Coventry Words Vol. 4

a little book of student writing

Volume 4: September 2013

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

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: http://coventrywords.tumblr.com/ Email: coventrywords.bes@coventry.ac.uk Executive Editor: Alyson Morris Email: a.morris@coventry.ac.uk Student Editors: Matt Barton, Stella Bibb, Fiona Birgirwenkya, Raef Boylan, Jade Bradley, Christine Braganza, Samantha Campbell, Dermot Connaughton, Kelly Ebanks, Nicola Gronow, Steve Hall, Harriet Holmes, Tom Jennings, Gabi Jones, Ryan Mandalia, Eleysha Moffatt, Shannon Noone, Elisha Phillip, Sophie Raphael, Katy Rose, Sophie Rowson, Tas Sadheer, Lauren Sheraton, Emily Steainstreet, Gaetan Van Leeuwen, Jareth Vincent, Paige Walker, Hannah Wood, Katie Wynne Copy-editor: Tim Kelly Marketing Coordinator: Louise Welch and Joanne Simpson Cover Design: Sreoshi Sinha Photography: Graham Harwood, Tim Kelly and Alyson Morris Proofreaders: Raef Boylan, Dane Curel, Raeesa Hussain and Tom Jennings Web Manager: Ryan Hayes The Creative Writing Society: President: Andrew Daley Secretary: Dane Curel The Coventry Words Society: President: Gabi Jones Secretary: Katy Rose Printed by: Emmerson Press Any opinions expressed by a contributor are their own personal opinions, and do not reflect the opinions of Coventry University or any employee thereof. The fact that Coventry University’s images are used in this magazine shall not be considered as an endorsement of Coventry University. Coventry University is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the contributors.

Copyright in each separate contribution to the collective work is distinct from copyright in the collective work as a whole, and vests in the author of the contribution. Unauthorised reproduction of any part of this publication is prohibited. © Coventry University 2013

Dear Reader, Welcome to Volume 4. As student editors, we have spent the last six months developing and improving the magazine for your pleasure, carefully selecting the most interesting, well-crafted and poignant pieces to pour across the pages. The magazine explores an authentic collection of ideas, musings and issues that matter most to student writers, manifested in a diverse range of original poetry, prose, play scripts and travel writing. And, we must thank the wonderful University design team for the new aesthetic qualities of this latest issue, complementing the students’ words with a backdrop which frames the pages with a contemporary look.

This year, we started a tri-annual student newsletter in addition to the annual magazine. There is also a new Coventry Words Magazine Society which aims to act as literary agent for student writers, and to engage in promotional events for the magazine. Please see our website on Tumblr for more information.

In July, Coventry’s Herbert Museum and Gallery published poetry by English and Creative Writing students. When you next visit the museum, take a look at the poems on display.

We hope that Coventry Words will inspire you to keep reading, keep writing, or even… start writing! Our goal is to encourage truly original work, whether it is unrestrained by the rules of a particular style, or a fresh take on an over-worn tale. So find us on Facebook, explore the website, and submit your work; it will be greatly appreciated.

Yours sincerely, Editing Team

Submissions: If you would like to contribute to the magazine, website or newsletter, please visit our submissions page on http://coventrywords.tumlbr.com for more information.

If you see the sun rise high, and clothes come off without a care, please be sure to keep in mind, the smoothness of her skin, so fair.

If you walk to your tranquility, where peace extracts all her harm, please be sure to stay so still and leave her captured in the calm.

If the wind is violent to her, with hair so free, and tender breast, please be sure of a coat so thick to warm the heart I laid to rest.

If the truth from daylight is sprung and you see the child I’ve torn apart, please be sure her eyes stay closed, and hide her from my darkened heart.

And if, assured, my darkened heart crumbles and withers in the rain, do be sure to shelter my storm, it soothes and cools my mind of pain.

I hope you remember what I meant, not just some childhood memory.

Please be sure the smile on her face has, at heart, been molded by me.

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Fair

by Michael Clemmett

SOCIAL ACTOR

by Jodi-Ann Johnson In a state of nothingness, see-through.

All eyes are upon me. But I see You. Gripping tight to the mic, I belted out, pouring out my filth to a large crowd.

Making broken promises I can’t keep.

Cleverly wording sentences that are bland in nature, like the one above but I’m sure you missed it.

I should apologise to everyone who bought a ticket.

Uttering tones of nonsense and fancy riffs, I sent my thoughts on vacation until the end of the show.

My heart is muted in my pocket; I’m switching up the beat, cutting edges, missing words - eddying pretty steep.

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05

Blankety Blank

by Dane Curel “I ____ you.”

You what? Who? Is it passionate, hidden, unrequited, forbidden?

Dare it speak its name?

Is it years promised, lips kissed, a presence missed, domestic bliss?

Is it night shifts, and weekends, working for romantic dividends?

Is it a hot-sick bone-ache when another holds your eye?

Is it a stuttering heart-quake when butterfly touches softly, slowly die?

Is it tarry melancholy when you starry-smile at me?

Does it bring chocs (eaten), roses (dead) and cards (read)?

Or is it a shared bed, a locked door; comforting, secure?

Does it soothe your hidden wounds in the warmth of night?

Is it too much for letters to convey?

Mouth pregnant; the words too big to say.

I don’t know what you mean, but – maybe – I ____ you too.

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Queen Gertrude

by Angela l Wattson I may be a woman wh ho has a dream - butt I am no Lady d Macb beth th.

