Coventry Words Vol. 5

COVENTRY MAGAZINE

WORDS

Volume 5: September 2014

FREE ISSN 2045-189X (Print) 2045-2144 (Online)

In this issue:

All Live in Fog “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

Oscar Wilde

How to make a Poet

Marbles The Fred Holland Poetry Award Winner and more!

coventrywords @coventrywords

Published by Coventry University Priory Street Coventry, CV1 5FB, UK Main telephone no: +44 (0) 24 7688 7688 Main website: www.coventry.ac.uk Coventry Words telephone no: +44 (0) 24 7688 8013 Coventry Words website: blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/coventrywords Twitter: https://twitter.com/CoventryWords Email: coventrywords.bes@coventry.ac.uk Executive Editor: Alyson Morris Email: a.morris@coventry.ac.uk Sub Editors: Sam Marklew, Kathy Smith Photography: Coventry University Design Team Production: Alisha Solanki, Anya Parke, Cosmin Angheluta, Kara Michael-Brown, Nabila Bayat, Ryan Khatkar, Sam Marklew, Sarah Ssebandeke, Tim Dubbelman Marketing: Jess Bott, Lydia Crispin, Laura Hetherington, Matthew Jenner, Gareth King, Abbie Marshall, Katie Warburton

Submissions: April Brown, Joe Carter, Joseph Griffin, Erica Hunt, Ebony Peart, Catherine Walsh, Chloe Weller, Harry Wilson Web Team: Sarah Braithwaite, Andy-yann Bayeto, Leanne Cresswell, Marek Lach, Holly Nash, Kathy Smith Coventry Words Web Manager: Lyle Weir. With special thanks to ex. Manager, Ryan Hayes Coventry Words Society: President: Matthew Barton; Secretary: Raef Boylan; Treasurer: Sophie Rowson. With special thanks to ex. President: Gabi Jones Any opinions expressed by a contributor are their own personal opinions, and do not reflect the opinions of the University or any employee thereof. The fact that the University’s images are used in this magazine shall not be considered as an endorsement of the University. The University is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the contributors.

Any story characters are fictional, and bear no resemblance to living people. Any similarities are coincidental.

Within the Coventry Words blog site you may be able to link to other websites which are not under the control of Coventry University. The inclusion of any links does not necessarily imply a recommendation or endorse the views expressed within them.

Copyright in each separate contribution to the collective work is distinct from copyright in the collective work as a whole, and is vested in the author of the contribution. Unauthorised reproduction of any part of this publication is prohibited. © Coventry University 2014

Letter from the student editing team: Welcome to another issue of Coventry Words.

To say the process of creating this magazine was easy and stress-free would be a lie. There was a battle of will, perseverance, ego and an extreme test of patience. We all got there in the end, but not quite in one piece. 2014 was definitely the year for big plans, big ideas and even bigger disagreements.

We wanted this issue to be better than the previous magazines; we wanted to go in the direction of ‘arty’, and we are all pretty proud of the way the magazine has turned out.

After a long semester cramped together in the same room, we managed to produce the magazine. We would like to thank everyone who helped in creating the issue, everyone for their submissions and artwork, everyone who helped in the final hours and a big thank you to pills for the relief of headaches.

And especially to Anya Parke (BA English and Creative Writing) who really helped us publish this issue in the way we envisaged it.

So, to all students at Coventry University, enjoy the 2014 issue of Coventry Words from all the 2014 student editors.

Submissions for 2015: If you would like to contribute to the printed magazine, website or newsletter, please email your

2

Coventry Words

work to: coventrywords.bes@coventry.ac.uk. Type Magazine Submission into the subject line, and place your submission within the email (we do not accept attachments). Also, please provide your full name and course title.

Good luck!

If you are interested in creative writing and publishing, join The Coventry Words Magazine Society (see Societies pages on the Student Union website). It provides a lively atmosphere for students who want to experience magazine publishing. Those who participate will form part of the editing team for Volume 6 of Coventry Words, and be involved in marketing events, promotion (including Coventry Words Blog, Twitter and Facebook), design, distribution, and will liaise with a student editing team from the Department of English and Languages. The society is aimed at those interested in some of the key processes of producing a creative writing magazine; all students are welcome. Contacts for 2014-15 are: Matthew Barton, President; Raef Boylan, Secretary, and Sophie Rowson, Treasurer. E-mail coventrywordsmagazine.su@uni.coventry.ac.uk.

There is also a Creative Writing Society for students interested in developing their creative writing ability. Contact President, Jess Bott, for more information: creativewriting.su@uni.coventry.ac.uk

Poetry Tapestry by Skye Bebbington, Geography and Natural Hazards I would weave words on laden clothes of gold fibre yet be poor to you you would weave words in the hollows of my stomach carving butterflies and as you did so everything I thought I knew about love was found in your form I can feel the stars battling immensity because you are not something I do deserve because you are so much more than eyes do credit I know when you die you would still look beautiful wrapped in clothes of gold

White Cliff Country by Harry Wilson, English and Creative Writing In town your time is tied between childcare and intoxication.

It becomes more kids, more coke, broken bottles on chip shop steps.

Before you vote blue, to keep out the real threat to community, in front of the Prince Albert, crown and sceptre, slurring philosophy into ignorance.

At the port you swipe on and secure your float, check the load, the morning weather.

Two’s a fag with that one stewardess, watch her smoke-wash away the cliffs and castle lights no longer of attraction, your hand a tourist in hers.

At least while you’re on the channel.

At sea ‘Are you on all day?’… ‘Yeah me too.’

‘I can’t wait to get back to Dover.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

3

That Angel False by Ryan Khatkar, English and Creative Writing As Sun goes down and day grows dim My heart is fraught with grief For she, My life, My soul, My heart, Left me for her Heart’s thief.

I think upon her beauty now The first time that I saw Her pure white skin, her almond eyes, Without a single flaw.

She sat and washed her golden curls Upon that midnight hour.

Her eyes - they twinkled as the stars And drew me with their power.

As our eyes met, the Silence left And we did not give chase For all our words, like rivers ran To Cupid’s resting place.

Our romance swift, I thought it time And took her as my wife But now that false seraph has gone, My heart, My soul, My life.

Under your own Hands by Samantha Campbell, English and Creative Writing Unformed and Unfinished A model made out of clay A project for you to design An image for you to claim I’m becoming a work of art under your own hands.

You’re polishing out my flaws Putting tape over my mouth You can’t refine a personality Cannot turn the mind blank I’m becoming a perfect puppet under your own hands.

Passive and Aggressive Hate pumps through my veins Your heart breaks As mine grows cold I have become the perfect woman under your own hands.

4

Coventry Words

Narcissist by Adam Barrett, Mechanical Engineering Look up at the beautiful people As he looks down on you From his shaky pedestal Sparkling eyes cite celestial Loathing a godly view of self Is surely blasphemy Rip open his chest See where his heart should rest Hear the angel’s forked tongue Spit poisonous words Protecting a shell-like ear Harsh words he can’t stand to hear A man that thinks himself better Never thinks much Perfect in every, foregone conclusion Mirrors crack and shatter the delusion Look up at the disfigured wretch A victim of his own venom Turn away from those milky pupils Devoid of love, life and scruples

A Hard Home to Call Home by Matthew Barton, English and Creative Writing Sometimes going home is hard.

What waits for you I wonder?

A wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, brother, a lover, sister, stranger, mother.

An illness, stillness, a still-seated congress.

A silence, untenable, a wrongness, congenital.

You leave behind a chosen flock to sit with your given sheep, Anchors tie you to a block and the wounds they leave run deep.

The ones you leave behind don’t know, and why should they, it’s your lot.

They leave with laugh and joke and song, but you already feel the rot.

At home is where the best and worst of everyone is shown.

I could have, should have been a bird, when old enough, just flown.

But memories are fonder now and my bitterness aside, My life and purpose are my own; and I alone decide.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

5

The One by Jean StĂŠphane Calteau, Psychology

A Message to a True Friend by Theresa Roe, English

Let me hear you, God of Heaven Yelling off your chest her precious name.

My friend, I will always remember you as a little girl with such a big imagination.

Your spirit was filled with so much joy, hope and happiness, which will live on inside every person you have met. Your love will always fill people with joy.

A bright stone to me eternally given A gift deserved through pain and sorrow Built and designed from your fading fingers.

An angel from the lost world, arisen You were made to guard my temple Source of silence you thirsted my quest.

I am your capture, I am your servant I will never defeat your leniency Indeed, You are my prophecy.

Let me pray, God of Heaven For the One that My Heart once chose To seal our love together at the sunrise Our vows will marry our hearts forever more.

Let me sculpt a kiss called Eternity Engraved in the shield of my devotion Sixty-five are the years to come Until our bodies at dusk will close.

Let me God of Heaven Dance with my spouse until tomorrow Before the rain of the ages falls on our flesh Like the leaves in autumn can fold and perish On the ground shovelled when the wind blows.

My friend, you will always be my inspiration.

When I feel weak I will always remember the strength you had which will always encourage me to be strong in this world.

My friend, sitting here watching the world go by without you brings tears to my eyes.

Whenever there is a rainbow in the sky I know that will be your way of smiling down on us. Each fallen feather will let us know that you are our guardian angel.

My friend, I hold onto you inside my memory. Your laughter echoes inside my mind, reminding me how happy you were.

My friend, we are not ready to say goodbye. The best things always happened when you were here with us. If I keep holding onto our friendship I know it will never end. You will always be inside our hearts, your spirit will live forever.

Goodbye my friend, you may be gone, but I will always know you’re near.

6

Coventry Words

Gin and Tonic by Ebony Ashantai, English and Creative Writing The women want “rights” while the soldiers go to fight but I just want my Gin and Tonic Every minute there’s a siren “Bang!” another life’s gone but I just want my Gin and Tonic Survival of the fittest who’s next on the hit-list?

I just want my Gin and Tonic Then a bomb suddenly drops and the pub falls to rocks whilst my heart slowly stops My glass breaks my hand shakes my body aches Now through the rocks spills my Gin and Tonic...

Weightless by Lyle Weir, English Positive transmissions Calling heaven to earth.

I am weightless.

Free fall perspectives Becoming focused Breathing techniques.

So when I think Of this I smile.

When I dream I am alive.

Distant paragraphs Of clear thought and design.

Stimulation brought forth And catches my fire.

I feel alive.

Here in the spaces Between the unknown; It dances on water.

Feet barely touching The surface.

Instantaneous revelations.

The skin makes pastel murals That cascade out onto concrete, As the sun turns each Tile a vibrant colour; Primary and bright.

Neon signs that reflect In puddles; Creating alternate worlds.

Celestial blankets.

Covering blue in black.

Holes punched through as The heavens ignite.

Star covered canopy; They are a billion strong.

Each bringing new life And purpose to us all.

Moments of contemplation For a weightless mind.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

7

Things unknown but longed for still by Skye Bebbington, Geography and Natural Hazards Jasmine honeysuckle infiltrates my nostrils I am a sceptic but I have a compulsion to escape into first adulterous passions explore my charred dreams and burnt aspirations to have knowledge, exhilaration and impulsive adultery to drown in transparent whites and to feel the flicker of hot tongue inhabiting intimacy locked in young milky tight flesh our frantic haste was a means to be destroyed fabrication and using ourselves. Then to hold a delirium of fear every month - but when the blood comes a sigh of relief a child to be nurtured is not what I had planned for us I have it for us to get lost in the dripping holes of each other, to inflame our limbs two souls caught in the in-between, finding the balance of interplay and foreplay

I Know by Christopher Aiyeoribe, Business I know of a place where home is but a fond memory and those that once belonged to our past have turned into nothing more but the sour after taste of an undeserving punch.

A place where the old have come full circle only to stretch and burst into flames, fireflies that flicker like light switches being turned on and off tainting the flawless night sky.

Where the sweet taste of nostalgia hangs in the air and loiters on the skin of those who were told their good deeds wouldn’t go unpunished where the good die young, but so too the bad.

A place where institutionalisation, doesn’t take place in the mind but on the golden yellow brick road, which mapped out the pathway to the churches and the schools our future generations were told they had to attend.

I know of a place where trust is love and love is the truth, separate from us, as the homeless beg for change, only to be repaid in coins.

Smooth faced preachers would have us believe love, yes love is the answer, whilst on a different side of the very same coin corrupt politicians speak of unity, reform, harmony and I blame the people, why?

Because the only reason we ever entertain love and its policies are when we felt we could interpret it however we saw fit.

And it gets worse because I know of a place where the ambient, aromatic spices of good will and free nature have been lost in the melting pot used to serve fine five star dishes for advocates of Capitalism.

Where dictatorship engages in unruly bouts with democracy, only to pummel the worst out of a good situation and those higher up have indoctrinated the masses into believing religion will save you, whilst with the most sinister of smiles smoke away the rich bone marrow of yesterday’s unsung heroes.

But it’s not so bad because I know of a place where the daffodils stand domineering, as high as street lamps, where the only form of light comes from below, glistening, yes, glistening like the evergreen promise of a better tomorrow.

A place where the sun in all its boundless beauty showers down rays a plenty, so if wished for we could walk for days on end, whilst watching the future meander in its uncharted course, somewhere in the far distance undisturbed.

Wouldn’t that be amazing?

So close your eyes with me, close your eyes and imagine a place where time is man-made and inception is self-incurred so the only thing that keeps us bound to reality are the vines that connect to our wooden crutches and the leash that stretches all the way back to our sterile wheelchairs.

8

Coventry Words

But lastly I know of a place where we kissed once, where your smile isn’t so worn, where the sky didn’t grieve and the earth didn’t look so withered.

But as I look around all these familiar and unfamiliar faces I realise that same place reminds me of here, but it isn’t home.

My Own Earth by Dermot Connaughton, English and Creative Writing Worlds can easily bathe and feed themselves, so let’s permit them to drown in proud history long ago, so very far from now. Their popularity presumably forged by others can be hammered as well.

You have leave, to leave like autumn, since health and blade root from mine, as Ireland is my Earth, that unreachable idea for slaves to logical understanding; it’s too kind and loyal to elaborate, or exchange for peace in this world, sleeping for all time.

My green land, my undead laughter, my dusty handshake, my rainy flower, my successful novel (by ploughing content than in critical success) that’s been sculpted by one who’s farmed, once so young and diligent, now ruthlessly keen for publishing. My love-sick tear, my white-haired pint, my rubble tower that serves willingly as a wrinkled castle for sacrificial lovers, verging on speech, that will cry through smiling for their softly beating hills.

Every Little Detail’s a Special Delight

by Esther Titilayo Akinola Take heed … focus less on the predominately obvious and rummage around the crumbs. Yes! Look further, because the bigger picture is no better than the bits and pieces that it comprises of. They mould it. For indeed this phenomenon you cherish is a by-product of the imperceptible fragments that constructs it. What good is a portrait without the delicate canvas it is embedded upon? Zoom in on the smaller scale because ‘every little detail’s a special delight’ that way, one can explore and cherish each masterful fragment so that when we zoom out, the overall concept of ‘this’ bigger picture glistens through the aid of each particle.

Journey by Halima Neva, English The moon spat in my face that night, and the stars poked me in the eyes.

They made fun of the unwinding of my heartstrings, whilst they tangled and crossed with the waves from my brain.

They didn’t understand that not everything is written in the sky or the stars, they didn’t understand that I could write my own future.

Instead the shooting stars bruised my skin and confused my brain, they showed me something that was written down for me, they didn’t understand that I could erase parts I didn’t like of myself, or of my future, and so I did just that.

And so that’s the journey it took to be with you today.

My immortal people, my caring strangers now my best friends through acknowledging my existence, all for their heart’s land.

My princess, white with strangling hair, bloomed from adversity and grey roses, whose petals and thorns grow harmoniously without end, my voice of hers crying through windy seas. My saviour, my Christ, my weathered wing that makes me pass over into eternities of the past in the present, through the imagining and thoughts of a raining God, suffering cheeringly through gold drink. My fire, my King.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

9

The Bank of my Mind by Jasbir-Kaur Sandhu, Human Resource Management Blessed are the thoughts of my lustful, greedy, angered, emotionally attached, egotistical pride; for buying shares in the bank of my mind.

