Poetry Drawer: Bog by Ali Hepburn

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Underfoot, the peat sprang back

leaving watery footsteps

behind – there were no greens

or browns, only earth-colours

and moss-colours and a sense

of refuge from the inky pools beyond —

the kelpie-lairs and deeper fathoms

where dwell the ones who never made

the crossing. Ahead,

it shone as if lit by fool’s fire, white

with the coolness of old death,

hollow eyes long vacant, but staring,

knowing now the perils

of the mire. Horns,

regal and incredulous

in passive defeat, hung

with fronds of lichen

in gaudy decoration, the bog

speaking in warning,

in reclamation.

Books From The Pantry: Love by Robin Barratt: Reviewed by Natalie Denny

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Love. The four-letter word that has captured creatives for centuries is the defining theme of LOVE – A Collection of Poetry and Prose on Loving and Being in Love, the second of the Collections of Poetry and Prose book series compiled by Robin Barratt.

LOVE is a varied assortment of poetry and short prose from contributors around the world from Australia to England, from South Africa to Sri Lanka to the USA, to name a few. The origins of the pieces are very prominent in the submissions as they switch between contemporary and traditional styles with distinctive cultural influences running throughout and a real sense of place in many of the stories.

The book is part of a series, the first a replica of the same idea but with loneliness as the theme. The foreword from Barrat explains the main aim of this project was to provide another platform and avenue for creatives across the globe to have their work published and read, regardless of their defining characteristics or biographies. Barrat isn’t a poet and had, by personal admission, accepted nearly every submission and in its original state. I think this shows somewhat in the overall quality of the pieces.

The title boasts over 150 submissions of varying length from over eighty writers and poets. The content takes us on a epic love story from infatuation, the new spark of a relationship, brief sweet encounters, the tender familiarity of an all-time love, to the mundane, everyday tasks that bind two people as one; but it also balances more darker themes of unrequited love, jealousy, vulnerability in love, finding love online, love fading and the painful moving on from a relationship to pastures new. There’s also platonic love depicted between siblings and animals, and religious love, as well as the love of sentimental objects, capturing a wide variety of meanings and relationships.

Whenever dealing with love you will always run against the tide of clichés. I think even these viewpoints should have a level of endearment awarded. As a love-struck, dopamine-addled fool you feel that no one else in the history of the world has felt this feeling. I’m sure we can all remember times in our lives when love has made us conform to our more cringe-worthy selves. So despite my salubrious scepticism, I do believe there is a place for poems like that, though there does seem to be a generous amount within this collection.

Despite that, there’s some absolutely beautiful pieces contained within these pages. My personal favourites include:

‘Today’ by Rachel Walker, which has a lovely descriptive normality – being with your favourite person in the world, of those little blessed moments that add up to something infinite. Walker’s second poem, ‘7 years 4 days 11 months’, is also a heartfelt calendar of love and how it can haunt and liberate a soul.

Molly Donald’s ‘Tell Me It’s Real’ banishes all pink hearts and butterflies in a poem about authentic love that is ‘more than a Hollywood movie’.

Keith Nunes’ ‘Meeting on a Footpath’ details how ‘lovers effortlessly crush each other’ even when the relationship is no more, and ties in nicely with ‘The Tone of Your Voice’ by Martin Redfern depicts witnessing the heart wrenching observation of the one he loves loving someone else. This could also be grouped with ‘Black Cream for Ruined Hearts’ by David Hollywood, which has an excellent use of sounds and visceral, vivid language.

‘A Little Tin’ by John Stockdill resonated, as it told the story of responding to hate with love; ‘only kind words’ can be more effective than anything else in reaching a person.

‘Cruelty’ by Lonita Nugrahayu dissects the nature of love, namely how ‘we fall in love … we rise in hate’ when healing from a relationship.

‘One Word Only’ by Sarah Spivey was a grand and beautiful testament to self love in the face of any flaws glimpsed in the mirror at the age of thirty-seven having just woken up.

The short poem ‘Love’ by Andrew Hunter sums up the sentiment of the collection perfectly likening the heart to a strange muscle that ‘beats us up’.

There is something for everyone in this book. I was delighted by the variation in writing styles and subject interpretation. If you’re looking for new writers with fresh perspectives, from a range of places, then this collection is worth your time.

