Beyond - Anthology by Hyperidean Press - Launch Event Transcription

Udith Dematagova

(Hyperidean Press Co-Founder)

What was to come in the future, in this new decade, in this kind of era of uncertainty, was very perturbing, very frightening, but also very kind of exciting, it was a kind of almost apocalyptic sense of excitement and we wanted to capture that in our open call.

We got a lot of responses and we already made a commitment to read all of them and it took us some time but we managed to read them and I think this collection really reflects our process as well to some extent and all the arguments we had all along the way.

Sarah Bildstein


I’m Sarah Bildstein, I’m an Austrian artist. I do abstract painting and also work with mixed media. The cover for Beyond is a test painting from my own going series “100 Spectres” which uses water from all over the world to make chromatographies.

Depending on the chemical composition of water, the resulting colours and shapes are random.

We analyse the water samples in a laboratory, some from heavily polluted sources or countries where water is scarce. My work attempts to contrast the scientific method with the more ineffable and mysterious aspects of the artistic process.



Augustin Cambau

Sirens are mammals, like you and I; they have mammary glands. They breathe air, though their huge lungs allow them to stay underwater for almost half an hour. They enjoy the sea, truly; it is their pleasure to swim in it and dive in it, and they find there most of their food. They also enjoy laying their human halves in the sun, on stones or steep beaches (they prefer those to gradually declining beaches), and drinking the sun through their skin. This is where all the salt from the seawater comes out of them, and appears on the skin; they brush it off and feel purified. They like the night-time and the daytime, but have a preference for the night. The rhythm of their lives follows the rhythm of the moon, in its 15-and-15 day cycles. They are a melancholy and quite emotive species, and have a collective fondness for nurturing, caressing and embracing. Like human beings, they take pleasure in stories, and their stories are almost always about truth; they assert truths about the land-places, and the beings that dwell there. They pine about humanity, humans and human ways of living. They also love trees a lot, mostly the idea of trees, and imagine the interactions humans have with them. 


Gina Rodrigues

once i got my iphone i used it mostly for youtube and fb, just like what i did before on the pc downstairs in the dining room. the most different thing was i wud take selfies all the time. i wanted to get good profile pics and its hard to do that. melissas profile pic was perfect cos it was sexy but not slutty and shes really good at makeup. it was like her in a rocking chair in her dads home library or wotevs only with her dressing gown on after a bath and her hair was wet and the back of the rocking chair faces the door. the pic was taken from in the doorway with a timer and melissa is looking back over her shoulder like someone has creeped up on her and she didnt notice til the last minute cos she was concentrating dead hard on reading a book. so she looked clever and that but also ready to get off with someone. well i wanted a pic that was sorta like hers, so i googled arty pics of girls. 


Joe Alexander

My father’s gone. My mother’s dead. I have no name. I am a monster, seed of devils and possessed by wraiths. People watch me. They wish to make me better, to drive out the wickedness and save my soul. My world is this room. And that room. This is my earth. Fifteen steps there, twenty-six there. As I grow, it shrinks. I’m a risk, a corruptor, a sour spirit. They tell me this and more. My father is a demon, nameless and ungodly. My mother was weak and disreputable and died as I burst from her womb. They tell me this. 

They found me as a dog, small, vicious, living on four legs, eating rats. I snarled and roared and bit and scratched as they saved me. I stank of blood and shit and evil. 

They saved me. They civilised me. They brought me here. They saved me because I am chosen and I will make change and be important. They tell me this. They brought me into their church, but my devils are deeper rooted than even they’ve seen. Before I have memories, this has been my world. This room and that room. 


Matthew Crowley

I woke up. The first fronds of sunlight were reaching in through the windows. Searchlights cutting through the room, illuminating the particles of dust which always floated aimlessly at that hour. A fly effervesced at the window. Its fat little body gives a plump-fingertip tap at the pane as it launches itself against the glass. Again, again, again- again, again, again. Rest. Again, again-again. Rest. A high tissue- comb-threnody of wings punctuates the tap-tap-tap and marks each take-off as it fizzes. Delicate compound eyes don’t see the glazing that keeps them from freedom. I watch it. Rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall. 


Mickey J. Ellis

A photograph of a woman 

Sitting on a couch. Her phone is on her lap and her shoulders are hunched. You can tell from the photograph that she’s crying. Sobbing uncontrollably. He’d done it this time. ‘Success’. Practice makes perfect. Death by two tonnes of metal. Not conventional but effective. He’d saved her life once. When she was on the receiving end of the abuse. He’d been there to reassure her that it was all going to be okay. That they weren’t worth it. Sad little people hiding behind screens spewing their jealous bile. But they’d got him. A misjudged comment. A witch-hunt. The snowball effect of thousands of anonymous snowflakes. Woken up and taking offence on behalf of the hypothetical. She tried to push the image of the blood mixing with the rain water from her mind. His glazed eyes. Tried not to wonder which filter had been used. The one that really accentuated the contrast. She felt a tear run down her nose and watched it drop. She could make out her face reflected in the black screen.