My hus usba band nd, my lov ove e, was too ful ulll o’ o th’ h mililkk of hum uman an kin indn dnes esss butt I di bu did d no nott wi wish sh him dea ead d, to le leav ave e th the e cr crow own n al alon one e to me.

Butt ne Bu neitithe herr di did d I wi wish sh mys ysel elff to be pu putt un unde derr th this is tor ortu ture re.

Hiss ha and ds up upon on my bo body dy.. Hiss wo word ds tw twisst my hea eart rt..

But this is the pr p ice noble women have to pa p y, y all to live our lives as we righ g tfully deserve; I shall be queen for many years to come.

Sovereign. He shall not take that yet as I am the serpent under a flower, innocent in hand d and d tongue, talk lkiing spiiritits in thi hine ear, pois po ison onin ing g, fat atal al imb mbib ibe e obliligi ob ging ng its mas aste terr to utte ut terr th the e wo word rdss I am poi oiso son’ n d.

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07

Chaotic Waters

by Rebekah Hill (1986) Gavin Jantjes ‘Untitled’ by ing int pa a by d ire Insp In a slumber drifting through cha otic waters, isolated.

The deep blue depths wait to engulf the bodies that became extinct long before their time. king escape Patiently, see in flesh. bedded with m e s in a h c e from th

A forceful gust releases trapped souls, advancing them to further shores .

Memory takes the form of sin, . but brings to light the heart within

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Broken Dreams

by Syeda Ahmed We slept under the stars, held hands whilst we and others performed on a canvas.

The magic unfolded as fingers touched the keys that first time, and made love songs with our bodies.

I’m sorry, forgive me.

A blurred vision I wept for Him who grew in me, who mirrored you.

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09

Below the

Surface

by Hannah Pereira Sgroi bla bla bla tune out, tune in rattle in the closet of the mind faltering melodies that wind down slowly, comfortably until you would think me cruel for toiling in something I do not fully understand but clawing at the surface of icy lakes makes the pain a little easier to ingest and now, hearing the softness of angels I wind down till consumed by mufed static and black-white dots, blurred, appear and come together in one tangled mess of vines bla bla bla tune out, tune in

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S c at te red

by Raef Boylan Redundant sunlight filters through translucent drips poised at the edge of the diving-board branches. They belly-flop into the gutter, like soggy cornflakes slopped into a waste bin.

Spontaneity can’t kick care-free, in case of hedgehogs… or corpses. The luxurious mahoganies grew up, Sarson’s shine softening into dull chestnuts with no strings attached (joy conquered). Citric frenzy licks the sky and blushes; curls up into hibernation. Limes fade to lemons, change to oranges, to brown pulp.

We all eventually rot in nature’s fruit bowl.

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11

by Dermot Connaughton A waste of time; a waste of space.

The villain; laughs at loss, mocks at gain.

Pathetic, is your offspring; deďŹ nition of disappointment

The loveless; does what is possible to make haste,

by envy.

You were once blessed, but now corrupted

by material possessions? You once had quality.

Why do you allow yourself to be interrupted

Murderous monster, where is your humanity?

to himself, but cares not.

being blind to his becoming a shame

and vulgar to virtue or loving words that were not meant for you.

Self-miserable dog, ugly blind man, who is his own self-destruction.

Despite his blessings, doesn’t give a damn, including those he once loved, but now shuns out of hopeful hate.

ENVY

Coventry Words

12

Wounded Stereotypes

by Mariam Khan Working hard to be best, donkey, overworked, no rest.

No bruises, blood or lies, no screaming, hurting cries.

How did you manage?

Weight of the world, carried it yourself, you still do, nobody believes us.

But it’s true.

Homeless, no food, abandoned, forget society, why should we care?

Too young when it happened; it wasn’t even fair.

Still branded insecure, no man, you survived.

You wounded stereotypes, we’ve only just arrived.

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13

dreambound

by Jareth Vincent Two souls lost on streams, letting loose with lonely screams, hunting within dreams.

Feeling hopeless rage, kept apart while they will age, life acts like a cage.

Both bound heart to heart, two soulmates kept far apart, leave love’s broken art.

Fire that burns within, passion born to live in sin, chances sadly thin.

In the dreamer’s lands, formed by the sleepers’ commands, they entwine their hands.

While on Earth alone, while asleep they’re close as stone, from which love has grown.

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Lioness II

by Jasvinder Grewal My lioness has lips, lips that compliment my conversation like a two thousand year old deep maroon wine.

My lioness has hair, golden hair that hugs her neck, regal; royal like the queen of a jungle.

My lioness has eyes, eyes that are neither Meadow Green nor Sky Blue, but I could stare at the inďŹ nity in them.

My lioness reads about strong women – Khadija and Plath and Austen and Tubman, the kind that taught society what to think.

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15

The Maker

by Luke Brady I glide, softly, through the nothingness of space.

My destination set, the journey begins.

The Cosmos is vast. A colossal black canvas to be painted, but what colours? First, I choose indigo, pure and bring to the universe a sphere; God of the sea, Neptune, I bestow upon you a trident of power with which to rule.

On I go, deeper, creating, making. I gather rock and ice and press them together into a U, a New World’s core.

These travelling stars, these creations of mine, I’ll leave them to wander for all time.

Age means nothing; I mark it in the sky with a new world, and wrap around it rings of eternity. Saturn.

Continuing on, I pass those holes - black gateways to hell.

These are not mine – pray help for those that fall inside.

I reach a place where winds rage and rampage. I’ll trap them and leave a God to hold them there. Jupiter, with lightning may you rule.

