PublishED Magazine Issue No. 3

PublishED The Edinburgh Student Literary Magazine Issue No. 3

David Nicholls Ella Hickson

Jeff Randall

Haiku Competition

Prose, Poetry, Drama

HAIKU COMPETITION

POETRY SLAM

contents

16-17

18-19 4-7 15

31

20-21

14 10-11

4-7 | Publishing Information Deep-Fried Ink Articles and columns on the industry.

16-17| Contest Haiku Competition

10-11 | Interview Jeff Randall The story of the boy fi’ Leith

18-19 | Events Slam Poetry A showcasing of the winners of the English Literature Society’s event.

14 | Interview Ella Hickson “A bit of laughter and a few tears” with the playwright of Eight and Precious Little Talent.

15 | Interview David Nicholls

“The joy of writing fiction is that people leave you alone.” PublishED invades the solitude of the author of Starter for Ten and One Day.

A selection of flash poetry from our contributors.

20-21 | Events Let’s Get Lyrical The feast for the ears that took Edinburgh and Glasgow by storm.

31 | Photos Photos of Past Events & Fundraisers

A collection of photographs from recent PublishED events.

foreword

the committee

R

Editor-In-Chief

‘ ewarding’ is the best word to describe this past year, the first in PublishED’s long and illustrious history, fingers crossed. We can think of many others – ‘timeconsuming’, ‘exciting’, ‘frustrating’, ‘amusing’ – but ‘rewarding’ is the first that comes to mind.

We have spent this year doing what we love, working with a group of talented and generous people.

We hand over the reins to next year’s editorial team with many, many happy memories, knowing that they will build upon our brief legacy.

Once again, we have so many people to thank: Jeff Randall, David Nicholls, Ella Hickson, Dr Padmini Ray Murray, David Grant and Richard Burton at Infinite Ideas, Anne Marie Hagen and Fledgling Press, Anna Burkey and Chris Scott at Edinburgh City of Literature, Rich Hardiman at PrintBar, Romie and Paul Hamilton, and last but by no means least, our committee and writers, who are the life and soul of this publication.

Please enjoy this, our third offering. In the words of Ezra Pound, “With one day’s reading a man may have the key in his hands”.

Matthew Oldfield & Jen Mah

Head of Layout & Design General Editors

Matthew Oldfield Jen Mah Joshua King Jining Zhang

Drama Editors

Kieran Johnson Katy Johnston

Poetry Editors

Eleanor Angus Sam Kirk

Prose Editors Heads of Fundraising Secretary Head of PR & Marketing Head of Advertising

Lois Wilson Karishma Sundara Sarah Hull Allan Cameron Susie Shields Anjalee Salter Tasha Frost

Proofreader

Emily McFarland Jessica Gray

Head of Transportation

Will Macpherson

contact info email questions, comments, or submissions to PublishEDinburgh@gmail.com or to keep up to date with upcoming PublishED events, check out our website at www.PublishEDinburgh.weebly.com or follow us on twitter at @PublishEDSoc

DeepFrom Manuscript to Finished Product - what is involved in publishing a children’s book?

by Anne Marie Hagen from Fledgling Press

The road leading to the eventual publication of a book can start

in different ways. For example, an editor can contact an author and commission a work or a series, but often an author will approach a publisher with an idea or a manuscript. Such was the case of the illustrated children’s book The Peerie Monster and the Colour Crocodile which will be published by Fledgling Press this spring.

The author is University of Edinburgh MSc graduate Nyssa Pinkerton, and the illustrator is Kylie Tesdale, graduate of the Edinburgh College of Art. The book tells the story of a small dog called the Peerie Monster, who is supposed to be able to do magic, but Peerie has only ever exhibited talent for bringing mud into the castle where she lives with Princess Iona. However, when a witch drains all colours from the country, it falls to this tiny dog to set things right again.

The editors at Fledgling agreed that the book was well written and marketable. In December 2010 the book was therefore put on the company’s shortlist for 2011. As I write this in late March, the book is being printed. And despite the manuscript being ‘complete’ when it arrived at Fledgling – that is, the story was finished – it has been a long process to get to this stage.

Preparing the manuscript was our first task. We looked through the text to see if there were any words that were inappropriate or likely not to be understood by the age group we believed

-Fried Ink the book should be aimed at. Substitutes then had to be found for these words – a task more difficult than it sounds! While it did not quite involve getting in touch with our inner child, it did mean finding out how children of the relevant age group think. Another job we did at the editorial stage was to look through the manuscript for plot inconsistencies, repetitions, pacing or other matters that would require a rewrite by the author.

Only minor changes were needed for Peerie, and the author and editors collaborated well, so this went smoothly, although it took longer than initially projected. So far it may sound as if the publisher does not have very much to do, but at this point it is probably worth reminding everyone that children’s books, especially illustrated ones, are known as labour-intensive books for a reason. Peerie was always intended to be an illustrated book, but there were no illustrations when we took on the manuscript. And so we had to source an illustrator who could create her own artistic vision of the story, one the author also agreed with. We managed to do this, and the result was fantastic.

ule, but we could finally sit down with our graphic designer and create the print file. Equally tense was the wait for the proofs to come back. When they did, we could relax– they looked good. Then we noticed all the small details that had somehow escaped us during proofreading and had to work quickly to get all the changes done and stay on our new print schedule.

Now our task is to sell the book. Parallel with the editorial and production work described here, we have prepared for launch and sales: we have sent out Advance Information Sheets to the trade, secured a launch venue, written advertisements, prepared for book readings and so on. The London Book Fair in April will be our first opportunity to gauge the interest in Peerie and our other forthcoming books, and we very much hope that the public will love Peerie as much as we all do!

Before we could commission an exact number of illustrations, however, we had to create the castoff. After finding out how many pages we wanted the book to be and deciding on dimensions for the book (What would display the text to its best advantage and be easy to hold for children?), we decided on the number of words needed per page. Related to this was deciding which font to use (we chose a sans serif font to make it easier for children to read). We discussed how to place text and illustrations on the page. Choosing the right paper was also part of the decision-making process. After all, the book would be read by children as well as by adults for children and so had to be fairly sturdy.

Waiting for the illustrations to come in was nerveracking – would we be able to get the book out on schedule?

As it turned out, we missed our original deadline and had to use that extra week we built into the production sched-

5

Get PublishED G

et Published is the brainchild of David Grant and Richard Burton, co-founders of the up-and-coming independent publishing house, ‘Infinite Ideas’. While the title may call to mind a bloated field of ‘how-to’ literature, this guide provides a witty, innovative and accessible look at finding a home for your creation. Through eight entertaining chapters, Get Published charts the journey from manuscript to book-signings - via contracts, design, sales, and marketing - using examples from the ‘Infinite Ideas’ catalogue. The intricate details of the post-contract process are explored in depth to provide authors with a full awareness of what to expect and demand. ‘Infinite Ideas’ is a company that prides itself on presentation and Get Published is particularly thorough in its discussion of binding, cover styles, paper weights and thicknesses. The book’s major selling point, however, is its dual focus; its invaluable insight into the thought processes and business dealings of publishers generates sound advice for writers on how to get the most out of their literary experience. Get Published is a humorous but highly informative read, a breath of fresh air in a well-trodden territory, and a must for serious writers.

David Grant, co-author: ‘We decided to write Get Published for three reasons. Firstly, there’s an awful lot of misinformation

and confusion around the publishing industry - there always has been - and we wanted to produce a true insider’s guide to the business we’ve been in all our working lives. So the brief we gave ourselves was to produce a short, readable, practical and we hope in places amusing, guide to getting published, set against a background of an industry that is constantly reducing the investment in new authors. Secondly, this business is experiencing seismic changes similar to what has happened over the last ten or so years in the music business. This is led mainly by technology on two levels. Amazon and other online retailers are changing the dynamics of how books are bought and sold, diminishing the role of the traditional high street bookstore and e-books, especially Kindle, will without doubt change book consumption in the same way the iPod changed music purchasing. Thirdly, again because of technology, it has conversely never been easier to get in print through self publishing and POD technology (parallels again with music and YouTube).

Our aim is to tell it as it really is out there; the book provides an insight into how publishers operate in a very tough market. It attempts to explain the effect, for example, the supermarkets now have on the general book retail environment.

Big publishers are focused on the huge sellers, very often TV tie-ins and celeb authors, because that’s where the volume can be found. The Top 5% of titles by sales volume account for over 60% of total book sales. Result-publishers and agents are increasingly reluctant to invest in new writers. We attempt to give tips and techniques as to how to give yourself the best possible chance of being published through the traditional author/agent route. But we acknowledge that that route is tough, and so we do also explore in detail what self-publishing entails, who the good service providers are and what the difference is between self and vanity publishing. True self publishing means that you as the author own absolutely your own IP, and that is not the case with certain businesses - this is critical stuff to understand’.

