ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online)
Featuring the works of Marion Clarke, Helen Harrison, P D Lyons, Marie Lecrivain Judith Thurley and Mari Maxwell and many more. Hard copies can be purchased from our website.
Issue No 30 March 2015
A New Ulster On the Wall Website
Editor: Amos Greig Editor: Arizahn Editor: Adam Rudden Contents
Editorial
page 5
Marion Clarke; Blood Moon
pages 7
Helen Harrison; Mum and Spuds
page 9
P D Lyons; Do do run run The Woman
page 11 page 12
Marie Lecrivain; Saturn in Taurus
page 14
Judith Thurley; Cuando el cura Libation Mostly Retreat
page 16 page 17 page 18 page 19
On The Wall Message from the Alleycats
page 21 More Poems
Richard Halperin; The Work Table The girls came through the gate giggling Three women move
page 23 page 24 page 25
Mari Maxwell; Dead Woman Talking
pages 27-28
Anne Briting Oleson; Laying the Walkway Ruelle des Reves Snowbound
page 30 page 31 page 32
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Peter O’Neill Nature Morte Maldoror’s Delight 3V elms skr White Dwarf
page 34 page 35 page 36 page 37 page 38 page 39
Wilma Kenning; Your Leaving Ode to Martello Tower The Gaze
page 41 page 42 page 43 Round the Back
Press Releases Book Reviews and editorial
pages 44-49
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Manuscripts, art work and letters to be sent to: Submissions Editor A New Ulster 23 High Street, Ballyhalbert BT22 1BL Alternatively e-mail: g.greig3@gmail.com See page 50 for further details and guidelines regarding submissions. Hard copy distribution is available c/o Lapwing Publications, 1 Ballysillan Drive, Belfast BT14 8HQ Digital distribution is via links on our website: https://sites.google.com/site/anewulster/ Published in Baskerville Oldface & Times New Roman Produced in Belfast & Ballyhalbert, Northern Ireland. All rights reserved The artists have reserved their right under Section 77 Of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 To be identified as the authors of their work. ISSN 2053-6119 (Print) ISSN 2053-6127 (Online) Cover Image “Equine Shadows� by Amos Greig
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“Would Jove appoint some flower to reign, in matchless beauty on the plain, the Rose (mankind will all agree). The Rose the queen of flowers should be.” Sappho. Editorial I would like to thank our guest editor for their work in bringing this International Women’s Day issue together I would also like to thank all of those who submitted work to share with the world. The poets voice is one which sings the praises of passion and shines a light on the darker aspects of humanity. A poet can use their words to inflict a barb or to help lance an old wound. For years the women’s voice has been silenced by Patriarchal attitudes this also had an impact on our understanding of women’s influences in classical history. The first Women’s Day was held on the 28th of February 1909 in New York by the Socialist Party of America in rememberance of the 1908 strike of the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union. Since 2010 the day has become less politicised and linked with the UN. This years theme for International Women’s Day is Empowering Women and Empowering Humanity women’s issues are human issues and we all need to work together for a better world. We have some strong work from P D Lyons and Judith Thurley some of these pieces will make you think and some will make you wonder at the world around you. I hope you enjoy this issue and find something which stays with you. Until our next issue I leave you with my catchphrase.
Enough pre-amble! Onto the creativity!
Amos Greig
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Biographical Note: Marcus Strider Jones Marion Clarke is a writer and artist from Warrenpoint, County Down. Her poetry and fiction has appeared in literary journals, including Burning Bush II and The Linnet’s Wings. In 2013 her entry was long-listed in the Desmond O’Grady international poetry competition. An advocate of Japanese-style short form poetry (haiku, senryu, haibun, haiga and tanka) Marion’s work has been widely published internationally and in 2012 she received a Sakura Award in the Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Competition. Highly commended in the Irish Haiku Society’s International Competition in 2012 and 2013, she was delighted to be placed third in last year’s event. In 2014 she was the overall winner of Dublin’s Carousel Summer Haiku Competition and last November was invited to read her poetry at the launch of the inaugural Seamus Heaney Award in the Linen Hall Library, Belfast.
