Winter 2016

Zine curated by Stephanie Watson and Sarah Foot. Graphic design by Stephanie Watson.

// Editor’s letter
// About the authors
// Section I: Photography
– Florette Hill’s Memories
– Claire Malaika Tunnacliffe’s The summer I fell in love with M
– Claire Malaika Tunnacliffe’s You, me, cancer
– Claire Malaika Tunnacliffe’s And then they’re gone
// Section II: Poetry
– Anon’s Bean Sprouts
Anon’s Behind the church there was a forest
– Cheyenne Raine’s Butterfly Memory
– Cheyenne Raine’s The Making of Memories
Cheyenne Raine’s Moon Memory
// Section III: Illustrations
– Liz Taylor’s Distortion
– Liz Taylor’s Portrait 5
– Liz Taylor’s Portrait 6
// Setion IV: Prose
– Anon’s Notes on what you don’t remember
// Section V: Mixed Media
– Stephanie Watson’s Subtle Repression
Alexander Turton’s Second Skin
// About Spring’s issue


Dear Fembotters,

So it’s finally 2016, and nearly a year has passed since Cyberrriot’s inception. It honestly feels as though the zine was created only three months ago, its funny how memory works sometimes.

Which brings me to the current issue, and its theme.

Memory is such a subjective thing; no two memories from the same situation are exactly alike, which is just another symptom of our uniqueness as individuals. I remember exactly where I was and how I felt when I was told about various terrorist attacks, when my grandmother died, when I got my first writing gig, and these memories are crisp and clear. Yet for other meaningful moments in my life, such as the first time I called myself a feminist, or the last time I saw one of my friends from uni; these are fuzzier. It’s funny because fuzzier doesn’t necessarily mean less meaningful, sometimes our minds just don’t hold onto that memory. This is why we need to forgive ourselves for forgetting that name or date, and we also need to stop assuming that everyone has the same mental capacity to hold said memories neurologically.

Memory means different things to us all, and we all experience it in different ways; which often leads to it affecting our art in different ways. For the last Cyberrriot issue of the year, we bring you a collection of the different ways our artists experience, and appreciate memory. From visual representations of memory loss, sentimental verses that describe painful and wonderful flashbacks, to the visceral imagery that our memories can paint during emotional moments, or even dreams.

I hope you remember this issue for the years to come, and that you have an amazing new year!

Cyberrriot on,
~ Stephanie Watson
EIC of Fembot Magazine and Cyberrriot.


HillFlorette Hill‘s passions are traveling and photography, which go together well. In addition she lives in a region in Germany which Alexander von Humboldt called ‘German Nizza.’ Of which she feels very lucky and happy to reside in. Before getting her pension she worked as a medican technical assistant and secretary. Florrette also founded the group Step-By-Step in 2014, of which you can check out at

Cheyenne Raine Cisneros (Cheyenne Raine) is a poet residing in San Antonio, TX. She is currently attending Our Lady of the Lake University, majoring in Theology and Spiritual Action. She works as an office assistant at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Little Flower, the perfect church to house her faithful heart. She enjoys writing poetry, exploring local coffee shops, and silent nature walks. More of her work can be found on her website

Liz Taylor is currently completing an mdes qualification in illustration in south wales, working mostly on conceptual interactive exhibitions and expressive ‘ugly’ linear caricatures for subjects from mental health to surreal editorial cartoon work.

Claire Malaika Tunnacliffe (Mali) 27, Londoner (by adoption) ended up with her mother’s camera by chance when she was 15. Rummaging in a forgotten cupboard, she found her old 1964 Pentax Spotmatic that she used to carry around with her everywhere, snapping her father, sister and herself, our trips across East Africa piled into the back of a 4×4. Her memory of her then, is of her at her happiest. Later, they left many homes, countries, friends, and at 15, she was battling every teen’s growing angst with fervour. The weight of her camera, the one she still uses, became an extension of herself that day; heavy & reassuring, mine to keep. The way she approach photography is often with nostalgia, an eagerness to not forget, grasping at threads of fragmented memory.
..Having completed his Bachelor in English literature this year, Alexander Turton is currently working in the live art sector. He grew up by the seaside in the depths of rural Cornwall and lived briefly in Berlin. He currently resides in London where he hopes to continue working in the arts and pursue an MA in theatre-making next year. Alexander rarely submits his work for publication and generally-speaking, very few people have read or seen his work.

