Monthly Archives: April 2018

Inky Interview Special: Gerard Sarnat, a California-based Poet and Social Activist

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Can you tell us about yourself?

Thank you for the invitation, Deborah. I’m a 72-year-old California-based poet and social activist, and have worked as a physician, Stanford professor, and healthcare CEO in the past.

What is it you love about poetry?

For me writing poetry is an elevated, cleansing, meditative experience.

Can you talk us through the inspiration behind your poems Bronx Rails & Poet Pourri?

Bronx Rails was inspired by the Red Wheelbarrow fast-food joint in the surreal, often dysphoric TV show Mr. Robot, riffing off fellow doc-poet William Carlos Williams.

BRONX RAILS

solicited or not, fsociety is tracking you this Christmas.
Blur between whore art and slush pile poetry/fiction requires a transvestite prophet’s high priest magical robes.
Dark army dares Costanza Paoli to open Evil Corp’s attachment.
Or on second thought, fuck that, trust white rose below.

The Red Wheelbarrow
ORIGINALLY XXII from Spring and All (1923)

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens. 

A century later, these words of William Carlos Williams, New Jersey family doctor
& poet, nurture fsociety’s Mr. Robot with Coney Island anarchic hackers’ barbeque.
Scrapping high school-ers say, ‘What fur? Let’s meet at the bike racks at 3.’

Poet Pourri originated as a nod to recently deceased poet John Ashbery: his unpredictability has always been a welcome challenge to a physician trained to write linearly and logically.

POET POURRI

i) Nitroglycerin Terminology

“What I am trying to get at is a general, all-purpose experience —
like those stretch socks that fit all sizes,” John Ashbery

Splenic
cosmopolitan
wrathful
climate crisis
denier —
clicks & brick
battery
blows up chest
pains

iI) lonelyhearted misanthrope

neon planet DNA howl, lab
sow or cease cow passages
north, hungry chimera still
point streetcake patchwork,
paperlined mothy penniless
press wolf’s words w/out jam

What themes keep cropping up in your writing? What do you care about?

Deeply loving family whose private satisfactions allow me publicly to go out tilting at windmills, for instance, setting up and staffing under-resourced homeless clinics, fighting for Middle East peace as a member of the International Board of the New Israel Fund.

Have you ever been on a literary pilgrimage?

Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris. Sort of namesake Sarnath in India where at The Deer Park, The Buddha gave his first sermon on The Dharma. Scores of times being in the presence of iconic older Jewish brothers: Leonard Cohen, may he rest in peace.

My wife and I were at Oldchella in 2016 to be in the presence of Bob Dylan. A photo and short article of us was published in the New York Times

If you could change one thing about the world, what would it be?

For the vast preponderance of Homo sapiens lineage, we have been undomestivate wild animals foraging in Hobbesian “nasty, brutish and short” ways just to stay alive. Humans, particularly testosteroned XY males, are slowly learning how to be civilized, how to live together..

What are you reading at the moment?

Under-appreciated Bill Knott’s poetry collection I Am Flying Into Myself and Nobel Laureate Orhan Pamuk’s, The Red-Haired Woman.

Who inspires you and why?

Barack Obama, Thich Nhat Hanh, my youngest daughter (who’s recently started a family), among many others.

Tell us about one of the best days of your life.

Although I’m particularly drawn to Burning Man’s sense of community and openmindedness and adventure — my middle son and I have been there together many times — other edgier aspects are not for me. The Ecstasy Tent At Burning Man is wonderful.

What is next for you? What plans have you got?

For the last week, this new member of the Orphans’ Club has grieving the loss of my 102 year-old mother.

Personally, my wife of nearly a half century and I are pretty much on the circuit travelling among our three kids and four grandkids. Next stop: the room we stay in Los Angeles above our oldest’s garage.

Poetically, I’m beginning to envision publishing my fifth collection which ventures deeply into visual and concrete poetry.

Gerard’s Website

Poetry Drawer: Loving by Stephen Mead

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To know another’s pain & plunge
further, to explore, to hold it, a pistil
flowering within…
To know consolation as desire &
find the boomerang of it returning
the same on passion’s Catherine Wheel,
that rack too of roses suddenly thorn-less
once fear’s disclosure becomes the surprise
of acceptance yet, of tender mutuality…

Oh darling, turn me over.  Go up.
For all the time it has taken
now is the right time.

Poetry Drawer: Golden Giant by Hongri Yuan: Translated by Yuanbing Zhang

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Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise, Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria.