With the mercy of my Guru, I withdraw a sum of fear and I invest in the name of VaheGuru who always keeps my credit line clear.

Ode to Starlight, by John Mallett, English Beneath the blanket of night where sound dwells silent in airless slumber far atop the drifting mass deeper than the palest blue far past the glory of light aflame through treacherous coats of weightless rock beyond where immediacy casts its shade and further than our ships may sail a thumping silence, doldrums sound becalmed amongst a million candles dwarfed by endless screaming dark and dead before we know they shine a pale echo long ablaze I will gaze upon the corpses the all enshrouding cosmic tomb and allow myself to live the lie that the brightest stars, never die

Ode to a Warm Dog Turd by Raef Boylan, English and Creative Writing Shall I compare thee to a warm dog turd?

You are as pungent; something to avoid; Mistake regretted, like a sentence slurred.

Love pulled me under when it should have buoyed.

Scoop up reminders (bag ‘em and bin ‘em), Flush toilet-bowl heart and scrub at the stains.

Sometimes you lose and sometimes you win ‘em Say flies caught in cobwebs on window panes – Reminding me that things could be much worse, Although we both know there once was a time I saw no future, other than a hearse, And all because you were no longer mine.

Dogs and people are full of the same stuff But we don’t admit it, and call ours ‘love’.

10

Coventry Words

All Live in Fog by Marek Lach, English and Creative Writing Right next to the city road, like soldiers deep in the fight, many workers active day/night.

In rain they cover what is yet not ready to face the world, right next to the city road.

There is no graveyard in weak light, which one has, but is always out, many workers active day/night.

Such situation is hardly solved; the only help is much their own, right next to the city road.

Pieces of gear is what they have, here are no dangers to surpass by, many workers active day/night.

Nowhere in sight are carved names, but in a graveyard they stay always right next to the city road, many workers active day/night.

A Land That Never Was by Marek Lach, English and Creative Writing It crumbles up and down the street, ending too soon and then repeat though in architecture more varied, than modern cities massively crowded.

And on such map that’s detailed enough, every house drawn on as if it mattered, for in such setting they look noble, hidden behind trees and gentle flowers.

One inn and post office on the corner, if you want more then move out of here, there is no work, but we are fine at home, we have lights, but would rather use candles.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

11

Instability by Tim Dubbelman, English and Creative Writing When I was younger I always used to think the Daleks were particularly scary, especially when they patched up the chink in their armour, and made the Doctor wary.

When you realise the enemy at the gate has a tank which can defy the laws of physics; float over your guns, levitate it’s a state which makes any sane man pause.

No longer are automata victims of the high-rise.

One push or a dodge and they share the fate of grandma in her wheelchair, the very same look in their eyes as a foot slips on a step and the roar turns into a stammer, then the squeal of a pig like ED-209, stuck on its back and no longer roaring like a Jaguar.

Nowadays we introduce a little instability: Enter ASIMO with an AK like, “Hey, remember me?

I used to be the golden boy in modern robotology.

But climbing stairs is not a trick when every other robot leaps tall buildings in a single bound like Superman, or can fall apart and pull itself back into shape again.”

Of course, in that case I guess we’d just flip a switch.

I bet Honda’s star child can’t stand up to a big magnet.

And he doesn’t climb stairs all that quickly, we could make a getaway by shoving a dresser in front of the nearest doorway.

But that won’t work in fifty years, when the next big leap comes: Already we’ve got scientists teaching robots how to jump.

12

Coventry Words

How to Make a Poet by Tim Dubbelman, English and Creative Writing Step 1: take a human, Young, new, a blank slate, And stuff him with: Words Letters Beauty Light Happiness Hope And the knowledge that they can be what they want to be.

Step 2: mix with other humans.

Allow a few years to mingle, Make friends Gain LIFE EXPERIENCE Let them learn that words are power, that emotion is beautiful and happiness is everywhere.

Note: at around the fourteen-year mark, you may see a rise in poetry and the emergence of dark clothes and a pale complexion. THIS IS NOT THE FINISHED PRODUCT. Skim the surface to get rid of terrible poetry, add more hope and stew for another few years.

Step 3: now put your poet in another place with other humans, and say,

YOU ARE DIFFERENT YOU ARE WRONG IF YOU ARE NOT LIKE THEM YOU WILL NOT SUCCEED IN LIFE YOU WILL NOT BE RICH YOU WILL NOT HAVE A HIGH-PAYING JOB YOU WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED YOU WILL NOT BE SUCCESSFUL Step 4: wait for your poet to stand up and say “No. I’ll be happy.” Set aside to cool for a few years.

Note: sometimes your poet will instead bow their head and conform. If this happens, clear it away and start again, adding more hope and happiness.

Step 5: pack with inspiration, Other poets Hardships Beauty Truth Injustice and wonder.

Allow a few years to set. Store in a cool, dark place, away from distractions but taking out occasionally to brush with societal injustice and the beauty of life.

A well made poet will keep for generations.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

13

Untitled Poem by Tom Jennings, English and Creative Writing Don’t wake to that same stretch of ceiling:

hop on a freight train from Blind Lemon to Henry Flynt.

And listen.

It will plunge your eyes into red wave skies.

Hear Bad Luck Blues push through drowsy lips, to the floorboard rhythm of the rocking chair swing as mud-matted melodies skim along your soul and the sun falls full in your face.

It’s been all through the mountains and now it’s with you.

Just follow the roots to their soil, Thinking wagons and washboards and fiddlers on rooves, Thinking harmonica drunks howling through motionless moonlit air, And thinking Cane, Rain and Rocking Chairs.

14

Coventry Words

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

15

Short Stories London Tale by Catherine Vortex, Culture and Media The moist, even road somehow reminds of a long black mirror. You make a turn by this stretched vinyl to the bus stops and walk along neat, bossy red houses, along thick fuzzy emerald hedges; cars puff away pompously yet pass by rarely; somebody is going for a walk, some people, talking noisily and gesticulating actively, return from sightseeing. It seems that an unbelievable freshness has been pulverized in the air. Solitary, quiet place. However, soon you step onto a far livelier street. You look around curiously, not even noticing that in 10-15 minutes you are approaching your destination. Deep-blue strip, large white letters. Camden Town. And a double-decker bus, of course – to make the picture complete.

Camden immediately takes your breath away. The place where someone’s tangled dreams spread with the motley carpets over the grey walls, where illusion seems to interweave with an everyday London life, where surrealism is rather a rule, not an exception. Here and there signs of shops that are stuck to each other fascinate you by their uniqueness. A huge red angle-hearted trainer, a word “Scorpion” combined of mechanism details and white clock dial, incredible discoveries and little achievements of this nook of an ultimate extravagance, urban, contemporary, 21-st century fairytale, if you ask me. You glance at Camden Lock in the distance as you look back and get lost a bit as you don’t know where to plunge; you sneak along Regent’s Canal and suddenly drop into the wild whirl of the post-mythical miracles. Gilgamesh. A hint on the completely alien, Sumerial mythology immediately takes you somewhere to the past – is it a lecture of the literature 5 years ago, or is it almost non-existent infinity of the millennium?

16

Coventry Words

Nevertheless, you don’t stop and keep going, throwing your greedy curious glance on your way on the displayed here and there goods of every stripe and kind that could satisfy any need of any customer. This place seems to be drawn with deep, rich oil paint. Every detail is shaped thoroughly and underlined greasy. Each thing – a forged horse’s head or an image with pretty lady, advertising vintage shop – is an entire little tale. You marvel at it all, diving for a while into the street-art on a wall, vanishing between vinyl discs to the loud music – Bowie is near to Sex Pistols, and here, in the black-and-white magnificence shines Marlene Dietrich, and just around corner some odd man on the huge stilts drunkenly offers you to watch him walking – for a small fee only.

As you get tired a little, mesmerized, conquered, you return to the Regent’s Canal and stop for a moment, this time not caught up by the motley string of punks, fashionistas, tourists, and glance at the smooth, glassy water. An aquarelle scenery. Golden fluffy branches down in the unbearable cobalt of the merged sky and water. A whiteness of clouds, an old bridge. It provides the pictorial view of the canal and crowded streets. Suddenly you begin to feel as if you were a character in a fiction book. You hesitate before turning a new page. Too many emotions explode inside your trembling heart. You have a cup of coffee and leisurely, pensively walk home. Just to return here again, by all means, because you can’t see everything in a day. It’s an everlasting miracle. As Camden Town is a place where in the surrealistic splendor of modern urban fairytale thousands of little and big stories have united. And this – is only one of them.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

17

My First Bike by Danny Lennon, Psychology I was five years old when I got my first bike; it was bright red with pictures of Spiderman on. I loved my new bike.

I rode it everywhere: to the park, to the shops, even to school. I would race up and down my front and back garden with cardboard clips attached to the back wheel so it would make motorbike noises. I thought I was great.

I was always careful with my bike even at such a young age, I washed it every day. My parents would laugh at me and say, “All the toys in the world and all you want to do is ride that bike.”

My dad was as tall as a tree, as bold as an eagle and as strong as an ox. He always wanted what was best for me and on my sixth birthday he decided it was a good time to take off my stabilisers. I was so scared and was dead against it. My dad would push me and let go and shout, “Pedal, pedal, pedal”. I kept falling off… I did not like this, it would hurt and I would cry but my dad would just pick me back up and tell me to start again. He never gave up!

Within a week I was riding my bike on two wheels and I was so proud of what I had done, not only had my dad taught me how to ride my bike but he had taught me never to give up.

18

Coventry Words

A few weeks later, still at the tender age of 6, my dad had a heart attack and sadly passed away. I never understood at that age what was going on and that I would never see my dad again.

I remember his funeral like it was just yesterday, people crying and my mum let out an almighty cry, one I will never forget. It sounded like a banshee. People were mulling about the wake talking about how great a guy he was, long lost family members arguing about what type of person he really was, but most of all how good a father he was to me.

I never had many memories of my father apart from how he taught me how to ride my favourite red shiny bike. I also remember his catchphrase, he would always say, “If you give up you will achieve nothing.” This is something I have stuck by to this day.

Back to my red shiny bike… One day I was with my mum down the shops, I had to leave my bike outside for only two minutes and when we returned it had gone. I burst into tears, as all I could think about was my dad and how much he meant to me. The bike meant the world to me; it was my most favourite thing in the whole world.

My mum phoned the police and they were not that helpful as it was only a child’s bike and would be hard to find and prove who it belonged to. My mum and me made posters with pictures of my bike and my dad on. The poster read: “This is the last thing Danny’s dad bought him before he died! Do the right thing and return it or tell us who has it.” We posted the posters through every door in our neighbourhood, 1200 in total. We stuck them to trees, lampposts and shop windows.

Within a week there was a knock at the door and there stood a young scruffy man with my bike beside him, and he said, “I am so sorry for taking the bike, I just wanted to give my son something we cannot afford. I have seen your posters and they brought me to tears as I lost my father at a young age too, but the only memory I have of him is a drunk, abusive man. Please forgive me for my actions.”

My mum took the bike from him and said, “I forgive you but there are more ways to get what you want in life without stealing, thank you for returning the bike.” My mum shut the door and cried.

To this day I do not know why she cried but what was to happen next would stay with me forever and teach me a lesson in life.

The next day we returned to the shop from where my bike was stolen, and the shopkeeper handed her an envelope and said, “A few of us from the neighbourhood have had a whip around to get Danny a new bike, here is what we have collected.” My mum explained what had happened but still took the envelope. We went into town and into a bike shop.

My mum bought a new bike, a light sky blue bike with a picture of a duck on the seat.

Later we went to a house. The front garden was covered in weeds and rubbish, the windows had boards on and a slight stench filled the air. We knocked on the door and the scruffy man who stole my bike answered the door; my mum said, “This is a gift from me to your son, I would like you to take it.” The man said, “But why are you giving this to me when I stole your son’s bike?” My mum did not answer; she just left the bike on the doorstep and led me back home.

It took me a while to understand why my mum had done, what she had done, and it wasn’t until I was about 10 my mum explained why she did it. She said, “There are always people in life who are worse off than yourself, and if you do not help them then who will? Sometimes in life people just need a second chance, a chance to have some happiness.”

I stick by this even today, and as for my little red shiny Spiderman bike, it still has a place in my heart, and in my loft.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

19

Untitled by Kerry Jones, Contemporary Arts Practice He was curiously made up, dressed in a black three-quarter length wool coat, under that wearing a shiny black zip-top with yellow female figures running down the sleeves. Under that he wore a black v-neck top with a white v-neck top underneath; he had mid-blue jeans and brown trainers made to look slightly worn and a silver watch on his right wrist, and two silver necklaces - one had a pendant. He was carrying a dark brown satchel. Inside the satchel he carried two books and a leather notebook.

On the London tube he read other people’s newspapers.

The shiny metal underground was clean, a reminder of the metro in Paris. He watched a rail serviceman cleaning the underground maps - how thoroughly he cleaned them. One of his books was Andre Breton’s ‘Nadja’ - Nadja means ‘hope’. Nobody knows if Andre Breton’s romance with Nadja was real; she put anxiety into objects and Andre Breton conceived it was art; the other book is untitled.

She wore grey as undecided how to feel about this meeting, and waited to be told how crazy this was. Instead he said, precisely, to be careful of how she looked, going so far in a greyness that she would stand out in some awfulness. Under-dressed and over-exposed to the weather, the items of clothes were a grey jacket, grey jeans and brown shapeless leather boots tucked under the grey jeans.

They looked into shoe shop windows. The women’s shoes had matching bags and were uniformed in shape, the same with the bags only the patterns and colours were different despite being the same tone. She had a problem with these small simple bags, and her feet looked clumpy while looking at the dainty stilettos.

They looked into furniture and model car shop windows, and observed a small house made for one or two people.

They walked past theatres; he pointed to a poster of The Producers musical. They were supposed to be visiting independent galleries, but most were closed due to building renovation, or had signs stating back in 5 minutes, so instead they watched and listened to things that passed them by.

20

Coventry Words

Walking through the London streets he pointed to a blue mosaic set with a shifting white horse within its centre, itself fixed within a square frame and placed in a window two floors up. The shop below was set on a corner in the shape of a triangle. Upon entering he pointed to lava lamps and small handmade storybooks centred on local life each costing £10.

They visited an exhibition. Along the walls were images to do with the seasons in the calendar year. In the centre of the space white ticker tape fell out from a machine above only to join with an already gathered heap of whiter ticker tape. Both walked through it and stood under it. In front of the heap was an arched trellis also in white. She stood in front of it, while he stood on the other side. He asked if she had seen enough, and should they leave.

They returned to the London underground, with so many people she got caught up in the throng of pedestrians heading in another direction. He travelled up the escalator, at first she did not see so he called out.

Outside it started to snow, he told her she needed a hat.

They walked the streets to find a café, too cold to sit and drink outside. The café inside had lighting of Baroque architecture - an air of Paris returned. They waited to be seated. Sitting next to another table at the end of the row he took his black wool coat off, she could now see the yellow female figures running down his sleeves. He watched her. She pretended to unconsciously not notice.

They waited to be served. Parallel to their table was a two-person table against a wall where an elderly couple sat. He pointed to them. She looked while their cake was being served, and the male discretely tied a bow on his lover’s sleeve so for it not to dip into her slice of cake. She pretended not to notice while continuing her rhyme of talking and eating. She saw his two silver necklaces again, and her ordered coffee; the cup was too big. Embarrassed, ashamed, she could not lift it.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

21

Broken Lullaby by Ebony Ashantai, English and Creative Writing The disposition of her body was uneasy. Her mind unconsciously span in a violent whirlwind of despondency and despair. It was similar to that of a ballerina, determined to dance delicately to the uncomfortable and painful vibrations of heavy metal. Sleep was her way of temporary escapism, even if only for an hour or two, she could mentally disperse into euphoria. Her bed was damp with perspiration. Subconsciously she rolled over, and clung tighter to her soft and cuddly comfort.