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Blood Moon (Marion Clarke) blood moon in November she decides to give up
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Biographical Note: Helen Harrison Helen was awarded funding from ‘The Arts Council of Northern Ireland’, to study writing and poetry at ‘The Poets House’ Donegal during April last year, and gained inspiration and knowledge during the 7 day course. Helen has performed poetry at the Garage Theatre in Monaghan, and at Monaghan Art Show. She has also performed at the ‘Bray Arts Show’ in Wicklow, and has poems in the ‘Bray Journal’. Helen enjoyed the pleasure of sharing some of her poetry, through reading, on ‘The Creative Flow’ on Dundalk FM. Helen has appeared at Belfast’s ‘Purely Poetry ‘open mic events. She has recently been long-listed for The Allingham Festival prize. And has had poems published in a recent edition of A New Ulster. Some of her poems are on a blog: ‘poetry4on.blogspot.com’ which is named ‘words4thought’. https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwingstore/helen-harrison
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MUM AND SPUDS
(Helen Harrison)
How are you managing for heating oil? Do you know that Mrs Mullin died? I hope you like onions with your stuffing? You said in your text that you’re on nights next.
Heaped on offerings of food, Hot pans make mood for flavour. Television. Loud repeated soaps, Water hissing on stove. Potato Peelings blocking sink - no time to think;
Can I help? I question her red face, No it’s alright - clean the windows instead but listen; wait until after you’re fed.
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Biographical Note: P D Lyons
PD Lyons Born and raised in the USA. Travelling and living abroad since 1998. Now permanently residing in of Ireland. Received The Mattatuck College Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry. Received Bachelor of Science with honours from Teikyo Post University Connecticut. Two books of poetry Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones: Selected Poems, have been published by Lapwing Press, Belfast. A third book, Myths Of Multiplicity, published by Erbacce press Liverpool as part of the 2014 Erbacce International Annual Prize will be officially launched 9 December 2014 at Westmeath County Library Castlepollard. The work of PD Lyons has also appeared in many magazines and ezine/blogs throughout the world. Including, The SHoP, Books Ireland, Irish American Post, Boyne Berries, Virtual Writer, Slipstream, West 47 Galway Arts. Recently selected to participate in Human Rights Consortium at the School of Advanced Study, University of London publication titled ‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’. Relevant websites: ‘In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights’. http://www.sas.ac.uk/about-us/news/protest-new-poetry-anthologyexplores-human-rights-and-social-justice In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights is an ambitious new publication aiming to bring together the fields of human rights research and literature in an innovative way. Selected from over 600 poems submitted by established and emerging poets, it provides a rare international insight into issues ranging from the trans-Atlantic slave trade, the Hola massacre and indigenous peoples' rights to the current war in Syria.
Myths of Multiplicity http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/p-dlyons/4586525519 all sales to benefit Erbacce writers co-op 10 Searches For Magic, and Caribu & Sister Stones http://www.freewebs.com/lapwingpoetry/
do do run run (P D Lyons) after the show she’d call him wait with the security guys out back in the open door way if it was storming watching waiting smoking. she’d heard they added menthol to ‘em so you wouldn’t feel what they were doin’ to your throat, she wasn’t sure about that – isn't there just too much miss-trust in the world? anyway it never took him long, no matter what the time was even if the show ran late even if there was snow he was never long. run up them iron stairs and every time kiss her before saying hello, how was the show? and walk her arm ‘n arm to the car, open and close her door ... she was back up singer in a steady small town gig. the one who wore a black beret, sang better ‘n most of the stars she broke her ass to make look good. and maybe if she were younger… and maybe if she weighed a little less…?
back home, he’d always have something good and warm and ready to eat and sometimes in the shower the hot water lasts an hour and sometimes she’d have a little something strong to drink. and he’d put something on the stereo real low like madam butterfly and lay her down until falling asleep only by some taunting dream she’d wake to find his arms around her.
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The Woman (P D Lyons) I could not speak. Maybe loved more gently I could have. Maybe if there was a moon I could have. But only sun a crazy glue lips sealed slays weds impregnates itself. This is what I cannot say, this is what they refuse to hear: After death is pre-natal. Through me, everything is world. Without me? Conception is by eating, birth by excretion.
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Biographical Note: Marie Lecrivain
Marie Lecrivain is the editor-publisher of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, a photographer, and is writer-in-residence at her apartment. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Edgar Allen Poetry Journal, Maitenant, A
New Ulster, The Ironic Fantastic, Nonbinary Review, Spillway, The Los Angeles Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, and others. She’s the author of The Virtual Tablet of Irma Tre (© 2014 Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House), and she’s the editor of the anthology Near Kin: Words and Art inspired by Octavia E. Butler (© 2014 Sybaritic Press). Her avocations include alchemy, alternate modes of transportation, H.P. Lovecraft, Vincent Price, steam punk accessories, and the letter “S."
