Magazine for UNIL Students of English
Author: RKC
The legs of a woman shouldn’t be pretty
How could they?
With all the burden of immoral and evil acts they have encountered and suffered?
With what they’ve seen and lived?
They shouldn’t have to carry all the weight they do
Their smiles shouldn’t still burn white
They have seen the worst of us and still take us to their heavens
They still believe in us
They shouldn’t make us better
They shouldn’t have to
They shouldn’t
And yet they do,
Effortlessly
Images: © by Fanny Cheseaux
Author: Fanny Cheseaux
The seagull was croaking contently in the port. It had just stolen a juicy tomato and ham sandwich from a little old lady near Grand Canal and was gulping it down quickly. Standing between the agitated sea and the glass buildings of the Docks, its beak was shining, and its stomach slowly expanding. In its satisfaction, it couldn’t see the pair of eyes that were watching it intently. Blue eyes filled with hunger and a vast darkness that would have scared animals and humans alike.
The man was looking at it, crouched in his usual spot under an old alleyway that led to the shopping centre. Red marks like wires were barely hidden under his green sweatshirt that didn’t protect him any more against the vicious wet cold. The man was hungry, and it was lunchtime in the City. He could see the businessmen chatting on the phone while distractedly eating their 8 euros Moroccan-spiced chicken wraps.
He was thinking about how nice it would be to roast the seagull; about how cavemen had discovered fire one day; about the roast lambs on a stake of his youth, and how his foster dad would make him swirl in the air while the smell of slow cooking meat filled them all with joy.
But that was long ago – he hadn’t seen these people he had once called family for more than ten years now. The smell of meat cooking had been replaced with scents of sweat, tears and the piss of drunks on the cobblestone corners.
A woman with a long black coat walked briskly in front of him, giving him the usual look of pity and embarrassment. People did not seem to understand that this look wouldn’t feed him. The coins in his little paper cup were looking at him sadly. November was always rough for Bob.
He thought about extending his tired hands and stealing the sandwich from the seagull, but it flew away before Bob could even move more than his shoulder. Brave animal. The seagull was already high in the sky, surveying the city. Far away, the Poolbeg chimneys indicated the direction of the coast.
The seagull landed on the north bank of the river. On the dirty white fence, two of his congeners were already perched on their legs, looking as if they were discussing the news of the day: “Patrick, I read in the Times this morning that Dublin was the sixth most expensive capital in the world for renters.” “Captivating! Do tell me more, John.”
On the other side of the road stood an old building—the Bachelor’s Inn. Workers walked briskly in front of it. Students sometimes took a stroll along the bank and pictured themselves living there. They imagined the noises the wooden floor would make when they came home at 3 a.m. after drinking obscure pints downstairs.
Odhran, carrying all their hundred-euro books in a worn-out leather bag, passed the birds on the fence daily. Weird group of gulls, they would think. Whenever they saw the Inn on the way to the university, they would hope they could stay. How easy it would be, how comfortable. They could inhale the smell of decaying wood, which would replace the one of the cold cleanliness of their house. They could escape the sounds of broken minds, broken promises, and broken plates.
Odhran had tried everything: “Mom, Dad, please, I’m trying to study!”
They would say, with apologies on their face:
—Odhran, I’m sorry it always goes like this. Your dad makes it impossible for me.
—You know your mom is mental Odhran, right? It’s not my fault. Even her brothers say so.
—He screams at me for the most impossible things, why can’t he get a real job? I have to do everything here, while he goes out and wanders around the Wicklow mountains with his little mates.
—Don’t listen to her, kiddo. Just promise me you’ll never turn out like her.
—I know it’s hard for you, sweetheart, but please don’t leave me alone with him. What would I do?
So, every day at university, during the classes where teachers spoke too low, Odhran would hunt on their computer. Their eyes were glued to the screen, browsing renters’ websites and Facebook groups, such as “Dublin cheap rooms” or the university accommodation section. They would spend hours classifying and saving ads.
They played this game for hours with friends, criticizing the flaws of the apartments and rooms they found: I could never live there; there’s not enough natural light. This blue tiling is so tacky. Having a flatmate? Could never be me. Only three bathrooms in this flat? It made them laugh while they sipped their overpriced coffee. It made them forget the sad truth: they could never afford it anyway.
So Odhran would look once more, sadly, at the curious and mean seagulls and go on their two-hour commute – two buses and the DART – to go down to the kitchen, where dinner was served, and no one looked at each other in the eyes.
The girl was there, as usual, on the corner of Grafton Street. Lily. She was an easy target – the seagull prided itself on knowing how to recognize kind people from unkind people. It always came back to the kind ones. She was wrapped in her half-eaten velvet blanket, the face of a little dog poking from it. In her cup, some coins, a few 2 euros, some 5 cents. She had an old piece of bread in her bag.
She always liked the presence of the seagull. She was looking at its little round belly with its perfect white feathers, all tidied up in order – oh so clean and soft-looking – and she would wonder; how would it feel to catch it? To squeeze the little belly? To grab it by one of its dirty yellow legs, to bring it inside her blanket and hug it while it would shriek, trapped? So, every day, she gave it a little bit of her food of the day – and she didn’t always have a lot – and every day, it got a little bit closer to her. It was a job for the long haul.
But today wouldn’t be the day – not yet. She threw the piece of stale bread at it and watched it eat it voraciously. Charming, she thought. When it flew away, she returned to thinking about her plans for the night. She would go back to the shelter, and the walk was tiresome. How long could she afford to stay out before getting too cold?
Lily needed to find a public bathroom before walking back – or go to a restaurant, but the staff would usually shoot her dirty looks when she came in with her sleeping bag, her dog, and the blanket. But she had to find something to use for the first day of her period. Usually, it was toilet paper from the public bathroom that she would roll over and over again.