Onwards…I am attacked! An army of rocks to halt my journey, but I am strong. I battle through the belt to the other side.

Three more spheres for the dawn of existence; angry red to mark war. Emerald and sapphire to breed life. A morning star for beauty and love. And finally, a messenger to all, Mercury.

I swim upwards to behold my creations – I sprinkle dust into the dark and give them the gift of holy light. Beacons of hope to guide the lost and lonely home.

It is complete. Yet something is missing.

A flaming light in the deep of the dark.

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Kentucky

Sun

by James Rodger (inspired by Grant Wood’s American Gothic) Her feet hit the dirt track road with a hopeful thud for each passing step. The sweat in her palm rubbed on the dark skin of her companion as they glided simultaneously across desolate fields. The Kentucky sun beat down as she turned to Sam. He smiled, not saying a word as they moved ever closer to their destination. Crossing the road that would lead to the train station, they came across Sam’s fellow plantation worker.

“Where are you going?” he shouted as the giggling pair passed by.

“Anywhere, Billy,” replied Sam. They reached the station, which stood on the open, sun-starved road. It looked like a guardian angel with its white tiles and glorious Church-like windows. Sam deliberately covered his face as Mary-Lou purchased two tickets to anywhere.

The quest was too easy. No resistance from the community, who deemed such acts as punishable by death. They boarded the first train, and Sam lingered behind to spark a cigarette to make it look like they were merely strangers.

Once on board, they shared a passionate kiss and laughed as Sam held Mary-Lou’s head against his chest. His chin touched her hair while he looked down the carriage. And there stood her father, Zebediah, the owner of the plantation and Sam’s boss. He smiled serenely with his pitchfork in hand.

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17

my friend insomnia

by Karis Gouldbourne Gabi lay on her side and stared at Gray, trying her best to mimic his breathing patterns. At eleven he had switched off the television, kissed her goodnight and turned over, and four hours had passed. Gabi, as usual, had glared enviously at the back of his head, and then returned to reading James Patterson.

She tried to kid herself on numerous occasions that her inability to sleep was due to really enjoying her book. But she knew that wasn’t the truth. Gabi could never sleep. For five or so years she had been battling with the need for a well-rested night. Battling and losing. She was perpetually tired; tired in the body, tired in the mind, tired of watching Gray get his full eight hours, barely grabbing two herself.

Of course, there were those who woke up at seven on Mondays to the erratic buzzing of their alarms, wishing for five more minutes of sleep before work.

But did they really know what sleep felt like? Gabi didn’t think so. On the rare occasions of a brief snooze, Gabi could never remember being asleep. She always imagined she’d dreamt it, but to dream you have to sleep, and Gabi couldn’t.

On the night in question, Gabi tried her best to behave exactly like Gray. His shoulders were rising and falling evenly, and she was sure she had matched the pace of his inhales and exhales; a quiet in-breath and a heavy out-breath that almost sounded like a sigh. He lay on his right side, facing her, with his right hand rested underneath his face, his feet entwined with hers. She copied him, because maybe that was his secret; maybe he lay in that position every night in order to fall asleep. Carefully, making sure she didn’t disturb her perfect breathing, she reached behind her, fed the lamp cord through her fingers and flicked the switch. Darkness swamped her. Excitement threatened, but she didn’t smile. She didn’t want to distract herself.

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Soon every thought in her mind became cloudy. She failed to remember the last few sentences of her book, her breathing took care of itself by staying sure and steady, and her mouth had fallen ever so slightly slack.

She was falling asleep.

A little while later, she felt herself moving. Her body, of its own accord, was unfolding itself from her carefully revised position and before knowing it she was standing by the side of her bed. Looking down, she realised she wore different clothes; a white vest, her favourite Gap jeans, shoes, socks, glasses… Was this what it was like to dream? Gabi couldn’t contain her elation; it was the first dream she had had in

years. She could not remember the last one, and now here she was, dreaming, like other normal human beings. It was a gorgeous feeling. Her effort had paid off. She couldn’t wait to tell Gray in the morning.

As she stood by the bed, Gabi felt so in control of herself. Where would her dream take her? Would it be one she didn’t want to wake up from in the morning?

Would it turn into a nightmare? Frankly, she didn’t care – any dream was welcome as long as it was a dream.

She couldn’t wait to tell Gray. She grabbed her bag, removed the car keys and jangled them about. Gray mumbled her name in his sleep, but with a triumphant smile Gabi remembered that she was asleep too. She didn’t have to listen to Gray. Turning to the door she left the bedroom and went into the dark hallway, down the stairs and let herself out of the front door.

It was raining heavily. Gabi usually hated the rain, but in her dream she didn’t care. Was this what it felt like to dream? This powerful, carefree feeling? Finally,

she understood why everybody hated to wake up. She understood why Gray was a grouch most mornings – she was almost certain that she would be just as moody when she woke up. When she woke up. She couldn’t remember using the phrase before.

Suddenly, she was in the car. An unsteady driver in consciousness, sleep seemed to give Gabi the confidence she needed. It was dark out, no cars on the road, and she sped down a sparsely filled motorway, foot all the way down on the accelerator, free as ever. She kept on asking herself: was this what it felt like to dream?

But then her wipers got stuck, the rain gathered in the corners and slid busily down the windscreen.

Everything turned blurry and Gabi felt her confidence rapidly turning into fear. It was indeed turning into a nightmare and she did care; this nightmare wasn’t welcome. Let me wake up now, she begged silently.