Infinite Ideas are offering free e-copies of Get Published to PublishED readers. To receive this special offer, email david@infideas.com with “free get published e-book” in the subject line.

Studying Publishing

by Padmini Ray Murray

Most people want to go into publishing because they love books, and they love reading. That’s

an excellent reason--publishers are, by and large, passionate people; passionate about ideas and communication, and always aware of the world-altering potential of the written word. To bring words alive on the page, however, requires a diverse range of skillsets furnished by a number of people. Publishing houses have traditionally been divided into editorial, production, sales and marketing departments but now digital is increasingly becoming part of that landscape. Consequently the skills required to work in publishing are more varied than ever, and doing a publishing degree gives you an opportunity to experience various aspects of working in publishing. Doing a degree is an excellent opportunity for you to learn what you might be best equipped to do, and what sort of role really sparks your interest. Publishing degrees are considered by employers to be the equivalent of one to two years of working experience, so are a great way to get a head start.

Publishing degrees, such as our MLitt in Publishing Studies at the University of Stirling, provide a thorough introduction to the history, culture and contexts of UK and global publishing. You learn about working roles, functions and publishing processes and how they are being transformed by the current digital environment. A publishing degree familiarizes you with the publishing workflow--the processes involved in taking a manuscript from submission stage to publication. The focus of the value chain, as this process is known, involves making the most of intellectual property acquired by a publisher; an aspect of publishing which is undergoing considerable upheaval in an age where consumers are increasingly expecting content to be free, due to its ubiquity on the internet. Contemporary publishing, therefore, involves complex and constantly evolving methods of showcasing and monetizing content, which requires some basic knowledge of how contracts work and how they might prove most advantageous to all parties—again, most publishing degrees will ensure you are equipped with up-to-date expertise to understand the legal aspects of acquiring content. A large proportion of publishers’ incomes come from selling rights to foreign publishers to publish their work in translation, or from subsidiary rights, which allow existing content to be adapted and disseminated in some other form, such as film or tv serialization. These rights are usually traded at the major book fairs, held at Frankfurt and London (Bologna for children’s books) and most publishing degrees will encourage you to attend and help out at these, so you can get anunderstand of how the business works on the ground. These fairs are also excellent opportunities to network, and maybe even drop off a cv or two to your dream future employers. Publishing is still a business that thrives on face to face communication and excellent people skills can be a definite advantage as contacts can be key in getting that first job in a very competitive environment.

But never fear—you are not alone in your search for that elusive perfect job. The Society of Young Publishers is on hand to help! The SYP (http://www.thesyp.org.uk/) has been helping newcomers to the industry to improve their networking skills, learn from seasoned publishing veterans, and socialize with other young publishers since 1949. There are three branches—London, Oxford, and Scotland—and all three hold events that are both educational and entertaining and allow you to make useful contacts with other people in their first or second jobs. Extra hands on deck are always welcome to help out with events, while providing impressive cv points, and I urge you to get in touch and join if you are at all interested in pursuing a career in publishing.

Membership rates are shockingly reasonable (£24 for students, unpaid trainees and interns working in publishing) and ensure free entry to events, access to job listings and the seasonal in-house magazine InPrint.

In this difficult job climate, a publishing degree and enthusiastic networking skills will give you an inside edge and equip you to pursue a career in a business that is almost always fulfilling and rewarding. The changes and challenges that digital technologies have brought to publishing make this the most consequential moment for the future of the printed word since Gutenberg’s invention of movable type and the printing press. It’s an exciting time to be working in publishing!

Dr Padmini Ray Murray currently lectures in Publishing Studies at the University of Stirling (www.publishing.stir.ac.uk). She is also the Chair for the Scottish branch of the Society of Young Publishers. She can be contacted at padmini.raymurray@stir.ac.uk

Upcoming Literary Competitions Competitions With Entry Fees: The Bridport Prize: One of the most prestigious writing contests. Send in poetry up to 42 lines, prose up to 5000 words or flashfiction of no more than 2500 words. Prize: £5000 for prose and poetry, £100 for flash fiction. Deadline: 30th June 2011. www.bridportprize. org.uk Edwin Morgan International Poetry Competition: Sponsored by Strathclyde University and Edinburgh International Book Festival, this contest is for poetry up to 60 lines. Prize: £5000. Deadline: 10th June 2011. www.edwinmorganpoetrycompetition.co.uk/index. php/poetry-competition-2011 Words Magazine Short Story Competitions: Prose and Poetry on no particular theme.

Prize: all the money raised from entry fees. Deadline: 30th June 2011. www.wordsmag. com/compcal11.htm Winning Writers War Poetry Contest: Send in up to three poems on the subject of war, the combined length of all three poems not exceeding 500 lines. Prize: £2000. Deadline: 31st May 2011. www.winningwriters.com/contests/war/ wa_guidelines.php Competitions With Entry Fees: FBFT Sports Writing Competition: ‘Exciting, original, even abstract’ sports-writing of no more than 1000 words. Prize: £50. Deadline: 22nd May 2011. www.prizemagic.co.uk/ html/writing_comps.htm Telegraph ‘Just Back’ Travel Writing Competition: Gripping stories about travels, up to 500 words. Prize: £200. Deadline: monthly. www.telegraph. co.uk/travel/travel-writingcompetition/

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The Gods Who Sleep

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me remember u o y ’t n o t birds W , the brigh n e d r a g e in th e sky bending th . toward us b rs onal bom e p r u o y t r the nigh Remembe went ur lips ista, how o v e th n o off in exploded evening m r a the w izon er the hor b m e m e r and if you ette my silhou then place e you. there besid day’s sing, this lo c e r a s r nd we The flowe drawing a h it w e r a roots w t of the de are the las RUSSELL

JONES

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Glen Nevis, 23rd October 2010.

9

Jeff Randall

Jeff Randall is an English and Scottish Literature student at Edinburgh University and the author of best-selling memoir ‘Love Hurts’. PublishED’s Matthew Oldfield and Jen Mah caught up with Jeff to discuss books, publishing, and his ever so eventful life.

What motivated you to write ‘Love Hurts’?

I’d been quite an insidious individual. I was very versed in criminal activity, I wasn’t faithful, my motivations weren’t good. It was basically, “drink as much as you can, shag as many women as you can, and say ‘fuck you’ to anybody who says that’s wrong.” Writing was all about accepting the consequences for a lot of actions, and unraveling the reasons. In my Primary One report card, the great Mrs Knowles gave me a good remark for “recreative reading and creative writing.” At four that’s quite a big deal, and ever since I’ve been encouraged to write. I know my limitations, but I also know my abilities. I knew, without any hint of arrogance, the moment I sat down to write it properly, that it was getting published, and I also knew who was publishing it.

Simple as that.

So what happened next?

I handwrote 200,600 words in two big, bound A4 things, and went to an Edinburgh Festival event about getting your book published. On the panel were Jenny Brown, a literary agent, and Fiona Brownlee at Mainstream Publishing. Jenny told me, “right, knock up a synopsis, and a letter.” This was on the Monday. I’d done it on the Tuesday, posted it. I was broke. I used the change in my pocket to buy a stamp.

I wrote the wrong bloody address on the front, but it still got there. She phoned, and by 10am the next morning, she said she’d take me on. Not a bolt in my pocket, but I had a literary agent. What the fuck’s that all about? Then Fiona Brownlee came to Jenny and said, “I want first dibs on this. This is different.”

We signed a deal in 2007 and it came out on 12th June, 2008. The editing process was hard; nobody likes hearing “take that out, take that out”. There were things I wasn’t allowed to talk about, things publishers were very squeamish about. But when you sign on the dotted line as a rookie author, you have to swallow what you get.

How did you find the success?

For one week, it was #1 in the WH Smith non-fiction chart. Seeing posters in the town was really weird, because I’m just a guy from up the road. And there’s your name, in 12-inch high letters, at Haymarket bloody junction. But then you think, “well, this is all very nice, but we’re going to have to do this again”. And that’s what I’ll be doing when I get out of here.

Your next work, however, will be fiction.

Yeah, but fiction’s a bastard to get into. You’ve got to have connections, you’ve got to have a name, and you’ve got to have a degree. I think a lot of the Booker list is pretentious bullshit, self-indulgent pish. The other side of it, the pulp-fiction, is quite crap as well, but it sells hundreds of thousands of units. If I was to nail myself, I’d say somewhere in the middle. Be popular, but don’t be, frankly, conversant with your own lower intestine, you know?

And finally, why did you decide to go to University?

To test myself, pure and simple. When my ex-wife graduated in 2005, I met a lassie who was doing English & Scottish Lit. She talked about books she had to do, and I’d read half of them. Then, over the next eight months, my life collapsed, and I decided to get my Highers. Studying English & Scottish Literature at Edinburgh University – that became my aim. Five years on, I’ve done it.

