ETTiCUTISSUE 2-ADDICTION 08/09

AD-DICT

sam rushton p4

Daniel lamb p7

alan dunn p11

natalie honan p12

peter wood p20

mark whitford p22

sam rushton p26

lauren pissochet p28

amy gale p30

matthew macro p31

tracey hollowood p32

federico Michettoni p34

paul ashton p36

editing/designing/curating by matthew macro

Contents

3Addiction

GLUEIt was a cool Spring evening and I settled down to watch some of The Simpsons. I ate my cheeseburgers quietly, occasionally smiling at some of the things Homer said, then I watched the news absent mindedly. I wasn’t paying particular attention to anything, just letting my mind wander. The sun was slowly down by now, though I had forgotten to turn the light on. In my school bag peeked a can of deodorant, I had been playing football that afternoon, defence. The smell of the cheeseburgers had left an aroma in my room, so I sprayed the can around. As the small particles fell like snow illuminating with the blue glow off the televi-

sion, I stared at the short, black can. Then I put it up to my mouth and pressed down.

It wasn’t the first time I had huffed. Everybody sniffed the markers at school; occasionally the pritt sticks and made jokes about sniffing glue. But I in fact had been sniffing glue for a while, there was a dozen or so plastic bags littered around the wreck near where I live. I had found the glue in an abandoned allotment and went out there at weekends, nestling my head over the bags and inhaling so much I forgot what I was doing. Going home stinking of glue wouldn’t have been a good idea, so I also started smoking to cover that smell and chewing gum to cover that smell. I was bulletproof. It would get to the stage where I would go there every evening until it eventually ran out. I had used the last of it on Christmas Eve, spilling a packet of monster munch filled with glue onto my pants. It wasn’t my ruined pants which

lead me to stop, it was more the side-effects that had started to creep in.

By that stage I was developing a rash on my nose. And from time to time my fingers would twitch, a sign of nerve damage I would find out later. Though I could get away with it for a while, saying I had a cold, people started to notice. My speech had changed, becoming more slower and requiring me to pause sometimes to keep track of sentences. Inhaling made it worth it though. No matter what would have happened during the day, I could treat myself to a nice huff and puff of glue. I would use it to reward myself for doing something well or to cheer myself up when feeling low. It didn’t really matter why, it was just something that

happened.

After what I call ‘burger day’ things started to go a little haywire. I hadn’t huffed anything for a few months, though now I was doing it pretty regularly again. I had begun starting to miss school as I was lying around my house in a daze, using anything I could find to get high. Cans filled with petrol, aerosols, glue poured into rags. I would sit in my room with the win-dow open with my face buried into some fumes, eyes bloodshot and staring out blankly. In this trance I would watch patterns unfold on the wall opposite, listening to a rising, whoosh-ing noise that didn’t exist and afterward smoking a cigarette to cover the smell. By this point my parents suspected I smoked, though I did everything I could to cover it up. Occasionally I would leave a lighter in my coat pocket, though I was willing to put up with the odd digging question about that than them finding out about what I was slowly becoming addicted to.

All of this came to a head just as we broke up for summer. The days were long and hot, the nights were short and forgetful. A few of my friends knew I huffed, they would join me from time to time. We slowly drifted apart as they all started getting girlfriends or summer jobs.

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I was surviving off birthday money and the occasional note I would get off my mum, telling her I was going for a night on the town. In my smartest shirt and shoes I would instead go to the petrol station, buying something to sniff and sit out on the wreck by myself, lying back and staring at the sky. When it was good it was good. My exam results hadn’t been as well as people expected, but I could repeat a few of these at college next Autumn. My thoughts lazily drifted through my mind like clouds in the summer sky, the sun a smouldering red cherry hanging above the horizon. Lounging against a huge boulder of concrete, the smell from the bag of crisps wafted up and around me, hypnotizing. I realized I had been dribbling for a minute or so and pushed it back into my mouth with my ring finger before again bringing the

bag up to my face. Sweet Ambrosia.