Golden Giant: Translated by Yuanbing Zhang

Who is sitting in the heaven and staring at me?
Who is sitting in the golden palace of tomorrow?
Who is smiling?
The golden staff in his hand
Flashing the dazzling light
Ah, the flashes of lightning
Inter-weaved over my head
I walked into a crystal corridor of the time
I want to open
The doors of gold
Lines of words in the sun
Singing to me in the sky
I want to find
The volumes of gold poems
On the shores of the new century
To build the city of gold.

Laozi with rosy cheek and white hair
Smiling at me in the clouds
A phoenix danced trippingly
And carried in a book of gold.

Lines of mysterious words
Made my eyes drunken
Countless giant figures
Came towards me from the clouds.

The times of seventy million years
Emerged leisurely before my eyes
The cities of gold
Surrounded with the crystals garden.

The sky of sapphire
Sent out the colourful miraculous brightness
On the green hills of jasper
Dragons and phoenixes were flying.

Exquisite pagoda
Majestical palace of gold
The airy pavilions and pagodas
Standing in the purple-red clouds.

The laughing girls
Riding the colourful husbands and wives
The propitious clouds
Sprinkling the colourful flowers.

I opened the door to a golden palace
Saw the rows of scrolls of the gold
A giant with the haloes all over his body
There was a golden sun over his head.

With smiles, he picked up the books of gold
Recited the sacred verses
I was intoxicated with miraculous wonderful words
Surrounded with the purple-gold flames all over his body.

A golden lotus
Bloomed beneath my feet
Lifted up my body
Wafted up from the golden palace.

The red clouds
Drifting by my side
Outside of the sky I saw
Another golden paradise.

The leisurely bells
Calling to me
The countless giants
Roaming in a golden garden.

The sky of the ruby
The rounds of sun
Like the golden lotus
Blooming in the sky.

The intoxicating fragrance of flowers
Like the sweet good wine
The golden trees
Were laden with the dazzling diamonds

The wonderful flowers
Bloomed for thousands of years
The land of gold
Inlaid with the gems.

The pavilions of gold
Strewn at random and overlapped
Someone was playing chess
Someone was chatting.

Quaint clothes
Colossal statures
Miraculous eyes
Happy and comfortable.

The white cranes
Flying in the sky
The husbands and wives
Crowing leisurely.

Beside the old man, I came
As if he was waiting for me
On the golden pavilion
He opened an ancient sword casket.

A glittering ancient sword
Engraved some abstruse words and expressions
Were clear and transparent like lightning –
A dimly glowing purplish-red pattern.

He told me a metaphysical epic
The sword came from nine billions years ago
Which, was made from hundreds of millions of suns
It was a sacred sword of the sun.

It could pierce the rocks of time
Open the layer after layer skies
Let the sacred fire smelt the heaven and the earth
Into the golden paradises.

The old man’s eyes were deep, archaic and abstruse
Dimly shone the joyful flames-
He let me take this sword
To fly towards a new golden paradise.

The huge golden lotus floated leisurely
I flew over the sky thousands of miles away
The huge pyramids
Impressively in front of my eyes.

The mountainous figure of giants
Walked about in front of the pyramid
The huge pyramids of gold
Were much taller than the mountains.

The giant trees of gold
Like a forest
Stood in the sky
Laden with the stars.

There in the multi-coloured propitious clouds,
Was a huge bird
In the silvery sky
Crowing joyfully.

I came to the front of a pyramid
A door was opening wide
A group of blonde giants sat
With smiles in the grand palace.

There as a holy great old man
reciting the singular language-
The temple was painted with magic symbols and
Giant pictures of gods

The palace was full of silvery white light
blooming with huge wonderful flowers
A peal of wonderful mellifluous bells
made the person suddenly forget all time.

I heard an immemorial verse
It was written hundreds of millions of years ago;
It related countless eras of giants
that created the holy kingdoms of heaven.

Their wisdom was sacred and great
and knew completely the past and the future of the universe
They flew freely in the sky
Landed on the millions of planets in the universe.

They made time change at your pleasure
Which could reach spaces
Make a stone turn into gold-
Make the gold bloom flowers.

They were like the round sun
Which could erupt the sacred flames-
Let all things blaze in raging flames
Turn into their imagination works.

They landed on the planets
Established the golden paradises
with their magic abstruse wisdom
and built the platinum cities.

I saw the gorgeous words
Flashing in the volume of gold
And the magical wonderful halos
Rotating like coloured lightning in the sky.