It’s been hard, but I’d recommend it to anybody. Instead of taking the easy option, why not test yourself ? Give it your best, and if your best isn’t good enough, at least you know. Nothing to lose, everything to gain. That’s why on 1st July I’ll be really happy. University has had a fabulous effect on me, and my admiration for the enthusiasm and determination in the young students is beyond quantification. Anything is possible and people should not be put off by the naysayers who will always put barriers up. Just look at me!

Same Place, Same Day; Different Times (The Inglorious Twelfth) To die, to sleep-To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, ---Shakespeare; Hamlet III, I …but she did.

And now the area she found herself walking through, searching for a building she had once invested her dreams in but had never actually seen, was heightening her senses, increasing her apprehension with every step she took. This, one of the oldest parts of the city, was an area whose rough grey edifices wept with the tears of a darker history than the triumphant sections of the polished, tourist-friendly New Town. Bleak tenements whose defiance was boastful. It was a haunting locale, and one which appeared to be crawling with the tragedy of the lives that had once thronged, cursing and swearing, buying and selling, loving and fighting (‘same thing’ she cynically regarded), through here in search of personal advancement several centuries ago. Many had never found it. The various dank buildings were often felt to threaten, to disconcert the many transient sightseers who had strayed from the user friendly bustling inner metropolis only a matter of 10 minutes away, the grandiosity of James Craig’s enduring labyrinthine cityscape to the north and the university district to the south. But this place, she considered, was like her life, in the middle, dark but with the odd highlight. Even on the brightest of festival days, it was the darkness that promised to consume her. But she knew how to break promises. This was Edinburgh’s original murky underbelly, one that had distended greatly in the prevailing years. It was truly an abject part of the world, yet one where she had hoped to have her dream wedding not so very long ago. And would have been overjoyed at one point to have done so.

And now, 13 months (unlucky for some) on from having manufactured her escape, she could breathe again she reminded herself, but she knew it was her escape which had precipitated her return. But the air she breathed since was foul and fetid, the life she had recreated in the mundanity of ‘home’ was one of delusional artifice and walking through the streets of old Edinburgh, the force of all which had embraced her with all its protective might two years ago (fuck was it only two years?) was gently guiding her now, her physical and spiritual totality at the whim of an unseen puppeteer. She had truly wanted this to become her home and now she was back because of he who had opened to her door of hitherto unknown opportunity. So far purpose had precluded the time to grieve but it was in the ether, working its way inside her from the all around. For the first time in a year, as the gooseflesh that ensheathed her trembled, she admitted to herself that there had been a chance that this day could have been so very very different and she at last felt the frigid grip of regret chill her with an omnipotent osmosis. It had been too easy to flee when things had started to challenge her. Too easy to say it hadn’t worked out!

The first tear slid down her unmoving cheek. It would be the last. At least for the time being.

She recalled crying unashamedly in his presence on that Tuesday afternoon a lifetime (quite literally) ago, the ease with which he acknowledged with a tacit, empathetic understanding her pain without condescension or judgement and offered her a cigarette. With that most simple of gestures, she knew that he knew instinctively how to show her love without trying. She really had loved him but it had been that love which had killed him. And so now she would do the same for him.

She felt it her duty; the least she could do. The tears were rescinded; the face, now unyielding, set in granite as she continued eastwards.

Her stride suggested purpose and confidence, belying what agonised belatedly beneath the veneer of power dressed femininity. Her heels clacking metronomically against the ancient paving stones adding to the air of mystery she knew her ‘strangerness’ emitted. Normally she enjoyed the sensation of eyes upon her, appreciating her, lusting after her.

But not today. Today was not normal, perhaps she would never experience normal again. Today she felt as mystical as he had always suggested she was and now she was using her mystique as a suit of armour, one of many in her wardrobe that was just slightly outsized. But she filled it as best she could and only the most exacting of observers would heed the discrepancy. She was scared, as scared as she had ever been but still she strode on. Past the bowels of the Central Library and the piss stained alleyways referred to as ‘closes’ in these parts (for she was not of these parts and never would be – she hadn’t really tried to fit in, her presence while she lived here as slightly out of kilter as her armour, not much, but enough).

Now the only other people around were the staggering dead whose spectral presences hung loosely from their bones as they swilled cheap booze in an attempt to speed up the clock to join the queue for their own cloak of ill-fitting but impenetrable wooden armour. The expressions of apathy and insolence in the haunted watery eyes all around her, declared without doubt what she knew already, with a funeral to attend as she choked on her guilt, that it’s impossible to hurt a corpse!

JEFF RANDALL

prose The Wrong Aisle

I’m buying my groceries when it happens; standing in the bread aisle, trying to choose which loaf. I like the crusty ones, but my teeth aren’t as strong as they used to be, so it’s difficult to find the best option. I squeeze the loaves, my fingers sinking into the crusts and occasionally breaking them. I like to smell the bread. I’m squeezing a baguette and holding it to my nose when she speaks.

‘Otto?’

My heart stops. I can’t breathe. That voice, it’s so familiar, and yet so different to what I remember. I turn. She’s still beautiful, even as an old woman. Her cheeks, her eyelashes… the same. Only her hair has changed; silver now instead of jet black. I close my eyes. So she still has this effect after all these years. Faithless bitch.

‘Hello Clara.’

She looks a little shocked at my frostiness. Good. I don’t know if I can talk to her. Engage her in conversation.

Thirty years and I’m still... and I still hate her.

I’m just grocery shopping. Here, with my basket filled with the treats lonely people buy for themselves: middlerange whiskey, malt loaf, and even… Oh, God, please don’t let her look in my basket. Baked beans. How pedestrian. No one can have any dignity when all their groceries are hanging from their arm.

‘Well, as always, Clara, delightful to see you looking so…’ I stop talking and turn away. She follows me down the confectionery aisle. She never could resist an unfinished compliment.

‘Still painting, Otto?’

‘Yes.’ I stop to look at lemon juice and I’m thinking, please leave me alone, please go away. I was fine before.

‘You were so talented. I thought you’d be famous one day.’

‘Right.’

She sighs, and I catch the faint scent of her breath. I remember when her breath smelled of coffee on a Sunday morning. It doesn’t smell like that anymore. She smells old.

‘How are you?’ she asks, and I stop walking.

‘Must we do this, Clara?’ I ask. ‘Must we pretend that we’re old friends, bumping into each other in the supermarket? How have you been, how are the children, the grandchildren, the varicose veins? What have you been up to this past thirty years?’ I stop talking, but my brain finishes that speech silently: ‘since the last time I saw you; lipstick smudged, eyes open wide.’

I walk away from her and this time she doesn’t follow me.

ROSIE PHENIX-WALKER

Inside

I had a visitor last weekend. Everyone was jealous. She came in and sat down and everything. Just like a real friend. Luckily, I despise her. Otherwise I’d have to be in her debt.

She came in and sat down and even talked at me for a while.

It broke things up, I suppose. Her sweetly smoky smell made me jealous of her. One nice big room full of envy.

And I don’t even smoke.

Her hair was up in 1960s style beehive, set off by her orange and brown, stripy jumper dress and stylised affectation. Her brown-ish, orange-ish, red-ish lipstick was glossy and immaculate.

I noticed that she’d smudged her heavy, dark eyeliner on her left eye, just above a wrinkle. I hadn’t seen this little rivulet of ruined flesh before. It certainly wasn’t a laughter line, that’s for sure. I couldn’t look anywhere else.

Perhaps ‘despise’ isn’t a strong enough word. I nothing her. She isn’t even worth my apathy.

She came in and sat down and talked for a while. Then she left.

Everyone was jealous.

TASHA FROST

This is only an excerpt of Tasha Frost’s “Inside,” and the rest may be viewed at www.PublishEDinburgh.weebly.com.

12

A Brave New World “

Yes, he’s sitting here in front of me.”

The receptionist’s smile faltered briefly, but I was already moving out of my seat and out of the room.

The click of the door closing cut off her cry of “Mr. Alexander.”

At the end of the hall, I turned to go left, but seeing two suited gentlemen walk towards me, I moved sharply to my right. There was a window at the end of the hall, some thirty metres away, if I made it there, I’d be safe and clear. I quickened my pace.

The two men called out to me, their polite tones attempting to conceal obvious intentions. “Mr. Alexander!”

I began to sprint and their masks fell. “Mr. Alexander! Stop right there!”

I tore along the pale corridor and saw another suit opening a door, seemingly mesmerised by the papers in his hand. He chose the wrong time to open the door, as I slammed it shut, the frame thundering into his nose.

I thought his sprawling body might have bought me some time, but a bullet tore past my shoulder, missing me by inches, and I knew I wouldn’t be that lucky again.

