Issue 9 - Gold Dust magazine

Gold Dust 

Gold Dust team 

Prose Editor & Cover Designer 

David Gardiner 

Marketing Co-ordinator 

Claire Nixon 

Webmaster, DTP & Founder 

Omma Velada 

Proofreader 

Jo Copsey 

Omma Velada 

Welcome! 

Welcome to Issue 9 of Gold 

Dust magazine! We are very 

proud of this issue, which 

includes some truly top-notch 

short-story writing, such as An 

Anthem for Mary by Eddie 

Bruce and On a Quiet Lane that 

Morning by Melanie Staines, as 

well as poems both humourous 

and poignant. These include 

work by Barnaby Tidman and 

Bex Harris. 

We also have two book 

reviews and an interview with 

four ezine Editors (or former 

Editors), a discussion on the 

Quarterly Magazine of Literature & the Arts 

current state and future of the 

small press magazine. 

Our feature for aspiring writers 

this issue is ‘How to write...a 

Comic Novel’, which will give you 

plenty of ideas to get started. We 

begin a new regular feature - all the 

best writing competitions for you 

to enter this quarter. 

Jon Stone wins our £10 star 

poem contest with his poem, 

Nightcrawlers. We also have all 

our usual regular features, including 

Final Word, our jokes page. 

Gold Dust continues to work 

towards improving its content, layout 

and value for money. From this 

issue, you’ll be pleased to discover 

that our full-colour PDF version 

is now completely free. This has 

allowed us to increase our page 

count, so that those keen for a 

print edition will get something 

really worthwhile for their pennies. 

This issue weighs in at a hefty 68 

pages! 

From issue 10 we have decided 

to introduce a theme! We’re 

kicking off with TIME, so all prose 

Cover design 


Artwork 

Cover photographs 

Zion Canyon, Idaho, courtesy of 

xRez.com 

Internal photographs 

stock.xchng 

Karen Inskip-Hayward 

Issue 9 

Winter 2007 

should be set either in the past or 

the future (with an exception for 

time travel/time-themed tales). As 

usual, please see our submission 

guidelines on our website 

(www.golddustmagazine.co.uk) for 

full details. 

Our Spring issue of Gold 

Dust magazine (issue 10) will be 

available for sale from April 2007. 

Happy reading! 

Omma Velada 

xRez is a consortium of digital 

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SHORT STORIES 

An Anthem for Mary 

Eddie Bruce 

Drama 10 

Religion and Politics 

Zack Wilson 

Comedy 13 

The Anchor House 

Dan Kopcow 

Paranormal 14 

Tainted Touch 

J.E. Ash 

Paranormal 18 

Fenwick’s Endeavor 

Jens Rushing 

Historical comedy 22 

Poem 

Howard Waldman 

Historical 25 

On a Quiet Lane that Morning 

Melanie Staines 

Historical crime 26 

JS Bach in Venice 


Horror 29 

Sand 

Jens Rushing 

Horror 30 

Where Was Woody Guthrie? 

Ali Al Saeed 

Drama 34 

The Meaning of April 

Daniel Stephens 

Drama 36 

The Beauty That’s In Me 

Louise Cypher 

Science Fiction 40 

In this issue... 

FEATURES 

How to write...a Comic Novel 

All you need to know 4 

Ready to write that Book 

Avoiding writer’s block 8 

BOOK REVIEWS 

The Book of Hopes & Dreams 

edited by Dee Rimbaud 

Babylon Burning: 9/11 five years on 

edited by Todd Swift 

Two heart-rending new poetry 

anthologies reviewed by Fionna 

Doney Simmonds 48 

Truckerson 

by John Griffiths 

Skytrucker 

by Allen Murray 

A comparison of two aviation tales 

reviewed by David Gardiner 50 

INTERVIEWS 

Zines of the Times 

Discover more about your favourite 

literary magazines and the people 

who edit them 52 

The Anchor House - page 14 

COMPETITIONS 

£10 star poem contest 

Our winning entry, Nightcrawler by 

Jon Stone 47 

Fenwick’s Endeavor - page 22 Religion and Politics - page 13

The Beauty That’s In Me - 

page 40 

POEMS 

I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT 

YOU 

Barnaby Tidman 44 

AUTUMN'S COMING 

Bex Harris 44 

ONE MORE CRIPPLED RICHARD 

Ray Succre 45 

BEFORE THE DENTISTS 

John Osbourne 45 

THE SICK MAN 

John Osbourne 45 

THE SILVER SURFER 

Jon Stone 46 

DISORDER 

James Al Midgley 46 

THE VANISHINGS 

James Al Midgley 46 

SONNET 17 

Andrea Tallarita 46 

SONNET 19 

Andrea Tallarita 47 

REGULARS 

Editorial 

Omma Velada welcomes you to this 

issue of Gold Dust magazine 1 

Writing competitions 

All you need to enter 51 

Final Word 

Fun page 67 

Contributors 

Find out more about our talented 

contributors here 64 

Next season 

Our next issue of Gold Dust, available 

for sale from April 2007 68 

Contact us 

Submit 

If you would like to submit work for a future edition of Gold Dust, please refer to 

the submission guidelines on our website at www.golddustmagazine.co.uk. 

Feedback 

Please address reader feedback, suggestions and queries to our Marketing Coordinator, 

Claire Nixon, at marketingco-ordinatorgolddust@blueyonder.co.uk or 

visit the forums on our website. These comments may be printed in a future issue 

of Gold Dust, either online or in print. Please let us know if you wish to remain 

anonymous. 

Order 

Additional copies of the magazine can be ordered from 

www.lulu.com/golddustmagazine. 

Disclaimer 

How to write...a Comic Novel - 

page 4 

All copyrights for these works belong to the respective contributors. This particular configuration 

of works is copyrighted to the Prose Editor, David Gardiner (2007). All works in this publication 

are either works of fiction or commentaries that reflect the opinions of the individual contributors. 

Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, in fictional works is purely coincidental. 

Gold Dust magazine is for educational and entertainment purposes only. The information 

found in Gold Dust magazine is offered in good faith and is believed to be accurate. Gold 

Dust magazine makes no representation or warranty regarding the results obtained from using 

this magazine. Gold Dust magazine assumes no liability for damages resulting from the information 

found in this magazine. By perusing Gold Dust magazine, you agree to use all information, 

materials, products, or services mentioned by or provided by Gold Dust magazine at 

your own sole risk, with the knowledge that any information may have potential hazards possible 

of causing damage to you or to others. By your use of this magazine and information, you 

agree to hold harmless Gold Dust magazine from any liability resulting from your use of this 

magazine or any information provided. Under no circumstances shall Gold Dust magazine be 

held liable or responsible for any incidental or consequential damages or direct or indirect damages 

that result from your use of the information in Gold Dust magazine.

Feature 

How to write...a Comic Novel 

In this regular feature, we’ll be helping you write that killer piece, with in-depth insights into prose themes and 

genres, as well as an exploration of poetry guidelines, forms and approaches. Having covered short stories 

and poems, Rupert Haigh takes a closer look at the comic novel. 

George and Weedon 

Grossmith's The Diary of a 

Nobody (1892), is an appallingly 

funny, slyly satirical, and piercingly 

insightful book, which has 

never been out of print since the 

date of its publication. It stands 

among such varied company as 

Three Men in a Boat, Decline 

and Fall, Billy Liar, The Secret 

Diary of Adrian Mole, and The 

Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy 

as an acknowledged classic of 

English comic writing. It is also, 

without making the slightest pretension 

to the literary avant 

garde, an astonishingly influential 

work. The techniques used in 

it, which represented an important 

departure in the 1890s, continue 

to inspire comic writers to 

this day. 

The book purports to be the 

personal diary of Mr Pooter, a 

clerk in a late Victorian London 

suumatt funny 

Hooww tto wwrrite... 

City office, domiciled in middleclass 

suburbia at 'Brickfield 

Terrace' in Holloway. Mr Pooter 

feels that a record of his life will 

be of universal interest: 

'I fail to see – because I do 

not happen to be a 'Somebody' – 

why my diary should not be 

interesting.' 

Sticking doggedly to his 

task, he describes the trivial incidents 

of his daily life in detail and 

records his notably imperceptive 

thoughts upon them. The formula, 

thus outlined, sounds numbingly 

boring. In fact, it is hilarious, 

and Mr Pooter himself one 

of the most recognisable and 

enduring comic characters in 

English fiction. What makes him 

memorable, paradoxically, is his 

very ordinariness - his excruciating 

ordinariness. This is made 

clear on the first page of the 

diary: 

'After my work in the City, I 

like to be at home…Carrie and I 

can manage to pass our 

evenings together without 

friends. There is always something 

to be done: a tin-tack here, 

a Venetian blind to put straight, a 

fan to nail up, or part of a carpet 

to nail down - all of which I can 

do with my pipe in my mouth…' 

As the book progresses, his 

character comes more fully into 

view. He cuts a laughable figure: 

naïve, petty-minded, banal, 

prone to making embarrassing 

social gaffes and afflicted by 

absurd social pretensions. The 

comic potential of these traits is 

mined to its maximum. Many of 

the book's most amusing passages 

play on Mr Pooter's complete 

lack of self-awareness, 

extracting unusually brilliant 

comic effects from the unconscious 

banality of his observa- 

4 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk - Issue 9 - Winter 2007

tions: 

'APRIL 13. An extraordinary 

coincidence: Carrie had called in 

a woman to make some chintz 

covers for our drawing-room 

chairs and sofa to prevent the 

sun fading the green rep of the 

furniture. I saw the woman, and 

recognized her as a woman who 

used to work years ago for my 

old aunt at Clapham. It only 

shows how small the world is.' 

'Pooterism' has become a 

byword for taking oneself too 

seriously. It is, perhaps, Mr 

Pooter's most marked character 

trait: 

'Another thing which is disappointing 

to me is, that Carrie 

and Lupin take no interest whatever 

in my diary. 

I broached the subject at the 

breakfast-table to-day. I said: "I 

was in hopes that, if anything 

ever happened to me, the diary 

would be an endless source of 

pleasure to you both; to say 

nothing of the chance of the 

remuneration which may accrue 

from its being published." 

Both Carrie and Lupin burst 

out laughing.' 

As does the reader. 

However, our laughter is a little 

uneasy. It is tempered by sympathy 

for Mr Pooter, because 

this passage mercilessly pinpoints 

the desire in all of us to 

feel that we are important, that 

we are appreciated, and that our 

lives have meaning - as well as 

the sneaking suspicion that they 

don't, and that the joke is on us. 

Thus, while we laugh at Mr 

Pooter, we cannot help feeling 

we might be more like him than 

we care to admit. He has good 

qualities – he is honest, industrious, 

scrupulous, well meaning. 

But he is irredeemably mediocre 

– and does not know it. Thus, for 

all his absurdity, there is a subdued 

sense of tragic nobility 

about him. 

On a second or third reading 

of the diary, our sympathy for 

Mr Pooter tends to increase. In 

addition to being stymied by his 

own naïvety and self-importance, 

he is horribly put upon by 

practically everyone he encounters: 

insolent tradesmen, disrespectful 

work colleagues, infuriating 

friends, his incomprehensible 

son, Lupin, and by uninvited 

dinner guests (such as the 

dreadful Mr Padge who refuses 

all food in order not to lose his 

place in the best armchair by the 

fire, and has no conversation 

save the expression 'that's 

right'). 

Naturally, Mr Pooter invariably 

responds to such irritations 

by standing heavily on his own 

dignity: 

'I was very angry, and I 

wrote and said I knew little or 

nothing about stage matters, 

was not in the least interested in 

them and positively declined to 

be drawn into a discussion on 

the subject…' 

And his gaffes – not always 

entirely his fault – sometimes 

lead him into unenviably embarrassing 

social situations. 

Admiring a lady's portrait in the 

home of Mr Finsworth, the uncle 

of an old schoolfriend, Mr Pooter 

observes that the face looks 

rather pinched. Mr Finsworth 

www.golddustmagazine.co.uk - Issue 9 - Winter 2007 

How to write...a Comic Novel [cont’d] 

replies sorrowfully: 'Yes, the face 

was done after death – my wife's 

sister.' 

The Diary of a Nobody initially 

had a cool reception and 

was the subject of a number of 

damning reviews. However, 

towards the end of World War I it 

began to take off. Writing in the 

Daily Mail in 1930, Evelyn 

Waugh claimed: 

'I still think that the funniest 

book in the world is Grossmith's 

Diary of a Nobody. If only people 

would really keep journals 

like that.' 

Waugh's comment, though 

not especially penetrating, is significant. 

What he, and latterly 

other comic writers, began to 

realise was that the book was in 

some sense prophetic. It ushered 

in various techniques that 

were entirely new but which 

could be reproduced to striking 

comic effect, either used separately 

or together. These 'Pooter 

principles' include: 

• The use of an ingenuous 

method of self-revelation. 

• An utterly ordinary and 

rather naïve lead character. 

• A balanced presentation of 

that character, so that the reader 

both laughs at him and comes to 

see the world from his perspective. 

There may be conflict 

between these two positions. 

• The diary format (and its 

associated confessional tone). 

• And it's perhaps worth 

pointing out that a truly 

Pooterish character – with his 

self-importance, chagrined 

pride, and general foolishness - 

is almost always male. Carrie 

5


Pooter herself, though every bit 

as limited and suburban as her 

husband, is altogether more 

sensible, realistic and balanced 

(though Sue Townsend's slightly 

uneven but often hilarious 

Rebuilding Coventry gives a fair 

account of the comic potential of 

a Carrie Pooter-like character – 

the improbably-named Coventry 

Dakin – on the loose in late 

eighties London). 

Evelyn Waugh was perhaps 

the first (after the Grossmiths) to 

grasp the comic potential of 

introducing an ordinary, perfectly 

affable but rather naïve character, 

and then dropping him into a 

thoroughly unpromising situation. 

Paul Pennyfeather in 

Decline and Fall, and William 

Boot (in fact based on W F 

Deedes) in Scoop, are the most 

memorable of his creations in 

this respect. 

In the opening pages of 

Decline and Fall, it is hard to 

miss the innocently Pooterish 

shades of Paul's character: 

'Little suspecting the incalculable 

consequences that the 

evening was to have for him, he 

bicycled happily back from a 

meeting of the League of 

Nations Union. There had been 

a most interesting paper about 

plebiscites in Poland.' 

And just in case we do miss 

them, Waugh rams the point 

home (after Paul has had his 

trousers removed by drunken 

members of the Bollinger Club, 

and been forced to run naked 

across the quad): '…it's quite all 

right,' a porter remarks, 'it's 

Pennyfeather – someone of no 

importance.' 

In Scoop, obscure nature 

reporter William Boot is sent, as 

the result of a mix-up, to cover a 

war in a fictional African country. 

As with Paul Pennyfeather, 

William is a figure of fun (his 

prose style is legendary: 

'Feather-footed through the 

plashy fen passes the questing 

vole'), but at the same time we 

sympathise with his plight. 

Waugh uses William's innocence 

and bemusement as a 

means of satirising British newspapers, 

in particular the chaotic 

nature of foreign reporting, and 

many of the characters in the 

The sort of humour produced 

by this technique is often 

unsettling. The reader laughs 

at the character’s naivety...but 

at the same time empathises 

book are thinly-veiled portraits of 

real personalities of the time. 

The sort of humour produced 

by this technique is often 

unsettling. The reader laughs at 

the character's naïvety and 

mediocrity but at the same time 

empathises to some extent with 

him, and is drawn into his way of 

seeing the world. There is obvious 

potential for dramatic conflict 

between these two perspectives. 

Keith Waterhouse's Billy 

Liar explores this potential to 

memorable effect. Nineteenyear-old 

Billy sees himself as a 

comedian, but in fact works as 

an undertaker's assistant in the 

small (and fictional) Yorkshire 

town of Stradhoughton. He is an 

entertaining and witty narrator; 

so much so that the reader is coopted 

into seeing the world from 

his perspective, and is initially 

prepared to overlook the purposelessness 

of his lies, his 

equally purposeless thieving, 

and his baffling engagements to 

three (very) different girls. It is 

not until we are about halfway 

into the book that we are forced 

to realise that Billy is deeply 

flawed and extremely immature. 

The central irony of the 

book is that while Billy believes 

that he's smarter than everyone 

around him and destined for 

great things, this is a pose, as 

facile as Mr Pooter's self-importance, 

which everyone else 

comes to see right through. His 

employer, Councillor Duxbury, 

whom Billy has satirised as 

being practically senile, 

unmasks him as Billy is amusing 

himself by mimicking his accent: 

'"Well, tha's gotten me in a 

very difficult position," he said 

weightily, at last. 

"How does ta mean, 

Councillor?" 

He studied me keenly, and I 

realized for the first time, with a 

sinking heart, that he was not as 

daft as he looked. 

"Is ta taking a rise out o' me, 

young man?"' 

And Waterhouse made the 

Pooter connection plain by publishing, 

in 1983, a book called 

Mrs Pooter's Diary. 

Mr Pooter, of course, is a 

thoroughly hapless character. 

He would not be funny, nor 

poignant, if he weren't. There is 

a deep sense that he is helplessly 

trapped in the confines of his 


own life, and even a faint residual 

suggestion that matters 

might perhaps have turned out 

better, but that it is now too late. 

This feeling of helplessness in 

the face of an unenviable fate is 

mirrored in Waugh's early novels, 

as well as in Billy Liar, and 

much of the humour – as well 

the pathos – derives from it. 

In Douglas Adams' 

Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy, 

this idea is taken to its logical 

conclusion. The first chapter 

sees Arthur Dent – a likeable but 

thoroughly ordinary hero – 

pleading with a local council official 

not to demolish his house to 

...the real Mrs Wilson allegedly 

remarked that she’d like to 

strangle Richard Ingrams...if 

she ever met him. 

make way for a new bypass – 

only to discover that the entire 

planet is about to be demolished 

in order to make way for a new 

bypass, thus making his original 

problem entirely irrelevant. The 

tone of the trilogy (in four parts) 

is accordingly set – it's one long 

and mostly hopeless struggle on 

Arthur's part to make sense of 

the bizarre events that follow. 

'This must be Thursday,' says 

Arthur at the end of chapter two, 

'I never could get the hang of 

Thursdays.' 

The diary format is perhaps 

the most obvious innovation of 

The Diary of a Nobody. 

Interestingly, this was largely 

overlooked until the 1960s when 

satirical magazine Private Eye 

spotted the Pooterish potential 

of Harold Wilson's home life, and 

created the spoof Mrs Wilson's 

Diary. The Diary mercilessly 

satirised the gap between 

Harold Wilson's humble suburban 

lifestyle (which he made a 

point of stressing), and his more 

grandiose statesmanlike ambitions, 

as seen through the eyes 

of his wife. So accurate was it 

that the real Mrs Wilson allegedly 

remarked that she'd like to 

strangle Richard Ingrams (then 

editor of Private Eye) if she ever 

met him. 

And Private Eye has revived 

and adapted the format of Mrs 

Wilson's Diary at intervals over 

the years. The current incarnation 

satirises Tony Blair in the 

guise of the sanctimonious vicar 

of 'St Albions', and takes the 

form of a spoof parish newsletter. 

The diary format found its 

fullest expression in Sue 

Townsend's Secret Diary of 

Adrian Mole (and its various 

sequels). Adrian is nothing less 

than a teenage 1980s version of 

Mr Pooter - pedantic, self-important, 

naïve, annoying, yet curiously 

endearing. As with Mr 

Pooter, we find Adrian exasperating 

at times, but are nevertheless 

sucked into his way of seeing 

the world. Adrian, like Mr 

Pooter, is despite his absurdity 

an authentic and believable 

character. As a teenager in the 

1980s, I empathised wholeheartedly 

with him, and felt the 

book was an uncannily accurate 

reflection of my own hopes and 

fears. Re-reading the book as an 

adult, I am acutely aware of his 

absurdity but still find myself 



seeing the world through his 

eyes. Sue Townsend uses the 

naivety of Adrian's outlook as a 

means of making telling satirical 

points on Thatcher's Britain: 

'Britain is at war with 

Argentina!!! Radio Four has just 

announced it. I am overcome 

with excitement. Half of me 

thinks it is tragic and the other 

half of me thinks it is dead exciting!' 

Mr Pooter has stood the test 

of time, and his influence persists 

undiminished into the 

2000s. His most recent reincarnation 

is as Mr Phillips in John 

Lanchester's 2001 novel of the 

same name. Mr Phillips is a 

pedantic (but sex-obsessed), 

50-year old accountant who has 

recently been made redundant 

and is too scared to tell his wife. 

He deals with this problem by 

putting on his suit and leaving 

the house every morning to 

hang around the streets all day 

until it is time to come home, filling 

in the time by debating – or 

where possible, calculating – 

with himself the significance of 

what he sees. 

One feels that Mr Pooter 

would have done exactly the 

same thing in such circumstances: 

there is in such behaviour 

exactly the right blend of 

comic absurdity and genuine 

pathos. And it is precisely this – 

the absurdity of ordinary life in 

the full horror of its ordinariness 

– that has made Mr Pooter and 

his descendants such curiously 

stimulating company, and which 

guarantees him immortality. 


7

Feature 

Ready to write that Book 

but can’t get started? Why your top ten reasons for being stuck are all wrong. Gail Richards, 

Founder of http://AuthorSmart.com, helps you get past writer’s block. 

Excuse #1: I don't have a place 

to write. 

Really? No desk? No 

chair? No coffee shop nearby? 

Or could it be that not finding 

“the spot” is an easy way to 

put off or avoid all together 

working on your book? You 

don’t need a PhD in psychology 

to see where this is going. 

Publishing a book is a big 

deal. It can be exhilarating and 

overwhelming at the same time 

– especially if you aren’t familiar 

with the process. It’s no wonder 

you’re a bit hesitant to dive in. 

Stop waiting to find the perfect 

place to write. Not going to 

happen. Now that we’ve gotten 

that out of the way, let’s talk 

about how to identify where you 

can write. 

A writing space should provide 

you with: minimum poten- 

tial for interruption, comfortable 

place to sit, writing surface and 

adequate lighting. Beyond that, 

it’s important that you are 

inspired in some way by the 

environs. Could be the library, a 

park bench, a coffee shop or a 

hidden corner of your basement. 

Once you’ve found that, 

start working. You can enhance 

the experience of the space 

over with special trinkets, writing 

tools etc. You can even 

wear your bunny slippers. 

Whatever makes the time and 

space draw you in. 

Excuse #2: I don't feel 

inspired. 

You’ve been watching way 

too many movies. In the beginning, 

it’s not about inspiration. 

It’s about permission and per- 

suasion – persuading yourself 

to show up at a designated spot 

at a designated time and do 

what you can. 

In the beginning the 

process of creating your book is 

more about pushing. You will 

need to push yourself to keep at 

it. Some days that will be a gentle 

nudge, others a full force 

shove. Then, as the book 

moves from being random 

pieces of material to more of a 

cohesive whole, you’ll be pulled 

to work on it. Once the book 

compels you to work on it, you 

won’t be able to imagine ever 

having been stuck. 

Excuse #3: Everyone tells 

me I won't get published anyway 

Prone to exaggeration are 

you? Everyone? Now, for the 


emaining people in your 

sphere of influence who actually 

have the nerve to say that 

to your face… 

• What makes them the 

experts? 

• Did they try and fail to 

publish? 

• What qualifies them to 

be your yardstick? 

Excuse #4: I don't have 

time. 

Like mom used to say, 

where there’s a will, there’s a 

way. 

Renowned turn of the 

century author Kate Chopin 

wrote very rapidly and without 

much revision. She usually 

worked in her home surrounded 

by her six children. 

Whatever obstacles to 

time management you’re facing, 

Kate’s got you beat. Deal 

with it. 

Excuse #5: I don't have 

anything new to say. 

It’s not what you say, it’s 

how you say it. Visit a bookstore 

and spend some time 

looking at sections of books 

on one of your favorite subjects. 

Take note of the different 

approaches authors have 

taken. Then, look on the shelf 

where your book would be and 

do the same thing. 

Excuse #6: I'm afraid I will 

say everything in a book and 

then people won't need me to 

provide a service, or my competitors 

will take all my ideas. 

Either you are comfort- 

able putting your ideas out into 

the world, or not. That’s something 

you need to decide. 

However, at the risk of oversimplifying, 

may I say: paranoia just 

never ends well. 

Theft of proprietary ideas is 

another thing. However, if 

someone uses or adapts your 

great ideas, well, you’ve just 

raised the bar for everyone. 

Your competition may or may 

not execute those ideas as well 

as you do. They may do it better 

and raise the bar for you. 

That’s life. Get over it. 

As far as making yourself 

obsolete? Not likely. A book can 

lay out the basics, it can’t connect 

the dots. Most of your 

clients love you and continue to 

pay you because you help them 

connect the dots. 

Excuse #7: I’m too scared 

to start. 

What’s the worst thing that 

could happen if you start? In my 

world view, that would be something 

on the order of causing 

the earth to fly off its axis of 

rotation. So, unless something 

of that caliber is likely to be set 

in motion by putting your toe in 

the water, go for it. 

Excuse #8: I have so many 

ideas and I don't know which 

one is the best. I don't want to 

start work on any of them until I 

do. 

There’s a distinct difference 

between creating your book 

and writing your manuscript. 

The creative endeavor doesn’t 

have limitations and how much 


Ready to write that Book [cont’d] 

you can explore. Catalog all of 

your ideas, then create outlines 

and concept maps. You’ll begin 

to see which ideas are most 

viable and compelling to you. 

You’re going to spend a lot of 

time on this material; it helps if 

there’s chemistry between the 

two of you. 

Excuse #9: I don't know if I 

have enough to say to make a 

whole book. 

Maybe you really don’t 

have enough material for a 

book. Maybe what you’ve got is 

an essay, an article, or a class. 

Until you start writing the manuscript 

it’s all intellectual capital 

there for you to shape into the 

appropriate form and structure. 

And once that idea is out of 

your head, who knows what will 

take its place? 

Excuse #10: I want to write 

a book but my husband / wife / 

mother / father / kids / sister / 

brother / friends / co-workers 

says it’s a waste of time. 

Of course they think it’s a 

waste of your time; it’s time that 

won’t be spent with them; time 

that won’t be spent doing things 

they value; and time that won’t 

be spent on something they 

even have a context for. 

Jealous. Jealous. Jealous. 

Take it as a (backward) 

compliment, not a discouragement, 

thank them for their input 

and move on. 


9

Short story 

An Anthem for Mary By Eddie Bruce 

1,800 words 

Drama 

Mary is an alcoholic who fixes everyone’s problems, but has trouble dealing with her own... 

Long before the 'care in the community' 

concept, I delivered bulk 

tea to mental homes all over the 

south of England. These imposing 

structures were invariably located 

off the beaten track in immaculately 

tended grounds. Sometimes, as 

outwardly cheerful patients helped 

me unload the plywood chests, I 

found myself comparing their quality 

of life with that of a single parent 

long distance lorry driver struggling 

to keep the day job. On one occasion, 

when night-stopping in the 

area, I was invited to a New Year’s 

dance, but declined because it 

was nearly April. When I did get to 

experience life on the inside, I was 

no longer curious about the inhabitants, 

the ambience or the architecture. 

In fact I didn't care much 

about anything. 

