Coventry Words Vol. 3 by Ryan Hayes

September 2012 ISSN 2045-189X (Print) ISSN 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/ (Manager: Ryan Hayes) Facebook: Search Coventry Words (Manager: Ryan Hayes) Twitter: @coventrywords (Manager: Rebecca Shortland) Email: coventrywords.bes@coventry.ac.uk Executive Editor and Literary Agent: Alyson Morris email: a.morris@coventry.ac.uk Editorial: Halima Aftab, Vanessa Bailey, Brogan Beck, Laura Downs, Karis Gouldbourne, Norah Lindsay, Rhishai Mais, Rosie Newton, Madalina Serban, Amy Swallow, Thomas Swift, Danni Tandy Marketing and Sales: Ioana Craciun, Adelina Cretu, Arooj Iqbal, Anthony Reeves, Elizabeth Rogers Marketing Coordinator: Louise Welch Design Team: Luke Wadey, Oyku Yigit Production: Ioana Craciun, Stephen Kailey, Elizabeth Rogers Photography: Adele Reed Proofreaders: Yasmin Jafaripour, Sophie Patrick, Anthony Reeves Web team: Ryan Hayes, Kamini Naik, Rebecca Shortland The Creative Writing Society: President: Rebecca Shortland Secretary: Elizabeth Rogers Distribution: Alyson Morris 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 Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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. 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. ÂŠ Coventry University 2012

Dear Reader, This year at Coventry Words we have given our magazine a complete re-vamp with trendy black and white pages and a new pocket-sized design, ideal for carrying around with course books! The magazine has received special care and attention from our student designers, and the writing has been carefully selected by our new student editing team. We really hope you enjoy it! Coventry Words is full of original writing from students at Coventry University. The magazine aims to provide an authentic cross-section of ideas, musings and issues that matter most to students. This year we have focused on poetry and flash fiction, but other work can be found on our new website. Find our Facebook group too, all you have to do is search for Coventry Words. The magazine will simply not survive without you, so please submit your creative writing. We hope that Coventry Words will inspire you to keep reading, keep writing, or even better... start writing! We like to encourage truly independent work, whether it is unrestrained by the rules and conventions of a particular genre or style, or a fresh take on an over-worn tale. Thank you for your fabulous entries this year. Yours sincerely, The Editing Team

Submissions: If you would like to contribute, send us an email with MAGAZINE SUBMISSION or WEB SUBMISSION in the â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;subject lineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. (Please do not send attachments.) Email your submissions to coventrywords.bes@coventry.ac.uk. For more detailed information on the submissions criteria and word counts, please see the Coventry Words website.

(Note to designers: 32 pages are for student writing – approx. one piece per page) (Page 1) Peach by Adele Reed

Peach by Adele Reed

Somebody call me Sebastian. and pluck, three at a time, tweeze my severely cellophane fingers Somebody call me Sebastian. from their home in my hand. Like And pluck, three at a time, tweeze picking fruit seeds from a deep red, my heartseverely cellophane fingers coloured pomegranate. from their home in my hand. Like picking fruit seeds from a deep red, heart Inside the fruit I thought of sleeping. It coloured pomegranate. was warm for a while. I breathed and said to myself, ‘okay’. And with my paperthe bagfruit I thought of sleeping. It Inside fingertips faintly pressing herwarm cheek,for I a while. I breathed and said was descended via sickly dance-spins into to myself, ‘okay’. And with my paper bag the rigid yet restful belly of afingertips giant peach. faintly pressing her cheek, I descended via sickly dance-spins into But I woke up surprised.the rigid yet restful belly of a giant peach. In three hours time I will have to be elsewhere. But I woke up surprised. I’m afraid to say, that the pinch in my side, was too painful mehours to stay.time I will have to be elsewhere. In for three With my shirt buttons done up to push I’mtight, afraid to say, that the pinch in my out the cold, gesture away the breeze. side, was too painful for me to stay. I am my own teenageWith boy. It matters to me. done up tight, to push my shirt buttons out the cold, gesture away the breeze. I am my own teenage boy. It matters to me.

Overcoming Dissonance by Rosanna Scholefield

The theory of resonance; music resounds through my fingertips, the vibrations indicate pitch, decibel and rhythm. Tiny bubbles propel through the air and burst on my skin, sending ions of information so that I may analyse, appreciate and play the melody correctly.

But it isn’t just the sensation of music that makes one successful, every endeavour should be accompanied by theory and practice, before they may work harmoniously together. When I play my violin, the consciousness of the strings and the bow speaks to me and it’s the notes on the page that allow me to understand the piece logically: I read it like anyone else reads the written word.