Once, she had found free period products when she infiltrated a fancy restaurant’s bathroom. Did all those women dressed in flowy flower dresses with their marine suit-wearing partners need free tampons and pads? Lily had taken all she could fit in her pocket, but the operation was risky. She had had to leave all her belongings and Barjo on the corner of the street. Everyone could have taken the little dog – but she was tired of bleeding through the toilet paper that was falling apart. The products had lasted her two cycles.
The cold was starting to pierce through the blanket and Barjo was wincing in pain. On the other side of the street, Lily saw Martha with her big colourful skirts. They waved at each other, in familiarity. She wondered how much the old lady had gotten today, in her usual spot by the Trinity bus stop.
The sun had set entirely behind the brick buildings, and the seagull was far away from the park, its nasty eyes looking for a place to rest. It was never cold, this seagull, it had many homes in the quiet town and it could land on any roofs to make a comfortable nest. Sometimes, it flew away to Bull’s Island beach to join its colony. Gliding through the night, it felt the eyes of all the shivery souls on the streets of Dublin following its flight through the polluted dark sky.
Tomorrow, it hoped to steal a smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich.
Image: © Christelle-S, Pixabay License. Source
Author: Anonymous
I don’t like the preachers that walk along the city streets, talking about tomorrow. They know as well as I do that it just isn’t going to come, and I really think that should satisfy them. They draw huge crowds of people, flooding the gaps between the tall, bone white buildings, and they sing, and they scream about how tomorrow will come, how there will be dawn and there will be dusk, and all of this will be beautiful and lovely. Well, I don’t need dawn nor dusk, and I can live perfectly contented knowing that when it is dark, I can wander empty streets, contemplating the inky black spaces between the buildings, and when it is light, I can wander crowded streets, wondering when it is going to be night again. This seems to me to be a sufficient existence.
There is one preacher in particular, one who goes about dressed in great colourful robes that conceal almost their whole figure but the flash of their bare feet and their face, broad cheekbones and golden eyes. I don’t know if they have hair or not, I don’t even know their name, but they talk to me every time I pass them by. They’re here now in fact. I duck my head, avoiding their gaze, but they look straight through me, and put out their hand, blocking my path. I look at them. Their face is inscrutable, but for the vaguest hint of hope in the upturned corners of their eyes.
“Will you not listen?”
Their voice is smooth and melodious, but there is somehow a sharpness there, something like a rebuke.
“I would rather be home,” I reply.
“I would rather be heard, but we cannot have everything we want.”
“Have you anything interesting to say? Something other than ‘pray for dusk and it shall come’?”
They smile, their eyes softening, and they come up beside me.
“Well, I have something today, if you would let me walk with you.”
They seem hopeful in a way I don’t quite know how to understand, so I begin walking, gesturing them to follow.
We walk silently through the crowded street, people are moving every direction, seemingly everywhere all at once. I thought I heard them start a sentence, but they are drowned in the noise of the many thousands of people that are gathered together, the pressure of the city on us. I was meant to be going home, but there is such a weight of human bodies here that I pass my door without so much as a glance, and we walk on. Later, although how much later I couldn’t say, the people thin out, and the buildings begin to shrink and spread apart. It is as though there is more air to breathe. I stop moving to sit down, and rest my legs, but the preacher doesn’t stop. I jump to my feet, though they’re still sore, and break into a run to catch up with them. They are easy to see in this emptier place, and although I was not still long, they have gone far ahead, nearly out of my sight.
I run quickly, almost desperately, to close the distance between us. If they turn down the wrong alley, they will be lost forever. But they don’t turn, they carry on straight as the arrow until I reach them, panting heavily. They regard me for a second, then a second more, then they turn heel, and carry on. They do not speak then, and neither do I. Silence suits them, and I have spent much of my life in it, and it is not uncomfortable. So we walk.
I cannot tell how long we walked thereafter, only that first it was light, then it was dark, and the dark seemed to stretch out the more we walked in it. The buildings dwindled, as they had been since first we came from out of the crush of the centre of the city, and then they were gone, and the road we had been following was gone, and in their places were wet grasses and briar as far as the eye could see.
The preacher is picking through this new landscape, with the purpose of a hunter stalking their prey. Their robes, so strange but fitting within the city, are still stranger now, and when they glance back at me, their golden eyes seem to catch lights that I cannot see. The only sounds are our feet crushing the leaves, and the occasional rustle of the heath. It is as though we are walking through a shallow, but endless grassy sea, stretching out to the dark edge of the horizon. And with each footstep, I feel myself come unmoored a little more from time, until all there is, is the present. It does not get light, and for lifetimes untold we walk.
I assume we’re walking blindly, waiting to reach the horizon, or the end of the earth, but before we come to either, the preacher seems to stumble very suddenly, falling to the ground with a dull thud. When I reach them, they are kneeling. “Are you hurt?” I ask them. They laugh, and gesture at the place they fell. It looks like a simple flat stone at first, but when I lean closer to the preacher and touch it, it isn’t smooth like the stones of the city. There are lines carved into it, forming intricate, interlocking patterns of diamonds and five pointed stars. “How long has this been here?” I wonder. The preacher murmurs something below their breath, and the patterns I felt in the stone light up, a pale blue light trickling from their hands down the length of it, slowly at first but gaining momentum. The light extends well past the place where I thought the stone ends, into the plants beyond. They stand, take my hand and lead me to the centre of the emerging square of light.
“It’s been here since time ran straight,” they say, “as far as I know. I don’t know if it was made by people, or if some other force made it into being.” Their eyes are shimmering like they were before, but now I can see the light they’re reflecting. It bounces off the planes of their face, and makes them look alive, and real and solid in a way that no one looked real and solid in the city. They are purposeful here, purposeful and powerful, and they can conjure light to them and bring ancient wonders back. I wonder, as I contemplate it, whether I even need to leave here. It is quiet and calm, and the wind that blows carries with it the soft smells of grass and flowers, scents from softer times. It had been so long since I had smelt anything that was the bony dust and sweat of the crush of the city’s crowds. There is such peace here.