 Get your own copy of Love 🙂

Pantry Prose: Eat At The Weather! You Chin-Tie Fanfold Rainhood Squadron Member You! by Lavinia Murray

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I’ve got spoons in my drawers like everyone else, but their unusual shape is because they’re a 1/24 scale rendition of my pelvis on a stem — that’s dessert spoons — and a 1/12 scale rendition of the top of my skull — teaspoons. My knives are all cambered exactly like my ribs. Fun at mealtimes guaranteed and what a talking point when guests struggle to control what covers their plates and I charge them for the dry cleaning they’ve necessitated! Oh yes, my home is decked with ad hoc mock marvels. I’ve got a packet of ‘Instant Iceberg’ purchased from my local outdoor pursuits shop, plus an ice cornice and crevasse in my freezer, part of the Global Glaciers Collection which me and my buds play swapsies with down at the ice rink or the local’s market meatsafe. We enjoy exchanging geological features, especially these intermediary sorts that are really solidified weather. Talking of which, we intend to bring out a range of Weather On A Stick popsicles so whatever it’s doing in the wide yonder, you get to carry your own temp and meteorological preference around with you. Hot irradiated lollies with a UV range equal to that of a 3 day heel-to-toe trek along the Equator, sticky lollies with a humidity level found only in former cotton-weaving towns, established mildew blooms and rainforests, and gum-jamming spit-robbing droughtpop with ash-like dip and dehydrated liquorices dipperstick. Drippy drizzle and dogspot dropping and dripdrip strangely regulated rain that wobbles just before it lands lollies, the wrapper doubling as chin-tie, fanfold rainhoods. And grey lollies, part household dustbunny, office airscrape, commuter fug trail and extract of exhaust puther and after-lunch breath for that mid-city mid-season midday weathermug.

I’m going to loose my Instant Avalanche on a friend this afternoon. I have my little searcher’s probe ready to jab at the slab and locate her — as have my fifteen friends — so it’s hide and seek — and she’ll be supplied with a little hot-weather lolly which she can use to tunnel through and shift her location if she doesn’t want to be found — this melt-then-refreeze strengthens the tunnel structure so we may not be able to get her out. If that’s the case then it’s heigh ho, we’ve created our seventh snow queen in a row.

 

Books From The Pantry: The Changeling’s Child by Rachael Lindsay: Reviewed by Shannon Milsom

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‘I is different, my Dear Ones,’ Hobnail agreed. ‘I strives to be different! My aunt, long time ago, is teaching me skills and magical uses for my extra fingers. She is teaching me big lots: most of alls, how to live when others wants me gone. And now I lives and lives.’

As a child, some of my fondest memories are from happy, sun-dappled afternoons spent exploring the wilderness of my garden; making glorious muddy messes and checking for treasures hidden under rocks and tucked away in crevices. A shy girl, I found companions in the animals and insects that made their home in my tiny, private jungle.  

Upon reading The Changeling’s Child by Rachael Lindsay, I was immediately transported back to that magical, childhood place. Rachael Lindsay’s writing evokes perfectly the enchantment and strange wistful wildness of nature. Laugh-out-loud funny in some parts, and touching in others, it is a perfect read for an imaginative child (or indeed, a child of any age!)

The Changeling’s Child by Rachael Lindsay tells the story of Hobnail, an ugly and unloved misfit who lives in the forest with her two ‘Dear Ones’, Warty Toad and Slimey Slug. Outcast by even her mother who thought her strange daughter to be an evil changeling fairy child, Hobnail is taught magic by her aunt and then finds herself a home in the quiet solitude of the forest with only her pets for company.

However, even in the forest there is nastiness afoot. The cunning Leaf-Man and his spies hatch a clever plan to try and get Hobnail out of the forest for good; a plan that involves a human baby.

The characters in The Changeling’s Child are engaging, funny, and have a real sense of depth to them that gives the story warmth and soul. Hobnail’s past is presented to the reader through the bedtime stories that she tells to her pets, which is a lovely and poignant touch.

Rachael Lindsay also puts lots of expressiveness into the dialogue of her characters, especially Hobnail:

‘My dears! This is no time to be larking-fun and playful in a pool! Time and the dimsk are against us. We must hurry on our way.’

I also found the exchanges between Warty Toad and Slimey Slug to be highly amusing. The two pets each jealously vie for the attention of their mistress; often trying to outdo each other in their endeavours to please Hobnail, and usually with hilarious results!  

This, as well as some beautiful descriptive writing and gorgeous illustration, really helps us, as readers, to paint a picture of Hobnail, her friends, enemies, and the enchanted, peaceful haven of the forest they all inhabit. (Although that picture could possibly be a little slimy and splattered with woodlouse jam).

Get your own copy of The Changeling’s Child

Inky Interview Exclusive: Award Winning Dramatist Lavinia Murray

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Congratulations on winning the BBC Radio 4 Audio Drama Award for Best Adaptation with Émile Zola’s Blood, Sex and Money with your fellow writers Oliver Emanuel, Martin Jameson and Dan Rebellato. The ceremony was hosted by Sir Lenny Henry, who studied literature with The Open University, back in the day, like a lot of our Inky followers! Can you please tell Ink Pantry about the adaptation and describe a typical day with your fellow writers in adapting Blood, Sex and Money? 