Having undergone my second 

detox and stayed dry for the 

longest month of my life, I was 

accepted for a place on a month- 

long rehabilitation programme at 

the alcohol addiction unit. Two 

days early and bored, I tried to 

motivate my valium-numbed brain 

to show interest in fellow group 

members as they trickled apprehensively 

into the lounge. 

Bartholomew arrived in the 

early evening on his mother's jewellery-clad 

arm, carrying a halfopen 

Gladstone bag with a purple 

dressing gown sash trailing on the 

floor. Vaguely curious, I raised my 

head from the William Blake biography 

I wasn't reading, deafened 

by the clattering of heavy shoes on 

the polished wood floor. God, 

those shoes! I swear the soles 

were an inch thick – heirlooms, I 

speculated, regularly re-soled by 

successive generations. My gaze 

wandered upwards from scuffed 

grey corduroys to leather-patched 

tweed jacket, to soiled violent red 

mohair waistcoat, to yellow drinkstained 

silk cravat. But his face 

was more little-boy-lost than 

debonair playboy, pasty white from 

the small pointed chin to the 

unkempt quiff of streaky fair hair. I 

thought of my late teenage years 

and an opinionated teacher who 

would reprimand me with "The 

brain of a child in the body of a 

man – the perfect fool!". That this 

Beau Brummell look-alike would 

be a member of our group was a 

sobering thought, especially since 

he reminded me so much of a former 

patronising employer, tied 

accommodation, a losing battle 

against feudal injustice… and a 

broken marriage. 

Our meetings were held in the 

Brocklethwaite Manor drawing 

room, a chamber that could 

accommodate two bedsits stacked 

one on top of the other. Still thinking 

about my half bottle hidden in 

the rhododendron bush, I positioned 

myself between the Adam 

fireplace and the fire exit. By 


means of a cushion-throwing 

game, we discovered, then 

instantly forgot, each other's 

names, listened to a lecture, 

watched a drama-documentary 

video in Welsh with subtitles, then 

sat amidst the embarrassing 

silence of our first group meeting. 

At twenty-five, Mary was our 

youngest member and it was she 

who disturbed our nervous lethargy 

with the horrendous tale of her 

desperate, addictive life. Such a 

confession, commonplace at AA 

meetings, seemed particularly 

poignant when told by one so 

young and attractive. As the baby 

of seven girls she had been the 

favoured one, but now she carried 

on her fragile shoulders the guilt of 

having been on a week-long bender 

while her mother had died of 

cancer, calling her name. How the 

hell, she asked, could she learn to 

live with that? 

Individual horror stories were 

dredged up as in a game of brag, 

until Bartholomew reneged, folding 

his hand without showing. "I'm 

sorry," he said, "but I just don't 

have the same problems as most 

of you. I came here under protest 

to learn how to control my drinking, 

that's all." His brogues were 

parked beneath his chair and his 

red socks clashed horribly with the 

plush orange carpet. 

"Control it?" asked Mary 

incredulously. "You're something 

else, you know that? Your mother's 

probably mortgaging her mansion 

to pay for your bloody treatment 

and all you want to do is sulk!" 

"How dare you! Do you really 

imagine I could ever sink as low as 

you?" 

Mary looked at the ceiling. 

"God, this is all we need - an alcoholic 

who thinks he's different." 

Although the pupils were dilated 

from recent drug treatment, Mary's 

eyes were wild and accusing. "The 

only way you're different, Bart, is 

that you've never had to share 

anything in your life! Trust me, 

there's no soft option here. Tell him, 

Allan!" She turned on our resident 

mentor who shrugged but said 

nothing, an attitude he was to 

maintain throughout. 

Inspired by our historic and 

grandiose environment, when the 

others had gone to lunch I dallied a 

while for a closer look at the décor, 

including Bartholomew's forsaken 

shoes with their clog-like upturned 

toes. By my side stood the pole 

used to open and close the high 

When I did get to experience 

life on the inside, I was no 

longer curious about the 

inhabitants, the ambience or 

the architecture. In fact, I didn’t 

much care about anything. 

sash windows, while above the 

fireplace an inviting ornate picture 

hook supported an impressive 

engraving by Blake with descriptive 

text. 

The afternoon started with 

another lecture, followed by roleplay 

made more interesting by the 

hostility between Mary and Bart. 

Later, in a relaxation class, we 

were invited to lie with our backs 

on the floor and imagine we were 

looking down upon ourselves sitting 

by a cool stream on a sunny 

day. 

As the session came to a 


An Anthem for Mary [cont’d] 

close, giggles became uncontrolled 

laughter as all eyes focused 

on Bart's shoes, laced together 

and hanging over my hand-printed 

card which read "And did those 

feet in ancient time, Walk upon 

England's mountains green?" 

The course, in and out of the 

classroom, was emotionally tiring. 

Bart had to be badgered into 

assisting with the washing up and 

would rather go without than help 

prepare a light early evening snack 

for the group. Mary gave up complaining 

about his disruptive influence 

and tried to convince him that 

alcoholics can't control their intake. 

Her youthful enthusiasm persuaded 

me to drastically rethink my 

future and I began to get my confidence 

back. On the last day it was 

she who compiled a list of members' 

contact details, which she 

copied and handed round as we 

said our mainly tearful goodbyes. 

Initially, because of our vulnerability, 

many of us stayed in constant 

touch by phone, but when 

Mary's money problems led to her 

line being disconnected, she 

would write to me almost daily, 

thoughtful, almost poetic letters to 

which I would promptly respond. 

Six months on, her letters became 

less frequent before drying up altogether. 

When she phoned me from 

her sister's flat just before 

Christmas, I feared the worst. 

"I'd ditched that lazy bastard I 

lived with, redecorated the flat, 

sorted out my money troubles, 

then who do you think shows up?" 

"Mary, you sound…" 

"Pissed? Bladdered? Well 

say it for God's sake - it's what 

you're thinking." 

11

An Anthem for Mary [cont’d] 

"I… I'm sorry, Mary, really I 

am." 

"Just goes to show, doesn't it? 

Me, little miss know-it-all with 

answers to everyone's problems… 

but my own." 

"Tell me somebody who hasn't 

had a slip, Mary. We're all just 

one drink away from being back on 

the treadmill. Can you get someone 

round? Have you phoned 

Doug? Maybe he could take you to 

a meeting tonight." 

"No, I'm too far gone for that, I 

need a detox - like now, today! I 

asked to get back into 

Brockatate… Brocklith… you 

know where I mean. Guess what 

they said? I can detox at home! At 

home! What bloody planet are 

they on, eh? Valium delivered to 

your door. Fine, I've got some 

vodka left to wash it down. They're 

pathetic!" 

She became maudlin and 

incoherent after that and I could 

hear her sister saying all the wrong 

things to her before slamming the 

phone down. I thought of visiting 

her but, to my shame, didn't feel 

mentally strong enough to handle 

it. 

Mary's body was found in her 

flat in mid-January. At the inquest, 

because of elapsed time, the coroner 

was unable to establish a definite 

cause of death. Police 

described the traditional debris of 

medication, empty bottles and 

cans. Her sisters testified that 

experience had taught them to 

give their feisty sibling a wide berth 

when she was 'back on the sauce'. 

Since Brocklethwaite, and especially 

after she got rid of her 

boyfriend, Mary had been coping 

well, attending regular AA meetings 

and training for a career away 

from the bar trade. 

I knew how she'd died, low 

self-esteem, depression… we'd all 

been there. That and the uphill 

struggle just to get back to square 

one. And the guilt, of course, especially 

the guilt. Yet her will to make 

a success of it, that infectious optimism 

that had inspired us all, convinced 

me that she didn't make the 

decision to start drinking again all 

by herself. 

Confirmation came when 

Mary's next door neighbour took 

the stand. "Sometimes we didn't 

see each other for weeks. You see 

I couldn't stand her layabout partner, 

but we got friendly again once 

she got rid of him. One night I 

came home late and saw a pair of 

men's shoes lying by her door. 

Thick brogues they were, as if 

they'd been left there for somebody 

to clean. You know, like they 

used to do in hotels? I thought it 

funny at the time but I took it as a 

hint and kept my distance." 

In my anger I thought of 

Blake's poem set to music by 

Charles Parry, the patriotic anthem 

with lyrics that no one at 

Brocklethwaite could explain to 

me. 

Bring me my Bow of burning gold; 

Bring me my Arrows of desire; 

Bring me my Spear; O clouds 

unfold! 

Bring me my Chariot of fire! 

By the time the train reached 

Guildford I felt calm enough to 

phone Bart for directions. His 

mother answered in a familiar controlled 

voice, the voice of one used 

to being in charge. "I'm afraid 

you're too late," she said. Did I 

detect a trace of distaste? "dear 

Bartholomew passed away two 

weeks ago..." 

After a while I stopped hating 

Bart. We had, after all, agreed we 

could call on one another for support. 

Mary wouldn't have wanted 

his shoes in her flat and with hindsight 

I doubt any one of us in 

Mary's position would have been 

strong enough to insist he left the 

vodka outside too. 

Jerusalem still haunts much of 

my waking moments and when life 

deals me a bad hand a glass of old 

malt whisky can still appear at the 

top of my wish list. I've read up a little 

on William Blake, but it seems I 

lack the perception of even the 

British National Party who made 

the piece their official anthem. 

Watching Last Night of the Proms, 

I see hundreds of Bartholomews in 

Union Jack hats mouthing the 

words in front of a highly motivated 

conductor. Are they better 

informed? "And was Jerusalem 

builded here among those dark 

satanic mills." I don't know and I 

don't care any more. 

Uplifted by the stirring music, I 

close my eyes and think of Mary's 

infectious, carefree laughter, a 

scarce commodity at 

Brocklethwaite, on that isolated 

occasion, the moment she 

realised what was hanging above 

Blake's immortal words. 

That's meaning enough for 

me. 



Short story 

Religion and Politics 

A second sighting of Jehovah’s Witnesses... 

There were two of them at the 

door. My only day off this week 

too. Looked like a mother and 

son team. She small, dumpy, 

sexless, lank hair and big, white 

plastic-framed glasses, cotton 

dress and sandals. He taller, 

overweight, cheap suit and 

brogues, stupid eyes. 

They proffer a card that 

promises me good news. 

There's a big white crucifix on 

the front surrounded by pink, 

blue and green flowers, looks 

like Stupid Appearance in the 

cheap suit was busy on his 

computer last night. 

I'm bleary, hungover. "No 

thanks," I explain, "I'm Jewish." 

I don't know if she 

believes me. She looks like she 

wants to say something but 

can't quite formulate the sentence 

needed to express the 

bitterness and disappointment 

in her head. "Well," she begins. 

"I said I'm Jewish," I say 

and shut the door, silently apologising. 

I go back to bed and 

The queue moves quickly, 

served by a cheery blonde 

lady with middle-aged, livedin 

sexiness, long legs and a 

protruding rear that she 

knows about and once shook 

at me, leather trousered...with 

a wink. 

sleep the hangover off. It's not 

like it's the first time. 

Later on I'm waiting in Bere's. 

It's lunchtime and the queue's 

long, snaking past the counter 

and outside the shop. Smells of 

meat and pastry mix with dry 

cold autumn air scents of 

Hillsborough streets. The queue 

moves quickly, served by a 


By Zack Wilson 

300 words 

Comedy 

cheery blonde lady with middleaged, 

lived-in sexiness, long 

legs and a protruding rear that 

she knows about and once 

shook at me, leather trousered, 

in The Shakey on a Saturday 

with a wink. I take my turn and 

she serves me a 'Famous 

Roast Pork Sandwich'. Saliva 

floods my mouth as I unwrap it 

on the street, anticipating its 

heavy satisfaction in my stomach, 

easing away last hangover 

traces. 

I take the first bite and 

see Stupid Appearance and his 

mum. They walk right past me. 

She stares, hard, angry, really 

angry. 

Fuck knows why. It's not 

her god I'm trying to piss off. 


13

The Anchor House 

A man awakens in an unfamiliar room... 

Where is Thumbkin? 

Where is Thumbkin? 

A child singing. Outside somewhere. 

The child running, playing joyfully. 

Surrounded by a vacuous 

silence. 

Joshua Stone awoke in an unfamiliar 

bed. The room was serenely 

white, everything sunny and quiet. 

He wore the same clothes from 

last night. The child's voice lilted 

through the room. Stone pulled back 

the curtain revealing a small boy playing 

on a beautifully-manicured lawn. 

Stone scoped the grounds. Where the 

hell was he? It wasn't a hospital. It 

looked like a Bed-and-Breakfast in the 

middle of nowhere. 

There was nothing to suggest 

anything personal in the room except 

the notion that someone unceremoniously 

dumped Stone's body here. 

Stumbling, he managed to open the 

door. His head felt like a pillowcase 

filled with rusty doorknobs. 

"Hello?" he said to no one in particular, 

sounding slightly pained. His 

voice echoed up and down the empty 

hallway. As he investigated, Stone's 

bones creaked. He was too young to 

feel this old and too old to be this hungover. 

As he proceeded in a wobbly 

fashion down the white hallway, he 

noticed that most of the bedroom 

doors were slightly open. Peeking in, 

he saw the same sobering thing in 

each of the twelve rooms he passed. 

Hundreds of brown, corrugated boxes 

and beige metal filing cabinets. Each 

bore a label from the same packaging 

company: GH Moving. 

His mind tried to focus on this 

odd circumstance. He walked downstairs 

and reached the intimate dining 

room. It was empty save for a table 

with one setting, one chair, and one 

burning candle. He approached the 

table, not realizing how hungry he was 

until that moment. He removed the 

cover from the dish. It was still warm. 

Eggs Benedict. His favourite. 

He ate voraciously, forgetting 

about the boxes, not caring where he 

was. 

When he was done, he examined 

the rest of the first floor. There 

appeared to be a tiny office behind the 

registration counter but it was locked. 

There were no other guests and no 

sign of anyone working. After a while, 

he tired of having his ‘hellos’ go unanswered. 

He reached into his coat 

pocket, hoping to find a small bottle of 

scotch. Instead, he heard jangling and 

discovered a set of unfamiliar keys. 

He went upstairs to his room but his 

door had no lock. 

By Dan Kopcow 

3,000 words 

Paranormal 

He became aware of a faint 

beeping. He knew it wasn't his cell 

phone. They had taken his cell phone 

away. He picked up the phone receiver 

on his nightstand. 

"Dr. Stone. This is a reminder for 

your 10:00 a.m. appointment." 

Stone looked at his watch. It was 

9:30 a.m. 

He put on a fresh set of clothes, 

trying to sublimate his growing confusion 

that all his clothes had suddenly 

appeared, neatly arranged, in the closet. 

He made his way downstairs, 

knowing he wouldn't run into anyone. 

Stone took out his found keys. 

The office door unlocked with a 

gentle click and opened easily, revealing 

an unusually long hallway. The 

architecture of this place didn't make 

sense, the space seemed fluid. As he 

proceeded slowly to the door at the 

end of the dark corridor, Stone heard 

the sound of distant ocean waves. He 

checked the door. It was unlocked. 

Stone adjusted his eyes to the 

glorious streams of light coming into 

the room. In the corner, the old man 

quietly rocked in his chair, his back to 

Stone, facing the ocean view through 

the floor-to-ceiling window that made 

up one entire wall. The other walls 

were filled with hundreds of photos of 

children. 


For a moment, Stone just stared 

at the old man, regarding him with a 

distant curiosity. Stone wanted to tell 

the old man what a strange morning 

he was having but was too relieved to 

see another human being. 

"That's a lot of grandkids," said 

Stone. 

"Dr. Stone, you're a paediatrician," 

the old man said tranquilly, his 

back still to Stone. "Do they look familiar?" 

Stone walked further into the 

room. The old man spun around in his 

chair, startling Stone. The old man had 

an incongruously lively face which didn't 

match his thinning gray hair or dwindled 

body. He invited Stone to sit 

down. 

"Everyone has ointment and 

everyone has flies," said the old man, 

staring with bright blue eyes at Stone. 

"We can help each other with our 

problems." 

"Problems?" Stone asked. 

"Where is everybody?" 

"Must be a holiday in our little 

town," said the old man, piercing 

Stone with his gaze. 

"Where am I?" asked Stone 

impatiently. 

"The Anchor House." 

"Look, I don't remember how I 

got here," said Stone, trying to control 

his intolerance. "Who the hell are 

you?" 

"I'm always confused for others." 

"My marriage counsellor. Years 

ago," said Stone. "You look like my old 

marriage counsellor." 

The old man just smiled. 

Stone looked anxiously at the pictures 

of the children. "Do you have a 

sick child? Is that why I'm here?" 

"Dr. Stone, you are the last person 

I would be seeing about a sick 

child," said the old man, shifting in his 

seat, crossing his legs languidly. "This 

appointment was booked a long time 

ago." 

"You got a drink?" asked Stone. 

"Of course. Whenever things 

become too intimate…" whispered the 

old man. 

Stone's head cocked to one side, 

startled. "What did you say? What the 

hell's this about?" 

"But I'm being rude. My wife and 

I would like to talk to you about our 

child," said the old man. "Dr. Stone, 

you've been married?" 

"Once." 

"Children?" asked the old man. 

Stone paused and then 

answered painfully, "Once." 

"Then you can understand…" 

"What's wrong with your kid?" 

asked Stone. 

"Can't stop blaming himself for 

his father's failures." 

"Look, whoever you are…" 

shouted Stone, bolting up from his 

chair. 

"GH," interrupted the old man. 

"Excuse me?" 

"You can call me GH." 

"This is horseshit," yelled Stone. 

"I'm not that kind of doctor." Stone 

made his way to the door. 

"Dr. Stone," said GH calmly, "perhaps 

we'll meet again to discuss the 

matter of our child further. Maybe by 

then you'll be that kind of doctor." 

Stone's ex-wife, who still blamed 

him for the death of their only child, 

was a sculptor. If she had made a statue 

of Stone, frozen in his position and 

countenance at this moment, it would 

be called, "Man, Mouth Agape, 

Incredulous of His Circumstance". 

"In the meantime," said GH, "stay 

on the grounds. The road to town can 

be very dangerous." 

Stone slammed the door. 

Moments later he found himself walking 

angrily down the two-lane road 

toward town, beheading dandelions 

with his boot. The cell phone in his 

jacket pocket started ringing. 

"Hello," said Stone into the for- 


The Anchor House [cont’d] 

eign phone. 

"Daddy?" said the child's voice. 

Stone had never fainted before. 

At least not while he was sober. 

Certainly not in public. And never in 

the middle of a two-lane road. 

*** 

Here I am. 

Here I am. 

The child singing outside again. 

So familiar. The tune of Frère 

Jacques. The song he sang to Dory. 

The silence. Oppressive. Smothering. 

Dory. Jesus. 

Stone awoke in his room at the 

Anchor House covered in sweat. Had 

he fainted yesterday? Last week? It 

seemed like seconds ago. 

Stone called out from his bed. No 

one answered. Maybe Dory hadn't 

heard him. He got up and looked out 

the window. No one was there, least of 

all his son. How could Dory be here? 

Dory had died three years ago of complications 

from the car accident. 

Stone walked past the open, boxfilled 

rooms and down to the empty 

dining room. After breakfast, Stone 

decided to take a walk around the 

grounds. There was a slight breeze 

and all the trees and flowers were in 

bloom. At the edge of the lawn, where 

the shrubs grew to a dense and tall 

stature, he discovered an old posted 

sign. It was a wooden map of the 

grounds that showed a trail beginning 

exactly where Stone stood. 

As he walked through the thick 

woods, Stone thought about Dory. 

Maybe if he apologized to someone, 

he wouldn't feel so guilty. But apologize 

for what? On the other side of the 

woods, the path ended in a large field 

covered with tablets. 

An enormous cemetery. 

Stone approached the cemetery 

cautiously. He read the gravestones 

and noted that it was a children's 

15


cemetery. All the dates were recent. 

"Jesus. How could a place this 

barren have this many kids?" Stone 

wondered how he could get out of 

here. Maybe if he promised to be a 

better doctor. Or patch things up with 

his ex-wife. Or quit drinking. 

"Is this a rehab clinic?" he asked 

out loud. 

"But you didn't hear it from me," 

came the response. 

Stone spun around to see a small 

boy emerging from behind a gravestone. 

"Jesus, you scared me," said 

Stone. 

The boy, who looked to be about 

eight years old, wore a big smile. 

"You're not Dory." 

"Who?" 

"You're the one I hear singing. 

Do you live around here?" asked 

Stone. He was delighted to have 

someone to talk to. 

"I'm just visiting," said the boy. 

They considered each other for a 

long time. 

"I'm Dr. Stone. What's your 

name?" Stone finally asked. 

"I'm here to see you," said the 

boy simply. 

"You're the second person here 

who's told me that," said Stone. Could 

the boy have known Dory? "Where 

are we?" asked Stone. 

"Right here," the boy said without 

a note of condescension. 

Stone knew he wasn't going to 

get anywhere with straight questions. 

It was as if they had passed an ordinance 

here that banned logic. 

"Beautiful, huh?" said the boy. 

The boy looked straight ahead, 

dreamy-eyed. His whole life stretched 

out ahead of him. Stone had seen it 

hundreds of times but it never failed to 

move him. Maybe because Stone's 

life had taken so many detours. 

Maybe it was the look of all those parents 

dressed in black. 

Stone finally asked, "So, where is 

everyone?" 

"That, I'll have to show you." 

The boy led Stone back into the 

Anchor House and up the stairs. As 

they passed the open guest rooms 

with the moving boxes, the boy said, 

"They're all getting their pasts in order." 

"Who is?" asked Stone. 

They arrived at Stone's room. 

The boy opened the door, motioning 

Stone to follow. Stone couldn't believe 

it. His room was filled with the same 

moving boxes and filing cabinets. 

"Have fun," said the boy, handing 

Stone a metal tool. "You have your 

work cut out for you." The boy closed 

the door behind him. 

The statue this time: Man, 

Flabbergasted, Holding Box Cutter. 

Stone's room had been purged of 

loneliness. Maybe he would see the 

boy later. But right now, he had these 

boxes. 

Stone called the front desk but 

there was only a dial tone. He spoke 

into the phone anyway. "Room service, 

could you send up a case of 

whiskey, stat?" 

The boxes and file cabinets all 

stared impatiently at Stone. 

He opened the box closest to 

him. It was filled with dozens of bottles 

of Stone's favourite whiskey. "Well, I 

guess it's not a rehab," he said. He 

opened the first bottle unsentimentally 

and killed it. 

When his nerves steadied, he 

opened the second box. 

It contained every report card he 

had ever received and every homework 

assignment he ever worked on. 

The next box held every yearbook and 

various other school memorabilia. 

One box contained all the t-shirts that 

he had ever loved as a kid. Another 

was filled with photographs of every 

girlfriend and fraternity brother he had 

known. Another, impossibly, contained 

every blueberry pie he had ever 

eaten. They were still warm. The 

room seemed to have grown exponentially 

in size. There were hundreds 

of boxes. He took his time and went 

through each blessed one. One box 

was filled entirely with every sand castle 

that Stone had built as a child on 

vacation in Jamaica. Each box 

revealed some sacred memory or tactile 

experience long forgotten. Other 

boxes contained medical files, photos, 

and court documents of his former 

patients. 

Days went by. Maybe weeks. 

Then he got to the filing cabinets. 

The Master Index alone was hundreds 

of pages long. The Index had millions 

of entries like, The Number of Pairs of 

Socks You've Ever Worn (with accompanying 

pictures), Children You've 

Inadvertently Harmed and/or Killed, 

The Collective Number of Minutes 

You've Spent in Traffic (with accompanying 

video), Kisses You've Given and 

Forgotten, The Complete 

Compendium of Your Broken 

Promises and Their Outcome, and 

Coffee Consumed (in Mugs and 

Gallons). It went on and on. He 

noticed that everything in his life was 

catalogued, ledgered, accounted for, 

and cross-referenced to the boxes. 

Stone couldn't get enough. He fell into 

his past with the obsessive hunger of a 

homeless tapeworm. 

Months went by. Maybe years. 

Eventually, he came across a file 

of newspaper clippings. They were 

arranged in chronological order. One 

was Stone's wedding announcement. 

The next was Dory's birth announcement, 

two years later. The next clipping 

was eight years later: "Dr. Joshua 

Stone, Paediatrician, and his eightyear 

old son, Dory Stone, were 

involved in a car accident when they 

struck a bridge abutment. Dr. Stone 

and his son were admitted to Mid- 

County Hospital. Several weeks later, 

Dory Stone died from complications of 


infection associated with the accident. 

Dr. Stone remains in a coma." 

Stone took a deep breath and 

composed himself as best he could. 

The next clipping was dated six weeks 

later. "Dr. Stone, who awoke from his 

coma two days ago, had his medical 

license revoked amidst allegations…" 

Stone skipped ahead to the last 

clipping. The headline, dated three 

years later, read, "Dr. Joshua Stone 

Dies from Fall of Bridge." 

It was the second time at the 

Anchor House that Stone fainted. 

*** 

How are you today, sir? 

Very fine, I thank you. 

Stone awoke at 7:00 a.m. All the 

boxes and files were gone. In their 

place was a note reminding him of his 

appointment with GH at 10:00 a.m. 

Stone held his head tightly to 

avoid cranium spillage. He was too 

depressed to think about an appointment. 

Where were the boxes? 

Where was the boy singing outside his 

window? 

9:30 a.m. His phone rang. 

"Hello," Stone answered in his 

foggy, morning grumble. 

"Just a reminder for your appointment," 

said the voice he connected to 

GH. 

Stone dragged himself to GH's 

office. 

"Dr. Stone, delighted you're 

here," said GH. GH looked the same 

although years must have passed 

since Stone last saw him. 

"Could I get a straight answer to 

one simple question?" 

"You were a healer," said GH, 

"sworn to help others. Namely, children. 

Especially your son. Shame, 

really. Now, we need your help." 

"My question…" said Stone. 

"GH?" asked GH. 

"Yes." 

"God's Husband." 

"What?" said Stone. 

"God's Husband," said GH, slowly, 

as if Stone was suddenly dense. Or 

Guardian of Hell, if you prefer. Two 

sides of a coin," said GH. 

Stone stared out the window and 

swore he could see the seasons 

changing. 

"I don't know what you want," 

said Stone finally. 

"Sure you do." GH walked to the 

wall of children's pictures. "My wife, as 

you can imagine, works full-time. Very 

busy schedule. Especially around the 

holidays. I stay home and take care of 

the children. I see the world through 

their eyes. Sometimes, it does lead to 

a distorted view. Makes me think that 

everything's fine with the world. Most 

people act adoringly to children. So, 

when that view is damaged, well, it's 

most disturbing." 

"God's Husband," said Stone 

softly. 

"Do you believe in heaven and 

hell, Dr. Stone?" asked GH, sitting 

down behind the large desk. 

"I used to." 

"Exactly. Because there is no 

heaven and hell. There's only your 

room in the Anchor House and what 

you make of it. Most people never 

leave their room, so obsessed are 

they with their boxes. For some, the 

boxes are heaven and for others they 

are hell. But ultimately, it's just their 

room." 

"I want to see Dory," said Stone. 

"He's our son now," said GH 

coldly. "You were supposed to take 

care of him." He pointed to the wall of 

pictures. "You were supposed to take 

care of them." 