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Saturn in Taurus (Marie Lecrivain) On a hellishly hot Friday afternoon, our first unremarkable meeting was photographed, framed and then exiled to the downstairs closet. Beaten down by childbirth, our tete-a-tete was hardly courteous. Looking at us now I observe the dutiful maternal instinct at work; your right arm cradles me to your breast, while your left hand shields you from my Saturnian scowl, the one inheritance of yours I don't wear well. The slight blurriness of your tell-tale hand echoes your oft repeated warning to me, Never fall in love with failure, the one regret you won't let me live down.
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Biographical Note: Judith Thurley
Judith Thurley had her poetry pamphlet Listening for Hedgehogs published in 1995 by Lapwing Press in Belfast. She has since had poems published in Ireland, the US and Newfoundland & Labrador. She has had non-fiction nature prose published in A Wilder Vein by Two Ravens in Scotland and wrote a chapter on the nature poetry of Ulster as part of A Natural History of Ulster. She is a member of Word of
Mouth Collective and QUB Writers' Group Judith has recently been writing in Spanish on Latin American themes and translating her own work into English
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(Judith Thurley)
Cuando el cura levanto el sacramento en sus manos, la luna llena se levanto sobre el espino sobre el mar sobre La Paz sobre los Andes vestidos de su manton blanco. Cuando meto el cuerpo de Cristo en mis manos esperandos, berci la cara palida de un nino espantado, de un clafero.
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When the priest raised the sacrament with his two hands, the full moon rose over the hawthorn
over the lough over La Paz over the Andes in their white robes. When he placed the body of Christ in my cupped hands I cradled the pale face of a petrified child, of a street-child
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libation (Judith Thurley) the drumagully scours the stones all night as i curl and sprawl in acres of patchwork relentless earthy miracle hurtling past my window & the body cries out for water water an icy libation hurling itself nightlong into the sea as you might – who knows – some night – come to me.
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mostly for paul Bradley (Judith Thurley)
thon twinkling is no mere play of light but also
sounds
cantering thru ether your voice seaspray & bird cry giddy the livelong whistledown day bright world all a-warble a-trill tra-la-la! 4 u r mostly in it Innit
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retreat (Judith Thurley) hours
waves advanced retreated when suddenly i had strand ocean sky sand stones cliffs blaze sunset frost dusk fulmars mist to myself
i turned back
tiny as a shell a pinpoint of light on inishowen
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If you fancy submitting something but haven’t done so yet, or if you would like to send us some further examples of your work, here are our submission guidelines:
SUBMISSIONS
NB – All artwork must be in either BMP or JPEG format. Indecent and/or offensive images will not be published. Images must be in either BMP or JPEG format. Please include your name, contact details, and a short biography. You are welcome to include a photograph of yourself – this may be in colour or black and white. We cannot be responsible for the loss of or damage to any material that is sent to us, so please send copies as opposed to originals. Images may be resized in order to fit “On the Wall”. This is purely for practicality. E-mail all submissions to: g.greig3@gmail.com and title your message as follows: (Type of work here) submitted to “A New Ulster” (name of writer/artist here); or for younger contributors: “Letters to the Alley Cats” (name of contributor/parent or guardian here). Letters, reviews and other communications such as Tweets will be published in “Round the Back”. Please note that submissions may be edited. All copyright remains with the original author/artist, and no infringement is intended. These guidelines make sorting through all of our submissions a much simpler task, allowing us to spend more of our time working on getting each new edition out!
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March 2015’S MESSAGE FROM THE ALLEYCATS:
We still need more tuna. Arizahn still needs more gin. Send tuna and gin quickly please. And James Bond (not the current one) to work the tin opener, ta muchly! Welcome to our International Women’s Day issue we hope you’ll enjoy it as much as we enjoyed working on it. Well, that’s just about it from us for this edition everyone. Thanks again to all of the artists who submitted their work to be presented “On the Wall”. As ever, if you didn’t make it into this edition, don’t despair! Chances are that your submission arrived just too late to be included this time. Check out future editions of “A New Ulster” to see your work showcased “On the Wall”.
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Biographical Note: Richard Halperin
Richard W. Halperin is delighted to have some recent collections out via Lapwing/Belfast and Salmon/Cliffs of Moher. If you go to their sites and take a look, maybe you'll buy one for a friend, making the poet very happy indeed.