Thank you! It was an odd thing, the Zolas. I met with my co-writers once and then had a phone conference with them. They had already written the first season and, although I was supposed to work with them on that, for some reason I was kept in the parking bay until Season 2. I like to think it was as their ‘secret weapon’! I’m known for being experimental in my adaptations, experimental not just in narrative but form and to also sling comedy into everything (the gentlemen were all a lot more serious writers than myself). Then a story arc was erected and the books allocated, a timeline worked-out, Glenda Jackson’s character, and the series narrator was given her own story arc and then we jumped in and wrote like scallywags. We only conferred when we shared a character between episodes, just to ensure that whatever liberties we took with that character were consistent with their behaviour in a previous episode. Otherwise it was Liberty Junction. As long as the spirit of the books were honoured, and there was basic agreement on what needed to happen to ensure the whole worked as a series, and as stand-alone, off we went. In Series 3, Money, I was given The Earth to adapt, the book that put Zola in court for obscenity (thanks for that). My adaptation was the sole episode that was broadcast prefaced by a warning and it is very visceral. It was the only episode, I think, to draw complaints about how upsetting it was. I offset it with comedy, the everyday intruding on murder, death and tragedy — and I’m proud of the script but sorry that it was too much for some listeners. (Guardian article: Blood, Sex and Money)

As a dramatist you have adapted many great works for radio. In 2002 you adapted Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials for BBC Radio 4. Where do you start with such an undertaking? Did you have fun doing it? Have you any advice for budding writers who are interested in this field?

His Dark Materials, blimey, yes — when we were expected to cram big books into an hour each, then we were granted an hour-and-a-half. When we’d finished, we were asked why we hadn’t asked for longer! We did ask! It was an odd undertaking. The rhythm of the story, the pace and progress were all different because we had such a limited amount of time to set up characters and have them swept into the story. I was told to make one of the angels the narrator (fine and dandy) and to explain ‘Dust’ as ‘soul’, which was a trifle bizarre given the author’s atheism. I did my usual humour thing (throw it in, mix it up) which was also my way of coping with the project. It was, as they say, a poisoned chalice. Some people love the version, others wanted to kick me in the shins and nethers. I can’t say that the project was a joy. I didn’t sleep for five nights when it was broadcast and I also ritually smashed up my complimentary set of Dark Materials CDs when they arrived. Took a hammer to them. Broke ’em up on the doorstep. I wouldn’t wish to adapt anything under those circumstances again. No way. Very painful memories. As for advice to people interested in adaptations — they can be great fun (they are a glorified kind of fan fiction) — but go for books that give you, the dramatist, ample space to explore what fascinates you. The Zolas were great fun, but the adaptation I’m fondest of is The Anatomy of Melancholy (the commissioner gave me an hour for a book composed of nearly 1000 pages in tiny print) and Gargantua and Pantagruel. Be aware that some people will be annoyed with the choice you make and the liberties you take, but there’s no point in adapting a book for another medium if you’re going to lavishly copy the original. I also like my version of the (partly controversial) Ann Veronica by H.G.Wells — that airs on February 26th, repeated on March 4th.

One of your radio plays from 1997 is called Nietzsche’s Horse. Great title! What is it about and what themes does it touch upon?

Nietzsche’s Horse was my first ever radio play. It featured floating prostitutes. Of course it did! Nietzsche’s being followed by a horse as he discovers exactly what Universal Consciousness (the aim of his philosophy, in my humble opinion) entails. It was a comedy. It featured the famous horse in Wagner’s Opera explaining its poses, with the riposte, ‘And I never dunged the stage’. Happy days.

You have many books published, one of which is called Out Damned Spot; William Shakespeare, Crime Scene Cleaner. Another great title! What is the novel about? How would you describe your writing style, generally?

Out Damned Spot! William Shakespeare, Crime Scene Cleaner is about a latter-day William Shakespeare, a junior hospital doctor who’s bullied out of his job (nurses empty catheter bags filled with urine into his locker, midwives carve human placentas into his likeness, microwave them, and eat them in the staff kitchen, the fairies mess with his naval which becomes so enormous he’s diagnosed as acoustic) because he’s whistle blown about the hospital using occult practices, not medical ones. William walks in on someone running a Ouija planchette over a patient’s gelled abdomen, and the consultants all use the Great Western Pharma Tarot to diagnose and treat illness. He leaves and sets up in business as a crime scene cleaner, opting for ‘higher end’ crime scenes and cleaning up after the other William Shakespeare’s crime scenes depicted in his plays. He’s helped by nine bulimic cannibals, a Goth campanologist, a partially dissected cadaver, an ex hospital porter obsessed with sumo and Ann Hathaway Shakespeare, a free-diving, water-birth specialist midwife. They end up travelling in their own graves, stealing babies.There’s a flying human tongue (the Tonguebird) and nods to Lewis Carroll who was a Shakespeare aficionado. It should probably be a graphic novel, and I’m turning it into a performance piece and animation. There are also friars who anaesthetise poltergeists, enclose them in illuminated vellum tubes, and retail them as warheads. I drink far too much tea. I think my writing style shows that. I am a visual artist who accidentally ended up flinging words about. My work is driven by images and comedy. I do try plotting but no one believes me.

