SEVEN VOICES
  • About
    • Emily Norcliffe
    • Clarissa Wigoder
  • Curators
  • Contributors
    • TT19 >
      • Delphine Chalmers
      • Kate Weir
      • Natalie Perman
      • Kwan Q Li
      • Alex Beukers
      • George Wilson
    • MT18 >
      • Catherine Cibulskis
      • Bethan James
      • Rose Morley
      • Maia Webb-Hayward
      • Kwan-Ann Tan
      • Hannah Patient
      • Martha West
    • TT18 >
      • Jonny Budd
      • Charlotte Bunney
      • Jack Cooper
      • Nick Smart
      • Sarah Spencer
      • Simran Uppal
    • HT18 >
      • Clara Atkinson
      • Haroun Hameed
      • Meredith Kenton
      • Billy Lucas
      • Jessie Palmer
      • Anjelica Smerin
      • Emily Wigoder
    • TT17 >
      • Harri Adams
      • Julieta Caldas
      • Hannah Chukwu
      • Anietie Ekanem
      • Bea Grant
      • AS
      • Annabel Sim
    • HT17 >
      • Ed Maclean
      • Georgina Lloyd-Owen
      • Surya Bowyer
      • David Carey
      • Robert Jackson
      • Minying Huang
      • Jessica Ockenden
    • MT16 >
      • Charles Pidgeon
      • Adham Smart
      • Rebecca Thornton
      • Thomas Hornigold
      • Annie Hayter
      • Adam Milner
      • Thomas Lawrence
    • TT16 >
      • Thea Keller
      • Rebecca Took
      • Dominic Leonard
      • Anna Manning
      • Ben Ray
      • Harry Baker
    • HT16 >
      • Catriona Bolt
      • Ryan O'Reilly
      • Rebecca Marks
      • Ed Gould
      • Honor Vincent
      • Pierre Antoine Zahnd
      • Lindsay Tocik
    • MT15 >
      • Alexander Shaw
      • Lucy Byford
      • Emma Lister
      • JK
      • Kat Lewis
      • Maria Shepard
      • Adam Turner
    • TT15 >
      • Tom Gaisford
      • Jemma Paek
      • Harry Jones
      • Nasim Asl
      • Charlotte Pence
    • HT15 >
      • Ariel Fresh
      • James P Mannion
      • GL
      • I H-M
      • James Mooney
      • Tom Pease
      • Shivani Kochhar
  • Seven Voices
    • TT19 >
      • 1: mottle
      • 2: foam
      • 3: cinders
      • 4: milky
      • 5: dew
      • 6: grounding
      • 7: syrup
    • MT18 >
      • 1: ephemera
      • 2: alcove
      • 3: harem
      • 4: off-kilter
      • 5: stillborn
      • 6: embrace
      • 7: bloom
    • TT18 >
      • 1: percolate
      • 2: limerence
      • 3: wonky
      • 4: diaphanous
      • 5: hiraeth
      • 6: epoch
      • 7: epiphany
    • HT18 >
      • 1: scintillate
      • 2: periphery
      • 3: azure
      • 4: architect
      • 5: limbs
      • 6: ethereal
      • 7: opaque
    • TT17 >
      • 1: act
      • 2: wish
      • 3: fall
      • 4: cry
      • 5: restraint
      • 6: choice
      • 7: consequences
    • HT17 >
      • 1: truth
      • 2: digital
      • 3: horizon
      • 4: sharp
      • 5: luck
      • 6: savage
      • 7: uprising
    • MT16 >
      • 1: shelter
      • 2: morning
      • 3: colossus
      • 4: conceal
      • 5: curiosity
      • 6: recursion
      • 7: spirit
    • TT16 >
      • 1: coincidence
      • 2: details
      • 3: release
      • 4: we
      • 5: spiral
      • 6: dream
      • 7: endings
    • HT16 >
      • 1: evolve
      • 2: doubt
      • 3: memory
      • 4: &
      • 5: physical
      • 6: light
      • 7: permanence
    • MT15 >
      • 1: eclipse
      • 2: submersion
      • 3: collect
      • 4: voyage
      • 5: conflict
      • 6: portal
      • 7: map
    • TT15 >
      • 1: partial
      • 2: suspension
      • 3: £
      • 4: downstairs
      • 5: silence
      • 6: orbit
      • 7: final
    • HT15 >
      • 1: fantasise
      • 2: terror
      • 3: an awkward encounter
      • 4: in between
      • 5: wheel of fortune
      • 6: elemental
      • 7: races
  • Contact

