poem that can lift off the page like
this adds an element of aesthetic art to the whole production.
In Hannah Stamp’s ‘A Waiting Woman’, the format is
different again, just one tight, concise paragraph. It looks
A Review of the Poetry
Submissions
76 INK

tidy and traditional. The words are lyrical and beautiful with
interesting imagery; ‘My vessel rots through empty moments’
and ‘a mother wastes her tired soul’, for example. The tone
is consistent throughout and flows well. Lauren Nicholls’
‘Artistic Endeavour’ is a two stanza poem which is simple and
effective using personification well; the piano will ‘twang and
cry at the touch of my thumb’. As with the previous poem
the wind comes to life: ‘the wind as it whips and wails’. Both
of these poets are creating characters from an inanimate
source. This has the effect of empathy on the reader.
The title of a poem will speak to the reader and it too
deserves special attention. The quirkily entitled ‘The Poet
Makes the Most of a Bad Situation’ is great testament to
this. It entices the audience to read more, not disappointing
with fantastic alliteration ‘heart halved’, ‘bone bowed’
and my personal favourite ‘skin is skun’. Experiential
details like this thrive in contemporary poetry. It then
ends on a ‘lively’ note that satisfies the reader.
‘The Mermaid Pool’ was written as an ekphrastic poem in
response to an image and showcased as a ‘sound poem’ which
transcends the piece off the page. It has music especially
engineered for it in the form of a soundscape. Opening poems
up to be spoken and performed is a fantastic platform for
future works and very current with slam poetry. It is a lyrical
and ethereal poem that also explores lineation. Heavy with
alliteration- ‘sea shanties that get lost in seaweed skies’- it has
the effect of carrying the piece through. A deadline entry was
‘Beach Seining’ by Laura Traister and a worthy one too. The
tone throughout is languid and fits perfectly with the imagery
produced: ‘sift through the kaleidoscope’ and ‘amber Sargasso
weed’, are two powerful examples. The subtle instructions
given are lyrical and act as an anchor, allowing the piece to
INK 77

flow with coherence. The couplets move in waves carrying this
beautiful piece to its oblique end, leaving the reader pondering.
Finally, we end on a ‘Blackless Sky’, by Oliver Portillo. It
works with beautiful and poignant language, as ‘twilight’s
leaking lake’ and ‘the rose that bloomed out of the concrete’
demonstrate. Powerful and, excuse the pun, concrete
imagery. It is a poem the reader can rely on; not only is
it strong, but it also denotes confidence in the writer.
To conclude, the published poets are responsible for producing
work that is diverse and thought-provoking. Each poet has
managed to establish a balance in their work, exhibiting their
artistry and the importance of fine-tuning. This should be an
inspiration to any younger writers hoping to explore the genre.
Caro Bushnell Poetry Editor, INK 2015
78 INK

It was pretty difficult to choose the right short stories to
include in this year’s INK. The pile of those we wanted to
include contained quite a few more pieces than the seven
we eventually narrowed it down to. We chose the ones we
did, not just because we thought they were great reads, but
because we thought they best represented the variety of
submissions we received. The amount of different voices, the
amount of different genres, the amount of different topics…
No two stories were the same. For me, to choose a favourite is
an almost impossible task; but, if I had to, I’d have to go with
Hannah Mae’s ‘Memories of Sailing Aboard the Pont-Aven’.
The first sentence of Mae’s story is so good
I could focus the entire review on it:
“At the end of history, as the flood waters rose, the
women of the Dorchester WI commandeered a cruise ship, as
their husbands sat in front of their televisions and drowned.”
It’s one of those openings that’s impossible to read without
wanting to finish the whole story. It throws so much at you
and raises so many questions in so few words. I wanted
to know more about this situation, about the women that
commandeered this cruise boat while their husbands watched
TV and drowned – both a hilarious and tragic image. I wanted
to know more about everything this first line mentions. Of
course, an opening is only good if the rest of the story lives
up to what it promises; and ‘Pont-Aven’ does this. This story
Review of Memories of Sailing
Aboard the Pont-Aven
INK 79

is every bit as good as its opening words suggest it will be.
All of the strongest submissions, I found, were the ones
that effectively took me somewhere else. ‘Pont-Aven’ does
this more drastically than most of the other pieces – a
boat filled with elderly women sailing to find some form of
salvation – but that ‘somewhere else’ doesn’t have to be so
ambitious to be interesting to the reader. ‘I’m Sorry’ by Zoe
Jenkins is an example of this. It’s set in the same world as
ours but offers a viewpoint than many of us are unfamiliar
with – a morphine addict’s. Despite its imaginative setting,
‘Pont-Aven’ isn’t too complex in a narrative sense. What’s
great about it is that the author spends a lot time building
up the world – telling us about how the ladies pass the
time and the trials they face – allowing us to immerse
ourselves in its universe. Mae creates a place that I and
many others would gladly spend our time reading about.
One of the things the story does really well is bringing together
the Britishness of the women and the apocalyptic setting
they’re trapped in. She allows for a sense of light-heartedness
in what is, when you think about it, quite a grim situation. We
hear about them having afternoon tea, making bunting and
singing and dancing. But we’re also told about how one of
the women, Nora, returns to her cabin alone with a bottle of
whisky. It isn’t all brightness and it isn’t all darkness, but Mae
manages to implement both tones into the story very naturally.
As much as I love the story’s opening sentence, I think I
might like its concluding one even more. It’s vague, open-
ended and very fitting – suggesting that, after sailing around
for so long, the women finally make contact with others. The
ending seems to raise even more questions than the opening.
Have they finally found land? Or have they encountered
80 INK

