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‘My candle burns at both endsIt will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -

It gives a lovely light.’ - Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Confessions of The KCL Creative Writing Society

We are Literary Lions - hear us roar!

“

”In an attempt to join our Creative Writers in their literary pursuits, here’s our Editors

take on unconventional and forbidden love, this issue’s groundbreaking literary theme. As always, read responsibly.

Love is complicated. I would even dare say all love is unconventional. How can it ever be conventional when it constantly asks of you to leave aside all conventions and take a leap of faith?! Would you leave your front door open at night? No! What about the door to your heart?! Would you give a stranger the keys to your car? No, of course not! What about the keys to your heart?!

In the name of love, you leave aside all conventions and precautions, you jump into the muddy waters, you swim as hard as you can, without knowing where you are going, just swimming in the blind, making a fool out of yourself, and hoping that you come out alive. And happy.

What a cliché it is to say that every love story is unique... But then again, I enjoy saying it because it fills my heart with hope: even if you fail miserably, you can never fail the same way twice. But of course, you can never find the same love twice either. ‘That’ love will always be forbidden, locked, sealed, and gone. Bummer... (As much as it pains me to say this, yes Adele, you are right, good for you.)

But before you decide not to leave the house again, and wallow in the impossibility of ever having it easy, I for one, would take the precious advice of a green Muppet: part of growing up is learning to trust yourself. So ignore the world, ignore the unconventional-ness, the forbidden-ness, the messiness. Love is not complicated anymore. Love is what you want it to be.

Much Love,

Simona

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THE COLUMN ‘Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust; Love in a palace is perhaps at last More grievous torment than a hermit’s fast’ ‘Lamia’, John Keats

Love, let alone unconventional love, is exhilarating, exasperating, exciting. Nobody can deny it is a truly glorious experience. Reading this month’s fantastic love-themed submissions for The Column’s latest edition has made me realise my own love affair with the unusual quirks and eccentricities of London. My affection for the city stems from its richly chaotic and colourful nature. There is never a dull moment to be found. Take my daily commute on the tube for example: During rush hour, I find myself wedged between a bland businessman and a religious zealot. One talks of stock shares, the other of Satan. A dreamy looking busker graces us from Victoria to Temple; a hysterical toddler in an oversized buggy is shoved under my nose while garrulous tourists excitedly plan their sight-seeing. The tube ceases to be an impersonal mode of transport and instead becomes a great spectacle with everyone singing their own song; dancing to their own rhythm, oblivious to those around them and yet simultaneously tempting us to join in with the disguised revelry. The harmonious and the hectic unite, almost hand in hand, to create a rich symphony of voices, each clambering over the other until we are all immersed in the rich atmosphere of the city.

The eccentric eclecticism of the city is alluring; it never ceases to surprise me. For every slick, sharp suited businessman (iPhone in one hand and cup of coffee in the other), there is a dishevelled and decrepit homeless man (portable radio for company and empty cup for pennies at his feet). The city is an unscripted, fluid play in which we have all unconsciously been cast in ever shifting roles. Take my average day for instance: I start as a commuter; slipping into the role of a student at 9 o’clock; by lunch one wrong turn off Surrey Street and I’m lost, falling into the role of a tourist, map in hand, only to end the night as a clubber at Ministry. As we flit from one disposition to another through its streets, London as a place of hidden pleasure, strange beauty and charming quirks is revealed.

Much Love,

Farhana

Tales of unrequited love fill our literary landscape, our cultural environment: My fingers are too few to tally all the songs that pop into mind. But unconventional love is a tougher topic to explore. Age differences, class distinctions would be the first themes my unoriginal mind would come up with. Sting’s song ‘Don’t Stand So Close To Me’, portraying a schoolgirl-teacher relationship would probably be my jumping off point. Or I’d explore the intriguing yet widespread trend of internet dating, where individuals spend weeks or even months conversing without ever being face to face. My eccentric love for animals might lead me to write an animal tale, passing it off as a children’s book. Or explore the nature of love between humans and animals… Actually that’s exactly what I did.

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To be truthful, Wilbert, Jenna doesn’t really like you. She said so last week. She doesn’t under-stand what I see in you. I value my friends’ opinions, you see, but I don’t think I’m ready for us to part ways just yet. We’ve been through so much, walks in the park, trips to the countryside. When I’m with you, I feel as though I don’t need anyone else.

But she is right, you should start fending for yourself a bit. It’s not very fair, is it, that I go off to work every morning and all you do is lie there on the sofa?

Perhaps Jenna was just put off by your sloppy manners and the domineering way in which you boss me around. Demanding me to fix dinner when you’re hungry or go out and get a movie for you to watch when you’re feeling bored.

And the way you don’t understand the affection I give to my friends, you just jump on them and grab at their throats. You really are the jealous kind Wilbert!

Jenna doesn’t see all the good things about you though, she doesn’t understand why I ever let you climb into bed with me in the first place. She doesn’t know how you keep me warm and drive the bad dreams away. She says you’re even getting a bit weighty, but I know you’re just well built! Your enormous appetite also disgusted her I dare say, but there’s nothing we can do about that now is there? You need all that energy for all the exercising you do.

Besides, the truth is that making you happy just makes me happy. You’re such a good dog!

But the following submissions consider the theme of unconventional love in ways that would not have come to my mind. Friendship, and durable friendship especially, fits the topic originally. An image comes to mind, the end of Love Actually, where a myriad of diverse vignettes show couples, families, acquaintances, old friends, embracing at Heathrow airport, accompanied by a cheerful Beach Boys tune.