Jeremy bustled after her, to protect her from any oncoming vehicles. His eyes were fixed on Tia as she stretched her arms for Mickey Mouse’s embrace. Jeremy, however, did not realise that the traffic ahead had cleared up, and it was this precise moment that the driver of the red Range Rover had decided to press his foot down a little harder on the accelerator. The cold metal collided with Jeremy’s fragile frame, flinging him violently onto the hard unwelcoming concrete. His body lay motionless.

The window was barely open, but the fire-infused flash of lightning was dominant in the room for a second, predictably followed by an out roar of thunder. The rain began to cascade vigorously on the windows and rooftop, leaving an empty echo throughout the house. Opposite her room, was her mother’s, Sandy. On entering, you were rudely welcomed by an overwhelming aroma of toxic waste. The floor stained with red wine and a thick layer of filth. The walls were cloudy white, although signs of damp were obvious. The television, isolated on the wardrobe, showed nothing but static fuzz with a deafening monotone pitch.

Sandy poured her sixth glass of vodka for the evening and sat upright in her bed. She gazed into space for a moment, and then jumped up suddenly. She put on her silk robe, fluffy slippers and rapidly made her way across the hallway to her daughter’s bedroom. Sandy began to knock on Tia’s door with some hostility. Not long after, she burst into Tia’s room and perched herself at the bottom of the bed. In fright, Tia let out a yell, rubbed her eyes, sat up and stared at her mother. In a hushed tone Sandy murmured, “It was your fault.” Her voice now rising, “You took him from me.

From the day you were born.”

Sandy lay on her side, with her knees high and held tightly by her arms. Hunched like a foetus, she rocked gently.

A tear drizzled down her cheek, but as usual she tried to obliterate her emotions by singing herself a soft lullaby.

“Everything will be okay, as Jesus always paves the way, he will take my pain away, and turn my darkness into day.”

This was the daily routine for Sandy now; she would lie in bed and cry herself to sleep, singing a soothing lullaby.

It hadn’t always been this way. At first she coped fine; she told herself she had to be strong for Tia’s sake. After a year, reality kicked in, and it was blatant something was missing.

Things had never been the same since her husband, Jeremy, had passed away.

Jeremy and Tia were in the West End. It was a Saturday afternoon and as usual it was busy and congested with people. It was such a warm day, buzzing with a vivacious atmosphere. Tia was dressed in a pink mini shorts and t-shirt set, with her favourite Disney princess, Cinderella, printed on it. Her sandals were buckled neatly around her ankles, the strands of her hair in unison, brushed into the neatest bun. She had big and beautiful eyes, her pupils filled with innocence and joy, and she smiled sweetly, holding her father’s hand securely. Jeremy had a slender physique, with ruffled mousy brown hair, a silver hoop in his left ear, and pearly white teeth that always produced a heartfelt smile.

Tia and Jeremy were standing at the crossing, waiting for the lights to turn green, when Tia let go of her father’s hand and suddenly darted across the road with frantic energy. She had seen a group of people dressed as Disney characters on a quest to raise money for charity. Startled,

22

Coventry Words

Tears ran down Tia’s face as she consumed the words her mother spat. “He spent most of his time with you. He made sure he tucked you in at night and sung to you until you eventually fell asleep. He came into your room each and every morning, and greeted you with a hug, kiss and hot chocolate.” Tia’s mind began to drift away, as she reminisced on those sweet memories she shared with her father. Those had been the happiest times of her life.

Sandy turned her back to Tia now, and with a blank expression, she set her eyes on the white walls in front of her. In a quieter voice now, she expressed, “From when you were a baby I sensed it. When you cried, I would try my best to hush you. I would rock and hug you, with desperate attempts to ease your pain or discomfort. All it would take was one grin from your father and you would smile again. I despise you. Even till his death, he was watching over you.

You ruined everything.”

Tia blocked her ears in order to drown out her mother’s drunken voice. She began to hum a lullaby her father had written, but never had the chance to finish. In a soft and sweet tone, she sang, “Even at night, the stars shine bright, so in every dark time, there will always be light.”

Sandy inhaled and let out a powerful, pulsating scream.

Her body shook, and she burst into tears. She lay down next to Tia and shut her eyes, whimpering quietly with an occasional increase of breath. Tia cradled her mum in her arms and rocked her gently. She dismissed the stench of alcohol that suffocated her mother, and snuggled up close to her in bed.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

23

One Blink or Two by Rachel Hughes, Adult Nursing My eyes are closed, birds are tweeting, the ocean breeze caresses my face, and the sand is warm beneath my back.

“We’re going to make you more comfortable, Alison…” a soft voice sounds, and I try to turn towards it, but I can’t.

“It’s not like she can hear you…” a rough voice says, further away…

“You don’t know that,” the soft voice is closer now, and I try to let them know I can hear them, that I’m here. But I can’t, and as I drift back to sleep, I wonder where ‘here’ is.

When I wake next, I know exactly where I am; the scent of the sea has been replaced by disinfectant. What I thought was sand beneath me is a soft mattress, and as I open my painful eyes I see a panelled ceiling. Morbid curiosity tells me to look around, but I realise I cannot move, that I am frozen in place. My heart races, and my eyes search frantically for something, anything familiar.

They find a nurse, whose blonde hair sits in a bun on top of her head; her blue eyes are kind as she smiles reassuringly.

When she steps forward and places her hand gently over mine, I am still panicking, but I trust her immediately.

“Alison, I’m Leila,” I recognise her soft voice instantly. “Can you hear me?”

I want to nod, say yes, squeeze her hand - but nothing works, and I start to panic, hear the quickening beeps of a heart monitor. But Leila is calm, and her hand rests soothingly on my arm.

“I know this is scary, Alison,” she says softly. “But if you can hear me, please blink twice.”

She has patient, understanding eyes; I hesitate for only a moment before doing as she asks. She smiles, keeping hold of my hand as she asks me simple questions, to which I respond with one blink, or two.

When she introduces Dr Michaels, he asks her to stay; if I could thank him, I would. Instead, I meet his brown eyes, and I blink twice for ‘yes’.

It is tiresome, and lonely, to lie unspeaking and unmoving, with the same four walls for company. I am not always alone; nurses and carers come in every day, though I recognise few of them. They wash me, change me, dress me in clothes they’ve stretched over my rigid limbs, change my catheter and swap my IV bags, but then they move on with their day. Now and then, I receive a ‘good morning’, but I am lucky even to get that. I feel everything; I see everything; I hear everything. But everyone seems unaware.

‘But nurses’ days are long and hard. So when they handle me a little too roughly, or pretend not to notice my blinking to get their attention, I remind myself they are busy, with many patients, and they don’t have the time to decipher my

24

Coventry Words

blinkered riddles. No nurse is perfect, I tell myself, as they roll me side-to-side, discussing the crawl of traffic along the motorway that brought me to hell. No nurse is perfect, I think, as they move me up the bed, dissecting the minor details of the love lives I can’t have. No nurse is perfect, I repeat, as they monitor my fluids, complaining about disagreements with children I can never bear. No nurse is perfect. Except for Leila. She walks in now; smiles at me, talks to me in that musically beautiful way the others have forgotten – like I’m the most normal person on earth.

I have an alphabet board which my therapist has recommended, but looking at it for too long hurts my eyes, so for now Leila sits, patiently asks me questions, and I continue to answer, with one blink or two. The door opens, the heavy tread of shoes and the rough voice from the beach telling me Brutus is here; it’s 6pm and time to change my position. I tried to refuse a few times, but after two days and an admittedly sore left buttock, I gave in, so as Leila walks over to ask my permission, I pre-empt her, and I blink twice. “Let’s get this done,” Brutus says, “I need to be out on time, and if Mr Doltman isn’t in the loo by half past, I won’t make it.”

Leila walks into my line of sight as she says, “Alison, Matt-” that must be his real name, “-has a date this evening – isn’t that nice?” Her voice is sarcastic, and if I could laugh, I would; instead, I blink once. “Is it alright if we change your position now?”

She acts deliberately, methodically, taking time over every task and talking me through everything, as though to make a point. Brutus mutters something about talking to vegetables, and I would punch him, but I can’t move my hands. So I close my eyes, and fight back tears as Leila rolls me onto my back, removes the sliding sheet from beneath me, and politely asks him to step outside.

I hear the door close, and nothing else, until they come back in. But I guess what’s been said, because Brutus has put himself in my eye-line, and for the first time his green eyes meet mine; there is a slight flash of annoyance, but after I hold his gaze for a moment, it is replaced by a flicker of guilt.

“I’m sorry, Alison,” he says, and his tone is softer and kinder than I have heard before. “I- is it okay if I call you Alison?”

I hesitate, but then I blink twice, and he looks relieved. “Can we reposition you properly now?” he asks, and I blink twice again. This time, as they roll me gently between them, Matt speaks to both of us in a surprisingly soft voice, explaining what he is doing, even apologising when he removes the blanket and I am left slightly chilled.

When they are done, and I am left comfortably propped on my right side, I catch Leila’s eye; I wish I could smile – a big smile, all teeth and dimples. But I can’t, so just for a moment, I hold her gaze, and I blink three times.

She understands, and nods and smiles, then in a soft voice that I am certain Matt can’t hear, she adds, “It’s my pleasure.”

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

25

The Sordid Adventures of Buck Fandango by Joseph Griffin, English and Creative Writing You know that you have a magnificent beard when you wake up in the morning choking on it. The hairnet I usually wear had slipped off during the night and was lost somewhere in the mess of my hammock. A lesser man may have thought that almost dying when you wake up is a bad omen, but not I, I’m Buck Fandango, time-travelling space pirate extraordinaire. I don’t just laugh in the face of Death; I drop ice cubes down his back and hump his wife while he’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom.

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. I’ve seen men wear denim on denim and manage to pull it off. I’ve seen monsters with no mouths but ten thousand ravenous arses.

I’ve seen someone play guitar better than Hendrix. When I’m dead, all these moments will be lost forever; like pizza down the side of a sofa.

Today was an important day. I was going to rob the SS Buck-trap of all its gold and rum. Why? Because gold is a valid currency at any time in history and rum tastes great. I put on my Smiths t-shirt, my tights and my flowery red skirt; because in the future no one judges. Maybe you should remember that. I put my magnificent black beard through its bobble, put in my silver teeth and put on my eye patch.

I may have two fully functioning eyes, but it’s the style that matters, like wearing fingerless gloves even when it’s not cold. I was ready.

I stepped through the trans-dimensional portal, out of the Booty Dimension, my home, and into the dining hall of the Buck-trap, straight into a bowl of blancmange. It’s a simple procedure I’ve done hundreds of times, I shake the pudding out of my tights, make a few threats, wave my gun around, and they bring me the gold and the rum.

But today there was a complication; a pretty girl dressed as the Eiffel Tower was eyeing me from across the room. I swaggered over, all charm and sophistication. I shook what remained of the pudding out of my tights. I said ‘Hey baby.

How ‘bout I take you upstairs to the solar gallery and show you what Buck likes to do?’ She giggled and told me her name was Honey. We left her husband behind and went to the gallery, passing a mother trying to persuade her son to eat his greens. “All I’m saying,” she was saying, “is give peas a chance.” I vomited all over her, to the applause of my audience. Vegetables are bad enough, but to impugn John Lennon with that horrible pun is worse than losing a karaoke competition, the greatest tragedy imaginable.

To my horror all I found in the solar gallery was a fat bald man in a wedding dress waiting for us; my arch-nemesis Maximus Horse and not Buckaroo after all. That’s what I call sex by the way. I also call it doing the Fandango, which is why I’m banned from most of the popular discotheques in the universe. ‘Thank you Miss Pot, you may leave us,’ Horse told her. Honey Pot I should have known! Horse began his usual long boring monologue about how he’d waited years for this moment, how the lack of subtlety and grace in my outfit disgusted him, all the while pacing in front

26

Coventry Words

of the gallery window, the blue sun shining through behind him.

He’d hated me from the day I’d beaten him in a game of ultimate spoon fighter champion, a game I’d made up on the spot and was now a galactic sport. What you did was, get two spoons, two bowls of sugar and one empty, and then with spoon in mouth, race your opponent in how fast you could empty your full bowl into the empty one. I cheated by using my hands. Horse has never forgiven me.

Or maybe it was because I accidently killed and ate his dog. It’s a long story but I can sum it up in one word: meth.

There is a reason I had to replace my teeth after all. I picked silver so I could fight off the werewolves of Lycaon VI, who as it turned out were actually very hospitable three weeks out of four. But then every full moon they became human until the savagery in their hearts woke up.

Anyway that’s enough back-story. I waited for my chance, and then it came. A solar flare lit up the gallery, blinding me instantly, and proving that the anti-health and safety campaigns of the last few centuries were wrong. I bared my silver teeth, reflecting the solar rays right back into Horse’s eyes. He screamed, I laughed and changed my eye patch to the other side, restoring my vision. ‘Style baby!’ I shouted and made my escape, activating the emergency translocation button on my utility belt, transporting me back into the booty dimension and into a bowl of banana custard. It was a dull day.

Man of Madrid by Sharmeen Chowdhury, English Even with the thick sweetness of liquor on his tongue, he is still alive. Madrid is now an awful city to him. Beautiful, but no longer available. Not when he is thrown out on the streets by men who used to be his friends. Not when the rain leaves the concrete and seeps through his clothes, sending shivers through his skin. He was still a man of Madrid. But no one else thought so because they didn’t let him step into church and ignored his music. Big majestic buildings look down on him in shame. “I killed your fiancé in this bar, señorita,” he sings to the ground, as if it were her listening. His lady. The woman he could never have.

The court had spared me but this city is punishing me.

He could kill his enemies. Take them down like clay pigeons. He was always good with the guns. But his enemies are stony gargoyles that will never erode in precipitation. Not like him, the dying soul who refused to rise again. The puddle of rain reflects his handsome face. His five o’clock shadow has grown longer, into a short beard. He crawls but does not get up. Looking into the puddles, he sees himself. His brows furrow into the broadness of his forehead where his shaggy hair spills over.

A sigh of despair leaves his lips. What had he become?

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

27

The Elevator by Victoria Bradley, English An elevator is your vehicle to the stars, as you make your choices on the sparkling pad it accelerates you upwards.

Strangers come and go from your elevator; some do not stay for very long whilst others stay for years; however, not all these visitors are welcome. Unwanted and venomous some come and linger like a foul stench intoxicating your elevator. Time passes and this unwelcome visitor refuses to leave.The stench begins to grow, spreading itself out, making itself at home; it reaches into the furthest corners of the elevator, suffocating everything in its path. It seeps into the walls painting them with a thick decay, sealing the doors shut, trapping you inside it. A few kind strangers on

28

Coventry Words

the outside press the button, calling for it to stop and open the doors, to let the stench out and set you free but it is too late now. No-one can hear you anymore. You become weak from the intoxicating fumes as they begin to poison you; you are no longer in control of the elevator. What was once an energy propelling upwards, heading for the stars is now a suffocating cage weighed down with rot. It begins to plummet, slowly at first as you try to control it but you have to give up; you are not strong enough anymore. The chains holding the elevator are decayed and rotten, they crumble and the elevator falls into darkness.

Cars by Samantha Campbell, English and Creative Writing Cars have always been a statement-thing to me. When I was working as a writer with a small income, I drove a second hand family Volvo. The clutch stuck in second gear, the wife complained that I was useless and the kids asked why Daddy couldn’t afford anything better. My daughter didn’t understand words like literature and passion, all that mattered was new clothes and toys. When I took a corporate job, my first pay cheque went on a huge flashy Lamborghini. I sold my soul in return for my wife’s approval, and she left me for a man with a cramped red Mini. The kids couldn’t fit into it.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

29

Short stories for young adults Kick-Start by Raef Boylan, English and Creative Writing “Score today, kiddo?”

He asks the same question every Saturday, before I’ve had a chance to sling my carrier bag full of kit onto the backseat. Terry likes to keep his car clean so I have to hop around in the gravel and broken glass trying to peel off my boots. Even though I’m knackered after training, sometimes I wish I could just walk home. Between the seat-belt digging into my neck, Terry demanding a playby-play account of the session and my little sister’s childlocks preventing any escape, the short ride home every Wednesday is about as comfortable as a torture-rack.