"But I was in a coma when he 

died. I couldn't do anything," said 

Stone, closing his eyes to push back 

the tears. 

Stone heard a voice. 

"Why, Daddy?" 



Stone opened his eyes. "Wait. It 

wasn't my fault." 

"I've seen the parents' faces 

when they got the news that their children 

were dead. I've seen your exwife's 

face," said GH. 

"Fuck you," screamed Stone to 

the black void of GH's eyes. Weren't 

his eyes blue a moment ago? 

Everything in this house was fluid. 

"I'm curious," said GH, "was that 

your general attitude when you fell off 

that bridge?" 

"What?" asked Stone. 

"Just three seconds ago. That's 

been the length of your stay at the 

Anchor House. We were looking forward 

to your stay when Dory died but 

you weren't ready then. You weren't 

finished damaging everything. You 

kept on drinking and kept misdiagnosing 

your patients. Well, your bill's 

come due." 

"I don't know anything about the 

others. It wasn't my fault." 

"Dory needs to know it was you. 

He can't move on." 

"He blames himself?" asked 

Stone. 

"Set him straight." 

"But, I didn't…" 

"Suit yourself," said GH, "You 

were right before. This is a sort of 

rehab centre. You think time matters 

here? Your liver is hanging off a 

branch twenty feet away from your 

mangled body. Take all the time you 

want." 

Stone sulked back to his room. 

His boxes were there to greet him. 

There was just him and his boxes. His 

past. His untainted past. Anything but 

the loneliness. Anything but the truth. 

The last statue: Man in Denial. 

He opened the first box and 

smiled. 

Run away. 

Run away. 


17

Short story 

Tainted Touch 

Damon is afraid to remove his gloves, while Sarah simply wants to solve a mystery... 

'Damon, when are you going to 

remove those ridiculous gloves?' 

Sarah gazes at me with an expectant 

tilt of her head. The smoky 

taste of the fish catches in my 

throat as I swallow and set down 

my fork with a vulgar clang against 

the porcelain. 

Indeed, what about my ridiculous 

gloves? They hardly complement 

my suit, but rather I go without 

trousers than gloves, even 

among all these quality ladies and 

gents. I reach for the bottle of 

Chardonnay warming on the table 

between us and slosh the remainder 

into my glass. Sarah sighs at 

my silence. 'In the six dates we've 

‘In the six dates we’ve had, 

I’ve never seen your hands...’ 

had, I've never seen your hands. I 

think that's weird, don't you?' 

I take a sip of wine. It's dry, 

rancid. I can barely get the stuff 

down. 'I could say the same about 

your boobs,' I remark, and inward- 

ly wince at the tasteless decline of 

my repartee. 

'You want me to remove my 

dress?' Her luscious lips curve into 

a smile as she seductively slides a 

finger around the rim of her glass. 

'Here? I scan the restaurant. 

'People may talk.' 

'I'll do it later if you take off 

your gloves now.' She flutters her 

lashes, and my blood fizzes like 

champagne through my veins. I 

want her to know why they are 

such a necessary part of my clothing. 

And intimacy can't be postponed 

forever. I push away my 

plate. 

'The thing is…' I meet her 

inquisitive gaze as it flickers from 

my gloves to my face. 'My hands 

are…special.' 

'Special?' Sarah lifts an 

amused eyebrow. 'You mean, 

underneath that revolting brown 

leather you're Edward 

Scissorhands?' She jokes at the 

prospect of such a ludicrous defor- 

By J.E. Ash 

3,000 words 

Paranormal 

mity, but undeterred, I begin to 

peel from my skin the leather than 

I have not removed in public for 

years. 

I flex my exposed fingers, 

prickly pink with the heat and hold 

them up for visual examination, 

front and back. Sarah fires out a 

gasp. 

'Oh my god they're like…really 

pale.' She laughs at her own 

faux dismay. 'You idiot. I suppose 

I should be relieved they're not 

green and hairy.' 

Or indeed sharp and scissory. 

'Didn't I tell you when me met it 

was just a matter of style?' I force 

a laugh. 'Now, would you do me a 

favour?' 

'What?' she shakes her head, 

exasperated. The time has come 

for a demonstration. I can use just 

about anything, but jewellery 

works best, it tends to absorb the 

soul. 

'That.' I nod to the thin chain 

around her neck. I gather it means 


a lot, as I've never seen Sarah 

without it. Her fingers move to conceal, 

perhaps to protect it. 'You 

want to know why I wear gloves? 

Pass it to me, and I'll show you.' 

Her features relax as she 

clears the request with her conscience, 

then reaches to unclasp 

the chain. 'Is this a party trick?' 

'Something like. Put it here,' I 

indicate a clear space on the table 

in front of me, and she does so, 

reaching over as though at any 

moment I might spontaneously 

combust. I gaze at the intricate 

links, but my question is not about 

the chain. 'You ever heard of psychometry?' 

When I look up, she frowns. 'I 

was never any good at maths in 

school.' 

I smile at her naïvety. 'It's 

nothing to do with maths. It's…' I 

shake my head. Explanations 

always provoke further questions. 

'Just make like you're the audience. 

And don't…don't be afraid 

of what I'm about to do, of what's 

about to happen, okay?' 

Her eyes widen and she leans 

closer. 'Okay,' she says, more seriously 

than I'd expected. I assume 

she's intrigued. I only hope it's the 

intrigue, not the fear, or worse, 

revulsion that prevails once I'm 

done. 

The dank taste of it bleeds 

into my mouth, continues to 

haunt me, even after I’ve broken 

contact. 

I brush a finger against the 

chain, and the beautiful Sarah, the 

stylish restaurant, its satin walls 

and polished floors disintegrate, 

images tumble together in a confusing 

mass, a pile of disordered 

photographs, of a life in abstract. 

I'm in a church. The echo of an 

occasion, the air thick with adrenaline. 

I shiver in a cold aisle. A baby 

gurgles nearby and a male voice 

hums a lullaby out of tune. I 

glimpse gold hair, lipgloss applied 

in a bathroom mirror. Snatches of 

conversation on a phone, future 

plans for a weekend that never 

comes. Waking in a moving vehicle 

that stinks of refuse. Hands 

raw and chapped. Dirty nails. 

Blood. A blurred face. Ugly words. 

Overwhelming that smell. The 

dank taste of it bleeds into my 

mouth, continues to haunt me, 

even after I've broken contact. 

And I'm in the restaurant. 

Sarah is all eyes and curiosity, but 

I am unable to speak. The stench 

of rotting flesh coats my nostrils, its 

putrescence seeps into my lungs. 

My heart skitters around in my 

chest and I fear my partly digested 

meal may resurface on the white 

linen tablecloth. I swallow. 

Vaguely, I hear Sarah's question 

from across the table. 'What did 

you see, Damon? Please?' 

What did I see? Old memories, 

a wedding, empty rooms in a 

house longing for children. Death. 

I wasn't supposed to see death. 

I hurry to cover my hands. 

She's still talking as I stumble from 

the table, from the restaurant, and 

in the street it's dark and cold. I 

lean forward and retch onto the 

pavement, my breath expels in 

thick, cloudy plumes. A few 

moments later Sarah joins me. I 

must have left her to pick up the 

bill. 

'Damon...' 

'You set me up,' I say, and, 

yes, when I choose to look, the 

evidence is there, thinly veiled 

behind the glacial lenses of her 

eyes. She lowers her face, too 

late to conceal her guilt. 

'Why?' I ask, although I can 


Tainted Touch [cont’d] 

barely get the words out. 'Why did 

you lead me to think there was 

something between us?' 

When she finally manages to 

meet my gaze, there are tears, I 

believe, manufactured for me. 

'Because…I know that you're 

retired, that you don't do this anymore, 

I have read the newspapers.' 

Perhaps she had. I'm twentyeight 

years old. Who retires at 

twenty-eight? I quit because my 

job was literally killing me. But perhaps 

Sarah hadn't got that far. 

Perhaps she never read past the 

sensationalised headlines. 

'I gave my sister this chain the 

day she got married,' she continues, 

as though I'm interested. As 

though I'm supposed to care. 'I 

wear it because I knew sooner or 

later you'd have to show me, that 

your hands are special. And I... 

wanted…needed it to be tonight. 

The anniversary of her disappearance. 

Most probably the night she 

died.' I waited for her to go on, 

although I know what's coming. 

'She was murdered two years ago. 

The police have all but given up 

looking for her killer. But I 

can't…I…can't rest until I know 

who did this. And you're the only 

person who can help me find out.' 

I sigh, pull off my gloves for 

the second time that night, and 

discard them on the pavement. I 

step towards her and rather than 

take the chain dangling from her 

outstretched hand, I wrap my fingers 

around her warm bare arms. 

She doesn't flinch, even when I 

look directly into her eyes and I 

see her as she was then, poring 

over newspapers, memorising my 

face, the specific details of my life. 

We meet in a bookstore; I 

relive it all again. My gloves cause 

clumsiness and I drop a book, 

19


which she retrieves from the floor 

and hands to me with a smile. I'd 

seen her before vaguely, in a café, 

on the street, her footsteps echoing 

behind, tracking me. 

'You used me,' I tell her, and 

wasn't it always the same? My 

hands fall away, tainted by the 

residue of her betrayal. 

'I'm sorry,' she says, but doesn't 

mean it. They never do, not the 

police when they 

hammer on my 

door and drag 

me to the station 

to paw through a 

plastic bag of 

evidence, or 

Sarah now, as 

she begs for 

answers. 

'Who murdered 

my sister, 

Damon? She 

was wearing the 

chain when she 

died. You must 

have seen 

something. A 

face, or a name. 

Did she know 

him? The man 

who attacked 

her?' 

Too many questions. My brain 

reels. 'I thought it was going to be 

nice things,' I said though my voice 

is faint, my mouth dry. 'I thought 

you'd be able to understand about 

me…' 

'Damon,' she sighs as though 

I'm a tedious child. 'There's someone 

out there, some 

maniac…who's literally getting 

away with murder...and…there's 

every chance he might do it again, 

perhaps he already has... And you 

can make him stop, you're the only 

one… You have to help. And I 

know you will, won't you?' 

'Was any of it real?' I ask, 

ignoring her question in favour of 

my own, 'between you and me?' 

'It can be.' She steps close, 

lifts her lips, plump and glossy, but 

not with lust, with need most certainly, 

but not for me. Just for 

answers. 

I swallow, longing for the feel 

of those lips, and it's a desire so 

intense I can barely breathe….'All I 

have to do…' 

'Is give me a name,' she finishes. 

And I see my imagined 

future, the one where I get to share 

my life with a gorgeous woman 

who is as much in love with me as 

I am with her, dribbling away into 

the gutter, and with a surreal clarity 

that is painful to behold. 

'Damon,' she says, and her 

voice is softer, alluringly so. 'I know 

you care about me. I didn't enjoy 

deceiving you, but you're all I 

have.' And then her voice is not so 

soft, or alluring. 'My sister was 

lying in a shallow grave six months 

before they found her. She was 

raped. And beaten. I have to know 

who did that to her. I can't move 

on with my life until I know. ' I feel 

an irrational desire to comfort her, 

but I won't touch her again, and I 

don't have the answer she 

requires. 

'I didn't get enough,' I tell her, 

and close my eyes. The sister's 

grave lies beneath my lids. She 

knew her killer, not well, but there 

is a name. It's 

too far away, 

his face distorts 

through 

her fear. 

'Then, 

take her chain 

again.' I feel 

Sarah's fingers 

grip my 

arm and lift it. 

I open my 

eyes, and 

close my 

palm. The 

chain falls to 

the pavement, 

and I back 

away. My 

gloves are two 

dark patches 

on the ground. 

Sarah is there too, and I watch her 

for a moment, scrabbling around 

on her knees, sobbing, cursing 

me. And I turn away. I begin to 

run. I feel if I run fast enough I can 

breach time, travel back, further 

than the restaurant, the bookshop…the 

small spark of hope at 

the prospect of a life… 

'…Damon…' her hysteria 

accompanies me along the street. 

'We need to talk about this…. This 

isn't the end, you know. When you 

get home, I'll be waiting. And I'll be 

there every day until you agree to 

help me, Damon. Every day.' 

I already know this. It's how 


they operate. People who want 

things from me. The police, the scientists, 

the media, the grieving relatives. 

Sarah's not the first. 

Contrary to what she and practically 

everyone may believe of me, it's 

not that I won't help. It's that I 

can't. She wants final memories, 

detailed sensations. She wants 

her sister's mouldering flesh to rise 

once again from the earth and with 

flat opaque eyes stare into the face 

of her killer and politely request 

some sort of ID. And that is somewhere 

I cannot go. Not anymore. 

And home. My sanctuary is 

off limits too. Sarah had made that 

perfectly clear. So what am I to 

do? There seems to be nowhere 

left for me to go. 

I round a corner and barrel 

into a hulking wall of flesh and cotton. 

Instinctively, I raise my hands 

to cushion the blow, as I do so, the 

cold dark street fragments and 

reforms. I'm in a child's bedroom, 

pink walls littered with posters of 

young male faces. The heat here 

envelops me, the crude stink of 

male flesh. A teddy sits in a chair, 

its eyes blank staring. A checked 

shirt is removed, draped over it, 

my vision focuses on the bed, its 

occupant huddled there, the duvet 

around her chin, blinking eyes as 

wide, as empty as the bear's. Lust 

for the creature in the bed, the 

mind of the man I occupy believes 

he's doing nothing wrong. It's not 

his fault. When the wife insists on 

working nights instead of warming 

the marital bed, what else can he 

be expected to do? 

'Watch where you're going, 

moron.' I have time enough to 

register that the wall is in fact a 

large man in an open leather jacket. 

He's wearing a checked shirt 

beneath, red and black. As he 

shoves me away, the back of my 

skull connects with hard brick. 

Breathless for a moment, 

waiting for the pain in my head to 

fade, I gaze at my hands, where 

his poison throbs beneath the 

maps of my palms. I'd forgotten, 

how intense it could be, these 

images. Especially the ones that 

aren't merely reflections of the 

past, those made up of current 

lives, and right now, somewhere 

nearby, a little girl is home alone, 

and dreading the return of her new 

daddy. 

I find myself walking a familiar 

country lane. I often take a stroll 

here while contemplating an imagined 

future free of my past. I've 

stood at this very spot before, at 

night, with the alarm ringing in my 

ears, half grimly decided on my 

fate, half desperately optimistic 

I’ve stood at this very spot 

before, at night, with the 

alarm ringing in my ears, half 

grimly decided on my fate, 

half desperately optimistic 

that there will be another 

way. 

that there will be another way. I 

just had to wait for the alternative 

to present itself. Always I allowed 

cowardice to triumph over reason. 

This evening, I need no time for 

rationalisation, and I'm quick to 

duck beneath the descending barrier. 

A sudden vibration in my trouser 

pocket alerts me to my phone. A 

present from Sarah. She's the only 

one who has my number. As the 

phone is new, I can use it without 

gloves, there are no rogue visions 

to plague me as I hold it. 

'Damon,' her voice is as clear 

as if she's next to me. 'I want to 



apologise. I know what you must 

think, but I…' 

'I need you to do something 

for me,' I interrupt with an 'I' of my 

own. 'It's a bit of an imposition really, 

but there's no one else.' 

'Where are you? What's that 

ringing noise?' 

'I'm at Braddon Crossing.' 

'What are you doing there? 

Never mind, I'll come and get you.' 

'Not necessary,' I tell her, 

although I know she'll come anyway. 

'I don't think I'm going to be 

of much use to you anymore. I was 

just wondering if you might call an 

ambulance. There isn't time to do 

it myself.' 

'Ambulance? What for? 

Damon, what's happened? Are 

you hurt?' 

'I'm sorry Sarah, I can't talk 

now. I don't want to miss my train.' 

'What do you need a train for? 

Where are you going?' 

'The ambulance, Sarah. 

Please don't forget.' I ring off 

before she can begin a fresh batch 

of questions, slip the phone back 

into my pocket and continue on my 

walk. Further along I find a suitable 

place, not too far from the road, 

somewhere I can be easily found 

by those who may choose to look. 

I kneel on the gravel path and 

place my wrists, palms up against 

smooth bare metal. It shivers the 

length of my bones, but there are 

no memories here, the curse lies 

solely in my hands. 

In the far distance, I hear the 

thunder build, it vibrates through 

my eardrums on the approach, 

and a moment later, light beams 

pierce the night so I have to avert 

my eyes. Otherwise, I do not 

move, and there, I wait for the last 

train of the evening. 


21

Short story 

Fenwick’s Endeavor 

These pirates of the Caribbean are running low on food... 

Two specks on the glittering 

sea. One, in the background, is 

the receding form of a ship, well 

built, of three masts. But by the 

black pennant snapping in the 

wind, by the devil-may-care 

handling of the sails, by its general 

air of depravity and viciousness, 

we know it for a pirate 

ship. There, in the foreground, 

contrasting with the savage 

majesty of the buccaneer's vessel, 

we have a dinghy, a ridiculous 

and comical little boat, 

holding two figures, one with a 

foot on the prow, the other rowing 

furiously, and – what's this? 

Not without a healthy amount of 

resentment! 

"You could row," Barnaby 

says. "I been a-rowin' since 

sunup." Fenwick doesn't hear 

him. He's got his foot on the 

prow, and he's scanning the 

horizon. 

"Barnaby, my lad," Fenwick 

says, then stops, overcome by 

emotion. He smites his chest, 

which hurts, because Fenwick 

is a big, strapping gent with fists 

like hams – well, perhaps not so 

big. Fists like Cornish hens, still 

respectable. But he makes no 

grimace, for he is Our Hero, 

and he cannot show pain, or 

laziness, or the urge to urinate. 

He is allowed a certain amount 

of epic anguish, the sort that 

one could paint and hang next 

to The Fury of Clytemnestra or 

The Anger of Achilles or The 

Quiet Irritation of My Usually 

Amiable Friend Tom. "Barnaby, 

my lad, it shrivels my soul to 

know that my Lady Loverly 

quails in the grip of that great big 

jerk Gregory Two-Legs. What 

vile ruffianry! What black treachery! 

To think–" and he smites his 

forehead, then makes a mental 

note not to do that anymore "–to 

think that she was in my own 

tender yet honorable embrace 

not two days ago. She of the 

By Jens Rushing 

1,700 words 

Historical comedy 

golden tresses, she of the 

azurest eyes – ye gads, man! 

This sylvan beauty!" 

"She's a piece, all right," 

Barnaby agrees. 

"Now, ripped from my side 

untimely – her sweet yet chaste 

caresses! Our interminable 

tongueless kisses! Gone, gone! 

And to retrieve her, we have 

only this vessel – hardly worthy 

of the word – this hull to carry 

us across the waves!" 

"It'd go faster if you rowed," 

Barnaby says. Fenwick 

responds with a gesticulation of 

grief that almost capsizes the 

boat. 

"Oh!" he says. Barnaby 

rows. 

Night falls over the Caribbean, 

and the sea glitters still, the 

green-blue of the water darkening 

to a deep sapphire hue. The 

stars hang in the enormous sky, 

cosmic jewels winking merrily at 


their misery. 

"Bastards," Barnaby 

says, neck bent to the heavens. 

"Hmm?" Fenwick says. He 

rows furiously, in smooth 

Olympic motions, muscles like 

cantaloupes or perhaps grapefruits 

rolling under his skin. 

Barnaby can't look for too long. 

"Nothin'. We got a problem, 

though," Barnaby says. "We 

don't have much food left. We 

only had the few fish you managed 

to lure aboard by singing 

'Ave Maria', and they're almost 

gone." Here Fenwick lifts his 

head and notes roll forth - a surprisingly 

angelic falsetto. 

"Ave Mariiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiia…" 

Barnaby waves his hands. 

"Stop! Stop!" 

"Gratia Plena Mariiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiia 

- " Fenwick stops, because Barnaby 

has clubbed him with a paddle. 

"And I was going to say, 'if 

you sing that one more time, I'll 

be forced to hit you with a paddle!'" 

Fenwick rubs his head. "I 

know 'Danny Boy'…" Barnaby 

raises the paddle. "All right! But 

– what ho!" Fenwick leaps to 

the prow and points to the horizon. 

"The scoundrels' vessel! It 

nears!" 

"It's stopped," Barnaby 

says. 

And indeed it has. Gregory 

Two-Legs, seeing that they are 

not pursued in any measure 

worth considering, has halted 

the vessel for the evening so 

his gentlemen may count their 

gold coins, or step out for a 

smoke or a quick quadrille on 

the quarterdeck, or retire to the 

stern and attempt to render the 

rich blues and purples of a 

Caribbean night in watercolor. 

All this so that he, the rakehell, 

the rascal, may have half a 

moment to have a go at Lady 

Loverly without some damned 

fool sticking his head in every 

two minutes with a question or 

complaint: "Captain! One-leg 

Jim's got 'is 'ead stuck in the riggin' 

again! Cor!" or "Captain! 

'ow can we eat these oranges 

an' limes to ward off the scurvy, 

when we ain't got teeth 

because of the scurvy?" or "But 

captain, I don't want to sack 

Cartagena, I want to sack 

Havana!" Christ. He can't be 

arsed! There are bosoms to 

heave! 

Barrel-Bones Bill, né 

William Erschwite- 

Grabbensport, dips his brush in 

the violet, regards his canvas, 

and finally makes a short horizontal 

stroke. He instantly 

regrets it. 

"She's a devil, this 

Caribbean night. I coulda done 

a Baltic sunset, or midday o'er 

Gibraltar anyday," he says to 

Bloods McMangle, who was 

once known as Martin Lansford. 

"She don't give much," he 

agrees. "Fr'instance – how you 

choose to represent the moon? 

I can't get the tone right – I see 

you went with yellow, more of 

an eggshell tone than I did." 

"Arr!" says Barrel-bones. 

"But it changes all the time – 

another fr'instance for ye. What 

about that little boat in the middle 

distance? It catches the light 


Fenwick’s Endeavor [cont’d] 

in a curious way." 

"What little boat?" 

"That little dinghy, there, 

with the two figures plungin' into 

the water an' swimmin' furiously. 

You can see 'em by the glints 

of cold, murderous steel. See?" 

He points. 

"Ya-har! I see 'em, all right!" 

Bloods says. "Hard to paint, 

indeed, bugger me for a barnacle 

else!" 

"Especially as they won't 

hold still. See – a second ago, 

in the water, an' now they're aclamberin' 

up the stern, like a 

coupla moon-faced monkeys." 

"Yup! An'," Bloods frowns, 

"the play o' moonlight on their 

rapiers is most difficult to a 

novice like meself. Yaarrrgh!" 

he says, because Fenwick has 

skewered him like a shrimp on 

a toothpick. 

"Hardly sporting!" Barrelbones 

says as Barnaby slashes 

his throat and kicks his carcass 

into the sea. 

"We claim this ship for His 

Majesty the King!" Fenwick 

shouts as they climb onto the 

quarterdeck. The quadrille 

breaks up amid a flurry of 

protests and lavender taffeta. 

The pirates face the interlopers 

and weapons sprout like blossoms 

from a many-tentacled 

hellplant captured in time-lapse 

photography. 

"Yar! We have successfully 

founded and maintained a 

socialist brotherhood on the 

sea, free of sovereigns, where 

each gives according to his ability 

and takes according to his 

need!" a buccaneer cries, bran- 

23

Fenwick’s Endeavor [cont’d] 

dishing a cutlass. 

"True socialism has never 

been tried!" Fenwick bellows, 

and by way of reply stabs the 

buccaneer in the gut. 

And then, gentle reader, we 

have a melee in the grand old 

fashion. Fenwick fights heroically, 

carving a swath with 

gleaming steel through the 

unwashed ranks; bodies fall at 

his feet, blood stains the deck, 

men jump overboard to escape 

his wrath. Barnaby does battle 

in a trickier but no less effective 

way, improvising with bits of 

scenery, swinging from things, 

slashing ropes to bring weights 

and suchlike crashing down on 

enemies' heads, jumping on 

things. Curses and oaths fly like 

flaming arrows tipped with 

exploding poison: "Jove smite 

ye!" "Me groat, by gum!" 

"Scupper me with a marlinspike!" 

Then, "Stop!" – a clear, 

beautiful voice cuts through the 

din of battle. Pirate and nonpirate 

alike cease their struggles 

and regard the interlocutor. 

She is blonde. She is beautiful. 

She is wearing something 

diaphanous. Barnaby takes 

advantage of the lull to gut a 

combatant. 

"Lady Loverly!" Fenwick 

gasps. "This scene o' bloodshed 

is not for your eyes!" He 

collapses at her feet and begins 

kissing her hand. Does she roll 

her eyes just a little? 

"Fenny," she says, and he 

blushes. 

"Please, my sweet, don't 

call me that in front of the, you 

know, the pirates –" 

"Fenny, I am very annoyed 

with you." 

"But, my treasure, my 

canary, I have rowed night and 

day, never resting, in pursuit of 

you and your cinnamonsmelling 

hands, mmm, mmm. I 

came as soon as I could to rescue 

you, my crumblebun." 

"Fenny – if I had wanted 

rescue, I would've let you know. 

I would've dropped a note in a 

bottle or something. Did you get 

a note in a bottle, Fenny?" 

"No – no, I didn't, my savory 

crabcake… I assumed…" 

"You assumed too much!" 

Gregory Two-legs bellows. He 

looms over the kneeling 

Fenwick, swarthy, hairy, and 

huge, a tooth or two missing, 

but bursting with virility. 

Ruggedly handsome, you could 

call him, if you are feeling generous. 

But there's no denying 

his raw sexuality. He has an 

earring. 

"You!" Fenwick snarls, 

leaping to his feet and whipping 

out his rapier. Loverly yawns. 

"Fenny, darling. The fact is 

I'm quite…satisfied here. You're 

very sweet, Fenny, but sweet 

can't compete with…" She 

regards Gregory hungrily. "Mm. 

Well, just look at him, Fenny. He 

is a sexual totem." She 

embraces him and nestles her 

head in his chest hair. Barnaby 

winces; there's quite a lot of 

chest hair, enough to house 

actual crabs, not just the venereal 

breed. "He's my Greek 

God." 

"I'm your Greek God," 

Gregory coos. 

"So," she says, "you can 

see that I don't need rescue. 

You're sweet, an' all, Fenny, but 

- Greggy drops my anchor. He 

pumps my bilge. He primes my 

cannon. He licks my metaphor." 

She tosses her pretty head with 

just a touch of haughtiness, and 

adds, sniffing, "So piss off." 

Two specks on the glittering 

sea; one, unmistakably piratey, 

receding in the distance, vanishing 

over the horizon, seems 

to have a lively samba on the 

quarterdeck. The other bobs in 

the foreground. The very bobbing 

is disconsolate. Fenwick 

rests his chin on his hand. 

"Cheer up, lad," Barnaby 

says. "Other fish in the sea an' 

all that." Fenwick only sighs. 

"We got more immediate problems 

to worry about." Barnaby, 

foot on the prow, scans the horizon. 

"Two thousand islands in 

the Caribbean, an' not a one in 

sight. You better get rowin'." 

Fenwick sighs. "Or I'll row. 

Someone's gotta get us out of 

this mess. If we're out here 

much longer, we'll have to 

resort to cannibalism. Or 

sodomy." 

"Sodomy? Cannibalism? 

