issue 1

modernLoVe

CRa

tIve m GaziN

e

E mAE

WHAT’S ALL THIS? This is the new college magazine produced by the Slant

editorial team; we are a pick ‘n’ mix of staff and students. This is not a regular student magazine. This is a bit different. It’s a celebration of creativity – poems, short

stories, cartoon sketches and paintings galore! Our magazine is so good we guarantee you’ll vote it, ‘least likely to shred’ at the British Magazine Awards 2011. Not only is

this magazine an amazing read, we offer you the chance to be a part of Slant by submitting your creative work each term. If it’s good and imaginative we may publish

it!

The magazine originated one year ago, and was initially produced by students and

lecturers in the Sixth Form Centre. Now it has become a full blown cross-college production, with its own editorial board, and a commitment to demonstrate

Bournemouth and Poole College staff and students’ creativity. Each issue of Slant

will have a different theme that all artists can interpret how they like. With the most talked about wedding of the century fast approaching, the grand Will and Kate Royal

Wedding, we thought an appropriate title for this issue would be ‘Modern Love.’

Why is this called Slant? After several months, many arguments and sleepless nights,

Slant was chosen the winning title for The College magazine. We agreed Slant ‘sort of felt right’ - and we believe readers can never be too sure of the writer’s true

intentions and meanings. This is what makes literature so fascinating, and individual readers can bring their own Slant to whatever they read.

Today, we live in an interactive age. Good news for us, this means you can email,

text, write, sing, use pigeon post – use any means to be a part of this exciting new magazine. So let me know what you think of Slant, I’m all ears! We’d really

appreciate your feedback.

Many thanks to the editorial team and graphic designers whose diligence underpins

the whole editorial process! And a big thank you to all our contributors. The standard of work was very high this time and we look forward to further submissions. Finally,

keep your eyes peeled for upcoming Slant themes which will be posted around The College and on mybpc. Happy reading!

Julie Faye Evans Editor

evansju@bpc.ac.uk

Love at first sight!!!!!

Sharon Collett Chief Editor

Julie Faye Evans Editor

Rob Hill Poetry Editor

Rowan Lee Deputy Poetry Editor

Martin Edwards Short Story Editor

Gillian Robinson Art Editor

Graphic Design Co-ordinator Roy Winspear

Graphic Designers Maria Eastwood Gabby Arthur

Many Thanks, Joe Hart Val Winzar Jack Warr Rita Paramallinjam Amy Courtney Jean Lovell

The makers ofThe makers of

Helen LakeLucy Wickens

“EYe

Love UThe sweetest smelling rose,Musical melody of a nightingale,The brightest shining star,None compare to you, all fail.

But now I wonder,Where to end this,A rapture of words,To define one kiss.

If I were to write a love poem,I would not know where to begin,Lost in a sea of words,

A battle I could not win.

“If I Were To Write a Love Poem”

If I were to write a love poem,I would not know where to begin,Lost in a sea of words,A battle I could not win.

Since the first day I met you,You have been on my mind,Intelligence, beauty, divine,Most certainly one of a kind.

My first thought of a morning,And my last one at night,In a life full of darkness,You are my light.

The night sky like a blanket,And you a brightly stitched star,To lighten my way,Whether you be near or far.

Or perhaps you are changed,Now a vigorous burning fire,The flames of heat and passion,Do spark a sense of desire.

Like Romeo and Juliet,Or Tristan and Isolde,To stand the test of time,To be remembered, to be told.

To immortalise you in words,To print your image on the page,Remembrance for eternity,Through time and age. A love POEM

Love uEYE LOVE

StephanieTeal

*Timeless Hearts* Hearts are like people, A multitude of moods available, Broken, tired, restless, Blissful, tranquil, adoring. The list is as long as eternity itself. What you do with yours, Is your choice alone, Wear it on your sleeve, Turn the beating muscle to stone, Lock it deep within your chest, Go out and steal all the rest. Not matter what you do, Just make sure you keep it safe, And let your soul ring true.