Just let me wake up. Reaching forward, she thumped the windscreen with her fist and almost cried with relief as the wipers began moving again. She wasn’t going to crash, but then she noticed the blue and red lights flashing behind her, stalking her; police. Well, at least she wasn’t dead.

She parked on the shoulder and waited for the officer to approach, willing her breath to slow down.

Let me wake up now. She rolled down the window.

‘Madam, may I ask where you’re going?’

Gabi searched her mind for an answer, but found none. Was it possible to be lost for words in a dream?

Why didn’t she know where she was going?

‘I – I don’t know.’

‘I’m going to need you to step out of the car.’

Her heart surged up her throat. ‘What’s going on?’ she mumbled.

‘Miss, you’re driving with no particular direction at four in the morning, which would be fine if you weren’t going at almost a hundred and twenty miles an hour.

I’m going to need you to do a breathalyser…’

‘I’m not drunk!’ Gabi spluttered. Let me wake up now, please. ‘I’m… I’m dreaming, aren’t I?’ The officer laughed – not out of humour, but exasperation, worry perhaps. He searched her eyes, puzzled at what Gabi guessed was the lack of evidential drunkenness.

He shook his head. ‘No, miss. You’re wide awake.’

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19

The Animal Man Teen Fiction by Jessica Ray Every Saturday I have swimming practice at Denton pool, and The Animal Man is there too. He comes in around half past ten, bouncing his ball, making the noises that got him his name.

My teammates call him weird and strange, but not me, I think he’’s free. He getts his own lane, riight ht att th the end d, so he can splash and play and shout. Mine is on the opposite side, but all I hear are the screams of my coach in my ear. Swim faster.

Keep straight. Be better. Each time my time is recorded I hear his gleeful voice bark, quack or meow, and I imagine for a split second I could shout too. But I keep swimming, because I know kn ow Dad is wa watc tchi hing ng and sho hout utin ing g is isn’ n t wh what at he pa pays ys for me to be doing, I have to swim.

My practice ends at half three, but The Animal Man still plays on. He’s bouncing his ball off the wall, a glint in his eyes when it rolls back. Smiling so big you’d think he’d won every competition he ever entered, or something. I think it’s unfair that a man gets to play, y, while a kid like me just has to swim.

But Dad always says “Focus is the key to success” and I know better than to think Dad isn’t right.

‘Dad, has anyone ever talked to The Animal Man?’ I ask, buckling my seat belt. He doesn’t like to be bugged by me once he’s back in his office.

‘No, and you shouldn’t speak to him, Jonny,’ he replies, keepiing hi his eyes on th the road d as I wattch h from the passenger seat.

‘But why? He seems like, really happy.’

‘Because he might be dangerous, people who are different don’t like to be bothered.’

‘But you’re always telling me I’m different, and I’d hate for peoplle not to talk lk to me,’’ I say. ‘H ‘He doesn’t ’ seem dangerous at all, he’s just happy.’

‘Sometimes people aren’t what they seem, Jonny, just forget about that man and concentrate on your swimming, that’s what I pay the bloody pool for. Not for you to be wondering about some man with head problems.’ He’s shouting now, so I si sink nk bac ackk in into to my se seat at and whi hisp sper er an ap apol olog ogyy. I rea eallllyy do don’ nt want Dad angry when he gets home.

I clamber the stairs as soon as we’re through the front door, thinking about The Animal Man. Where he lives, what he does when he’s not swimming, if his dad gets angry too. I think about texting Ben, but he always calls me a freak when I talk about The Animal Man. He says y if I don’t think he’s weird,, then I must be weird, and he doesn’t want to be friends with a weirdo. So I throw my phone back onto my bed and curl up into my chest. Maybe all The Animal Man needs is a real friend? I could do with one too.

The next Saturday I wake up nervous and excited. Today is the day I am finally going to talk to The Animal Man. I avoid eye

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contact with Dad at the table; the empty seat between us still makes breakfast time strange. Plus, he always seems to know when I’m up to something he won’t like.

‘How are you feeling about today, Jonny?’ Dad asks as we drive to the pool; swimming is his only conversation piece recently.

‘Okay, a bit nervous because the gala is next week,’ I reply, but swimming is the last thing on my mind today.

‘We’ve been working g veryy hard, son, I know you’re go g ing g to beat them all. I’ll be so proud and Mum would have been too.’

He smiles as he speaks, his eyes still on the road.

We’re here early, so I wait in the foyer while Dad goes up to get a seat in the gallery. Luke, my teammate, is already here too.

‘Nervous about next week?’ I ask, slinging my bag onto the bench.

‘Yeah, I guess,’ he replies, avoiding my eye, ‘but with Mr Swimmer of the Year over here we have nothing to worry about, do we?’ Luke sneers, storming into the changing room, leaving the door to slam into my face.

I pick up my stuff and follow him in, making sure I get a cubicle as far from him as possible. Nerves start to fill my stomach, but the gala has nothing to do with it.

At half past ten I hear the familiar sound of the silver ball as I finish my twentieth length of the pool. Coach Carp isn’t happy with me; he says I’ve been distracted since the moment I dived in. My speed is down and my angle is off, if he knew why I wonder d if he’d ’d under d stand? t d?

‘Coach, where does The Animal Man go when there’s a gala on?’ I ask, after he tells me I’m two seconds behind my best today.

‘How should I know?’ He yells as he points at the sheet.

‘Probably back to the loony bin or something.’

I wince at his response, but shake it off, Coach doesn’t like weakness.

‘Okay, practice is over for today. Remember the gala is next weekk and d Westfi tfield ld is finalllly att a disadva d ntage, t because thi his is our turf!’ He yells as we all start to peel away from the crowd.