I had also grown a sort of moustache to try and cover the rash, though from time to time it became discoloured or glue stuck to it. I nearly walked back home once with a sandwich bag stuck to my face. In the setting sun I ran my fingers through the patchy piece of bum fluff, my eyes watering like crazy. Dropping the bag, I watched the thick glue pour over the leaves of a dandelion, and slowly made my way back to the petrol station. I had a bit of a dry mouth and fancied a light drink, nothing fizzy or too sugary. The staff at the petrol station probably knew I was a gas head, but they didn’t really seem to care. I was a regular customer and never caused any trouble. Paid for my drink and a can of lighter fluid, I went outside and sat on a wall nearby. Time seemed to slow down here, the lights of cars left smears of yellow and red across my vision. Without really realizing where I was, I unscrewed the lid of fuel and pushed

one of my nostrils shut before taking a big lungful of fumes.

I think the setting had put me off a bit, I usually controlled how much I inhaled. Though I had broken up for summer that day and thought I should celebrate perhaps. I don’t really know. I was probably still fucked off the glue. Though without thinking about it, I was squeezing the can to push the fumes up into my face. Over and over I seemed to do it, forgetting what I was doing as I was doing it. When I finally woke myself up from this, I realized I had been glugging the lighter fluid. It dropped out of my shaking hand and I was fucked. Through the intense whirlwind inside my mind, I was aware I had taken it a bit to far now. The whooshing noise in my ears was deafening, my brain was going wrong. A few people were watching me from the passenger seats of cars, men, women, children. Dozens of eyes focused on a scream-ing teenager, vomiting freely down his shirt as he walked towards them. Some of the cars

started to honk their horns, but all of this was alien to me. I needed more.

I had stumbled to my wardrobe and pulled out at the sleeve of my blazer, then realized it was actually a petrol pump. I wasn’t in control of my body any more, all of this felt as if I was in a dream or watching all of this from across the road. Petrol shot over my face like a cold shower, though I hadn’t managed to get much out before somebody had grabbed me from behind and pushed me against the side of a car, my arms held at my sides. Unable to really remember was going on at the time, I had apparently been crying while licking my lips to drink as much petrol as I could. All of this of course seems like a horrible dream now, something I had no real action in. I spent a while in hospital coping with some brain damage and I still can’t tie my shoes or hold a long conversation, but I’ve come to terms with it. I used to think where would I be or what would I be doing now if my head wasn’t scrambled, but there is no use in

thinking that.

A: Sam Rushton

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Daniel LambUntitled Paintings

‘Untitled’

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‘Untitled’

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‘Untitled’

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Conquering addiction is notriously difficult. This still of a film by Alan Dunn depicts the artist with his last cigarette before he quit. The piece not only serves as a document of the event, but also as a means of motivation for the artist to stay smoke free, if Alan smokes again his film loses its sense of meaning and credibil-ity, not just for the audience, but also for the artist himself. This adds a touching feel of fragility to the film, aside from its personal and motivational purposes.

Alan DunnThe last cigarette

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Natalie honan

Photo one, ‘Arm’

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Addiction

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Photo two, ‘Untitled’

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Photo three, ‘Arm 2’

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Photo four, ‘Needle’

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Peter WoodPeter is a friend of a friend I met one time, while we were drinking in the garden of my old house around the bonfire, not to say this was November mind, it was a warm, sunny, late summers afternoon coming up to evening. In the spirit of addiction we had a good old chin-wag about said topic and he had much to say on the matter, as did I. As i was, for want of a better word, drunk that night i dont remember much of it. But here are a few text based pieces submitted by the chap. enjoy.