“Nah,” I say as I slide in and close the door. The floor mat feels like a cold, rubbery waffle under my sweaty socks.

“We just did laps and dribbled in and out the cones again.”

“Bloody hell, we’ll never make a Ronaldo out of you at this rate!” says Terry.

“Nope.” I balance my school-bag on my knees as he reverses out of the school car-park and swerves sharply round the corner. Scatty, grey-haired Mrs. Houghton swings her car out in front, beating us through the gate and to the end of the driveway; Terry tuts and drums his fingers on the steering-wheel impatiently. It always seems like drivers are racing each other, even when it’s pointless because they only gain an inch of road by over-taking.

“Been practising your headers? You’ve just got to go for it, as long as you use the right part of your head it doesn’t hurt.”

“It did hurt, that last time,” I say.

“Yeah but that’s because it hit your nose. The clue’s in the name: use your head!”

I’m fiddling with the zippers on my school bag, flicking them so the dangling plastic bits swing back and forth like pendulums. They remind me of the Newton’s Cradle in the corner of Miss Khan’s classroom. She’s filled the room with cool stuff to inspire us when she sets still-life drawing exercises. It feels like a museum when you’re wandering around, but you’re allowed to touch the displays – Miss Khan encourages it, she says we should explore objects with all our senses. We grope our way around the cold curves of vases and wood-pipes, sniff the salt crystals lodged inside sea-shells and absorb the calming clink of the Newton’s Cradle balls. “…check out the pro players on YouTube,” Terry is saying, “and copy what they do.”

30

Coventry Words

“Cheers. Yeah, good idea,” I say, wondering what I’m agreeing with. Sometimes, late at night, I pretend I’m back in Miss Khan’s class. It’s weird sharing a bedroom with a step-brother you only met nine months ago. Mark’s fifteen; sometimes he farts in bed and laughs about it. Our radiator gurgles and thuds while the floorboards creak like something is steadily creeping its way around the house – Mark can block it all out by plugging into the American guys screaming on his iPod, but I have to concentrate hard on being elsewhere. Always Miss Khan’s classroom, with the paint-spattered sink, Dali on the walls and lopsided shelf crammed with art history books. I hypnotise myself into believing I’m sitting at my desk with a clean pad of paper and every piece of art equipment you could imagine at my disposal, and Miss Khan coaxing me with words of encouragement. Nothing can disturb or harm me there, so – “What do you reckon?” Terry’s staring at me in the rear-view mirror like he’s been waiting a while for an answer.

“Sorry, say again?”

“I said: what do you reckon to some new footy boots for your birthday? Decent bit of gear, Adidas or something.

How’s that sound?”

“Er…yeah, nice one. Ta.” I bid a silent farewell to the box of high-quality oil pastels I’d been planning to ask for. Terry swivels to give me a quick thumbs-up and then his eyes are back on the road ahead. Discreetly, I unzip my bag and carefully slide out the folder. It’s been on my mind all afternoon. Miss Khan helped me collect a few of my best homework pieces into a portfolio. It’s really cool, I feel like a serious artist. Part of me wants Terry to notice the folder when he glances in the mirror, to ask me what I’ve got.

Another part of me is prepared to lunge for the steering wheel, crash the car into a brick wall and die in a fireball rather than let Terry see the contents of this folder. When I’ve finished a piece of art, I’m always tense and torn: I want to show people, to share what I’ve created, but at the same time I’m reluctant to expose my work to their judgement.

The tug-of-war between pride and embarrassment makes my stomach hurt. We’ll be home in ten minutes. I like looking out the windows of moving cars; the world beyond, like a used palette covered in smudges, gets kind of blurry and blotchy until colour is the main thing that matters. We slow down to stop at the traffic lights and it’s as if my eyes come back in focus – instead of flickering shades of green, I see trees. One of the pictures in my portfolio is an oak tree overhanging a river bank. I’m really proud of how the movement of the water is visibly rippling around the tree’s roots, but it still doesn’t look real. Like, really real. I sort of messed up the shading, maybe that’s why.

“Imagine that, Andy!” Terry says, chuckling to himself.

“Eh?” “Clean your ears out! Picture this, right: World Cup, England vs. Brazil or something…”

I hate being forced to imagine stuff. Grownups try to control everything, but my thoughts are my own, nobody else should be poking about in there.

We’re two streets away from home. I open up the folder and slip out the first painting to check it over again.

Miss Khan gave me the idea: she said I should try to communicate with Terry through art. It took me a while to get what she meant. I try to say Terry’s name but it gets stuck in my throat.

“Look at this, Paul from next-door’s nicked my space again,” he’s muttering.

We park two cars further down the road, the familiar squeaky crunch of the hand-brake signalling that we’ve arrived. It’s now or never. I lean forward and drop the painting onto the passenger seat.

“What’s this?” says Terry.

I shrug. “Thing I did in art. Painted it.”

He lifts it by the edges and props the paper up on the steering wheel, examining my work while my stomach squirms its way into a tight knot. “This is the park round the corner, ain’t it?” he asks. I nod. “And is this you playing football, this lad here?”

I shake my head, “None of them are me. I was just watching so I could draw them.”

Terry stares at the picture while I stare at the back of his head. The silence buzzes uncomfortably in my ears. I guess he doesn’t know what to say; the situation is dissolving rapidly into awkwardness. If I could, I’d leap from the car and run for cover, but the child-locks mean I have to wait.

Finally, Terry shifts in his seat and glances at me, “It’s not bad, this,” he says.

“Cheers.” I reach forward to take it off him.

“We’ll have to get you sorted out with some decent gear for your birthday, paint brushes and all that,” he says. “What do you reckon?”

I reckon the next car journey with Terry might not be so bad.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

31

Summertime Blues by Tom Jennings, English and Creative Writing “Hot damn Bill wait’ll you hear this!” I say, spinning the record between my fingers, laying it down on the deck, and swinging that arm onto the grooves. The music bounces between us like conversation while we nod and my fingers tap the table. The song ends. “Man! What a whale of a record!” I say, “Let me tell you Bill, this music is something else! Just listen to this next one, I bet you’ve never heard nothing like it - it’ll blow you away,” I slip another record under the needle and slap my knees. Bill takes this as an invitation and springs onto my lap. “Meow?” he asks.

“I hear you bud, let’s step it up and get some of these real old timey blues songs on – hot town!” “LARRY!” my mum shouts, “GET DOWN HERE AND EAT YOUR DINNER! YOU HEAR?”

I lumber down, real slow, and sit at the table. It’s pork chop night. “ Boy, you need to get out of that dusty old room and stop talking to that cat. You’ve wasted half your summer up there.

Just look at that big old sun outside. And now where’s all your friends at - hmm? You oughta be running round after some pretty young girls by now... hmm? You listening boy?

Hmm? ...Oh just eat your damn pork then.”

A few days later I’m sick. “LARRY!” my mum shouts, “GET DOWN HERE AND EAT YOUR BREAKFAST! YOU HEAR?” My stomach is tight. I feel strangely tired. “LARRY!” A bowel movement is approaching “BOY YOU GOT TILL THE COUNT OF TEN.” I hit the toilet just after eight. If she keeps counting I reckon I’ll be here till eight hundred!

The next day I throw up again – both ends.

For the following weeks I never leave my bed. My enthusiasm for music descends with my ability to get up and switch on the record player. Bill spends most of his time on my belly, wrapped around himself. Occasionally I sit him up straight and give him a boxing match, until I get scratched.

No one visits me. For the first time my thoughts begin to roll over those last weeks of school. The group of friends I’d known for years had started cutting at the thread which tied us together, giving more and more signs that I wasn’t one of them any more: ‘dog pile on Larry’ kind of thing, having parties without me and just talking to me differently, coldly. Maybe I irritated them; I do talk a lot about music you know, not their sort of stuff either. “Larry, no one gives a damn about the blues,” they’d say, “you’re just trying to be different. Put the radio on for Christ’s sake.”

“What the hell are you guys talking about?” I’d reply. “That radio stuff is just recycled garbage. Now the blues players, they were artists! You’ll never hear that kind of soul in modern music.” This would be the point when someone shouted, “dog pile on Larry!”

32

Coventry Words

So anyway, by the last day of school they must have decided they were done with me or something because at the end of the day I was hanging from a fence post by my underwear. I couldn’t believe it. I haven’t spoken to them since, or anyone from school, or even been out of the house, or even thought about this. Whenever it floated up I pushed it right back down and put on another record. But now I can’t. And there’s a new pain tightening around my insides at the thought of seeing anyone again. At least they can’t hurt me here: I have my music to protect me – and Bill; Bill understands where I’m coming from. But what the hell does that mean? He doesn’t understand anything, look at him: he’s sat on my belly licking his bollocks. Man, this is ridiculous! My eyes feel full and spill across my face.

I need to move on and do something: get out of here, talk to someone, eat up some sunshine and forget it all. So I crawl down the stairs, out into the garden, and onto the soft grass. I lay still as the sun slides softly under my eyelids. The noiseless air falls across my skin while the smell of lilac and lavender tumble through the hallways of my nose. The pain in my stomach melts, and I doze, inhaling the fresh harmony.

Then I throw up. My throat is hot. The pain is growing again and starts climbing up through my throat, scraping the walls of my windpipe. I can feel my throat getting fuller and fuller, burning; I’m coughing - choking - throwing up again, panicking for a gap to breath. I reach into the back of my mouth and pinch something between my fingers and thumb.

It slips away. My fingers find it, and pull it, again, again, slowly bringing it up, wrenching it from my throat, through my mouth, between my teeth and out into the air, pulling it further and further out with both hands now, watching this pink rubbery rope being dragged out beneath my eyes. As the end of it brushes over my lips I see what I’m holding, and launch it across the grass.

A tape worm. A three foot worm! “Good GOD!” I yell, spitting and retching and gasping like crazy. Bill pops through his cat-flap and trots over to the tape worm, sniffs it, looks at me, then whips it aside with his paw.

The doctor blamed pork chop night. “I been feeding that boy pork since he was a piglet,” Mum said, “and he ain’t never had no worm jump out of him before.” Apparently the eggs come from poorly prepared pork, so of course Mum wasn’t too happy with the doctor’s diagnosis.

Anyhow, the sickness vanished and the doctor said I’d be fine. I’m spending less time in my room these days and more on the front porch. Right now I’m out there with Bill. It’s hot and I’m playing my guitar – blues of course. When someone walks past I skip to the best bit and play a little louder for them, especially if it’s a girl, a good-looking one at least.

There’s this one in particular who has a terrific way of walking past. Her hair and dress dance with each other, all bouncing and swinging in the chopped sunlight. I try and catch the

rhythm of her heels and play my tune to it so she notices me.

She does. She notices Bill too. He meows and she meows back. Oh man, that damn-near knocks me out. You should have seen her, what a girl! It gives me a feeling so good it’s like something is going to burst right out of me – something good this time.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

33

School Girls by Elisha Phillip, English and Creative Writing ‘Watch this,’ Jennifer said and blew a bubble. We all watched as it went splat over her lips. The other girls laughed and I quickly did too. I guess Jennifer was kind of funny. I was in the school playground with my three friends.

We were all huddled in a circle, our school ties bundled up to be as short as possible, our lips glossed in matching pink. We always stood in the middle of the playground close to the boys playing football. I searched the crowd for our target and spotted her walking ten feet away. I nudged Jennifer and she signalled for us to walk her way.

‘Hey Rebecca,’ said Jennifer. ‘I can smell the nit lotion from all the way over here.’ We laughed on cue. Rebecca kept walking and we followed in pursuit. ‘Do you ever wash it out?’ Jennifer continued. We trailed her through the hallway and people turned around to look, whisper and laugh.

‘Nobody touch Rebecca or you will catch nits!’ Jennifer said. My other friends, Stephanie and Fran, pinched their noses. I quickly followed suit and together we called her gross. Then the bell rang and lockers slammed as everyone rushed off to registration.

Jennifer was still making fun of her during registration even though Rebecca was in another form. I joined in. It wasn’t cool to do something else like read or work and besides we did everything together. Everything. We had Maths and got separated by Miss Cartwright for talking too much. Then Jennifer called her Miss Can’t Write and got sent outside. I never pay attention in Maths because I don’t want the girls to find out I actually like it. Instead each afternoon I do the exercises that I was supposed to do in school at home. PE followed Maths. On the field we looked for Rebecca but she was nowhere to be seen. A few minutes later she came outside. As soon at the teacher’s back was turned we rounded on her.

‘Why aren’t you in your kit?’ Jennifer said.

‘I’m not well,’ Rebecca said. She folded her arms around herself protectively. We weren’t going to hit her, just push her about a bit.

she could.

‘Girls!’ our teacher shouted. She was coming our way.

Jennifer crouched down and put her face right into Rebecca’s. She ignored the mud on her face and the tears in her eyes. ‘Get up now,’ Jennifer said. ‘If you snitch on us we will make you pay.’

Rebecca stood. When Miss came over she asked what was going on. ‘Nothing,’ Rebecca said.

After the lesson we raced back to the changing rooms. We shared body spray and brushed each other’s hair before we went for lunch. I had left my textbook in the changing room. The girls stayed at the bench while I went to fetch it. Rebecca was in there and froze when she saw me. And that’s when I saw it. I stood looking at Rebecca’s wrists.

She hurriedly pulled her sleeves down.

‘I don’t want any trouble,’ she said.

‘I’m alone,’ I said. I had never let myself feel guilty. I had told myself it was harmless. ‘Your wrists,’ I said. ‘Did you-‘ ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Have you come in here to do something to me?’

‘No. I just came back for my book.’

She picked up her bag and fled from the room. I stayed where I was for the rest of the lunch break thinking about what I had seen. In fourth period I saw the girls. They didn’t ask what had happened to me at lunch. If they noticed I wasn’t very chatty in the afternoon, it wasn’t mentioned. I kept to myself, the feeling of guilt and shame tugging on my insides making me feel sick. I knew what I had to do.

‘Liar,’ Jennifer spat. ‘You don’t want to play because you can’t.’

The following morning, in our usual playground spot we watched the boys and hoped they would look our way. I pretended not to see Rebecca when Jennifer asked me to look out for her, but she spotted her anyway. As we started to walk in her direction I spoke. ‘Why don’t we leave her alone,’ I said. She looked at me as if I was stupid.

‘Can’t you just leave me alone?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘No,’ Jennifer said, ‘not until you admit you can’t play. What can you actually do?’ We circled around her closing in like a pack of wolves. ‘You can’t wash your hair,’ Stephanie said and pushed Rebecca toward me. ‘You’re rubbish at sports,’ I said and pushed her away from me. ‘You can’t speak properly,’ Fran said imitating her lisp. ‘And you can’t dress properly,’ Jennifer said. She pushed Rebecca the hardest and she fell down. We laughed at her and she didn’t try to get up. She curled into a ball with her hands over her head. We carried on taunting her. Saying that she couldn’t do this, couldn’t do that, even though we knew

I could feel the other girls looking at me too. ‘We’ve been picking on her for ages. It’s getting boring,’ I said.

34

Coventry Words

‘You know why we’re picking on her or have you forgotten?’

‘Of course not,’ I said. It was horrible to realise how mean my so-called best friend could be. All she cared about other than herself was getting revenge. How had I not seen this before? I had to make her see that our bullying was making Rebecca self-harm. But I had to do it without embarrassing

Rebecca or getting a teacher involved. It just had to stop.

Deep down, I knew it should have stopped a long time ago. Jennifer turned away from me and carried on towards Rebecca; she pushed her to the ground and started a tirade of verbal abuse. It made me furious.

‘Leave her alone!’ I said. Before I knew it I had pushed Jennifer. She squared up to me.

‘Thanks for that,’ Rebecca said.

‘Don’t thank me, I don’t deserve it,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry Rebecca. I won’t tell anyone about what I saw.’

The bell rang and she headed towards the building. ‘You coming?’ she asked over her shoulder. I smiled, ‘Yeah.’

‘Are you her best friend now?’ she said.

‘This is wrong,’ I said. ‘It’s not her fault her mum fired yours.

Bullying her won’t change what happened.’