I came to another wonderful heaven and earth
And saw a huge edifice of platinum
The whole city was like a piece of work
Sending out quietly the brilliant white light.

A huge round square
Encased some unearthly works
The giants of great stature
Came and went leisurely in the street.

They wore singular clothes
Shone all over their bodies
With smiles on their face
Both men and women looked beautiful.

They spoke wonderful language
which was as intriguing and pleasant as music
Some of them run moved by
Spaceship flying around silently in the sky.

I walked into a huge edifice of platinum
Saw a magnificent hall
Platinum wall was inlaid with gems
There were also a row of unusual instruments.

Their eyes were like bright springs
They wore multi-coloured clothes
Some of them were operating instruments
Some of them were talking with each other, softly.

I saw a magical picture
With drawings of giant planets,
There the cities stood
And there also, were crystal gardens.

I opened a crystal door
Saw a group of happy men and women,
They were singing softly
The blinking books of gold were in their hands.

Both the clusters of flower and the glasses of golden wine
Were on the huge round table
The golden walls were sparkling
Carved with all kinds of wonderful pictures.

I saw a demure girl
The golden halo was sparkling on her head
She was dressed in a purple-gold longuette
which was as peerless as a sculpture.

The pages were marked with whimsical words
Like lines of ancient magic symbols
Each book was made of gold
Like a golden crystal.

I understood their euphonious songs
They were singing of the sacred love
They were singing about great ancestors;
they were recounting the civilization of the universe.

Their city had gardens everywhere
Surrounded with sweet rivers
The whole earth was a piece of jade
And the clay was a layer of transparent golden sand.

I saw some white-bright huge balls
Suspended high above the city
The giant balls were sending out dazzling light
And the heaven and the earth shone as bright as the crystal.

The towering great buildings stood in great numbers
As if they were carved by a whole piece of platinum
Both the doves and some colourful
birds were flying in the sky.

I saw a singular train
Flying swiftly forward in the sky
The streets were white and bright
And any moving vehicle could not been seen.

Their bodies were unusually strong
Playing a wonderful game,
They piled up the pieces of great stones
into some grotesque works.

Both like some giant eyes
And some ancient totems
There were also some strange birds
Covered with lightning feathers all over their bodies.

I saw a couple of tall lovers
They aviated a spaceship
Their eyes were quiet and bright
A colourful halo shone around their bodies.

The wonderful space was gyrating leisurely
Like a huge, resplendent crystal
I said goodbye to the unusual city
And moved towards a space of golden light.

The cities flashed in the sky
I flew over the layers of the sky again
And I saw a newfangled world-
A multi-coloured city of crystal.

The high towers were exquisitely carved,
Shining like multi-coloured pearls
The layers of eaves were painted with dragon and phoenix
There hung the singing golden bells.

The earth was a crystal garden
The palaces were limpid and crystal
Huge mountains were like transparent gems
Lined with the golden trees.

I saw tall giants
Wearing purple clothes
There was a round sun above their heads
And their bodies reflected a shining halo.

They sat up in the main halls
Singing a mellifluous song
Some were roaming leisurely in the garden
Some were summoning the birds in the sky.

The crystalline airy pavilions and pagodas
Were beset with jewels and agates
A huge jewel on the spire
Shining the golden lights.

I saw a holy giant
Sitting in the middle of a main hall
The purple-gold flame flashed around his body
Filling the whole majestic main hall.

Full-bodied fragrance filled the hall
Like a cup of refreshing wine
Solemn expression was merciful and joyful
A huge book was in his hand.

The hall was full of men and women
Listening quietly to the psalms of the saints
The lotuses were floating in the sky
where the smiling giants sat.

The golden light poured down from the sky
Bathing the crystal kingdom
The jewels above the giant
towers were golden suns.

The golden walls of a golden tower
Were carved with lines of flashing words
Flying around the dragons and phoenixes
as if they were intonating the inspiring poems.

The smiling giants had huge halos
That flashed around their bodies;
Each was dignified and tranquil
Floating in the golden transparent sky.

I flew over the crystal kingdom
And saw the vast golden mountain in the distance
That was sending out the brilliant lights in the sky
Where the propitious clouds were blossoming.

There was a golden giant
sitting in the golden transparent sky
His body was composed of thousands of millions of constellations;
the golden sun was rotating on his forehead.

He lit up the whole marvellous universe;
the kingdoms of heaven shone in the sky
Here there was not the sky or earth
The up-down four-direction were the lights of pure gold.