My palms are so sweaty and my knees can’t keep my body up. I had my introduction planned out in my head, but it’s all lost. What if Dad was right? What if he is dangerous? Then I hear him squeak and his timid face turns to watch his ball roll back.

‘Hi, I’m Jonny, what’s your name?’ I ask, every head turning towa to ward rdss me as my voi oice ce ech choe oess ro roun und d th the e wh whol ole e po pool ol.

‘Hello. Jerry. WOOF. Smith,’ he replies, the grin never dropping from his face.

‘Very nice to meet you,’ I reply, feeling my dad’s glare beating down on me. But The Animal Man turns away and starts bouncing his ball again, meowing as it rolls back. I’m frozen for a moment, watching him play, idyllically unaware of the eyes set on him. I half sprint back to the changing rooms, my heart racing. I can already hear my dad shouting, and coach yelling and an d al alll my tea eamm mmat ates es’ ta taun unts ts.. Bu Butt I do don’ n t ca care re,, be beca caus use e if Jerry Smith is different, I can be too.

LOCAL LAD BREAKS COUNTY SWIMMING RECORD!

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21

Queen of the Adriatic: Venice, A Waltzing City

by Gaetan van Leeuwen Lounging on leather chairs outside CafĂŠ Florian is a perfect place to reminisce and drink ice-cold wine, as the afternoon sun warms marbled buildings. A rustle of wind disturbs the heat and brings with it the scents of a city. Most think the scent is something to wrinkle your nose at, but all those who have been to Venice know better.

Sitting in the shadows, people are relaxing on the edge of the sunny square. Not because they need cooling off or to avoid the faint odour of brackish water, but because they all feel at home.

People say, home is where the heart is, and if this is true then all hearts lie in Venice. With its romance and beauty, the best of writers have struggled to do it justice.

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Long ago, it was home to great artists and writers, but above all it was home to the world’s greatest romancer, Casanova. And in the city squares, where many festivities take place surrounded by narrow cobbled streets, are lovers who have become lost – with one another.

The greatest thing about modern Venice must be that it has retained its charm. This could be said about many great cities, but there is a great difference here, there are no cars, just boats.

The beautiful cerulean and emerald canals run through the city like roads elsewhere. This is not only the fastest way to get around in this city; it is the nicest way in the world. The Gondolas are taxis, and the captains hold the keys.

Venetians understand that tourism is the greatest form of income for the city, but the gondolas must provide a large chunk. They perhaps seem ridiculously expensive, but once you experience the city via its waterways you will never enjoy a normal taxi ride again. The gondola captains can show you all the secrets to Venice if you only ask.

Their English is not great, but they like to show off their city. They can take you down narrow alleys underneath a thousand bridges and between the towering houses, they will tell you about the history, and show you the houses of famous people.

St. Marks square is the most beautiful in all of Venice. The large palace and basilica take up most of the view. Visitors often bump into each other as they stare up at the gold and marble walls. But best of all is sitting outside the Café Florian where a waiter can bring you a large glass of wine as night begins to fall on all that gold and marble. You may even see street lamps alight as a large crowd of people arrive dressed in vibrant primal colours with faces hidden by masks. You may see them halt in the middle of the square, and a small orchestra may start to play.

The captain suddenly docks directly under a bridge and stares at me expectantly and whispers, “Ponte dei Sospiri.” I gaze at him in complete misunderstanding as he takes my hand and helps me out of the gondola. Leading me up the bridge in silence, he stops and points at something that looks like a marble tomb suspended over the canal, “The bridge of sighs,” he utters in a heavy Italian accent.

If so, it’s carnival time! Dancers will freeze until the first notes ring. They will all look up and bow. They will bow towards an enormous column topped with a winged lion, the lion of Venice. They will begin to waltz to the music while vibrant colours flitter over marble like butterflies. Only then you will realise what Venetians already know – this is how life should be.

Everyone will raise a glass with you to toast the Queen of the Adriatic, Venice.

The Ponte dei Sospiri was a passage that prisoners took to their cells. It was said to be the last place where they could see Venice, and would sigh, knowing they would never see beauty again.

The captain guides me back to the gondola and although it might seem a cliché, he starts to sing. Anyone who reads this article might roll their eyes, but those who visit Venice will understand. They will understand why the captains sing. The city deserves to be serenaded at every moment of the day.

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23

Plain Maintenance a 10-minute play by Matt Erskine Characters

(Iona takes a mirror out of her bag, and adjusts her hair.)

Daniel (DJ) - a business man, wearing a dark suit, with a briefcase and satchel.

IS

Iona (IS) - a business woman, also wearing a dark suit.

She has a hand bag but no luggage.

Ahhh, I’m boarding in about twenty minutes I think. How appropriate is that, boarding, trust me, everything about these places reminds me of the word ‘boring’.

So… pleasure or business?

Karl (KB) - a holidaymaker, in jeans and a t-shirt. He has a small suitcase.

DJ Oh. Business.

––––––––––––––––––

IS

(Daniel sits in the First Class Lounge of London Gatwick Terminal One, working on his laptop. Iona approaches and takes a seat next to him, despite other seating, not next to anyone, being available. Daniel notices Iona, and looks around at the other free seats. There are a number of people standing, and walking around, behind the seats on which Daniel and Iona are now sitting.)

DJ Business.

DJ (Sighs.) You? IS

Business… And pleasure (Laughs.)

DJ Lucky you.

IS

Where are you off to?