The Agoraphobe

It was some time ago now that my infirmity first presented itself. It is a painful memory, but one of such gravity that it’s pull is inexorable. Over and again it is this instance of my problem that my mind is drawn to, besides all others, as it was then that the contrast was most stark with my previous life, and then that I had so little understanding of what was happening to me. I had gone to a shop to buy a shirt, one for wearing in my new job. I had just been taken on by a call-centre, working through an agency that took a portion of my wage. I had already worked a fortnight on those dreaded phones, and had found my collection of semi-smart clothing to be insufficient for constant cleanliness. The journey to the shop had been quite normal, I had picked up my paper on the way out, said my passing hellos to the neighbour pottering in his garden, and then headed up the hill to the bus. Upon alighting I felt my first twinge of discordancy, as those before in line went through the routine with the driver of specifying their ticket and paying the price. It seemed to carry an echo of those two weeks of voices on the other end of the phone. It evoked the routine that I myself had now perfectly memorised, had now incorporated into myself. Useless as it would generally be, I could now recite the phonetic alphabet. Oh, the joy of bettering oneself. So, upon hearing these people in their own routine, and imagining this driver’s incessant run through his entire day, and every previous one for probable years, I was taken by a strange leaden feeling. I looked to his eyes and their expression. A melodramatic man might have called them dead, to me they were just mundane. Everyday eyes on an everyday man, windows to an everyday soul. Please do not mistake me, I saw no horror in seeing such a person, I have no revulsion for normality or routine. Yet, here I was, taken with a peculiar oppression. Realising it was soon me to state my destination, I gave a quick shake of my head, pinched my nose and looked momentarily downwards, my malaise thusly dispelled, I stepped forward with a smile and paid the price for my ticket.

When seated in the bus, I again felt faint echoes of some indiscernible problem, itching at the edge of my conscious-ness. As I read news of yet more bad weather, of yet more political scandals, yet more diatribes on matters various and narrow, my heart began to sink. I became more acutely aware of the people around me, of the worlds I assumed they lived in, of the actions I would be expected to commit in regard to them should various events happen. It was like I was seeing the world more vividly and accurately than I had before. As of yet, this was no problem, and as the bus careened and shunted its way through the streets I absorbed myself in it with curious delight. The manner in which each person’s existence presented itself upon my consciousness was remarkable, and held me slightly dazed, as if tipsy on some warming spirit. Held in this fascination my paper had dropped to my side, and my eyes wandered with childlike innocence, with little thought behind them except to ensure to be aware of the curious series of unfolding experiences. It was, then, with some reluctance that I saw the shops in the middle distance and, blinkingly, rose from the muddy depths of my contemplation. Then, still to some extent under this peculiar influence, I stumbled down the stairs and out the door.

Still unsure of what was happening, but most concretely certain that it could not be of concern (you see, I was sure that nothing of concern would ever happen to me), I headed confidently forward and straight into the shop. It was at this moment, having stepped into the shop, that I became acutely aware that things were not as I had presumed them to be. Each person’s presence was like a great distorting weight, and there were for some odd reason quite a few people present. The world was in places bloated, while in others detail was packed into far too small a place. My head swam, it felt like some strange droning noise was suffocating my thoughts. Presently, I became aware that one of the teenage shop assistants was looking at me with an appraising glare while chewing her gum, and it was obvious that what she saw was in some way amusing. I knew that it should be, I must have been some sight, having strode in, only to stop in place and glance around like a lost rabbit.

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The more I stood there, I realised, the more ridiculous this would seem, the more the attention of this person would weigh horribly down on me, and the more likely I would be to draw the attention of other people. In such a situation I would know nothing of what to do, what the correct apologies would be. Quickly my mind grabbed the reins, I must be about my original business as quickly as possible, I was not willing to give up, and not willing to accept the peculiar indignity of retreating from this shop. Nervously, and fidgeting, as if some criminal under the scrutiny of police, I headed to the shirts, and began to inspect them. Realising that I was in no state to actu-ally think about my purchase, I was now simply going through a routine of pretending to be appraising them, in a vague attempt to pass for as normal as I could. Disorientated, I stumbled for the till and placed my shirt on the counter, the girl there scanned the item through and said something. I don’t know what it was, it didn’t register. I was staring straight down at the shirt and suddenly it felt like the world was shuddering in time with every heartbeat, I was sure my body was doing things I was unaware of, like jerking confusedly around... The simple point being that I had no experience of whether it was or it wasn’t, and my mind had suddenly raced to the worst conclusion. I felt eyes burning in my back, and with each set of eyes a thundering weight shimmering onto my consciousness with mind-numbing heat. I was lost, totally lost, and my mind panicked. There was no thought, there was only the sudden crazed need to remove myself from the surroundings, to return as fast as was possible to my home and its safety. I didn’t know what was causing my problem, but I somehow felt that if I could get away from these people I would be fine.