The smiling giants were sitting
on the gold-engraved pavilions
The pavilions levitated in the transparent sky
shining the layers of purple-gold light.

There were multi-coloured transparent mountains
Propitious clouds floated in the sky;
large wonderful flowers were blooming in the mountain peaks
And there were also trees of light.

A river flowed from the sky
and the bottom reflected a layer of golden sand
There were strange and beautiful birds and
the beasts were like some aerial phantoms.

This was a world of light
Everything was made of light
The divine light formed all things,
And the golden paradises.

The golden giant I saw was
Shining the kingdoms of heaven in his body;
I saw the cities of gold
brilliant and fascinating in his bones.

I saw lines of extremely large words
arranged into a huge book in the sky
It seemed as if they were the bright stars
constituted a wonderful drawing.

There was a golden pavilion in the sky
floating around with huge dragons and phoenixes
An old man with a whisk
waved to me and smiled.

I was attracted by the magical
Leisurely, I came to his side
He told me the golden giant
Was my great ancestor.

This was an eternal palace
With no sense of time
Holy light was God
What I saw was better than heaven.

He pointed to the huge book in the sky
and told me that it held the mystery of the universe
The book contained magical wisdom
and created the countless worlds of gold.

He pointed to a pagoda in the sky
Told me that was the temple of words;
the light turned into the sacred words
and the words created the time of gold.

He held up a very large pearl
In which flashed pictures
He told me that it was the future
It was all of the wonderful worlds.

He told me that it was another universe.
I wanted to go to the other paradises
He gave me the magical pearl
and said it would be my future guide.

I said goodbye to the holy old man
I set foot on a new road of the heaven again
I sat in a golden pavilion
Lightly flew to the distant outer space.

黄金巨人

远红日

谁 坐在天上向我凝望

谁 坐在明天的黄金殿堂

谁 微笑着

手中的金杖

闪出耀眼的光芒

一道道闪电啊

在我头顶上交织

我走进了一座

时间的水晶长廊

我要打开

一扇扇黄金的大门

一行行太阳的词语

在空中向我歌唱

我要找到

那一部部黄金的诗卷

在新世纪的海岸

把黄金之城建造

白发红颜的老子

在云端向我微笑

一只翩翩的凤凰

衔来了一部金书

一行行玄妙的词语

迷醉了我的眼睛

一个个巨人的身影

从云中向我走来

七千万年的时光

在眼前悠悠浮现

一座座黄金的城市

簇拥着水晶的花园

蓝宝石的天空

闪出七彩的灵光

一座座碧玉的青山

飞翔着龙和凤凰

玲珑的宝塔

宏伟的金殿

一座座亭台楼阁

矗立紫红的云间

欢笑的少女

跨着七彩的鸾凤

一朵朵祥云

洒下缤纷的花朵

我打开一座金殿的大门

看到一排排黄金的书卷

一个周身光环的巨人

头顶一轮金色的太阳

他微笑着拿起一部部金书

朗诵了一首首神圣的诗篇

我陶醉于神奇美妙的词语

周身环绕起紫金的火焰

一朵金莲

在我脚下盛开

托起我的身体

飘出了金殿

一朵朵红云

在我身边飘过

我看到了天外

又一座黄金乐园

悠悠的钟声

向我召唤

一个个巨人

漫步在黄金花园

红宝石的天空

一轮轮太阳

像一朵朵金莲

开放在天上

醉人的花香

像甘醇的美酒

一棵棵黄金树

结满耀眼的钻石

一朵朵奇葩

盛开了千年

黄金的土地

嵌满了宝石

黄金的楼台

错落重叠

有人在对弈

有人在闲谈

古雅的衣裳

巨大的身材

神奇的眸子

欢喜自在

一只只白鹤

飞翔空中

一只只鸾凤

悠然啼鸣

我来到了一位老者身旁

他仿佛正在把我等待

在那黄金的楼阁之上

他打开了一只古老的剑匣

一柄闪闪发光的古剑

镌刻一些玄古的词语

清澈透明像一道闪电

隐隐泛出紫红的花纹

他告诉我一部玄奥的史诗

这柄剑来自九亿万年

亿万颗太阳把它炼成

它是一把太阳的神剑

他能穿透时间的岩石

打开一层又一层云天

让神圣之火熔炼天地

化成一座座黄金乐园

Flash In The Pantry: Pushing Up Daisies by Michael Murray

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‘No, no, no,’ he was thinking as he was waking. ‘Too early.’

