archive - issue 14

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  • Date
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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 else.you 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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  • PATCH

    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
    Sun.star.kid: 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

    By TENDAI MWANAKA
    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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Lunette Elle Warren

Lunette Elle Warren

Elle Warren has experience in breaking things and not much else. Somehow she managed to finish a PhD in Ancient Cultures before she got restless and moved on.

Her art, both written and visual, has appeared in ItchGravelEntropyStanzas, and elsewhere. She sees emotions in landscapes. She creates because how can she not?

Website URL: www.ellewarren.com
Tuesday, 04 October 2016 10:23

La femme obscur

She’s a natural brunette.
She has an incurable case of Resting Bitch Face.
She’s a poet.
She’s a dirt road that stretches into the sunset and ends nowhere good or light or graceful.
She’s calculated whimsy.
She’s real, except when she isn’t.
She’s a vegetarian.
All her cosmetics are cruelty-free.
She has four pairs of leather shoes.
Her cruelty-free, organic, vegan, non-gmo shampoo is gluten-free, because so is she.
She hates people.
She’s a social justice warrior.
She’s a feminist.
She’s intersectional.
She’s political.
She’s anti-establishment unless the establishment is the free market.
She buys local.
Her jeans are made in Taiwan.
Her shoes in India.
Her loose floral tees in China.
She grows her own tomatoes.
She buys her fruit at the farmer’s market.
Knows the vendors by name.
She always tips at least fifteen percent, but mostly twenty.
She tells everyone to have a good day.
Her smile is addictive.
Her eyes are the antidote to your bad day.
And her lips touch the air with a charm that paints silence on your tongue.
She’s the venom that makes you spin.
She’s your heroine.
She’s night become adamant.
She’s fire.
She’s a split lip.
She’s a broken nose.
She’s a cold hospital bed.
She’s a bouquet of fresh cut flowers at six am.
Her voice is frost in the winter sun.
She’s an artist.
She’s real.
She’s your heroin.Ragdoll

Saturday, 16 January 2016 16:37

The Traveller

I couldn’t see anything when I came back the first time. There was a man, but I didn’t know him, not really, except that he was dangerous and soft and when he whispered in my neck I ceased to exist. I returned with his words and his scent in the back of my throat. The city cast a shadow in which I was invisible. It was revelry at its purest; it was me at my worst and best and truest self. When I stepped out of it I disappeared, but nothing stays hidden for long where I’m from.

***

Nights in the city breathed the loving beats of fog machines and cloudy neon visions of pleather robots sticking to the walls and the floor and the ceiling. We sucked lollipops for the bitter and pretended it all went away. Smoke filled our lungs and our heads but we kept our hearts to ourselves because some things were sacred, even in this circus town.

In the mornings, which were mostly the afternoons, we watched the ink melt off our skin in the drops of summer sun and leave its tell-tale purple stain. Those days were too bright and too often too intimate. There were weeks in between that we filed under afterglow, but it was probably just a trick of the light. We could have gotten up and gotten out, but the lethargy was comfortable and the effort didn’t seem worth the risk. For hours we languished on park benches and patches of grass covered in chestnut blossoms, talking about ISIS and VAW and FGM and feeling orgasmic in each other’s sentences. He wrote lust letters on my thighs with the tips of his fingers; I composed my most polished poetry in the grips of our sighs. Between us there were no secrets that were worth keeping, and the mundane did not deserve utterance.

***

For a long time afterwards I was a blank space. I filled the cracks with a veneer that refracted light. The surface was a Rothkonian masterpiece; the depths were a kaleidoscopic fuckup. That winter the rain came pouring down by the bucket-load and seeped in through the cracks, disturbing the delicate balance of the colour canvas until nothing was left but shit-stain brown. By the time the southern sun passed by to fade the remnants, the mould had set in.

The progression of time came to be marked by periods of sleep that became longer and more restless until one day I didn’t wake up. I sat in silence at my knuckle-bone desk and took it all in without taking anything in and without giving anything back. At times I felt myself naked as the sun stroked the soles of my feet, but there were places only the moon could reach: the corners of my eyes, the base of my spine, the back of my throat. The walls grew darker even as the clouds gave way to spring and eventually to summer. I wore a chaotic silence like a protective cloak to work, to bed, everywhere, nowhere. Slowly I shed the city and retained only the very necessary. There were times when even that seemed like too much.

***

When at last there was nothing left of me I heard his words in the distance, a siren song for the recently deceased. But I had nowhere to turn and no way to move, and the desire to lose myself overpowered the urge to find him.

Almost.

The city does not let go of you that easily. I had barely tilted my head in the direction of his voice, yet I found myself enveloped in the shadows again. The sameness was comforting, but I was no longer alone in the half-light. My invisibility had stripped itself from me in the place where I was from. The sun clung to me even on the wildest nights. The man, whom I didn’t know, still didn’t know after all this time, didn’t care to know, who didn’t know me, was just another traveller getting lost in the city. Like me he had disappeared in the murky recesses of the carnivale and had been unable to find his way back. We sat in silence on opposite banks staring at the river, waiting for a sign, a hand, anything at all, but it never came and we had nothing more to say.