Numerous people have said that someone with this condition would only become heartbroken when they realise how it limits their capabilities, and that to encourage me to study music would only lead to my own disappointment. They even tried to omit Music from my weekly schedule at High School, assuming I would have no interest, without even considering that, before finishing primary education, I had already been awarded a Distinction in grade 4 Violin.

It’s been 10 years since I was challenged about the capabilities of a deaf child studying music. 5 years since being awarded a distinction in Grade 8 violin. 3 years since the audition to London University, and today I collect my First Class Honours degree in Classical Music. They said I couldn’t do it. But I couldn’t hear them.

Guilted Bronze by Shaynene Chambers-Dowsing

What right had you to t a k e f r o m m e , That which I would not depart with, To dig and scrape and chase around, And find no solace until you unearthed Any one tiny speck of imp er f ec t io n From which your hatred might be borne a platform...

So now, take

with you your hard-earned dirt, your sacred speck,

Which once laid heavy upon my heart, And heed notice that the most precious stones,

Standing Unused, Unappreciated, Undiscovered, Will no less collect dirt than I... And from this lesson hence, Understand that with all the intent in the world,

Guilted Bronze shall not be Gold, As much as I shall NEVER lay my heart in your hands.

A Different Kind of

Criminal

by Siobhan Ridyard

Whittled it down to one of three. Michael Piston - the least likely; at the scene of the crime, no motive, only circumstancial evidence. Janna Davro - also at the scene, budding socialite that gets whatever she wants. Kenny ‘Scarface’ Spitteri - a serial offender who’s always had it in for me. Most likely of the three. Can’t find Michael so far, looked in his most frequented locations; nothing. Going over to chat with Kenny, he’s nearby. Have to be cautious he’s surrounded by cronies. One false move and they’ll jump on me like fleas on a rat. This approach was not needed however, Kenny told them to stand down - resembled puppets. More to Kenny than meets the eye. Implicated a harsh threat but he did not waver, instead he gave me a ‘clue’ by saying, ‘If it really was me, do you think I’d be here right now?’ Cryptic. But I got the message. Janna isn’t with her friends - note to self, find meaning of ‘cooty’. She isn’t at lunch. Found her. As soon as I opened the door I knew she was the one. ‘I-I drew this picture for you. I didn’t think you’d mind me using your paints...’ Trying to ease her guilt. She’s ruined them! Now they’re all muddled! All to paint a monstrosity of (presumably) me, herself and a love heart. I retrieved my paints, pulling her hair as I passed for punishment, she started crying, she deserved it. She’s a thief.

When I think back to the day I died, I can understand why he did it, even though it still makes me angry and afraid. M y h u s b a n d , m y f a i t h f u l p a r t n e r f o r fi f t y y e a r s w a s m a d e a n o f f e r b y t h e d o c t o r. Pioneering cybernetic work to ‘save’ my life. I had signed all control over to him weeks before I fell into the coma. M y b o d y d i e d o f c a n c e r, b u t m y p e r s o n a l i t y and memory were implanted into a lifelike cyborg version of me. I w i s h I h a d d i e d t h a t d a y, a n d h e k n o w s i t t o o . In the aftermath of my awakening into this b o d y, I o n l y w a n t e d t o k n o w o n e t h i n g , would I feel pain? W h e n m y h u s b a n d ’s t i m e c a m e , a n d I w a n t e d t o f o l l o w, w o u l d I e f f e c t i v e l y have to die again? I went into our library at home and picked up t h e h e a v i e s t b o o k I c o u l d fi n d . I slammed it down with all the force I could muster onto my left hand. It hurt. I was immediately afraid. M a n y y e a r s l a t e r, h i s fi n a l w o r d s w e r e “ I ’ m s o r r y, S h e i l a ” . I should never have let David choose. If the roles were reversed, I may have done the same to him.

C y b e r n a s i a

b y T h o m a s V e n u s

Time Paints Ease

by Kandeel Butt

Waking to the unconventional yet most hidden under the ordinary, where lies your version of Cinderella and its own beautiful story? Dazzling dreams drowning under the secrecy of yearning. Hurt, wait, tears or burn... a few things we live to learn. They say, “keep calm and carry on”, so remember there is a reason why the winds dance with the rain and wait upon the storm. Go, go paint the colours of your hope and keep your eye on the prize because Once the anchor of love holds its ground, the ship of patience will never capsize. Out of the purple, green and blue, the days of starry ponder and ultimate visionary disappear. Effortlessly the unexpected warms you, killing all the fear. Magic fills your veins; you wouldn’t mind bleeding glitter forever, because this feeling only breathes potential and nothing existing can make this moment sever.