‘Damn birds. Damn, damn.’ His protestations lacked the vigour to drive him up and doing. He pulled the covers over his head. But he lay there tense. He knew; that was enough. Too much light. Too much…busyness. It was in the air. And it was stifling under there.

‘Someone turned on the heating? I’ll kill… The bills!’

But it wasn’t that. What it was, he knew, he had to shell-out for a new mattress. Sticking into his back again.

‘Memory foam. Not one of these…with metal bits sticking up into you…’

But at least this got him up and dressed.

‘Something…was it King Albert? Edward? Someone who shoulda known better, died through…tetanus…septicaemia…from a bed spring?’

And that had him washed and dressed, and presenting himself downstairs.

A cheer as he walked into the workshop. Sarky lot, he groused. He looked at their beaming, lively faces.

‘Come on, Granddad. Get this down you.’ A mug of strong tea. Too strong, His constitution…there’s a word from his younger days, when he had the gift o’ the gab… Well, his stomach could no longer take it.

They meant well. He looked at them again, felt a warmth for them. A part of him whipped out, ’Infectious. Infectious good-will.’ And that part of him knew that bode ill.

And then they brought out the chair. The wheelchair. He froze. That anger felt good; he felt better. Slightly. But he couldn’t sustain it. To his shame, and yet…relief, admit it…he slipped into it, as if into a made-to-measure suit. He thought about it, his old wardrobe, those suits up there. Maybe he could donate them. The styles, well. They say it all comes round every twenty years or so. So…

They were all looking at him. Their young, eager, and innocent expressions. It was an unhurried, but expectant look. Does that look have a name? He no longer cared…cared to follow through, find the lost connections. Is youth an expression? It’s…an age…thing…

‘Let him rest,’ they were saying, looking over to him. Benevolent, he thought, that’s it. That’s the word. He’d slumped. They’d left him near a window, and it was too bright, too hot.

‘Has one o’ yous put the heating on?’ But he couldn’t get the tone right. It came out like a snarl. Had he upset them now? But the bills!

‘Come on, old man,’ they were saying, gently – like to an old pet? No, there was respect in their faces, their manner. His students. And suddenly he felt proud of them.

‘Just this one last job, eh?’ They wheeled him to the engine room, lifted his hands to the iron wheel.

‘Easy, now,’ they soothed. ‘Just one last slow, steady push. Then it’s all over, eh. Plenty of sleep.

Those daisies don’t rise by themselves, Mr Winter.’

Flash In The Pantry: Jack by Andrew Williams

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Birds sang in the bare branches of the trees. The air had a fresh, new smell to it, the very earth exhaling as the days grew longer. Mary pulled her winter jacket a little tighter around her shoulders. The sun was bright but it gave out little warmth. It would be a few more weeks before the jacket was no longer required.

‘Spring at last, Jack.’

She carefully set a canvas bag beside her and knelt down to tend the soil. She could feel the damp even through her denim jeans. They’d probably need to go in the wash later.

‘I thought that winter would never end. You’d like that, I suppose – school closing and all that snow for sledding.’

She took the gardening fork from her bag and began to dig into the earth. The cold and wet weather had left it packed together; no use for planting. Still, at least the weeds weren’t a problem yet, though they would be next month.

‘You remember that snowman we made last year? Ping pong balls for eyes and a carrot for a nose. I put one of your caps on it and said you looked like twins.’

The soil tilled, she put the fork aside and took a plastic wrapped bundle from her bag.

‘Crocuses,’ she said. ‘They’ll look lovely when they come up.’

She gently pushed the bulbs into the soil, then covered them back over. There was no need to water them; the ground was damp enough already.

She packed up her bag and stood up. A cold breeze blew over her and she shivered.

‘Mind you, the daffodils are coming up nicely. They should be flowering any day now.’

The birds sang. She breathed deeply, feeling the crisp chill of the air in her lungs.

‘How is daddy? I miss you both, you know. It hurt me so much when you went to join him. But that wasn’t your fault, I know.’

She wiped away a speck of dirt from her eye.

‘Your daddy left when you were so young. Did you even remember him?’ She sighed, her breath like steam upon the cold air. ‘I suppose that doesn’t matter. You’re together now.’

The wind blew through the bare branches of the trees.

‘I should have paid more attention to you. I should have listened. And now all I have are these visits. I can’t hug you like I used to. I can’t kiss you on the cheek before you walk through the school gate. I let you down, and you were taken from me.’