I was right.

I leapt for the window, but spun as a bullet caught me in the shoulder. I landed heavily and felt something break. Blood started to drip into my eyes, as I saw the silhouettes of the suits stand over me, and then the shadow of a boot – revenge from the earlier man – come crashing down.

I awoke, strapped to The Chair, a painfully bright light shining in my eyes, and a terrifyingly familiar antiseptic smell resurrecting long buried memories.

“Ah, Mr. Alexander, it appears you are awake.” I tried to speak, but my mouth was forced open. I don’t think there is anything I could have said anyway.

“Drill please nurse; it appears Mr. Alexander hasn’t been flossing. Oh, and call those lovely chaps in the morgue and tell them we’ll be sending a body down. I doubt he’ll survive the process.”

NEIL COLQUHOUN

Showing Up S

“ o how many turned up then?”

“The known universe.”

“Shit, what are we going to do.”

“I don’t know, go out there and buy us some time.”

“Ok but hurry, I get nervous in front of crowds.”

A few seconds later a man in a pale blue suit walked out on stage in front of an expectant crowd numbering in the region of infinity who were sitting in silence expectantly. They stretched as far as the eye could see; then for as far as the eye can’t see and finally into the place you can only see after plenty of vodka.

The man in the blue suit cleared his throat in order to break the silence. He looked out into the crowd and saw many familiar faces in the front row and a few people he recognised further back but there was a point where he couldn’t make out anyone’s face’s any more and they simply faded into the background of infinite nothing.

An old man sitting on a couple of stone tablets asked tentatively if there would be long to wait and was reassured that it was just a matter of time and that this was all standard procedure which they shouldn’t worry about.

Suddenly another man, this one in pale green, hurried onto the stage and whispered something in the first man’s ear. They argued for a few moments then the man in blue sighed and the man in green walked back off the stage.

He cleared his throat again.

“I am sorry to inform you that God will not be appearing tonight, we have done everything we could but we ran into some empirical problems with the nature of the appearance tonight and as a result we will have to reschedule for a later date. I have been asked to inform you that your seats will remain valid indefinitely. Thank you for understanding.

And with that the man left the crowd which reacted soundlessly except for a single sigh which resonated through nothing.

ALLAN CAMERON

13

kson, c i H a l l r dent, Eon made heru t s h g s r k ea EdinbuJohnson. Hicrently the P r e m r r o n ,f cu ondon n and Kiera ight, and is L n i s sto wd ay E ing cro’s Katy Johning debut pl w a r d n D nt le Tale th PublishEr award-winh. t t i concrete, that you can hold your L s Preciouk theatre wi nge with he ammersmit y work, that it can be read across different a l p H ri er al With hhe time to tEdinburgh Fat The Lyric times and places. A production makes your hair stand Do you on end and your heart beat fast but you are aware it’s only for took t in the 2008 Residence n i e t m h a have, and like, to that night, that moment. That is what theatre is meant to be; n ywrig a l P n have much creative control over being published is lovely but theatre is for performance. so

your plays?

A lot. I’m a bit of a control freak, however, I have come to realise recently that what makes a great play is as much about the work between the first and final draft as it is about the original idea. Being open to good dramaturgy, good producers and good notes is essential.

What was there in the way of support for creative writing- particularly drama- during your time at Edinburgh University?

I was a part of Bedlam Theatre; it offered exposure to directing, writing and producing. It is a great training ground for talent and brilliant low risk environment to hone your theatrical skillset before stepping into the world of professional theatre.

Do you ever dabble with other forms of writing, such as poetry or prose?

I spent 2009 doing a MA at Edinburgh in prose, so yes, there are lots of short stories in files around the place. I also have books and books of terrible poetry, written when it’s raining or I’m drunk or a combination of the two. It will never be read.

Who would you cite as your major influences?

That changes all the time. Today - I read a bit of a play in bed, listened to the Lion King and Ellie Goulding on my walk to work and then stole quite a large chunk of the conversation next to me in a cafe - so today: Tracey Letts, Elton John, Ellie Goulding and the dude in glasses opposite me. Not very proYour debut play Eight was a response to your view that your gen- found. Sorry. eration was apathetic. Do you think that this is something that every generation struggles with?

Playdown: Beckett or Miller?

I’m sure it is. Eight and Precious Little Talent tried to say that ap- Depends on your mood. Miller for the heart, Beckett for the athy couldn’t last long because times were going to get tougher head? But not even that’s true. I don’t know. I like Miller and spirit would need to be mustered from somewhere. I think more? that time is just about here. I think every generation just reacts to the world they are born into. I think boom bred apathy, and Which literary character would you least like to get stuck in a lift now things are tougher, it makes sense that a generation would with? react to that.

Um maybe Ophelia - I reckon she’d be a right a whiner, bound to be claustrophobic as well. Aggravating.

A lot of young writers feel they can’t adequately represent their generation or other groups in society. Have you ever experienced this dif- Which contemporary author has precious little talent? ficulty? If so, how did you overcome it?

I’m going to read this as precious, little talent not ‘precious little’ I don’t think you can ever speak on behalf of a generation or a as I’m not going to criticise my contemporaries! So people I think whole society. You can make guesses, and have an opinion, but have talent - that are alive - Edward Bond, David Greig, Caryl you can never say for sure. It was a mistake I made when I was Churchill, Tracey Letts, Simon Stephens - I mean there are a truck starting out, trying to speak for my generation. I think it really load. My favourite newest new writer is Nick Payne; he’s tops. is only ever your opinion, your story, your point of view. As I have grown up I try to say ‘I think’ more and ‘we think’ less.

Another Hickson play, Hot Mess will be performed at Latitude fesIs getting your work published as thrilling as getting your shows put tival 2011. on stage?

It’s different. Getting published makes you consider the ridiculous notion that you have created something

p with u t h g ld cau f Starter for e i f d l O o atthew ling author ing and the M s ’ l D estse nwrit lishE e b b e , u r s l c P l s , o tion, onth Nich Last m ming David scuss inspira di ar the ch One Day, to Edinburgh as ‘a city which takes some time to understand. It doesn’t d n a n . i e f You studied both reveal itself immediately.’ Would you agree?

T f wio s r e English and Drama at college I stayed in Edinburgh in the summer of 1988, a flat on Rankeildang and university, and now write both novels and screenplays on a fairly equal basis. What draws you to each literary form, and which would you choose if you had to?

The joy of writing fiction is that people leave you alone. You have a great deal more power and influence because, well, there’s just the novelist. Screenwriting is collaborative, which is both its joy and its misery. A screenplay is really an instruction manual - try putting this character here, then make them say this - but it’s the director who puts the suggestions into action and consequently is far, far more influential. Also, the novelist gets to describe an inner life - ‘he said this, but really thought that’. Screenwriting is all about action and speech - just ‘he said this’. You have to rely on actors to convey the inner process, and actors are, um, unreliable.

And if I had to choose? At this moment I’d like to be left alone for a year to write fiction. In a year’s time I’d love to write a screenplay. With screenplays you get to leave the house and talk to other people.

lor Street, just like Emma. The book’s not autobiographical, but I like using these little personal touchstones, times and places that I remember well. Probably laziness on my part.

So I only know Edinburgh as a tourist, but I do think it’s one of the most beautiful, atmospheric cities in Europe. I love it there, especially out of Festival time. It has a melancholy romance that seemed to fit those first and last chapters perfectly.

“I’d like to be left alone for a year to write fiction.”

You have previously discussed the importance of Thomas Hardy in writing One Day, but which piece of literature has most inspired your career?

Great Expectations I think - the first great book I read, and still my favourite. I love the way Dickens balanced entertainment and seriousness, the gothic and the domestic, action and observation. Dickens is sometimes patronised as a populist, an entertainer, and sometimes there’ s a broadness and coarseness in his writing that warrants the view. But at his best - for me that means Great Expectations, Bleak House and Our Mutual Friend - he’s at least the equal of more well-respected novelists like Tolstoy, George Eliot, Henry James.

One Day begins in a student flat in Edinburgh. Does Edinburgh have a special significance for you? In our previous issue, Alexander McCall Smith described

The word-of-mouth triumph of One Day was the fiction story of 2010. It finished behind Stieg Larsson’s trilogy as the fourth best-selling novel of the year and is now being made into a film. If you had to defend the novel in court, how would you explain its phenomenal success?

Well I hope I never do have to defend it in court, but I suppose I’d say that it was written with a lot of..um, heart? Passion? Certainly enthusiasm - I loved writing this book, especially the character of Emma. It’s not perfect - I’d love to do another draft now - but I wrote to the best of my abilites throughout. It is, I hope, a love story that both men and women can read without too much enthusiasm. And that, for what it’s worth, is the case for the defence.