‘CURTAIN UP’ by Hannah Pereira Sgroi

Hours before opening at Shrewsbury Castle, the director of Twelfth Night received a text from his Malvolio, who was flying to Hollywood to judge on Know your Shakespeare. The director mumbled something about being ‘on the case’ to his ‘loyal troupe’ and walked into town. Behind the mask he wondered how cold the Severn would be when he threw himself into it. Wham! He crashed into a figure, apologising mechanically as he walked on. From the shadows behind him a deep voice bellowed: ‘Fool, as thou art!’ The director glanced back. Down a nearby alley a grizzled wreck of a man lay, bottle paper-bagged in hand, surrounded by a large puddle. ‘You have culture, Sir, for a t...’ The tramp dragged himself up to his full height: ‘’Tis but fortune, Sir; all is fortune.’ The director seized the quote like a lifeline: ‘Thou art made, if thou desirest to be so!’ Ten minutes to curtain up, a large whiskey was being contemplated by a nervous ex-tramp. Toby Belch tormented the Malvolio in his head. Then the call came, and he crept onto the stage. A metamorphosis. A lover without boundaries; he flirted with convincing flamboyance: ‘Yellow stockings. Cross gartered!’ The audience chortled with glee. A husband whispered to his wife, ‘Didn’t I give him 20p on the street?’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Hubert. He’s a professional actor.’ When the Hollywood Malvolio returned a week later begging for his job back, the director was only too pleased to tell him that there was a vacancy down a nearby alley.

Hunted by Jessica Ray

My hands are cold, my feet feel numb Can’t see through that fogged up window Rub my fingers against my thumb You’re there. Standing with your crossbow It hits my heart, right on that spot You know, that one you’re scared to reach I feel my veins begin to clot There’s only so much I can teach The sun shines in, I’ve played my part Tears crawl down my face to my chin The dart’s still punctured in my heart I dislodge it. Hope seeps in A smile flits past, I’m hopeful glum I can feel your body stirring I hesitate, the words don’t come Silly me, last night’s recurring

This one time in Delaware by Marco Hipwell

It was as though the night had stolen his shadow and the sun had taken a friend. Eleven and a half miles ago she’d broken down. Two-hundred and twenty seven miles ago, he had. He wouldn’t remember watching the sun rise over Route 24, Sandy Fork Delaware, whilst sitting stationary in his burnt red drive. For the first time since leaving, it was something he’d promised himself he would never be again, but there he was, stationary. The heat had been bearable since he’d set off on foot, but the hours had begun to tick and midday had crept up. The clicking of cowboy boots echoed across the tarmac to the grassy, yet deserted fields that had punctured the progress of his departure. A gas station became visible in the distance; it would be the first face-to-face contact since the toll guard at Chesapeake Bay Bridge - which reminded him of home. The bell tinkled as he entered the hut, four large strides and he was at the counter. ‘Three bottles of water,’ he said. The assistant didn’t move for a few seconds, he was engrossed in his newspaper. He then looked over the man’s shoulder, ‘Which pump?’ in a thick Texan accent. Their eyes collided in a stare, until slowly the assistant grabbed the water bottles and hesitantly passed them over, not breaking eye contact. ‘$4.56.’ His eyes wandered down to the cross resting on the man’s chest as the money was exchanged, and nodded, ‘Good day.’ The bell tinkled again. A dream once conjured, chased then realised. He’ll have to find himself, before ever finding God.

The Thin Blue Line by John Patterson

The world fell apart, year 2009. Salvation took form A thin blue line. They laid hands upon us, Soothing anxiety with promises fine. The future is bright, no need to worry, Today is secure, tomorrow is for another time. Shrouded in banknotes, buried in debts. Futureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s funeral passed unnoticed Veiled in cloth of blinding blue. A procession of hopes and dreams Parading before unseeing eyes. Resistance rests now, beneath cold hard spiel. With only shattered wayfarers And a shredded trilby to remind. Of the generation entombed eternally, By the thin blue line.