Airports depress me.

IS

First time?

DJ No. I mean is it really necessary for them to all look exactly the same?

IS

Nice. I’ve never visited New York.

DJ I guess.

DJ It’s incredible.

IS

IS

Landing pads. That’s all they are, just landing pads.

IS

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Coventry Words

Yes it does. Or I’d say it does. I guess it’s semantics really. Look at it this way, I’ve been driven past the Empire State Building 46 times, but I’ve never stepped out and seen it.

All I’ve seen of New York is from cabs and hotel rooms.

(The crowds of people begin to leave the stage.)

DJ I see. I know what you mean, I think. I’ve never been to the Empire State Building. It’s too obvious, everyone goes there you know. There’s this lovely restaurant just off Central Park you should visit next time you’re there.

Italian restaurant. Does an incredible spaghetti carbonara. They’ve invented their own style of cooking it.

(DJ and IS are now left alone on the stage.)

IS

DJ Yeah. Okay.

A boring, tourist, shopping chain.

IS

Oh, I know.

DJ You do?

IS

No I didn’t. Don’t distort my words! I said I’d never visited. I’ve been, on business trips.

DJ That doesn’t make sense.

(Awkward silence.)

DJ Sorry?

IS

IS

Business, no holiday?

DJ New York.

IS

DJ Genuinely? You’ve been loads of times? But you just said you’d never been.

Yeah. I’ve been loads of times.

Wow. I think that’s the first time I’ve got more than two words out of you. What’s this joint called then? I’m in New York next month. I’ll pay it a visit maybe.

DJ Angie’s. Ask anyone near Central Park, they’ll know where you mean.

IS

Nice. Thank you. So, what’s your name?

IS

DJ Daniel. And yourself?

IS

Hello Daniel, I’m Iona.

DJ Hello Iona.

IS

Tell me Daniel. You’re married right?

DJ Woah. That’s slander!

(Chuckles.) That was unexpected! But no. No I’m not, the jet-set lifestyle doesn’t really allow for relationships. I travel far too much.

IS

No it doesn’t, you’re right. Never in one place long enough. I don’t have anyone in my life that I’ve known for more than a year, apart from family. I meet someone I like, and take a flight across the world the next day.

DJ Yeah. I’m not that bad. I have friends I’ve known for a long time. But it’s hard to maintain a relationship when you spend 326 days a year away from home. Takes a lot of faith in someone, you know, to trust that they’ll be there when you return.

IS

I can beat that. 348 days last year. I missed Christmas, New Year, the birth of my second nephew and the birthday of my niece.

DJ I haven’t seen my parents in almost two years. They live in Liverpool. When I’m in England, I never have the

time to leave London, and they’re not mobile enough to travel down south.

IS

I was in Canada for my sister’s wedding; I was supposed to be Maid of Honour but couldn’t get back. They arranged for me to be Skype’d there, using a projector or something, but my meeting overran and I missed it. They were waiting for me for ages!

DJ Now that’s deep!

(Moment of silence.)

IS

IS

We could!

(Both laugh and sigh.)

IS

I know. (IS smiles at DJ.)

DJ So, Iona. Where are you off to?

DJ Ouch. We could go on like this all day couldn’t we.

IS

Aren’t we all?

What are we doing with our lives? I mean, is work really that important?

DJ Work is my life. It’s all I’ve ever known.

I’m going to Chicago. I’m a consultant for Malnead Incorporation. We are the world’s leading provider and producer of heavy duty military equipment.

My job is to talk to people, you know, keep them happy. Tell them what they want to hear to make sure contracts go through. I basically flirt with old exmilitary types for a living, fabricating stories about my life to make them like me.

(Giggles.)

DJ Oh, very corporate.

IS

Doesn’t that upset you?

IS

Not really, it pays well, and I get to travel the world… without actually seeing any of it, of course. And you?

DJ I guess. But, you get used to it. You find happiness in places, and success, rather than in people. To be honest, it’s a myth that you need love, you just need to keep busy you know.

DJ My company acts as a corporate downsizer for businesses.

IS

IS

That’s deep. Really deep….

Ermmm, dogs or cats?

(Both chuckle.)

DJ Seriously? Dogs, I used to have two Labradors as a kid, loved them to pieces.

IS

No! Cats, definitely cats. I admire their independence.

DJ Really, you get no affection from them though, they don’t love you. Cats are only in it for the food!

A corporate downsizer?

That sounds ominous.

DJ I guess. So yeah, I sack people for a living, because their bosses are too scared to do it themselves. They hire us to do the dirty work. Huge, often corrupt, businessmen don’t even have the balls to lay off a few people. We’ve had a good few years since the recession.

IS

You sack people for a living?

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25

DJ Yes.

DJ Paris?

IS

People, with families. Kids.

Mortgages? That must be terrible. How do you sleep at night, after a day of ruining people’s lives?

IS

DJ I have a mug of hot lemon and listen to Ludovico Einaudi for about twenty minutes. Sends me right off. And I pretend that my life is a work of fiction.

Anyway, you equip armies with heavy duty artillery.

Weapons which will, no doubt, be used one day to kill people. And you question how I sleep at night?

IS

IS

IS

I, I, I, well...

(Iona and Daniel look into each other’s eyes in silence for a moment.)

IS

We should have dinner together sometime.

Yes, Paris!

DJ I’m in Paris! I arrive on the 16th and depart on the 24th!

Ooh, dinner it is?

IS

I do, plenty of places. We may have to try a few of them.

DJ Well, I’m there for eight days, we’ll see what we can do?