And finally, what advice would you give to young writers looking to get published?

Stay off the internet. Really, in terms of creative writing, it’s the enemy. Not for social networking, or blogging, or selfpublishing - all of that is fine, and will inevitably get more important. But just as a distraction. It sucks up time and concentration. What you really need is a cafe that DOESN’T have free wi-fi access.

I still have the shirt you stole from her lover, you can come when you need SAM MEEHAN

you smile. we marry. then twiddle our thumbs. bored now. divorce? sure! signed. done.

EMILY McFARLAND

haiku COM The Oppo domesticated foxes look like dogs. i fear the same goes for you.

LOIS WILSON

for this issue’s flash fiction section, we’ve g Haiku (3 lines - 5 syllables, then 7, then 5). Th poem written about, or from the i see you driving round town with the girl i like and i’m like, “haiku”

young reader at dawn, your “hot cheeks and tearful eyes” TASHA FROST are painted with words HEDWIG LANDSEER i’m sure you know ityou look confused. my that silence is worse than hate. gender unidentified? still, no word from you. i am a man, duh.

MT

LAURA JONES

PublishED’s PickS: the show just started. wet, tobacco-smeared pavement. where the hell are you?

let’s walk on our hands you laughed. I wasn’t joking. i punched and you cried.

ALEC KERR

george can’t understand women, but is more worried about British debt.

GERAINT ELLIS

16

CHARLOTTE ROBERTSON

“endearing,” I said, a password flicked off the tongue, she smiled with a sigh.

MJ SCOLA

that first one you said, that goodbye, I believed it. now, they’re so flimsy.

KL STONE

they said you were vain. some warned me: ‘high maintenance’ i’m poor, but happy.

ALEC KERR

MPETITIon: osite Sex

gone for poetry, and the concise form of the he chosen theme was ‘The Opposite Sex’, i.e. a e perspective of, the opposite sex. my heart has never beaten so hard as when you held me in your arms ROSIE PHENIX-WALKER

marble clad stoics are better than the ones that line the streets these days.

EMILY McFARLAND

she draws a wristwatch, tells me to fill in the hands, but I’m not that man.

MJ SCOLA

no more butterflies.

Fragile wings are frozen, but, spring will come again.

LYRA ROBINSON

giftcurse of (wo)man: to slope towards an ideal like a metronome.

MAX MEREDITH

sleeve-heart friend, when we get close, your heart will hit the floor with all your clothes.

MAX MEREDITH

gawking gormlessly close your mouths, boys; I see you staring at my chest KIERAN JOHNSON

17

S

lam Poetry

the University of Edinburgh’s English Literature Society hosted a slam poetry competition this March. in a closely contested lyrical battle, the winner was Camilla Chen, the runners up YINGYUE HAN and callum o’DWYER, and we wanted to showcase some of the winning work.

Mosaics and Moorish skies and I, melancholy child will walk the tightrope with a thin-mouthed ego. But genesis, comes barefooted and let us, the defeated, skip water until we are just pixels, and watch ourselves multiply into a single-faced fear.

I want to tuck your silk-beaded curtain, I want to crawl under it, and let me stroke the Zen in you; put the water lotus on my wrists and bend me into a tiptoe, twirl me until we are madness of the same name.

YINGYUE HAN

18

Letting Go The world is a lesson in impermanence. There is no glory in holding on too long, only a quiet grace in the art of knowing when: Past the gate with the peeling paint, the last tree along the pavement lets go of its broken branch. Walking home the air briefly carries the taste of cut grass, crushed and green.

A passing bus kicks up a riot of leaves.

CAMILLA CHEN

Lovebite “Hello” “Hello, how are you?”

And so the laws of conversation assert themselves A manifestation of the same old and old And of course there’s nothing wrong with that straight off

the shelf Basis of exchange - it’s a foundation to build upon Like a house, or a cake, or a jenga tower.

Perhaps I’m not as brave To save the discussion from “A little dull” for risk of APOCOLYPTIC AWKWARD. Maybe I’m just tired or pissed offWhatever. The conversation meanders back and forth “What’s new? How’s your course?”

When the tip of an arrow pierces the eye And where it lies A small bruise on your neck.

Like, your neck was a peach.

And I dropped the peach.

And the peach got a bruise The peach is your neck. …

I start to wonder how you got hurt Not being alert? Like running on a treadmill and deciding To take off your shirt?

(I still bear the scars) Then it dawns like a morning sun.

I confess I’ve never considered this person undressed There, a memento of a moment’s caress Turned rough with the distress of Impressed ivory teeth and alive tongue

Dropping the pressure

Dropping the ball

Dropping the penny And like bubbles surfacing in a lake An idea germinates and roots Erupts a continent of red and blood

Like communism. …

A moment you can wear like a badge Quietly exhaling

The breath of your lover

Before they bite.

And that duality of LOVE and PAIN and LOVE and LOVE is

PAIN is LOVE is PAIN is LOVE is PAIN As we try to ascertain and explain and contain What the fuck this whole love this is anyway Is it biological or psychological or

even the merest bit logical?

Or is it all a trick To get us to buy more roses and Clinton cards Or our genes misfiring in an evolutionary need to Procreate with a mate you don’t fuckin hate Or a rationalisation of a social imposition instructing pretty

boys and pretty girls Are destined for each other And will discover The light of the universe between the bedcovers Or maybe a chemical imbalance Or temporary madness Or maybe even it’s an actual factual thing that just happens perhaps it’s a little bit of everything in multicoloured

multishaded collage of purples and yellows and reds and

blacks Like the coral reef surfacing across your neck Where hundreds of broken blood vessels lie shipwrecked Shattered against sharp white teeth. *** I realise I’ve been staring at your neck for far too long And amidst the mists of awkward that have inevitably

descended I managed to guffaw a goodbye But I see you and lovebites in a new light, A window into another side, I hope you see it too.

If you think they’re still obscene to be seen well Think it could be worse than that.

At least I can hide the whipmarks on my back.

CALLUM O’DWYER

19

Let’s Get Lyrical

For the month of February, Edinburgh UNESCO City of Literature and Glasgow UNESCO City of Music, joined forces to celebrate the wonders of the performed word.

PublishED was lucky enough to corner busy Events Co-ordinator, Anna Burkey, for the lowdown on the impressive campaign.

For those unfamiliar with the campaign, what is the premise of Let’s Get Lyrical?

Let’s Get Lyrical has been created and run by Edinburgh UNESCO City of Literature Trust: we’re a tiny organisation with big ambitions. Over the last five years, we’ve run lots of projects in all sorts of areas but we’d secretly always wanted to do something on song lyrics – lyrics have huge power and in our City of Literature we’re passionate about the power of words. When Glasgow was designated a UNESCO City of Music, we knew we had our excuse and took our chance to get lyrical.

So how does it all work?

The campaigns work because we are able to get so many partners working with us – not only is it great fun working on one campaign with so many different types of people and companies, but they put on a really varied range of great events.

We want our projects to be truly citywide, so the events programmes are normally pretty varied. This year we have over 80 events in two cities with more than 40 partner organisations. Our Let’s Get Lyrical concert with the SCO nearly sold out the 2,000-seater Usher Hall, but we’ve also had events in pubs, clubs and Botanical gardens, as well as bookshops, cinemas and libraries.

What have been your favourite events?

The Ghost of William Shatner beautifully captured the spirit of the campaign – spoken word in a whole range of styles, speaking the lyrics of songs and seeing if they could stand alone without the music. Scotland’s first ever Disco lecture took a similar theme, with Berlin-based DJ Craig ‘The Schuf ’ taking us on a tour of disco lyrics before we pulled on our dancing shoes for a club set. The opening event, Why Do Songs Have Lyrics?, featured Ian Rankin and Mercury-Music Prize judge Simon Frith chatting with musicians King Creosote and Ziggy Campbell of FOUND – it was a great night, with two fab acoustic sets. Audio from all these events, and loads of podcasts and interviews with authors and song writers, is online at www.letsgetlyrical.com.

This campaign is the latest in a long line of innovative Edinburgh literary events.

Yes, Let’s Get Lyrical is our fifth citywide reading campaign, and was inspired by the major success of Kidnapped, Jekyll & Hyde, The Lost World Read and Carry a Poem. We change and evolve our campaigns every year, so that they stay fresh and inspiring, taking the most successful aspects of our projects and presenting them in new ways. With Kidnapped we created a graphic novel and a play, with the Lost World we included digital storytelling and animation, with Carry a Poem we lit up buildings with poetry. Our four city wide reading campaigns since 2007, have welcomed 10,000 people to 64 public events, and the campaign web pages have received 154,000 vistors. We’ve worked with 65 partner companies, and given away 93,000 books.

And we have plenty more ideas to get the city thinking and talking about words and stories!