Turning, I dashed towards the door, flinging myself straight into a display with a clatter that seemed like an omi-nous succession of drum beats. I ignored it, and carried on straight for the door. Behind me, some people turned to see the source of the slight clatter of some clothes-hangers, and spotted a man, undoubtedly reminded of some missed engagement, dashing through the door. Having exited, I stared wildly about, having run straight into a thicker crowd of people, and my heart beat upon my chest with a violence that made me think my ribs would crack. For a moment I considered fleeing back into the store, but innumerable folded reasons prevented that possibility, and so I dashed for the nearest cover I saw, and dived into my new hiding spot. Slowly the pounding in my head and chest receded, I felt clammy all over, deflated and defeated. My conscious mind was now returning to my head and puzzling over the strange series of events. I now felt intensely humiliated and embarrassed. What a fool I had acted, and why? And, here I was now clutching at some bush. I raised my hand to see the mud that now caked it, and then looked up to catch a glimpse of some child staring at me before being ushered away by its parent. Lord, I thought, what has become of me? I felt suddenly that I was beside the normal scope of the human race, that in this simple action I had transitioned from the general populace into some group of lunatics, freaks and imbeciles, fit only for the derision of wider mankind. My head still swimming I wandered with little aim towards my home, again feeling drunk, but drunk on a different feeling. Drunk on the new reality of myself. When I arrived home I slammed the door and then slumped down, my mouth agape and eyes staring meaninglessly. What had happened? I could not know.. Now in my minds eye the world had become populated with these new creatures, these lead balloons that hover tethered above each person’s head with the power to destroy me. The World outside seemed a hot ferment over-crowded with these things and the friction of their interaction. My home though, this now was a safe haven, a cool and empty place, filled only with my empty mind and the occasional insect. Only here could I feel refreshed and in comfort. Truly, I felt I was becoming some sort of monster, and I was realising that my new life would not be an easy one, and that old dreams were now atop an insurmountable peak. I spotted a fly to my side, and in my distraction and irritation almost immediately raised my hand to crush it. But then, before the hand dropped, I stopped myself. What right do I, such a pathetic creature, have to take away the life of this fly? I had become one of the damned, and yet this intricately beautiful thing was still perfectly built for whirling flights, and fulfilling a destiny of reproduction. How could I take its existence? It was absurd. Glumly my head drooped. I realised though, that it’s wings were battered, and its attempts at flight were having no real fruit, simply cruelly pale reflections of its prior rapturous acrobatics. So, this fly too was one of this world’s invalids, its life was also robbed of whatever mockery of meaning it had previously had. I felt a peculiar affinity with this fly, and it was at this moment that I considered how I wished to be put out of my misery, and before I could even finish the thought my hand had smacked down upon him, leaving a black smudge behind as his only trace. Somehow, I had felt that if I could finish the deed before the thought was finished he might miss out on the act itself, as if I was sparing him of my own unpleasant feeling. But, as things are, there is no great hand hover-ing above my head, and all it had served to do was put a full stop in my loneliness, and to underline the shameful absurdity of my own thoughts.

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“Invisible,” Intoxicated or sober, battling those not in sight, unable to see them-selves physically, mentally disappeared!

Image one

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Mark Whitford

“Long Walk Home”- Being chased by your demons, lost in another world too deep to fight/find your way back.

Image Two

Three paintings

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"All Alone"- Ignoring support given to them, trusting dissilusioned guidance.

Image Three,

“Mr Nature Boy, hows things? Sincere apol-ogies for the late submission, my lap-top has just returned from being repaired.Find attached three illustrations empha-sisng my understanding of the behaviour controlled by this desease, focusing on all types of addiction whether prescribed or not!”

