Writeresque Literary Magazine Vol 5

WRITERESQUE

Writeresque Literary Magazine 05

Beingopentoandfortheworld,open-minded,witheyeswideopenforthetruthand therealityinwhichweliveinisvital,andmyfirstthoughtwastowrite'...especiallyin today'sworld'afterthat,butthatwouldn'tbeentirelyaccurate.Lookingatthehistory ofhumankind,Ithinkstayingopen-mindedhasalwaysbeenvitalanditalwayswillbe

Thetheme –orthelackoftheme –forthisissuewasn'tmeantwiththisconcept. Therewasnodeepthoughtbehindit,oratleastnotinitially.Itwassimplyleftopen. Butthen,onenightIstartedthinkingaboutwhattheword'open'means,andittook meonasortofalinguistic-creative-philosophicaljourney

Asaspeakerof fourlanguages(five,ifyoucountmybasicRussian),themeaning ofwordsisveryimportanttome.IsaywhatIthinkandImeanwhat I say. For example,Idon'taskpeople'youalright?'whenIpassthemonthestreetunlessIactually wanttoknow.Asillyexample,youmightthink;'it'sjustasaying,'youmightsay,butI disagree Ilovelanguage butgoingbackto'open',fromalinguisticpointalone,I foundit quiteinterestingtoexplore

Fromacreativestandpoint,Ifoundthere'snoendtotheideastheword'open'can present.Here,itisnotjustthewordalone,butthevisualimagesitbringstomind.Ask tencreativeswhatcomestomindwhentheythinkof'open',andoddsarenearlyallof themwillcomeupwithsomethingdifferent Amazing,isn'tit?

Thinking about ' open ' through the lenses of linguistics and creative writing eventuallyledmetothinkingaboutwhetherornottheworldisopen.Isitafreeworld? Isitopentochanges,todifference?Beingdifferent–apartofanytypeofminority–has never been easy, and despite what it says in the slogans of many well-written politicalandmarketingcampaignsdesignedtopreservereputationandkeepupwith trends,itisnotgettinganyeasier

Accordingtorecentresearch,thereisa'worrying'evidenceinthelackof'career confidenceandoptimism'inthecareerprogressionofpeoplefromunder-represented groupsinthecreativeeconomy Asawriterwhoconsidersherselfaspartofaminority, Iamconcernedthatmypersonalexperiencepointstothesameconclusion

Iwanttoendthisletterwithacall,anditisthis:Weneedtofighthypocrisyandthose mindsthathaveremainclosedfordecades.Pleasegetintouchifyouhavehadsimilar experiencetotheresearchoutcomeabove,andformoreinformationonhowthiswill helpfightinequality Beopenforanopen-mindedworld

TeyaDancer

Editor-in-Chief

Teya started Writeresque® shortlyaftercreatingthenonprofit project 'Anyone Can Write',dedicatedtobuilding new writers' self-esteem and confidenceintheimportance of the unique stories they have to share through their writing

Teya has a BA (Hons) in English and Linguistics, and an MA in Creative Writing. Both her dissertations were awardedwithDistinctions. Her MA dissertation consisted of a historical fiction novel based on her research on the communist coupin1943Bulgariaandthe followingdecadethatoversaw thebuildingofhorrificlabour camps like Belene and the crushingofthefreespirit

Teya was an editor and a featured author for the annual Creative Writing Anthology, Connections in 2020,andaguestauthorfor the consecutive anthology, UncertainTruths,inOctober 2021.

Teya was born in Nessebar, Bulgaria. She loves travelling and has lived in Italy and Germany where she worked asanEnglishteacher.Today, shelivesinNottinghamwith her husband and daughter, andtheirshaggydogCasper.

A rebel and a dreamer by birth, Teya believes that ‘ anyonecanwrite...butonly thefearlesscanbegreat’

Inthisissue...

ThethemeforthisissuewasOpen authorscouldsubmitanything,the themewasleftforthemtodecide

Wereceivedbothnationalandinternationalliterarysubmissions,andonce againwereadeachandeveryoneofthemwithgreatinterestandgratitude thatsomanyofyouhadchosentoshareyourwonderfulandimaginative workwithus

Lastbutnotleast,IwanttothankauthorsDavidPhilipIrelandandRyan Diazfortakingthetimetotellusabouttheirlivesandwork,andofferan insightintohowtheloveforwritinghasshapedtheirexistence.