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The work table (Richard Halperin)
pushed next to the window of a small room a board set on two wooden trestles a hard chair scissors, paste, paint, pens, paper knickknacks, tissues, a lamp some green baize why not art and snooker almost the same she never used the word ‘collage’ ‘what then?’ one would ask ‘things,’ she’d say ‘things’ years after today in fact the dominoes tipped over in my head creation is things leaves horizons void stasis copper are things she had made a place she knew the act she’d wait for what came close, a few on my wall I have one or two
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The girls came through the gate giggling (Richard Halperin)
The girls came through the gate giggling, Back from a day in the hills After having observed a flower; A distant cart laden with grain; Three leaves; the absence of a lover, Who should have been among them. Otherwise no men, the male servants Being servants, unseen and unnoticed Save for some clumsiness during the drive. Through the gate with their poems jotted, Except the girls too timid to have jotted any, Too ashamed of their calligraphy, Too afraid the Empress might make a moue And say ‘it was meant’ meaning who knows what? The shame of that, to be avoided at all costs! Years later – I speak of them crouching together, Giggling, tugging at their dresses, Hiding their faces behind their fans – Some have become nuns in perpetual prayer, Some have become wives or cast-offs, Some have become beggars drunk or dignified. One of the shyest has become a writer, Jotting impressions sharply satiric, Deeply or passingly sad, to be kept In a casket or pinched by a would-be lover And passed around the court, The marvellous disgrace of it! One has become Empress, Remembering a trip to the hills, Remembering coming through the gate giggling Observing with all her heart All the snow that had not yet fallen. Wondering what bones really are.
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Three women move (Richard Halperin) Three women move slowly together. They were looking after me, I think. They are walking over a hill. Away from me, quite normally. They are not talking about me, that’s evident. Three graceful women, their work for the day over. They have done with days. If they had wanted to drag me along, they would have. If they never want to see me again, how can I blame them?
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Biographical Note: Mari Maxwell
Mri’s work is forthcoming in The Incubator and Boyne Berries, Macabre Maine, and Veils, Halos and Shackles International Poetry Journal on the Abuse and Oppression of Women. Mari’s work was highly commended in The Francis Ledwidge 2014 Poetry Award and shortlisted in the 2014 Walking on Thin Ice Short Story Contest.
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Dead Woman Talking (Mari Maxwell) [For Dolores Maxwell]
i) On ladies' beach a kayaker stretches his paddle, perpendicular windmill turning in the mirroresque bay. Down and up. Under and over. Time as it is. Kayak sliding forwarding. Thoughts seeping backwards. You and me on the Delaware. Summer weekends. Carried by currents and love. Buoyed by water, friendships a warmth and openness I now yearn. ii) Here, Irish shutters rattle down, lock deep into place. Roller top desks of antiquated systems that care more for white collar than honest scraped hands. We crawl. We scrape. We scuttle. And, the mighty few point and shudder. "Dig deeper. Dig faster. Dig deeper. Faster. Faster." iii) How can they hear you? Dead. Battered. Woman. A nothing. Voiceless. They dress in good suits, ironed shirts, with razor pressed edges. Wafting of Hermes, Dior or Gucci. They talk at and not to. Slap heartily on shoulders so bowed and bent from life, it only dips them farther into spinal concave. You see humanity, fellowship, equals. They unravel chains and prep the padlock. 28
Clunk. Clink. No skeleton key. Five paper inches to keep horror quashed. Justice denied. Protect the guilty. While You and He smart at the practical way they rubber-band her file. Snap it into place. They. Just. Don't. Care. Dead old woman. Gone. White collar fiends cover up, digging deeper faster. Fearful of implosion. Terrified of truth. Desperate to bury You too. But You and He try to soothe self and climb deck-side once more. Crawl. Scrape. Scuttle. "Dig deeper. Dig faster. Faster. Faster." iv) Another Autumn is in the air. Supermoon and meteor showers, blasting crisp nights. Along the Connemara coast road, the blackberries bulge crimson once more. The white caps dance on Galway Bay, while the Burren patchwork watches. Four years on and the poppies still bloom, though sparse so close to winter. Yellow, lilac and poppy red ignite. I am digging deeper. Digging faster. Tired of scuttle, scrape and crawl. The clay collects above. All their digging, exposing worm and maggot. Quicksand they no longer control. I will take that staircase Mom. To justice. Crimes and theft will be accounted for. You will have it Mom. And, the truth out.
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Biographical Note: Anne Britting Oleson
Anne Britting Oleson has been published widely in North America, Europe and Asia. She earned her MFA at the Stonecoast program of USM. She has published two chapbooks, The Church of St. Materiana (2007) and The Beauty of It (2010). A third chapbook, Planes and Trains and Automobiles, is forthcoming from Portent Press (UK), and a novel, The Book of the Mandolin Player, is forthcoming from B Ink Publishing--both in 2015.