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“FFF”Sam has been very busy this month, and managed to pinch off two short stories for us. This is the second installment from our resident word-master. If you’ve not yet dedicated time to reading the first story- “glue”, then i suggest you do so, it deserves your time. I have very much become an avid reader of Sam’s blunt yet elequently written short stories, hence why I have included both this issue. This particular story opens our eyes to the world of the addict and his peers. There’s not much more I can say about it in all fairness, so enjoy.

“Hey, come on guys. Let’s just go for a walk. That will calm us all down.” said Jer-emy. I look down my glasses, nodding. Jeremy was right after all, he was the kind of snobby son of a bitch who needed to be. Michael looked down at his hands and dusted them down the front of his stripy blue t-shirt. He stared off for a while, kept patting his front then eventually nodded. We all set off going for a walk, trying to work off the obscene hangovers each all had. Camping hadn’t gone so well, coming up to take in the fresh air and it ending in a severe brain wrongness. Michael kicked an empty tin of beans and ran forward a bit. “Hold on.” he said, facing away from us. He had nothing to be ashamed about, we all regularly got our cocks on while on a binge. No tom-foolery though. “Imagine like, all the alcohol we’ve ever had to drink.” said Jeremy.“That’s a boring thing to say.” I said, a little bit grouchy. Jeremy shrugged, there was a whole lot of silence going on. We walked along a lane still in the shadow of a dry-stone wall set by a forest. None of us had slept yet either, it was a creeping hangover.

After about a mile we came to a pub, but it was shut. We sat around on the wet benches, smoking our last two cigarettes between the three of us. Back to town was another mile or so yet, until you got to the rim. Michael needed to stop for another piss, then we argued about getting a taxi. The sun was already making us sweat. I had brought along a half empty bottle of cider, but nobody really wanted to drink it. I eventually threw it into a field where some sheep were following us from a few yards back, they all ran away. The pylons in the distance had a light heat haze on them.

We eventually got to a petrol station on the crest of a hill, open all night and day. Pooling our money together, I went to the window. My reflection looked how I felt. I asked for twenty lambert & butler, twelve cans of lager and a packet of beef and onion crisps. We walked a little along the road and sat in a bus shelter. Michael checked the times, but another bus wouldn’t come for four hours. We sat, contem-plating, then cracked open a few cans of beer. As I felt it pour into my body, I knew this was the right thing to do. After a minute or so Michael piped up.“I’m thinking of giving up the sauce for a bit.”Me and Jeremy both laughed. We had said the same a lot of times before, but there we were. Michael just turned away. I could tell by the sloshing note in his can he had only drank a quarter.“Well, we’re still drinking from the night before...” I said, taking another swig. It didn’t taste very good, but it was cold and refreshing and alcoholic. “Besides, it’s dangerous if any of us stopped now. Get the shakes.” added Jeremy.“I’m just sick of being drunk all the time. Can anybody remember us not being drunk or hungover?”

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“I usually have a few days off mid-week” I said. I still drank but I didn’t get drunk. I took the crisps out of the bag and opened them, set down my can of lager and had breakfast.

My head felt fuzzy and the others were looking a bit worse for wear. We had walked through some houses now, finishing the last of our cans in a ginnel. “I think I’m go-ing to be sick.” said Jeremy eventually, holding onto a wall and breathing dramati-cally.“Alright, chill out.” said Michael.“I’m going to be sick.”“Don’t be sick here, we’re near houses.”I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to go to bed really. Thought about if it was possible to drink while sleeping would it be something I’d do. I stuffed the empty shopping bag in my pockets and we all went quiet when a man silently walked his dog past us all. After they had passed, Jeremy started huffing again. Then there was an atomic explosion over the hill.

It all flashed white and I wondered what had happened, then we all fell over. The day had already been quite warm, but now it felt as though somebody was blast-ing me with a thousand hair-dryers at least. After this had subsided, we all started walking again, not really saying much. Ash started to fall gently onto us, like snow. “I wish we had some cans left.” I said, picking up a stick and hitting the heads off thistles. “It’s no use now I guess. Let’s go back to mine, I think there’s some stuff.” said Jeremy. We all walked with our heads down, our eyes streaming down our blotchy red faces.