You can't be serious!" 

"One or the other!" Barnaby 

protests. "I can't be hungry and 

bored!" 



Short story 

Poem 

A Squadron Leader who is also a poet... 

After the bombers landed (no 

losses sustained, heavy losses 

inflicted), the Squadron Leader, 

a poet as well, staggered out, 

still dazed by the giant flowers 

he'd contemplated 2,000 feet 

below. He scribbled a poem 

about it at white heat at the bar 

of the Officers' Relaxation 

Compound in the occupied capital 

and declaimed it to his comrades. 

In the opening stanzas, the 

rebel tribesmen hurled their 

medieval spears at the 

Twentieth Century overhead. 

The bombs blossomed in their 

midst like exquisite fast-motion 

red roses, disposing of them 

and bringing transient beauty to 

the landscape of stony fields, 

spiky vegetation and surviving 

mud hovels. 

In the following prophetic 

stanzas, the ardent roses had 

blazed the trail for schools, hospitals, 

cinemas, soccer stadi- 

ums, correct places of worship 

and administrative buildings 

bearing effigies of the Supreme 

Guide. 

In the final stanza, an allegorical 

female form of surpassing 

beauty, draped in gauzy 

national colors, filled the sky 

between Venus and 

Andromeda, a diadem of stars 

In the final stanza, an allegorical 

female form of surpassing 

beauty...filled the sky 

caught in her flowing blonde 

hair. She praised their labors 

and pointed the way back. 

When the Squadron 

Leader finished his poem the 

long moment of stunned silence 

that ensued was even more 

gratifying than the storm of 

applause, the cheers, the 

stamping. They stood him to 

drinks repeatedly and begged 

him to recite his poem again. As 


By Howard Waldman 

350 words 

Historical 

he did he noted certain flaws in 

it. 

After a fourth round of 

drinks they all visited the other 

part of the Compound. The 

Squadron Leader, whose rank 

entitled him to first choice, 

picked a new reasonably lightskinned 

one. She wore, very 

briefly, a ragged dress with a 

faded floral pattern. She had a 

sullen child's face but the 

important parts of her were well 

past childhood. 

After, back in his room, the 

Squadron Leader spent hours 

over his poem, tightening it 

here, expanding it there, 

improving the scansion, polishing 

the imagery. When he felt 

his creation was worthy of the 

cause it celebrated and possibly 

of publication, he set it 

aside, next to the framed photograph 

of his wife and children, 

turned off the light and fell 

promptly asleep. 


25

Short story 

On a Quiet Lane that Morning 

A murderer with a fondness for cyclists... 

The escapades of yesterday 

find me still breathless this 

morning and delighted, upon 

reading this morning's edition of 

The Times, to find that my identity 

has yet to be uncovered. It 

appears that I may be free to 

continue my little hobby, at least 

in the short or medium term, 

without facing an awkward early 

morning inquisition in the hallway 

of my lodgings, or, horror of 

horrors, the iniquity of being 

hauled to the nearest station for 

questioning. 

What a terrible thrill it was 

yesterday morning, when, out 

driving in the vicinity of Devizes, 

the idea first came to me. It was 

the dim-witted servant girl who 

inadvertently suggested it, 

swerving clumsily, as that sort 

tend to do, on that ridiculous 

bicycle of hers, looking ready to 

plummet, head-first and skirts 

flying every which way, into the 

ditch. Her incompetence with 

the machine irritated me and 

so, as I drew closer behind her, 

loath to decrease my speed for 

her benefit, I blew my horn as 

forcefully as I could and was 

most gratified to note that the 

surprise caused her to lose her 

scarcely held balance and plant 

her stout feet abruptly on the 

ground, derailing her basket in 

the process. Down it crashed, 

contents spilling out merrily 

onto the roadway. I was busy 

avoiding the steep ditch opposite 

and therefore was not witness 

to its exact contents, but I 

fondly imagine she carried with 

her a dozen eggs for the household 

and perhaps a fragile jar or 

two of preserves. 

One does not need to be 

particularly familiar with the 

roads these days to believe that 

it was not long at all before I 

found myself approaching a 

second cyclist, undoubtedly 

another servant girl, and this 

By Melanie Staines 

1,800 words 

Historical crime 

time slightly more proficient with 

her vehicle. So as to allow 

myself the pleasure of being 

witness to her discomfort, I 

sounded my horn from a distance 

but was dismayed to see 

that she neither fell nor faltered. 

I raced closer, not reducing my 

speed one jot, and was very 

quickly upon her, keeping very 

close on the left side so as to 

frighten her as much as possible. 

Indeed, she found my sudden 

presence intolerable and, 

with a swift jerk of her handlebars, 

found herself tumbling 

into the ditch. This time I took 

no precautions, stopping to 

enjoy the moment fully, and, 

upon exiting my vehicle, sweating 

and trembling profusely with 

excitement, quickly ascertained 

that the young woman, who lay 

with her bicycle in perhaps six 

inches of muddy ditch water, 

was as still and silent as a 

stone. Glancing around, I made 


certain that I was not witnessed, 

and, careful to protect my 

trouser cuffs, climbed down to 

take inventory. In her basket, 

miraculously intact, I found a 

shabby purse, which I pocketed 

as a souvenir. There was no 

clue as to her identity among 

her belongings, so, having 

taken her pulse, which was 

existent but very weak, I hurried 

back to my automobile and 

sped, in a state of high excitation, 

from the scene. 

Two miles further on, I 

came upon a large country pub, 

the exact name of which I have 

made every effort to erase from 

my memory, and resolved to 

dismount and enjoy their heartening 

rural hospitality before 

continuing. The interior proved 

cosy and well-appointed, and 

although the place was moderately 

busy I was able immediately 

to commandeer a small 

table near the fire, where I busied 

myself with a cigar and 

newspaper. The landlord was a 

cheerful fellow, stout and redfaced, 

who lost no time in pouring 

me a strong drink while his 

wife fetched a hot meat pie. 

While I ate, the fresh air 

and excitement having given 

edge to my appetite, I listened 

idly to the chatter at the bar, 

noticing, as I came to the closing 

stages of my meal, the noisy 

entrance of a thickset, roughly 

dressed man of about thirty 

years, apparently well-acquainted 

with my host. With hastilyconcealed 

astonishment, I 

heard him announce that there 

had been a terrible accident, 

that his sister-in-law had been 

found unconscious and barely 

clinging to life in a ditch not two 

miles away. A doctor was 

already attending to her, he 

said, but the prognosis was not 

heartening. It seemed likely she 

would not survive her injuries. 

This announcement 

caused not insignificant chaos 

in the room, many voices 

raised, querying how the young 

woman, known to be a very fit 

and competent cyclist and 

familiar with the roads in those 

parts, could have met with such 

a terrible and unlikely accident. 

Rashly, I joined my voices 

with theirs, and announced that 

...I found myself with the 

opportunity to claim a third 

victim. 

I, a doctor from Exeter and in 

the area on business, had not 

long ago been passed by a rapidly 

speeding vehicle, the driver 

perhaps crazed or intoxicated, 

and had myself almost been 

forced into a hedge. This news 

appeared to enrage most of 

those present, who were clearly 

not habitual drivers themselves, 

and they began to rant most 

vociferously against the use of 

automobiles. The heavyset 

man, brother-in-law of the 

injured woman, soon 

approached me and I furnished 

him with further details, including 

the name of my illusory doctor's 

practice, my own name, 

which I gave as Doctor 

Reginald Cleverly, and a 

detailed description of the imaginary 

car and its entirely fiction- 


On a Quiet Lane that Morning [cont’d] 

al occupant. This I did with the 

utmost seriousness, shaking 

his hand and gravely wishing 

his relative the swiftest recovery. 

Finally, chastising myself 

silently for my stupidity, I abandoned 

the last vestiges of my 

meal and left, concerned only to 

depart the area as quickly as 

possible. 

One might be forgiven for 

thinking that this experience 

would have taught me a salutary 

lesson, but one would, 

unfortunately, be entirely mistaken. 

For not thirty minutes 

after I had so solemnly taken 

my leave, I found myself with 

the opportunity to claim a third 

victim. Once again the rider in 

question was a woman, and 

once again she appeared to be 

from the lower orders, and making 

her way home from the local 

markets. On seeing her in the 

distance it was as if a mania 

took hold of me, and this time I 

did not sound my horn to alert 

her, nor did I simply hug the 

roadside so closely that she 

was forced to leave it. I struck 

her, quite savagely and with no 

warning, buckling the rear 

wheel of the bicycle beyond 

repair, and sending the rider 

over the handlebars and into a 

hedge. I stopped as quickly as I 

was able, and, checking to see 

that no one was labouring in a 

nearby field, a potential witness 

to my crimes, made a hurried 

search of my quarry. She had 

on her person some coins, 

which I pocketed, and a letter, 

which I kept with me to read 

later, should I be in need of 

27

On a Quiet Lane that Morning [cont’d] 

amusement. 

A quick survey of my own 

vehicle showed it to be surprisingly 

resilient, for nowhere 

could I see evidence of the collision 

which had rendered the 

bicycle, clearly the inferior 

machine of the two, absolutely 

irreparable. Thanking my lucky 

stars, I took a last look at the 

stricken woman, who had, it 

appeared, struck her head upon 

a fence post and was completely 

insensible, and was once 

more on my way. 

It was by this time well past 

two in the afternoon, and, reason 

dictated, time I turned my 

vehicle around and made my 

return to Taunton, where I had 

recently taken employment as 

an accounting clerk. Although I 

had made several impetuous 

decisions that day, I was sensible 

enough to do this, as I am 

not partial to night driving, and 

did not wish to arouse the suspicions 

of my neighbours by 

arriving home late. Thus I found 

myself, some short time later, 

speeding down another country 

lane towards home, not far from 

the outskirts of Taunton. 

Here the more delicate 

among you may wish to break 

off and take up a more restful 

pursuit, for it was on the outskirts 

of that fine town that I 

became involved in my fourth, 

and most exhilarating altercation. 

Until now I had met only 

women cyclists on the lanes, 

household servants laden down 

with baskets of produce, but 

now I saw in the distance a 

young man, perhaps fourteen 

or fifteen years of age, who was 

approaching on a bicycle, riding 

with an enviable ease, onehanded, 

and accompanied by a 

large sheepdog. Once again I 

found myself entering a manic 

state and, as if consumed by 

madness, I sounded my horn 

and sped toward the boy with 

excessive haste, leaning forward 

in my seat with eager 

anticipation. 

This particular stretch of 

lane was remarkably narrow, 

and bordered closely on each 

There was, it seemed to me, 

little chance of escape for 

either boy or hound. 

side by a stone fence draped in 

blackberry. There was, it 

seemed to me, little chance of 

escape for either boy or hound. 

As I drew closer, driving at high 

speed and showing no signs of 

slowing or moving to avoid him, 

the young rider waved, presumably 

to alert me to his presence. 

When this failed, and I was by 

now close enough to see his 

face clearly, his puzzled expression 

turned to one of panic, and 

in the instant that he caught my 

eye, I smiled. The moment of 

impact was delicious, the bicycle 

crushed between automobile 

and wall, the terrible, glorious 

sound of metal against 

metal. Slamming my foot down 

on the brake pedal, I came to a 

skidding halt, and leapt out to 

investigate. The bicycle was 

ruined, but of its owner there 

was no sign. Incredibly, implausibly, 

he was gone. 

For a long brainless 

moment I stood in the lane, 

bereft, robbed of my moment of 

pleasure. Finally I gathered my 

wits enough to check under the 

chassis for the lad or what 

might remain of him, but he was 

not there. Perhaps I would have 

never found him had I not heard 

the barking of his confounded 

dog, and looked over the fence 

to see the boy's rapidly receding 

form, a small figure now 

amid all that long grass, running 

at full tilt from the scene. He 

must have leapt high and well in 

that last instant, recognising 

perhaps the madness in my 

grinning eyes, knowing that his 

only chance lay in the fields 

beyond. For a moment I 

admired him, but the feeling 

swiftly passed. He had seen my 

face, had known I meant to 

strike him, and would no doubt 

report me at the first opportunity. 

It was a simple matter to 

find the gate and follow him into 

the field. Fortune was apparently 

on my side, for it had not 

rained in weeks and the ground 

was firm. Had it been inclement 

weather, my tires might have 

churned up mud, leaving me 

stranded, but I was able, easily 

as it turned out, to make up the 

distance. I will never forget the 

way he turned his head, in 

those final moments, or the terror 

in his eyes. Nor will I forget 

the sight of that faithful dog, 

bending to sniff his master's 

broken body, looking into that 

young face for the last time. 



Short story 

JS BACH IN VENICE 

A concert is disrupted in an unusual manner... 

Contemplating bones in a 

bejeweled reliquary, they heard 

faint Bach, greatly improved, it 

turned out, by the distance. 

They'd thought Protestant 

music, like bare shoulders, was 

banned from Saint Mark's 

Basilica but no: in an obscure 

corner of the edifice a handwringing 

contralto, a portable 

organ, an oboe and a cello 

were earnestly rendering, in no 

good sense of the term, a Bach 

cantata to fifty listeners, now 

fifty-two. 

"Come unto Me, fear not," 

the contralto urged, off-key but 

moving. 

But soon beginning to 

move the listeners the wrong 

way. Not coming, as ornately 

urged, but going. Going noisily, 

upsetting their chairs, some 

jumping up and down like madmen, 

arms flailing. His wife 

tisked at the inconceivable 

rudeness. The musicians meant 

well. 

Then he saw the first of the 

pinkie-size roaches twiddling 

their feelers as though beating 

ironic time to the aria. 

Recounting the incident 

much later, he evacuated his 

original panic in favor of humor. 

Roaches in a church! Scarabs 

Then he saw the first of the 

pinkie-size roaches twiddling 

their feelers as though 

beating ironic time to the 

aria. 

in an Egyptian temple, fine. In a 

Catholic place of worship praying 

mantises maybe or ladybugs 

(originally Our Lady's Bird 

and "bête à bon Dieu" in 

French, he would add pedantically) 

but not kitchen-sink 


roaches! 

Of course it wasn't piety but 

sandwich remnants littering the 

ancient flagstones that 

explained their presence. Mass 

presence, for now - the moment 

of pure panic, nothing to joke 

about - he saw them everywhere, 

by the hundreds, on 

those flagstones on the pillars, 

on the laps and shoulders of the 

listeners. 

Feeling one on his cheek 

he shot up, stamping and waving. 

His wife too. 

They fled with the other 

tourists past a black-clad old 

woman, still seated. She was 

covered with roaches but 

ignored them as she ignored 

the false notes, her withered 

face wet with tears at the reiterated 

urgent invitation: Come 

unto Me, fear not. 


29

Short story 

Sand 

Two girls go playing, but find unsuspected danger... 

The mouse scratched at the 

carpet, and the girl watched. 

The trap had sprung imperfectly, 

and rather than killing the 

poor beast instantly, had caught 

it awkwardly on the lower back, 

only maiming it. 

Its scratches were feeble 

little pulls at the carpet, 

attempts to drag its useless 

lower half free of the trap; its 

tiny eyes twitched, and its paws 

grasped a tuft of carpet, pulled it 

loose, grasped another tuft of 

carpet, pulled it loose. It let out 

short squeaking gasps. Ashley 

bent over it, fascinated. 

"Mom," she said. 

"What?" 

"Mom!" 

"What?" 

"There's a mouse in 

here. In the trap." 

"Is it dead?" 

"No. Almost." 

"Don't touch it, honey. I'll 

come in and take care of it 

when I get off the phone." 

In the next room, the 

long-distance conversation 

resumed. Ashley listened 

absently to her mother's half, 

staring out the window at the 

apartment building opposite 

theirs. The midday sun breaking 

through the clouds here and 

there dappled it irregularly. 

"…extra hours at the 

DMV. Well, I'm lucky to get 'em, 

but that doesn't make 'em any 

more fun, ya know? Hardly see 

Ashley anymore. Good thing 

she's old enough to take care of 

herself after school now. What? 

Fine, I guess. Holding it together. 

Well, yeah, it's all you can 

do, I suppose. I gotta run - have 

to play the exterminator now. 

Bye. Love you." 

The receiver clicked and 

Shelley walked into the living 

room. 

"Where is it? Oh. 

Disgusting." She frowned at the 

By Jens Rushing 

2,300 words 

Horror 

dying mouse. "Honey, you 

wanna go outside for a little 

while? I'll take care of this. Go 

play with Jess." 

She tromped three floors down 

and knocked on her friend's 

door. A large hairy man 

answered. 

"Oh. Jess!" he yelled 

over his shoulder. "Jess!" He 

left the door open and receded 

into the apartment. Ashley 

stood in the doorway. Jess 

emerged, blinking and yawning 

from her bedroom. 

"Hi, Ashley. You wanna 

do something?" 

Ashley nodded. 

"Okay. Let's go outside." 

Jess strapped on her sandals 

and they headed out. 

The front doors of their building 

opened on a street roaring with 

trucks. The girls walked around 

the side of the building and 


made for the back, where Jess 

lifted up a bit of loose chain link 

fence while Ashley crawled 

through. Ashley reached 

through the fence from the 

other side and held it for Jess. 

"I want to show you 

something I found yesterday," 

Jess said. She led Ashley down 

the dank alley, ignoring the 

homeless man parked beside a 

dumpster. He had a bottle 

wrapped in a brown paper bag 

and a short wiry beard flecked 

with grey. A faded red baseball 

cap was pulled down over his 

eyes. Ashley peered at his face 

in the half-light as she passed; 

he seemed oblivious of her. His 

teeth were spotted shades of 

grey and brown, and a 

scabrous growth crawled along 

his jaw. He gurgled something 

as she passed, and she 

skipped a few steps to catch up 

with her friend. Jess climbed 

over a short stack of rotting 

cardboard boxes at the end. 

"Come on." 

They emerged, glad to 

be out of the sour stench of the 

alley. A shallow concrete ditch 

ran through the space behind 

their building, a thin green 

rivulet coursing through it. Jess 

climbed down into the ditch. 

"It's right down here." 

She pointed down the ditch to a 

culvert that ran under the road. 

"We go through there, and it's 

just on the other side. It's weird! 

I never knew about it before." 

Ashley descended into 

the ditch and followed Jess to 

the culvert. She hesitated at the 

entrance, peering into the drip- 

ping tube. She saw a faint circle 

of grey light at the end. 

"It's okay," Jess said. "It 

looks pretty gross, but it's not 

bad. It's not far. Come on." She 

stooped and entered the culvert. 

"Come on!" She took 

Ashley's hand and led her in. 

"Hold your breath." 

Ashley followed, slipping 

occasionally. She put her hand 

out for stability and shuddered 

at the brief contact with the slick 

wall. "I actually think this is pretty 

cool," Jess said. "It's like 

we're exploring a cave." 

After an interminable 

period, they climbed out of the 

pipe. Ashley blinked in surprise. 

"Isn't it cool?" Jess said 

with a widening grin. "Can you 

believe we never knew about 

this?" 

On the alien side of the 

culvert, for unknown reasons, 

the beginnings of a playground 

had been erected. In a small 

open space, a fragment of free 

territory between the backs of 

crowding towers, someone had 

once installed a set of swings, 

some monkey bars, and a 

sandbox. Two of the four 

swings were broken and hanging, 

and broken glass littered 

the cement. Weeds pushed out 

of the concrete and entwined 

the monkey bars. Cigarette 

butts and fast-food wrappers 

dotted the sandbox. Ashley 

turned and looked behind her. 

She couldn't see her own building 

from here. Another blocked 

it out. 

Jess gave a little squeal 

of glee and dashed for the 


Sand [cont’d] 

swings. She climbed on one of 

the two unbroken ones and 

started swinging ferociously, 

pumping back and forth, picking 

up speed and height. Ashley 

watched her. 

"Come on! 's fun!" Ashley 

stood at the mouth of the culvert 

and watched her. "Come 

on!" She repeated her entreaty. 

Ashley stepped gingerly over 

some broken glass and climbed 

on a swing and pumped back 

and forth. Jess squealed again 

and jumped off, skipping across 

the ground. Ashley dragged her 

feet and stepped off the swing. 

Jess climbed into the sandbox. 

She picked up an old piece of 

pipe that had been leaning 

against the wall and started 

flicking trash out of the box. 

Ashley watched her, then joined 

in. They cleared the sandbox to 

their satisfaction. Jess poked at 

the old and crusted sand, stirring 

it with the pipe. "Come on!" 

Ashley put a foot in the box. 

Jess took off her sandals and 

dug her toes in the sand. " 's 

cool. Feels good." Ashley followed 

suit. She dug her feet in, 

picking up handfuls of sand and 

building piles of it around her 

ankles, enjoying the coolness 

and softness of it. She wriggled 

her toes. 

"Let's see who can build 

the biggest castle," Jess said. 

She started scooping up sand 

and heaping it into a mound, 

with a few smaller mounds 

around it. Ashley watched her. 

"Come on, let's see who can 

build the biggest castle." Ashley 

made her own small mound. 

31


Jess's castle was a masterpiece. 

She pressed bits of glass 

in the surface to serve as glittering 

windows. The entire green 

bottom of what had probably 

been a Rolling Rock bottle 

served as a veranda, and an 

intact neck sufficed to represent 

a tower. 

"This is where the 

princess lives," she 

said, indicating the 

tower. "And this is 

where she waits for her 

love, every day." She 

indicated the veranda. 

"But he never comes." 

Ashley looked at her 

own little pile of sand. 

"Oh, no, monster!" Jess 

screamed, and 

smashed her castle 

with the pipe, sending 

the veranda, the tower, 

and the princess flying. 

"Monster!" she yelled, 

and smashed Ashley's mound. 

She laughed. Ashley turned 

around again and tried to see 

her building, but couldn't. She 

wriggled her toes. Jess dropped 

the piece of pipe, bored with 

monsters. She leaned back in 

the sand. "What do you want to 

do?" Ashley shrugged. "You 

never know what you want to 

do." Jess looked around at her 

discovery, her little piece of private 

wonder. "We could swing 

some more. Come on, let's 

swing some more." 

She ran over to the 

swings, dusting sand off herself 

as she went. She jumped on, 

pumping back and forth. "Let's 

swing, Ashley. Come on!" 

Ashley sat in the sandbox. "You 

coming?" Ashley sat. Jess 

dragged her feet and slowed to 

a halt. "You coming?" She got 

off the swing and went over to 

the sandbox. "Something 

wrong?" Ashley shook her 

head. "Well, come on, then." 

Ashley shook her head. 

"I can't. I'm stuck." 

"What do you mean?" 

"My feet are stuck." 

Jess stared at Ashley's legs 

where they disappeared into 

the sand. "Stuck on what?" 

"I dunno. But I can't move 

'em." Ashley tried to wriggle her 

toes. The sand around them 

seemed suddenly heavier, 

somehow, like it was hardening 

mud instead of sand. "I can 

move 'em a little bit." She wriggled 

her toes and tried to lift her 

feet. She slipped from the edge 

of the box. She gasped. When 

she moved her feet, she only 

seemed to sink a little lower in 

the sand. 

"Um… weird." Jess said. 

"Here, I'll help you." She leaned 

over and grabbed Ashley's leg 

just below the knee. "Okay, 

ready? We'll pull you out." She 

tugged on the leg, exhaled 

sharply, readjusted her grip, 

and tugged some more. She let 

go, surprised at the resistance 

of the sand. "Weird!" Ashley's 

legs were now submerged 

to the shins. "What is 

there under this? 

Concrete?" 

Ashley didn't say 

anything; her lip was 

beginning to quiver. 

"Jess," she said, her 

voice tremulous, "go get 

my mom." 

"No," Jess said. "I 

can help you. I'll get you 

out of this." 

"Jess!" Her voice 

rose sharply into shrillness. 

"Help me!" She 

grabbed at Jess as she 

jolted, somehow, a bit further 

into the sand, as if suddenly 

yanked from below. She was in 

it to her knees. 

"I'll dig you out!" Jess said. 

She grabbed the pipe and started 

digging frantically at the 

sound around Ashley's knees. 

Ashley watched, wide-eyed. 

Jess's breath rose in ragged 

gasps as she worked. She 

jammed the pipe into the 

ground, flung sand away, 

jammed the pipe into the 

ground– 

She stopped in her 

motions, and tugged at the 

pipe. "It's stuck! I can't get it 

out!" She grunted and leaned 

on the pipe, then jumped away 


- Jess heard a rumble, like a 

truck passing on the highway, 

and the pipe shuddered where 

it stuck out of the sand, then it 

plunged into the sand, sucked 

under in half an instant. Ashley 

started crying. The sand was 

almost at her waist. Jess 

backed away, stiff with shock. 

"Go… get my mom, Jess." 

"Yeah." Jess turned and 

ran, bolting into the culvert. 

"Hang on." Shelley fumbled for 

her robe. "Hang on!" She yelled 

to the agitated caller pounding 

on the door. She found it and 

padded across to the door. 

"Oh, Jess - isn't Ashley with 

you?" she said to the pale girl. 

"What's wrong?" 

"She's stuck." 

"Stuck? Whaddaya mean, 

stuck?" 

"She's stuck, in a sandbox." 

"She's stuck in a sandbox?" 

"Yeah." Jess's voice broke, 

and she blurted. "You gotta 

come!" 

The girl's sudden terror 

rang clearly to Shelley. "Okay. 

Where is she? Show me." 

Shelley threw on her shoes and 

headed out after Jess. 

Ashley dug at the sand, but it 

didn't seem to do anything. 

What was tugging her was 

down at her feet, and she 

couldn't reach that far. It was a 

great blankness, an empty spot 

tugging her downward - she 

had no doubt that she should 

be terrified of it. 

"Mom!" She shouted with 

relief as Shelley, dank and con- 

fused, came out of the culvert. 

"Mom!" Shelley stumbled over 

to the box and stared at her. 

"Baby, what's happening? 

What did you do?" 

"Mom," Ashley said, and 

her voice fell into sobs – Shelley 

felt her own remnants of composure 

evaporate. 

"No, baby, don't cry – we'll 

get you out – don't cry, baby, 

don't," she said as hot tears 

pushed at her eyes and something 

sharp swelled in her heart. 

Ashley was up to her stomach 

in the sand. Shelley wrapped 

her arms around her daughter 

and pulled, yanked ferociously. 

She adjusted her grip, grabbing 

Ashley below the shoulders, 

and braced her legs against the 

edge of the box and pushed 

and pushed. Ashley yelped. 

"What is it, baby, what is it?" 

Shelley quavered. 

"Mom… that hurts… that 

really hurts!" Shelley looked at 

the sand around her child, and 

the realization coursed through 

her like electricity – blood, her 

baby's blood, was seeping up 

through the sand that now 

reached her sternum. She 

released her grip and fell to the 

ground, digging at the sand furiously, 

flinging handfuls of it into 

the air behind her. 

"Go get help!" she snapped 

to Jess. The girl stared at her, 

uncomprehending. "Go!" Jess 

dashed into the culvert. Shelley 

resumed her wild digging. The 

sand poured in to fill any hole 

she made. Hopeless. "Don't 

worry, baby. Don't worry." 

Ashley was up to her shoulders. 