Tastes

by James Hickingbottom

‘Human meat tastes of pork, or so it is rumoured.’ Dalton held a piece of crackling in front of his face. He observed the hardened bubbles that garnished the curved morsel, before obeying the expectations of his tongue. ‘I have heard the same.’ His host seemed uninterested in the bowl of dried meat on the table, as he was looking pensively at a framed sketch that sat above the mantel. Pictured was rainforest settlement, Sylvan huts atop lofty poles. In between the huts, a congregation of dark-skinned people stood around a fire. ‘An interesting piece, Maxwell,’ Dalton said, ‘and where did you get it?’ ‘It was done by my great-great-grandfather.’ ‘He visited this place? Whereabouts was it? ‘New guinea. South-east, specifically.’ Maxwell seemed more engaged in the discourse now. Dalton was familiar with the way his timbre changed when the spotlight shifted to him. ‘The Korowoi people. Note their distinctive, high-stilted huts. Not only do they provide refuge from floods, they apparently serve to stop rival clans from kidnapping people,’ said Maxwell. ‘Not a desirable place to live then?’ ‘A whole manner of tribulations, I imagine.’ The conversation lulled as Maxwell reached for the crackling bowl. ‘In fact, the Korowoi people supposedly partake in ritual cannibalism.’ ‘Perhaps we could ask them to verify what humans taste like!’ Dalton endeavoured to keep the mood jovial. Maxwell moved a piece of crackling towards his mouth where it waited, as the corners of his mouth raised a modicum, ‘I don’t think that will be necessary...’

The Previously Undocumented Reaction by Shahreen Bashir The world froze around me and my heart began to shake, I love you - oh how sickeningly fake... My soul quivered to dodge your confessions which gunned me down with invisible bullets. Leaving such painful wounds on my trust, My stability rocks intermittently, somewhere underneath your deceitful lust, Those beautiful almond eyes suddenly flicker evil fire as you turn my world to dust... The sharp pain in my heart, that’s your artificial love. It shatters like fireworks in the night sky. The silence between us does grow into a raging storm Look how awkwardly it rises and intensely forms... It stands like a huge wall which hits the stars in the sky and then falls, Immersed in darkness, the world spins and I have nowhere to left to turn... Silence. I step away, the tears stifled, fighting their way through shards of broken heart and soft fragments of memories How your laughter echoes, while the teardrops from heaven plummet on my emotional debris... The wreckage beckons you back, one last embrace as a bewildered soul desperately seeks comfort from its oppressor, My chest tightens and knots with pain; you stand proudly with my battered soul in your unforgiving hand, Throw it as far as you can and watch me retrieve it like a good dog. Yes sir. Your wish is still my command. Time fails to capture the hours spent waiting for that call, The sleep-deprived pangs of self-respect from deep inside do beg the soul to wait no more... The comfort of your voice torments me. Then the pivotal moment arrives It’s as if gravity drains the energy from my lifeless body - so ripped, so torn... but still alive Still yours? Congratulations, another dilemma has been born. I’ll call you back in five.

The Painter by Saed Abib The colours infused making a Picasso seem menial, Strokes across the Great Canvas; Blue on the whole with streaks of white on a good day, Completely grey during three of four seasons. But in that late summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s afternoon, He is inspired; Blending the most wondrous reds, dark greys and blues, Contrasting so beautifully itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s almost speaking to you. When the hour strikes, And the yellow orb clocks out, Everything becomes dark, Crystal specks replacing the light. We are graced day and night, By both the dark and the bright, Shadows hinder the light, As the stars and the moon grant us sight.

The Pressure of Expectation Heart beating, eyes puffy and pages everywhere - life of a typical student, eh? But as the clock ticks further closer, the adrenalin pump goes into overdrive. Worry and sweat intermingle with the ever increasing doubt of - will I actually pass this beast? Deep breaths are needed, but even this basic human right is deemed too much of a time waster. Hence I sit there with my head in my hands, hardly functioning. Every word seems alien and not one page looks familiar. Alarm bells ring and I turn my head upwards to ask the Almighty One for forgiveness in this hour of need. I promise good deeds in return but know that even the most forgiving does not give in that easily. He looks for hard work and determination. Thus - I finally resign and accept that even good students can sometimes crumble underneath that great word of expectation.

by Mavra Mirza

Bittersweet Health by Esi Ofosu

Before my eyes lies a man of sweet compassion although be aware, he is wise. Take the time to pause, look into his eyes they tell a story of captivating adventure, the purest happiness and lost lives. They look forward into a better future fit for a king, along that line also a beautiful lady who will one day bear him offspring. See his sculpture, doesn’t it amaze you, bearing scars of the forbidden life he’s been through. Do not confuse him with a fantasy farfetched, I’m sure if you find him you’ll pay him his due respects.