‘If we don’t bully her, we’ll bully you instead,’ she said. I looked at Stephanie and Fran. They wouldn’t meet my eyes. The fact they weren’t standing up for me said it all.

‘So be it,’ I said.

‘Consider yourself out of our group,’ she said, and the three of them walked away. Just like that I had lost my friends. I was on my own and the feeling was surprisingly liberating.

I was done with pretending not to care in lessons and following Jennifer’s stupid rules. I’d had enough of faking that I liked being popular. It was tiring and it made me act like someone I wasn’t. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

35

Acceptance by Harriet Holmes, English and Creative Writing ‘Look at her plaits. I wore my hair like that when I was like six.’

‘No, her glasses are even worse.’

I know I’m meant to hear them (they are deliberately using those projected voices we learnt in Drama recently). I carry on putting my books in my locker, my hands trembling.

I can’t wait to get home. Mum said she’s cooking my favourite tea tonight, a little treat as I did so well in my French test yesterday.

After Parents’ Evening, they had said loudly, ‘Look at the length of her skirt, it’s almost down to her ankles just like her mum’s.’

I recall my mother responding to this remark. It echoed in my mind, ‘At least it doesn’t look like a pelmet,’ she had said. I had to look up pelmet when I got home.

Flinging my bag towards my chair, I throw myself onto the bed, Hobnob crumbs scattering off the plate in my hand. I brush them off the sheet absentmindedly and open the lid on my laptop. I hear a brushing at my door and Smudge’s nose pops round. The tinkling sound of his bell is immediately comforting. Leaping onto the bed, he nudges me, yowling for attention. I bury my noise into his thick fur, his body vibrating; at least someone’s happy to see me.

‘Right Smudge, time to do some homework.’

My eyes focus on Facebook. The words FAT, UGLY, GEEK, FREAK, cut into me like barbed wire. This is getting unbearable. At first I only had to face this at school, but now they have reached me at home. I want to hurl my laptop at the wall and at the same time collapse to the floor and sob. I have heard these words every day since I started at St George’s Academy. I remember starting school anticipating gangs, but I never anticipated there would be someone as bad as Amy Brockhurst (‘Brockers’ as her ‘minions’ call her). I take a shaky sigh and conclude, maybe the only way to avoid this each day is to follow the ‘trend’.

‘Dinner’s ready, darling,’ rings in my ears. The smell of steaming onion gravy, fresh from the butchers Lincolnshire sausages and creamy mash wafts up the stairs and under my bedroom door. My stomach groans, nearly swaying me, but I have to go without tea tonight in preparation for my new look that commences tomorrow. ‘I’ve got to finish my homework,’ I lie to Mum. Moments later, Mum comes into my room and I see a plate precariously placed on a tray piled high with my absolute favourite dinner. I think of all the trouble she has gone to and my throat aches from the effort to swallow back the sobs that threaten to take over my body. Mum leaves the tray on top of my bookcase and closes the door quietly behind her so as not to disturb me.

The whole time I had pretended to be reading my History textbook.

36

Coventry Words

As soon as I’ve heard the creak of the last stair, I flip open my notebook and write: 1. Definitely no plaits; 2. Absolutely no glasses; 3. Short skirt; 4. Lots of make-up; 5. Tan my legs; 6. Find a bra to wear; 7. Learn to do my tie so that it looks ‘cool’; 8. Wear jewellery… I could carry on, but I wanted to be realistic, I only had until tomorrow.

‘Time to go sweetie,’ Mum shouts from the bottom of the stairs, her keys jangling in her hand. I take one last look into my school bag before I zip it up, sling into onto my shoulder and make my way downstairs. ‘Don’t forget your coat,’ says Mum through the window of her car she is backing out of the drive. I ignore this comment, I don’t want it today, and lock up the front door.

At school, as I cautiously push on the public toilet door my heart is banging against my chest, and I’m surprised it has not smashed through the wall and splattered out on the ground in front of me. As I peer inside, I glance at the graffitied insults splashed across the building in blood red.

None refer to me exactly, but they still remind me of why I’m here. It’s empty, like I thought it would be. Quickly closing the door behind me, I put my bag in front of it so that no one can come in. Then turning my back to the mirror, I strip off my school regulation length skirt (just below the knee) and pull on the skirt I have to replace it. It takes a few tugs to get it round my hips (it’s my old skirt, but tight and short is what everyone wears). Although it was already above my knees when I tried it on last night, I still chopped a little bit off the bottom; I now notice that it’s starting to fray.

I then unbutton my shirt and slip on a bra I found in my sister’s drawer (black so you can tell I’ve got one on under my white shirt). It’s much too big but I kid myself this just makes it look like I have something there. When I put my shirt back on, this time I make sure I leave it untucked.

Next to tackle my tie. Searching for an image online on my mobile, I realise I don’t even know what I’m searching for, just that it has a much fatter knot. Exasperated, I jerk my neat knot apart and fling the tie on the floor. Today I will go with no tie. I undo my top button and put on my necklace I got for my tenth Birthday from Mum and Dad. The cool silver heart charm feels familiar and comforting against my flushing skin. Then I yank at my bobbles and brush out the plaits before delving back into my bag for the tubes of makeup and tan (again borrowed), which I throw into the sink. Taking off my glasses, I put my face close to the mirror. My hot uneven breath fogs it up. I scrub it away with my fist and open up the foundation and slap it onto my pale skin. Then I open up the blusher, and realising I have forgotten a brush, just stick my fingers in the powder and streak it across my cheeks. I have never put on makeup before but I’ve seen Mum do it, it can’t be that hard. Next, I untwist the cap of the mascara and the stick comes out with a pop, startling me as it echoes around the cold, concrete block. I put some on my lashes and then apply some bright red lipstick, the only shade I could find when rushing through the contents of my sister’s makeup bag.

Rolling up my skirt, I bend down and squirt some of the fake tan onto my legs. I rub it in, some smears onto my white ankle socks so I pull them off and chuck them into the bin. I stand back up and shove my glasses back on, before walking a few steps back so I can check myself out in the mirror.

face, leaving black smudges on my orange-clad cheeks. I thought dressing like this would be the answer, but I realise what I really want is to be myself and to be accepted for who I am. I sit on the floor, take my phone out of my bag and search contacts for ‘MUM’. As the dialling tone plays, I take a deep breath, ready to tell her everything.

It takes only a few seconds before the tears that I have been holding inside for weeks start streaming down my

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

37

Travel writing France by Tom Power, English It starts with a wakeup call at half-five leaving me with enough time to shower away the scent of smoke and alcohol buried between the fibres of my hair. I sluggishly drag my body through the motions as the general public scuttle past, living life at a tremendous and in my opinion unnecessary pace. The train journey went well as a rather attractive female found my current state amusing, and we become what I later refer to as ‘train friends’. I take away from this experience that offering a Maoam to someone is a good way of making them fall in love with you.

Upon arrival I adopt a no-messing-around approach by stumbling from the train and venturing to the security check. This resulted in me making a mental note that celebrating to myself when clearing the metal detector is not acceptable behaviour. The win in this situation was that I managed to convince the security guard that my hair product was not technically a liquid and more of a pastelike substance; he accepted this theory and let me keep it; however, losing the bag of crack cocaine to the hands of the fuzz was a bit of a downer to my mood. Strolling around with my headphones in, killing time until my gate was revealed like a raffle price, I realise that travelling on your own is actually pretty ideal if you have a few albums recently downloaded and a means of writing down the mildly entertaining thoughts that fly in and out of your brain.

Wandering into WH Smiths, I pretend to myself for a brief period that I am interested in buying a book with my last £10; but quickly discard this hideous notion and head for the Maoams. £2.79 for a bag of Maoams forced me to pause and judge whether it would be worth it, but I concluded that it definitely was, and I just wouldn’t smile at the woman serving me despite it being in no way her fault. After this encounter I headed for Starbucks where I discovered that you should really be a seasoned coffee drinker to go there after the man saying that my order of a massive strong coffee-filled cup was not specific enough, and that I should consider rephrasing my order. I also disagree with the sandwich selection on show in Starbucks.

They assume everyone is familiar with a smorgasbord of differing cheeses and want their meat seasoned in the most peculiar ways. Just give me a BLT and don’t charge me a fiver.

My gate is revealed at 9.15, it closes at 9.30, and the estimated time to get there was 12 minutes. In my opinion somebody with any sort of limp or need for a walking stick would struggle with that timeframe, but I managed it and didn’t see any stragglers so I assume there were no soldiers left in the trenches taking grenades. Arriving at the gate I am forced to frantically stuff my second item of hand held luggage into my first, because apparently not being able to have a bag is a rule now. I get lucky and he doesn’t check if my actions made my small suitcase’s thickness

38

Coventry Words

vastly past the regulation size, which it definitely did, and I breeze on.

I am able to acquire the only seat on the plane that isn’t next to someone, due to unspoken teamwork from me and the small bald man two seats down, as we provided the illusion that the seat between us was occupied by some sort of invisible human. This brings me to the moment I’m in right now, standing third in line to the Ryanair toilet with a bladder full of a large coffee, and feeling sick due to a Maoam overload. I find myself silently judging the passengers in the plane. I’m sure everyone does this due to it being something that I do automatically. For instance if you are wearing a matching top and bottom tracksuit, the chances are that we will not be friends.

Looking forward to touching down in France, I find myself concocting a rule for sharing Maoams with a stranger: if they pick a green one they are entitled to another attempt at retrieving a decent flavour. Upon arrival I am greeted by sniffer dogs and a man who seemed very disappointed with the direction his life was heading in. Mum welcomes me and explains that she had been waving at the wrong person for ten minutes thinking it was me, so it’s nice to know stupidity runs solidly through the family.

The first night me, Mum and John relax and drink wine on the patio outside in the sticky evening air, and this picture pretty much portrays the vibe for my entire visit. They live somewhere between Toulouse and Bordeaux in a very rural town called Bousierre. The kind of place where they take three hours for lunch, don’t work on Monday’s (for no apparent reason), and making noise with any form of electrical tool is strictly forbidden on Sundays. I’m not sure what the punishment would be, most probably a stoning or tying a weight to their ankles and throwing them into the local fishing lake.

My main mission for the visit was to acquire strange things for a shared flat in the next academic year. So the idea of seeing what outrageous junk the French would produce on their car boot sale stands was very fitting. Strolling down this slightly larger towns’ street you can’t help but notice, and in a way admire, the simplicity of their style of living.

The age group in these places jumps from around twelve to sixty due to there being nothing for the young adults to do and so everything is slow and mellow; it doesn’t take much to entertain this crowd.

Anyway this street was placed amongst two rows of oldenday styled houses, stained on the outside from many years of pollution and whatever they had come into contact with over the years. On both sides of the cobbled street were stands with some normal but some very peculiar items. One stand consisted of a metal helmet, two pieces

of rusty pipe and a small stand infested with cobwebs.

The thought of why they would even attempt to sell these items crept into my kind, but I was more concerned that even if you were trying to sell it, at least give it a polish. I emerged victorious from this strange scene with a painting of a peculiar sad-looking clown, two old posters referring to selling shoes, and a set of tankards, which is always ideal for a uni flat.

After a few new days of relaxing and doing things you only seem to do on holiday, like play ping pong and having crusty bread rolls accompanied with an array of cheeses for breakfast, it was time for me to say my goodbyes. In a way I was pleased to get back to reality, but mostly I felt sad and a little guilty that I was leaving Mum again and probably wouldn’t see her for another year.

So I go back to the Limoges airport, which by the way is about the size of a currant and this causes so much personal space invasion it’s a joke. I am asked to disturb the harmony of the suitcase and remove my laptop which completely messed up my careful space-saving packing that Dad had implemented upon us very early on in life. So it was off to a bad start, which was only to escalate by me being the only one that misread the sign for priority and normal queues. This resulted in me having to complete the walk of shame to the back of the line for us peasant people after being rejected from priority boarding. I imagine she didn’t even check the ticket, just looked at my dungarees, the mud on my face and the calluses on my hands from the years of manual labour. ‘You don’t belong in this line

country boy’ is what her inner voice probably said. Who buys priority boarding for a Ryanair flight anyway? There are no good seats because the flight costs ten pounds.

After this pretty embarrassing ordeal I get on the flight dead last and loving it. As I squeeze past two men who seemed to be afraid of the window and acquire my seat for the next hour and a half, I am greeted with a sharp pain in my knees as the bruises obtained from the first flight six days ago collide with the cold hard plastic of the seat in front once again. Squashed to the wall due the classic leaningin-your-sleep manoeuvre from man next to me is someone who looks like he walks through town talking on his hands free Bluetooth ear pieces because he needs his hands to perform unnecessary exaggerated hand gestures and to check his shiny watch every ten seconds. And, beyond him across the plane is the only small child on board. This made me upset that I didn’t clock their location immediately, as is standard procedure when getting on a plane in order to get as far away as possible. Another life lesson of travelling passed down from my father.

However, overall as I sit with my jacket acting as a padded barrier between my knees and the seat in front, and block out the squeaks and squeals of the small child with the sound of The Shins latest album; I am left thinking that despite all of the inconvenience that occurs when a member of the Power family attempts to travel, this trip is always worth it.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

39

The Chapman Brothers by Holly Nash, English and Creative Writing Jake and Dinos are no strangers to controversy: despite scribbling on Goya prints and vandalising portraits, they have continued to exhibit their work extensively since the early 1990s; their overarching representation of destruction has being realised through multiple interwoven imageries.

Pieces from the brothers’ previous collections make up this retrospective at The Serpentine Galleries, filling rooms with their signature brand of consciously nightmarish imagery.

Yet this latest collection has prompted many critical responses of the brothers’ direction- instead of continuing to draw on past influences, are they now doomed to be pastiches of their inescapable horrors?

With regards to the issue of content, the only artists of the YBA generation who had anything apposite to say about the art of the past are Jake and Dinos Chapman. They drew on Goya and Renaissance masterpieces to ‘depict a world of sex’, savagery and the grotesque. The early works of Jake and Dinos Chapman radiate a cold and latent violence but at times a disconcerting beauty emerges. It is debateable whether their earlier work had an inherent visual seductiveness-some critics have maligned their full-scale corporal sculptures as mere shock tactics, stating their refined finish lends a faux sense of intrigue.

On the contrary, ‘The Milk of Human Weakness II’ (a mixture of Catholic imagery with mutilation) is perhaps one of the most controversial icons the brothers had made, but few could deny the effort gone into such a piece. The Chapman Brothers’ earlier works bear strong political references- the possibility of an annulment of a historically fixed identity is a constant focal point. Seen especially in the large-scale cases of ‘Hell’, the brothers emphasised Goyaesque aesthetics, using a visual vocabulary that addresses many different aspects of war. By being a collection of cases, ‘Hell’ incorporates space as well as time- an experiential but not unreal universe that only emerges bit by bit.

The motifs of McDonalds brand globalisation seen in ‘The Chapman Family Collection’ now stand next to far more literal images of white supremacy at The Serpentine Galleries. The Africanised masks and sculptures became temporal replicas when mixed with the homogenous logos of the McDonalds Corporation: the masks are no longer a part of boundaried and diverse practices; hence the viewer is left with only clues to the outposts of our culture that demands homogony of other cultures’ imports.

40

Coventry Words

The collection redolent of Mambila figures creates an unprecedented situation in which the viewer is confronted with the conditioning of his own western culture and has to reconsider his biased position. But what of their new works? The Serpentine Galleries now house full size hooded KKK figures, given the Chapman treatment with acid house smiley face patches, rainbow socks and Birkenstocks. What do these insipid hooded figures comment on?

The brothers’ work at least used to urge the viewer to renegotiate sculpture as being -at times- both a reactive and autistic medium. The Chapman Brothers were simultaneously able to actively comment on oppressing themes in our contemporary society and lampoon the critical dialogues of the 90s. The sculptures are placed around the galleries and seem only to make the viewer aware of basic notions of oppression hence they lack the dialogue based on war and evil seen in their smaller scale humanoid figures. The raver-klan members even outwardly disconcert the viewers, making it hard to physically stand and observe other works.