By Laurent Agelink

8 2

*Timeless hearts*

By Laurent Agelink

8

Number Four in the Queue ou think it will last, together forever?He’s been there before with many a lover.Number one wife, he cheated and lied,Left her and the children far behind.

arriage vows to wife number two,Listen to me, what I’m saying is true.He cheated and lied, had an affair,It’s where I come in, to my despair.

is marriage in tatters, comfort he sought,We were in love, or so I thought.Two years of hiding it, finally came clean, We had a loving, happy little routine.

t didn’t end there, he just couldn’t stop,His love for women was over the top.He cheated on me, now he claims he loves you,But remember now, you’re fourth in the queue.

nd don’t forget the few in between,A night here and there with them, so obscene.He gets bored pretty easily, remember I’ve said. One day you will find, someone else in his bed.

e cannot be faithful, he can’t tell the truth.A liar, a cheat, it’s so uncouth.He will sweet talk you, but always beware,He likes the game, called having an affair.

Y

By Amelia Cartwright

M

H

I

A

H

Modern love, apparently By Georgina Wilcox

Sometimes the sun shines brightly, like the air is crisp and could crack if you disturbed the harmony. The air is pure and clean and allows the sun to shine in all its glory. It shone through the trees catching the leaves and illuminating their green shades. Underneath them, from the window of a Honder Civic the sun caught the face of the back seat passenger. The car, in motion, followed a winding road that mimicked the curves of what once had been the river. Men had built this road to avoid crossing the river’s path and so the road was long and winding although over the years the river changed course and can now be observed following in another direction. Nevertheless, the cause-way served its purpose, the purpose that it was built for, and protrudes amongst crowded woodland that shelters the road as a roof to inhabitants of a house. The back seat passenger was leaning against the window whilst facing outward, watching the trees race by. One hand sheltered her face keeping the sun rays out of her eyes and the other lay clasped around the seat belt coming down from her shoulder. The radio had been on for some time but had been merely background noise as was any conversation coming from the front seats of the car. Adrift in an-other-worldly plain she portrayed a look absent of emotion where all that was left was contemplation. Contemplation of a better world than the one she knew, a place she had only ever read about. The motor of the car engine droned onwards as the car climbed upward over a bridge crossing a dual-carriage way. The trees left them now and they were joined by the open blue sky that ran away as far as could be seen and below the tarred carriageway followed suit, allowing shiny cars to chase them also. The sun bounced off their roofs in strips like a bold cartoon lightning bolt. In the distance, grey, venomous, smoke, the smoke of dullness escaped from a hospital's chimney and disappeared in the air before the Honda Civic had crossed the bridge. A jerk in the roads surface called the girl in the back seat to attention. Suddenly she was aware; aware of the distance they had travelled, from where they had come and how long it would take them to arrive at their destination. She noticed the song playing on the radio and the conversation commencing between the filled front two seats. ‘How long for?’ the front passenger asked. ‘Oh, only a few hours at the most, I don’t really want to go but I’ve already told Sam that I would and so I can’t back out now’ the driver replied. ‘You could, just say that you are ill or not feeling well. They won’t mind’ ‘No I shouldn’t really, it’s probably best that I go anyway I don’t want them thinking, that, you know...’