Seánisafreelanceeditor,writer,andrecent graduatebasedinShropshire.Hispoetryhas previouslybeenpublishedinBAIT(issue#14), MeanwhileMagazine(#2),andNotes(#63, #65)

AswellasinterningatWriteseque,heisalsoan editorialinternatAmbitMagazine.

CoverArt

Witheveryissue,weoffertalentedindividualsthechancetounleash theircreativityandbecomethenextCoverArtistsforWriteresque LiteraryMagazineWepromoteallartistsandtheirworkinaspecially dedicatedpagewithinthemagazine,aswellaswithpoststhroughout oursocialmediachannels.Thisisagreatopportunityforeveryone wantingtobuildaportfolioasapublishedartist.

GetintouchformoreinformationEmailusat writeresquelit@gmailcom

SongoftheOpenRoad WALT WHITMAN (extract)

1

Afootandlight-heartedItaketotheopen road, Healthy,free,theworldbeforeme, Thelongbrownpathbeforemeleading whereverIchoose.

HenceforthIasknotgood-fortune,Imyself amgood-fortune, HenceforthIwhimpernomore,postpone nomore,neednothing, Donewithindoorcomplaints,libraries, querulouscriticisms, StrongandcontentItraveltheopenroad Theearth,thatissufficient, Idonotwanttheconstellationsanynearer, Iknowtheyareverywellwheretheyare, Iknowtheysufficeforthosewhobelongto them

(StillhereIcarrymyolddeliciousburdens, Icarrythem,menandwomen,Icarrythem withmewhereverIgo, Iswearitisimpossibleformetogetridof them, Iamfill’dwiththem,andIwillfillthemin return)

WaltWhitman,infull WalterWhitman, (31.05.1819 26031892)wasan Americanpoet, journalist,andessayist. Hisversecollection LeavesofGrass,first publishedin1855,isalandmarkinthe historyofAmericanliterature.

Whitman’sgreatestthemeisasymbolic identificationoftheregenerativepowerof naturewiththedeathlessdivinityofthesoul. Hispoemsarefilledwithareligiousfaithin theprocessesoflife,particularlythoseof fertility,sex,andthe“unflaggingpregnancy” ofnature:sproutinggrass,matingbirds, phallicvegetation,thematernalocean,and “thejourney-workofstars”.Thepoetic“I”of LeavesofGrasstranscendstimeandspace, bindingthepastwiththepresentand intuitingthefuture,illustratingWhitman’s beliefthatpoetryisaformofknowledge,the supremewisdomofhumankind

PhotobyLibraryof Congress/Corbis/VCGvia GettyImages

SeánO'Neill Assistant Editor Volume 5

DAVID PHILIP IRELAND

DavidPhilipIrelandisapoetand a musician from Gloucestershire, England. A son of a spinner and a truckdriver,Davidgrewuptolove travelling and fashion ‘I like to be on the move all the time,’ David explains, ‘Bouncing alongside your Dad in a truck was pretty cool growingup! .....Theotherside ofitwasthatIwouldgotothemill for my lunch break where mother worked;shewasaspinner,working on those big machines that went backwards and forwards. It was great,fantastic!I’vehadthesmellof wool in my nostrils since I was a baby, and my father delivered seed and corn from farm to farm, at a time when there were no motorways. So, we travelled a lot and saw some beautiful countryside. My father was someonethatsangallthetime–all kindsofsongs–andrecitedpoetry He was a very interesting guy; this bigstrappinglorrydriverwhowas

TALKS ABOUT HIS LIFE AND UPCOMING BOOK RATTLESNAKE JAR

incrediblycultured.So,that’swhere I got it all from: the fashion, the words,andthesongs.