Photo Credits: Chris Scott

Alasdair Roberts and Robin Robertson. Friday, 25th Feburary.

The intimate setting of Edinburgh’s St Mark’s Unitarian Church, with its central decorative panel of rolling verdant hills under swirling blue skies, proved the perfect backdrop for one of the most highly-anticipated events of the Let’s Get Lyrical campaign. Robin Robertson, one of Scotland’s most revered poets, joined acclaimed Scottish folk musician Alasdair Roberts for an evening of natural lyricism. As if the appearance of two such distinguished creative talents was not enough, the event held an additional unique quality. Despite collaborating on the song ‘The Leaving’ from the 2007 album ‘Ballad of the Book’, Robertson and Roberts had never shared a stage together before. With a cosy warmth emanating from the copper pipes below our feet, the scene was set for a memorable winter night.

Any disappointment caused by the acts’ decision to perform separately was quickly forgotten, as Robertson captivated the crowd with his elegant narratives and deep, slow, meticulous delivery. In a set punctuated with dry, self-deprecating humour, his rendition of the haunting ‘By Clachan Bridge’ was a special highlight, a poem he dedicated to his fellow performer Roberts. Robertson’s short but very sour tribute to Edinburgh-born poet Hugh MacDiarmid was also well-received by the locals.

Armed with an acoustic guitar, the unassuming Roberts cut a slightly awkward figure as he took his place before the microphone. However, his delicate melodies, powerful, yearning Scottish lilt and sprawling, archaic folktales had the audience entranced. The melancholy ‘Farewell Sorrow’, in particular, was responded to with rapturous applause, while his understated interaction drew wry smiles and laughter.

After a short pause for breath, each act returned for a second twenty minute set, before Roberts provided a fitting end to the night with a rousing, extended version of traditional Scottish song, ‘Bonnie Susie Cleland’. With a final demonstration of mutual respect, Robertson and Roberts left the stage, bringing to a close an unforgettable celebration of the traditional Scottish lyric.

MATTHEW OLDFIELD

To see upcoming events, or sign up for the mailing list, visit www.cityofliterature.com.

Bats Scene Two: Jail Chris sits in prison. He stares at the door as though possessed. All he thinks of is Ruby who is standing outside. The door opens.

Cautiously Ben enters. Chris barely notices him. Ben tentatively sits down and inspects Chris. After an age he speaks.

BEN: Do you know why you’re here Chris?

CHRIS: You know my name? That’s strange. How do you know my name?

BEN: The police CHRIS: The police....?

BEN: They told me CHRIS: How did they know it?

BEN: I don’t know. Do you know why you’re here?

CHRIS: What’s your name? It’s not fair if I don’t know yours BEN: I’m not sure it’s important.

CHRIS: I am BEN: Ok. It’s Ben . Ben Flint CHRIS: Christopher Littleton. Very very nice to meet you Ben Flint.

Chris holds out his hand for Ben to shake. Cautiously Ben does so.

BEN: Chris, do you know why you’re here?

CHRIS: No. Do you know why you’re here?

BEN: Ruby asked if I could see you. She’s concerned about you CHRIS: That’s nice BEN: If you don’t start explaining yourself they’re transferring you to Emerald House.

CHRIS: ok BEN: Do you know what that is?

CHRIS: no BEN: It’s a psychiatric hospital CHRIS: ok BEN: You’d be committed. Or you could go voluntarily.

Judges like that sort of thing.

Chris ignores Ben continuing to stare at the door BEN: What are you looking at?

CHRIS: I’m looking through the window Ben turns around and looks

BEN: You can’t see her CHRIS: I can from this angle BEN: How long have you been watching the house?

CHRIS: Don’t remember BEN: She asked if I could come to the house. Stay with her CHRIS: Why? BEN: She was scared CHRIS: Why was she afraid?

BEN: She could see you through the windows CHRIS: I didn’t mean that to happen BEN: The police thought so too CHRIS: I’m sorry BEN: Can you look at me when I’m talking to you?

Chris tears his eyes away from the door CHRIS: I just need to make sure she doesn’t go, I need to keep an eye on her. That’s all. I’m not being rude. It must look really impolite but I am listening. Honestly. I just need to keep an eye on her at the same time. But I can do both. I can watch her and listen to you. I’m listening ok? I am listening. Promise.

BEN: Are you mad?

CHRIS: I don’t think so BEN: Ruby is willing to negotiate CHRIS: Over what?

BEN: She doesn’t like the idea of you being committed.

There are other ways CHRIS: If I was locked up wouldn’t she feel better about it BEN: No. She’s been inside one of those places and she hated it. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone CHRIS: She sounds like a nice lady.

BEN: She is CHRIS: Mad though BEN: No, she wasn’t mad.

CHRIS: What’s the alternative to going there?

BEN: The most likely thing is a restraining order CHRIS: Oh I don’t like that BEN: No? CHRIS: No restraining order. That’s for sure BEN: She’s frightened you’re going to hurt her CHRIS: Oh I won’t. I’d swear to that. I’m not planning on

dr

There was never yet an un thing is an impossibility. I terior there is a drama, a -Mark Twain

hurting her.

BEN: Chris?

CHRIS: Yes? BEN: Chris!?

Chris once more tears his eyes away from the window Are you in love with Ruby?

CHRIS: In love with her? I don’t know her. Why would I be in love with her? That seems pretty ridiculous.

BEN: You’re not in love with her?

CHRIS: no BEN: Can I ask why you enjoy watching her?

CHRIS: Oh I don’t enjoy it BEN: You don’t enjoy it?

CHRIS: No. It’s just something I need to do. For the moment BEN: You need to watch her?

CHRIS: I need to be near her Beat all the time.

BEN: But you’re not trying to hurt her?

CHRIS: No. I’m not a monster.

BEN: The restraining order is the route she’s taking CHRIS: Unless...

BEN: Unless nothing. That’s what she’s doing CHRIS: Why is she doing this? She’s making it worse. Is it really so bad if I’m watching her? I’m not hurting her. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m just watching BEN: You’re frightening her Chris CHRIS: Well I’m frightened. I’m more frightened than her.

What’s she so frightened about, living in her bright house with all those windows, with you there to look after her, her fucking runt white knight? What’s she so worried about, for Christ’s sake? I’ve said haven’t I, that I’m not going to hurt her BEN: That doesn’t mean much CHRIS: Fine, let me sign something, let me sign something to say I’m not going to hurt her. I’m not doing any harm am I? BEN: No, but you’re threatening her CHRIS: Threatening her?! I’ve never spoken to her. How could I have threatened her?

BEN: You’re following her. There’s one thing the police are

having problems understanding CHRIS: Yes? BEN: Why did you never try to contact her? Phone calls, letters that sort of thing CHRIS: I didn’t want to contact her. I didn’t want attention.

It was just a stupid accident I let myself get too close to the window yesterday wasn’t it?

BEN: It’s abnormal for stalkers to hide...

CHRIS: A stalker?! I’m not a stalker. I’m not stalking anyone Ben stands and makes his way towards the door BEN: she’s an idiot, a kind idiot thinking you’d tell us the truth CHRIS: I’ve told you nothing but BEN: I’m not wasting any more time reasoning with psychopaths Ben stands to go but Chris suddenly jerks his hand out gripping Ben’s arm and forcing him down into the chair.

CHRIS: (quietly) I’m not a liar. And I’m not a psychopath. I just need help.

BEN: Help? Do you think she’ll believe that?

CHRIS: She sounds like a good person. I imagine she’ll give me the benefit of the doubt BEN: She’s terrified CHRIS: Nothing, nothing compared to me. Compared to what’s been happening to me over the past six months BEN: What are you afraid of ?

CHRIS: I don’t know yet. Chris starts laughing manically.

Isn’t that crazy? I don’t know. I don’t know. I just don’t know.

Could be anything, could be anything at all. I’ll find out eventually.

This time Ben succeeds in leaving his chair and approaching the door.

I’m dying Ben Long pause BEN: It’s a trick CHRIS: I wish, I really do BEN: What are you dying from Chris?

CHRIS: I just told you. I don’t know yet. And I won’t. I won’t know what it will be. But Ruby does.

rama BETH FRIEND

ninteresting life. Such a Inside of the dullest exa comedy, and a tragedy.

23

Chasing James Joyce in Paris T

here are some places in the world that, once we have visited, call us back in the most peculiar ways. As one of these remarkable locales, Paris holds its own very potent magic for many people. Artists, lovers and socialists come to mind. But, not being a member of any of these tribes, I was recently as baffled as those close to me when I announced I was being summoned by some prime mover to Paris. My first visit to Paris being dreadful on account of rain and Parisians, I was perplexed to find myself animated by an acute need to leave my flat in Edinburgh, where my studies were soon to recommence in September, and make my way back, alone, to the City of Light.