Shelley took her hands and 

braced her legs again and 

pulled and pulled. She pulled 

until her muscles screamed in 

white-hot agony, dull fire raging 

through her shoulders and legs 

and arms. She sobbed as she 

pulled, her chest rising and 

falling in spasms, her face 

flushed with tears, her vision 

blurred. Ashley continued to 

sink. The sand was up to her 

chin. 

"Mom, Mom, help me! I–" 

and then she had to stop talking 

or the sand would pour into her 

mouth. She craned her head 

backwards, seeking to keep her 

nose above as long as possible. 

Her eyes were wide with fear, 

unable to comprehend the 

absurdity and horror of it. Her 

eyes stayed open with fear, 

fixed on Shelley, until sand covered 

them. Shelley knew her 

daughter was alive though, 

because Ashley's hand 

squeezed hers tightly, broken 

nails bloody, until they too disappeared 

beneath the surface 

and Shelley screamed, wailed, 

as they were torn from hers, 

receding where she could not 

follow. 

"My baby, my baby!" She 

sobbed, falling on the sand, 

tearing at it, flinging handfuls 

around. "My baby, my baby!" 

she sobbed until her sobs were 

harsh and ragged, short absurd 

noises not much different from 

the squeak of a mouse. 


33

Where was Woody Guthrie? 

Where Was Woody Guthrie? is taken from Ali Al Saeed’s short story collection, Moments. 

You arrive in a foreign land. A 

land of freedom, a promised 

land. The air of which radiates 

with hope and rakes with drunkenness. 

You look around like a 

bewildered child, lost, parentless, 

in a candy store. Glittering. 

Shining. Lights and sounds and 

scents. And there you see men 

and women like shooting stars 

and loose pillars. Is it a circus, 

you ask yourself? Ah, but it is 

life. A new kind of life. Free, 

beautiful, daring. You are in a 

daze. A dream you live in. Swim 

in. You can't even feel your 

heels touch the ground. You 

float on these flat, crowded 

streets. You hear laughter and 

music and drunken musings. 

Echoing… 

Echoes. 

Souls. 

Spiritual liberty. 

Social sovereignty. 

*** 

You are in a place with a high 

ceiling. Chandeliers dangling 

from the sky. Throwing lakes of 

light onto the wooden tiles. 

Those who dance and those 

who sing. They mingle into one. 

Like a human organ. 

Functioning. Independently. 

And you drink to their lifestyle. 

You toast their glee. And you 

find yourself giggling at the man 

who sings at the centre of the 

room, with a parrot on his wide 

shoulders, mimicking his hums. 

The cigarette smoke, the coffee 

aroma, the beer fume. You 

inhale. A small world seething 

with things you've never known 

before. Things you miss before 

you leave, before you realize. 

Things you want to be part 

of. 

*** 

By Ali Al Saeed 

1,000 words 

Drama 

Someone grabs your hand and 

drags you out into the streets 

again. Pushing through the 

crowds. You catch a glimpse of 

a man dressed like a wingless 

angel floating on a sea of people. 

And all you can see is the 

golden hair of the lady that 

drags you away, teasing you. 

And then you are in a different 

room. Music blasting from the 

stage. A man with his guitar, 

curly hair, tattered jeans. A 

woman with her violin, her flowery 

dress, her hanging breasts. 

A black man. A white man. A 

yellow man. A French man. A 

generation born between riffs. A 

past recreated. History rewritten. 

Forgiveness within the 

walls of this room full of harlequins 

and harebells. And the 

lady kisses you. On the cheek. 

And you can feel your heart 

skipping a beat. Stultifying emo- 


tions. Such as love. Could it 

be? Where would that lead 

one? To heartache and euphoria. 

A chemical reaction to a 

series of emotions: passion, 

lust, longing, desire, obsession. 

Flabbergasted by everlasting 

rapture. 

Seventh Heaven, some call 

it Cloud Nine. 

*** 

But you're not here in search of 

this so-called love, the jewel of 

emotions. No. Nor are you here 

to find a woman. No, you are 

here because you are searching 

for a man. A man of constant 

sorrow. Of demons and 

angels. A child born out and into 

music. Music not only for lovers. 

It was, in fact, barely for lovers. 

It was for those that survived 

the pain of living. The anguish 

of growing. The frustration of 

dreaming of hope, and then not 

realizing it. A man who was a 

ghost and a hero, an angel and 

a devil. Once, he was called a 

poet. 

But this man, this epiphany 

of fantasy and apocalypse, 

But you’re not here in search 

of this so-called love, the 

jewel of emotions. No. Nor are 

you here to find a woman. No, 

you are here because you are 

searching for a man. 

could never be found. It doesn't 

matter if you look for him in a 

farmhouse, or in a bar, or a theatre, 

no use in trying to find him 

under the bed, in the closet, or 

in a reflection of a mirror. 

Certainly, you couldn't find him 

in your heart, nor your mind. 

The only place you could 

find him, as the folk of Okemah 

would tell you, is in the voice of 


Where was Woody Guthrie? [cont’d] 

a song. 

In the days and nights he 

sailed out to sea, consumed by 

a passion of rebellion and idealism, 

he sang songs that you 

hear to this very day, in this new 

place you've found yourself in. 

'There were seamen three,' he 

sang, 'Cisco, Jimmy and 

me/shipped out to beat the fascists/across 

the land and sea' 

There are no fascists here. 

No adventures awaiting you in 

the deep oceans. 

*** 

You travel along a lonesome 

road. Pastures of Plenty, 

always be free. The ghosts of 

the night before still haunt you. 

A mirage of nightmare and 

seductive courtship. They come 

and they go, waves of milk and 

honey and tar. They crash on 

the shore of your memories, 

wiping them away. Not certain 

of reality. Fiction that has purpose. 

Ingenuity breeding failure. 

Here, a star is born, or falls. 

Is it a place? Or a time? 

You wiggle your bum to the 

beat of the drums of doom. A 

festival of death, an orgy of 

pain. The future is the past without 

meaning, or substance. 

Your present is more than what 

you had bargained for. 

And at a time like this, all 

you could think of is… 

Where on God's blue earth 

was Woody Guthrie? 


35

Short story 

The Meaning of April 

What happens when race discrimination becomes too much to bear..? 

He was murdered around 2am. 

After receiving a routine call, 

taxi driver Rahul Apatti arrived 

at his given destination, 

stopped the car to let three men 

in, and died moments later 

when they beat him around the 

head and body. The three men, 

one aged nineteen, the others 

only sixteen, killed the husband 

and father of three because of 

the colour of his skin. 

The first murderer and the 

eldest of the gang was Jason 

Liddle. He was born to Janette 

and Micheal Liddle. He enjoyed 

riding his motorbike, listening to 

hip-hop and rap music, and 

spending time with his friends. 

He was never the most conscientious 

student, leaving school 

at age sixteen, but he stayed 

away from trouble. 

The second murderer was 

Dave Kindrick, or Casanova 

Dave as he was known to his 

friends because of his luck with 

the ladies. He loved playing 

football and enjoyed the occasional 

cigarette, and had 

recently left high school without 

a single qualification to his 

name. He was born to Mary and 

Iain Kindrick. 

The third murderer was 

Craig Fossip. He never knew 

his mother who died shortly 

after he was born. He was 

raised by his father and grew up 

alongside his two older brothers. 

He also enjoyed playing 

football, and dearly loved his 

girlfriend who had just had their 

first daughter six months prior. 

*** 

I could see my wife struggling 

with one of our bags, so I threw 

the newspaper into the nearest 

garbage bin and rushed over to 

help. 

We'd just arrived back from 

Florence, Italy, landing at 

By Daniel Stephens 

2,000 words 

Drama 

London's Heathrow two hours 

late. It was a beautiful place 

and I'd spent every moment 

with a beautiful person. Yet as I 

packed our luggage on to the 

trolley with a bent wheel and 

broken brake, my mind was distant. 

And Lucy knew it. 

'You're thinking about the 

murder, aren't you,' she said, 

sombrely. 

'You can tell…' I asked, 

knowing full well she always 

knew what I was thinking even 

if I tried to hide it. 'It was in our 

town, Luce.' 

She gave me a smile. It 

was one of those 'I love you and 

it'll be alright' smiles. The kind 

that made me sleep slightly better 

at night. 

'C'mon, let's get home,' she 

said, pushing her strawberry 

blonde hair off her face. 'My 

back is on fire, she's kicking 

again and I really, really, really 

want a bath.' 


She was eight months 

pregnant with our first child. The 

words she's kicking again 

seemed to burn a hole straight 

through my head. The thought 

of my unborn daughter, and the 

choice we made to have a family 

of our own, cut through me 

as if I had just found out we 

were pregnant. 

I held back my tears. 

It was then that I realised I 

was staring at the arrivals 

screen as returning holidaymakers 

scrambled for their luggage. 

'Can you get me a trolley,' 

said a lady with bleached splitends 

protruding from her distinctive 

gray roots. 

I observed her, wondering 

whether I knew this woman. 

'Can you get me a trolley…sorry,' 

she paused, 

perhaps she'd mistaken 

me for someone else. 

'Do…you…speak…English?' 

she said, highlighting each syllable. 

Did I work here and just 

didn't know it? 

'Yes, I speak perfectly good 

English, thank you very much.' 

She was suddenly taken 

aback. She looked shocked, 

almost appalled. 'Well then, can 

you get me a trolley…please.' 

Her final remark sounded less 

like a polite pleasantry, more a 

'how dare you question my 

authority'. 

'The trolleys are over 

there.' I pointed. 'Get one yourself.' 

She scowled. 'How dare 

you speak to me like that! Get 

me your superior, I want to 

speak to your manager right 

away.' 

Lucy tapped me on the 

shoulder. 'What's going on?' 

'I wish I knew. This woman 

thinks I work here.' 

'Excuse me madam, but 

what makes you think my husband 

works here.' 

The woman eyed me up 

and down. She appeared 

embarrassed by her mistake 

but she wasn't going to let that 

stop her. 

Her expression became a 

scowl as she eyed Lucy's pregnant 

stomach. 'It's not right that, 

The first murderer and the 

eldest of the gang was Jason 

Liddle...He enjoyed riding his 

motorbike, listening to hiphop 

and rap music, and 

spending time with his 

friends. 

you know.' She seemed disgusted. 

'You and him…' 

'What!' Lucy lurched forward 

in defence, her expression 

that of anger. 

I put my arms around her, 

gently. 'C'mon, lets go.' 

I was embarrassed but I 

didn't know why. 

'How dare you say that,' 

screamed Lucy. 

Other people started to 

stare. I could feel their glares on 

the back of my neck, under my 

skin; each of them staring at the 

Asian man and his white wife. 

'C'mon,' I said again, grabbing 

the trolley and pushing 

both it and my wife away. 'Let's 


The Meaning of April [cont’d] 

get home.' 

Lucy pushed my hands 

away and we began to move 

towards the exit. 

As we walked it felt like 

everyone we passed was looking, 

judging. 'They're all wondering 

what a guy like me is 

doing in an airport…' 

She suddenly stopped, her 

face turning towards me. 'No,' 

she snapped, her voice nearly 

breaking from her overuse of it. 

'Don't ever think that. You're 

always going on about it - how 

people look at you, how people 

treat you differently, how waiters 

in restaurants put us on 

tables as far away from everyone 

else as possible. It's all in 

your imagination.' 

Tears streamed down her 

face. She never used much 

make-up but I could see her 

eyeliner had streaked. 

'That woman is the minority 

- get that through your skull.' 

She moved closer to me, placing 

her hands on my cheeks. 'I 

love you, Adrian.' 

I thought she was going to 

kiss me but instead I felt a stinging 

pain rise up on my face as 

she slapped me hard. 

'Don't ever talk that way, 

and don't think it either. No matter 

what people say, that sort of 

stuff doesn't come into our family.' 

I nodded. It was more out 

of shock than anything. I'd 

never seen her like this before. 

She grabbed the trolley and 

pushed it away. I stood there for 

a second, then chased after 

her, taking hold of the trolley 

37


and pushing it myself. 

'I'm sorry,' I said, not knowing 

what else to say. 

'Let's just get home, okay.' 

As the broken wheel of the 

trolley ground under the weight 

of our bags, scraping the tarmac 

and leaving intermittent 

lines of rubber in our wake, I 

couldn't help 

myself looking 

around, checking 

to see if an angry 

mob had followed 

us. 

We entered 

the multi-storey 

car park. Behind 

each vehicle was 

a good enough 

hiding place. We 

were alone now, 

they could get us 

without anyone 

knowing. 

'I never liked 

your father,' she 

said, breaking the 

silence. 

She was 

walking beside 

me. Her right 

hand caressed 

the peak of her 

pregnant belly as 

she imagined our 

child within. 

'Do you 

remember the first time I met 

him..?' 

'…and you realized I wasn't 

the only one who had milky tea. 

I think that's an Indian thing, but 

my Dad will never acknowledge 

that. Just like he won't acknowledge 

the place he was born is 

now Bangladesh.' 

I forced a smile, trying to 

ease the tension, but she wasn't 

looking anyway. 

'When I first met him I 

thought I'd give him a chance. 

You told me how he'd hit your 

Mum a couple of times, how 

he'd always appear distant and 

never interested in what you 

had to say, but I gave him a 

chance when we first met.' 

'You never said any of this 

before, Lucy.' 

'That's because I thought it 

didn't need to be said…' 

She waited, perhaps for me 

to say something, but I didn't. 

'I spent an hour telling him 

how he could market this new 

magazine idea he had for the 

business. I told him how to do 

his research, how to attract 

advertising, how to get the 

design right. At dinner that 

evening, he dismissed everything 

I said. I 

knew then that I 

would never like 

him, not 

because of the 

magazine, that's 

just a trivial 

thing, but 

because it 

reminded me of 

each time you'd 

cried over your 

father. It reminded 

me each time 

you'd questioned 

whether 

you loved him, 

or whether he 

loved you. And I 

hated him for 

that.' 

I kept moving, 

my eyes 

focussed on the 

handle bar, my 

hands gripping it 

tighter and 

tighter. I felt the 

tears coming 

back but I tried to resist them. 

'But he's one man. Yes, 

he's your Dad, but what I think 

about your Dad has nothing to 

do with what I feel for you. I 

wouldn't dislike your father if I 

didn't love you so damn much.' 

Her voice was free from 


malice, free from hate. She 

spoke softly, sweetly. The 

sounds were as beautiful as 

she was. 

As we rounded a stone pillar, 

by which we'd parked our 

car, I saw a balding man, his 

face dirty, his hair unkempt, 

standing next to the driver's 

side door with shards of broken 

glass by his feet. 

I hated confrontation, 

always shied away from it, but 

for some reason, maybe the 

events of the last half hour, I felt 

a sudden rage travel from the 

pit of my stomach and into my 

head. My hands let go of the 

handle bar. I ran towards him. 

Lucy said something but 

her words were muffled. 

He was wearing a black 

vest top, showing off muscular 

arms and far too many tattoos. 

His shaven head was dirty. 

Probably homeless and desperately 

needed the money, I 

thought. 

He was clearly stronger 

than me but I figured the element 

of surprise would be on 

my side. He saw me coming, 

turning quickly, as I threw my 

whole body into him. 

We both toppled backwards 

and he fell down with me 

on top. He banged his head on 

the tarmac and was immediately 

knocked out. 

I'd done it. If my Dad was 

ever going to be proud of me, 

he had to be proud of 

this…surely. 

Some moments passed, I 

couldn't tell how many. Maybe I 

banged my head too. 

I felt Lucy's arms around 

me, as I pushed myself up. 

Everything hurt, apart from my 

pride. 

From behind the pillar 

another man appeared. He too 

had a black vest top like the 

criminal, but he wore a greasy, 

blackened cap that read 'Jay's 

Auto Repair'. 

The man spoke. 'Hi there, 

airport mechanic,' he said, lifting 

his cap. 'Are you Mr. and 

Mrs…erm…Bhaskar?' He 

checked the clipboard he was 

holding. 

I wanted the situation to go 

away, but I couldn’t think of a 

single thing to say. I just 

looked down to the unconscious 

body that lay beside 

the car. 

Lucy quickly answered him. 

'Yes, yes, that's us…' 

'I'm sorry you've come back 

to find this. Our security is pretty 

good, but there's always one 

who finds their way through. It 

was broken in to yesterday, 

they messed with the ignition, 

I'm afraid you won't be driving it 

anywhere today. My boss has 

sorted you out with a taxi, free 

of charge. It's waiting out front 

for you now.' 

I wanted the situation to go 

away, but I couldn't think of a 

single thing to say. I just looked 

down to the unconscious body 

that lay beside the car. 

'You haven't seen my colleague 

around here have you. 

We're supposed to be fixing 

your ignition. I must apologize 



for running a bit behind today 

otherwise it might have been 

ready.' 

Still no words came to me. 

Maybe I could go back to yesterday 

when I was on a beach 

in thirty-five degree heat 

immersed in a Harlan Coben 

novel. 

The mechanic, who I'd just 

knocked out and probably 

caused grievous bodily harm to, 

slowly sat up. He rubbed the 

back of his head. 'What happened?' 

After many apologies and 

the promise of a drink, which 

was turned down, we left in the 

taxi and arrived back at our 

semi-detached some time 

around three in the afternoon. 

*** 

The mechanic I'd scarred for life 

was twenty-four year old Marty 

Downs. He still lived with his 

parents and loved heavy metal 

music, extreme sports, and his 

girlfriend of six years, Josie. As 

far as he was aware, he'd never 

committed a crime in his life. 

One month later, on 5 

October, April, Lucille was born 

to Adrian and Lucy Bhaskar. 

She was a healthy seven 

pounds and four ounces. 


39

Short story 

The Beauty That’s In Me 

A new skincare product that really can work miracles... 

In the sunshine, Lucille sat outside 

Café Solitaire, an elegant brasserie 

nestled in the corner of a tree-lined 

plaza in Cheviot Hills, West LA. A 

summer breeze riffled the treetops, 

and sparrows darted between the 

branches, scattering fresh blossoms 

onto the ground. 

She picked at the remains of 

her salad niçoise, delicately spearing 

any remaining morsels of green 

bean and lightly seared tuna. 

Finished, she pushed her plate 

away and sighed. Another unsatisfying 

meal, sat in silence. Alone. 

As if anyone would want to eat 

a meal looking at a haggard old 

crow like you! 

She shook her head. God, she 

couldn't take much more! She 

hated that voice. It followed her 

every move, taunting her. 

She focused on a young man 

sitting on a nearby bench, hair 

pulled tight into a ponytail, leather 

jacket strewn next to him. Good 

lord, she thought, just look at that 

disgusting mop of hair. Perhaps if 

he washed it, or better yet cut the 

whole lot off, the grease wouldn't 

run over his face and give him 

those terrible spots. How can he 

hope to meet a nice girl looking like 

that? 

That's right, force it onto other 

people. You really are pathetic. Old, 

ugly and path– 

She quickly switched her 

attention to a young mother wheeling 

a pram past the café. Dear oh 

dear, she really has let herself go. 

Look at her waddling away, all but 

dissolved into a shapeless lump! 

Well, you make your own bed – if 

you dress an elephant in a t-shirt 

don't be surprised if it comes back 

baggy! 

Ha! And lying to yourself now! 

You'd give anything to have your 

own children. 

Lucille flushed and turned 

away. Her hand slipped to her own 

slim waist. At least she still had her 

figure. Anyway, what was the point 

in dwelling on such nonsense – this 

was her life. What was she going to 

do? Find someone now to fill the 

void? It hadn't always been this 

way. In her day, she'd been the 

belle of the ball – cheerleader, prom 

queen; men had lined up for a date. 

She'd had her pick of the crop and 

had chosen only the ripest fruits. 

Then, slowly at first, but with alarming 

speed once her looks began to 

fade, the crop had turned mulch. 

And now she was just a middleaged 

spinster waiting for sunset. 

She checked her watch. Half 

an hour to go before her appointment 

at the boutique, enough time 

for another coffee. After ordering, 

By Louise Cypher 

3,000 words 

Science Fiction 

Lucille noticed a man, portly, wearing 

a smart beige raincoat, pepper 

hair bubbling out from under a fedora 

hat, strolling between the tables 

of the café towards her, clipboard in 

one hand and bucket in the other. 

He reached her, paused, flitted his 

eyes over her, then moved on. 

Lucille stared dumfounded at 

him ambling away. "Excuse me! 

Excuse me there!" she called after 

him. 

The man stopped, swivelled 

slowly on his heels and worked up 

a thin smile. "I'm sorry, can I help 

you?" 

"Money – wouldn't you like 

some money?" 

"Sure, but–", he tilted his head 

from side to side… 

(What a hideous man! Fat red 

cheeks, cavernous nostrils - is he 

blind? Can't he see those ugly hairs 

dangling out of his nose? And that 

bulbous boil on his neck, it's quite 

revolting!) 

…as if making a decision. 

"Listen, no offence lady, but you 

glossy types," he gesticulated his 

pudgy fingers in her direction, 

"y'know, I do this everyday, and, 

well, sometimes it's not worth asking. 

Sorry." 

She slumped back in her chair 

and bit her lip. 


That's right Lucille, cry your 

pathetic little heart out. Let your 

makeup run so you end up with 

ridiculous panda eyes. 

Screwing her eyes shut, she 

sucked a deep, quivering breath 

through her nose, then threw down 

enough money for the bill and a sizable 

tip and stormed off to her 

beauty session. 

*** 

Back at home, Lucille changed out 

of her summer dress and into a Dior 

silk kimono. In the living room, she 

mixed herself a gin and tonic. After 

a moment's hesitation, she topped 

up the glass with another generous 

measure of gin. 

She dimmed the lights and 

reclined on the chaise longue, 

enjoying the melt of the soft leather 

as it touched her skin. When she 

flicked the radio on the soothing 

strings of Bizet's "L'Arlésienne" 

swept over the room. Lucille let the 

music flow through her, its sweet 

melody massaging the nagging 

voice she detested so much into 

submission. Within minutes, she 

was smiling and swaying her head 

in time. 

The man in the beige raincoat 

flashed in her mind. 

Why was she thinking about 

that bothersome man? How did his 

opinion of her matter? She tried to 

let the music carry her away again. 

What did he mean by 'you 

glossy types'? Her brow furrowed. 

Immediately she forced her face to 

relax - got to watch those wrinkles! 

Wrinkles…wrinkles… 

Lucille hurried to the bathroom. 

Leaning into the mirror, she 

swung her head from side to side, 

faced front, pouted, pulled her lips 

back, primped her shiny, bobbed 

hair. She bent in closer, traced a 

nail through the shallow wrinkles 

beside her eye, the only ones marring 

her otherwise smooth face, 

and frowned, deepening them. 

They're coming back already. 

Heart sinking, she opened her 

face wide, eyes shocked, mouth 

screaming, then scrunched it slowly, 

observing the age lines as they 

appeared. The pit of her stomach 

soured. 

She dragged up an extendible 

mirror and positioned it behind her 

head. She swished her hair, 

searching for glimpses of the millipede 

scars nestling behind her 

ears. She grabbed at the sink. 

Scars and wrinkles. Scars and 

wrinkles. Scars and… 

"Please stop," she whispered. 

Louder, her knuckles whitening 

over the edge of the sink, "please 

stop. Please stop it Lucille! There's 

nothing wrong with you, you're not 

ugly. Stop torturing yourself! Ple–" 

The doorbell rang. 

Who could that be? She wasn't 

expecting any guests, and none 

of her few remaining friends would 

be so rude as to turn up on her 

doorstep unannounced. She waited, 

tensed. 

It rang again. 

She padded out to the door 

and peered through the spyhole. 

On the other side, a lustrous mane 

of brunette hair tapered into a sharp 

navy blue jacket and skirt. "Who is 

it?" 

The woman outside faced the 

door. "If I could just have a minute 

of your time to demonstrate our 

miraculous new skincare product-". 

"I'm sorry, I have all I need-" 

"This is a new product on the 

market, guaranteed to make you 

see your beauty that's in you!" The 

lens stretched her pristine smile 

impossibly wide. 

Lucille hesitated. Well, she had 


The Beauty That’s In Me [cont’d] 

nothing better to do. She opened 

the door. 

"Hi Jolie Wonder, I work for 

Clearview Cosmetics. Thanks for 

your time, can I come in?" 

"Yes, please come through," 

said Lucille, examining Jolie's face. 

How old was she? It was hard to 

tell. Her manner, the experience in 

her eyes, implied a woman in her 

early forties, maybe even her own 

age, but her skin – amazing, blemish 

free. And her makeup, so 

immaculately shaded as to be invisible. 

Without the faint whiff of 

expensive cosmetics Lucille would 

have been certain she wasn't wearing 

any at all! 

Lucille led her through to the 

kitchen where the evening sun 

bathed the room in an orange haze. 

She guided them to the breakfast 

bar and switched on the strip light, 

the harshest light in the kitchen. 

Without breaking stride, Jolie followed 

her and plopped a small silver 

briefcase down. As she 

unpacked her equipment, Lucille 

scrutinized her. Even under the 

most unflattering of light she found 

nothing tainting Jolie's perfect skin. 

She leaned in. Not a mark or a 

wrinkle. Flawless in every way. 

Jolie looked up and Lucille 

reared back. 

"That's quite all right." Jolie 

flourished her manicured hands 

beside her cheek. "I only look this 

good at my age thanks to our new 

product, Vani-Tygo. It's guaranteed 

to make you see your beauty. We at 

Clearview Cosmetics believe in the 

holistic nature of beauty, that beauty 

starts on the inside. That is why 

we offer this product as a two stage 

process." She opened a small jar. 

"First we apply the cream – it's a 

facemask which must be left on 

overnight. 

"After applying the cream," 

41


Jolie presented a folded leaflet, "go 

to bed and recite this verse in your 

head over and over until you fall 

asleep." 

Jolie opened the leaflet and 

read aloud: 

"It's finally time to see, 

The beauty that's in me, 

So take this unhappy face, 

And put a smile in its place." 

Lucille said stiffly, "I'm not sure 

about reciting, well you know, it's a 

bit silly isn't it?" 

"Try it for one night. After all, 

there's no-one else here to feel silly 

in front of is there?" 

"What? How did you…?" 

Jolie had already packed up 

and was heading to the door. "We 

don't even request payment until 

you're completely satisfied. The 

details are on the back of the 

leaflet." 

"But how did you–" 

"Please, you've got nothing to 

lose, you won't be disappointed. 

Call me if you have any questions – 

my contact details are there too." 

She left the house before Lucille 

could respond. 

Lucille traipsed back to the 

kitchen. How did Jolie know she 

lived alone? Also, who were 

Clearview Cosmetics? She'd never 

heard of them – and makeup was 

her specialty subject! She snatched 

up the leaflet and scanned the contents 

again. That childish poem in 

the middle, and – no contact 

details? The back of the leaflet was 

blank. How was she supposed to 

pay? 

"Oh, what a load of nonsense!" 

She swept the jar and leaflet into 

the bin and returned to the living 

room. 

Evening flowed into night and 

after too many gins, a stream of 

self-pitying tears, and a laborious 

count of the individual hairs on each 

eyebrow, Lucille lay sprawled over 

the chaise longue, drained. 

When did she become so 

unhappy? She let her trembling fingers 

fall over her face, seeking out 

every imperfection. 

It'll only get worse. Soon not 

even surgery will keep me young. 

The dam broke and she 

sobbed uncontrollably. What kind of 

life was this? Old, ugly and alone. 