7: Aaron Skates

12/6/2017

0 Comments

 
         Emmanuel Rorty stared at his own reflection. The concrete floor of Mr. T Rorty’s workshop scraped and crunched a little under his feet as debris shifted. The mirror was somewhat convex and Emmanuel had to tilt his head at odd angles in order to be able to see his reflection properly. There was a thick-ish layer of brown dirt with a streak through it where Emmanuel had run his finger through the coppery stuff—a dimple was just underneath where he needed to look with the right angle. Tim and Joe were out the front but would come in from their lunch break soon—you can’t talk to Tim and Joe about it they wouldn’t understand, anyway this can’t get back to dad.
         Emmanuel took out his phone and put the camera up to his eye, very close, while looking the other way. He pressed the button but not being able to look at the screen he missed and all that emerged on the photograph was a piece of skin. He tried again to get a proper purchase on the phone and after a run of unsuccessful attempts he managed to get a decent picture of the blood both in his left eye and then in his right. Web MD had told him that usually a subconjunctival hemorrhage caused by trauma would go within ten days—he stayed away from home for ten days—but now, back for forty with no healing he was panicky again. The swelling on his head had not gone down as considerably as he would have liked it to and now the camera roll on his phone consisted of a very long, drawn out gif of an eye from which about a millimeter of blood a day was retreating from it’s centre and escaping into the corner.
       The crash had left no fatalities, but first James was believed to be dead and then Emmanuel himself was believed to be dead—both beliefs were held by Emmanuel. He had asked his dad within his first two weeks working at the Sofcan Production Company, Ipswich branch how it was possible to know whether you were alive or dead. His Dad had the same confused look on his face as he had had when Emmanuel had asked how do I know that I’m not the only person alive and you’re not just all robots, or illusions or a trap—at the age of about six. Emmanuel dropped the question in the first few weeks—plus he needed the early morning car journeys to sleep—impossible to sleep alone in the dark but impossible to tell anyone, so over the past month, apart from when drunk on weekends Emmanuel had slept for approx. three hours a night and forty minutes every morning which he totaled up to be around 23.8 hours a week when he extended the pattern across all seven days. Nearly a full day.
          Emmanuel put his phone away. Tonight was a Friday and James was on his way back home, he would get some bevvies in—some nelsons—some Nelson Manstellas. Yeah. That’ll be good—we’ll go to the pub and just get a few bloody bevvies in-nothing special just the boys in our town- the locals in our local—yeah sounds good.
     Despite this positive attitude, however, Emmanuel Rorty began recanting exactly everything that he had done over the previous forty day period to himself in his head while screwing the back plate onto a two-way microphone for the front of a gate while Tim and Joe recited lines from Hot Fuzz…
0 Comments

7: Hannah Chukwu

12/6/2017

0 Comments

 
'The night clung to him -
each breath inhaled the
inexhaustible darkness.
Sequestered thoughts
unfurled in black as he
waited
for the wall to scream.
I’M INNOCENT he heard,
and traced it with the edge
of a fingernail.
A dream, he thought.
A dream, he knew
was not.

In a sense, he understood. 

Stainless were children
grasping giant hands
following mothers through
fields.
Stainless were mountains
smothered in snow
and doves
and lilies
and no –

he was not especially pure
or good.

Now home’s as dirty as the
depths of the sea -
Each plead entangled in the
eternal song of polyphonic
innocence.
He burns now. These
people are raging flames -

They came from the edge 
of the wood. 

It all depends on beginnings
and ends:
This is who you'll remember.  

- who am i when did i -
- i'm misunderstood i... -

The fire became an ember.'


0 Comments

7: Julieta Caldas

12/6/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
0 Comments

7: Anietie Ekanem

12/6/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
Picture
Picture
Picture
0 Comments

7: Harri Adams

12/6/2017

0 Comments

 
New Noise

You can’t
make any new noise
upset the cart when there are still plenty of trips to be made
from the orchard to the duck house
(Keep it up and we’ll be in our right minds to say
no more rackets or rumblings in basements
can get you punished severely by people less kind)
so we’ll bury that attitude like seeds in the ground.

Of course you can’t
step out your front door in the wrong colours
(In all honesty people who do
I think they should be rounded up and
given a stern talking to try to change their point of view
keep that kind of thing in the bag and the bag in the river.)

And here you simply cannot
raise a peach to your mouth and eat to the stone
in polite company
(Your consumption
sick filth it’s of great concern to us.)

The second thing we live by is
Can’t will keep the candle burning
(with no eating the wrong way
then no wrong colours
then no new noise)
keep everything nice and warm and dry
your house your health your job your bob.

(With your help we’ll kill everything
You and I, we’ll kill everything
We will kill everything
We kill everything.)
​

(We’re on our way to the Borgia Pearl.)




0 Comments

7: Annabel Sim

12/6/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
0 Comments

7: Bea Grant

12/6/2017

0 Comments

 
Our life is composed of the tiny marks we leave upon the surfaces of the Earth. Little indications of colour, of discolouration, where we had been, where we have trod.

‘Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind’, Virginia Woolf proclaimed.
Let us record the marks as we make them.

A peach ripens. The past moments are visible. Little fleshy marks, the sugar peeps through. But the action occurs when we are not there. If we sat and watched a peach turn from yellow to darkest burnt red, would we watch the present become past? When does an action become a consequence?

If we return to the same place we walked upon two, three weeks ago, can we feel our ‘Footfalls echo in the memory’, as Thomas Sterns Eliot once said. If we return to the river where we watched a swam sit so many moons ago, can we feel the consequences of that moment, do we think of the feelings that arose after, can we situate ourselves in the past and access when the present became so.

Or are we merely reflecting on what has happened, a reflection in the waters of the memory.

We collect so many memories, so many ideas, so many feelings as we live our lives. We try to keep them afloat, alive, to share them, to preserve them, to inspire with them by placing them in pockets, in notebooks, in pen, on paper, on film, in word.

We dip our feet in the water and feel a sensation. The sun shines on a tree and we watch the dance. We purchase a plant and unexpectedly purple flowers begin to sprout. A field of grass blows in the wind and the leaves interact in a flourish, in a flurry, rippling.

We make a brush stroke. The paint dries.

We ride into the sunset on our bicycle, encircled in gold. But when does the gold become ornamentation in our mind? How long will it last? Must we polish it?

——————————————————————————————————-

​These are our marks that we leave on the world. Tread carefully. 
0 Comments

    Archives

    June 2017

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.