archive - issue 14

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  • /

    By Ruth Barker
    On the QWERTY layout of my computer keyboard, the symbol / appears beside the questioning symbol ?. They are represented together on the same key, and
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  • Apartment / Containers

    By Vincent Bezuidenhout
    These diptychs are the start of a series of images I have been working on regarding the visual landscape we choose to surround ourselves
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  • I returned home after my first year in college to discover my younger sister had turned gorgeous. This was a disappointment, but not an
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  • Butterfly

    By Adriana de Barros
    The pupa, a silk wrap of emotionsIsolated, within breathing, wanting to bethe intense pronoun of selfIt is silly to be one's own pronounShe giggles
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  • Collage

    By Claudio Parentela
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  • Drag and Snap

    By Leigh-Anne Niehaus
    This series is inspired by the childhood game of "snapdragon", which allows for simplistic and delightful decision-making through random selections of colour and number.
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  • Evidence of Life

    By Tamlyn Martin
    Below is an extract from a series of 11 poems created in parallel with visual artworks. 5. Memories laced with visceral realityFlooding herThe gentle
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  • Forward! Slash!

    By Travis Lyle
    You think you're a forward-thinking kinda person, do you? Lemme be the one to break it to you, sunshine – you're as lame as the
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  • Human/Nature

    By Lydia Anne McCarthy
    This series explores moments between nature and human beings that are at once idealistic and unsettling. Each picture is an independent narrative, but placed
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  • Immigrants

    By Stanley Onjezani Kenani
    you want to livenothing leaveto liveyou swimor like fresh sardinesyou are packedin boatsyou leaveto live.  you leavegold in the belly of Africaoil in
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  • In Between

    By Tania van Schalkwyk
    Raised in an Arabian land of heat, fire and temper,sometimes the calm of England clamps downlike damp in a bathroom with no windowand a
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  • Letter to the Editor

    By Elan Gamaker
    Dear Sir/Madam I should like strenuously to object to the subject matter ("/") of your current issue. It must first be mentioned, however, that it
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  • Or: a line drawing

    By Gabeba Baderoon
    Pencil and nothing. Her face turned almost entirely away. Forehead, cheekbone,jaw,the bun low in her neck,shoulderand down,the long linejust enoughthen left alone.
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  • p u n c t u a t i o n

    By Ula Einstein
    Einstein works with a diverse range of media, including drawings and installation with fire, thread, and blades. The series of drawings and installations with
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    By Sean Hampton-Cole
    Keys. John speaking. 'Lo?Good morning. May I speak to Bob Mitchell please?Bob in Bonds?I'm not really sure. I'm trying to...You want extension 125. This
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  • Pretty Babies

    By Peregrine Honig
    With the premise that "/ " presents what is IN and what is OUT, the "Pretty Babies" series explores the fashion industry's well-published and syndicated DOs
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  • River Bank

    By Mario Sughi
    The symbol / is intended initially as a symbol of division. A real or unreal line divides the girl from the water, the girl from
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  • Scissor

    By Charlotte Gait
    There was a time when you and I were connected by iron, acid, vitamin and blood. Where every mouthful I took was with the
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  • Seasaw

    By Sol Kjøk
    Here, the motif is conceived of as a seesaw (the typo in the title is intended, as this drawing is part of a series
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  • Series Seven Up

    By Noel Fignier
    Text by João Branco Kyron, HipnóticaThe collision is imminent and in the fraction of time left, the eyes shut and the vision is superbly
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  • A battle over samoosas between the snobbish Cinderella and a homeless electrician is mediated by Cinderella's boyfriend JJ. The samoosa battle is conflated with
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  • Wayne Porter, freelance journalist, donned his anthropologist's birthday suit and hit the bowling alley. Bar the bowlers hat tipped gently off centre, the man
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  • The Incised Wound

    By Joanne Hichens
    "Please, for me, Dave," I placed my hand on his, and really, no begging, just asked him nicely, "Lay off the booze tonight." Whether
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  • He had been driving for hours through that unstable, somnambulist night when he fell asleep at the wheel. He awoke with a start and
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  • The space between.