The preacher looks at me, breathes in sharply and asks, “have you ever seen dawn?”. I laugh. “Of course not. Dawn is like dusk, it’s a story your lot made up.”
“You would think that,” they answer. “You don’t remember a time when there was a sun.”
“Well, was there? Is there one now? Light and dark, yes, and I’ve seen shadows, but have you seen the sun? Have you seen a dawn or a dusk?”
“Would you believe me if I had?”
I pause at this, taken aback. They continue, “You don’t think the world is wrong now, then. You don’t think it’s strange you have a house, but you never spend any time in it? That you don’t sleep, and you spend your whole time wandering, but you never actually go anywhere? Have you ever thought about it? Have you felt anything about it?”
The lights shining around us flicker and dim a little.
“Is it any worse than how you spend your day, talking to people who don’t listen, pretending there’s such a thing as the sun? If you opened your eyes, you would see it doesn’t exist, it could never exist. Things change, but the sun doesn’t rise nor set. Light comes and goes, and we come and go with it. And that is all.”
“I heard of a story, a very old one, about a couple. There were two people who loved each other very dearly, but one of them died. Of a snakebite, I think. A snake was a small creature with sharp teeth and a poisonous bite. But the other couldn’t quite bear their loss, so they went down into the underworld, to get their lover back, and when they got there, they found everyone as shades, mostly bodiless, and all they did was wander, nameless and faceless. When they found their lover, the dead one couldn’t remember their name, or anyone else’s name. So the live one began to sing, and the song was so beautiful that all the shades wept what tears were left in them, and the couple was allowed one attempt to escape from the world of the dead. They had to make the journey back, the living one leading the way and never looking back. But their courage faltered, and they stole a glance back as they reached the world of the living, and the dead one was dragged all the way back to the underworld.”
I don’t answer.
“When I watch you, or anyone else in the city walking, that’s what I see. A sea of people who aren’t even really alive, who’ve forgotten their names, and worse, don’t even remember that they ever were alive. The sun is gone, the moon and stars are disappeared, and you stopped living, and didn’t notice your soul was being stolen away. You didn’t notice as you dissolved out of being.” They started very calmly, but began speaking with more and more passion until I am on the verge of tears from the weight of the words they’re casting at me. And they aren’t wrong, time is come undone and I don’t think I am alive in any real sense of the word. “Do you think I am dead?” I ask.
“I don’t think that,” they say. They are very pale now, and I can hear their breath shaking. Their eyes are closed, but I can still see the lights glowing beneath them. They turn their back to me, but I can see them trembling, poorly concealing their sobs. “I think the world is.”
“But then, why bring me here? Why bring me to this place that still seems alive? What is the point ?”
“It’s a good place, is it not?”
“It is. But why here?”
“This is the edge of it. The edge of time. It exists on the other side.”
As they say this, I realise the sky was lighting, from the deep end of the horizon, lighter shades of reddish blue creeping up from the grasses.
“This place, it’s where time turns, it’s where you can find tomorrow.”
Like a dam bursting, the sky illuminates itself in shocking colours, a bright sphere tinting the space above it pinks and oranges, and then it’s there, the sun.
“Dawn,” I whisper, and smile.
Author: Katharina Schwarck
It is a warm, sultry day. The type of day that makes your body feel heavy and your skull pressured. The type of day that makes your limbs and your soul yearn for an explosion of the skies to release the earthly tension. Though you are not sure it is only the elements that are making you implode. A cure has been found, you are told. A cure that could have saved them. A cure that came too late. You think of them, your person. You think of them in disbelief. You think of them in pain. The type of pain that makes you pinch your skin because your only desire is to be in a dream. The type of pain that makes your cheeks twinge and cramp. The type of pain that makes you want to pull out your heart. Maybe, now, you think, you can bring them back. So, you travel. You travel to the place of the stories. You travel to the place of evil. You travel to the place that, for you, is the last place of hope. You are told to enter near a lake. Near a lake, near the New City. So, you go.
On the journey from the New City to the lake, walking, and walking, pain and exhaustion overcome you. You lie down.
Later, unsure of how much time has passed, you are woken up by a man’s voice in a tongue you do not know. You sit up. In front of you, there is an entrance to what appears to be a cave. In the mouth of the cave, leaning against the wall stands a man. He says “veniam et te adiuvet sed non possum”, shrugging and pursing his voluptuous lips. You slowly sit up and look at him, void of understanding. “Hic est introitus inferni. Sed vide. Lupa ostium custoditur.”, he pursues. You shake your head in confusion. “I don’t understand”, you explain in your tongue. “Oh!” he exclaims. “My bad. This is the entrance you are looking for. But be careful, it is guarded by a Great and Dangerous She-Wolf. And I would help you up but I can’t.” You nod, stand up, and dust yourself off. The man smiles.
Do you
A) thank him and go home? Open the PDF document and go to page 2
B) ask him if he knows a way past the animal? Open the PDF document and go to page 4
Image: ©️ René Magritte, Les Amants, 1928, oil on canvas, 54×73,4 cm, Museum of Modern Art, New York – Image modified by Roxane Kokka – Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 4.0 International License. Source.
Author: Roxane Kokka
It is the strangest of feelings. My chest feels as light as a bird soaring through the wind and at the same time, as heavy as an anchor trapped between the most scarring of stones.
I wish last night never ended. The touch of your fingertips alone on my skin stirred up the deepest and most dormant senses of mine. And your tender lips on my forehead, cheeks, and fingers reminded me of a feeling I had long forgotten. Every second spent with you, every smile, every laugh, every word, and every embrace, one by one, enabled me to fall in love with you over and over again. Your eyes sinking into mine, your heartbeat against my ear, your deepest breaths warming up my neck.
Every touch of yours is inked into my skin. Your tender words have eternalized in my memory the loveliness of your existence. And my hair is lighter since you ran your fingers through it. Your arms squeezing me with the most delicate gentleness increased my body’s desire to melt into yours.