It’s difficult to enter into these new works because of how the metaphorical resonance of the gesture notates the inherent over specificity- at best the contrasting imagery is a shallow commentary on the duality of prejudice, or a childlike mocking. After twenty years of perturbation and successfully contextualising distinctive juxtapositions, the imagery used by the brothers in ‘Come and See’ feels disjunctive, a visual reconstruction of their early work but with little semantic content reproduced alongside.

Snow, Sweat and Tears by Lauren Sheraton, English and Creative Writing Snowboarding isn’t an easy sport by any means, but even the videos and watching it on television make it look so simple.

The speed, the S curves, the thrill, it was something that was going to take patience and I was determined to learn how to do it myself.

The day course, where you can reach recreational standard in eight hours, is by no means an easy day. If you are willing to be pushed to your limits, sweating like crazy and prepared to suffer from a wet backside, tears crawling down your face as every muscle in your body screams, ‘please, no more’, then I give you the challenge of following my footsteps.

Before that day, I had never snowboarded in my life; never skied so this was a whole new experience, but if you are like me nothing comes quickly. ‘Practice makes perfect’ (if perfect even exists), but it took me a lot of attempts, falls and collisions with an instructor, before I could take on the slope by myself. It was embarrassing, I was struggling to slow myself down and screamed ‘watch out’ and with waving hands I crashed into him, he just about caught me and I gently collapsed into the snow. Later on I tried being clever by using the lift. The trick is to leave one foot strapped into your bindings and the other foot is used to help scoot you towards the rope. It looked fairly easy, but as I grabbed, it flung backwards and sideways the snow, whilst it continued to drag me up hill. Rope burn really does hurt.

I wasn’t learning alone, we were in a small group of 4. I had my best friend alongside me with two others guys, one had a fantastic job as helicopter pilot, the other worked for Auto Glass. (Don’t be tempted to sing the song). They seemed to be picking it up much quicker than me being able to go down fast and curving their boards, whilst I was still mastering the toe edge. This is going down backwards with your toes pushing into the board, standing nice and tall, looking upwards.

A lot of the time I was clinging onto the instructor, but on the time he let go, I lost my balance and remember falling forwards, clawing the snow. By this point my fingers were frozen, the gloves were no longer fulfilling their needs and my bottom was numb. It wasn’t going to defeat me, even if I fell a hundred times, I was going to bloody do it. Heel edge was the next on my list. It’s the same concept only, going forwards.

It was getting towards the end of the day though and by this point I ached. My toes were pushing hard into the boots and it was hurting. I attempted it a few more times but simply couldn’t get the hang of it, which frustrated and upset me. The day finished and everyone had met recreational standard apart from me. I felt disheartened and disappointed with myself that I had spent a lot of money and I was dreadful.

Booking a few more lessons seemed like a wise idea, hourly sessions, which cover everything from the day course but into smaller chunks. Starting at level 2, I worked my way up.

I passed both 2 and 3 first time, which finally brought some confidence. I felt proud of myself as I have seen improvements, being able balance and move in ways that I never thought I could possibly do. Mastering both edges, sideslip where you travel diagonally, to being able to turn using the heel and toe edges. Finally I am on my way to becoming a brilliant boarder.

To anyone who is thinking of starting snowboarding, DO IT! To those who are finding it difficult, just believe in yourself and you will find it in your heart to succeed. To the people thinking about quitting, just remember, I collided with an instructor once, it can’t really get worse than that!

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

41

SHORT PLAYS To Judge a Book or Not? By Penny Tompson, English and Journalistic Studies Characters MICK: The owner and barman of a local pub, well known by all the punters. In his late 40s, dressed casually in a jumper and jeans.

In the scene he is behind the bar talking to two of his regulars.

DAVE: A regular at the pub who pops in for a pint most nights after work. He sits at the bar and talks to MICK – they are good friends. He is dressed smartly, in his work clothes.

GILLY: A close friend of DAVE’s and also a regular at the pub. He is dressed in smart casual attire as in the scene he is waiting for his date to arrive.

The scene opens with MICK behind the bar, there are no customers waiting to be served so he is drying some beer glasses with a cloth. DAVE enters the pub and approaches the bar, he acknowledges MICK as he places himself on a bar stool on the other side of the bar to where MICK is standing.

MICK: Alright DAVE, usual is it?

DAVE: Cheers mate, stick it on my tab, will ya? Nah I’m alright MICK, nothing you’ve not heard before. Nah, just the boss raging down my ear and the colleagues who are no more useful than a fabric ruler doing my head in. Same old, I’m afraid MICK. MICK: I’ve told you before to sort that lot of gibbons out, you’re not gonna get ya promotion if you can’t feed a few monkeys a banana or two.

DAVE: (sighs then takes a sip of his drink) I know MICK, I know. But the more I try and control the bastards the more they rebel. They know I’m up for promotion and they’re bloody jealous.

I’ve gotta think of a way to put them in their place once and for all, I’ve gotta really sit down and think about this, you know?

MICK: (nods) Mmmm. So that’s why you’re sat on one of my bar stools with a beer in your hand?

DAVE: A man cannot work without his beer my friend, it’s me thinking juice.

DAVE: (sighs) Please MICK, if you will.

MICK: Coming up. (takes a pint glass and starts to pull the barrel) I’ve not seen Gil yet this evening - what’s he up to?

MICK: I won’t deny you that privilege, you keep buying those pints and everyone’s a winner.

DAVE: Apart from me liver, eh?

DAVE: Oh he’s off seeing that mysterious bird of his; you won’t see him tonight mate. He’ll be enjoying the fruits of love this evening, whereas the nearest I’ll get to the fruits of love is having a taste of one of your cheap ciders.

MICK: (placing DAVE’s beer on the bar) Something troubling you, DAVE?

(DAVE smiles and takes a sip of his drink. GILLY enters the bar looking uneasy, wearing a frown. MICK has gone to serve a customer.)

DAVE: You alright, Gil? I didn’t expect you to be in here tonight. What happened to your date?

GILLY: Nothing’s happened to her. Why

42

Coventry Words

would anything have happened to her? (looks very on edge as he sits on a stool next to DAVE) DAVE: (while laughing) Hold your horses, lad. I mean why are you in here and not with her?

GILLY: Oh er…she’s meeting me in here.

DAVE: Ah, so we finally get to meet the lovely lass?

GILLY: No. As soon as she arrives we’re leaving if I have anything to do with it.

DAVE: You’re very on edge tonight, what’s up mate?

(MICK returns to the scene) GILLY: I-I-I’m fine. Everything’s hunky dory.

DAVE: (raises an eyebrow) You could’ve fooled me, Gil. You worried she’s not gonna turn up?

GILLY: Why wouldn’t she turn up? She’s a woman, I’m a man - we have dates in public places. That’s what happens when you date, of course she’ll turn up.

MICK: I’ll fix you up with a drink, Gil. That’ll settle your nerves.

GILLY: (fidgeting and looking uncomfortable) No, no I’m fine thank you. I’m just meeting Anna, then I’m going.

(MICK and DAVE have both noticed GILLY’s awkward body language and

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

43

have expressions of concern on their faces.)

MICK: Forgive me for asking Gil, but… you’re not on any new er….medication, are you?

DAVE: (splutters) Medication? What’re you on about MICK? (laughs and shakes his head) MICK: (speaking quietly) Here, don’t mock my thinking before you’ve heard me out. I’m on new tablets myself and they’ve been giving me the shakes. I went to the docs last week about my bowels…

DAVE: Yeah, alright MICK that’s enough, thank you. You’re not on any new meds are you, Gil? GILLY: (looks confused) No…none at all.

(DAVE and MICK cross concerned exchanges again.)

MICK: Here, have this Gil – a scotch on the house, that’ll sort you out. (pushes a glass of scotch towards GILLY) DAVE: On the house! Since when did you give out free drinks to those in distress?

GILLY: Ta mate, but I’ve never drunk scotch in my life.

MICK: You haven’t Gil, that’s true. But that drunk over there spat in it so it’s going spare. (grins sheepishly at GILLY) (DAVE laughs and shakes his head at MICK in amusement. GILLY, however, does not look amused.)

DAVE: MICK’s right though, Gil – you are very shaky this evening. What’s your trouble?

GILLY: Nothing mate, I’m absolutely fine.

44

Coventry Words

DAVE: (puts his pint down on the bar and looks firmly at GILLY) Who do you think you’re fooling, Gil? You’re shaking more than a virgin approaching a brothel! Why are you so scared of this girl?

GILLY: I’m not scared of her alright, I’m just….nervous.

DAVE: Why’re you so nervous? You’ve been seeing the lass for weeks!

GILLY: I’m not nervous to meet her…it’s just…

(DAVE and MICK both close in on GILLY, waiting for him to finish.)

I don’t know what you’ll think when you see her. It wasn’t me who suggested meeting here, it was her, and I’m against the idea. (body language becomes more awkward) MICK: What’s wrong with the lass?

Unless she’s got two heads or more facial hair than that weird bloke off the telly, we’re not gonna think anything of the poor lass.

DAVE: (takes a sip of his pint, puts it down and nods) Mmmm, he’s right Gil, I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up. We’re hardly anyone to judge. I mean, when was the last time you saw MICK with a woman?

(MICK frowns at DAVE.) GILLY: There’s that lass I saw him with down Turpin Street last week– she was a nice looking girl. I didn’t want to pry or anything…

DAVE: Hold up, hold up. Blonde hair, red coat and knockers you’d think she’d taken from the fruit stall down the market?

you thought for even a minute MICK could pull a top one like her. You saw her didn’t you? (exhales) I mean crikey!

MICK: Er, alright alright, that’s enough about my sister, thank you. Back to the matter in hand, we haven’t established what Gil’s problem is.

DAVE: That’s right, Gil. Come on, what are you actually worrying about? What’s wrong with this mysterious girl you’ve been seeing?

GILLY: There’s nothing wrong with her… she’s just…different. I-I-it’s nothing.

DAVE: It doesn’t sound like nothing to us, Gil. What’s up with the girl? We know nothing about her mate and we’re about to meet the lass.

(GILLY shrugs uncomfortably. DAVE and MICK watch closely.)

GILLY: What do you want to know?

DAVE: (sighs and suddenly loses his patience) We want to know why the bloody hell you’ve walked in here with a face no prettier than a rat’s backside, mind all over the place telling us we’re gonna judge this girl we know nothing about. What’s wrong with her, eh? She funny looking? She got one leg longer than the other? Does she smell worse than a pig with diarrhea?

MICK: Alright, DAVE that’s enough, you’re not helping.

(GILLY still looks uncomfortable but stays quiet, frowning.)

DAVE: Well…he’s beginning to do my head in, MICK.

GILLY: Yeah, that sounds like her.

MICK: (speaks sympathetically and quietly to GILLY) Come on, Gil. What is it? What’s got you in such a state over this girl you’re meeting?

DAVE: (laughing and pointing at MICK) That’s his bloody sister, Gil! I’m surprised

GILLY: She’s just…different like I said. I don’t know how you’re going to react.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

45

I’m not sure if she’s my type anyway, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I just…

DAVE: Humour us, mate. We can’t judge a girl we know nothing about. What does she do?

GILLY: (clears his throat and adjusts himself on the bar stool) She er…she works in a shop.

DAVE: Oh yeah? Which one?

GILLY: Just a shop down the high street.

(GILLY is continually looking uncomfortable and awkward. DAVE and MICK both take note of this.)

DAVE: (raises an eyebrow) And what does this shop sell?

GILLY: It’s an entertainment shop.

Anyway, that’s all you need to know, can we change the topic now, please?

(Both DAVE and MICK’s faces show expressions of confusion. MICK starts to look bemused.)

MICK: Ay, it’s not the entertainment shop that sells…those films is it?

DAVE: (bursts into laughter) What, the dodgy shop MICK? That’d be a laugh!

We all know who works there.

(GILLY says nothing but his lack of a response and his facial expression giving it away that MICK is right. DAVE picks up on this.)

DAVE: Oh you’re kidding me, Gil! You gonna tell us she owns the shop?

GILLY: No she does not! She just works there. Besides, it’s better than no job at all. See, I said you’d judge, didn’t I? That’s the problem with you two, you’re judgemental and you’re always having a laugh at my expense.

46

Coventry Words

MICK: Calm down, Gil we’re not laughing at you alright, we just didn’t expect it. We’re not judging are we, DAVE? DAVE: (takes a sip of his beer, puts the glass down and shakes his head) We’re not judging at all, you sensitive little flower. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl.

Shouldn’t she be here by now, any road?

GILLY: (looks at watch) No, I’m a bit early. She’s still got ten minutes yet.

MICK: So er, has this girl got any particular interests? Any hobbies?

GILLY: I don’t know er…she plays bingo a few nights a week, she mentioned rock climbing. She’s a girl though, just a normal girl with normal girl interests.

MICK: Rock climbing? I’ve always fancied trying that myself y’know.

DAVE: (guffaws) Ha! You? Rock climbing? Give over, you can barely climb a ladder! What does this girl look like then, Gil? MICK: (sighs and rolls his eyes) You’ll find out in a bloody minute DAVE, why dya need to ask that? Bloody hell.

(GILLY slips off his stool and leaves the scene.)

DAVE: There’s something not right here, MICK. I’ve never seen him so on edge, and all over some girl. I dunno what his problem is, I really don’t.

MICK: I don’t think it’s GILLY with the problem, mate.

DAVE: (frowning) How do you mean?

MICK: Well it’s this girl, isn’t it? He doesn’t want us to meet her, he’s reluctant to tell us anything about her and he’s got himself into a right state over it. I’m pretty sure it’s her that’s the problem.

DAVE: Well, she sounds alright. I mean granted her career choice came as a surprise but how bad can the lass be?

And why’s he seeing her if she’s so bad?

MICK: (shakes his head) It doesn’t make sense, mate. I suppose all will be revealed when she arrives, eh?

DAVE: (sighs) I suppose so, MICK. Here, stick another one in there will ya?

MICK: Right you are.

(There is silence as GILLY has not answered the question and DAVE is drinking his pint. MICK leans forward, resting his arms on the bar.)

(DAVE puts his empty pint glass on the bar. MICK takes it away and GILLY enters the scene again and sits on the stool.)

MICK: So what does she look like?

DAVE: Right then, Gil. (sits up straight and turns his expression serious) Before this lass arrives you’re gonna sit there and tell us exactly what this problem is.

DAVE: (slams his pint on the bar in amusement) Unbelievable MICK, bloody unbelievable. Come on then, Gil – answer the question, what does she look like?

GILLY: (rolling his shoulders uncomfortably) I-I-I’m not very good at describing people. Excuse me, I-I-I’m off to the men’s room.

GILLY: I’ve told you, there’s nothing wrong alright?

(MICK returns with a full pint and places it on the bar. He folds his arms.)

MICK: I don’t know why you’re trying to fool us, Gil. It’s clear something about this girl is bothering you.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

47

Gil: I’m just nervous, alright? There’s nothing more to it.

DAVE: Up, MICK? Do you know her or something?

(DAVE is laughing uncontrollably. MICK is trying to reign his laughter in.)

(MICK and DAVE both shake their heads in concern.)

(GILLY looks alarmed and quickly turns to MICK.)

DAVE: Well, she should be here soon any road, so we’ll find out for ourselves, won’t we? What’s she look like then?

I’ve got my eyes peeled.

MICK: Well, not personally. No, forget it I’ve probably got it wrong.

DAVE: Oh Gil, you’re killing me! Only you could date a lesbian and be in denial over it! Did you meet her at the gym?

Did you lock eyes as she lifted her 10kg weights?

GILLY: (adjusts himself unnaturally) Blonde hair, relatively short. She sort of…spikes it up.

DAVE: Should be easy enough to spot.

MICK: Spikes it up, you say?

(MICK splutters with laughter.)

GILLY: (speaking fast and hastily) What?

What do you think you know about her?

Come on, hit me with it. What are you going to say?

DAVE: GILLY calm down, will you? What the hell is wrong with you? MICK, who do you think this girl is?

(GILLY looks at MICK awkwardly but does not answer.)

MICK: (awkwardly) I don’t know the girl, lads. But my mum…she goes to bingo every week just off Browns Lane and she’s always raging about…

DAVE: How tall is she? Am I looking for a six-foot giant or a four-foot midget?