Stephanie Watson, co-founder of Fembot, joined the site in 2010, and since then has gotten an honors degree in Psychology, and an HNC in Professional Writing. She also contributes to HelloGiggles, Bitch Media, and hopes to make her way further in the journalistic world. As well as her love for opinionated journalism and social media, she also writes romantic prose and cryptic poetry, dabbling in minimalist painting too. Stephanie’s goals are of a personal creative kind, however through her articles and poetry she hopes to provoke change and discussion of social justice issues.

The melancholy yet extremely gentle next set of images really does show how our memories can either take on a very fragile, or very vivid form. From withering flowers and delicate weeds, to cold hard locations softened by a nostalgic camera lens, these photos have a thousand interpretations for the audience; what are some of yours? – Stephanie

by Florette Hill

by Claire Malaika Tunnacliffe

 Cancerby Claire Malaika Tunnacliffe

goneby Claire Malaika Tunnacliffe

As a poet myself, I know how well the medium can represent a fond or tragic memory, and even how well they can distort them. Romanticizing a memory in poetic words can soften the blow of a tough event, or frame a wonderful one forever. The following poetry shows this romance, they clear up previously fuzzy recollections, and invite us to times that only the poet remembers. – Stephanie

by Anon


I remember

the gentle sigh

of the moon

on my shoulder.

I used to dance

under the silver light,

stepping in and out

of the shadows.

It has been a while,

I almost forgot

what it felt like

to kiss the falling stars

and embrace golden sparkles.

I remember,

and it isn’t enough.

I need to spin

and breathe,

like I remember.

by Anon


 I can’t remember what I called myself as a child

everyone had nicknames but never stuck

bubble gum in my hair

The village I grew up in had a pulse

more a tremor than a flutter

behind the church there was a forest

we walked a different dog each summer

the brambles grew so high

they covered the trees

we used blackberries as paint

trails of purple juice on rocks

love letters carved in bark

cave markings of childhood

nobody left without gravel in the knee

and a thorn in the hand

I never learnt how to skip stones

I always went straight to the point

bashing pebbles off muddy grass

sometimes its more fun to destroy

got older, never turned a blind eye

but my glasses fogged up conveniently

wore plastic bags on our feet

to go into the river

the mud seeped through, we hung off the bridge

toes dancing with plants in water

I remember how it felt to be someone’s daughter.

filtered sunlighted spotlighted

young decisions

ice cream melted down wrists

fingers poked through cherry pies

one boy feel through a roof

another took a branch to the knee

we threw shoes in trees

And fought to get them down.

by Cheyenne Raine

A young man

once asked me

why I didn’t capture the photo

of when a butterfly

had landed on my fingertip.


       Because, sometimes,

       you have to experience

      the flutter, inside,

      and, know, that it shall pass.


The earth is constantly in movement;

I watched the little wings

leave me, I whispered good bye

here I am, now,

enjoying the stillness,

reflecting on the little, lovely things.


by Cheyenne Raine

She held on

to the loving letters

and the broken guitar strings,

to the withering petals

and the empty wine bottles.

She had a glass shelf,

on it lay a few stones

from her nature walks

and her beach strolls,

as well as half written papers.

Those papers,

neatly stacked, yet, undone,

reminded her

that there is always something

to write about,

and, at the same rate,

so much to experience

before picking up the pen.

by Cheyenne Raine


I remember

the gentle sigh

of the moon

on my shoulder.

I used to dance

under the silver light,

stepping in and out

of the shadows.

It has been a while,

I almost forgot

what it felt like

to kiss the falling stars

and embrace golden sparkles.

I remember,

and it isn’t enough.

I need to spin

and breathe,

like I remember.

Memory isn’t just an autobiographical set of stories, and it’s not always most prevalent in the past. The following drawings are an example of how memory and chronic pain often go hand in hand; in these wonderfully surreal illustrations, Liz demonstrates how memory loss and migraines would look if you could see them on the face. – Stephanie

by Liz Taylor

by Liz Taylor

by Liz Taylor

done 6

ProseBut sometimes memory is a story. Our anonymous poet gives us an insight into a memory of love in this following piece. A monologue about devotion, and the effort one puts into being everything you can for that other person, how much is too much, and how much do they need? – Stephanie

 by Anon

There was a day I could’ve fallen in love;

She lived in a house built by her family’s hands. Her mother’s mother, the seed that planted them all had raised the bricks from the ground.