I only ever asked you for flowers, instead you picked up flora. They say it’s really good for the heart, but honestly it almost broke mine. Scattered thoughts and a multitude of emotions. Some cry a river; maybe I should have cried an ocean? May it have been an aid to a loveless notion? Who’s to know? Who has the potion? Perhaps Emilia or Jezebel? I’m not to care as long as it ends well. And so I thought I had it all, the package was too good to be true. But when it’s time to grow up, you’re just wishing, wishing hard that it wasn’t you. Why me? Why did this all happen? You’re soon to realise it’s all a familiar pattern. Just too caught up in a fantasy, to take the time and analyse that it’s so farfetched from a reality you thought was otherwise.

Pregnant Pen In the hub of letters This pregnant pen longs For a midwife to deliver the tales untold, Sending birds over the sea To a village where the pen conceived Tell Baba, that his village will become global Tell Mama that her story will go to the Queen Brothers should not panic Sisters, never go to sleep This pen shall bear our dreams Our village will be a name Noble and revered in his wits That the Grandpa espied before he went to sleep

by Dele Kogbe

After awkwardly trying to decide whether the woman ordering a milkshake at the bar was indeed Emilie Lauren Jones, the poet I was there to meet, I introduced myself. We sat and briefly discussed our University experiences and football (she’s a Coventry City season ticket holder), before finally moving onto the topic at hand, her poetry collection, Sitting on the Pier. The collection features fifty poems written over the last three years. The title, Sitting on a Pier, is named after her love of the seaside, a place she feels everyone and anyone should go and enjoy together. Emilie was inspired to pursue a writing career when she recently left a teaching course, deciding that particular career path was not for her. After approaching numerous agents and publishers, who informed her that although they liked her work they worried it wouldn’t be profitable, she decided to ‘go it alone’. Emilie, who is also a graphic artist, designed the cover herself using some American artwork, and has purchased an ISBN number and a bar code, as well as lining up a printing company and suppliers, one of which is Amazon. An incredible achievement by a poet clearly determined to share her poetry. This determination, and love for her craft, was apparent throughout the interview. She spoke of the withdrawal symptoms she suffers when she spends too many days without writing, symptoms that inspired her to write ten poems in two weeks after leaving university. She sees an innate interest and desire as the two most important attributes required to be a writer, as other skills can, and should, be honed through a creative writing course. Emilie grew up in a creative writing environment; her mother is a writer of short stories which has inspired her from a young age. She has also drawn inspiration from two of her favourite poets: Samuel Coleridge and Robert Frost. Her motivation, however, comes from herself. Her emotions and personal experiences inspire most of her poetry. She also cites high levels of emotion as the best tool for overcoming ‘writer’s block’.

Emilie believes her poems reflect her as a person, sometimes to the extent that she feels the poem is so personal that no one else would relate to it. As a poet Emilie always writes for an audience, she wants people to enjoy and connect with her poems. She was visibly proud when describing an occasion when a reader contacted her to say thank you for helping her through a hard time. I asked Emilie if she thought a poem could change the world. She told me this was unimportant, as it can change one person’s life and that is enough. Emilie’s book, Sitting on the Pier, is available now and more information can be found on her website.

www.emilielaurenjones.co.uk

A Grand Launch by Emilie Lauren Jones Treading on stepping stones towards the stage. In Limbo - back through the door or forwards to the world? Heart punching against my ribs, sweating, gasping, choking, walking on. A feast of expectant faces hungrily waiting to feed on a masterpiece or a failure. Journalists like Hyenas already suggesting Headlines. A button’s pressed, curtains open, the rocket’s launched. But systems are shutting down until it’s just a charred stick that clatters to the ground. Fifteen minutes is up, yet I want to say, okay. I just can’t think, but all my blank page says is: ‘I’ve got writer’s block.’

I Am Not My Mother by Samantha Williams

Grown in blessed ordinary,

Raised on selfless absence and penny sweets, I am the tortured branches of the Chestnut tree, I am pounding pavement and forgotten summer heat. Concerned with wars an age beyond, Erased from future claims and childhood dreams, I am the frozen doorway at your solid back, I am sweat-sticky palms and fist covered ears. Consumed unknown of creature fear, Sheltered of muffled screams and silent thumps, I am the glistening shards across the floor, I am soft thrumming engine and the still of night. Fooled in heart with weaving words, Exposed to endless void and powdered delight, I am the enraged sirens bearing down, I am cold steel blade and unfocused staring eyes. Wizened through unwanted growth,

Sheared of care and childish restraint, I am the looming piss-stained stairwell, I am inhaled revenge and tear induced sleep. Cautioned to requited trust, I am the lust quenched table-top, I am no life-time of regret,

