June 2011
11 posts
1 tag
1 tag
2 tags
“The gestation of material ping-pong”
– By Fiona Flynn and Jonny Slaughter
ABS plastic. Very malleable at the point of manufacture, less so in a college workshop scenario. It’s what they make grey housing drainpipes and car bumpers out of.
Bitumen
What does ABS stand for?
Acrylon butadiene styrene. Bitumen is a nice choice but I...
1 tag
“In The Mung Bean Soup”
– By J.D.A. Winslow
In The Mung Bean Soup
Or On The Spiritual Importance of Seasoning
Cast:
OLIVE OIL
ONION
RED CHILLI
GARLIC CLOVE
FRESH ROOT GINGER
ORANGE
ORANGE JUICE
VEGETABLE STOCK
MUNG BEANS
CORIANDER
SEASONING
ACT ONE: A kitchen side
OLIVE OIL: One Tablespoon
ONION:...
2 tags
“Correspondence #2”
– By Lucy Brown & Jane Hartshorn
Dear Jane,
I have some bad news about gloves to report to you. They can become ‘external organs’ - they become extensions of the hand and body, EXTRA HANDS, MORE HANDS, a MULTIPLICITY OF HANDS. They ‘gentle’ the hand when you put them...
2 tags
“Correspondence #1”
– By Lucy Brown & Jane Hartshorn
Dear Jane,
I had a feverish night. As I tossed and turned, it came to me: my hands are in cahoots with each other. There’s two of them, and only one of me! Hardly a fair match. And it’s not like they’re equals either - my left hand is just a...
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“Crossing”
– By Jennifer Picken The open mouth of the Eurotunnel awaits my arrival; it’s jaws wide in anticipation. A glossy greyed roadway surrounded by skeletal metal structures, is like the open chest cavity of a corpse. At what entry point have I accessed you? Your mouth, anus, vagina? Or a surgical aperture...
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“Fearful”
– By Vivienne Mckellar Her heart pounded in her chest, she could feel rivulets of perspiration trickling from her neck and snaking down her spine. Every pore of her body screamed to run away from the object of her terror.
The only sign of the horror she felt exhibited by an involuntary gasp! ‘Don’t...
1 tag
“Lamppost Shrine”
– By Adrian Rybarczyk It felt like a punch. The pavement is still quite warm. It looked like a punch. I have rotated a photo of some railings on an ancient wall through ninety degrees. It wasn’t much of a punch really. And through those railings the lush green loom of an ill kept cemetery. He only...
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“Selkies of Mousa”
– By Wendy McCredie
The seals are calling. Their voices carry on the wind across the island, leading our feet to the inlet where they are basking in the faint autumn sun. Close up their cries come quieter and less often. We shelter behind the wall so we do not spook the moulting sunbathers. Carefully...
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“Pact”
– By Tracey S. Rosenberg
They surrendered, hands cupped in a pair,
petals flung by winter winds.
Why such rushing? she wondered
as the constable severed her from the sea.
Swaddled in blankets, sodden, she listened
beneath the dredging and the shouts
for his lunge, his dizzy fingers clawing... 