If it is not clear already I will make it explicit now that I am not one of those quick thinking and self aware sorts, and it was truly only when I paused the night before my journey to consider what book I might bring with me that I saw my copy of Finnegans Wake on my desk. And then in true Joycean style, I had an epiphany of sorts. I was going to Paris to mourn James Joyce.

My trip to Paris was a sort of quixotic pilgrimage through which I intended to pay my respects to the great Modernist writer. I would travel to the city in which he grew old, lost his daughter to a mental asylum, went blind, worked alongside Samuel Beckett and wrote the book which had come to and still does enthrall me, Finnegans Wake. The novel had been my primary occupation all summer and would be the subject of my dissertation in the fall.

Finding oneself alone in Paris, possessing the twin faults of not speaking the language and being an American, is unsettling, even with the aid of Google maps and the superbly helpful staff at the Hotel le Six (just a few blocks from the Victoria Palace Hotel, where Joyce wrote much of Finnegans Wake). James Joyce and I had this in common: neither of us could afford the Right Bank. From biographies and critical writings I knew that Joyce walked miles each day in Paris, down Boulevard Montparnasse, through the Luxembourg gardens, across the Seine, sister to his beloved Liffey, down the sandy paths of the Tuileries gardens and up the great stretch of the Champs-Élysées. Before the Arc de Triomphe James Joyce habitually made his way past the illustrious Pont Alexandre bridge to the smaller, unadorned Pont de l’Alma.

I traced his route, and finally stood on Pont de l’Alma, with the Eiffel Tower looming on one side and the brilliance of Pont Alexandre’s gilt columns on the other. I intended to visit the bridge in honor of the man who labored for seventeen years in Paris on a masterpiece that critics have called everything from stillborn to unreadable, to have a moment’s silence on a Parisian afternoon standing where he stood, myself a foreigner in France as he was, my mind on Finnegans Wake as his was.

At the very moment of this solemn obeisance, the very moment of the realization of my pilgrimage, I was confronted by the entirely practical problem of which way to face- that is, which vista of the bridge to turn to. The problem with chasing a ghost is that there are these inevitable practicalities that threaten to deflate the romance of the whole enterprise. I was forced to ask myself the ridiculous question: which way would James Joyce have faced? This was of the utmost importance. If I could not answer it, I would simply be an idle student grown anxious at the thought of impending autumn, who had fallen in love with an impossible book and had essentially run away to Paris out of certain procrastination and possible lunacy.

One side of the bridge affords a remarkable view of a long stretch of the Seine, with the bright dome of the Musée d’Orsay on one side and the Louvre on the other, with all the luster of Pont Alexandre in the middle. From the other side, the Seine bends abruptly to the left, and what is beyond the river bend is obscured. Noticing the river bend I was reminded of that very first word of Finnegans Wake, of the very first rushed and wending sentence, ‘riverrun’. The Seine flows through Paris like the Liffey flows through Dublin, but as readers of the Wake know, the Liffey flows through Finnegans Wake as well. The magic of a river bend is that a person can imagine anything at all, whatever we wish for, is just beyond it. Writing throughout all the nights of all the seventeen years a novel that was immediately and ferociously criticized as it was released in installments, that cost him friends, patrons and his eyesight, in his own peculiar exile from his home country, James Joyce had much to wish for.

It is for anyone to judge, but I decided it was the view of the river bend that brought Joyce habitually to Pont de l’Alma. I have doubts about my conclusion, and consequently about the real nature of my trip to Paris. But at this point I might defer to Joyce himself- it would only be right- who reminds us, “Mistakes are the portals of discovery.”

GRACE HOLTKAMP

It’ll Be Better If You’re Drunk I

‘ will be your father.’

This was the climax of the only social conversation I ever had with a Parisian in Paris.

‘You are Australian? I once loved an Australian. Come to the bar around the corner. Bring your friends. I will be your father.’

I never went to that bar.

Rome had been different. There, men had made more attractive offers, until I gave in to one and was blinded to all others. He was beautiful and poor, a sketcher by nature, though yet to consolidate himself into art and so a waiter by employment. He took me into the bowels of the city to drink wine and onto terraces to make love. For a month we never ceased to touch; I promise you I don’t exaggerate. He would press into my hips as we leant up against fountains, lick gelato from my fingers at street side restaurants or hold my hair back from my neck in front of porcelain Jesus on an alter.

But the month passed and, impelled by visa regulations, I left on a train to Paris, where he refused to follow me.

I had looked forward to Paris most of all, it being one of the few unvisited cities on my itinerary. I had packed clothes imagining how they would look on me posed by the Seine. Now I was love-sick and angry, following a self-destructive vein in my first actions in Paris: buying a Grande Starbucks Latte and a packet of Oreos for dinner, and then drinking several bottles of wine with a boy from the American bible belt.

The Parisian spoke to me on that first night while I stood outside my hostel in Montmartre, smoking. He had appeared from the restaurant opposite, lit his own cigarette, and walked over. He asked me some questions, told me about a woman from Melbourne he’d been obsessed with, said he’d be my father, and kissed my hand when I left.

I’d eaten the packet of Oreos and was sitting on my bunk reading the last page of On the Road, which my Italian had given me, when Jake came in and started asking me questions. I would answer and then return to my book, but he’d just ask another. He was big and American, with a big American smile, big American chest, big American shoes, and a big American voice, which he twisted endearingly around French words at every opportunity. It took me half an hour to finish two paragraphs. By this time, I’d decided that I didn’t like Jake. I asked what he was doing that night and insisted we go out for wine.

In the D’Orsay a few days later, a man came up behind me and whispered in my ear ‘I love you.’ I smiled at him.

He reappeared in another room and asked me my name. I said ‘Sophie.’ This was a lie - my name is Emily. He invited me out for a drink. He was about sixty; I was seventeen. I said I was busy. He said ‘I must return to Moscow tomorrow. I want you to be happy. You’re beautiful. I love you.’ I thanked him, and manoeuvred myself out of the room.

That first night Jake and I walked to the Sacre Coeur, then descended back into Paris and skipped between wine bars. By midnight I was drunk. Jake’s vast grin was utterly consistent, and made me want to cause him pain. He believed simultaneously in a Catholic god and the idea that love was a product of chemicals released during sex. I talked about the man I’d fallen in love with, the man I now felt I couldn’t live without, the man I yearned for constantly and hated for being poor and therefore absent. Jake said ‘well, at least it was a good experience.’ I stared at him dumbly and drank more wine.

My immediate interest in Paris was limited. Early on, I walked past the Arc du Triumphe, over the Seine, and under the Eiffel Tower. I held up my camera, smiled at it, and put it back in my pocket. Then I descended back into the never-ending stream of Joni Mitchell in my headphones, and scowled at all the tourists milling about smiling at cameras.

I walked up to the Pantheon and burrowed beneath it. I obsessed over power sockets in the beautiful stone floors, and was transfixed in horror by the colourful biographical posters beside each grave. I went into Notre Dame, sat and listened to Gregorian chants, but could concentrate on nothing but the sound of coins falling into souvenir machines. I became starving at one point, considered everything overpriced, and kept walking until my head swam.

Then I bought a croissant, and decided that spending time by myself was probably not such a great idea.

AURORA ADAMS This is only an excerpt of Aurora Adam’s “It’ll Be Better If You’re Drunk,” and the rest may be viewed at www.PublishEDinburgh.weebly.com.

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27

Tangerine Sky & Flamingo Clover

There was more clover than grass, with its pink spheres of blossom lying low beneath my feet as I walked. It sprung slowly up again to fix its gaze on the sunrise, and so my footprints became hidden in the weave clovered grass.

I pushed my feet deep into the carpet of clover to wedge the feel of it into my memory. It would be quite some carpet to have on your living room floor. To cradle your feet as you walk. Given how sleepy I’d started to feel everything felt slightly abstract, and the view before me as I ran seemed dream like. It belonged to a dream. The loch and the clover and the sky.

The milky water in the lake was cradled by reeds. And in front of it stood a funny mixture of figures contemplating the water. Gazing sincerely at its surface, as you do at four-thirty on a Saturday morning. Some were in suits. Uniforms for males as Marcus had called them. And others were in ball gowns. Georgia’s pearl white dress shifted around her in the breeze as she fixed her eyes on the water. She had strands of hair plaited up in a reef on her head, and her lips stained with scarlet. Tyga was huddled under a blanket, a tartan reference to our time in Scotland.