She fought off the tears. She’d cried too many already.

‘I’m sorry, Jack. Mummy comes whenever she can. And now that spring is here, I’ll come every week. I promise.’

She turned away, following the path that led out of the gardens. Behind her, the polished black marble glistened under a coat of morning dew.

Books From The Pantry: Vicious by Michael Forester: Reviewed by Kev Milsom

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‘Rule Two: The Game will be initiated upon the occurrence of an event, outside the control of the players, which establishes a tear in the curtain (“a random tear”). Players are free to observe the occurrence of the event if they wish. A player who initiates a tear in the curtain will forfeit the Game and may, at the discretion of the Arbiter, be excluded from any future Game.

Rule Three: The Arbiter will confirm the existence of a randomly established tear in the curtain by passing through the tear’.

It’s fair to say that the plotline to some novels are relatively straightforward and commonplace.

Boy meets girl…girl meets boy. Passions are ignited. Romantic poems are uttered. Mopey ballads are hurriedly composed and played under bedroom windows. There may be a cute and cuddly cat/dog/hamster/aardvark/dragon involved, especially for the ladies, somewhere down the line. A dangerous car chase, gunfight, swords or a set of fisticuffs shall be provided for the gentlemen readers. Perhaps, three quarters of the way through, a passage of doubt or trust shall ensue, whereby boy doubts girl and girl doubts boy, probably down to the fact that boy really doubts boy and girl deeply doubts girl. Ultimately, these silly doubts shall be hurriedly cast aside like the cellophane on an eagerly-awaited DVD and all shall end well, with a kiss and a song, complete with a merry, dual dance into the sunset.

As much as these types of novels are wonderful in their own way, it is a true pleasure to find that Michael Forester’s plotlines hold considerably more depth of meaning and a greater variety of incidents, as visibly demonstrated in his newest publication, Vicious.

OK…so let’s get the basics of the plotline…please remember to hold on tight. Firstly, we have a character called Tolly, or to give her full name Tolly Boudicca Tolpuddle Jones (Mother was a feminist, Father was a trade unionist); sometimes known merely as ‘Tracy’ Now Tolly is not what we would call a ‘one-dimensional character’, because Tolly has…well, to be quite frank, Tolly has enough personal issues to fill a celebrity’s mansion house, to its absolute mock-Tudor limits.

For a start, Tolly is a punk rocker. Not your contemporary, retro-punk, who wishes they had been alive when the likes of The Damned and The Clash were noisily rocking London to its roots in the mid-1970’s. No, Tolly is a genuine antique from that very era; one who witnessed the glories of the bygone days of angry music, blasting out to equally-angry, pogo-dancing, spitting crowds.

In particular, Tolly liked the Sex Pistols. Well…one Sex Pistol in particular…namely the bass player – Sid, of the Vicious variety. Not only did she like Sid Vicious, but they briefly shared a moment of rough passion in an alley after one gig, during which Sid had initiated foreplay by spitting and swearing loudly into Tolly’s face as she watched from the audience. Naturally, to Tolly, this was a sign of true love, destined by the Gods themselves.

Of course, Tolly’s life mission was now crystal clear – she and Sid were destined for each other and nothing/no-one would ever stand in their way, despite the fact that Sid showed not the merest sign of making this happen and refused to acknowledge her mortal existence. Undeterred, Tolly followed the path of her divine ‘holy grail’ in making Sid Vicious her soul mate; a path that would ultimately lead to elements of Trans-Atlantic arousal, denial, cheating, murder and theft.

Thankfully, in 2008, despite Sid being long deceased, Tolly notices a new intern at her workplace, named Henry. The meaning of life suddenly becomes clear. Henry is, without doubt, the reincarnation of Sid Vicious. Thus, Tolly simply HAS to have him for the remainder of eternity and Lord help anyone who stands in her way.

Unfortunately, Henry has some major issues of his own, as he seeks to woo the love of his life, Laura, but has woken up to find a miniature, ugly, ebony talisman in his bedroom, which suddenly springs to life and becomes animated. The talisman – known to Henry as Talis-Man, or simply Talis – spends most of his time in Henry’s pocket, naturally creating chaos in his daily life, especially in his most private of moments with Laura.

And what of Laura? Well, Tolly has her demonic addiction to Sid Vicious and Henry has a tiny, animated talisman causing havoc in his young life, but – not to be outdone – Laura has an angel friend called Gabriel and believes herself to be the future mother of the next Messiah.