She was bathed in the mud of before.

I thought we could fall in love, she said you can only heal what you know. I swallowed the pages of history books and told her I knew the past.

There was a film we could never watch, a show reel of lovers happy together, I kept forgetting and it played and she’d flee and I could never ask why. Instead I turned my lungs inside out and started catching my breath.

I held matches to secrets, told her I had a chest full of love letters I couldn’t bare to burn. I couldn’t remember faces or histories or names but she has a shadow around her ring finger that no amount of sunlight can ever shift. I thought I could fit into the shade. She forgot to turn the light on, she said there was more than I could ever see. I swallowed the encyclopaedia and told her I’d seen the whole world. She went so far, moving every time we travelled the rolling hills of her bed.

I tried to become one with the ghosts of her past, but even when the last colour poured from the ends of my eyelashes, my heart beat loudly. The blood rushing in my ears became a tsunami in the still of her house.

I pulled my lungs back in and stopped holding my breath.

Memory never comes in one form; if you can remember how a place looked, then chances are you remember the smell and the sounds too;  this mix of senses is just like the mix of mediums our next pieces use. We’re honored to feature the first part of Alexander’s piece ‘Second Skin,’ so please check out our Tumblr for the full version of his submission. My photo manipulation piece was created using the following creative commons images: x x – Stephanie

by Stephanie Watson

by Alexander Turton

The city never sleeps, the party never dies.

I sit and light a cigarette and watch

The empty windows which line the street

Blackened in cruel, twisted irony

Underneath the glimmer of the white stars.

The thick chilled air sits static on my chest

Engulfed by my prisoner’s solitude.

I paint those black canvases with black thought:

Lovers are sleeping in each other’s arms

Separated by thin veils of their silent passions.

One light glows further along the street

And unprecedented, warm reassurance

Whipsers melting breath over my hard nerves.

Lift the veil and tell me your fantasies

While I sit, a stranger, in flux like the smoke

Marginal in my consciousness.

My pillow smells damp and musty-

Like the back seat of my father’s car.

The young boy wriggles uncomfortably in his itchy seat, craning his neck to see where the road ahead will lead him.

Where are we going? Can we go home soon?

We will only be a second.

A response void of reassurance.

The boy’s older brother glances back at him through the rear mirror, contorting his brow and snarling his upper lip into a carnivalesque mask of mockery. The young boy scowls back at him through the mirror and slumps his thin frame further into the damp seat, fixing his sulking gaze beyond the condensed window. He tries to picture the hedgerows but sees nothing but the grey canvas of moisture which obstructs his vision. For some minutes he sits this way, meditatively staring into this grey space, consciously avoiding the reflected gaze of his brother, who unbeknownst to him is still exercising all his facial motor skills in the rear window, trying to catch his attention. He won’t give him the satisfaction.

Slowly the car pulls to a halt in a large car park, empty save for one blue hatchback which sits abandoned in the far corner. The car park lies adjacent to a large anonymous building, which has a fascia of large rectangular windows.

A snarl of teeth.

We will only be a second.

We encourage you to submit your creative writing for consideration to be digitally published in our new monthly literary arts zine, Cyberrriot.

Our theme for Spring 2016 is CHOICE

What we’d love to see from you:

– Short stories and vignettes
– Poetry
– Scripts
– Fictional and non-fiction monologues
– Fictional and non-fiction letters
– Art (photography, drawings, collages, etc.)
– Open letters/personal narratives
– Mixed media (Vlogs, Instagram pictures, Vimeo, YouTube videos)
– Conversations & Social Media Text (Text message, Twitter replies, Tumblr blog posts, etc.)

The deadline for all zine submissions is 30th March and will be published digitally on our site April 5th.

Check out our official Facebook page for more Cyberrriot updates!

If you wish to submit a piece of art to Fembot’s Cyberrriot, please submit your piece(s) to along with a short third person bio and photo, and we’ll get back to you within 3-4 business days.
You can find more information about rules and regulations here.