DAVE: (raises an eyebrow) …Raging about what?

GILLY: She’s taller than the average woman but look, it doesn’t matter.

She’ll arrive soon and when she does I’ll introduce you and you can judge all you bloody want, alright?

MICK: Well to quote my mother’s words and my mother’s words ONLY…”there’s a cheating lesbian there every week with short blonde hair and a figure more manly than Hagrid off them wizard films.” Mum’s never been great with film names, and she’s prone to exaggeration but…

DAVE: Alright, alright. I’ll say no more, mate. You might want to wipe your face down a bit; you’re sweating more than a fat bastard in a health food shop.

(DAVE hands GILLY a serviette from the bar. GILLY uses it to pat his face down.)

MICK: Gil…what did you say this lass’s name was?

GILLY: (looks intensely at MICK) Anna.

MICK: Blonde spikey hair, goes to Bingo just off Browns Lane?

GILLY: I think so, yeah.

(MICK’s facial expression suddenly becomes blank.)

48

Coventry Words

(GILLY is extremely quiet and fidgety, looking more uncomfortable than ever.)

DAVE: (trying to keep his laughter in) What…are you saying that’s who Gil’s seeing? A lesbian from your mum’s Bingo?

MICK: (lowering his voice) I’m not saying she’s actually a lesbian, I’m just repeating what my mother says.

GILLY: (frustrated) She’s not a lesbian alright! She may not dress very feminine, she may not have the most feminine looks, and yes she may enjoy rock climbing and drink beer a lot quicker than I can, but she is NOT a lesbian. I said you’d judge, I just knew it. That’s why I kept so quiet.

GILLY: And you wonder why the hell I wouldn’t tell you anything, why I was so nervous about you meeting her. You’re so judgmental, both of you.

(DAVE wipes the tears from his eyes and MICK attempts again to keep a straight face.)

DAVE: We’re not being judgmental mate, but let’s look at the facts shall we? She works in that dodgy video shop, she styles and dresses herself to look butch, she goes rock climbing, she drinks beer, MICK’s 80-year-old mother thinks she’s a lesbian and you’ve obviously had your suspicions with the way you’ve been acting this evening.

Who are you kidding?

MICK: I can’t lie to you mate, everyone at the bingo is convinced she’s a lesbian, supposedly.

GILLY: Well they can all think what they like. I know she’s not a lesbian and that’s all that matters.

(SFX: text alert) (GILLY reaches into his pocket and reads a text message.)

DAVE: That her, is it?

GILLY: Yeah, she’s held up, she’s going to be a bit late. But she’s coming for a date with me - a man. So what does that tell you?

DAVE: She’s probably held up in the new gay bar in Oxdale Street.

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

49

(MICK bursts into laughter again.)

DAVE and MICK: Kay the gay!

GILLY: Very funny, DAVE. She’s with her best friend and she’ll be ten minutes. So perhaps you’ll stop poking fun at my life and just be happy that I’ve found a nice girl for once.

GILLY: How do you know Kayley? And how do you know she’s gay?

DAVE: (grins and nods) Right you are, Gil. MICK: So, who’s this best friend of hers, she a lesbian an’ all?

DAVE: Mate, everyone knows Kay the gay from the video shop. And she hasn’t been given that nickname just because it bloody rhymes!

MICK: He’s right, Gil. The girl came out years ago, not that she needed to. She’s a nice lass though, everyone knows her.

GILLY: It’s someone she works with, Kayley her name is.

DAVE: Especially your er…fancy woman.

So that completes the list I think, Gil. (mimics writing a list on his hand) “and finally, GILLY’s supposedly straight date is best friends with the most popular gay woman in town.”

(DAVE and MICK immediately turn to each other with huge grins.)

(GILLY is alarmed, he jumps off his stool in panic, eyes wide open.)

(DAVE splutters with laughter, GILLY does not look amused.)

50

Coventry Words

GILLY: Oh my God, she…she…Anna… she’s…

DAVE: (grins) Yes GILLY, she’s a lesbian.

GILLY: W-w-well what does she want with me, then? I-I-I don’t want a lesbian girlfriend…I…Oh God, get me out of here before she arrives!

(GILLY runs off the scene, DAVE and MICK are in fits of laughter.)

(End)

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

51

Marbles by James Rodger, English Characters

working right now. But, between you and me, I don’t take pleasure in what I do. I hate it. I hate the long hours. I hate the dark nights. I hate the journeys on the interstate and I definitely… (Points at the man in the chair who is still playing with the marbles)

CHUCK AL ORDERLY DOCTOR CHUCK enters an empty room. There are two unoccupied chairs in the centre of the room back-to-back.

There is a dossier on one of the chairs. CHUCK is wearing a cheaplooking suit with his shirt hastily tucked in and looks unkempt. He is flustered, seemingly harassed, looking at his surroundings as if he doesn’t want to be there.

CHUCK: (To audience) This is my life. (Points at a man entering the room wearing white overalls and a six-digit number on his right breast pocket. He is holding some marbles in his right hand and is brushing them against each other whilst he gnaws the fingers on his left hand with his mouth) CHUCK:

He is my life. (Points at each wall of the room)

CHUCK:

My life consists of these four walls.

(The second man sits down in the chair, which does not have the dossier on it and continues playing with the marbles.)

CHUCK:

I shouldn’t complain really, should I? I get a decent wage, don’t I? Is money enough, though? I don’t mean to get deep here, folks. I don’t want to fill your heads by talking about the philosophy of life, existentiality, the ever-expanding growth between the rich and the poor, the War on Terror, the Tea Party movement, the Occupy movement, Edward Snowden or even twerking. I just want to get by. (checks his wristwatch and sighs)

CHUCK:

52

I haven’t got long to talk. By all intents and purposes I should be

Coventry Words

At least he’s free. Free from everything. He dreams like every other man. He gets up in the morning, has people dress him, has people like me analyse him…and then what? He does the same thing the next day. There’s no worrying about gas money. There’s no trips to Wal-Mart to pick up the groceries. There’s no worrying about his kids being involved in some high-school shooting.

(CHUCK crosses the room and picks up the dossier but doesn’t open it. He merely addresses the audience again.)

CHUCK:

CHUCK:

Look at that poor guy.

What’s he got going for him? Nothing. He’s just a number to the government. Another man in cuckoo land.

(The man in the chair spits out one of the marbles back into his hand.)

CHUCK:

CHUCK:

…God, I can’t even remember how long. One thing is for sure, though: it’s been too long. One day is long enough in a place like this. I hate the difference I fail to make.

Nobody is curing these people. They are being kept like pets. This man here (Points at the man in the chair who has started to rub the marbles on his thighs.)

CHUCK:

…is no more than a dog in the eyes of society.

Who would care if he died tomorrow? His family don’t visit him. The only Christmas cards he gets are probably from Taco Bell, offering him discount on his next visit. Man, I sure love those tacos.

…definitely hate my patients. Do me a favour and just look at him for a minute, would you?

(The man in the chair looks at the audience like a rabbit caught in the headlights and briefly pauses playing with the marbles. He places one of them into his mouth and looks back at his feet.)

CHUCK:

Doctor Chuck Berkeley.

I’ve worked here for…

(Checks wristwatch)

(Slapping his hand on his forehead dramatically) Oh God, what am I doing? I should have introduced myself to you. I’m Chuck.

(CHUCK opens the dossier and skips a few pages) CHUCK:

Paranoid schizophrenic with violent tendencies, blah blah blah. It’s all the same thing, isn’t it?

(Snaps the dossier shut)

CHUCK:

Does anybody actually know what these terms mean? It doesn’t get to the root of the problem, it just sorts out which meds you need to shove down their throat or grate into their meals. Oh God, don’t get me started on the food in this place. I swear to you… Betty the cook deserves to be one of the patients. She is always fiddling about with my stew before she brings it to me. I go in there expecting a nice warm meal but all I get is this thin stew which, by the time she’s fiddled around with it, is damn near ice cold. I don’t know why she

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

53

does it…maybe she wants to impress me? Well, I’m far from impressed old Betty! (Shouting through the wall) FAR FROM IMPRESSED. You hear me?

audience) He’s in his own little world, isn’t he? They got them so doped up on meds in this place that I bet he can’t even remember his mother’s name! (Shakes head and sighs) Who would want to work here? (Pointing at the audience) Would you?

(CHUCK returns to the centre of the room and reopens the dossier) CHUCK:

Let’s see… what’s your name, buddy?

(A female orderly enters, wearing a nurse’s outfit and places a cup of water onto the floor by CHUCK’s feet. She exits)

and Mack bumps me up through the window of the janitor’s office.

(AL drops one of his marbles and CHUCK briefly pauses) (AL drops another marble and CHUCK sighs.)

CHUCK:

(The man in the chair is silent) CHUCK: CHUCK:

Ah, you’re Al Michaels.

The infamous Al ‘Five Ways’ Michaels. They call him five ways because…

(He mimes cutting his body into five parts and then dismisses the audience with his hand) well, I’m sure you already know the story.

(Pointing at the cup on the floor by his feet) That’s the only good thing about this place. Refreshment.

They don’t bring me coffee anymore, though.

We scratched off Nescafe from the grocery list when we got our funding cut. (Mimes scratching something from a notepad with his hands)

(AL scratches his genitals with his left hand as CHUCK looks at him)

(CHUCK takes the cup and sips it)

CHUCK:

CHUCK:

Whoa, Al boy! Slow down.

I don’t want to be writing in your file here that you’ve exposed yourself to me.

You’ve already got a pretty significant rap sheet, haven’t you? Is attempted murder and rape not enough for you? You got to try it on with your psychiatrist, too?

(AL sniffs and sneezes) CHUCK:

You cold, Al boy? Want me to fetch you a blanket, a flask of coffee, maybe a little girl for you to touch?

(CHUCK kneels to AL’s eye level) CHUCK: Can you hear me? I said (emphasising each syllable) CAN – YOU – HEAR – ME – YOU – RE - TARD? (CHUCK drops the dossier and slaps AL who doesn’t react) CHUCK:

54

(Turning back to the

Coventry Words

(Grimacing) Lukewarm.

Betty must have made this.

(CHUCK pours the water onto the floor, returns to the dossier and picks it up)

CHUCK:

What’s the point in these things? (Showing the dossier to the audience) These files. Everybody has a file on them somewhere, don’t they?

(Leaning towards the audience conspiratorially) I remember I snuck into my superintendent’s office at elementary school back when I lived in Boston.

My buddy Mack and I thought it would be a good idea to break in in the middle of the night and liberate the files on all the students. We were sort of like WikiLeaks without the rape charge and the international controversy.

So, anyways, we ride round there in the dead of night on our bikes

(Raising his voice) Al, do you mind here buddy, I’m telling a story for Christ’s sake! Anyway, me and Mack make our way through the mess hall to the superintendent’s office and we liberate our files ready to begin a new era where students become as powerful and crucial to society as any snot-nosed teacher. Mack thinks it’s a good idea to read what they have to say about us, so naturally, I take a look. You know what they wrote?

(AL drops a third marble and CHUCK is looking increasingly disgruntled. He pauses before exhaling, as if attempting to calm himself down.)

CHUCK:

They wrote “Chuck Berkeley: his clothes look sad, washed on too low a temperature”.

Can you believe that? No mention of my grades or personality…it was (waving hand in front of his face) all superficial.

(CHUCK averts his eyes back to the dossier as AL drops another marble.)

CHUCK:

(Shouting) Al, I swear to God! (CHUCK picks up the four individual marbles and holds them in his hand)

CHUCK:

Says in your dossier you are on Chlorpromazine, Haloperidol, Perphenazine and Fluphenazine. Jesus Christ, Al buddy, you got more narcotics in you than Jim Morrison. You got enough gear to supply the entire Betty Ford clinic,

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

55

(shouting) you hear me?

(AL stands up and stretches. He throws a marble into the air and catches it.)

CHUCK:

Yeah that’s it, buddy, you stretch your legs. God knows that sitting on your ass all day gets tiring, huh? I get back to my condo at night and (slaps bottom) my ass feels like it’s been on an all-nighter with John Wayne Gacy.

(Addressing the audience) That’s a joke for the oldies in here.

(CHUCK turns back to the audience and addresses them once again.)

CHUCK:

(AL sits back down and reverts to fiddling with the marbles in his hand.)

CHUCK:

CHUCK:

Yeah you sit back down, Al. That’s all your day consists of, isn’t it? Sitting down and standing up, standing up and sitting down. Eating meds and causing no mischief.

(Bending to AL’s eye level) You don’t want to go back to the hole, do you Al?

(CHUCK turns to the audience and addresses them whilst pointing at AL.) CHUCK:

I heard two of the orderlies gassing in the parking lot the other day and they were saying you got shoved into solitary confinement trying to cop a feel of them. (Laughs maniacally) You dirty ol’ bastard. You don’t half try your luck pal, do you?

(AL puts a marble into his nostril and CHUCK turns to him, looking disgusted.)

CHUCK:

56

Oh for Christ’s sake, Al, you got to do that in here?

I don’t want your germs all over this room. I got to see more patients after you. You think they want to come and sit down in your nose trash? You filthy animal.

Coventry Words

So Al, what’s been going on over in A ward? You sleeping all right?

(Silence)

CHUCK:

Sometimes the most messed up cats are the most boring.

(CHUCK returns to his chair and sits down.)

(Sounding bored) Al buddy, you got to give me something here!

You know what? You don’t want to talk – that’s fine by me. I’m going to have to go back to your file and put a big red ‘X’ next to the part which says “free time allowed”. If you ain’t talking to me I ain’t gunna do you no favours.

(CHUCK stands up following more silence and walks around to face AL who is looking vacant and expressionless.)

CHUCK:

CHUCK:

CHUCK:

(More silence. CHUCK sighs looking exasperated. He flings his arms up in the air.)

CHUCK:

See what I mean here, folks? You’d hate to be me, wouldn’t you? Why would you want to sit here, day in day out, looking after these morons who don’t even talk. Most of them just dribble. Old Al here, well…I thought he’d be interesting. His file and his history was one of… tremendous achievement.

Just goes to show, though, doesn’t it? (Points at AL.)

Look, bear with me, would you? I got to ask old Al here a few questions before I can let him go.

It won’t take that long, I promise. If you want to just sit around and wait I’d appreciate it. I’m enjoying this chat, aren’t you?

(CHUCK goes to the chair and sits down so he is back-to-back with AL. CHUCK begins playing with the marbles he earlier picked up.)

CHUCK:

CHUCK:

Can you even talk? I know you’re new here and we never met each other but I mean, come on, somebody should have told me if you can’t talk.

This here seems like a big waste of time.

(CHUCK addresses the audience again.)

CHUCK:

Oh Al, buddy, you got to go in a sec. Is there anything you want to say before you go? Or shall we make an appointment for the same time next week?

Unless you’re busy?

(Mimes placing a skull cap on his head with his free hand.)

You got a bar mitzvah to go to? (Does a robot dance.)

CHUCK:

Maybe a party? (Mimes stabbing somebody with his free hand.)

CHUCK:

You got more people to try and kill? (Reverts to looking at the marbles in his hand.)

CHUCK:

Well, let’s say I’ll see you again same place this time next week. That suit you, Al?

(AL stirs and looks confused.)

AL:

(Groggily) Who’s Al?

CHUCK:

(Drops two of the marbles, clenches his fists in celebration and raises his arms in the air) Aha! He speaks ladies and gentlemen! The king of the psychos can actually use

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

57

his tongue. Who’d have thought it though, eh?

(Shouting) CALL THE ORDERLY! CALL THE ORDERLY! (Lowering his voice again) We got a schizophrenic patient who doesn’t believe his own name! (Places his hand over his mouth as if in shock)

(AL’s eyes close.)

CHUCK:

AL:

(Clicks fingers with his free hand) AL! (Clicks fingers with his free hand) AL! (Slaps AL) I know you are drugged up but you got to stay focused, Al. This ain’t bed time. (Places his hands underneath his head as if resting on a pillow) I ain’t gunna read you no story.

(Wearily) I don’t want you to read me a story.