We sat around in the living room, the television didn’t work. Jeremy poured us each out a generous amount of whiskey that had been passed down through the fam-ily for generations. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up. None of us really knew what to say, but suicide eventually came up. We all decided that we would be close to alcohol poisoning anyway, and considered the rules of a competition to drink to death. Michael and I then got into a conversation about both our favourite and least favourite drinks and related stories for reasons why. All of us then started feeling more and more hungover, Jeremy started being sick into the sink. My beard started to fall off while this was happening. “Right, this is horrible. You have to kill me.” I said eventually, I could taste blood. “I don’t know. We must nearly be dead now, can’t you wait?” said Jeremy faintly, holding his head in his hands.“Maybe help will come.” said Michael, coughing a bit.“You’re well drunk.” I say, laughing. I gently got up and walked into the kitchen, wondering if there would be anything to kill myself with. Though the outer jelly of my corneas was damaged, I could still see through my glasses. Somewhere in the distance I could hear a few helicopters, maybe sirens. I wasn’t sure really. I let myself out of the back door and across the concrete slabs lightly dusted with ash, lighting one of the last few cigarettes. If I’d have known this was going to happen I would have splashed out a bit more, maybe got some cigars. Champagne even, though I didn’t really like it. A bird circled overhead, then flew down and landed in front of me. It looked up at me with a tiny human head and beady black eyes. I was sick.

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Lauren PissochetDance Addiction

qHeavyweight Vibration tWired Two

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Amy GaleHow to...

Matthew MacroLather Rinse Repeat

thurs 22/07/09 @ 13:42- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

thurs 22/07/09 @ 22:12- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

fri 23/07/09 @ 09:13- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

fri 23/07/09 @ 15:37- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

fri 23/07/09 @ 19:02- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

sun 25/07/09 @ 11:15- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

mon 26/07/09 @ 14:22- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

mon 26/07/09 @ 23:49- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

tues 27/07/09 @ 19:21- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

thurs 29/07/09 @ 13:44- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

thurs 29/07/09 @ 22:01 - Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

fri 30/07/09 @ 10:07 - Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

fri 30/07/09 @ 20:37- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

sat 31/07/09 @ 16:12- Alright mate, can i pick up an eighth?- Where are ya?- 22 Arnold Terrace.- Half an hour mate.- Cheers mate.

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Federico MichettoniAlcohol Addict

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Federico Michettoni

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Tracey HollowoodOn her addiction

I’ve found Tracey’s submission quite refreshing this month. Amongst all the works quite openly and directly based around the vice end of addiction, Tracey has chosen to touch on her own addiction, which, at the time of submitting, she admitted was bright colours.

“Hi Matt

Are these of any use. I’ m loving big bold colours at the mo!!!!”

What I most like about this set of photographs, is how innocently they engage with the audience, not pushing us to mould our own interpretations of their meaning or context, just simply demonstrating an aspect of the artists personality for us to observe. A struggle many artists find hard to defeat, is getting their own personal-ity across to the audience through their work, nevertheless Tracey has quite effortlessly achieved this without resorting to self portraiture or other biographical means of producing artwork.

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Tracey Hollowood

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Paul AshtonIts not me its the gear

P:

M: “Have you got my bit?”

A: “Indeed i do. You wanna explain it a little more for me?”

“Purely a self portrait of a drug addict (currently clean), the question is around what you actually see, do you see the drug or the person?The lamp also brings juxtaposition in with it being a little obscured (and obscuring) and looking like a gear (as in cog).”

“So all clear now?I Think not.”

“But that doesnt matter the artist puts it out there and the brave hearted will seek there own mean-ing ....to paraphrase Sorrn Kirkkegard.”

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Next issue... Nostalgia

We’re looking for submissions based around the idea of nostalgia.

The sentimental feeling/emotion towards past memories and experiences.

All medias welcome.

email submissions to matthewmacro@hotmail.com

any queries or suggestions, also email matthewmacro@ hotmail.com

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