Yeah. We will.

DJ (Writes on the back of a business card and hands it to Iona.) Here, that’s my personal number. Call me?

IS

Who are you firing after New York?

Oooh your personal number? Aren’t I lucky?

(IS puts her phone back in her bag and looks around. DJ returns, smiling.)

IS

DJ (Laughs.) You could say that, yes.

IS

IS

So, what now? I call you when I’m in Paris?

DJ Yes, I’d like that. Or before?

DJ Half the workforce of a refrigerator company in Spain. Who are you arming after Chicago?

I have a meeting with a possible new client in Brazil. After that?

DJ I’m back in London for two weeks. You? IS

Back in the States, Arkansas then New York.

Then I’m in Paris on the 18th of next month.

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Coventry Words

Look who’s come crawling back!

DJ Of course! How could I not, and besides you have my bag, I keep all my important things in there!

(Daniel takes a diary from his bag, as does Iona.)

IS

Hi darling. Just thought I’d check in with you and the girls. No I’m sat in the waiting room… I’m boarding soon… Bored, as always… are my babies there? Okay, thank you.

Hi Amy, mummy misses you! I know, I know... Look darling, mummy is going to ring you as soon as I land in Chicago, is that okay?

I have to get my plane soon, I just wanted to say hello before I did. You can tell me all about that silly Mrs Sherwood when I call you? Okay. I have to go sweetheart, I love you. Tell daddy I love him too, and give him a big kiss from me!

DJ Yeah, that would be nice.

Do you know anywhere in Paris that’s good?

DJ We definitely should.

IS

IS

IS

Important things? That sounds exciting. I should have had a rummage while you were gone.

Hold that thought, I think I’m boarding soon; just gonna pop to the bathroom. Would you mind watching my bag?

DJ Important can be boring too!

Leaving your luggage with a complete stranger? I’m not sure you’re supposed to do that, Daniel.

DJ You like doing that, don’t you?

DJ (Laughs.) I’ll be right back.

(DJ leaves, IS sits alone for a moment. She takes out her phone and makes a call.)

IS

IS

I was reading a magazine earlier.

What?

DJ Completely changing the topic of conversation.

IS

I guess, yeah.

DJ So, what was so interesting about this mag?

IS

It had a question… if you could do anything you want for the next three hours what would you do? And it doesn’t have to be within the realms of possibility!

DJ This is running the risk of getting deep again!

IS

I know! They had answers from celebrities, Elvis Mitchell, you know the retired film critic, said he’d watch his favourite ever movie, for the first time.

How sweet is that?

DJ I guess, that’s sweet yeah.

IS

So what would you do?

DJ The next three hours?

Starting now? I would take you for dinner, in a swanky New York restaurant, and, if there’s time, we’d go to the top of the Empire State Building, and just enjoy the view of New York.

IS

Awww, that’s so sweet! I thought The Empire State Building was too clichéd though.

DJ Not with you there it wouldn’t be.

DJ Oh that’s me. I have to go!

You’ll have to hold that thought, tell me in Paris!

This has been lovely Iona, I’m sure I’ll see you again?

(DJ begins to walk away, stops and turns around to address IS.) DJ I’m really sorry, I can’t do this. I’m married, I have three beautiful children, I only played along to pass the time, that’s not even my business card. Honestly Iona, I am so sorry… I really have to go. I’m sorry.

(DJ walks away. Crowds of people start to return.)

(IS drops DJ’s business card into her bag, smiles, and walks to sit next to another man, Karl Beresford.)

IS

KB Ermm okay?

IS

Aw, you’re a charmer aren’t you?

DJ So what would you do?

I mean is it really necessary for them to all look exactly the same?

(KB chuckles.)

IS

Landing pads. That’s all they are. Just landing pads.

KB Yeah. Okay.

IS

IS

Airports depress me.

A boring, tourist, shopping chain.

(Iona takes a mirror out of her bag, and adjusts her hair.)

(Tannoy: ‘Flight number BA3321 is now boarding from gate 15. Please could first class passengers board immediately.

Thank you.’)

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27

Temp tation

by Maria Parry John figured the shaking would stop soon. He had always hated the continuous pulsations that plagued his body. It was a constant reminder of his failings. He saw himself as a strong man, a man of power and authority. It was just his one weakness that filled his life with darkness, changing him into someone he detested. His daily battles persecuted his existence and left him hollow inside. He was beginning to lose himself to her; lose everything to her.

She was forever calling his name. Her sweet scent made her uncontrollably alluring. She regularly tormented his body and seemed elated by the pain she left in her wake. He could not deny her beauty as superior. He often lost the ability to think when she was there; thoughts of her swam round his mind like a shark.

She infected his body like an incurable disease eating away at his logic and his responsibilities, allowing him to forget about his normal life, his normal family.

Her power always detected when he was at his lowest point, and she never neglected to provide him with a satisfying release of ecstasy and pleasure.

But these moments were fleeting and came at a high price.

He remained in the darkness comforted by the sweet sound of silence.

He wished he could liberate himself, prohibit her existence. But this filled him with anguish and sorrow. He felt frail, pathetic, weak; his body had begun to deteriorate like the empty promises he regularly survived on. He had to make a choice. He could see the haunting image of his disappointed children. He steadied himself and caught a glimpse of her waiting by her door. Opening the bottle he regretfully accepted her offer, and waited for the shaking to stop.

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Coventry Words

FIELD

THE

by Matt McGreevy Carl wanted to be the biggest carrot in the field. So, he ventured towards the fertiliser to promote his growth.