(Rubbing his eyes) I just want to know who Al is.

CHUCK:

(FEMALE ORDERLY enters and places a tray with a bowl of stew onto the man in the chair’s lap. She then picks up the dossier on the floor and places it back on the empty chair.)

ORDERLY: Oh for goodness sake, what’s going on in here?

Dr Berkeley will be here any minute now. You really need to calm yourself down, Al. CHUCK:

(Pointing at AL and laughing) You are you sick sonuvabitch.

(AL shakes head) CHUCK:

(Looking confused) What do you mean? (CHUCK addresses the audience once again and laughs) He doesn’t know his own name, folks! Can you believe that? I’ve seen it all now. (Shakes head)

ORDERLY: (Rearranging the dossier so it is neat and tidy) Sit down, Al. (CHUCK looks at AL and looks back at the ORDERLY confused.)

CHUCK:

AL:

My name isn’t Al.

CHUCK:

(Turning back to AL) Oh you ain’t Al? Well this here dossier says you are. (Thrusting the dossier into AL’s face) Look at the cover. What does that spell? (Pointing at each letter as if addressing a child) A-L-L-E-N-M-I-C-HA-E-L-S.

(Drops another marble and waves his arms as if to become noticed) Orderly, I’m here. (Addressing the audience) See what I mean about the workers in this place? They are as thick as anything.

(Pointing at AL) He is sitting down, woman!

(CHUCK laughs as if in relief.)

CHUCK:

I see what this is.

(Checking his wristwatch) Is it April 1st? (Pointing at himself) Let’s all make fun of the doctor? Well, orderly, that was real funny. (Lets out a brief laugh but then shifts into a menacing tone) But if you do that again I swear to God I will have your job.

ORDERLY: You will need to calm yourself and sit down.

(Raising each finger on her hand to display the number five) You have five seconds.

(CHUCK drops the remaining marble and crosses to the ORDERLY, grasping her by each shoulder.)

ORDERLY:

Unhand me, Michaels!

(Shouting) DOCTOR! DOCTOR!

(A doctor in white overalls enters hurriedly, wearing white gloves and a white face-mask. He crosses to CHUCK and sticks a syringe in his arm. CHUCK collapses to the floor and the DOCTOR carries him to the door.)

ORDERLY: He’ll have to go back to solitary confinement, Doctor Berkeley. He has clearly made no progress.

I’ll go and fetch Betty to cook up some stew.

(ORDERLY looks at CHUCK testingly.)

AL:

(Jadedly) Allen Michaels?

My name’s Flynn. Johnny Flynn. (Emphasising each letter as if addressing a child) F-L-Y-N-N. Flynn.

CHUCK:

(In mock panic) Oh we got another case of mistaken identity in here, then.

58

Coventry Words

DOCTOR: ORDERLY: (Sternly) Al, I won’t tell you again.

(CHUCK is silent.)

ORDERLY: (Pointing at CHUCK and now looking furious) Michaels, I will not tell you again. We thought you were making progress, Allen. This really isn’t good enough. Dr Berkeley will have to be notified.

(Picks up the dossier and makes a note inside the front page) You need to (through clenched teeth) sit down.

Get her to grate a double dose of his tablets in there, won’t you?

ORDERLY: Yes, sir. (Addressing the man in the chair) Patient Flynn, Doctor Berkeley will be back to assess you shortly.

(DOCTOR leads CHUCK out by the arm. ORDERLY shuts the door. FLYNN scrambles on the floor to retrieve the dropped marbles and places them into his stew.)

(End)

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

59

Student writer profiles

Dermot Connaughton by Tim Dubbelman, English and Creative Writing (See Dermot’s poem, My Own Earth) What drew you to poetry as a medium?

Ironically, before I even started writing poetry I absolutely didn’t like the idea of it at all, I thought it was quite a pointless style of literature: unlike novels, where you have characters and story to relate to, with poetry you don’t really. When I first wrote my poem “Envy”, which I published in the newsletter last year, I realised I enjoyed the freedom that I had to express myself in terms of ideas and emotions, as well as finding an original way of describing what I wanted to write about. So that was how it took off, basically.

Which poets do you draw upon as inspiration for your work?

I have three or four: William Shakespeare, William B. Yeats, John Donne and Philip Larkin. (With regards to Shakespeare:) I’ve written quite a few sonnets in that [Shakespeare’s] form, but add the content, his use of language is just outstanding, and that’s how I get influenced: more about the content than the style.

What are your goals as a poet?

I want to help people in terms of understanding – a lot of the topics I write about could be very relatable in terms of problems and help and I think if people were to read my poetry, it might give them a voice or an ear, to be listened to and understood. But I don’t think in terms of society and politics that my poetry would have much of an impact because that doesn’t interest me, I don’t write about that kind of thing; more about humanity.

Do you find yourself writing poetry in a different manner or style for competitions or publication rather than just for yourself?

What sort of themes do you find yourself writing poetry about?

No, not at all. All my poetry is written in the same way, the same style, the same sort of purpose. (On said purpose:) To help people, to help them in their understanding, that they’re not alone, that I too understand their problems, and in a sense I do; to help them and that’s why, when I write for competitions or even just work I never make an exception, it all has the same purpose, same style, same attitude.

Themes of time and ageing and identity - mostly time.

What, if any, advice would you give to an aspiring poet?

What impact do you think poetry can have on society and culture?

A very ordinary piece of advice: simply to read as much poetry as possible and to write as much poetry as possible, and not to be disheartened if ever you don’t succeed. I’ve entered competitions with first, second, third places and I haven’t even made it into the top three but it’s not really the point, I just go into competitions for the fun of it, you know? A nice bit of money! Publicity as well. But just to write because it makes you happy, it’s what you love to do, that’s it.

I think that, in terms of society, a poet can show a lot of the reality of society and the situation; what they think, through their eyes and their mind, and what the problems are. She’s not an influence of mine but I respect and admire Maya Angelou: in her poetry she talks a lot about slavery and injustice. So yeah, I think poetry can have an impact in terms of identity and problems and the truth.

60

Coventry Words

Sophie Rowson by Anya Parke, English and Creative Writing Sophie’s poem (see extract below) was published in 2012 by Poetry Rivals

What do you like to write?

I enjoy writing poetry and stories and my favourite genres are Gothic, Fantasy, Fairytales and Sci-fi.

Who is your favourite author and why?

I have a few authors that I call my favourites, but my oldest favourite is Malorie Blackman as I remember being bewitched by her children’s novel ‘Thief!’ in primary school and it inspired me to read more of her work. I also love Philip Pullman for the ‘His Dark Materials’ trilogy and Angela Carter for her short story collection ‘The Bloody Chamber.’

What would you like to do ideally when you leave University?

Ideally, I would like to become a successful writer, well known for Gothic, Fantasy, Fairytales and Sci-Fi genres. I also have interests in publishing, copywriting and marketing.

Is the University experience what you expected?

At University you have more opportunities to make your own decisions about what, how and when you learn. Although this was mentioned to me, the freedom was a bit of a surprise, albeit a nice one. I have also enjoyed the experience of working with like-minded students to share ideas, give and receive feedback.

Extract from Poetry Rivals Collection: A Moment of Stasis: The Angel from the Demons by Sophie Rowson They made me with a potion using: Seeds from the reddest apple, This grew my talent for temptation, A blackened crucifix, snatched from a chapel Bound my purity my ‘good’ potential A vile of lilac vampire venom Gave me blood-red fuller lips A nail from a witch’s finger Gave me startling predatory grips No victim had a chance with me Until ‘He’ set the real me free

You see, demons from Hell are not the smartest, Yes the strongest and sometimes the fastest, But near the cauldron from which I was born; They had imprisoned an angel whose lovely wings had been torn.

Whilst they had been creating me with dark, evil witchcraft, Jessamine waited till their backs were turned And pulled from above her helpless head, Her halo burning white and gold.

With a flick of her battered wrist it sped, Into the cauldron, bubbling blood-red

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

61

Article Coventry University English and Creative Writing students showcased their poetry at ‘The Herbert Art Gallery & Museum’ on 10 December 2013

by Jade Bradley Second Year Coventry University English and Creative Writing showcased their poetry at ‘The Herbert Art Gallery & Museum’ on 10 December 2013.

The poems, inspired by the exhibits, were read out in the Herbert Cafe by the student poets and other volunteers. The event began with a short speech from the Course Director of Creative Writing, Alyson Morris, congratulating all her students’ hard and deserving work.

With a background soundtrack of babies in pushchairs, the poetry reading began. One by one the future poets read out their work to the audience, some more nervous than others. Behind the young poets, the audience could see the poems on a screen and also view the artwork that inspired the students.

Raef Boylan, a second year English and Creative Writing student, provided the gallery with multiple poems, inspired particularly from the ‘sculptures’ gallery. ‘Old Ladies on a Park Bench’ is one example of his creativity.

Raef said: “I struggled to describe it as a piece of art and went for more of a human angle.”

The audience travelled through the different time eras: the 1800s, 1900s and World War Two. They experienced the struggles and emotions felt at the time.

The poetry reading ended with a short interview with two of the English and Creative Writing students. They both said that they enjoyed doing this for ‘The Herbert Art Gallery & Museum’ and wouldn’t mind doing something like it again.

You can see the event on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=_s9peUpYhJI&feature=youtu.be Hopefully next year, a similar event can take place at Coventry Transport Museum with another cohort of Coventry University, English and Creative Writing students.

The Typewriter Fingers burn empathetically at the touch of my cold, charred metal letters. I sit silently tap, tap, tapping away, writing past, present; creating future: Expressing hopes; dreams; uncovering soul’s wishes, translating desired thoughts to paper.

Silently tap, tap, tapping away, whilst my immortal shell slowly turns to rust.

Sophie Raphael reading The Typewriter

62

Coventry Words

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

63

Frederick Holland Poetry Collection Award 2014 This award is coordinated by The Department of English and Languages (DEL) in loving memory of Fred Holland; a much loved Coventry poet and well loved friend to many.

Coventry Poet, Fred Holland

are deserted, arm-rests dictating that we should travel in packs of three only, and offering no peace to those without bed or home. Some pink thick-shake slithers McSlowly down the side of a shiny waste-bin; rejected like the rest, left to loiter here. Godiva sits patiently, transfixed in a staring contest with Starbucks, while a Hen Party totters past with almost as much flesh on display as she.

Tasteless adverts roll like film credits, signalling The End of everything.

The busker plays on.

Letter to My Home Town by Raef Boylan Dear Coventry, I love you, although I know not why On days when the washed-out greys of tower blocks Blend in with the haggard sky.

There are times, Coventry, I would gladly see you burn – Mornings when smiles at passing strangers raise just Hostility in return.

Award Winner 2014, Raef Boylan Raef is a Coventry-born writer and will be starting his final year of the English and Creative Writing course in October, 2014.

He has a strong interest in cynical short stories and free-verse poetry, and a bad habit of referring to himself in the thirdperson.

Cathedral Lanes at 19.30 on a Sunday by Raef Boylan Call it a miracle or call it grotesque but size zero trees spring forth from paving in Primark’s forecourt, adorned with fairy lights that belie the lack of festivity.

CCTV surrounds like a prison wall, capturing skateboarders and the world’s most optimistic busker, wailing to nobody but darkened window displays. A few cigarette butts have evaded the street-sweepers and mar the image of clean living like cancerous moles blemishing a body.

Cold creeps in; most of the benches

64

Coventry Words

Yes, it can feel like Germany had the right idea, But brick by brick you scraped your way back, carving New horizons out of fear.

Your streets aren’t paved with gold, instead studded with gum chewed For pigeons to peck at disappointedly, Then move on to what’s been spewed.

Stare into the River Sherbourne; if I had one wish I’d replace the litter and shopping trolleys With hundreds of happy fish.

I am no Larkin; I will not disown this city.

It’s too deeply seeded in my nature, the Roots of my family tree.

From Hamilton up north, and Dublin overseas My whole gene pool travelled to benefit from Your new, thriving industries.

Thus, you fed and clothed my kin for three generations; To jump ship without giving anything back Would call for explanation.

Coventry, I bear witness to the efforts you make.

Wanting tourist admiration, induces Scenic changes for their sake.

You’re like pretty women, who haven’t yet realised

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

65

Their best assets are not enhanced curves, and keep The intelligence disguised – Sure, a coffee franchise here and there pleases the crowd, But don’t forget historic significance Is of what we should be proud.

Spires punch the sky in triumph; cathedral walls stand tall; Buildings, both medieval and Tudor, prove the Luftwaffe couldn’t take it all.

There are no goose bumps on Godiva; she is too strong To let winters spoil her ride, the legend.

A proud city proves me wrong.

Dear Coventry, I love you, and know exactly why – The same fondness reserved for parents and pets: I am yours and you are mine.

Postponement by Raef Boylan In this building – Morris manufactured engines Grandma built bombs Taxes were sliced off wages And now I sit inside this building Half-listening to a lecture On the prospects for my future

We didn’t think of it like that People back then just got on with it I think people still do I’ve sleep-walked through shifts Pressed buttons like a trained monkey Filled up Excel sheets and paper cups Conscripted into the nine to five And now I’m dodging the draft Running back to the trenches to hide Tunnelling out escape routes That could well lead nowhere Some would call this cowardice But it’s only a tactical retreat Reloading before I go over the top To battle again with reality

‘Coventriert’ by Raef Boylan The spirit of Coventry rose from the ashes.

Its feathers a bit charred, Beak slightly mangled; Talons caked in blood and soot.

The bird commanded respect But wasn’t a pretty sight – Squawking racist views, And seeking confrontation On Saturday nights.

They want me in motion Exploding with ambition Paying my share of the burden

A phoenix has purity, Born of fiery sacrifice.

I asked Grandma how it felt To hold death in your hands To be a cog in the killing machine She told me –

On closer inspection, What had arisen Turned out to be –

66

Coventry Words

A pigeon will defecate Where it eats and lives.

Not quite a phoenix.

Why not enter the Fred Holland Poetry Collection Award, 2015? It is open to all Coventry University students who write poetry. The winner will receive £1000 and publication in the Coventry Words creative writing magazine, Vol. 6 in 2015.

Send in your submissions by 30th March 2015 to: coventrywords.bes@coventry.ac.uk. Please type: The Fred Holland Poetry Collection Award in the subject line, and provide your name and course details within the email. The poems should be single-spaced and the collection must be no longer than five A4 pages. Embed your poems within the email too - do not send attachments.

Amongst the judges this year was local poet and creative magazine publisher, Adam Steiner.

Adam worked in the NHS for many years as a cleaner/driver/admin; his first novel is Politics of The Asylum. His poetry and short stories on wasters/mermaids/ hearing voices appeared in the Dance Is New, Poems Underwater and Stepaway – Voicewalks anthologies. He is delighted to have once been compared to “Caliban on speed” by the TLC. His work has also appeared in The Literateur, Nostrovia! SquawkBack, NOUS, Erotic Review and 3:AM websites. His poem, Leaves On The Line, recently featured in The Cadaverine. He is the Deputy Editor of the themed literary magazine, Here Comes Everyone, including the ‘Riots’, ‘NHS Jerusalem’ and ‘Idiots’ issues. Follow Adam on Twitter: @BurndtOutWard, or hear him read on the @BurndtOutWard YouTube channel. www.SilhouettePress.co.uk – a non-profit publisher based in Coventry www.herecomeseveryone.me – a bi-monthly themed magazine of articles, artwork, fiction and poetry.

Next Fire & Dust open-mic – Big Comfy Bookshop, FarGo, Coventry – 7.30pm, Thursday 2/10/2014.

Find them on Twitter: @SilhouettePress

@HereComesEvery1

Entry to the competition is subject to terms and conditions, which can be found at blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

blogs.coventry.ac.uk/coventrywords

67

Are you interested in writing a novel?

Why not enrol on one or both of the following courses held at Coventry University, taught by author: Andy Killeen?

Getting your Novel off the Ground 7 weeks starting 30th October, 2014, 6-8pm The Art of the Novel 7 weeks starting 5th February, 2015, 6-8pm Email Alyson Morris on: a.morris@coventry.ac.uk for more information.

coventrywords @coventrywords