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Laying the Walkway Anne Britting Oleson) Walls are built of course after course of bricks; yet wanting to break through the confines which have held me so long, I forge out, instead of building up, curse the ineptness of imagination as I replicate the sunrise before my porch door with hard rectangles of red. Each brick was chipped from someone else's dream. Now as I fit them into each new place, I have my own hopes. I kiss the fired clay before pressing it into the damp soil: each brick a letter— runic alphabet— spelling out your name.
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Ruelle des Rèves (Anne Britting Oleson) I was searching for a door. It might have been yours. The number, on a scrap of paper, rain in blue rivulets— from the rain, or perhaps from tears. I know it was late. Far away, a clock rang the hour. Overhead, between the roofs, a sliver of sky hung, unstarred. Only a single window, high above the lane, was lit. As I stood rooted, that light, too, went out. A cold wind skittered a newspaper along the cobbles, raised goosebumps on my bare arms. I turned at the sound of measured footsteps, but no one was there. Oleson (“Ruelle des Rèves” 2) (stanza break) I thought: I've been here before. I thought: I cannot go on. I might have leaned against the weeping stone wall, despairing. Perhaps I wondered why, still, you did not come.
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Snowbound (Anne Britting Oleson) The wind comes first, wailing down the mountain to the east, where the sun should be rising if only you could see it— but the storm clouds crush in from the Gulf of Maine and bring in the blizzard, snow spun in wild circles by the screaming gale. It deepens over the dead ground, pressing up against the windows until it brings night in early afternoon. The road out front disappears. Even the state plow trucks don't come: nothing moves, save those things shoved about by the anger of the storm: the skeletal limbs of trees, the black skeins of electric wires, the stop sign on the corner which stops no traffic on this howling Tuesday, its face plastered white, its banging back and forth against its tilted pole a lonely sound.
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Biographical Note: Peter O’Neill
Peter O’ Neill was born in Cork in 1967. His debut collection Antiope (Stonesthrow Poetry) appeared in 2013, and to critical acclaim. ‘Certainly a voice to the reckoned with.’ Dr Brigitte Le JueZ (DCU). His second collection The Elm Tree was published by Lapwing (2014), ‘A thing of wonder to behold.’ Ross Breslin ( The Scum Gentry ). His third collection The Dark Pool is due to appear early in 2015 (mgv2publishing), and a fourth Dublin Gothic (Kilmog Press) is also due to appear early 2015. As well as being a regular contributor to A New Ulster, The Scum Gentry, The Galway Review, Danse Macabre and mgv2publishing, his work has also appeared in: Abridged, Bone Orchard,Colony, Levure Littéraire, Outburst, Paysages Écrits and Poetry Bus. He has edited two publications for mgv2publishing: And
Agamemnon dead. The Mauvaise Graine Anthology of Early Twenty First Century Irish Poetry (March, 2015), and Transverser issue 81MGv2>datura – Transversions of Early Twenty First Century French Poetry. He holds an MA in Comparative Literature (DCU) and a BA in philosophy (DCU). He is currently working on his tenth collection.
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Nature Morte For Laura (Peter O’Neill)
Poetry is residual, made up as it is from fetishes and tokens stolen or borrowed: The singular spiral of an orange peel, indicative of a whole childhood Upbringing, Its pungent oils permeating the room, her nocturnal perfume, left to lie upon an Old china plate with some old, dark chocolate sweet wrappers evoking Ecuador, And Amazonas. And the sharp blade of the fruit knife which protrudes, Lying above the battlements of Penhurst Place, Its single edged purpose being to cut or mutilate.
And beside this forensic pile, an old novel Set in Italy, telling of love and war And other forms of human madness.
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Maldoror’s Delight (Peter O’Neill)
La nuit venue, avec son obscurité propice
Isidore Ducasse
The shepherd is nailed to the clouds, You stand attendant and Bibleless. His lamb chops are painted a violet murder, And trailing among the Christ wisps Are the piercing thorns, which garland the stratus.
A medieval tableaux levitates above the eternal table Where the cutlets will appear later on plates, And whose tender flesh smiles with a flourish Placed poetically between the mash and parsnip.
A taste of the Black Hills, Far from the abattoir where the blood still coagulates, There where the peaceful family raise up their knives To cut into the remains of the November feast. 36
3V (Peter O’Neill)
Sky haemorrhaging light Its luminance wounds spiriting the air, January’s double bladed knife chills Clarifying every blooming thing.
Within the skeletal structure The soft glaze of your shoulder, Under the blue fleece the warming flesh Pulses there like a river.
You open the book The journey again With the aroma of the pages As deep and rich as any history.