I hate myself! I hate my old, 

ugly face! 

What about that cream? 

Maybe it will work? She waved a 

hand dramatically. Oh rubbish! I 

have all the creams in the world! 

Jolie's perfect, flawless face 

materialised in her mind, that dazzling 

crescent smile beckoning her. 

Lucille stumbled to her feet 

and into the kitchen, her head a 

fuzz of gin and promises. She 

fished the jar out of the bin, and 

after a moment's hesitation 

retrieved the leaflet. Well, what did 

she have to lose? 

In her en-suite bathroom, jittering 

with nerves, she applied the 

facemask then went to bed and 

took a sleeping pill. While waiting 

for the pill to take effect she read 

the poem aloud, repeating it until 

she knew it by heart. She switched 

the bedside lamp off, slipped under 

the sheets and continued to recite it 

in her head. At first she felt absurd, 

but gradually the verse blanked her 

mind and she drifted into a dreamless 

sleep. 

*** 

As soon as she woke up the next 

morning, her fingers flew to her 

face. The mask was gone, dissolved 

into her skin, which felt as 

soft and delicate as a ripe peach. 

Heart suddenly pounding, she 

raced into the bathroom and stared 

at the mirror. 

Was that really her? She recognized 

herself, but her reflection 

was different now. 

Beautiful, she was really beautiful. 

She scrunched up her face. 

No wrinkles, not even beside her 

eyes. The faint web of thread veins 

on her cheeks had disappeared. 

Her skin was clear, fresh, almost 

glowing. The black pinpricks hairs 

on her top lip. The age spots on her 

neck. Every lump, bump and blemish. 

She saw none of it. 

She went back to the bedroom 

and, using a hand for support, lowered 

herself onto the edge of the 

bed. How can this be real? She 

waited for the noxious voice she 

knew so well to shout out, to mock 

her for this obvious delusion, to jeer 

her into submission, but all she 

heard was the sound of her own 

rapture. 

Dreaming, she must be 

dreaming! She pinched at the skin 

on her arm. The skin reddened but 

she didn't wake up, nor did she race 

for the moisturiser in a mad panic, 

scared she'd damaged the skin. 

How can this be? She clasped her 

hands together – that facemask, 

wonderful facemask! It had truly 

been a miracle. Looking up, she 

caught her reflection in the threeway 

vanity mirror perched on her 

antique dressing table. Even with 

her puffy eyes, her makeup-less 

face, she saw nothing but an elegant 

woman in the prime of life. She 

palmed her tears away, crossed to 

the table and, with a fleeting glance 

and smile, shut the mirror. 

When she decided to go out 

she found getting ready was now a 

five-minute joy instead of the normal 

three hour ritual. The first outfit 

she tried on suited her; she sat 


down to apply her usual comforting 

paste of makeup but it felt so heavy 

and unnatural on her skin that, 

shockingly enough, she decided to 

wear none at all. 

Strolling through the nearby 

park, she drank the world in through 

new eyes. The people around her 

were somehow more real than 

before. They no longer repulsed 

her. When a snotty young boy 

scooted past, accidentally knocking 

her handbag, she smiled at his 

hasty apology. A bearded beggar 

asked her for change and she 

regarded him with pity instead of 

disgust, handing him a couple of 

dollars. An old man hobbled 

towards her and asked for the time. 

They exchanged pleasantries 

about the weather and the pretty 

flowers lining the path. These 

weren't conscious decisions, only 

her natural reactions, and she revelled 

in the difference, questioning 

how it could ever have been otherwise. 

Later that week, Lucille was 

sitting outside Café Solitaire, 

savouring her coffee as the sun 

warmed her face. An autumn gold 

leaf fluttered to her feet from the 

branches above her. She watched 

as a young couple holding hands at 

a nearby table and wondered how 

long they'd been together. She was 

a very pretty girl, such lovely 

straight hair– 

"Can you spare a moment of 

your time, dear lady?" 

Lucille looked up to see a kindly-faced 

man standing beside her in 

a beige raincoat, clipboard in one 

had, bucket in the other, hat politely 

lifted off. The same man who had 

ignored her before. 

"Certainly – don't you remember 

me?" 

"I don't think so – have we 

met?" he asked, gesturing to a 

chair. Lucille nodded and he sat 

down. 

"Yes, you were collecting outside 

this café, last week." Now 

when she looked at him his cheeks 

were ruddy, not red, his round face 

full of laughter. 

"Now you'd think I'd remember 

a lady as lovely as yourself! I'm 

Nigel." 

"Lucille." 

"A pleasure to meet you." 

"So what are you collecting 

for?" 

"It's for the lonely hearts foundation 

- it's designed to bring lonely 

people together." He gave her a sly 

smile. 

You're joking, really?" 

"And as a special offer if you 

sign up today you even get a free 

dinner." 

"A free dinner? But, but how 

can a charity afford such extravagance?" 

"You also get a badge." Nigel 

twirled the clipboard round. The top 

sheet contained lines of badges all 

saying 'Cancer Research 

Foundation'. 

"But that's for…" Lucille's pulse 

raced as she realized what was 

going on. "Are you asking me on a 

date?" 

"Only in the name of a good 

cause" 

Lucille blushed. A date, it had 

been a long time since anyone 

asked her on a date! 

"Sure, I'd love to." The words 

spilled out before she'd even 

thought them through. A date - how 

delightful! They exchanged phone 

numbers and planned to meet later 

for dinner. 

Nigel turned up on time, collecting 

her in an old but clean 

Mercedes and taking her to a family 

run Italian restaurant he knew. 

They had a marvellous night and by 



the end she was quite smitten with 

him, from the caring look in his 

eyes, to his endearing politeness – 

he held every door, pulled out her 

seat, stood when she left and 

returned to the table. At one point 

she tried to examine his face, as 

she used to do with people, but she 

kept forgetting about it and drifting 

back into the conversation. Nigel 

was a widower, his wife lost to lung 

cancer. Ever since then he spent 

his lunch breaks collecting for charity. 

After dinner, and one too many 

glasses of red wine, they kissed on 

the restaurant steps. She hesitated 

to respond, but the touch of his lips 

fired a passion in her she had long 

since abandoned. He drove her 

home and she invited him inside. 

The next morning Lucille lay in 

bed, gazing at the dawn filter 

through the curtains, listening to 

Nigel's rumbling snore. 

Nigel rolled over and blearily 

opened his eyes. "Morning beautiful," 

he said, wiping a hand over his 

mouth. 

Lucille lay on her side facing 

him "Sleep well?" 

"Mmmm – you?" 

"Wonderful. But don't you have 

to be at work today?" 

Nigel reached out to stroke 

Lucille's hair. "Soon, let me just lie 

here and look at you for a bit 

longer." 

As he brushed his fingers over 

her leathery, wrinkled cheeks, and 

down to the small warty bumps 

clustered by her chin, she smiled, 

as happy in that moment as she 

could ever remember. And even if 

she could see how she really 

looked now, she wouldn't have 

cared. 


43

Poems 

I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT YOU 

BEEP BEEP wake up, car bombs. 

The happiest day in my life 

Pirate blood rushes in café doors 

and where are we? La la la 

*Excuse me, can I* 

I'm five years ahead of my time. 

A bird call to your armsthe 

piers fell into the sea with the punches we never 

pulled, 

we talked in kites, 

then the museum trains broke free Oh run 

to this day through Bracken Grass 

and the dummies run with the scarecrows on the 

Downs 

Their cigarettes came undone 

robbing houses and caught in the wrong way. 

Reading comics on the train down 

and fishing between stops. 

*Show off* 

*For him* 

We dodged the dust on the sofa in our underwear 

*Boy* 

Mean shadows on wall maps. 

Comfy accents planning anti-dates. 

I WISH 

Mining underneath buildings, a phone call to arms 

Mapping 3D circuits between pubs 

like stadiums full of people. 

The clouds were drawn like curtains 

hanging over their curly hair. 

*Can I have one of them for him please?* 

You were mistaken for treasure hunters 

weren't you 

While we were seen with hands in each other's pockets 

lover, 

Sparks wet in freedom fighters' fists 

Pin ups on answer phone fuzz 

The old carpets in the rooms you left wide open 

are irreplaceable maps. 

THE VANISHINGS 

First it's pennies: a last glimpse 

of bronze in a cool well 

I never visited, whose water is heavy 

as mirror glass. 

Pens scatter under floorboards 

with the accounts they signed. Keys 

for the loft or shed clink around every corner, 

materialising into windchimes or broken glass 

or gravel or nothing. 

Tonight I find 

a wardrobe bulking the living room. 

And inside: 

pennies, biros, keys, 

ancestors hung up like coats. 

Barnaby Tidman 

James Al Midgley 


AUTUMN'S COMING 

(They whisper, 

as if she's a prom queen 

entering in state.) 

She's too English for that, 

crisp accent like 

almost-ripe apples 

and frost white teeth. 

She wears fingerless gloves 

(knitted, wine-coloured) 

and a ball-gown; 

dark blue, 

like clear new-moon nights 

covered with explosions 

of embroidery 

fireworking up from the hem. 

and her eyes, 

conker coloured, gleaming 

hard from weeks of tradition 

and hand-me-down stories 

of niners 

and special string. 

When she passes, 

the frost curls on your clothes, 

melts and vanishes. 

lips chap, 

hands ache, 

eyes runshe 

glows. 

Pulls out a crisp leaf 

caught in her sleeve 

and hands you an apple 

the colour of her hair. 

SONNET 17 

Bex Harris 

The first time that we met your hair was dyed 

A silver purple, violets mixed with ash, 

And moonlit snow. The lungs of winter sighed 

Around the grey concrete, you were a slash 

Of flowers underneath the pearly skies. 

Next week I saw that you were tainted white, 

A blazing streak that turned to moons your eyes, 

And then a tender red, like candle-light. 

I marked since then that everywhere you went 

You gave off flowers like a brush of spring; 

Petals dropped along the road, a scent 

Of tulips, gingers, orchids; hues that sing. 

And I live off, since then, my modest theft, 

Picking up the roses that you left. 

Andrea Tallarita 


ONE MORE CRIPPLED RICHARD 

Walked with a cane, 

lidocaine, sugar cane, hurricane, 

balanced on a malformed leg, 

hello, hello, hello! 

Old bonebreak face of practical salmon 

color, rosacia, blush, merlot, snail trails 

of red pink rose and other shades in 

liverspots. 

His slutty rendezvous with hellions 

and their repercussed dealings 

were the selected poetry, non-pareils, 

visions of redemption and other 

cruel things, but he led those kids entire. 

"If you want money, you take it. 

The rules never change for a thief." 

He crookedly set them to robberies 

and ceased his usual hellos. 

He grew miserly, talked about 

an era where prepared women 

could be located quickly and simply. 

Over time his gang of children 

dissipated into jails, families, 

one to a college, one to his death, 

and the old crook slowly returned 

to saying hellos on the sidewalk. 

One night, a manic flock of cardinals 

descended on 5th street, grabbed the 

wilted man and stole him away, entire. 

He left gagging on a scream and 

swinging his impotent cane. 

SONNET 19 

Poems [cont’d] 

Ray Succre 

Whenever by the roads of Rome I roam, 

My footsteps fall on ruins over ruins. 

Embedded in each street are Rome's undoings, 

A dust in every arch, inside each stone 

A raid, a faded sky in every dome: 

The roaring metro and a thousand shoe-strings 

Now press them down, in glueings or unglueings 

Of equal atoms. Rome is a knobbled crone 

That never was possessed. Barbaric hoards 

And black-rimmed planes with bombs that alternate 

To rays of hope and hearts that lovers close 

Like dreams. And in this wheel of dust or fate 

Each leaves his broken image, each one flows 

Where endless armies march without a weight. 


45


THE SICK MAN 

Some nights there would be so much blood on the 

walls 

he could write his name 

with a fingertip. 

All the knocked out teeth he found in urinals 

he kept in a drawer in his bedroom, 

sometimes, on winter nights 

he could hear them chattering. 

The other people who worked at the club 

would never invite him to join them. 

While the management flirted with barmaids 

and the bouncers bought drinks for the dancers 

he would wipe the bathroom mirror 

until it gleamed. 

On his 30th birthday 

he drank his own bodyweight of tequila 

and was sick on the train. 

He caught it all in a plastic bag 

double knotted it 

and carried it all the way home 

in his pocket. 

THE SILVER SURFER 

If he's not doubled up in an asteroid's pocket 

- more molten trophy cabinet 

than man - 

he walks among us, his trenchcoat a thicket, 

looking ill, his eyes white stones. 

Stopping to read a newspaper, 

even though the headlines tie an anchor 

to his stomach and heart. 

Then something escapes 

the grassblade lips that could press coins 

and his board comes to him 

like a waterfall to its pool. 

He's upon it, and flying, 

faster than a ghost swift, 

fainter than a scarecrow in a blizzard. 

John Osbourne 

Jon Stone 

DISORDER 

The idea of food 

is eating away at you. Corbies 

undo the sky in a black line, 

voices like the quick unzipping 

of a baggy sheepskin. 

You dramatise 

being swallowed by lions, tigers, bears, a man 

with a bone through his nose who makes 

kebab skewers of your humeri. 

On a mattress of twigs and brambles 

bubbling with blackberries – and still 

nothing no-one nothing. 

Wait a little longer. 

A long way off lightning 

opens the sky's mouth. 

BEFORE THE DENTISTS 


The car crash and the robbery are still to come 

as are the seven visits to the dentists 

in three weeks 

and the dead Dalmatian. 

They will happen in the new year. 

Today is the 28th October 

and with the carpets almost dry 

and the break up behind him 

Ashley has started sleeping better at night 

and doesn't get so annoyed 

during advert breaks 

and at the sound of people whistling. 

Last night he sat in the garden 

trying to find Saturn 

through his telescope 

and thought that life couldn't get any better. 

John Osbourne 


£10 STAR POEM CONTEST 

POETRY COMPETITION 



Our star poem for this issue is by Jon Stone. His poem, Nightcrawler, was unanimously voted the winner by the Gold 

Dust team from a strong set of entries. 

NIGHTCRAWLER 

Poised as on a spire, a pistol 

levelled square at midnight 

Swallow-blue, tail like calligraphy 

Still; the dark's stray eyelash 

Then, as a bulb unexpectedly blows, 

from this to moving 

Not leap after leap 

but leap heaped on leap 

leap squared, cubed, leap 

to the power of leap then 

*bamf!* He teleports. 

Smoke blossom. 

Jon Stone 

47


Edited by Todd Swift 

e-published by nthposition 

www.nthposition.com/babylonburning.pdf 

Book Review 

There is something about poetry 

that lends itself to fighting a corner. 

It is the very nature of poetry, its 

ability to move but not over dramatise 

situations, lends itself as a tool 

that make us more aware of groups 

like Red Cross and Spirit Aid helping 

victims of disasters. The Book 

of Hopes and Dreams and Babylon 

Burning: 9/11 five years on are 

anthologies of modern poetry by 

some of the world’s best poets who 

have come together in support of 

The Book of Hopes & Dreams 

Edited by Dee Rimbaud 

Fionna Doney Simmonds, Poetry Editor for the feminist literary ezine Moondance.org, reviews The 

Book of Hopes and Dreams, edited by Dee Rimbaud and Babylon Burning: 9/11 five years on, edited 

by Todd Swift. 

these aid agencies. The Book of 

Hopes and Dreams is edited by 

Dee Rimbaud and published by 

Bluechrome to raise funds for Spirit 

Aid, a Glaswegian aid agency that 

is providing mobile health clinics, 

doctors, nurses and medical supplies 

in the Baglan Province of 

North East Afghanistan under the 

patronage of actor David Hayman. 


is edited by Todd Swift and e-published 

by nthposition. Currently it is 

ISBN: 1-904781-73-X 

Bluechrome 

Printed: £9.99 

asking for donations for the Red 

Cross to support its work worldwide, 

and hopes to produce a 

paperback version of the anthology 

with proceeds going to the Red 

Cross. 

The first time I read The Book 

of Hopes and Dreams I was overwhelmed 

with the sense of gentle 

melancholy it created in me. Not an 

auspicious start for a book whose 

objective is ‘to provide hopes and 

dreams’ as its poetic contents have 


‘been chosen for its power to lift you 

above the clouds, to show you the 

brightest of visions’. On my second 

reading, I discerned a fulfilment of 

these objectives in a number of the 

poems, but in some cases it was 

hard work. In any case, Rimbaud 

and bluechrome have produced an 

amazingly beautiful volume. 

Polished to within an inch of its life, 

it is an anthology to treasure. One 

moment it seduces, the next it 

caresses like a mother does her 

child: 

Oh, your welcome voice 

which streams – all lilac boughs 

of dreams deferred, heavy 

curled and whispered 

in moist waiting. 

Prelude to a Kiss by Lorraine 

Sautner 

The poetry contained is beautiful, it 

is visionary and visual. Poems in 

every style touching a variety of 

topics. From John Heath-Stubbs 

tongue in cheek A Bit Of A Tall 

Order to Angela Anderson’s protective 

Destiny’s Garden, the poems 

create a sense of community and 

dream of better days to come. 

On the other hand, Babylon 

Burning: 9/11 five years on is a 

straightforward little production. It 

opens with Ros Barber’s powerful 

Cantor Fitzgerald. Three moments 

taken from the 9/11 tragedy and 

humanised, normalised, and 

immortalised. Opening with this 

poem has made it very clear from 

the start what the anthology is 

about. There is no gentle easing in 

for the reader, you are confronted 

with the disaster, with images you 

can recognise and remember, that 

shocked and horrified you. Taking 

place in one of the twin towers, a 

temporary receptionist is introduced 

to us, then we see her listed 

Review of The Book of Hopes & Dreams and Babylon Burning [cont’d] 

among the loved ones that are 

missing, and finally we relive her 

last moments with her. It is brutal, it 

is sad, it is amazing. 

One senses that the poets are 

trying to educate us, and reminding 

the reader of images they may 

have tried to forget. Maxine 

Chernoff educates us in Embedded 

in the language when she explains 

that ‘To control base instincts / 

Greed lust and cruelty / To seek 

spiritual purity’ is what ‘Jihad’ truly 

means. Like most things associated 

with Islam, it has become bastardised 

and made negative instead 

of being the idea behind Muslim 

worship. Looking at her words, one 

can also discern the premise 

behind Christianity, Judaism, 

Hinduism, etc. The we have John 

Mole describing the war in 

Afghanistan and Iraq with: 

And this is of a mother cradling her 

son 

Not yet too young to die. 

She looks up howling at the sky. 

The friendly occupation has begun. 

Three photographs by John 

Mole 

The reader becomes buffeted with 

poems, but it is with a hungry sense 

of anger that they must continue 

reading. 

Possibly the harder hitting of 

the two collections, ‘Babylon 

Burning’ possessed an energetic 

feel that gives it an edge over other 

anthologies I have read. I was 

unable to put it down with each 

poem reminding me of what has 

happened since 9/11. These volumes 

will appeal to very different 

demographics. With both dedicated 

to exemplary causes, it is up to the 

individual as to which most 

appeals. The Book of Hopes and 

Dreams is a finished and commer- 


cial book, Babylon Burning: 9/11 

five years on is more straightforward. 

Both collections are excellent 

anthologies. 


49

Truckerson 

by John Griffiths 

ISBN: 190606105X 

Bluechrome, 2007 


Pages: 138 

Skytrucker 

by Allen Murray 

ISBN: 0595247296 

iUniverse, 2002 


Pages: 300 

Book Review 

David Gardiner, Gold Dust’s resident reviewer, compares John Griffiths’ Truckerson with Allen 

Murray’s Skytrucker. 

Truckerson is a novel that examines in 

some depth the cock-up theory of history. 

Massively arrogant, totally incompetent, 

supremely self-satisfied, irredeemably 

vain, as politically incorrect as 

it is possible to be and completely 

unquestioning in his loyalty to Queen and 

country, Flight Lieutenant (later Air Vice 

Marshal and Marshal of the Royal Air 

Force) Barry "Trux" Truckerson blunders 

his way through the Second World War 

and a NASA mission to save the world, 

blissfully unaware of the assistance continually 

heaped upon him by blind good 

fortune. Everyone who encounters him 

mistakes his ineptitude for genius, and 

splendid outcomes flow, completely fortuitously, 

from his bumbling attempts to Do 

the Right Thing. Over and over again his 

inept interference in history is the necessary 

catalyst to bring about some major 

social breakthrough or the "eureka" 

moment for some great inventor. Only 

when he encounters the American milierent 

rearward glance at World War 2: 

we have only to think of Catch 22, 'Allo, 

'Allo, Dad's Army and that awful early 

Spielberg film 1941. The first part of 

Truckerson is in this general tradition – a 

tradition to which it makes a worthy contribution. 

The second half moves on into 

the territory of the recent spate of asteroid 

collision movies (Armageddon, 

Judgement Day, Tycus, Deep Impact, 

Asteroid), and the Eric Shapiro novel It's 

Only Temporary reviewed in a previous 

issue, and manages to extract quite a lot 

of fun from a genre that you might have 

thought was beyond parody. 

There is really only one question 

worth asking about a comedy novel: Is it 

funny? Yes, I enjoyed it immensely. Not 

often "laugh-out-loud" slapstick funny, but 

tongue-in-cheek, throw-away line funny, 

like the best James Bond moments. 

Those familiar with Allen Murray, 

the author of the (excellent) autobiographical 

account of a flying career 

name but very much the same amiable 

self-mocking persona that is the public 

face of "Trux" Murray, and one scene is 

an obvious parody of "The Epilogue" in 

Skytrucker, where the ageing airman 

hands over the torch to his pilot son on 

the flight deck of a modern leviathan of 

the sky. 

I suggest you read both books, 

Truckerson and Skytrucker, which has 

been out for a while but is none the worse 

for that, particularly if you find yourself at 

a loose end on a flight to some far-off 

land. Truckerson also contains one of the 

best chapter headings I have come 

across: "3: The Plot Stays Very Much the 

Same", not to mention the unusual generosity 

of two epilogues. At present 

Truckerson is only available from the 

publishers, bluechrome, at 

bluechrome.co.uk, but will be generally 

available soon. 


tary top brass does he meet people Skytrucker, widely known on writers' sites 

whose inability to perceive the obvious by his "Trux" nickname, will see an appar- 

exceeds his own. 

ent small homage in some passages of 

The passage of time has given Truckerson. Mr Griffiths has given his 

comic writers permission to cast an irrev- central character not only the same nick- 


Writing competitions 

Grace Dieu Writers' Circle 'Open' Fiction Short Story Competition 

CLOSING DATE: 28 February 2007 

WORD COUNT: 2,000 words max. 

FEE: £5 ( each subsequent entry £3) 

PRIZE: £200 / £100 / £50 / £25 / £15 

(One page critique available - £10 per story) 

Please make cheques payable to "Grace Dieu writers' Circle" 

Winners will be included in an anthology. £1 from each book sold, to "Rainbows Children's Hospice" in 

Leicestershire. 

HOW TO ENTER: Entry Forms are available from our web site at: 

http://beehive.thisisleicestershire.co.uk/default.asp?WCI=SiteHome&ID=10451 

Entries should be forwarded to: 

GDWC Competition Organiser. 5 Thirlmere. Coalville. Leicestershire. LE67 4SW. 

Blinking Eye’s First Short Story Competition 

Award-winning writer, Hilary Mantel, is to judge Blinking Eye Publishing’s first short story competition. 

Blinking Eye Publishing is funded by Arts Council England’s Grants for the Arts programme. 

CLOSING DATE: 7 February 2007 

WORD COUNT: 5,000 

SPECIFICATIONS: 

Open to any writer aged 50 or over on 7 February 2007. 

Entries to Blinking Eye Publishing’s short-story competition may be on any topic or genre (apart from 

children’s stories). 

Entrants may submit any number of stories. 

PRIZE: The overall winner of the competition will have a collection of his/her short stories published by 

Blinking Eye and will receive 100 copies of the book. Quality permitting, an anthology of commended 

stories will also be published by Blinking Eye. 

HOW TO ENTER: Entry forms are available from Judy Walker, Blinking Eye Publishing, PO Box 175, 

Hexham, Northumberland NE46 9AW (please send an SAE). They can also be downloaded from the 

Blinking Eye website at www.blinking-eye.co.uk. 

For further information please contact on 01434 600345 or email judywalker@btconnect.com 

New Micro-fiction Competition 

CLOSING DATE: 28 February 2007. 

WORD COUNT: Upper word limit 500 

SPECIFICATIONS: Short short stories on any topic welcome. 

FEE: £3 for 1 story, £10 for 4 stories 

Cheques made payable to Leaf Books. 

PRIZE: All selected stories will be published in a Leaf Book Anthology. Overall winner receives £200. 

Runner-up receives 10 Leaf Books. 

HOW TO ENTER: Further details or enter online at www.leafbooks.co.uk/writers/comps.html 


51

Rachel Kendall Claire Nixon Gary Gray 

Interview 

Zines of the Times 

Alexander James discusses the fate of the modern ezine with four Editors (or former Editors): Rachel 

Kendall of Sein Und Werden, Claire Nixon of Twisted Tongue, Gary Gray of Global Inner Visions and 

Omma Velada of Gold Dust. 

They fell like invading monsters in 

a Sci Fi horror and the bodies piled 

up higher than in any bloodstained 

Raymond Chandler tale. 

The death of the popular magazine 

was much more than serial 

murder. It was genrecide. 

As countless beloved publications 

bit the dust in the latter half of 

the twentieth century, readers and 

authors looked to the future of 

poetry and short fiction publication 

with all the enthusiasm of HP 

Lovecraft on a bad day. 

Then – in classic dues ex 

machine style – came the Literary 

Ezine – the zine of our times. 

Internet and the magic of 

online reading has come to the 

rescue with a brave new breed of 

publishers willing to put their talent, 

energy and money into providing 

seemingly limitless exposure 

potential for authors and dazzling 

genre choice for readers. 

The main players are on the 

bandwagon – newspaper and 

major magazine publishers who 

offer online versions of their publi- 

cations and high-rolling publishers 

who now tout electronic versions 

of their blockbusters – but the real 

heroes are the independents who 

fill vital gaps left by those with an 

Omma Velada 

eye to lucre before literature. 

The web is tangled and things 

happen fast in cyberspace, so reliable 

statistics are impossible to 

gather; but it's safe to say that, 

since the first literary ezine 

appeared (possibly – but not certainly 

– the short fiction and poetry 

online mag, Atherene, crudely produced 

for a handful of US readers 

in 1989 and doomed to death in 

infancy), literally thousands have 

been launched. 

A round-robin survey of a couple 

of dozen experts suggests 

there may be currently 3,500 literary 

ezines published this month in 

the USA and UK alone. Something 

like 90% will not see a future issue. 

Fewer still will see out 2007 as 

enthusiastic editors with the best 

of intentions come face to face 

with the logistics, the costs and the 

intimidating workload involved. 

Some, of course, have 

already stood the test of time and 

promise to provide an invaluable 

resource for those who write, 

those who read and, especially, for 

those who like to do both. 

Few outside the present 

small-but-growing circle of shortfiction 

and poetry lovers who've 

discovered these ezines – gems 

on a shoestring – will have heard 

of the names behind them. You'll 

find no millionaires in the group - 

not even wannabe tycoons. They 

work at cluttered desks in garrets 

and kitchens, many burn the mid- 


night oil after day-jobs or putting 

the kids to bed, some skimp on 

vacations and other luxuries to foot 

the bills their publications run up. 