I now sit amidst the chaos deafened to it by my body’s yearning for yours. I yearn for your lips and your body’s kiss. You have touched and moved my soul like none other. And all I am left to do is sit here and wonder of the wonderful mess we found each other in.
Image: ©️ beauty_of_nature – Image modified by Roxane Kokka – Pixabay License. Source.
Author: Roxane Kokka
Amores
An eruptive feeling invades my chest
As my head grows feverish
And my cheeks warmer than the sun’s kiss.
My pale skin turns into a scarlet shade
And I can feel the blood pumping twice as fast into my veins
All the way to my fingertips.
My jaws are sore from laughing
And my cheeks from smiling
My eyes are on the brink of tears
And each breath struggles to escape my lips.
How funny this feeling is,
This strange feeling of falling in love.
Woodpecker kisses
It all still feels surreal to me, like a dream
With your face bathing in the dim light’s gleam
And your eyes shimmering between your curls
While all of my senses rejoiced in twirls.
My entire body reminisces
All your electric woodpecker kisses,
While the lasting fragrance of your perfume
Makes my chest and memory feel in bloom.
And I can still taste your lips on my own,
As I can still hear the sound of your moan.
My skin keeps record of every inch
Your fingertips touched; not once did I flinch
For your presence restored much peace in me,
Erased feelings of fear from my memory,
And brought back to me a sense of harmony.
Kiss me
Kiss me ’til I can feel my lips no longer
Kiss me like you’ve kissed none other
Kiss me ’til my whole body is shaking
Kiss me ’til my lips are aching
Kiss me ’til the sun rises
Kiss me in all your disguises
Kiss me as though it were the last time you could
Kiss me the way you would in the deepest, darkest wood
Kiss me ’til my mouth bruises
Kiss me as though you were pulling ruses
Kiss me ’til my southern lips are wet
Kiss me ’til our souls have met.
Image: © Eloïse Wenger
Author: Eloïse Wenger
I.
It’s on the bench seat of a coach that I emerge
Panting and looking around a green and red train
When suddenly I hear the grim sound of a dirge.
I raise my eyes and meet the shape of Kurt Cobain
He turns his head and from my mouth escapes a scream
For a huge hole over his ear displays his brain.
Shocked, he stares at me with his eyes blue as a stream.
Then jokingly he shrugs saying: ʻCome as you are!ʼ
Horror! It can’t be true! It can’t be but a dream!
ʻWell look at you!ʼ He tells me, taking his guitar.
At this moment, I witness the blood on my chest,
That vanishes ‘til there remains only a scar.
At this sight I cannot help but to feel oppressed.
I try to ask my fellow what all this meant,
But he doesn’t answer, seemingly not impressed.
On this pause the train leaves and we start our descent.
II.
It’s difficult to say how long we’ve been travelling.
The sky’s neither any colour nor truly dark
And he refuses to say where we are going.
But before losing any hope for a landmark,
The quiet wagon slows down and halts at a station
On a sign is written Crystal Palace Park.
Through my window I spot with mortification
On the platform half lying down on the cold ground
An old woman in a state of desperation.
She doesn’t move for it looks like her legs are bound
And as she keeps weeping like a beast you slaughter,
I see iron devouring her legs like a hound.
But now I recognize the face of the monster.
At least my father used to call this witch like this.
Next to me Kurt shouts with a smile: ʻHi, Mrs. Thatcher!ʼ
The train starts up, leaving her shade to the abyss.
III.
ʻIt’s strange to see we can pity someone like herʼ
I stay silent but he keeps talking to me:
ʻAre you afraid of the meaning of “forever”?ʼ
Existential questions are not my cup of tea.
But I can’t think about it for too long
As we stop again at a station called Horley.
After a while, I hear the echo of a song
I turn my head and notice on a bench a dude,
Whose success was a long time ago seen as strong.
But who has now for only listener solitude.
From his mouth I hear: ʻImagine there’s no heaven..ʼ
He is whispering it with such an attitude.
This man who was the voice of peace is now broken.
With his tired hands he cries covering his head
And from his nose his pair of glasses have fallen.
Why is this man there? This question fills me with dread.
I want to ask him so many things. I speak: ʻHey, sir..ʼ
But I feel the wheels beneath me moving ahead.
My wound starts bleeding again as my senses blur.
IV.
When I wake up again, my eyes are still bright red.
My fellow musician is looking for my gaze.
However, I prefer to ignore him instead.
The tears inside my mad being continue to raise
When suddenly I notice we have stopped again
Like petrified, I can’t pronounce a single phrase.
I choose to look after having counted to ten.
Haywards Heath… I think I know where we are going.
My thoughts are broken by the vision of two men.
One is holding a skull to which he is talking.
The other one, louder, is praying for mercy
His eyes are filled with terror as he is crying.
He yells: ʻMy God, my God, look not so fierce on me!ʼ
But it’s only when he shouts ʻCome not, Lucifer!ʼ
That the entire atmosphere becomes gloomy.
A second, maybe a year, then a great clamour.
V.
The noise is followed by the grinding of some gears.
Too late to fly, the train turns into a rocket.
Landscapes are running, whistles are drilling my ears.
If it goes on like that, I will need a bucket
Though my companion is not suffering like me,
Dreaming at the window, one hand in his pocket.
But the train eventually stops, setting me free.
The doors open and I violently rush outside
Where I now contemplate the beauty of a sea.
Appeased by the slow movement of the rising tide,
Small tears of joy drop and turn my vision to a blur.
After a while I notice Kurt has reached my side.
We stay still until I’ve wiped away the last tear.
ʻAre you happy with our final destination?ʼ
I nod seeing standing before us my dear Pier.
ʻBrighton..ʼ this word flies from my mouth like salvation.
ʻThe place I was born inʼ, ʻAnd where peace will find you.ʼ
His sentence is followed by new agitation.
ʻThere is so much my friend you still need to go throughʼ
Whistles fill my head again; the ground starts shaking.
ʻSee you Daniel!ʼ… ʻDaniel! Doctor! He made it through!ʼ
I feel the hand of my mum and hear her crying.