    By Mehita Iqani
    It's a handy little line, the one that we use to make our options known. Either/Or. Paper and ink or binary code? Its clichéd,
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  • Un Hombre Fuerte

    By Tamo Vonarim Written these words are, at times of a subconscious flow – whether they are mine, I don't know. All I know is that I
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  • Unbroken Awareness

    My life is now a floating shellI am a vessel on that river.The storm, the ship, the sea,Whose shores we lost in crossing.  I
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  • Untitled

    By Wilhelm Saayman
    This series of images, made using pen and ink, photographs and Photoshop, explore alternate/dream realities.
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  • Untitled

    By Aryan Kaganof
    /At R550 rand I thought I'd rather die/ My mother: can I trust this woman?/ I thought the Romans were coming, dinkum/ …and always
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Louella Sullivan

Louella Sullivan

Louella Sullivan learned to type poems one-handed whilst bouncing small babies on her lap. She did an MA in Creative Writing at Rhodes in 2014 where she completed her thesis Bitten under Robert Berold. She is a Drama, History and English teacher as well as a part-time lecturer at Rhodes University. She has been published in Aerodrome, New Contrast, New Coin and Itch. Her poems have been described as "polished, poised and vivid". In 2016, her poem "Refugee" was longlisted for the Sol Plaatje European Union Poetry Award.
Friday, 16 September 2016 11:19

The Garden's Memory

A garden is harder than a marriage

you can’t throw sex or wine at it

to pacify the wilderness that threatens.


A garden remembers holds to


you laboured to weed out. As you

tame it,

clear the Eastern Cape clay it springs


slaps you.


A climbing rose, a pale matriarch,

grows vicious despite my secateurs.

A pear tree, fat with lichen,

defiantly bears wizened fruit.
Friday, 16 September 2016 11:09

My Grandmother's Name

In her 70s

the rigid clack

of a label maker

stamped out

her neat name

to be stuck

spirit-level straight

on cupboards, Tupperware,

biscuit tins and dustpans.


Her widowed father,

open-handed helpless,

had passed her on to his sour sisters

to be raised in a house of chiming clocks

and maudlin tapestry cushions.


Even as a child she marked everything

in strict Victorian capitals:


in case anyone should

think to take what was hers

in case anyone should

forget (again)

where she belonged.


Thursday, 25 February 2016 11:29

Childhood Home

Childhood Home

When they retire, my parents
will sell our childhood home.
Hot-cracked slasto by the pool
The fading shadows of a long-gone frangipani tree
The echoes of children’s voices
Grow paler each year.

My brother is wistful:
I wish I could buy it from you guys
He dreams of a new wife and babies
growing brown and happy there.

The rope swing still hangs from the avo tree
The stone birdbath endures in the rose bed
The azaleas grow fatter every year.
Thursday, 25 February 2016 11:25

Last Roadtrip with my Brother

Last Roadtrip with my Brother

We drive through the unruly hills of the Wild Coast
The potholes bigger than our Mazda 323
Little boys and girls fill the ruts with cow dung
Begging money for their service

The stones on the beach
We take shots – one of us
Posed awkward against the background of sea
C’mon boet take the bladdy picture

The acrid mosquito coil
And hot December night
Oozing with hippie drumming
I on the floor, you on the bed

Neither of us sleeps
We rise at dawn for cold showers
And a quick getaway, leaving cash
And a note: Never coming back here
Thursday, 25 February 2016 11:20

The Bench

The Bench

That afternoon in the damp, green spring
I see you and Chappie: at seventeen
You are all angles and sharp edges
With your against-all-school-rules afros
Smoking menthol cigarettes
Tossing a ball for Blackie

Today I want to unearth a smoke from your box
Hidden under the loose bottom of a side cupboard
And sit on the bench with you — my brother
Even though our beloved Blackie is long gone
And no-one smokes anymore
Monday, 01 June 2015 11:29

The Silence

Today as she was swept off to school
I teetered like a forward slash.

Every afternoon
I ache for silence.
Every afternoon
as she sings,
cries, tosses toys / Yet
                                   in the pin-drop void
                                   of morning
                                   I miss her
                                   and the chubby noise that
                                   trails in her wake.