Publishers of the few successful, 

quality ezines weather the 

sacrifices, the tears and the frustrations 

and share talent, energy, 

dedication and a refreshing and 

empowering faith in the value of 

today's writers and readers. 

Four are gathered here to talk 

over the ezine concept and how it 

might compensate for – or even 

improve upon – those lamented 

paper publications wiped out in the 

ruthless dollar derby mainstream 

publishing has become. 

RACHEL KENDALL. EDITOR. 

SEIN UND WERDEN (BEING 

AND BECOMING). Rachel shares 

a pokey little flat in Manchester, 

England, with her partner and their 

cat, her books and his guitars, 

Owen the stuffed armadillo, Dallas 

the mannequin, and countless 

other tasteless artifacts. As well as 

editing Sein und Werden, she 

works part time in an academic 

library, writes surreal pieces of fiction, 

starts and doesn't finish novels 

and is addicted to noir and 

expressionist films. 

CLAIRE NIXON. EDITOR. TWIST- 

ED TONGUE. Claire, from the 

North-East of England, is the 

mother of five children. She writes 

in many different genres and is a 

member of three crit groups on the 

net. She has had several short stories 

published in magazines, 

ezines, audio and anthologies. In 

December 2004, she published 

her children's tale, Tabitha and 

Pirate Jim, as a present for her 

eldest child, Tabitha. Tabitha and 

Pirate Jim is now published as an 

audio tale with Audio Stories for 

Kids. Inbetween writing, she currently 

works as marketing coordinator/interviewer 

for Gold Dust 

magazine. 

GARY GRAY. EDITOR. GLOBAL 

INNER VISIONS. Gary is retired 

from a twenty-five-year career with 

The Wall Street Journal. During his 

time at the newspaper, he contributed 

in a small way to the winning 

of five of the Journal's thirtyone 

Pulitzer prizes. He is currently 

living in Colorado and passing his 

time as a writer and fine-art photographer. 

OMMA VELADA. FOUNDER AND 

FORMER EDITOR. GOLD DUST. 

Omma Velada grew up in Wales 

and read languages at Goldsmiths 

College (London University). She 

has an MA in translation from 

Westminster University. She 

speaks English, French and 

German fluently and has a basic 

knowledge of Welsh. Having precociously 

completed a (very short!) 

novel at age 11, she had two 

poems selected for Poems on the 

Underground and won a shortstory 

competition with Off The Wall 

Magazine while at school. She 

then edited a student magazine at 

university. Having worked as an air 

hostess, freelance translator and 

editor, she currently lives in 

Scotland with her partner, Ed, and 

writes full-time. Her short stories 

and poems have been published in 

numerous literary journals (including 

JMWW, Blood & Thunder, The 

Eildon Tree and The Beat) and 

anthologies (including Voices from 

the Web, Whispers of Inspirations 

and The New Pleiades Anthology 

of Poetry). Her first novel, The 

Mackerby Scandal, is published by 

UKA Press. 


Zines of the Times [cont’d] 

Rachel, Claire, Gary and Omma 

took time out of their hectic schedules 

to answer a few basic questions 

that give an insight into their 

work, their goals … and what they 

offer their readers and their 

authors. (Not all questions are 

answered by all interviewees). 

Was your ezine launched with 

the author or reader in mind? 

SUW: Sein und Werden was definitely 

launched with the author in 

mind. I just kept coming across 

these great pieces of prose and 

artwork on blogs and forums and 

felt this work needed to be showcased, 

or at least given a lift in the 

right direction towards further publication. 

I chose the web for that 

because of its accessibility and my 

own financial limitations. Things 

started, and then they kind of ran 

away with me. There were more 

and more unsolicited submissions 

(though I do still often trawl the 

web for work that I think will appeal 

both to my sense of what this zine 

is about, and to its readers), so the 

thing just escalated. 

TT: The ezine was launched with 

the reader in mind, mainly for ease 

and cheapness and quickness – 

the reader is able to download a 

copy on the day of release and 

read the contents straight away, 

whereas with the printed version 

they would have to wait a week or 

two. It's hard to put an exact percentage 

on how many readers are 

writers/contributors – I have no 

way of checking exactly who has 

bought the ezine copy and who 

has not; however, from feedback, I 

do know that potential contributors 

do buy the ezine copy before submitting. 

Also, all contributors 

receive the ezine copy free. 

53


GIV: Both. I don't know that Global 

Inner Visions has a role. It is simply 

a passion of mine that allows 

others to explore their passion, 

either the reader or the writer. The 

idea has morphed into something 

beyond what I started. 

GD: Both! I wanted to offer readers 

the opportunity to discover work 

often overlooked from talented, 

up-and-coming writers, as well as 

providing a showcase for more 

experienced writers. Our literary 

articles and interviews are of interest 

to readers and writers alike. 

We particularly aim to promote 

exciting and original prose and 

poetry, while also featuring a wide 

range of articles on writing-related 

topics. I would estimate that a 

large percentage of our readers 

are also contributing writers, 

hence our focus on writing-related 

articles. We encourage all contributors 

to read at least one issue of 

the magazine prior to submission. 

Will screen-read ezines ever 

replace the short story bookstall 

magazines and newspaper and 

periodical space dedicated to 

fiction and poetry? 

SUW: I don't think so. There will 

always be a love of printed books. 

A lot of people love the look of 

books and magazines, the feel and 

smell of them. They love the fact 

they are portable, that they can 

snuggle up in bed with them. It's 

like vinyl vs CD. For a while vinyl 

disappeared from the shops, but 

then it started creeping back in. 

True music lovers like the non-digital, 

raw sound, the cover artwork 

etc. Same with ezines – you can 

print off the text if you want to read 

it away from the screen, but it's not 

beautifully designed like a book. 

Also, we went on to publish hard 

copy issues of Sein und Werden in 

the first place because a couple of 

contributors did not have access to 

a computer, so even printing out a 

PDF was not an option for them. 

TT: In a way I hope not! I enjoy 

browsing through books and magazines 

at bookstalls, and there's 

nothing better than the feel of a 

book. But I do see the advantages; 

it would be so much easier and 

tidier in my room to have one simple 

machine to store several books 

and magazines – advantages 

would mean less trees being 

shredded to make paper, which 

would be a great help to the environment. 

Being realistic, I do think 

there is a very high chance that 

paper editions will dwindle out. 

Just the way everything else has 

over the years, such as the record 

– which became the CD, and now 

the iPod/MP3 player, all readily 

available via the internet – so it's 

obvious that one day books/magazines 

will follow those steps. 

GIV: Yes, but not totally. It is the 

internet thing you know. All print 

media is suffering a decline. I don't 

think print will die, but it will certainly 

shrink. The internet is why. 

The reason printed material won't 

go away completely is portability. 

There is still a lot of world out there 

that doesn't have the internet. 

GD: Only if the new palm book 

systems take off. Currently, I think 

people like curling up with a book, 

so sitting at a PC screen cannot 

compete. Dedicated readers may 

print out their ezines, but the 

expense and time involved will be 

prohibitive to most. This is one reason 

why we always provide a print 

copy of Gold Dust alongside our 

PDF version. 

Why did you open a literary 

ezine and what did you think 

qualified you for the job? 

SUW: Because of the volume of 

truly great (in my opinion) work 

online. Also I was coming across 

authors and artists who were too 

lacking in confidence to send their 

stuff off to the few remaining print 

magazines, so I kind of stepped in 

and said hey, you know? I really 

love what you're doing here. Let 

me publish it alongside x and x on 

the web. What qualified me for the 

job was simply a dedication to getting 

good quality writing and artwork 

out there. If I had the funds, 

I'd set up a publishing company. I 

really admire such places as 

Afterbirth Books, Twisted Spoon 

Press, Centennial Press and 

Henry Rollins, who set up his company 

to publish the kind of writing 

he felt inspired by. 

TT: My main reason for starting the 

magazine was my own experience 

trying to find a market for works 

that push the boundaries - twisted 

stories. (I've lost count how many 

times I've received the reply from 

an editor saying my own pieces 

were too twisted for their magazine). 

There's not that many out 

there … 

I've worked alongside Gold 

Dust magazine, so you could say I 

had the 'behind the scenes view' 

and I fully understood what was 

needed and what I had to do to get 

the magazine off to a flying start, 

and I had a handful of very good 

friends who were willing to help me 

get going. 

GIV: It was part of my grand 

scheme to conquer the world. 

What qualifies a person to raise a 

child? Giving birth! Twenty-five 


years with the world's largest 

newspaper didn't hurt. 

GD: There are many, many literary 

magazines on the market already 

(more than 500 in the UK alone!), 

so why launch yet another? I 

founded Gold Dust because I felt 

readers would like to read a magazine 

that covered the best of 

undiscovered authors, whether 

previously unpublished or those 

with an already impressive writing 

resume. 

At university, along with my 

then boyfriend, I created an alternative 

lifestyle magazine for 

Freshers' Week, bluntly entitled 

Illegal, which we sold as part of a 

clubber's group. It included interviews 

with hip hop artists, articles 

on topics such as skateboarding 

and street drugs, and a fashion 

shoot. We printed the simple double-sided 

black-and-white format 

on a home photocopier and sold 

about sixty copies – not bad for a 

first attempt! 

After finishing my degree, I 

looked again at magazine publishing. 

As a lifelong magazineaholic 

and writer, I felt more than ready to 

launch Gold Dust. But this time I 

wanted a really professional-looking 

magazine, and it was now perfectly 

possible with the advent of 

POD (Print-on-Demand technology) 

publishing. This advance in the 

publication industry means that 

high-quality books and magazines 

can be produced at extremely low 

cost. 

By searching the Internet 

(something I'd only heard whispers 

of at university), I came across 

Lulu.com, an American POD company, 

which produces books and 

magazines for free and make their 

money by taking a chunk of the 

cover price. Once I had put togeth- 

er issue 1, I uploaded it to Lulu and 

it was instantly available for sale to 

the public. 

Does your ezine specialize in a 

specific genre? 

SUW: Yes. I am constantly looking 

for work that somehow incorporates 

elements of expressionism, 

surrealism or existentialism, so 

that as a whole the zine is a fusion 

of the three, which I like to call 

Werdenism. What I want is the 

insane chiaroscuro world of 

expressionism (in such films as 

Metropolis, The Cabinet of Doctor 

Caligari, The Golem, etc), the 

search for identity and the ideas of 

'becoming what you are' behind 

existentialism, and the dream 

quality of surrealism (such as 

Breton's Nadja, Dora Maar's photography 

etc). Sein und Werden 

translates as Being and Becoming, 

a phrase I stole from a book by 

Lotte Eisner on German expressionism 

(The Haunted Screen) 

and from Heidegger's Dasein. I 

don't want future contributors to be 

put off by the philosophy behind 

this though. It's NOT a philosophical 

magazine. It's an art/literary 

collective with an open invite. 

TT: As long as the story is twisted 

we are pretty open to any genre, 

but we do lean towards sci-fi/fantasy/horror. 

The more twisted the 

piece is, the better. When I say 

'twisted' I don't just mean a tale 

with a twist ending - send me a 

story that shocks me and there is a 

good chance it'll be published. I 

know the majority of magazines 

refuse to look at a piece if it is 

crammed with gore – but, if there 

is a good story there it could be a 

winner for us. 

GIV: No. 



GD: Not at the moment, but from 

issue #10 we will be introducing a 

theme to bring a strong and unique 

identity to Gold Dust. We feel this 

will help it carve out its own niche 

within the saturated small press 

magazine market. 

Describe the process of setting 

up, gathering material, publicizing, 

etc, for launch. What particular 

aspects of publishing did 

you have to study to prepare 

yourself? 

SUW: It didn't really happen that way. I 

only advertised through my online journal 

(www.xanga.com/kissthewitch). 

There was no big game plan, it was 

just a case of let's do this and see 

what happens. I expected it to be a 

one-off. It wasn't. I expected it to be 

on-line only. It isn't. I expected it to 

be mostly friends and online 

acquaintances I've made over the 

years. But I now receive submissions 

from both new and established 

writers all over the globe. 

TT: Getting started, it wasn't as 

bad as I thought. Of course I had a 

few people with negative thoughts 

who slammed the magazine 

before it was even launched; however 

a few of those people have 

since mentioned that they were 

pleasantly surprised with what I did 

with the magazine. I suppose we 

all have doubts about new things, 

so they can be forgiven. Basically 

everything for the magazine was 

done through the internet - without 

which there'd be no TT or any 

other ezine. Advertising for submissions 

was hard, not many writers' 

sites allow you to do a call for 

submissions – but thankfully there 

are two main sites that I use, which 

both have been a great help to TT 

- BeWrite.net & UKA.com. To be 

55


honest, I'm constantly still reading 

up aspects of publishing. 

Preparing the website took up 

many hours - this was my hardest 

task, as I have no html knowledge 

at all, and at first I had to rely on 

friends and family helping me to 

sort this out. Obtaining the ISSN 

was very easy to do - I remember 

thinking that it would be impossible 

to get one. Trying to find help at 

the beginning was hard, but thankfully 

I have some good friends. 

GIV: The process is no different 

from any other form of publication. 

One accepts submissions, sorts 

through them, selects the best 

available material and then the fun 

begins. I didn't really have to study 

anything to do this. It was more or 

less making a personal commitment 

to do it on a schedule and try 

to be of the best quality possible. 

GD: To set up the magazine, I first 

needed to organise a website. I 

had to learn FrontPage very quickly 

(luckily, my website design skills 

have moved on from those early 

days and the site is now created in 

Dreamweaver). Once the website 

was in place with submission 

details clearly laid out, I set about 

advertising for submissions on all 

the various writing websites. I 

focused mainly on the UK sites, 

such as UK Authors and ABC 

Tales, simply because I was familiar 

with the quality of writing produced 

there. 

The submissions came flowing 

in, and as I was working completely 

alone at this point, it was 

sometimes quite hard to keep up 

with them. But by holing up in my 

study for a few weeks, I managed 

to put together a first issue, which 

ranged from prose and poetry to 

interviews and articles, all with a 

literary-based theme. 

I ordered a copy from Lulu 

almost before I'd sent it to print! 

With its high-gloss full-colour cover 

and quirky right-aligned formatting, 

it didn't disappoint on the aesthetic 

factor – but there was room for 

improvement. Some of the contributors 

complained that the courier 

new (typewriter-effect) font I'd chosen 

looked unpolished and that 

there was too much white space 

around the text. By this stage, I 

had so many submissions I was 

already preparing issues two and 

three; but I agreed with their comments, 

so I re-issued all three editions 

to incorporate the changes. 

As time went by, I became 

more familiar with the small press 

magazine market and realised 

Gold Dust needed an even more 

professional look to remain competitive. 

I decided to begin using a 

professional DTP (desk top publishing) 

program to create the 

magazine and settled on 

QuarkXpress, the industry standard. 

As with website design, I had 

to learn the application from 

scratch, but it is reasonably userfriendly 

and the results were well 

worth the initial effort expended, 

as, from a layout perspective, the 

magazine is now on a par with 

mainstream publications. 

In terms of publicising Gold 

Dust, I initially advertised on the 

same writers’ sites where I placed 

the calls for submissions, but as 

there are now five of us working on 

the magazine, we have a dedicated 

Marketing Co-ordinator who 

sends out a regular newsletter to 

our extensive mailing list of readers, 

as well as placing adverts for 

each issue as it appears. 

How much help did you need 

then and how much help do you 

have now? 

SUW: In the beginning it was just 

me fulfilling a personal need to get 

stuff out there. Then I found a particular 

group of artists and writers 

who really understood what I wanted 

to do with the zine, how I wanted 

to portray it and the direction it 

had naturally started to take. So I 

invited these people to become 

part of a team, people I could ask 

for opinions, ideas for themes etc. 

And then, when the print version 

came into being, Spyros Heniadis 

became the print editor and he 

puts all that together and I just give 

the nod. 

TT: I have more help now than I did 

back then, so in a way you could 

say I'm very lucky. Unfortunately, I 

did lose two people who helped 

out at the beginning – the work on 

the magazine turned out to be too 

much for them. Even though their 

time was brief they will never be 

forgotten. 

GIV: Composing and publishing is 

mostly a sole proprietorship. I have 

a few people that will help me sort 

through submissions. Other people 

don't have the same level of 

commitment to this as I do. They 

have real jobs and lives and it's my 

vision, not theirs. 

GD: For the first three issues, I 

was a one-woman band, which 

was incredibly hard work, as I am 

a bit of a perfectionist and would 

carefully proof each copy for errors 

as well as sorting all the submissions, 

organising the layout, 

updating the website, etc. 

Then something rather large 

happened in my life - I had a baby 

girl, Skyla, who suddenly took up 

quite a lot of my time. I hastily put 

the magazine on hold, thinking I 


would get back to it once I had got 

into more of a routine. But as time 

went on and I still seemed continually 

busy, it occurred to me to find 

out whether anyone else would 

like to take over the Gold Dust 

reins. At this point, I posted a message 

on the UK Authors website 

forum, asking if anyone had 

enough time and enthusiasm to 

manage the project. I imagined 

one person editing it as I had 

done, but various people sensibly 

suggested sharing the workload 

instead. 

Karl Relf became Editor for 

issue #4, with invaluable help from 

Sub-editors Elle, Roberta and 

Rose, who unfortunately did not 

wish to carry on after this issue. 

There were disputes over the 

amount of poetry we were able to 

fit into the magazine, which 

seemed to arise from the general 

chaos of moving from a single editor 

to an entire team. However, Jo 

Copsey, who had also been a part 

of issue #4, agreed to take over as 

Editor when Karl had to bow out 

(like me, due to time constraints). 

Claire Nixon, a fellow UKAuthor, 

then offered to help Jo, and is still 

working alongside her as 

Marketing Co-ordinator, 

Interviewer and Illustrator. David 

Gardiner then also got involved, 

initially as our Cover Designer, but 

now as our Prose Editor and Book 

Reviewer as well. For a while, I 

took a bit of a back seat and only 

looked after the website, but have 

now taken on the layout design 

and general organisation of the 

magazine as well. Jo has recently 

had to step down as Editor, again, 

due to lack of time, but has kindly 

agreed to stay on as proof-reader, 

while Kirsty Irving has just joined 

us to take over as Poetry Editor. All 

five of us collaborate on decisions 

regarding the magazine and we all 

pitch in here and there where 

needed, whether writing an article 

or providing a photograph. 

Describe the editorial and production 

work that goes into an 

issue. 

SUW: Once I have made the initial 

choice of what to publish I then 

decide what will go online and 

what will go in print. That depends 

on whether the contributor has 

specified one or the other, how 

long the piece is and whether the 

artwork is colour or black and 

white. Some of the grittier black 

and white artwork will go in print. 

Check for typos etc, sort out the 

layout. Pass on all print subs to 

Spyros who will sort out layout and 

cover. Write editorial, pass on bios 

and US addresses and then give 

the once over. Spyros will then 

send me the final layout in PDF 

form and I will print off and send to 

the UK, Europe and Asia and 

Spyros will send to the US and 

Australasia. 

TT: Keeping this as short as possible, 

as there is a fair bit that goes 

into this: every accepted piece is 

proofed, then all formatting is 

done, slowly the magazine is built 

up page by page, blank spaces are 

filled in with a picture or advert, 

where there is enough space, 

flash-fiction or poetry is chosen to 

fill in gaps, page numbers are 

inserted, contents page is organized, 

another proof of the full magazine, 

competition entries and the 

final page is added. when I'm completely 

happy with the magazine, I 

write the brief introduction. 

Once everything is sorted, a 

PDF issue is sent to all contributors, 

if any last-minute adjustments 

are required these are made, then 



the magazine is uploaded to Lulu: 

and this is where the nightmare 

can start … sometimes everything 

will load up fine, but I have had the 

odd little problem with cover pages 

and files stalling. If everything is 

going well, I can have the magazine 

ready for sale within two 

hours on Lulu. 

But it doesn't stop there, the 

website needs updating, newsletters 

need to go out, all contributors 

need to be contacted with where 

and how to buy a printed issue … 

by the time that is sorted I need to 

start again with the next issue … 

reading, accepting, rejecting … 

GIV: Tedious. 

GD: Initially, I create the layout 

from the previous issue, then let 

the team know what we need - ie: 

the number of short stories, 

poems, articles, etc. David sends 

me the short stories and book 

reviews, Kirsten the poems and 

Claire the interviews. The Editorial 

piece and articles are up for grabs, 

so we all pitch in to produce them. 

I also remind everyone about any 

contests we have going on, so that 

winning entries can be finalised in 

plenty of time. 

Once I have the content, I 

organise it in the template and 

then illustrate it with photographs. 

If there are any gaps, I request relevant 

illustrations from Claire. 

Then I send a copy out to everyone, 

who comments in regard to 

errors, amendments and improvements, 

which I incorporate until 

everyone is happy. David then 

sends me the covers (front and 

back), which I add to the PDF copy 

and upload to Lulu with the print 

version. Then it's just a matter of 

letting everyone know the latest 

issue of Gold Dust is available for 

57


sale! 

How do you cover costs? 

SUW: At the moment it comes out 

of our own pockets. We're still finding 

our feet with this but I'm hoping 

to apply for a local Arts grant. If this 

were to come through, the zine 

could get an ISSN, it could be sold 

further afield, and it could look better. 

Until then, the print issue will 

remain a raw, dirty-dawg of a mag, 

specialising in matter over aesthetics. 

The web, on the other hand, 

will continue to be the glossier, 

slinkier, sexier version. 

TT: Costs? Now that is a nightmare! 

There have been many 

times I've had to put in the few 

quid to cover the bills. We make 

very little from each issue that is 

sold. Luckily, over the past few 

months, we have received enough 

to cover costs. None of the TT staff 

receive a penny - that includes me 

- they all help out because of the 

love of the magazine … either that 

or I'm getting better at nagging. 

GIV: Out of my pocket. I've been 

very lucky to have a friend provided 

me with hosting for a couple of 

years. This isn't a profit making 

venture and was never intended to 

be one. 

GD: Because we use Lulu, which 

is free, production cost has never 

been an issue. We have considered 

producing the magazine ourselves 

in order to cut the delivery 

price for the reader, but now that 

Lulu utilises a UK-based printer, 

delivery costs are very reasonable. 

Lulu posts me cheques on a quarterly 

basis, and as our only outgoings 

are competition prizes, to date 

we have always had money to 

spare in the pot. To increase our 

readership (the main purpose of 

our magazine is for it to be read by 

as many people as possible) we 

are considering making all future 

PDF copies free, but feel that, as 

contributors will still like to see 

their names in print, we should 

continue to sell enough issues to 

cover our very modest bills. 

What factors will influence continuance 

and development? 

SUW: Naturally the main factor is 

readership. As long as there are 

people willing to buy the magazine 

and other publications we bring out 

(there are so many things I'd love 

to publish - anthologies, collections, 

novellas… One day, perhaps), 

I can see Sein continually 

evolving. I hate the fact that we 

have to charge anything at all 

because I want this to be about 

accessibility, which is why I have 

kept the e-zine going as well as 

the hard copy, but money makes 

money makes money, to quote 

Henry Miller, and if people are willing 

to fork out a few quid to keep 

this thing alive, then it can only get 

better and offer more opportunities 

to more people. And that goes for 

all zines of course, not just Sein. 

GIV: The main factors are the writers 

and my ability to get to a computer. 

When the submissions dry 

up, I'll probably stop doing it. 

GD: I think that now the magazine 

has so many talented people working 

on it, we all kind of drive each 

other. When it was just me, I would 

miss my own deadlines and not be 

too worried about it, but these 

days, we all try to be very professional 

about it and egg each other 

on when the going gets tough. I 

admit I didn't realise quite how 

much work was involved and I can 

only assume this is why so many 

other small press magazines do 

fail; but now that the work on Gold 

Dust is shared, I hope we can continue 

to produce the magazine for 

a long time to come. 

Under what circumstances 

might you be forced to close? 

SUW: The single most problematic 

thing would be technological. Not 

too long ago the computer freaked 

out and the C drive had to be 

kicked up the backside and software 

reinstalled and I thought I 

was going to have to give up. 

Thankfully the problem got sorted 

and I was able to carry on but seriously, 

I would be pretty stuck, 

though there would be ways 

around it. In that scenario the print 

version could perhaps continue via 

snail mail, internet cafés etc. 

Money is another thing. That will 

always dictate how far the magazine 

goes. 

Lastly, if there were no submissions, 

there would be no magazine. 

But I think there will always 

be people submitting because 

there will always be people in need 

of a market. 

The only other factor that 

might affect the continuity of the 

zine would be personal issues. For 

instance, if I needed more time to 

concentrate on my own writing - in 

which case, I would try my best to 

blackmail someone into taking 

over as editor. 

TT: There'd be two reasons why 

TT would be forced to close. One, 

if my health worsens and no one 

else is capable of running the magazine 

- which I very much doubt 

will happen. Two, if the general 

public lost interest in the magazine. 

Oh, and low quality submissions… 


GIV: I could get squashed by a 

truck or go to prison. 

GD: If a large number of people 

from the team suddenly had to 

quit, then it would be difficult to 

continue. To date, we have always 

managed to replace departing 

team members fairly swiftly, or at 

least share their workload among 

others. 

Is there currently or do you foresee 

stiff competition in the literary 

ezine field? 

SUW: Not for Sein, because of the 

nature of its content. I don't think 

there is another ezine going for 

quite the same thing; ie: 

Werdenism. Though there is, of 

course, plenty of overlap with certain 

zines, especially with the likes 

of Café Irreal and The Dream 

People, who I consider more as 

authorities than as competitors. 

TT: There is always stiff competition 

out there. 

GIV: I pay little attention to the literary 

ezine field. I'm not competing 

with anyone. 

GD: I think there is already a vast 

amount of competition, but with so 

many magazines closing down 

after one or two issues, I feel that 

after two years and eight issues, 

Gold Dust has shown that it's here 

to stay. Our name is now familiar in 

the writing world and we have a 

readership and contributor base 

on which to build. 

How important is the print 

option of your ezine? 

SUW: Originally the zine was 

online only, because of time and 

financial limitations. But when it 

was brought to my attention that a) 

certain people did not have computer 

access and b) no one really 

likes to read text off a screen, I 

decided to go ahead and start up a 

print journal, whose content would 

be completely separate to the web. 

Admittedly I had to be talked into it 

as I didn't feel I would have the 

time or the cash to be able to keep 

something like this up. But it has 

proved to be just as rewarding as 

the ezine. As Sein und Werden is 

as much an art journal as a literary 

one, I wanted to keep the platform 

for that, as well as providing something 

rough and raw for the longer 

pieces of text, alongside some 

black and white imagery. 

TT: Very important to me - and the 

majority of writers prefer to hold a 

hard copy with their works included. 

GD: The print option is crucial for 

several reasons. Firstly, it provides 

a professional look and feel to 

Gold Dust. Secondly, contributors 

like to see their names in print, so 

we are more likely to sell to them 

with print editions. Thirdly, on the 

whole, readers prefer to read a 

magazine they can hold in their 

hands, so we are more likely to 

attract a wider readership with this 

option. 