You have a ‘formidable grand dame’ of a pet crow. What is she called and how did she come to live with you?

Oh, my beloved crow Anne Bow! Out Damned Spot is dedicated to her for ‘noises off’. I thought she wouldn’t mind if nobody liked my book, she’d make her wonderful rude, raucous, hahahaha crow noises and she’d put the world to rights. Anne Bow is around 15 years old now and was born without true wings, a genetic defect that affects the Corvid family. We’ve had her living with us since she was a fledgling; she was a year old before proper flight feathers grew. Anne was found wandering about beneath a tree, her beak deformed, her throat filled with gape worm parasites and she had a severe chest infection, so she sounded like Donald Duck. Basically, she was going to be ‘put down’ unless she was offered a home with an aviary. It was hoped by the vet and veterinary nurses that Anne could be released once she had true wings, but the deformed beak never corrected itself, her crop is scarred because of the gape worm so she can’t store food, and she’s partially sighted and a poor flier, so would never have survived.  We’ve left the aviary door open in case she wanted to fly out and return at her leisure but she yells at us until we shut the door. The local crows come down to see her and feed with her. Basically, Anne Bow is the Boss.

You are a lady of many talents, as you are also a performance poet. Have you entered many slams? What do you think about the poetry scene at the moment? 

I love performing. It can be fun. I’ve tried my hand at local poetry slams but they’re far too serious for me. I am a giddy kipper. They seem to favour the one style of poetry, which is great if that’s your bag. I might be due a good shin-kicking if I say that the style of the ones I’ve witnessed verge on haranguing and in-your-face and, ahem, favour the overly macho and the immediately gratifying, but that might be just an accident of circumstance. The poetry scene is a rum ol’ world, some glorious pieces, some snobbery and bobbery and some grass-roots glorious, real, individual, wonderful, magnificent poems that are written because the writer needed to write them and remained playful yet true to their own vision.

Both your husband and son are also writers. What kind of things do they write about? Do you inspire each other?

We are a scribbler family for sure. My husband, Michael, is a poet and essayist (Michael’s essays Gifts of Rings and Gold ) He’s the real poet, I’m more an apple-bobber. His essays are brilliant, and he’s also just written two novels.

Our son, Alex, is a novelist, having completed his MA in Creative Writing at Sheffield Hallam, had a short story, Plankton, published by Galley Beggar Press (under his nom de plume Vienna Famous: he and I are forever name-shifting). He writes wild, comedic pieces. He went to Art School and did a series about how the female body is usually the one depicted as vulnerable or available. He’s very interested in culture/gender and even did an MA about that, too. When he did his BA in English Lit, he even won the Virago Essay Prize!

I consider Michael and Alex to be the ‘real’ writers in the family. I’m a wonky hybrid thang, a writer that craves images (and who often draws) and laughter. I accidentally fell into writing plays and haven’t been able to extricate myself. I got in trouble for telling the wonderful Society of Authors, who had given me a free year’s membership, that I wouldn’t join after the year was up. I found their wonderful array of support and workshops terrifying. Bless them, they are brilliant, but it was a case of, having been allowed through their door, I could see that I didn’t belong. I really, really do not feel like a writer. I use words, but not in a writerly way.

Did you grow up with a lot of books? Could you please describe your library? 🙂 What is your favourite book? What are you reading at the moment?

We didn’t really have books when I grew up. There was a set of encyclopaedias in the garden shed which I used to read (I dug holes in the garden and sat in them and read, or went in the shed to read if it was raining) and I came home from school to find my dad burning them. Heartbreak! Now I’m a book obsessive. We have far too many books. Not enough bookshelves. Books in stacks by the bed and in the front room. Books! I’m always reading any of the Harry Potters, P.G.Wodehouse, Mark Ryden’s Pinxit which is a collection of his paintings, The Can Opener’s Daughter, a graphic novel by Rob Davis, and all the Moomin books in rotation.

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

It’s been pointed out that frozen embryos appear a lot in my work. I think that’s because I find the idea of them intrinsically funny. My zine’s called The Adventures of the Frozen Embryos. I suppose, like most people, the big things call out — love, kindness, life, death, imagination — satire is important as a means of working through the big questions. I’m vegan as a moral choice. I also realised, when I was doing an oral story-telling course, that I’m a trickster type.

Have you any advice for budding writers?