Tribute to Daniel McLean
Author: M.W.
please hold me,
i feel like moonlight, streaming through the gaps in your fingers,
light and glorious and not there at all.
like a figment of a stranger’s imagination,
i cannot grasp at myself.
She is lost
Out there in the fields
That go on forever never yielding
To the forests that used to cover everything.
She starts, she stops,
She walks without knowing
Why her eyes fill with tears
When she hears the larks sing.
About her pretty hair,
About her pretty eyes,
Crowned with thistles
She sings too
Sometimes.
Author: Anonymous
Piccadilly Pink
Let’s seek joy in the greyness
The pink flowers in the city
The touch of life in melancholy
Let’s change history
White men and their smugness
Their busts and what they express
Let’s find fiction
About balloons and butterflies
To alleviate our lives
Let’s dream till sunrise
Lulled by love and wine addiction
Forget about the restriction
Jail Tower
Jail Tower
Deep blue sky walls
But I can’t see the sky
Neither a single flower
Welcome to one of London’s students’ halls
Don’t be shy, come by!
Explore this amazing place
Which is my space
Meet the grey squirrels and black cats
Which wander around the flats
And dive into the bins
Roaming little dark djinns
Let’s go now to my cell
Where floats a musty smell
I open the window to get fresh air
A scent of smoke or weed climbs to me
Thanks to the lower smoker or junky
Alone in my costly 11 square metres
Trying to find light in this darkness
To push those frail heaters
To overcome my loneliness
I hear noises at night
Phone calls, hair dryer, but no one in sight
I feel like I live with ghosts
Dirty and noisy hosts
Don’t know what “to clean” means
Those porcine teens
When I can I escape
Go to nicer landscapes
Take the old Tube lines
Far away from these swines
I flee to the city
Where I enjoy university
Museums, restaurants and shows
And inside my heart, joy flows
But at night I need to come back
To my dear bivouac
In the last minutes of the Tube I get ready
Warm my ankles up
Hide my bosom under my shawl
Hope to not see a soul
And I get up
Breathe deep and exit through the night
Since then, I always made it without a fight
I’ll soon be home
In my beautiful Swiss dome
I’ll miss the musicals, cream teas, salsa, and my girls,
I really found some pearls
But I’ll smile at the airport
Cause I’ll be out of S****** Court!
Image: © “File:Chest.png” by No machine-readable author provided. Chikumaya assumed (based on copyright claims). is licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0, Source
Author: Sabine Weyermann
Autumn is installed,
I feel it in my lungs,
burning bronchi.
You don’t talk.
I’m heavily “dysregulated”, as they say,
stomach in knots, no more of this sweet,
fuzzy sensation of
honeyed warm milk I have
fostered in my belly, precious secret.
Your name, two comforting syllables,
or three, or four,
that I’ve known all my life,
slapping in the wind like
a mighty Greek standard, in several languages.
I repeat it like I could summon you,
and then whisper “Fuck you!”, of course meaning
something else, as if you were the culprit,
and not the innocent target of a disaster
that is mine, and mine only,
bursting, all guns blazing,
from my Amygdala.
Or is it?
Am I a burden?
sheltering your feelings, trying
to beat mine back into myself,
so tired of being the freakin’
cool girl, faking it.
As if I wasn’t fucking triggered.
When in fact I’m here, and all over your silence,
wide open to you, but biting my lips,
because your words
could rip my body apart,
not knowing if I have to let you go,
for my bloody own sake,
or to wait, wait, ignoring the urgency
to deliver that,
“I have so much of you in my heart”.
Image: © Annegret Kammer, “Misty mornings at the lake”, Unsplash Licence, Source
Author: H.S
the town
the year Camille died
had the worst flood of the decade for the third year in a row
there was a black out for three days
I was in Uni at the time
and saw my childhood parks drown away
on the internet.
she was the same age as me
we used to tell each-other our dreams
one day she told me:
“The Lake,
I went thinking I saw someone drown,
but at the bottom I was knocked prone
and crushed by pressure.”
the day she died
she bolted upright in her bed
looked at the lake through the window
wide-eyed
“I swam out”
she said
and died.
Image: © “Venus – JPL Travel Poster” by NASA/JPL, JPL licence. Source.
Author: William Flores
It has been almost a month since scientists on board Venera III have identified what appears to be a pitch black spot, about 10 meters in diameter of… absolute nothingness in the Venusian sky. Every conceivable instrument has so far failed to show any reading of mass or energy. This excludes the initial hypothesis of a miniature black hole. For now, the United Nations Space Exploration and Observation Agency (UNSEOA) has instructed scientific personnel aboard all five Venera stations to continue monitoring the mysterious spot. That is certainly not too big a task for these miniature, self-contained cities that float in the dense Venusian sky and whose primary mission is to understand the planet’s cloud formation. Wesley Ramirez, an expert on dark matter from the Earth Astrophysics Institute has been sent by the agency to provide assistance to the team of highly trained yet, in this case, helpless team of astrometeorologists.
On March 29, 2297, Wesley finally arrived after a week-long trip aboard the fusion powered Horizon VI. Once in orbit, a small shuttle separated from the vessel and descended into the atmosphere, safely bringing Wesley to Venera III, where he was greeted by Sasha Stone, the station’s captain.
— Doctor Ramirez, welcome to Venus! It’s nice meeting you.
— Thanks! But please, call me Wesley. We’re both too young to call each other “doctor”.
— Can’t argue with that, Wesley!
After a friendly handshake, Sasha showed Wesley his sleeping quarters and its amenities. Although he knew exactly that there would be a telepod, a standard component of all crewed space habitats, the young astrophysicist expressed his relief upon seeing it.
— Got some important business on Earth, Wesley?
— Well… yes. See, last month I met someone at the annual Earth Science Symposium and we were supposed to go on a date. But that was before I was assigned to this mission.
— Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.
— It’s alright. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and besides, with the telepod I can still go on my date, more or less.