What have been the most important 

lessons in ezine publication 

you've so far learned on the job 

and what changes have these 

brought about? 

SUW: That long stories don't work 

via ezine. People don't want to 

read off the screen. For this reason 

the longer stories now go in print. 

TT: It ain't easy! It takes hard work 

and dedication. 



GIV: Keep it simple. 

GD: For every team member to 

have a clearly defined role, so 

there are no disputes over which 

pieces make it into the final magazine. 

Where issues are less clearcut, 

everyone should have an 

equal say to avoid conflict. 

How will your ezine develop in 

the coming months and years? 

SUW: I guess that mostly depends 

on where both authorship and 

readership takes us. I'd like to 

think I've always allowed the zine 

to wend its own way, right from the 

start. There are, however, other 

things that will influence its direction 

such as finances (applying for 

an Arts grant), contacts and links 

to other editors and writers etc. 

The main development right now 

and over the next few months is 

ISMS Press, through which we've 

just published a haunting new 

novella. This is a brand new venture, 

our first publication - The 

Garden of Doubt on the Island of 

Shadows by Mark Howard Jones, 

priced at £1.99 and available from 

me, the Dylan Thomas Centre 

bookshop in Swansea, in bookshops 

in Manchester and online at 

Shocklines, the major horror publisher. 

That's a shameless plug - 

but my magazine allows this kind 

of gentle horn-tootling. 

TT: Hopefully, I'll be able to pay for 

all contributions in the near future. 

GIV: I have no idea. 

GD: Over the past two years, Gold 

Dust has gone from strength to 

strength, from a very basic onewoman 

band to a professional, 

slick publication produced in 

59


QuarkXpress and a team of five. 

With so many talented people 

working on the magazine, I am 

sure it will continue to grow in the 

future. 

How do you see the future of the 

new ezine industry in general? 

SUW: I think it will continue to grow 

and grow. It's not an easy thing to 

do, and often I come back to 

another ezine after a few months 

to find it's gone or just hasn't been 

updated at all. It takes a lot of time 

and effort. An editor needs to put in 

a hell of a lot of work to keep the 

thing going. But for each zine that 

dies a death, another two crop up. 

In a recent interview Matina 

Stamatakis, the editor of Venereal 

Kittens, cited Sein und Werden as 

one of her fave zines, amongst 

others, and that she is glad to have 

it available online as she is too 

poor to be able to buy copies. For 

this reason I think the ezine industry 

will continue to grow. 

There is also the fact that 

internet offers the availability of 

multi-media ezines, such as Mad 

Hatters' Review with its music and 

animations. In the past Sein has 

also included audio files and animation 

which, of course, is not 

possible with hard copy unless you 

give out a CD or DVD with each 

issue and then you have the cost 

factor again. 

TT: Worldwide. 

GIV: They will come and go. 

GD: I believe it will continue to be 

popular, as people who write love 

to be published and people who 

read love to discover fresh talent. 

Not to mention all those who love 

to edit, create, illustrate, etc. 

To what extent is your ezine's 

development influenced by the 

comments of contributors and 

readers? 

SUW: I think its development will 

always depend on the comments 

of readers and contributors, otherwise 

it would run the risk of 

becoming stagnant. A contributor 

suggested going with a print version. 

So I did. Another suggested 

doing away with the poetry 

because of the number of other 

poetry outlets available, but I see 

Sein as a fusion of different mediums. 

I want there to be something 

for everyone, within the Werdenist 

margins of course. 

TT: The comments mean a great 

deal to TT - if the readers ain't 

happy with the mag, then I ain't! 

GIV: 100% 

GD: We always try to take contributor 

and reader comments into 

account. The magazine was initially 

redesigned based on contributor/reader 

comments and we will 

continue to take their points of 

view very seriously, as they are the 

ones we do all the hard work for. 

What do you look for in a submission 

to your ezine? 

SUW: I look for work that incorporates 

one or more of the ISMS, 

avoids religion, politics, romance, 

chick lit. I like the dark, edgy, erotic, 

bizarre, quite horrific, awfully 

strange and occasionally downright 

vulgar. I look for submissions 

that use the theme in some way. 

And the theme is always very 

open. I do accept non-themed 

work but I prefer a contributor to 

write something specifically for the 

zine. It interests me to see what 

original and Sein-specific work 

people come up with, how inventively 

they translate it. I am also 

interested in the creative process, 

the before and after, the little accidents 

that bring the opus to life. 

And I want non-fiction; reviews, 

essays about art, writing, creativity, 

etc. 

TT: Something that shocks me. 

But, I do have a reading team and 

each person looks for different 

things - one looks for quality within 

the prose … 

GIV: I'm totally subjective. If it 

doesn't suit me, I won't print it. 

GD: Quality writing, which can 

involve many things. Originality, 

exciting work, unusual stories, all's 

very welcome at Gold Dust. From 

issue #10, it will also be important 

that all contributions stick to our 

issue-designated theme. 

What are the most common mistakes 

made by contributors? 

SUW: Not reading the guidelines, 

which usually means sending in 

more than three poems at a time. 

Not sending a covering letter in an 

email. Anyone who doesn't have 

the courtesy to at least say 

hello/dear editor/I would like to 

submit…will have their email deleted 

without being read. 

Never having looked at the kind of 

things I publish, even though anyone 

can check out the ezine for 

free. 

TT: Sending no bios or sending 

pieces in bright colours and fonts 

that are unreadable. 

GIV: Not submitting. 

GD: Failure to read the submission 

guidelines is pretty widespread, 


ut if work is clearly laid out and 

legible (ie, not full of grammar and 

spelling errors), then we will still 

consider it. 

What are the most common 

complaints from readers and 

contributors? 

SUW: Reviews of the first printed 

issue made mention of the production 

quality. I want to make it clear 

that at the moment the zine is a 

print, fold-and-staple affair. We 

don't have the cash behind us right 

now to come up with anything 

fancy. But that is what the ezine is 

for. What is important is getting the 

text in print for those who would 

rather have it that way, and if that 

means going with the guerillaghetto 

style of publishing then so 

be it. 

TT: Not being able to buy the magazine 

from the newsagents – I 

wish! 

GIV: I didn't publish their material. 

GD: Since the introduction of our 

new layout, most comments have 

been positive. I am not aware of 

any particular complaint. 

What are the most common 

songs of praise from readers 

and contributors? 

SUW: That I will publish a lot of 

'out-there' prose. I like experimental 

work and excerpts and very 

dark (but not necessarily horror) 

writing. 

TT: Sheer enjoyment of the pieces 

inside – and how surprised they 

are to see so much in such few 

pages. 

GIV: That Global Inner Visions is 

clean and professional looking. 

GD: That the magazine looks good 

and the quality of the content is 

high. We also get many positive 

comments on the look and ease of 

use of the website. 

Does the web-reach of ezines 

(by definition confined to the 

computer-owning writer) unfairly 

close the door to pen-andpaper 

authors? 

SUW: Nah. There are still plenty of 

hard copy magazines available, 

and there always will be. 

TT: Guilty. We don't accept penand-paper 

submissions. I feel 

many others don't accept these 

either as it is so much easier to 

receive pieces through email – 

and there's no mess, unless you 

print copies off to read. 

GIV: No. This isn't a business of 

fairness. It's a business of 

exploitation. If a writer doesn't 

exploit the process, it is his/her 

problem. 

GD: Yes, this is a problem, particularly 

for those writing in less developed 

countries where computer 

use is not yet widespread. Ezines 

are one of the advantages of the 

internet, which hopefully one day 

everyone can enjoy. 

Is there a danger of the web 

being flooded with poor quality 

ezines (with cost-free print 

options through the likes of 

Lulu) launched by those who 

see it as a low-startup-cost 

hobby or by unscrupulous operators 

with an eye to profit? 

TT: Lulu does make it very easy for 

anyone to print a magazine or 

book. So, yeah, the danger is pretty 

high. But I have seen a few poor 



quality ezines that have been printed 

and bound from home…Lulu 

can't take all the blame. Profit, 

right, those who do set out to start 

a mag just thinking of profit, well, 

being as polite as I possibly can 

(which is very hard for me), they'd 

make more profit scanning their 

backsides, printing off copies and 

selling them! 

GIV: No. There's a place for everything 

and a time for everything to 

fail. The market will decide what 

survives. 

GD: This is a potential issue for initial 

magazine start-ups, but only 

those with serious dedication 

would have the time and energy to 

commit to the ongoing effort 

involved in a long-running magazine. 

As for unscrupulous operators, 

there is so little profit to be 

made by small-press magazines 

that I doubt they would find much 

to gain from the market. 

Will the exposure provided by 

ezines eventually also become 

the lucrative paying market 

authors once enjoyed in the 

heyday of diverse hard-copy 

short fiction and poetry magazines 

sold at bookstalls? 

SUW: I can't really see that happening. 

That is why I feel there will 

always be print copies available 

too. 

GIV: No. Paying authors will 

require revenue. Revenue is generated 

from advertising. Nobody is 

selling advertising to any great 

extent. 

GD: Some ezines have become 

fairly lucrative, but you would have 

to be a top-notch writer to make a 

profit from selling your work, as the 

61


highest paying magazines are naturally 

also the most selective, 

commonly accepting less than 1% 

of submissions. 

We currently only pay competition 

winners (generally one poetry 

and one photographic contest 

per issue), but if we continue to 

have money in the pot and 

increase our readership, we will 

look at paying contributors in the 

future. I believe this would give our 

magazine a further professional 

edge, as many of the best writers 

only submit to paying markets. 

Is your ezine likely to form a hard 

core of regular writers to which 

readers become loyal and, if so, 

how will such a trend affect the 

potential of new talent? 

SUW: This is something I am very 

wary of, not least because Sein 

und Werden is so specialised in 

some ways, whilst being more 

general in others. The ideas 

behind it are concrete but the 

medium is flexible. I do not want 

potential contributors thinking 

there is some incestuous closeknit 

Werdenist community of writers 

and artists to the detriment of 

'outsiders'. Yeah, we're incestuous 

but we welcome fresh blood too. I 

started the mag up because of certain 

writers and artists I came 

across. I won't publish them just 

because of who they are though. I 

publish them because they write 

what I am after. In a way I see Sein 

as an ongoing piece of artwork, a 

merging of different talents, which 

will evolve naturally. In order for 

this evolution to take place, there 

needs to be new names, new perspectives, 

new talent. I have never 

been short of wonderful submissions 

and I don't think I ever will 

be. 

TT: Well so far, after a year, I do 

know that TT does have a handful 

of regular readers, just recently a 

few people have only just heard 

about TT and after seeing issue #4 

they've ordered back issues too. 

The more loyal readers, the better 

it'll be for TT's authors, their pieces 

seen and read by large numbers 

… and of course payments will be 

available. As for how will it affect 

new talent – I presume there'd be 

more submissions (this has grown 

over each issue), which means 

there'd be more pieces to read 

making it harder to gain a place in 

the mag. 

GIV: It already has. New talent is 

new talent. My magazine gives 

new talent a chance to become old 

talent. The core of regular writers 

is always changing. 

GD: It is possible, but we will continue 

to consider each and every 

submission on its merits, so work 

from new authors is never overlooked. 

What will be the long term effect 

of literary ezines on writers and 

literature itself? 

SUW: Because of the accessibility 

of the web, it allows for linking to 

other writers, writing communities, 

forums, the sharing of ideas and 

creativity. One of the most rewarding 

things for me is when a reader 

writes to me in praise of some text 

or artwork (s)he's come across in 

Sein. What is even better is when 

contributors meet via Sein to work 

on something together. I've had 

other editors soliciting Sein contributors 

for work for their own 

zines (as I have done myself) and 

poets working with photographers 

for new poetry collections etc. To 

cut a long answer short then, I 

think ezines can help pave the way 

for writers when it comes to making 

contacts, which can only be a 

very good thing for writing communities 

and literature itself. 

GIV: They will provide publishing 

credits for aspiring writers and a 

place to practice their craft. 

GD: Literary ezines have given 

many previously unpublished but 

talented writers the confidence to 

realise that someone liked their 

work enough to publish it; and that 

feeling is worth its weight in gold in 

terms of encouragement and motivation. 

The downside is that there 

is more poor quality work finding 

its way into print. But overall the 

standard is high enough that literature 

is not being devalued as an 

art form via ezines. 

Will ezines – like the fiction 

mags of old – produce stars like 

Asimov, Lovecraft and 

Chandler? 

SUW: I reckon! 

TT: Oh yes!! 

GIV: Bet on it!!! 

GD: Watch this space!!!! 

SEIN UND WERDEN: was 

launched in 2004 and publishes its 

eleventh issue this month. Each 

issue is themed. It accepts fiction, 

poetry, artwork, photography. That 

includes prose poetry, novellas 

(serialised), flash fiction, novel 

excerpts. As a rule the max word 

count for short stories is 6,000 

words, but anything longer can be 

split over two or more issues. 

Especially in demand is horror, 

erotica, literary, magic realism, 


philosophical, surreal. Nothing 

political, no romance. Bios are carried. 

The online version is all 

Sein und Werden 

colour, glossy, sleek, and the 

newly-launched printzine is a lot 

more gritty, folded, stapled, black 

and white etc. Online version free. 

Cost of the printed zine (average 

page count 54) is 

£3.50/$6.50/5.10EUR. Annual 

subscription (4 copies) 

Twisted Tongue 

£14.00/$26.00/20.00EUR 

TWISTED TONGUE: Is in its second 

year and accepts short stories, 

flash fiction, poetry and art- 

work – especially keen on Fantasy, 

Horror and Sci Fi work that could 

be described as 'Twisted' in its 

content rather than construction. 

Bios are carried. Word count for TT 

is pretty much open, and can 

accommodate several pics and 

photos. Average page count is 80. 

New editions: Printed £4.50, PDF 

£2. Back Issues: range from £3.50 

for printed versions and 50p for 

Global Inner Visions 

PDF (or local currency equivalent). 

ISSN: 1749-9941 

GLOBAL INNER VISIONS: 

Launched in 2004 as a quarterly literary 

journal for lesser-known writers, 

poets and graphic artists, GIV is 

in its tenth edition 

So far all genres considered for 

publication, though future issues may 

be themed. The 20-page ezine – with 

colour and black and white art – is 

available only in screen-read version 

and is free of charge from www.givezine.com. 

ISSN 1554-012X. 

GOLD DUST: Launched in 2004 

and published quarterly. All genres 

welcome (theme for issue 10 is 

Time). POETRY: Maximum line 

count: 50 lines. PROSE: Maximum 

word count: 3,000 words (short 



stories). PLAYS: Maximum word 

count: 2,500 words. ARTICLES: 

Maximum word count: 2,000 

words. BOOK REVIEWS (Your 


review of someone else's book): 

Fiction/Novels or Poetry anthologies: 

Maximum word count: 2,000 

words. Pictures and illustrations 

considered. No novels, novellas or 

articles on non writing-related 

issues. Print (through Lulu) in 

black and white. PDF in full colour. 

Great emphasis is placed on originality 

of submissions. The magazine 

– average page count fifty – 

costs $8.23 (about £4.30) for the 

printed version and $2.50 (about 

£1.30) for PDF. ISSN: 1751-8180. 

None of the ezines featured here 

take any rights from authors. 

Copyright remains intact and stories 

may be submitted elsewhere 

soon after publication. At all four of 

these ezines, a strict editorial 

selection process is in place. Most 

publications at least proof read 

accepted material for publication, 

but authors submitting should, 

considering the time constraints on 

editors, not expect critique every 

time a piece of work is declined. 


63

Authors 

Contributors 

Eddie Bruce 

Most of Eddie Bruce's short stories are larger-than-life accounts of real people, places and happenings gathered as 

(invariably fuelled by whisky) he drifted aimlessly around the UK from one relationship/job/location to another. Having 

found his ideal job, as a mobile librarian in the North of Scotland, his addiction ensured that it wouldn't last. The alcoholic's 

perpetual struggle to recover and stay sober is a recurring theme in his tales. Long since dried out, retired and living 

with his wife in Essex, England, Ed is a fully domesticated househusband, still drifting but only on the Internet. 

Website: www.adrifterslegacy.co.uk 

Dan Kopcow 

Dan Kopcow is a published author of numerous short stories, novels and screenplays and has always been fascinated with the art and 

craft of storytelling. One of his short stories will appear in the October 2006 issue of Wild River Review. His passion for stories is also 

reflected in his love for film and theater. He is a founding member of the Ambler Writers Group. He earned his B.S. in Chemical 

Engineering at Syracuse University and, by day, is an environmental remediation project manager. 

J.E. Ash 

This is going to be an incredibly short bio as J E Ash has yet to have anything published. Having just completed a creative 

writing course with the Open University, it has given her the confidence to start submitting work for possible publication. 

Jens Rushing 

Jens Rushing is an aspiring author from Texas. He has sold short stories to Out West and Rage Machine magazines. 

His interests include 19th century novelists, stories of the American west, ale, and songs of the sea. He is a satisfactory 

guitarist and a lamentable pianist. He is too young to be married, but is married regardless. 

Melanie Staines 

Born in New Zealand, Melanie Staines is currently living near Bristol and is developing a bizarre Kiwi-West Country 

accent. She is aware that brief biographical notes ought to emphasise the mildly quirky, so will quickly mention that she 

has been employed as a pizza chef, a university English tutor, a raspberry picker, a publishing assistant, a topless waitress, 

an English teacher on the JET scheme, and has ghost written a political romance novel. One of those was a lie. 

She also once spent a day trying to sell advertising space in a free calendar over the phone, but finding it a horrible, fruitless 

experience she never went back. She likes olives, good-natured animals, and writing about herself in the third person, 

and is afraid of death, corpses in general (but particularly in advanced stages of decay), pictures of corpses, TV programmes 

featuring graphic real-life autopsies, and dislikes being obsessed with, and obsessively ruminating on, the 

inevitability of her own death and decomposition. Perversely, she quite enjoys watching CSI (the Vegas version). She 

hates the smell of cat pee in the morning, being more of a coffee person. She is currently working on a novel of her own, 

and hopes to make a career for herself soon. melanie.staines@hotmail.com 

Ali Al Saeed 

Ali Al Saeed is a writer from Bahrain, born in 1978. For almost seven years, starting in 1998, he was a journalist writing 

for two of the leading English-speaking newspapers in the country. He then began his writing career, contributing regularly 

to a number of publications and magazines in the Gulf region. He wrote (and drew) his very first story - a sci-fi comic 

book - at the age of ten. In 2004, Ali published his debut novel, QuixotiQ, which was a national best-seller and winner of 

the Bahrain 2004 Outstanding Book of the Year Award. He also writes short fiction with several of his stories appearing 

in various e-zines, journals and literary websites - including Gold Dust magazine, RSPublishing, Expose'd, In Posse 

Review and Capture Weekly - and recently appeared in the anthology Goodbye, Darwin (Apodis Publishing). Ali is also 

a filmmaker, co-producing his first documentary film in 2006. His non-fiction book, Models of Success: The Journey was 

published earlier this year. Moments, a collection of short stories, was published in September. Ali aspires to share his 

dreams with the rest of the humankind. Fore more information please visit www.alialsaeed.com. 

Daniel Stephens 

Daniel Stephens has just completed his bachelor's degree in Media Culture. He currently works as a full-time writer and 

filmmaker. His fiction can be found most recently in Skive magazine, Secret Attic and Speculative Fiction Centre. 


Contributors [cont’d] 

Louise Cypher 

Louise Cypher is a writer of speculative fiction who lives in England with a cow called Beans, a monkey called Num- 

Nums, a dog called Charris, and family of shrews. She's had some publications, but does all this mainly because she 

loves to write. 


Born in New York but long a resident in Paris, Howard Waldman taught European History for a France-based American 

university and later American Literature for a French University. He has published two novels, Time Travail (Jacobyte 

Books, 2001) and Back There (BeWrite, 2005) as well as a novella, Judge (Hachette). A third novel, The Seventh 

Candidate, is due to come out about now. 

Zack Wilson 

Zack Wilson is an Anglo-Scottish writer, originally from Skegness, who has lived in many places in Yorkshire and the 

Midlands. Currently residing in Sheffield, he works as a basic skills tutor for the long-term unemployed, one of whom he 

has been. He has worked as a cook, a teacher, a clerk and a labourer and would ideally like to be encouraged by his 

boss to sit and think all day. His work has appeared on the web at the-beat.co.uk and winamop.com, and in print in 

Unquiet Desperation magazine. One day he'll write a novel and a few people will read it and tell their friends. 

Poets 

Barnaby Tidman 

Barnaby Tidman is a mixtape well-wisher, and the clouds play in a loop from that summer after he left school, when he 

was always falling over. He sent this poem to himself ten years from now and every major newspaper. He has been published 

in FuseLit, and currently has a piece in the music magazine Transparent. barnabytidman@gmail.com. 

Bex Harris 

Bex Harris studies English Literature at UEA, and once wrote poetry on pants during Valentine's Day festivities, doing 

wonders for the literary underwear scene. She is currently living in Norwich and getting paid to sample chocolate. 

Ray Succre 

Ray Succre has been writing for some time and has begun publishing his poetry while trying to broaden himself as a 

poet, novelist, and parent. He is now beginning to send his work out at a more social level. He currently lives on the 

southern Oregon coast with his wife, Maisy, and baby boy, Painter. He has been published in Aesthetica, Fire, and The 

Book of Hopes and Dreams, as well as in many others. For further inquiry, publication history, and information, visit 

http://raysuccre.blogspot.com, as this site is updated often. I can also be emailed at raysuccre@hotmail.com. 

John Osbourne 

John Osborne has performed poetry in Norwich, Vienna, London and at the Latitude Festival. He is currently writing his 

first book, The Newsagent's Window, which has seen him visit a stranger for a massage, advertise for a co-writer for a 

sitcom and pay a Polish girl to do his ironing for him. 


James Al Midgley: poet, critic, trapeze artist. He enjoys talking about himself in the third person and transmuting base 

metals into gold. Poems from his work-in-progress collection The Caterpillar Speaks have been published in various literary 

journals both in the UK and the US. He is the Gallery Director for poetry of the website deviantART, the largest arts 

community on the internet. He edits the poetry journal Mimesis. 

Jon Stone 

Jon Stone is the poetry editor of the roundtable review. His work has been published by the Guardian and McSweeney's 

on their respective websites, and his debut collection, I'll Show You Tyrants was published by UKAPress in 2005. Further 

info, and the odd snatch of music, at www.tyrants.co.uk. 


65

Contributors [cont’d] 


Andrea Tallarita was born in Rome, 4 May 1985. He later lived in Spain (Madrid and Barcelona) between 1995 and 2000 

due to the movements of his family, and again in Rome for his last three years in high school. He is presently completing 

his fourth and final year at the University of East Anglia, where he is studying Comparative Literature. 

Book Reviewers 

Fionna Doney Simmonds 

Fionna Doney Simmonds is the Poetry Editor for the feminist literary ezine Moondance.org. She reviews regularly for 

Moondance, Galatea Resurrects, New Hope International and the print journal Readers' Reviews. Passionately committed 

to the written word, Fionna hopes to one day see poetry as popular as fiction. 


Ageing hippy, former teacher, now psychiatric care worker, living in London with partner Jean, adopted daughter Cherelle 

and Charlotte the Chameleon. Two published works, SIRAT (a science fiction novel) and The Rainbow Man and Other 

Stories (short story collection). Interested in science, philosophy, psychology, scuba diving, alternative lifestyles and communal 

living, travel, wildlife, cooking and IT. Large, rambling home page at www.davidgardiner.net. 

Features writers 

Rupert Haigh 

Rupert Haigh, escaped English lawyer, has lived in Helsinki since 2000, and now works as a freelance legal English 

teacher, proofreader, and editor. He is the author of several published works on legal English and business, and started 

writing fiction in the summer of 2004. His short stories have appeared in Spin and Outercast magazines, as well as in 

Gold Dust. He is currently working on a novel, Throwing it all Away. 

Gail Richards 

Gail Richards is the Founder of http://AuthorSmart.com, a clearinghouse of information, education and resources for 

authors seeking navigational assistance on their publishing journey. As a life long writer, she is passionate about helping 

authors share their wisdom and intellectual capital with the world by helping them find a path from idea to successfully 

published book. For over 20 years she has created marketing messages and visual concepts that demand and capture 

attention for hundreds of companies. She now focuses her energy on authors. She is a graduate of Dartmouth 

College, mother of two teen-age sons, Red Sox fan and aspiring seamstress. 

Interviewers 

Alexander James 

For more than thirty years, Alexander James was a journalist working internationally for the biggest newspapers and 

magazines in the world until turning exclusively to books ten years ago. He has written, ghosted, contributed to and 

edited more than 100 titles, 90% of them novels. He lives on the French Riviera. He and his partner share four children 

in their thirties (each of whom lives in a different European country) and four grandchildren. 


Final Word... 

"Most writers can write books faster 

than publishers can write checks." 

Richard Curtis 

"There are two kinds of writer: those 

that make you think, and those that 

make you wonder." 

Brian Aldiss 

How many screenwriters does it take to 

change a light bulb? 

Answer: Ten. 

It’s winter, so curl up with our Final 

Word... 

1st draft. Hero changes light bulb. 

2nd draft. Villain changes light bulb. 

3rd draft. Hero stops villain from changing 

light bulb. Villain falls to death. 

4th draft. Lose the light bulb. 

5th draft. Light bulb back in. Fluorescent 

instead of tungsten. 

6th draft. Villain breaks bulb, uses it to 

kill hero's mentor. 

7th draft. Fluorescent not working. Back 

to tungsten. 

8th draft. Hero forces villain to eat light 

bulb. 

9th draft. Hero laments loss of light bulb. 

Doesn't change it. 

10th draft. Hero changes light bulb. 


Spell Check 

Eye halve a spelling chequer 

It cam with my pea sea 

It plainly marques four my revue 

Miss steaks eye kin knot sea. 

Eye strike a key and type a word 

And weight four it two say 

Weather eye am wrong oar write 

It shows me strait a weigh. 

As soon as a mist ache is maid 

It nose bee fore two long 

And eye can put the error rite 

Its rare lea ever wrong. 

Eye have run this poem threw it 

I am shore your pleased two no 

Its letter perfect awl the weigh 

My chequer tolled me sew! 

67

Issue 10 

Spring 2007 

(On sale April 2007) 

Next issue 

Don’t forget to buy Gold Dust’s Issue 10 for your next literary feast of short stories, poems, interviews, 

articles and much more. 

Submissions 

We are currently looking for submissions for Issue 10 on the theme of TIME. Your stories/poems may 

be set in the past or in the future, but not in the present (excepting time travel/time-themed pieces). 

Please read our submission guidelines on our website at www.golddustmagazine.co.uk, then submit 

poetry to: 

golddustpoetry@hotmail.co.uk 

and prose to: 

davidgardiner@worldonline.co.uk 

Contests 

We are now taking submissions for our next £10 poetry contest! 

THEME: Heroes and Villains 

MAX ENTRIES: Five poems per person 

LINE COUNT: Max 50 per piece 

Keep an eye on our website for details of all future poetry and cover art contests. 

Contact us 

Contact Gold Dust magazine via our Marketing Co-ordinator, Claire Nixon, at: 

marketingco-ordinatorgolddust@blueyonder.co.uk.

Issue 9 - Gold Dust magazine

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