Add in a charlatan minister of God, some ethereal characters playing some form of Divine board game throughout the length of the book and you have the basis of ‘Vicious’.

So, the plotline is busier than a bus load of bees. How does it scan for the reader and will we need a notebook, pen & abacus to keep up with unfolding events?

Thankfully, no, for we have an exceptionally talented writer in Michael Forester. The characters are deliciously complex, but the prose takes careful time to explain each step of the way, leaving us in no doubt as to who is who, where/when they are and precisely what is occurring. The ‘when’ part of this is doubly important, as Michael frequently swings us back to the 1970s to tell parts of Tolly’s story but, as each chapter begins with the name of the character being explored and the exact date on which this happens, the reader is never unsure of events.

As usual, Michael’s writing is precise, to the point and positively splattered with fine humour; the latter employed most effectively to bring lightness to some darker elements of the story; particularly surrounding Tolly’s tragic attempts to make sense of the world around her.

The characters in Vicious are clearly individual and never dull. The plotline never once crosses into the world of mediocrity. Michael’s descriptive talents ensure that the reader is always aware of what is happening, even when story events steer us into the world of ‘weirdly odd’.

A thoroughly good read and very much recommended.

Get your copy of Vicious

Inky Flash Fiction: The Battle by Sharon Clark

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Battle was being waged right outside Stephanie’s bedroom. Again!

She’d opened her curtains to a perfect Spring morning. Daffodils bobbed their happy heads in a gentle breeze. Blackbirds filled the air with their joyful song. The fresh green scent of awakening foliage drifted through the open window. All was harmonious except for the all-out war atop her potentilla.

The magpie was back. His head rocked to and fro as he attempted to wrench a slender spear of new growth from the bush. He was a powerhouse of a bird, strong and determined, the metallic blue of his tail and wings shimmering like armour in the early sunlight. Beautiful but deadly as he yanked at his prize, not caring about the curl of unborn leaf at its tip.

One for sorrow, Stephanie thought, as the stem was torn mercilessly from the defenceless bush. If this carried on her poor potentilla would be nothing but a skeleton. Why did this wretched bird have to pick on her garden?

Suddenly the wind chimes sang out. The bush quivered in the unexpected breath of air, shaking the magpie loose. In a flap of wings he dropped the torn-off stem, which promptly tumbled into the basket-weave centre of the bush. Two for joy, thought Stephanie, although she knew the victory was a hollow one. There was no way to graft the torn twig back onto its parent. Better that the magpie should have it rather than tear off yet more.

The magpie seemed to be in agreement. Landing again, his greedy eyes focused on the fallen prize, but before he could act a flash of dusty brown darted into the tangled heart of the bush, snatched the stem from its resting place and took off. A cheeky snip of a sparrow – faster, smarter and smaller than the magpie.

A caw of indignation rent the air as the magpie gave voice to this upheaval of the pecking order. Now it would definitely have to renew its attack on the bush.

Stephanie reached for her hairbrush and rapped hard on the window to scare the bird off. He glanced up, tilted his head insolently and then renewed his assault. Furious she raised the brush for another rap, but then inspiration struck.

A few moments later she stepped into the garden. The magpie eyed her suspiciously, shifting its weight from one foot to another atop the potentilla.

She held out her hand, palm up, a tangle of dark-brown hair from her brush clearly visible.

‘A peace offering,’ she said. ‘Stop attacking my bush and you can have this.’ She walked slowly to the bird table, and snagged the hair onto the hook of the peanut container.

The magpie watched her back away. Then, with a sharp caw, he flew to the table, snatched up the hair, and set off for a higgledy-piggledy nest in a silver birch.

‘Three for a girl or four for a boy?’ she mused, as she went in search of more nesting material.

Inky Flash Fiction Spring Competition 2018: Winner: A Deuce Of Spring Brides by Lavinia Murray

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I am a Right Madam and I know my place. It’s here. Up is a weight-loss Moon under a sheet, rolling inexorably to the right on this mild Spring dusk. Down is Peace-Rose lying by my feet with babies crawling out of her ears as she sleeps on the Historic Battlefield. Manageably small babies, bean-sized, earwax coated, armed with miniature pikes and muskets – one even trundles a tiny cannon. Homeward-bound nest-ready birds pick up and stick the tiny babies to the nearest glass pane (a slanted viewing window into the earth below where the unclaimed/resistant-to-ritual-burial battlefield bones are dragged in mordant procession by the earth worms who curate them). The earwax, similar in tackiness to sticky notes, means that the babies slowly riprap down the window and are lost in the tussocks beneath. Oh yes, the Spring Moon winds-wends beneath a sheet. I wake Peace-Rose and we toddle home to frame our mud-spattered, hand-made lace wedding veil. It will cover the walls of our front room seven times over and the pattern tells a tale – it is like the Bayeux Tapestry with holes. It tells the story of one Spring Day years back when we had a double wedding, two brides marrying two Spring gusts of air which were driven to the Register Office by a rotating fan.