— I’m happy that you see it that way. Anyway, I’ll let you get some rest. Dinner is at 07:30 in the mess hall down the corridor. You’ll see that our aquaponic system provides us with exquisite produce.
— Great! That’ll be a welcome change after the synthetic food of the Horizon’s molecular assembler.
— I bet! Well, see you later!
And with that, the young astrometeorologist returned to her observation post. Just yesterday, the main computer indicated that the instruments of the Venera III had recorded a faint and ephemeral energy signal coming from the mysterious spot in the sky. Unfortunately, the crew was sleeping at that point, so Sasha hoped that she could make a direct observation soon.
At dinner, she introduced Wesley to the other members of the Venera III. They all studied the cloud formation of the Venusian atmosphere. Their mission was part of the United Nation’s Earth Climate Restoration Programme, often called “Gaia Project”. By studying the cloud formation on Venus, a planet which once experienced an extreme runaway greenhouse effect, the UN hoped that the collected data could help make cloud-seeding and weather modification efforts on Earth more reliable. While the programme, which was initiated in 2099, had already succeeded in removing excess carbon from the Earth’s atmosphere by 80%, the planet was still recovering from the recklessness of the Late Capitalist Period (1980-2089). Global temperatures peaked at 2.3°C above pre-industrial levels in 2103. This set off seven planetary tipping points that were now being reversed. Wesley was no stranger to the “Gaia Project”: both of Wesley’s parents worked for it and so did his date.
— Tell me about your date, Sasha said. “You don’t know how long you’ll be here, so we might as well get to know each other”.
— Fair enough, fair enough. Well, my special someone is called River and…
— River! What a nice name!
— Yes, indeed. They work for the “Gaia Project” as a marine biologist. Their specialty is coral reef restoration.
— That’s really interesting! When are you going on your date? And where?
— Well, we were supposed to see each other tomorrow and take the Underwater Vacuum Train from New York to Paris and just walk around and eat dinner in a cute bistro.
— How romantic!
— Yeah, the city is becoming an increasingly popular tourist destination again. Temperatures are really comfortable there now.
— I’ve heard! But I guess that won’t work out for you exactly as planned.
— Yeah no. We have decided that I’ll upload my mind via telepod to my avatar body that I left in New York and take the train to Paris anyway. There we’ll just walk and talk, since eating won’t be an option, at least for me.
— Yeah, it’s sad how avatars are quite limited.
— It’s funny you know, it’s the first time I had an avatar made of me. It was a bit weird to look at that inanimate doll that looked just like me… kinda creepy even.
— Us astronauts are used to it. It’s the only way we can keep contact with our loved ones during missions.
— No doubt!
After dessert, Sasha mentioned the strange energy readings and asked Wesley to look into them in the morning.
Thus, after a good night’s sleep and a light breakfast, the young astrophysicist joined the team of the Venera III on the observation deck. Sasha looked both exhausted and excited.
“Morning, Wesley! LOOK!” she said while pointing at the spot in the sky. “Can you see the thin halo around it?”
— Morning Sasha! Yes, I can see it.
— Do you know what it could be?
— Nope, but I’ll have a look at the instrument readings.
— Apparently there’s been a brief surge in Hawking radiation.
— What? For real?
— Yeah, look at the recordings!
— Oh my god! You’re right!
— Do you think it’s a black hole after all?
— That can’t be! The gravitational pull would have ripped us to pieces!
— That’s what I thought, but what else could it be?
— Could be anything. Maybe a wormhole of some sort. To or from another part of space or… maybe time?
— Time?
— Yes, that would explain these bizarre time readings right here. Apparently, every time the computer observed an energy surge the clock ran…backwards?
— What? That can’t be!
— You’re right, there must be a problem with the instruments.
— We’ve already checked!
— We’ll check again. Because this doesn’t add up.
And so the crews of the Venera III and the other stations ran all conceivable tests to check if all instruments worked as intended. By the end of the morning they found nothing. All instruments on all stations worked perfectly. Exhausted, the scientists took their lunch break.
Meanwhile, Wesley returned to his sleeping quarters and got ready for his date. He undressed, put on his sensory bodysuit and entered the telepod while selecting the “transfer mind” option. A complete scan, on the subatomic level, was made of his brain, before an odorless gas filled the pod and made him unconscious. Thanks to quantum entanglement, the information from the scan was instantly transmitted back to Earth. Lightspeed was no longer an upper limit for the transfer of data.
Meanwhile, the mysterious spot in the Venusian sky continued emitting more and more energy. Sasha only took a short lunch break and was absolutely baffled by what she saw upon returning to her post. The bright halo that used to surround the spot now covered it completely. The spot went from pitch-black to blindingly bright just like that. “What the fuck” was pretty much the only thing Sasha could say to herself in that moment.
After a few seconds of complete unconsciousness, Wesley woke up in his New York apartment. His avatar body felt almost like his actual body. It was good enough, though. After getting used to walking in this body, he went to meet River at Grand Central.
— So, you made it after all!
— Told you so!
After giving each other a hug, they boarded the train and were on their way to Paris. The ride would take about 30 minutes, but after about 15 minutes the avatar body stopped responding. It was lifeless. “Are you still there? Are you okay?” River asked, in vain.
After a minute, Wesley regained consciousness. He was back in the telepod. “What the hell happened?” he told himself. After several failed attempts to reconnect to his avatar, he stepped out of the pod and got dressed. Something felt off. He went to the observation deck and was relieved to see Sasha and the crew. They seemed terrified, however.
— Sasha? What’s going on?
— LOOK!
She pointed towards the sky. The spot was gone.
“So, everything is back to normal?” Wesley asked naively, perhaps sincerely hoping that that would be it.
Holding back her tears, Sasha instructed the astrophysicist to check the date on a computer screen, any screen would do.
Upon doing so, Wesley was mortified.
— Tell me, Wes, what day are we?
— March 30th, 2007.