Unconventional love might not simply be unusual or extraordinary, the notion incorporates any and every loving relationship imaginable, the love of a grandfather for his grandchild, the love of nature, even the love of a man for his profession, or for his house. That may seem far-fetched, and yet it isn’t.

Let’s not strip the word unconventional to pieces, but the moral of the story is: Convention or no convention, love is love.

Much Love,

Anissa

JENNA DOESN’T LIKE YOUby Anissa Putois

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We stumbled out of the heated basement, closer to midnight than to one in the morning, but none the less on the wrong side of the night to begin running off. We left our well-worn facades in the gutter, along with the night’s social lubricant.We cast our discerning minds to the wind in a similar fashion, and simply strolled off, exiting to gasps of gossip and pangs of protest. But still, our hands clasped; a deadbolt to these graceless dreams, we stumbled onto the broken night buses, and greeting this ferryman, we crossed the rivers of gaudy and vain men and women, the inhabitants of this hour, and overheard the conceited conversations, the unabashed exclamations, and giggled quietly to ourselves. As if this was anything other than a zoo of mirrors. We rumbled through the suburban streets on our disenchanted wagon, a cacophony of hormones and disquieted dreams, shrieking into the crevasses of the well-to-do walls.

Then the girl stumbled on to the upper deck, mascara streaming down her chalky cheeks, and stopping just short of her dishevelled dress, sobbing loudly through the berating screams, batting away her gentleman caller. And he followed behind her, gesticulating like a mad man, trying all at once to comforter and ownershouting – ‘I’m the good guy, I’m the good guy’ This sobering outbreak failed to leave anything but a bemused look upon their faces.Those that watched; those that judged.As if they were somehow abstracted from this. And we watched, wide eyed, even though they were now so bloodshot with

GOOD EYESby Daniel West

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sleep deprivation that the very act looking became painful. We watched the cavalcade of clichés and drunken metaphors, as the time ticked slowly on.And slowly the bus was depleted, and then it was just us.And we sat in silence, as if trying to provoke the other to feel lesser for it.We both prayed that we wouldn’t try to make the other feel lonelier, as if a prayer on sinners lips ever went answered. And we looked inward; we focussed so much on trying to be ready, on trying to be where we needed to be for the other, that we almost forgot that they were there. And there is so much spilled wine on these memories; thoughts of painful moments, like jagged rocks, looming beneath this glass sea. And when the bus finally stopped, so did we. And then there was the walk to focus on, the cold air to absolve us of our thoughts, to excuse us to purse our lips. Our hands in our pockets, our scarves around our necks; we were so safe in our cocoon of clothes.And then we got to the house, and the coats were no longer necessary. So we took them off and continued in.In the hallway the cool air was absent, so we removed the gloves and scarves. By the time we got to the couch, we were almost bare, but we could not bear to look at one another. Finally her lips parted, and it felt like a warm windflowing over me, a silky, soft sound, that beckoned oneto the edge of hearing.

‘Are you the good guy?’The morning came slowly, and dressed us again in its pale light. And we were now as we ever were, afraid.

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You put your hand on the back of my head as I wept into your chest. “Complainte de la Butte” played in my mind. I could only make sense of French songs and your hand and how happiness never felt like happiness until that morning. Your chin rested on my head. I felt you smiling. I just wanted to keep repeating, “Erin, Erin, Erin” as I kept myself buried into you. Your name was running through me like a pulse. My whole body felt like a drumbeat, consistently moving for that two syllable name. Er-in. Er-in. Er-in. Fast. I just held your hand and felt stares from people who wanted this too, who didn’t understand this too, who were travellers too. I hoped they were getting their drumbeats back that day too.

I left for only four months. I went to live in London. To work in a library and see Shake-

speare’s grave. Without you. Without my best friend, my other half, ma petite puce, my Peanut Pie, my Facebook wife, my Scrabble partner. The world thought we were in love. I thought it always would. But saying we were “just friends” always seemed inadequate, not special enough, not nearly powerful enough. I can’t explain that bond we had – a bond that started in a first year seminar where I thought about poetry and you thought about Progeria, a bond that I never wanted to escape, a bond whose edges are fraying away with each extra moment I’m away, a bond that is different from that morning airport reunion.

We were different. I thought we had discovered a new category of friendship. We would be immune to deteriorating or changing or leaving or hurting or all ing words. We would just be in our own world, where we knew what we were, and let everyone else think we were in love. Because it had to be that simple. Er-in. Er-in. Er-in. Er-in. I ride the train to Heathrow and still hope to find you there. Er-in. Er-in. Er-in.

I saw you turn to look back at the first blossomed pear tree in England. Gone before your eyes, replaced with tunnels.

I pegged you from the beginning, though you thought you were free.

OUR AIRPORT REUNION by Krystal Marsh

THE SENSUALIST by Krystal Marsh

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I trusted your manner when you held your breath at each station, hoping you wouldn’t have to give up your seat.

I’ll follow your lead. Bring me to your destination.

We sway the same way, moving together, closing our eyes captured in the sun, tasting the pears in our throats.

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Good Luck with your exams and see you in the spring term!

Editor ~ SIMONA CORCOZ, The Quill Pen Sub Editor ~ FARHANA GHAFFAR

Sub Editor ~ ANISSA PUTOIS