A new song began playing on the radio. ‘And here is this week’s number one’ announced the DJ. ‘Oh I hate this music’, exclaimed the front passenger, ‘who would buy this, how is this song number one in the charts?’ ‘This is your generation’s versions of a love song’ stated the driver with a comic arrogance that held a mocking smile. ‘I don’t like it’ the front passenger insisted ‘it’s just rap, that’s not love, love is meant to be delicate and precious, not accompanied with restricted vocabulary and techno-dance beats’ ‘Shakespeare would turn in his grave’ the driver stated. The girl in the back was listening and felt the need to speak up. ‘No don’t you get it. It all the same in the end’ she said passively. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Whether it is Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet or... or a love letter an old romantic sends to his wife while he abroad or even the offer of a can of beer and a pack of cigarettes to a girlfriend who doesn’t ask for much. It’s all the same.’ She said in a tone of sincerity that even she didn’t recognise. The boy in the front passenger seat turned around to face her in the back of the car pulling his seatbelt to let him move in ease and then said ‘No, love is always going to be the same thing its romantic and this isn’t romantic at all...listen!’ She ceased in reply to listen to the song; a man’s voice was reciting rhyming word that amounted to his declaration of love for his ex-girlfriend. ‘Albeit it’s not to my particular taste’ she said admittedly ‘but it’s all the same. If a guy rap’s to his girlfriend how much he loves her rather than courts her in fine dining and dancing it’s all the same just as if someone’s romantic relationships converse through Facebook chat! It’s just love but expressed differently, its modern love, they all have the same meaning and that’s what makes it beautiful.’ The boy returned to his front seated position and the only noise was coming from the radio. The girl in the back seat sat waiting for a response of some kind whether it were reproach of acceptance. But none came, her quest for clarity had been dismissed and the song playing on the radio ended. She sat back in her seat and returned to look out the window seeing the sun poking through gaps in trees but before she floated off in to a far away realm she took note of the boy, through the left-wing mirror, in the front seat wearing a sore expression of defeat upon his face which made her smile. The conversation picked up again between the front two seats and the car emerged out of the woodland approaching a busy roundabout and eventually was lost in the traffic as it followed an exit.

WILL&

L0VE MODERN

&KATE

ROYALLOVE

MODERN

MODERN MODERN

MODE

L0VE L0

WILLWILLKATE

.............not your brainWhen you fish

for love,bait with your heart,................

When I’m feeling depressed and blue,

There’s a girl I see to ease my pain,

She’s surrounded by a green aurora,

And her name is Mary Jane.

When I’m with her, there’s light in a day,

That only seemed to be going bad,

She treats me well, but she is a witch,

According to mum and dad.

They tell me Mary Jane is evil,

That she’ll string me along and destroy my pride,

They’re not wrong, yet they’re not right,

But it should be up to me to decide.

The only reason they slag her off,

Is because she is more beautiful than any other,

Because while other girls have only one use,

Mary Jane can always find another.

Those other girls may take my fancy,

But they are too dangerous to be played with,

They suck you in, and take your soul,

And leave you struggling to live.

But Mary Jane never pushes me too far,

She never leaves me feeling regret,

She takes me to my highest sense,

And always has done since we met.

With her the world’s a happier place,

Sweet music and colours swirl in my head,

Her dark green eyes excite my soul,

And they will do so until I am dead.

Mary Jane

By Rowan LeeKATE

MODERN

MODE

L0

WILL

The space bar’s like a gap in teeth

That puts the gap between the keys

Called to the bar and every profession

There’s been a halt to my progression

Once throughout the land I’d be

Employed in every company

In typing pools my keys would clatter

Now office workers tend to chatter

I’d hoped for marriage, not to earn

But all I got was carriage return

My ribbons shredded, of an age

No need to wed, no need a page

Despite my footprint, carbon paper

I was much less a paper waster

Manual in the olden days

Electric won me lots of praise

The magic eraser tape invented

Postponed my fall, not circumvented

You think you’ve found the holy grail

But now much time is spent on mail

When sitting at my keys to work

There was much less of a chance to shirk

Mankind, you have abandoned me

Now all you love is your PC!

By Jill Sammonds

What’s

Your Type?

turn me on

TURN me ON

turn me on

TURN me ON

bettabelieveIT

Believe

Believe

By Becky Dune

he takes me out of this world,Taking my heart to the stars,Leaving me next to the moonlight.I can’t look into her eyes,Without seeing such beauty,Being taken aback by something so much,Am I a fool for being in this much love?That butterfly feeling I get when I see her,The dizziness inside of my head,The sickness in the pit of my stomach,Meaning more to me than the world itself.Put your life in my hands and I’ll hold it tight,In the walls of my heart you’ll stay.The right words I may not say,But I’m yours.I may not do the right things,Or look like much.I can’t promise you I am perfect,But I can promise you the world and my heart.

SI’m Yours

mix’n it up

Lament the passing heartbreak of thine eye;Long not forgot once wondrous smiles. Thy face of terrible torments walks by, One step speaks a hundred long miles. I dare not look for thine eyes sweet embrace; There sadness and splendour combine. For I could cut thy soul a thousandth place Cut quick, I steal a look sublime.