The only advice I can offer for budding writers is this; if it’s what you really want to do then never give up, never allow anyone to put you off, and just keep working, working, working. Don’t install other people’s criticisms in your head. Write because there’s joy in writing.

You have a great interest in Mentalism. Could you tell us more?

Mentalism, yes, that fits in with my trickster persona. I have lots of books on this, including early works by Derren Brown, and works on cold reading. It’s the storytelling, the narrative that I love, the fact that this kind of magic is sheer showmanship (show-woman-ship?) and, when done well, can amaze, perplex, startle, and it is intrinsically playful. It also renders the performer and audience equal partners in the effect.

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

If I could change only one thing about the world? I’d ratchet-up the amount of empathy everyone was capable of feeling. Either that or inflate humanity’s stock of compassion.

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

My next plan is to create graphic novels, cartoons, animations and wonky live performances that continue to explore the universe that is partly visible in Out Damned Spot. If I can escape writing plays, well, yippee! I did a scratch night at Salford Lowry Seeds in November and the audience feedback was terrific (someone described me as a ‘living Terry Gilliam cartoon’!). There have been offers of a possible director and rehearsal space to work out what it is I’m doing. That should be a hoot.

Buy your copy here of Out Damned Spot by Urbane Publications

 

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Pantry Prose: Super Moon by Matthew Waldron

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A full moon tonight. I anticipate a no-show; the view occluded by coagulated, thick porridge cloud. But when I open my front door to venture outside and walk toward the dark, wet-rimmed basin of meadows, in the curl of neighbourhood cul-de-sac, between roofs of two houses, a knocked over cup of cappuccino spills into the sky. Moon, a bright foamy incidental drop floats in slow creamy swirls of liquid darkness.

In this fluid world an image rises: a beautiful young woman in a train carriage. I hadn`t noticed that she was there earlier, one of several corner-of-the-eye moving shadows – passengers choosing seats. But she must have been, ever since our departure from the station. So, here I am returning from an always unnerving ‘bathroom visit on a train’ experience: the automatic sliding door; an unwanted embrace; doubt and fear of whether the door will lock, unlock; the motion of the train; to sit or stand? Rivulets of soapy water and piss curl, writhe, overlap like a coiled slumber-disturbed nest of snakes. Mucky shoe prints merge, begin to lift away, become an historic universal sole above once sparkly white floor. Now, I’m walking unsteadily between rows of seats which seem to wobble like loose teeth in a big, open-mouthed yawn, smile. The train speeds, judders and jolts; its carriage swings gently from side-to-side like a pregnant cat’s belly.

There she is. Cinnamon sprinkled onto long, molasses hair; her complexion, oiled olive wood; enough of a gentle smile to intimate friendliness; perfect, lipstick-less lips. Her dark, chocolate eyes appear to wait, anticipate, hold mine. Is she looking at me? I turn around. There must be a much younger, more attractive person behind me. The cliché of my action realised, my mind turns around too. She is looking at me. My heart does a double-kick drum beat; fever glows behind my ear lobes; heat prickles the few hairs on my chest with a light sweat. I do nothing.

Arriving at my home town station, I get up from my seat. The young woman, still sitting two rows away from me, initially a post-daydream background blur, now frosted glass, now crystalline, HD-ready – beautiful. No. Stop there. No. She’s at least twenty years younger than me; that makes me old. Old enough to be… no, stop there too. Deeper thought will only exacerbate existentialist woes; taking a walk on an almost-set concrete path, then a surprise splash of reality will arrive like an ice-cold drink thrown in your face. I’ll carry the moment home and nurture it for a while, this, our unborn child. Wait. There she is again, a soft form elegantly positioned on one of the foyer’s battleship grey and blood-red, metal seats. With that same look she turns around to follow me toward the exit, then along a length of hand-smeared, fag stub-stabbed, rain-beaded glass façade.

Look at me. Look at me, you idiot. Come on, Yusef. Yeah, I clocked the ‘Hello my name is: badge’. I bet wearing it makes you feel that weird mix-up of embarrassment and pride, right? I’m not stalking you; I’m waiting here for my taxi to arrive. It’s cold outside; it’s cold enough in here. This seat’s freezing, and those oh-so-sensitive automatic doors opening and shutting don`t help. The invisible eye of the sensor’s acting like a kid who’s discovered what curtains do for the first time. Why are they opening now? Surely it can’t be triggered by a few leaves blowing across the taxi bay? Okay, okay, I said I was waiting for a taxi, right? Well, I’m actually waiting for my dad to pick me up, okay? But, if I told you that, it would just make you think I’m a young, naïve girl, wouldn’t it? Hey, I’m young, but I’m old enough for you. Yeah, I live with my currently happily divided parents; but hey, economic necessity and all that, post-uni, between jobs, part-time study to pay for. I’ll get my own place eventually.  Everything’s cool, right?