Flawed in faith and careful tread, I am hardened skin and sharpened tongue,

And I, am not my mother.

by Luke Brady Can I tell you a story? We can dance as the sun starts to bleed, Paint the world in its blood red flame, Part the ocean with this Devil’s Game. Love is lost. So lost, beneath the stone of the earth, Like the faintest light, glowing in the dark. But the glow’s not pure – it’s the Devil’s mark. Love is broken. So broken, shards of a mirror lie on the floor. A story so cold, so dark, so dead. A lifetime so wasted, so useless, so missed. You are the one the Devil kissed. Love is gone? Not gone, but stolen, He left a message on the face of the swollen: “I’ll claim your heart; I’ll claim your life, Just place your hands upon the knife. You played my game; you’ll pay the price, Now take your turn and roll the dice.”

Ro Mo gue rris on s o f th eS ea an Se by

Fac

e th The r e ro ogu e N And o lig cks of s of th e th h no anc thous e Clif sea hor e, n fside He to h o ho ar t p old he The rog the e cre m ue Wa aks ves from s of t h The press their v e sea y w ure e its ssel res f tle r with ame The Fou The ro fate g Wa calm nd a s ues o sh w the aves ilent a f the s to mu e p o embra neme a n th c n e s e them t hor elin e

Ode to Spring by Lilian Barrett Specks of green begin to bloom While flower buds release their fumes, Attracting natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wings in twos; Of butterflies and bumblebees, Humming birds and honeybees; Releasing sap of viscid delight That trickles down and coats the mites. Soil of mulch and dead debris, Harsh as night that serve to feed The sightless life that thrives beneath; While centipedes and millipedes Tread the heath - leaving ordure; Altering the soil and its texture That will be ploughed ready for growth. The joyful Spring brings those that bound The marked out holes, for seeds to lounge; While choir of trees hum on in tune By wrestling limbs and battered leaves. They lower their fruits aided by Wind; Thus glee ensues and townsfolk sing For Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grace has blessed again.

Before she was Gone by Lauren Wolsey Olivia George Johnny Fitzpatrick, Kim Harrison and Sean Lynch left me in the house on my own. I can’t leave my room now, it’s too dark and scary here :( Thanks guys… NOT!) Like - Comment - November 15 at 9.18pm You, Johnny Fitzpatrick, Kim Harrison and Sean Lynch like this. Kim Harrison Aww we love you Liv – why aren’t you with us anyway? xx November 15 at 9.20pm - Like Johnny Fitzpatrick <3 November 15 at 9.22pm - Like Sean Lynch Haha Liv stop being such a wimp! November 15 at 9.22pm - Like

Olivia George I’m going to do some work to take my mind off being home alone, until they’re back – they shouldn’t be long… Like - Comment - November 15 at 9.25pm Johnny Fitzpatrick likes this.

Olivia George Some help would be nice Facebook!? Like - Comment - November 15 at 9.41pm Lucy West Liv you seem bored & lonely up there – you OK? I don’t know the first thing about English so I can’t help you there sorry :( x November 15 at 9.42pm - Like Olivia Joslin Hey Lu, how’s Southampton? Yeah my new house is really scary, especially in the dark! November 15 at 9.44pm - Like

WANT TO GET YOUR WORDS HEARD?

Olivia George Johnny has just come home! YESSSSS! I thought he went out with the others but I must have assumed wrong B) Like - Comment - November 15 at 9.57pm

To: Johnny +447960492331 15 Nov 2011 21:58:27 Johnny! I just heard you come back in :) but I peaked down the stairs and it’s still too dark for me to leave my room so come up when you’ve settled to keep me company please! P.S. Bring us up a cuppa!

INBOX Johnny 15 Nov 2011 22:00:56 Liv, I’m still out with the others. You’re hearing things! As soon as I come back I’ll check on you okay? X

To: Johnny +447960492331 15 Nov 2011 22:01:13 I know for a fact I heard a noise so who could it have been? I’m desperate for the toilet so I’ll run down but MAKE SURE you come up to my room when you get back! X

Olivia George So… Johnny isn’t back and I feel really stupid – must be going mad! HA! Like - Comment - November 15 at 10.02pm Johnny Fitzpatrick likes this. Johnny Fitzpatrick Promise to see you when I actually do get back psycho! :) November 15 at 10.02pm - Like