After, sorrow and guilt I feel many a day

To cut, a latent pain I swell.

My anguish for words of comfort to say,

Intransient thy scar does dwell.

Damn to the knife and damn to the sword,

I anger at the deed we’ve done.

We’ve stolen thine smile; we selfish have hoard

A commune beauty as the sun. Lament of

a Stolen Smile Thine heart is joyful yet soul is sullen, Tis like desire without content, To listen the silent angel fallen, As us mere mortals can’t relent.

I long to see thine sunshine smile of old, To feel the warmth and not the cold. I long to see thou proudly walk again,

To love the sun without the pain.

By Michael Chizlett

The Picnic I love you like a butterfly loves a flower,Not just a minute or even an hour.The clouds up above do hustle and shove,Oblivious below of my own true love.Shaded by sunlight under the tree,A moment to cherish alone with thee.You smile as bright as the day,Dandelion seeds blowing up and away.A moment, a juncture as wonderful as love,All thanks to a picnic and sun up above.

By Nic and Louise

Ink crosses and bruised hearts he was like Chuck Palaniuk’s Marla Singer. Her painted red bow lips clutched the cigarette. As if her grace wasn’t noticeable enough she was the only woman. Pete’s Hollywood smile grins, contradicting his LA tan. He wasn’t like her. She was his contradiction. Pete talks about everything he can. Telling us to see them more as friends than colleagues. Roxanne won’t nod. She doesn’t make friends with young musicians like us. She won’t talk to anyone. She’ll associate herself with cabaret performers and Hollywood indie scriptwriters. They’ll always just be associates to her. We’ll learn that she never stays in one place long enough to make real friends I tell her that I’m pleased to finally meet her. She smiles and graciously says thank you. She was hideously beautiful yet gorgeously ugly. A bruise was in the making on her pale neck, it was quickly covered up by a lock of red hair. She puts out her cigarette in the ugly ashtray and lights another one. One swift movement. Graceful yet feral.

try and pay my attention back to Pete and his mix of business and meaningless banter. Ryan laughs at his jokes like the fan boy he is. She’s staring at me. Trying to work me out, a penniless West coast singer and pianist. A failure in the making. She knows I won’t last long in the City of Angels. The fire from her lighter glows in her brown eyes, making her scarier. Pete asks us to sign the contract; we all do, calloused finger tips gripping the biro. He reassured us, tells us it’s an easy job, after all he does it daily. She smirks, the left side of her red lips rising.

don’t see her for a while after that. Pete talks non-stop about her. Roxanne and Hemingway, they were his life. A beautiful lost woman and a bull dog. We hear stories of how someone mistook her for an obscure actress at a party or how she had gotten her arm stuck in a Pringles box. I wondered if he ever told her he loved her. We spent our beginnings in LA, surrounded by the adored, but being catalogued as the ignored. A few Pete-adoring website followed her, tagging where to buy her earrings or how to get her crow-eye- make up. She will ignore them. Pete will live it up. She was his contradiction. I finally see her again. We were recording in a studio. Go left at the false cactus. She was stood by the coffee machine, having just finished a meeting She has no accent. Some of her words are from the British dialect. She speaks fluent Italian and Spanish. She wears Japanese clothing with Japanese scribbleson. She was a traveller. Pete says she used to live in Fiji. How she came to Hollywood no one would ever find out..

I

I

S

Ink crosses and bruised hearts

By Amelia Harvey

he was like Chuck Palaniuk’s Marla Singer. Her painted red bow lips clutched the cigarette. As if her grace wasn’t noticeable enough she was the only woman. Pete’s Hollywood smile grins, contradicting his LA tan. He wasn’t like her. She was his contradiction. Pete talks about everything he can. Telling us to see them more as friends than colleagues. Roxanne won’t nod. She doesn’t make friends with young musicians like us. She won’t talk to anyone. She’ll associate herself with cabaret performers and Hollywood indie scriptwriters. They’ll always just be associates to her. We’ll learn that she never stays in one place long enough to make real friends I tell her that I’m pleased to finally meet her. She smiles and graciously says thank you. She was hideously beautiful yet gorgeously ugly. A bruise was in the making on her pale neck, it was quickly covered up by a lock of red hair. She puts out her cigarette in the ugly ashtray and lights another one. One swift movement. Graceful yet feral.