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elms (Peter O’Neill)
eruption of cloud billowing like the Archeron above the arrow-headed leaves trembling and Virgilian
this ink awash upon a primed sky which the great window frames pooling all origins
from the vortex of the night the golden dawn radiates banishing all fear illuminating gently your lover
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Sker (Peter O’Neill)
a long ship in liquescence pooling in the craft flow of the aqueous byways
the visor clamped to tow spots the promontory rocks marking the northerly lying fjord
imagine him calling then the sound breaking through the air – “Sker...!
history comes from such quiet rough hewn pronouncements whose aural trace resonates still
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white dwarf (Peter O’Neill)
burnishing the buoyant swell of liquid luminance the breakers daft chatter and pebbly roar
whinnying then on the out take sweeping with them all the lees in their stray
the flotsam such as I put upon the grains of the shore there with the canines drowning in the wound of tides
charge brine in with Heraclitean arrow heads to the fore
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Biographical Note: Wilma Kenning
Wilma Kenning has been published locally and as far away as Canada and has been placed in several poetry competitions.
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Your Leaving (Wilma Kenny)
Caught unawares, a rabbit in bright lights shining from an old blue mini car, I am stunned by your leaving.
You look now to the Ethiopian sky eat black bread with sweet vegetables, born of rich Rasta soil. Your tongue utters words we can never understand.
Soon you will forget us. Still your mother weeps.
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Ode to Martello Tower (Wilma Kenny)
For years we stood in ruins both of us falling, me apart you down.
I would lie beside you on an old blanket kept in the boot of my mini car. Here I would hide among wild flowers; yellow, red, orange.
You must have felt your days of use were finished. I thought mine would never begin. You were a constant to me back then when I was scooped up into oblivion.
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The Gaze (Wilma Kenny)
Caught not by the beak of the swan, but in his gaze. This man is a stranger to me. I struggle and want to run away to change out of pretty and put on ugly. I look away, only to look again to find his gaze still on me Like Yeat’s Leda I struggle to be free of this violation. The ghost of your gaze lingers too long in my mind.
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In this edition, Assistant Editor and Senior Alley Cat Wrangler Arizahn reviews a series of books written by women authors.
International Women’s Day Special: Reviews of Recent Fiction by Women Writers
Escape to the Country (Patsy Collins) Escape to the Country is a truly satisfying contemporary romance, and a comforting book to escape into. Author Patsy Collins neatly balances the realities of country life with the expected romantic tropes. Her writing demonstrates both awareness of the genre and a fine, dry humour. The characters and their world are shown to the reader rather than flatly described, but there is sufficient imagery to make visualising them a simple task. It is intriguing to see a novel that acknowledges how very powerless the average person is when faced with the wheels of bureaucracy. It is also gratifying to have the subtler forms of emotional abuse held up for what they are: the elephant of romantic fiction is very much within the room here. The central heroine escapes to the home of her self-sufficient aunt following a sudden professional crisis not of her making. The plot from there is a familiar journey of self-discovery and healing; popular within this genre. However, instead of relying upon a dashing hero to consistently save the day, our heroine reclaims a part of her upbringing that she had never before fully appreciated. Her journey takes her from being well educated but socially awkward and unhappy, to being quietly independent and hopeful. Meanwhile the issue which triggered her flight must pan out in its own time – there is no simple way of resolving the matter, despite some overly convenient coincidences. It cannot be denied that the romantic genre has become overly saturated and there are often complaints of how authors will use utterly impractical situations and resolutions to frame the plot that they wish to convey. That is not the case with this novel. Whilst the overall story will feel familiar, the characters and their place within it are fresh and convincing. The conclusion is open ended and there are still questions hanging – just as real life never truly finishes. This romance is not merely one journey, but rather a key part of a much larger map. It is a map that
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would be pleasant to explore further, and a novel that one could happily keep reading far beyond the final page.
The Seduction of Lucy (Kris Rafferty) The Seduction of Lucy is a gutsy erotic thriller, and pulls few punches. Author Kris Rafferty demonstrates a strong grasp of her chosen genre. The story opens with the gory aftermath of a mission gone badly wrong. It progresses along a convoluted path of betrayal, double bluff, gender politics, and interdepartmental paranoia. The relationship dynamic between the two central characters is questionable at best. The rules of their world are far from normal, but even so it remains difficult to find a standard type of romance here. There is sex and a lot of anger, but for the most part this is a story of duty. Perhaps the hardest question that it poses is who that duty ought to be towards. Although the plot of the novel resolves itself tidily, there were several supporting characters that deserved more attention. It would be interesting to see their stories developed further; and to have more of the mysterious Agency unveiled.