Dodging ants, slugs and bugs, Carl leapt into the fertiliser.

‘I’m huge,’ he roared! Then a bird swooped down and carried off poor Carl. Sometimes it pays to be small.

TOIL

“Stop! It’s too dangerous!” a voice screams behind him. “Please don’t go in...” the voice trails off. Walls of billowing smoke consume him, but he knows his way. He stumbles into the bedroom, “Mary, I’m here!” Collapsing onto the bed, he grabs the old picture frame and closes his eyes.

MARY

by Rosie Wakefield

by Stuart Hockley (inspired by Grant Wood’s American Gothic) He worked his farm with toil and love. She sat weary and frustrated.

He returned day by day and planted a kiss on her cheek; he loved her more than anything he knew. She endured, eyeing his pitchfork.

Those points she found tempting to bury in his shiny balding head.

http://coventrywords.tumblr.com

BATH

‘I want a baby,” I exclaimed, as I played with the bubbles in the bath. “I’ll buy you a dog, love,” he said. My jaw dropped, “I’ll give you a dog! How about adoption?” He rolled his eyes, “I was hoping you’d throw the baby out with the bath water.”

WATER

by Priah Kaur

29

PVC

by Rachel Sayers He said he wanted to try something new. That didn’t seem so bad. I suppose things had become a little stale after all. I should have known better than to just smile and nod without asking what exactly it was that he wanted to try.

When he came home from work three nights later with a paper bag under his arm and a glint in his eye, I could see that I’d made a mistake.

I’ve always been one of those people who doesn’t like to say no, you know, bit of a doormat. You wouldn’t believe the things he wanted me to wear. PVC isn’t nice in the middle of Summer.

He wanted me to tie him to the bed. God, he looked ridiculous, legs akimbo, breathing just like that phone pervert who used to bother me at the office. He was obviously so into it I don’t think he heard me laughing, but I just couldn’t take it seriously.

Still, I’ve tried to go along with it. Of course, because I didn’t protest the first time he thinks I’m fine with it. Not tonight. His requests went a little too far – you don’t want to know - and I’ve been a bit naughty. Here I am, sitting at the bar with my glass of wine, and he’s still at home, tied to the bedposts. Said I’d be back in five minutes.

Oh, don’t worry. Someone will be along to rescue him soon.

I’ve called his mother.

Coventry Words Short Story Award 2013 This award was created by the Department of English and Languages (DEL) in the memory of student Matthew Greer. You can view Matthew’s work on the website. Coventry University students were asked to submit a short story of between 1500 and 2500 words. The panel of judges (including author, Mez Packer) decided upon three winners.

First Prize of £250 went to Matt Erskine (BA English). Matt’s story is called Sessions with the Man Who Lives in My Head, a psychological thriller. Second prize of £150 went to Raef Boylan for Nights Out, and Third prize of £100 went to Dan Bowen for The Intertwined Lives of Jessalyn Rose and Her Family Living Room.

The prize money (arranged by Ryan Hayes, final year BA English student) came from this year’s Coventry University Chancellor’s Fund 2013, and we would like to thank Sir John and Lady Julia Egan for their support of Coventry Words.

The three winning stories can be found on our website: http://coventrywords.tumlbr.com

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Coventry Words

THE CREATIVE WRITING SOCIETY

The Creative Writing Society provides an outlet for student writers from Coventry University. It encourages creativity in order to produce the best possible poetry or prose. The Society inspires everything from writing, to music, to design. It covers theatre trips, scavenger hunts and poetry slams, providing students with ideas and inspiration. It also liaises with and complements The English and Languages Society and Coventry Words Magazine Society.

To utilise different interests and skills, all Coventry University students are welcome to join. Contacts for 2013-14 are: Andrew Daley, President, and Dane Curel, Secretary.

THE COVENTRY WORDS MAGAZINE SOCIETY

The Coventry Words Magazine Society provides a lively atmosphere for students who want to experience magazine publishing. Students who participate in this society will act as literary agents for Volume 5 of Coventry Words, and be involved in marketing events, promotion (including Coventry Words Tumblr, Twitter and Facebook), design, distribution, and will liaise with the new 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 2013-14 are: Gabi Jones, President, and Katy Rose, Secretary.

Email: covwordssociety.bes@coventry.ac.uk

THE ENGLISH AND LANGUAGES SOCIETY

The English and Languages Society provides an open environment to all students studying English and Languages courses. Students work together to develop knowledge and skills which can then be applied to their course. The Society aims to provide interesting pursuits and opportunities by organising events such as trips to local theatres, visiting exhibitions or inviting guest speakers to meetings. The English Society liaises closely with the Creative Writing Society, allowing members to explore their creative side too. All students are welcome to join, even if they do not study English or Languages. Contacts for 2013-14 are: Rosa Ferriera, President, and Mariam Khan, Secretary.

For more information on the societies, visit their Facebook pages:

Creative Writing Society Coventry Words Magazine Society Coventry University English and Languages Society

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31

Reading Coventry Words is one of the real pleasures in my life.

(Sheena Gardner, Head of Department of English and Languages)

This is writing with real quality and energy.

Coventry Words goes from strength to strength.

(Mez Packer, Author)

The range, vitality and commitment of the writing in Coventry Words is really rather special.

(Jonathan Davidson, Chief Executive, Writing West Midlands)

The craft and application of our students in creating Coventry Words never fails to impress and inspire, amazing and outstanding work.

(Ian Dunn, Pro-Vice-Chancellor, Student Empowerment)

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