try and pay my attention back to Pete and his mix of business and meaningless banter. Ryan laughs at his jokes like the fan boy he is. She’s staring at me. Trying to work me out, a penniless West coast singer and pianist. A failure in the making. She knows I won’t last long in the City of Angels. The fire from her lighter glows in her brown eyes, making her scarier. Pete asks us to sign the contract; we all do, calloused finger tips gripping the biro. He reassured us, tells us it’s an easy job, after all he does it daily. She smirks, the left side of her red lips rising.

don’t see her for a while after that. Pete talks non-stop about her. Roxanne and Hemingway, they were his life. A beautiful lost woman and a bull dog. We hear stories of how someone mistook her for an obscure actress at a party or how she had gotten her arm stuck in a Pringles box. I wondered if he ever told her he loved her. We spent our beginnings in LA, surrounded by the adored, but being catalogued as the ignored. A few Pete-adoring website followed her, tagging where to buy her earrings or how to get her crow-eye- make up. She will ignore them. Pete will live it up. She was his contradiction. I finally see her again. We were recording in a studio. Go left at the false cactus. She was stood by the coffee machine, having just finished a meeting She has no accent. Some of her words are from the British dialect. She speaks fluent Italian and Spanish. She wears Japanese clothing with Japanese scribbleson. She was a traveller. Pete says she used to live in Fiji. How she came to Hollywood no one would ever find out..

ask her if she loves Pete. Brendon Big Mouth they called me at school.She laughs bitterly and says she didn’t believe in love. Love was a thing made up by commercial companies to make us buy shitty cards. She stares at the cactus for an indefinite amount of time. Nothing’s ever real here is it? She tells me. She had answered my question. She hands me a cup of coffee, I add sugar. She adds sugar, too much sugar. I live off of this stuff, she jokes. I wonder if Pete gets off at seeing her rib bones protruding or at the sharp angle of her collar bone. She stares at me as I drink my coffee. I lookat her questioningly. It’s unusual to see your sort around here, she tells me. You’re honest and... real, she uses the pause to wave her hands about. I can’t help but notices the scar ruining her porcelain skin. She was like a doll a teenager had left at the bottom of the wardrobe.

he meeting in the studio was the last time I ever saw her in person. There was a picture of her online. She was stood next to Ashlee Simpson, her pale skin almost translucent. That was the last picture I saw of her.

week after that picture was taken she was gone. We were in the editing and mixing phase when Pete walks in, more drugged up than usual. He tells us she’s gone, he had come back from a magazine photo shoot and her stuff was gone. I quickly ask if she left a note. He laughs bitterly, the same laugh I had heard when I asked Roxy about love. That only happens in the movies, he says.

he week I found out she had gone it rained non-stop. Men like Pete would call it irony or shitty-lucky but my teenage angst found other reasons. Ryan tells me that she was a traveller; she moved from place to place, that was what she did. Now and then I wonder if she had walked past me in the street. Maybe she had cut her hair, dyed it, wore contact lenses, put on weight. She could be sat next to me on the subway. It was all the hope I had left. Life still carried on. It stopped raining. Pete moved on, fell in lust, became the rock star he always was in his head. An envelope appears at my condo two years later. It was a photocopied passport; it belonged to Roxanna Lombardi, an Italian twenty-four year old. The envelope was from Pete. He had tracked her down, she was working in a bar in Dubai. The eye candy for the rich. He said she had short blonde hair, a Betty Grable look-a-like. I wondered how he spotted her amongst the other blondes. She has a cross tattoo he tells me. I was too busy looking at the bruises to notice the ink.

I

T

A

T

College

K

Collegeart

WOrK

“Modern love”

By Gillian Robinson

“The Distance Between” Us

By Gillian Robinson

“Modern Witch”

By Charlie Mounsey (Animal Care Lecturer BPC)