Temporarily Employed (Vicki Batman) Temporarily Employed is a quirky blend of romance and adventure, and features a sharply insightful heroine. Author Vicki Batman whisks the reader off into a heady monologue from the very first page, and never lets them go. The plot follows the misadventures of an unemployed singleton who inadvertently stumbles onto a scheme that involves fraud and murder. There is a poignancy simmering just beneath the surface of this novel. The perfect job and the perfect relationship are held up as the obvious goals. Yet what are actually needed are good friends and a caring family – because no one is ever really perfect, and bad things generally happen when they are least expected. A prevailing message is that everyone makes mistakes but that this is alright, as long as no one actually dies. The conclusion to the novel is managed well. There are no easy answers in life, and some events require distance to be properly resolved. Self-care is shown to be the key to achieving true happiness, and that is certainly a healthy outlook to endorse.
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The Final Straight (Charlotte Howard) The Final Straight is a straightforward; no holds barred sort of romance, and rather fun to get caught up in. Author Charlotte Howard makes excellent use of time jump to convey the back story of her characters. The plot is sensational enough to be fully believable to most equestrians, and the pacing is spot on. There is a comfortably familiar edge to this novel: it fits within its genre precisely as it ought to. Whilst the central characters are far from being perfect people, they are exactly the right people to carry this storyline. A fine balance is kept between poignancy and insufferableness – it is difficult not to want to intervene and tell them all to see sense! And that is undoubtedly a key aspect where this sort of romantic fiction is involved. Although far from a novice read, given the explicit nature of some of the material, this novel remains forward going enough to satisfy from start to finish. With just enough personal tragedy and growth in the mix, it is a thoroughly enjoyable journey to follow.
The Discovery of Joy (Yvonne Erwin) The Discovery of Joy is a multi-perspective and romantic account of three separate but entwined journeys. Author Yvonne Erwin slips neatly from narrator to narrator; each woman granting the reader a slightly different insight. The story unfolds in present tense and is told entirely in the first person. Due to the stylistic conventions that are used to frame the telling, this novel could feasibly be compared with the like of Austen and Stoker. Whilst the content is undoubtedly contemporary, with consistent referencing to familiar 21st Century culture and technology, this very act of connection with the present era is another mirror to the techniques that were atypical of the above literary giants. Although not precisely a Feminist text, the novel does raise key issues and leaves the reader to debate their stance upon them in their own time. There could arguably be a place for this work within the reading lists of those engaged in the study of Contemporary American Literature. In particular, the observations of the contrasting roles of women in the various aspects of their lives might be of interest, as well as the role of the Christian Church in today’s America.
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disappearing in plain sight (Francis Guenette) disappearing in plain sight is a disturbingly bleak story of transitions. Author Francis Guenette makes particular use of water as a metaphorical gateway. The plot follows the tragic mistakes of those involved and the subsequent consequences that they must live with forever. Despite the positive aspects of the resolution, this novel’s ghosts remain to haunt the reader long after the final page has been turned. With the above in mind, this novel is nevertheless superbly crafted. The plot is a patchwork quilt of lives that are not quite stitched together to begin with. By the end, some of those lives have become entwined, whilst others are now far removed. The conclusion might be that change inevitably occurs; it may be good, it may be bad, it is rarely if ever merciful. Given the sensitive aspects of some of the material, this is not a book to be delved into lightly. It is visually challenging in its structure and this adds to the unnerving effect. Some of the content may make readers uncomfortable, and the whole work demands that it is questioned. As such, it would suit the demands of those engaged in the study of Contemporary Literature at degree level exceptionally well.