After she was Gone by Lauren Wolsey INBOX Liv 16 Nov 2011 00:26:07 John don’t come up to my room anymore as I’m really tired and don’t want to be woken up. In fact I think I’m coming down with the flu and I may not go to lectures tomorrow so don’t wake me up in the morning. Tell the others too. To: Liv +447947668229 16 Nov 2011 00:29:34 “John”? You’re the one person that doesn’t call me that :s I hope you feel better soon Liv but normally you let me look after you? I bet you’re knackered so I’ll leave you and see how you’re feeling tomorrow after lectures. Night xx

To: Liv +447947668229 16 Nov 2011 11:30:42 Morning Liv, we’ve all gone to the lecture, assumed you didn’t want to come in today. Hope you feel better soon – we’ll get you some treats :) xx

INBOX Liv 16 Nov 2011 12:47:13 Afternoon John, I’m feeling really awful so don’t feel up to seeing anybody today. Hopefully I get better soon. I’ve been down to the kitchen for a bite to eat so don’t worry too much about me.

To: Liv +447947668229 16 Nov 2011 13:32:07 I’ll be home in 10mins. I’ve got you a surprise Liv – your fav… So NO more excuses ;) xx

Olivia George > Lucy West Hi Lucy. I’m coming to Southampton tonight. Send your address to my mobile now because my battery is going to die. See you later. Like - Comment - November 16 at 1.33pm You, Lucy West and 2 others like this.

INBOX +447939629637 16 Nov 2011 13:35:21 Liv my address is 18 kings road, Southampton, SO14 5DG. That English course has got you talking proper hasn’t it! Looking forward – I was gonna be alone tonight xx

To: +447939629637 16 Nov 2011 13:37:04 Perfect. Looking forward to meeting you.

Flash Fiction by Jessica Ray As we stood in the fading darkness, it was impossible to deny my jealousy. Her eyes – grey yet green – radiated adventure each time a car’s headlights swept her face. Although John’s hand was tight in mine, I could feel every set of eyes on her as we crouched, not caring about the outcome of tonight because she was in charge. Her hands were pressed carelessly into the soil, and I could almost see the flecks of mud beginning to squirm their way under her nails. But she was fearless. Fearless and stupid and carefree, and everything I wanted to be. Her denim shorts were digging into her thighs as she squatted, stealth-like, keeping a perfect position. Even on this night, the one we all knew would be our last at Kingston Campus, she looked like a supermodel. Her vest top showing off all the things a boy wanted to see, and her knee-high socks making it impossible for your eyes not to be drawn to the tanned skin between them and her shorts. Even on this night, the most dangerous yet, all I could think was how much I’d kill to look exactly like her. We’d been here an hour already and barely anyone had spoken, but suddenly Ivy’s head tilted to the side and with it so did mine, as if copying her would put me in her shoes for a split second. I could see the light ahead getting closer, and the settled fear in my stomach rose up to my chest again. Ivy shuffled up the bank, only an inch or so, but we all felt that pull take us with her. She was our gravity, keeping us grounded by pulling us away from those sensible lives we’d lead without her. And in that moment between worrying about her nails and her head cocking to the side, I realised how pathetic we all were. The neediness we showed by giving into her every command. How often we’d been close to expulsion for something Ivy did or said. I knew John’s eyes were on me as my grip tightened in his hand. The hand that was supposed to be mine but would forever be hers if she so much as hinted that was its place. And it dawned on me how much we didn’t care, because being Ivy’s pawn was always better than being on the opposing team in a world where she was always going to be the queen.

Hard C by Ayla Yoncaci

One ray of sunshine escaped through the blinds illuminating bright white skin. The blue of your veins protruded and erupted in our hearts as this foreign body destroyed the person within. As we reminisced over your previous lust for life you lost your smile and the lustre in your eyes. Then, you closed those blinds and dismissed that ray of sunshine.

15th October 2024 by Rachel Sayers I'll remember the day they came for as long as I live. It feels wrong, almost facetious to be saying that now, when 'for as long as I live' is looking to be a very short time. I'd always imagined living to a grand old age in a bungalow with a white picket fence and a rocking chair by the fire, but the Party came and I became a terrorist. That's what they called me, anyway. I squatted and stole food, but I never had anything to do with protests or bombs. There was no time for that; I was busy trying to feed our little group or standing guard in the early hours, when the police were most likely to come knocking. Knocking your door down, that is. The Party brought new laws every day, harsher punishments, and rounded up undesirables by the hundreds. We held out in the damp, malodorous basement of an abandoned bookshop, but it was only a matter of time.