Author: Salomé Emilie Streiff
When I sleep, memories tend to pop up in my mind like popcorn in microwaves. They show up in groups, chatting about the past and yet haunting the days to come. Sometimes I touch myself and it’s enough to make them disappear. Often, they come back, sassier than ever.
“Happy birthday”, they sang, holding a cheap store-bought cake with already used candles from the nearby mall. They were trying to smile, wanting me to enjoy the 1.30 francs spent per person for this surprise. However, if they were to be honest with themselves, they would have agreed that it should have been canceled as soon as I told them my friend died.
“Hot girls that cry on their birthday are hot but girls that know a week in advance they will are hotter” he said. I wish the number of tears spent over the year could truly give me extra hotness point. Call me vain, I couldn’t care less. I wish I could gain anything in my grief.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”, she asked. Silence. I nodded. With her smart eyes and dancing hair she was too charming to be worried. I mumbled a somewhat mature and philosophical answer about life’s true purpose, its inherent will of moving on, growing flowers out of pain kind of bullshit. She smiled and the lie was worth it. She grabbed the gift papers and tossed them in the trash. We made out that night. The lie was worth it.
“It’s been almost a year, did you realize”, she said. It’s been three, I thought. “Yes.” We broke up two weeks later.
“And what made you come?”, she asked. I kept inside the sex pun that was on the tip of my tongue. “Be honest”, she said with her serious looking glasses and typical tidy therapist cotton shirt. So, I tried to be. “It was the cheap store-bought cake with the already used candles from my high school’s nearby mall”, I said. Silence. “They wanted me to be happy, just so they didn’t waste their stupid money”. “And what made you angry”, she asked. Silence.
And at some point, the flashbacks tend to stop, leaving an exhausting sense of numbness. I then close my eyes and pray to the God-that-never-replies for sleep. “Lord forgive me, I know I should not have touched myself. Could you let me sleep? Amen”. They all wanted me to be happy. I turn in my bed, tired of fighting the irony. The fucking joke was that I tried to be happy. The price of my happiness was 1.30 francs per friend that day. How does everything get that expensive?
Author: Furaha Mujynya
[Content Warning: Substance Use]
I wonder if people can feel my excitement just from the way I’m walking. I feel like I’m oozing energy. But I guess there’s no way they could tell. Still, I should probably try to look a bit more relaxed, just in case. Contemplating the possibility of an arrest for a second, Isaiah’s train of thoughts quickly goes back to the object of his desire. It’s the first time I have seen cocaine so pure, so majestic. God am I glad that I gave it a try before buying it! I almost feel like it’s not real. Exhaling deeply, his hands slightly shaking, he thinks – Gosh… I should really hurry home. It doesn’t feel right to walk around with this diamond in my pocket. Forgetting all about his drug-obsession for a minute, Isaiah moves towards a shop window. Oh yeah sencha! That’s the perfect combo.
Jesus Christ, who does she think she is? Who cares if I was late? I should just dump her and be done with it. Even more annoyed than he was when he slammed the door in Jenny’s face, James gets his phone out. Okay. proteins, kale, bananas and that matcha powder thing. Heading towards the supermarket, he sees a large group entering. I guess that means Asian shop first. Walking up the street, he starts scrolling through dating profiles. This one’s not too ugly. Wait, she loves cats… Ugh and that one is too smiley… As he is about to enter the Japanese grocery shop, he feels something pushing him, causing him to drop his phone to the floor.
***
I hope she’s okay. It’s not like it’s the first time this happened. Maybe I should just stop by, make sure she’s fine. But I don’t want to impose. Nervously pacing through her apartment, Lizzy starts opening all her kitchen cabinets. If I show up with, like, brownies or something it will seem less weird. I could just say I baked too many. Right. Good. Did I really finish all the chocolate? I guess I’ll go buy some… Oh, and some milk, and maybe bananas. Oh, and I don’t have any more ginger confit or kimchi. On the beat of a slow ballad, she starts reciting her list of groceries, whilst strutting towards the supermarket. Bananas, milk, kimchi, ginger, cacao powder, chocolate, peanuts, and rice.
***
Dude, what the hell! Can’t you watch where you’re going? James keeps swearing and picks his phone off the ground, checking that the screen is still intact. You’re lucky it didn’t break, or it would have been your face on the floor! Now get out of my way, you moron. In shock, Isaiah stays still for a minute. What just happened… Of course he went into my tea shop. Dammit, I really wanted that sencha. Well I guess, I’ll just go home. After a big exhale he starts slowly humming – Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, It’s Christmas time…
Okay I think I got all the things on my list. Let’s go to the Korean shop! Moving from ballads to a funky pop tune, she whispers – Up up we go. I hope she likes brownies. I mean, everybody likes brownies, right? I don’t even know if she has allergies. Oh I’m probably overthinking this, as usual. As she is walking, Lizzy spots someone blankly staring into oblivion. Is he high? People nowadays really have no shame. It’s broad daylight and this is supposed to be a family friendly neighborhood. Anyway… ginger here I come! Quickly passing him by, she takes a few more steps to the Korean shop. As she walks back out, she spots something white on the ground near the bus stop.
Hello…? Could I get some help around here? Jesus this really is a shit day, he says just loud enough to be heard. I can’t find that matcha powder thing. The cashier points towards a small green box on the counter. Yeah, sorry I guess I didn’t see it. I’ll take just that thanks, he says with an awkward smile. As James heads out, he decides to sit at the bus stop for a second. I really don’t want to have to deal with her tonight. Maybe I can find some girl who’ll let me crash at her place. But I don’t know if I’ve got the energy to deal with some new chick though. I’ll probably have to buy her tons of drinks too. Ugh, might just be easier to go home. Who knows? Maybe she’ll have calmed down by then.
***
Home sweet home… I hope I have some green tea left somewhere around here. Ooh yeah, found it! Whilst performing what one might call a ‘happy dance’, he starts preparing his tea. God I’m as excited as a child! Maybe that’s not the right comparison, but hey, sugar highs are a big thing with children, so… Laughing at his own joke, he wonders – Maybe I should sleep a bit before though. Give my brain a minute to breathe. Yeah, I can wait 30 minutes. He goes into his room, puts on wave sounds, and starts to doze off.