Sophia’s Secret (Julie Ryan) Sophia’s Secret is a convoluted journey across several generations and numerous continents. Author Julie Ryan paints a vivid reconstruction of life within the confines of a small Greek island. With an abundance of characters, each with their own motivations and heritages, there is certain to be someone for any reader to identify with. The plot opens with a chilling prologue that will ultimately help to unlock the later elements. There is a sense of time racing away despite the best efforts of those bearing witness to its passage. Despite actual tragedy and violence, it is arguable that this inevitability remains as the most powerful theme. The nerve jangling effect is only heightened by the fragmented structure of the narrative; with slow poignancy punctuated by brief instances of intense drama, romance, and even cruelty. A slowly unveiled map of varied injustice and reluctant duty conveys something that is clearly only a fragment of a much larger vision. Sitting confidently as the second in this debut series, there can be little doubt that this novel is the forerunner of an exceptionally well construed tapestry. 48
Finis. (Angélique Jamail) Finis. is a perfectly forged novella, and one that daintily conveys the Magical Realism genre. Author Angélique Jamail envisions an alternate world where the normal people are those that “blossom” into extraordinary creatures as they mature. Environmental forces are neatly and unobtrusively cast as Gatekeepers. Yet despite this fantastical shift, the setting remains in some ways horrifically similar to our own. This work makes clever use of the unreal to convey a harsh critique of real world injustices. Prejudice and discrimination are largely unchallenged by those that oppose them in principal due to the inherent fear of reprisals. Those who are not acceptable to social norms make easy victims. It is an uncomfortable realisation and readers may find themselves challenged by its impact upon their own internal dialogue. Other difficult themes include toxic familial structures, mental health, and suicide. The narrative develops in the present tense; the story is slowly revealed along with its protagonist; an unfortunate “plain one” named Elsa. Trapped between the impossible demands of family and career, she scrabbles for acceptance from those around her. But it will ultimately be her internal struggle that shapes her fate. Only by accepting herself for what she is can Elsa hope to find peace, and this is something that only she can realise.
Article: Experimental Fiction and Why I Write It If ever there were a genre where you might find running a fever to be helpful, then this is probably it. As a writer of Experimental Fiction, I enjoy the challenges that it poses; for me the freedom of expression is worth the trading in of the security given by standard genres and their rules. Ask any lecturer in Creative Writing about how to write, and they’ll give you rules; because established genres require a particular way of doing things. We feel safe reading these books: their ingredients are clearly marked out on the collective unconsciousness. And the more that we read, the better we become at predicting how works from different genres will play out. Over time, each reader develops their own tastes regarding the sort of books that they prefer. Consider Experimental Fiction to be a palette cleanser. It isn’t safe or comfortable; it’s a writer following something that is best left intangible. Ultimately, the only set rule for Experimental Fiction is to be true to the characters. 49
This is both liberating and demanding. On the one hand, Experimental Fiction writers don’t have to shoehorn anyone into an unbelievable course of action or reaction in the interests of the plot. But the flip side of this approach is that they are more likely to end up immersed within the story: finishing the daily word count is often like coming up for air after a slightly too long dive. And the reverse also applies: everything in real life ends up being filtered back onto the page. At the guts of this genre remains the quandary that if there are seven basic stories, then how were these defined? A key role for the Experimental Fiction writer is to dig into the roots of what is expected in fiction. This meant taking those traditional themes and consciously unpicking them. Representing that process within the confines of a novel as opposed to a technical essay on literature is exhausting. It may actually be the ultimate exercise in showing as opposed to telling. The most common pitfall for the Experimental Fiction writer is to end up inadvertently lecturing the reader. One of the simplest ways to avoid this is to break the so-called Fourth Wall: let the characters be the ones to make your observations. This may be subtle; with a character musing inwardly about how practical it is to allot their fate to the wording of an ancient manuscript. Or it may be brutally direct: the character might actually direct their speech towards the reader. The latter approach tends to be more effective where there are themes of Horror, Comedy, or Romance involved. The former can be used in any situation. Characters within Experimental Fiction are extremely difficult to plan fully. The best way to let them develop is to have as few limitations upon them as possible. So the Experimental Fiction writer is essentially writing blind: they have a name, and possibly a physical description. In theory, the plot is secondary to the characters; it’s a vehicle by which the reader discovers them. However, the characters are shaped by their environment. Whilst the reader is watching these lives unfold, the characters are completely invested in their reality, which makes the narrative all the more compelling. Experimental Fiction is a demanding and difficult genre to write and to read. Possibly the kindest advice that I can provide to those attempting to write it is to never hope for appreciation. Experimental Fiction is unlikely to make you rich or even famous. But it will challenge you, and you will end up a stronger writer for the experience. And to those brave few that are willing to read it, thank you. Just remember – there’s no safety net here, and there probably isn’t a map either. Be prepared for a rollercoaster read: as just in real life, the author has no real influence over the outcome.
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A list of Independant women authors please feelfree to check out their Facebook Pages Elizabeth Greig writes Experimental Fiction for adults. She is also available as an editor and reviewer.www.facebook.com/evgreigauthorandillustrator
Ellie Rose McKee writes mainly young adult fiction and poetry.www.facebook.com/ellierosemckee
Lorraine Caputo. Lorraine is a poet, travel writer and translator -- as well as an artist and photographer:https://www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer
Janine Cobain author, playrwright www.facebook.com/janinecobainauthor
J.S. Watts poet and writer https://www.facebook.com/J.S.Watts.page
(Where the deuce has the usual cat gone to?)
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