another boat? What sort of people have they bumped into?
But it doesn’t really matter. The piece tells the story of
these women sailing aboard the Pont-Aven and, with this
encounter, that story is over in a way. The ending simply
hints at another tale that exists beyond these 1,000 words.
‘Memories of Sailing Aboard the Pont-Aven’ is a great piece
of short fiction all of you should read. Actually – you should
all go and read the other short stories in the journal too!
While this one’s my favourite, each of the others stand out in
their own way. ‘Business was Good’ explores a very different
type of future, ‘Hope is the Thing with Feathers’ offers a
poetic glimpse of war, ‘Violet’ highlights how significant
first impressions can be… I hope you enjoy them all.
Elliott Simpson Fiction Editor, INK 2015
INK 81

If I were allotted only one word to summarise this piece
of creative non-fiction, it would be ‘intimate’. Certainly
for this particular genre, allowing the reader to a view a
close and detailed portrait of the writer’s experience is
often essential to delivering the impact one desires. ‘The
Arrival of Kermit’ utilises this feature to a successful
degree, immersing us in the reader’s childhood while
at the same time managing to largely avoid straying
into the realms of the sentimental and saccharine.
When I took the creative non-fiction module last year, we
were repeatedly discouraged from being “too personal”, as
the tutors believed this made workshop feedback awkward
and difficult. The advantage of submitting to the journal
is that face-to-face feedback never has to occur and thus,
well-written pieces which do take a personal path can be
recognised for their value and literary merit. This said, I
would not wish to label or define ‘The Arrival of Kermit’ as
“personal”, as I said before the word “intimate” is far better
suited to identifying this piece and what it has achieved.
There is a gritty, un-honeyed quality to the language of the
piece, it does not shy away from its subject matter, or sugar-
coat its words. The piece is unashamedly what it is; benches
are ‘slimy’, food stains are ‘stubborn’ and the younger days
of the writer are not put behind any rose-tinted glass. It is
this which gives the piece such conviction and allows it to
engage the reader so effectively. This is the kind of childhood
Review: The Arrival of Kermit
82 INK

and adolescence countless individuals have lived through
themselves, not stylised or embellished like a teen sitcom but
simple, mundane and specific. A defining feature of an account
of true events is the inconsistency of recollection; some things
will be vague, others recounted in intense detail. Memory is a
fickle friend, but no reader would believe perfect memories.
This writer seems to hold a photographic image in their
head of a pillowcase, every food and tear stain memorised
and ready to be called upon and typed up at their leisure.
The presence of Kermit too is rich in detail – far more than
is applied to any human character in this work. Events and
incidents are mentioned and afforded significance but they
are on the periphery of this narrative, serving mainly to
interconnect various moments with the Kermit doll and other
inanimate objects. These objects are presented in such a
manner, however, that one finds themselves fully invested in
their history and relationship to the reader. A close account
of human relationships is not needed for this piece. They
are there, no question, but they are only the backdrop to the
story of Kermit. We know more-or-less exactly why the doll
and the pillow are so significant and close to the reader, but
we don’t need to know more, not in this narrative anyway.
This candid and honest piece exemplifies some of
the better qualities of the genre of creative non-
fiction. The writing displays great talent, potential
and a true understanding of the genre.
Chris Hawkins Non Fiction Editor, INK 2015
INK 83

84 INK
Are you a reviewer looking for an opportunity to see your
name in print? Are you an avid theatre goer?
Yes?
Then
wants to hear from you!
What is The Public Reviews?
An online community which allows you the public to get involved
with the theatre you love and tell others about it. They offer the widest
coverage of theatres with over 3,000 productions reviewed last year.
How does it work?
The Public Reviews has dedicated regional teams of editors and reviewers
who review productions in theatres across the UK via their website.
What is the opportunity?
The Public Reviews are currently in search of reviewers from the
Plymouth area to join their South West regional team, reviewing
productions at The Theatre Royal Plymouth as well as Exeter Northcott,
Exeter Phoenix and Exeter Bike Shed. This is an excellent opportunity to
gain an outlet for your writing and to see your name and work in print.
The reviewer role is unpaid but tickets to the shows are free. Usually two
are offered but this not guaranteed. There are opportunities for people
who are willing to provide well written, objective, and timely reviews
alongside comprehensive news, features, interviews and competitions.
If you would like more information please visit: http://www.
thepublicreviews.com or email: southwest@thepublicreviews.com

Ink book Final proof Alex

Recommended

Recommended

More Related Content

What's hot

What's hot (7)

Viewers also liked

Viewers also liked (6)

Similar to Ink book Final proof Alex

Similar to Ink book Final proof Alex (20)

Ink book Final proof Alex