Look at you, staring at the moon as the clouds budge out of the way for a millisecond; simultaneously trying to forget me, and dwelling on the moment in that little melancholy way of yours. Poetic guy, hey? Yeah, me too, I’m a poetic girl. You see? I know you, because you’re like me.  

You probably think that I’m too young, right? I’m not stupid, blah, blah, blah… ‘age difference’, ‘what would our families think’, et cetera, et cetera. This has nothing to do with our families; this is about us. Don’t you get it? I know you feel the same as I do. Look, there’s an obvious connect here, not just a dodgem car bump of chemical-hormonal reaction. We’ve seen some of each other, you know? Yeah, however brief, due to your lack of eye-to-eye commitment, shyness, concern about age. Hah, age concern, right?! No, we’ve seen character, intellect, warmth; we’ve seen the soul. Availability is key, sure thing. Listen: I wanna yin-yang with you, you handsome lanky lunk of self-denial; you errant, miscellaneous, beautiful man. I can tell you’re single; single guys are always easier to read than single girls. You look so ‘please, Mummy, I’m lost’; your blushes and awkwardness dead giveaways. The fact is you’re free. It takes two to tangle, to tryst. Try it. Take a risk; be brave, honey.

Late autumn, early winter. I arrive at an intersection, of sorts, where wealth meets, well, dirt-poor, to put it frankly, if a little insensitively. Like most borderlines – invisible, yet a difference always tangible. I watch three guys shuffle by, stooped like wind-blown garden canes. Hands are stuffed into pockets, just a glimpse of pinked white haloes, the nakedness of their wrists. Destination performed in silent mutual agreement. These guys wear heavy woollen coats, the colour of coal; well-worn coats where the wool has bobbled, fuzzy outlines appear on shoulder seams and arms, reveal vague chase-me traces of land on horizons. I notice a star or satellite appear in the slowly clearing sky like a splinter of glass flying away from a bottle neck break.  

There’s an unreachable heart-shaped red apple at the top of a solitary tree in Valentine Road. One isolated fruit in upper, wiry untamed branches; thin tangles like desperate fatigued arms, webs of veins and arteries. No intermittent touch of care to nurture and create a plentiful yield of sweetness and strength for this tree.  

Another Christmas due, and I know it’ll appear all too jack-in-a-box soon. Families in my neighbourhood have already prettified windows with garlands and slow-pulse LED snowflake and icicle lights; uncertain, hesitant shifts of colour like a reader looking for the right page. I feel so alone. Why? My parents are with me, or rather, I am with them. I have friends, so why do glimpses of other people’s lives like the warm, tantalising glows from strangers’ living rooms with apparently happy families inside make me feel so sad? It is theatre I’m watching, isn’t it? Are these families content all the time? Is all life theatre?  

A short walk from my parent’s house, across a gravel drive and around the block, feels like a long, long ramble – in my mind at least. That apple tree hasn’t made me feel any less lonely. There it stands, neglected, yet it still bears fruit. I should Flickr and Facebook a pic of that one at the top. It’s large; a proper burst of blood red. I’ve got a stupid idea in my head that if I were tall enough to reach up and twist it free, all of my dreams would come true. Hah! What a big, stupid kid I am. I can hear someone walking nearby through the leaf-covered path. The sounds are all scrunches like crushed crisp packets and broken biscuits. Come on, Mara, girl, pull your leggings up, get your act together, sharpen your senses, be sweet now.

The shallow skid of pond is semi-iced; parchment paper patterned with greasy shadows of grass and leaves. Nearby, a working men’s club with windows of sheet metal and padlocked doors; a sign; black, rusted twelve-spoke mine wheel; the clock that tells you nothing, tells you everything; a simple profile of miners, angular in shadow, spade-dig at a forty-five degree bank of coal, forever digging the now, or the past. I walk past it towards what the club folks call Adam’s Tree. I see a familiar face, and my own Adam’s Apple bobs involuntarily in an awkward gulp which drowns my breath. An apple at the top of the tree remains firm, intact, red as blood. A few other fruits, sparse, decay on lower branches, moistened, rain-darkened, colour of burnt toast. God, Yusef, stop being such a drag-heels mope-along, man.

If I reach out to it, do I reach out to you? Carol song in the distance wraps around me, forms a halo of melody and nostalgia, tremulous, tentative: spider on her silken web. I feel so not alone – Merry Christmas.

‘Weren’t you (on the train earlier),’ we both begin a start-up stutter, knowing that we know the answer already. So what happens now, a Happy New Year?

Poetry Drawer: Moomintroll Buys It by Lavinia Murray

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Meringue Pupa, Vandalised Bomb, Eleventh Hour Udder:

he went by many names

but today

Moomintroll is shrink-wrapped in the gammon carousel

at Waitrose,

his fat in circles round him like a hoopla peg,

rumour, though, suggests dementia

after ten years as a full-time semen donor,

his sex identical to windscreen wipers

though renegade and twice as squeaky.