Our Spring husbands, those great gusts, those great winds, fill a double-bed duvet cover each with the ends knotted, like a pair of big balloons, and they float in the air, anchored by extendable dog leashes with their grips forced into the ground by a single tent hook. Our husbands will slowly leak away and join the prevailing winds and then we can marry again; we two Spring Brides can hitch ourselves to whomsoever. Put on our Spring lace veil and say ‘yes’ to a bluster or a breeze.

Our issue from previous Spring’s high wind marriages heft the curtains about. Push, Shove and Flutter. Shake, Shiver and Twitch. Thrash, Ripple and Fill.

Spring brides holding ourselves like a persistent drone in your eardrum. Marry us.

I am Carmel, Peace-Rose’s irregular Spring twin. I am a Herm. I am a counter marking the planting of a boundary. I make faux human ashes out of clay cat litter and I pack it into urns and I sell it to people who have lost track of ancestors. In Spring I create eleven new imaginary deceased entities out of grey clay cat litter and pack it loosely into ceramic or brushed-steel urns. Sometimes in Spring I scatter cat litter in the Gusts-my-Husband. When I got married my grandmother’s ashes were scattered on me, for I was the bride of a Nor’ Easterly smelling of dead-men’s feet. Peace-Rose married a former Trade Wind and did very nicely. Their children veered wildly and were imprisoned all Spring in a weathervane.

Inky Flash Fiction Spring Competition 2018: Runner Up: The Drip by A.K.Hepburn

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The girl Moth had never been outside of the cave. Born amongst the steady drip-drip of the rocky pinnacles that hung from the ceiling. Playing on stone, dimly lit by the precious blubber flames. Her mother pointed out constellations of glowing bugs on the ceiling: the Tiger, the Big Walrus, the Bear. She didn’t understand the names. Outside the Great Cold raged, as it always had.

Men went out to hunt. Moth’s father wrapped thick, woolly skins around himself until she could see only his eyes. He’d take up the flinty spear and disappear into the Light. She’d begged to go with him, but he’d never let her; said her toes would all turn black like Old Gulp. Gulp didn’t go out to hunt anymore. Sometimes they came back hauling some big hunk of furry flesh to cook over the blubber flame; sometimes with nothing at all and their stomachs would gnaw. Sometimes they’d come back missing one or two of their number.

Wondering what was out there, Moth imagined the rocky ceiling to be much higher and the walls to be further apart. Her mother said that, out there, the woolly beasts they ate ran ferociously around on their four legs. Someone daubed an image on the cave wall in wet red clay, and Moth tried to animate it with her imagination. Then there was the Cold White, which followed the hunters back as a dusting on their furs, then soon disappeared into wetness. Once, she’d peeked a little further than permitted, and the Cold White was all she could see. It filled her vision and flurried around too quickly. It bit at her face, and she hurried back inside.

The Drip began gradually. They hardly noticed it at first. Then it became more persistent. Dampness permeated the floor and walls as water leeched through the cracks. Puddles formed. Somewhere deeper in the rock, a rushing sound grew into a roar. Too wet to stay, they wrapped up and edged cautiously toward the Light, flinty spears raised.

The further Moth stepped, the more her eyes stung. At first she thought it was the Cold White, like before, but then she realised that although it was White, it was not actually Cold, but rather more warm, like the blubber flame. Gradually opening her squinting eyes, she realised, too, that it was hardly even white, but more golden. The Golden Warm, she thought. This was new. The White coated the ground, but it was peppered with green – with life. She looked up; the ceiling was impossibly, dizzyingly far away. She didn’t have a name for the colour.

They wrapped themselves in furs; huddled around a blubber flame. The orb of Golden Warm sank and disappeared, but it wasn’t unbearably cold. (Moth wondered if it would return; she hoped it would.) The far-away ceiling grew dim. Distantly, above, the glow worms lit up one by one, just like home. In her mind, she traced them into pictures; gave them new names.