***
I probably shouldn’t have picked it up. Geez, I panicked because I saw that douche coming out of the Japanese convenience store. I’m an idiot. I don’t even know what this is… I could contract a disease just from touching that thing. I mean, I probably can’t, but who knows?! What was I thinking? Sickened with worry and confusion, she runs up the stairs and within seconds she is home. I mean, what if he had seen me? It’s not like anything would have happened. How can I hope to be of any help to her if I can’t even face this dude without running away. Come on Lizzy. Just breathe. You got it. First, the brownies. We’ll deal with the rest later.
***
He takes his shoes off and goes into the bedroom but not without catching a glimpse of Jenny sitting in a corner, her eyes still red and puffy. Geez, she hasn’t moved an inch since I left. She’s pathetic. I’ll just get my stuff for the gym, prepare my shake and leave. With any luck, she’ll be asleep when I’m back. After mixing the ingredients for his smoothie, he looks at her and says: It’s really pointless, sitting here, crying like a three-year-old when you could have cleaned the apartment or made dinner. But as usual, it’s all about your feelings…You better not be in the same position when I’m back from the fit. He slams the door and leaves.
I think the brownies are almost done. Wait, is it him? Looking through the peephole, she sees James stepping out of the opposite apartment. Okay. He left. I guess it’s now or never. What do I say…? Maybe I should just slip her my number in the plate of brownies. I wish I could just give her a weapon, something, anything to fight him off. What if I… No, I couldn’t. I mean if I’m wrong and this is just some dishwasher powder then … I don’t know. But it could give her a chance to fight back. After a few minutes, she rings the doorbell and says to the bruised young woman – I know we don’t really know each other, but I made too many brownies and thought you might want some. I’m just across the hall if you ever need me. Jenny accepts the plate, with a shy smile, and closes the door.
***
Waking up, feeling disoriented, Isaiah gets up to go to the kitchen. Oh the water’s cold, got to heat it up again. I wonder how long I slept. Looking at his watch, he rubs his eyes. It can’t be. Did it stop working? Turning on the TV, he stares at the date at the top of the screen. It can’t be! I did not just sleep for almost 24 hours. Could it be the coke? Nah… Where did I put it anyway? Oh yeah, my jacket. I think it was in the left pocket… Uhm maybe it fell somewhere on the couch. I should check the bed too. Geez, where did I put it? Suddenly, he remembers yesterday’s altercation. Did he steal it from me? No way! As the weather report finishes, the local news starts:
A 27-year-old was found dead in his apartment yesterday evening at around 10pm. After a sport session at his local fitness center, the young man went home and indulged in some late-night snack, little did he know that this would be the cause of his death. The paramedics first thought that this was a drug OD – many cases have gone through the doors of hospitals since a new and very lethal cocaine has invaded the streets – only to later realize that it was a simple case of peanut allergy. We therefore implore you to be careful of the dangers of both drugs and the ingredients some food may contain.
Excuses, excuses…
Over one’s life as a student, it is clearly difficult to attend 100% of one’s classes. Yet, sometimes the reasons why we skip class or at least the reason that we give may be more or less justified…
This semester, MUSE asked UNIL’s students for their anecdotes and craziest excuses they or their friends have ever given to explain missing a class. Has something like this ever happened to you?
Enjoy!
I once read that a student in the high school I went to didn’t come to class because their pet rat had passed away and they buried it in the yard and conducted a funeral and everything. I don’t think I ever laughed about a dead animal before this. It was so unexpected! May that cute rat rest in peace :)
I’m too good a student to miss class but once, my best friends only wrote “anthrax” on his excuse which kind of made his teacher panic for a moment (the real reason was a concert from the group Anthrax and not actually anthrax, the infectious disease…)
Having spent all night writing and not getting a single hour of sleep.
Me: So, how was your class this morning?
Them: I didn’t go. I had to cut my beard.
My friend forgot their book at their parents’ place in another canton. Instead of coming to class and following with us and sharing a book, they decided to take the train all the way back to their parents’ to retrieve the book, obviously missing the entire class they would have needed the book for…
My friend forgot their computer charging cable. Instead of coming to class and taking notes on paper, they decided to go back home to retrieve their charging cable, obviously missing the whole class they would have needed their computer for…
Me: Why didn’t you come to class?
Them: Well, I wanted to come but as I was leaving my apartment, I saw how dusty it was so I had to stay to “passer la panosse”.
One of my friends missed uni at least twice because their apartment was flooded.
In winter, I went skiing with my family and family friends. We were in a chalet for the weekend and it snowed quite a lot during that time. So we were trapped in there because the cars couldn’t move. At least it’s what we said because if we had really wanted to leave, it would have been possible but it was so great and cosy in the chalet that we decided to stay one more evening 😂 And so the excuse that I wrote for my chemistry teacher was that there was too much solid h2O on the road and that we were trapped.
Cut class in half because of a “work meeting” that was really a hangout between friends to a famous coffee shop brand…
It’s pretty depressing, but, I sometimes skip classes because I have too much work to do for other classes. So, I skip class in order to study for class. Sounds counter-productive, I know o_o
His grandma died over 6 times.
I had just had a baby (and it was true).
I had been run over by a bus.
When I was in gymnase, I skipped a maths class because, and I mean this literally, the dog ate my homework (and my textbook, and my pencil case).
When I was in gymnase, I once used an excuse that was actually the truth and I wrote on the note that I had gone out partying until 5am so I wanted to sleep in. The excuse was obviously rejected and I got detention :)
My sister’s friend is really scared of this cat in her neighborhood, so she once told my sister she’d arrive late in class because while leaving, she opened the door, saw the cat, closed it and went and sat on the couch anxiously waiting for the cat to leave so she could leave her house too.
*responses have been edited for clarity and length