Whatever,

Death the Chiropractor culled

his valley calcium

manipulated his cranial sac

and turned his plush into a single-seater.

 

Poetry Drawer: Surface Noise by Matthew Waldron

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Cut grass holds a faint petrol scent; meadows mown.

A thin white plastic stick with petal-edged cup emerges in a cut and tumbled wave; becomes a rose woven into the surface: an ornate brooch upon the lapel of a green woollen jacket.  

Dried golden-brown by the sun, and removed forcibly from its host: a shattered limb, fissured; paper peeled away: revelations from its past.  

Splayed hands, jagged fingers that lift, curl in the breeze, stroking bodily warmth.

Underneath, a vast green-yellow stubble appears, and just-visible roots.

Rapid warm blades pierced this rich earth, disturbed its surface noise, all un-knitted, it will soon be knitted back again.

 

Soft fuzzed bands of red and black are broken: an intimation of evening thunderstorm, a parting cloud.   

Legs grasp at nothingness, remember portals, stems, petals, light and shade. Two perfect eclipses reflect a sweet working life fulfilled.

 

Inky Interview Special: Author Jeff Wheeler

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Kev Milsom: Hello Jeff. Massive thanks for offering to share your thoughts and advice with our readers. Can I start by taking you back to your younger days and asking about the earliest creative influences and literary inspirations within your life?

I wasn’t all that keen on reading as a youngster. Like many of my generation, I was bedazzled by Star Wars when it first came out and my first love was science fiction (Battlestar Galactica, Buck Rogers, Star Trek, etc). The first series that sucked me in was Lloyd Alexander’s Chronicles of Prydain. But it was reading Terry Brooks’ Shannara trilogy that lit the spark of my imagination and began to fire up the creative juices.

From a reader’s personal perspective – from your earliest publication, The Wishing Lantern in 1999 with the adventures of Hickem Tod, right up to the latest Kingfountain trilogy – your fertile imagination stands out at every opportunity. How important is this to you when composing a story? Is your main writing goal to inspire/open up the imagination of the reader, or is this simply a case of you expressing your thoughts in written form?  

My creative imagination is a machine that doesn’t have an ‘off’ switch, actually. I’m constantly inspired by books I read, movies I see, or interactions between people I’ve met. Sometimes I see something and think how it could have gone another way. So while it’s not my intent to light the spark in others, it’s a by-product of an author to inspire and be inspired by other authors. It is immensely gratifying to me when a reader tells me that they are so sucked into one of my stories that they believe the setting and the characters are real people. They are real to me too, only they live inside my head.

Could you share some thoughts on the earliest inspiration/inspirations for your utterly fascinating Muirwood series of books, first published in 2013?

Actually, the original Muirwood trilogy was first self-published in 2011. The first year, it limped along and although the reviews were positive, it didn’t start selling until the Kindle Direct Program (KDP) came along. I was one of the first who jumped on board that wagon at the beginning. Since all three books in the trilogy were available at once, it also benefitted from the ‘binge reading’ phenomenon. The timing was perfect. A few months later, I had a book deal with my publisher, 47North, who re-released the series in 2013.

The earliest inspiration for Muirwood came from another writer, Sharon Kay Penman. I love her histories of Medieval England and, after reading one of her books, I learned about a real-life Welsh princess who was banished to an abbey for the rest of her life. Her story haunted me, and I decided to write the story about that period of history. Being a Medieval history major in college, I had the knowledge of the rituals of the past and tried to reinvent them into a fantasy setting so that I wouldn’t be constrained by actual events. I feel that many fantasy novels are so dark and full of inhumanity that I wanted my books to be not only safe for my own kids to read but a ray of light in the genre, a throwback to the fantasy epics of the past like the Belgariad, Shannara, and Lord of the Rings series.

Within this book series, you refer regularly to ‘The Medium’, alongside other elements incorporating esoteric, spiritual ideas. Are spirituality & philosophy aspects which inspire you in your everyday life and, if so, how much of the characters’ ideas reflect your own beliefs?

I currently teach religion classes to high school students before school each day (it’s called early-morning seminary). So yes, I have a rich spiritual and philosophical background. I love collecting quotes from ancient philosophers, anything that strikes me as being particularly wise. So the characters’ ideas are more a reflection of the wisdom of the ages than my particular beliefs. I’m not shy talking about my religion on my website, but I infuse a variety of spiritual traditions into my works and not just my specific faith. I write what I like to read.

Regarding your writing set-up, is there a favourite place, or location, where you like to begin writing? Also, are you someone who employs a notebook and pen, are you devoted only to writing on a computer, or are there elements of both?  