We decided. Boys stripped down to boxers and in the soft light waded in. Some of the girls ran giggling round to the otherside of the lake and dashed in. Rupert stood contemplating the waters in his black and white. A suit that had wandered into this abstract context. It would have made a good photo of us all huddled there by the lake under the sky that was stained tangerine. A tangerine and marmalade sky, like in the Beatles’ song. It looked like the pigment had been painted with a thick industrial painting brush, daubed onto the sky to mark sunrise, and to challenge the flamingo-fuchsia clover. The other girls were swimming elegantly with their necks lifted tall like giraffes to protect the patterns they had pinned their hair into for the ball. I always feel I’m not free in the water unless I dive beneath the surface. I love how the water makes you feel weightless, and leaves you suspended. I dived down, flinging my legs vertical to the sky as I reached for the bottom. It never came. The centre of that clay rich bog was deep.

It’s funny seeing all these faces bobbing on water, laughing and calling. I raced Laurence, cutting through the water. And I got Tim to try out butterfly with me. I wonder what I looked like from a distance, trying to raise my shoulders high above the water, but remaining semi-grounded.

The canoe was sunk. So we climbed on it like a surfboard, dancing on the back of the wooden body. Rupert said it looked like a whale surfacing from where he was on the shore. Me and Tim could not lift it with all our effort to dive and raise it above us, treading water, to empty it of milky lake. But it was emptied later. Max and Henry became oarsmen. I clambered into the clay-coated boat, and then dived off.

The lake was a good size: I managed to fit a couple of ‘lengths’ in...front crawl, backstroke, and breaststroke.

Breaststroke seems like a regal style of swimming, a calculated, rhythmic beating.

Getting out of the lake, the cold made my teeth chatter despite the fact I had no words. And when I did have words it was nonsense I spoke. The cold distorted my words.

On the far hill I saw the birthday boy and a huddle of friends climbing high so they could better see that stretch of tangerine paint in the sky, and could more clearly etch it into their memory. Thea emerged out of the water in her 60s bathing suit, and was helped into dry clothes.

I ran with stiff joints to the gate, my limbs refusing to bend with the droplets of lake resting on my legs. We tiptoed back to the main house, entranced by the soft light being thrown onto things we had only seen in golden evening light. Past the maze where I’d raced to the middle. Past the lily pond. And the English country garden with its high hedges and sculpted box plants. The peacocks meowed into the morning’s hazy air. What an unexpected sound they make.

The tangerine sky stretched above us, and mixed into marmalade.

LUCY GEAKE

ANNEKE LUBKOWITZ

Paper In 1984, the University of Edinburgh awarded Robert Mugabe an honourary degree.

In 2007, for the first time in the University’s history, an honourary degree was revoked.

He was on the beach, staring at the sands of Santo Tomas, Menorca, watching the thousands of glints in the sea a hundred metres away. Beside him, his wife lay on her stomach, her orange swimming costume rolled down to her waist. She had a pencil and a sketchpad in her hands. It must have been the yacht moored near the shore she was drawing - it was the only thing they could see for miles.

A breeze picked up, blowing playfully at first as if trying to attract their attention. Then the wind gave an impatient gust, and the sketchpad flew out of his wife’s grasp. But she kept on drawing, her pencil scratching at thin air. It was then that the scene began to fade, whiting out like a blank page.

The pain greeted him like a scorned lover, and in the distance he felt himself moan.

He stood by the desk, losing his patience with the black-suited man standing behind it.

“Sir, the President isn’t here today,” the black-suited man repeated. “You will have to come back another time.”

Robert waved his papers in front of the black-suited man’s face, a gesture of frustration rather than anything meaningful. “This is ridiculous, I have an appointment.”

“Your name isn’t in the book.”

“Well he knows I’m coming,” Robert said stubbornly. “So he should be here.”

“The President is a very busy man, he goes where he is needed.”

“He isn’t the bloody Pope. I’m here on behalf of the University of Edinburgh, and I demand…”

“As I have told you three times already, he is not here. Now please leave, or I will have you escorted out.”

The black-suited man jerked his head to one side, and the sullen-looking guard behind him stepped forward. A hand closed gently on Robert’s shoulder, and he jumped inadvertently.

“Doctor Gilchrist, we should go,” Emmanuel whispered.

He was lying on tarmac, he realised. Hot tarmac. Hard tarmac. The sky burned a vivid blue, a reflection of the ocean in his dream. He was warm, but patches of him felt warmer than the rest.

Something had happened, he didn’t know what. Thinking was hard at the moment, remembering was impossible. Doing would be easier, and the next thing to do was get off the seething, boiling tarmac.

His stomach muscles clenched, his biceps inflated, his fingers dug into the hard, cracked road. He pushed.

Fireworks exploded. Stars burst like yellow bubbles. The world spun, twisted, and went black. He roared in agony, the warm patches became infernos blazing across his body, and only now did he notice that the blaze was wet.

The world returned in a blaze of orange light. He was sat up, panting, resisting the urge to vomit. He stared down at himself. The right side of his body was peppered with metal shrapnel, cratered like the surface of the moon.

He muttered under his breath, cursing, swearing. He had known something like this would probably happen before he stepped off the plane, but the ease of it so far had fooled him into complacency. Go in, smile, pretend to be nice, take the diploma off the President of Zimbabwe, shake his hand, and leave. He was an idiot.

RICHARD LANE This is only an excerpt of Richard Lane’s “Paper,” and the rest may be viewed at www.PublishEDinburgh.weebly.com.

You can also check out more of Richard’s work at www.shortstories.me.uk

Elle & James Lights up, a man sitting, leans forward on a chair while rolling a joint. Takes a drag.

A woman same age, attractive appears stage right. Man looks over then drops and stamps on the joint.

JAMES: Oh Fuck!! Fuuuuck… How did you get here?!

ELLE: Hello James, long time, no see.

JAMES: Piss off ! (stands up quickly, fumbles around in his jacket) ELLE: Oh I wouldn’t lay me off just yet, looking for these? (shakes a bottle of pills and flips the lid) JAMES: Elle, (pleading) can I have those back…

ELLE: Chin, chin (tips the bottle back and pours the pills into her mouth) JAMES: Don’t do that… Bitch!.. Oh God! ELLE: Now James, no way to treat a lady, you know it’s necessary, and I’ve missed you ever so much. (cackles) (James sits down, facing the audience. Elle circles provocatively behind him) JAMES: I’m totally screwed… (head in hands, rocking back and forth) ELLE: But James, we have such fun together, remember?

JAMES: Not true. You ruined my life.

ELLE: Little dramatic, I’d say you’re perfectly capable yourself.

JAMES: Thanks for the vote of confidence.

ELLE: Pleasure… So, how have we been?

JAMES: Well… funnily enough, job’s back on track and I resolved that thing with the police, not that its any of your business. I can’t believe you left me to take the blame for that!

ELLE: No fun then? Sounds like you’ve lost your touch Jamie my boy. I’ve got an idea, let’s go and steal a car.

JAMES: Elle, there is no way I’m going anywhere with you. I’ve got to go and… (trails off as he watches Elle) (Elle swings some keys on her finger and throws them over to him) ELLE: Oh, sorry sweetie I meant to say - we already have, stolen a car.

JAMES: (incredulous) Whose are those keys?! Tell me, who owns these keys?

(Elle cackles again) ELLE: (casually) Just our mutual friend Dr Jones.

JAMES: You’ve stolen Alan’s keys.

ELLE: We James, we’ve stolen Alan’s keys! Along a few other choice items.

JAMES: Where is he?

ELLE: In a bin bag.

(James looks down at his hands, they are stained red. He goes to move off stage) ELLE: I wouldn’t go in there; it’s a little messy to make the understatement of the century. You really are fantastic with that axe James, it makes me very horny.

JAMES: Holy… You didn’t make me?

ELLE: (taunting) Oh yes I did. If it makes you feel any better there was no other choice. Not after what he’d seen, he had to go. Stupid nosy prick, I’ve told you before he’s not good for us, he kills our vibe. He deserved all he got.

JAMES: (shouting)What did he see Elle?! I’ve done nothing wrong.

(Elle snorts loudly) ELLE: Ha, said with enough heart to convince a jury. Wouldn’t risk it though if I were you.

JAMES: I’ve killed a man, a doctor! Well that’s just perfect. I can’t believe it, I am an actual shitting psychopath.

ELLE: That shrink was such a tool, he kept you dosed up on those pills for months, and you were no fun James, no fun at all! All you did was eat…sleep…work…. I know you missed me, I hated it trapped in here (massages James’ head from behind). They made you into an emotionless rock, you started playing golf for God’s sake! You really are better off without him James, and now were together again.

JAMES: Well I suppose you do have a point about the drugs, I was a bit of a zombie.

(Elle staggers around imitating a zombie) ELLE: Imhotep, Imhotep, Imhotep (monotone) (James laughs out loud) JAMES: We do have fun don’t we Elle?

ELLE: Hell yeah!

JAMES: Fuck him, let’s do something I won’t forget!

Fades out.

drama CHARLIE BILLINGTON

30

photos of past events