In order to avoid creating disorder when conducting arrests, the police would arrive disguised in plain clothes, driving ordinary, everyday vehicles. The only clue would be the stun guns they used when they got up close - horrid things that make your legs seize up and your head feel like it's been connected to the mains. This day, they chose to appear in a red double-decker bus. The windows were blacked out. It was raining hard, there was shouting and swearing all around me - so much for not creating disorder - and as they dragged me onto the bus I was laughing, both at their ludicrous choice of transport and at an officer who had me by my right arm. He looked so much like a drowned cat that I was grinning even after he punched me. I think I'd gone a bit mad, from the tension you know. It was almost a relief to be finally caught. Twenty-two of us were picked up; religious deviants mostly, who refused to give up their faith to follow the Party's atheist line. Then there was poor, pretty Tracy, who was born a boy but who'd played with dolls and worn her mumâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s make-up. The Party had got to her a long time before the raid. Stuck in limbo, she hated herself, swallowed their lies about how she was abnormal, a freak, but she just couldn't change. So she hid, rarely venturing out but taking the time every morning to get her hair just so, smoothing the creases from her skirts. I'd steal blusher from the pharmacy for her. They'll kill me, for sure; they call these places 'reform centres', but anyone with a shred of intelligence knows they're places of execution. But believe me, I'm not going quietly. Every morning you hear cells being opened and people dragged out and the noise is unbelievable. I'll scream from here to their stinking gas chamber, like everyone else, and the more blood I can spill on the way, the better. There's more of us where I came from; the Party know it, and they're terrified. It's only a matter of time.

by Farah Khan

by Jessica Dear

TIME

by Siobhan Ridyard I really should leave this profession, Stephanie thought to herself as she sat there strapped to the chair listening to the monologue of Tony Priscelli. Three years a bounty hunter, six cars replaced, seven attempted murders, eight kidnappings and an exploded funeral home. ‘Time for a career change,’ she said.

by Karis Gouldbourne

GOLF

MOON

The red scar that curled mockingly around Ryan’s neck stared at him, reminding him of his failure to become a model. But he now held the bank loan for his new company, Warts and All, in his hand. In your face, he thought to the world, in your perfect face.

by Matthew Swannack

LUCKY

FOR CHANGE

The little girl who loved the word: because, used it for everything she did. Others who used the word were punished by violent looks. She truly believed it was hers. One day, whilst skipping, the little girl tripped and fell. Losing her front teeth resulted in a new word, becoth.

BECOTH

TOR

Torn and rejected. From juvenile skin to dreary wrinkles, she sits waiting with tender claws. Dried tears on her face, some make up still in place. Gold, silky strands of hair now turned into wires of silver. She questions her thoughts but there are no answers, except one word, spinster.

John waited for the reply from the Lunar Putting Headquarters. “Hey it’s Tony,” a voice said. John leaned towards the microphone, “So what’s the news?” “Sorry mate, but the clubs were out of stock. Looks like you’re going to wait a few more months before you can play low-grav golf.”

THE CREATIVE WRITING SOCIETY THE ENGLISH AND LANGUAGES SOCIETY

student writers from Coventry University. It encourages creativity in order to produce the best possible poetry or prose. The Society inspires

The Creative Writing Society provides an outlet for

everything from writing, to music, to design. It covers theatre trips, scavenger hunts and poetry slams, providing students with ideas and

inspiration. The Society works closely with the student editing team for the Coventry Words magazine and website, and members from the Department of English and Languages are happy to advise other student members on publishing. It also liaises and complements The English Society. To utilise different interests and

welcome

skills,

to join. Meetings all Coventry University students are are twice monthly in a variety of venues. Contacts for 2012-13 are: Rebecca Shortland, President, and Elizabeth Rogers, Secretary. 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

opportunities

by organising events such as trips to and local theatres, visiting exhibitions or inviting guest speakers to meetings. The English Society liaises closely with the Creative Writing Society,

explore

their creative side too. Meetings are allowing members to once a fortnight and all students are welcome to attend, even if they do not study English or Languages. Contacts for 2012-13 are: Rosa Ferriera, President, and Mariam Khan, Secretary. For more information on the societies, visit their Facebook pages:

Creative Writing Society Coventry University English and Languages Society

There is also a Global Student Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Society which promotes literary activities and organises monthly readings with a guest writer. The society works closely with Cultural Mundi, African Student Society, One World Society and other societies that share its literary visions.

Visit www.cusu.org for an A-Z of societies.

"Language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my check-out girl... language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple, it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from a old bookshelf a half-forgotten book of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on a stair, it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party, it's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl. It's cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot." (Stephen Fry 2006)