I’m definitely a creature of habit. I have a den downstairs with a white noise machine. I usually write in the mornings when my five kids are in school and the house is quiet. I really need the quiet in order to get into the zone. I absolutely cannot stand my own handwriting and find it difficult deciphering it, so I’m definitely 100% composing on my laptop. I type over eighty words per minute, so it’s just more efficient to do it this way. The one variation to this is I do keep a notebook for character and place names that I come up with or discover over time. I do peruse this list when I’m looking to create something new, or I’ll go to Google Maps and seek inspiration looking at cities or street names.

To follow on from this, could you share how long it takes you to put a novel together? Also, is this a slow, deliberate process, with detailed planning/sketches/notes/research, or are you a writer who works best when working spontaneously and ‘in the moment’?

Basically, I write a novel-length manuscript in three months. I’ll then spend another month revising it and seeking feedback from my early readers. I usually do a rough outline of the plot but seek inspiration on the specific chapter-by-chapter meanderings to get there. I don’t have extensive notes. I’m always researching because I love to read. So it’s definitely a mix of in the moment and careful planning.

What advice would you give to prospective writers, Jeff? If you had access to a time machine, is there something which you would travel back to your sixteen-year old self and say ‘Do THIS, but please, whatever you do, don’t do THAT?’

If I had access to a time machine, I would have told myself to invest in Amazon stock from the get-go! Other than that, the advice that would have helped me the most is the advice I heard from Terry Brooks during a writing seminary. After you’ve written your first million words, you’re ready to start being a writer. That might have discouraged me because I wrote five novels during high school and none of them are any good. But it was the practice that helped me hone the craft, and I’ve found that there isn’t a substitute for it. Practice, practice, practice!

Ha! I totally agree regarding the Amazon stock. Huge thanks for taking the time to share your wealth of experience with our readers, Jeff. It’s always a fascinating process to learn from established writers and take on board advice that offers help within our own writing. To finish, what does 2017 hold in store for you and your readers? What’s next on the ‘To Do’ list?  

I have four books coming out this year. The Maid’s War (a prequel to the Kingfountain series) came out this month and the next three books of the Kingfountain series starts in June. I’m almost done wrapping up the final book and haven’t decided which book on my ‘To Do’ list is going to happen next. I have some ideas but not ready to spill the beans yet!

Thanks for having me!

Jeff’s Website

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The Wretched of Muirwood by Jeff Wheeler: reviewed by Shirley Milsom:

‘She looked into the Leering’s eyes, into the curiously bland expression carved into a woman’s face in the stone. She never used them unless she was totally alone, or with Sowe. Only learners or mastons could use the Medium to invoke their power. Staring at the eyes, she reached out to it with her mind.’

I am a huge fan of fantasy novels and had been unable to find anything recently that grabbed my attention, or piqued my interest enough to purchase it. An online search led me to ‘Idumea’, the official website of Jeff Wheeler, an American author who has sold more than one million books. ‘Idumea’ is a blog-like area where readers can learn about his journey as an author, and snippets about his novels.  I was pleased to see he was a Star Trek fan, as am I. It also appeared that he was a fan of another favourite writer of mine, Terry Brooks – author of the Shannara series. Jeff’s website led me to The Wretched of Muirwood, the first book in the Muirwood Trilogy, which was released in 2013.

In the ancient and mystical land of Muirwood, set in an era very similar to the Medieval period, Lia has known only a life of servitude. Labelled a ‘wretched,’ an outcast unwanted and unworthy of respect, Lia is forbidden to realise her dream to read or write. All but doomed, her days are spent toiling away as a kitchen slave under the charge of the Aldermaston, the Abbey’s watchful overseer. When an injured squire named Colvin is abandoned at the kitchen’s doorstep, an opportunity arises, and an adventure ensues, as Lia discovers that she has powers linked to a mystical or all-encompassing power.

Jeff has the ability to paint such evocative pictures as you travel through Lia’s adventures in the opening book of the trilogy, and leaves the reader wanting more, making an easy leap towards the second book in the series, The Blight of Muirwood, and the third instalment, The Scourge of Muirwood. He has a great command of his craft; he is descriptive without being too flowery, and the dialogue and build-up of the characters is masterful.

On his official website, Jeff says ‘It was Terry Brooks who first taught me the “one million words” principle. It goes like this. After you’ve written your first million words, you are ready to start being a writer. It was true for me. If I ever write a book about my author journey and the craft of writing, you know that lesson will be there!’

It was interesting to read that The Wretched of Muirwood was something that he self-published, after writing almost a million words. This book is perfect for a young adult, or in fact anyone of any age, equipped with a great imagination!  

Jeff Wheeler certainly has a gift, immersing the reader into a great storyline within the first few paragraphs, and leaves you devouring the novel page by page, unable to put it down for an instant. I thoroughly recommend it.