Listeningtoradioasachildwasthe beginning of another passion of David's–thepassionforlanguage. ‘That was something my mother mademedo,’Davidrecalls,‘because she didn’t want me to have a Gloucestershire accent I would sit infrontoftheHomeService(Radio Four now), listening to these guys speaking with this incredibly strange, pronounced English that theyhadbackinthe1950s. Iguess I got rid of a bit of that over the years, but it gave me a fascination for language I remember the very firstpoemIwrote,itwasatPrimary SchoolwhenIwassix;abigpoem about nature, about Spring. There werelovelydrawingsarounditand it was my first published thing because they put it on the wall of theclassroom,anditwastherefora

wholeyear!Itwaslovely,Icanstill seeitinmymind’seye.

David moved to the Netherlands with his wife and high school sweetheart Sandra when he was twenty-twoyearsold. ‘Wemetata schooldance,onthedaytheBeatles’ Help LP came out,’ David recalls, ‘anditwasliterallyloveatfirstsight. WewerefifteenandIknewIwould end up with her I wrote poems aboutthat–therearepoemsinthe book about that meeting and the wholething.’

David was studying fashion at college in Cheltenham He first wenttotheNetherlandsduringthe summer break before the graduation year. He organised a small theatre tour. ‘I’m an incredibly shy person, ’ he admits, ‘but I somehow managed to do that I played in the Paradiso and theMilkyWayinAmsterdamanda fewotherplaces,andIwasspotted.’

WhenDavidandSandrawentback to the Netherlands to record his album, they stayed in a small apartment,butthatwouldn'tbefor long. Thanks to a friend of his, David and Sandra ended up living inacastle.‘Welivedthereforayear with a bunch of other artistic people,’ David remembers, ‘We didn’t know who they were but everybodyatetogether–itwasn’ta commune–butwedidallkindsof stuff together. It was an amazing place.There'saphotographofevery oneofusonthestepsofthecastle anditwasonlyabouttenyearsafter we’d left the place that we realised that everyone in that picture was famous.

I have a piece of music that I’ve written called ‘The Five Seasons’ because we were there for five seasonsinthisamazingcastle Itwas aprettygoodwaytostartlifeinthe Netherlands.Andwelivedtherefor twenty-fiveyears.’

When asked ‘How do you reacclimatise after such a long time away?’,Davidanswers:‘Youdon't’

‘Sandra and I have always been outsidersandIguess,comingback to the UK, that’s how it feels. It feelslikeastrange,foreigncountry. It gives us a very different perspectiveonhowwelookatand understandthings WhenIsayIwas shy,IlearntintheNetherlandsnot to be an Englishman anymore. I learnttotellitlikeitis,Idon’thold back. I would have done at one time. I’m not rude to people – I would rather say something to someoneandcleartheairsothat

you know that you ’ re on level ground.’

While living in the Netherlands, Davidwasontourforfifteenyears. He and Sandra also worked in publishing, ‘I was a translator for books, Sandra was an illustrator, andweworkedonbookstogether,’ Davidexplains,‘Wedidallthatkind of stuff We ended up at a publishing company, publishing cards and calendars for corporate things.Wehadawholestudiofull ofpropswhichiswhereourvintage shopinStroud TimeAfterTime

Currently, David is working on preparing his upcoming book RattlesnakeJarforpublication

‘RattlesnakeJargatherstogethera selectionofmyworkfromthemid 1960s until now. There is a an autobiographical thread running through much of the book, a timeline of sorts that includes passagesfrommynovels,songlyrics andmypoetry’

The initial run, available later this year,willincludeahardcoversquare format book, a CD album with twenty songs all featured in the book, with a companion spoken word 60 poem CD album read by David,plusapaperbackandeBook version.ThebookandCDswillalso beavailableforKindle.

started. We made this massive collectionofclothesandobjectsto useinphotographsbecausewedid things for airline companies and banks so we had different themes foreverycardandcalendarwedid. So really it was working in publishing, working in music, writingforotherpeople Therewas evenahugehitrecordIwrotefora terrible band – I don’t talk about thesongbutitkeptusforawhole year.Itgottonumbertwoineleven countries!Whichisalright!Youdo alotintwentyfiveyearsbutitwas all bound up in publishing and music,thosekindofthings’

Framed, signed prints of the cover (withalineofhandwrittenpoetry), T-shirts,totebagsandotherpieces, signed editions will be available during the pre-order period in November throughDavid'sofficial website.

Musicians on the accompanying albums include Mikey Cooling (multiple instruments), Rufus Fry (harmonicas), Richard Kellum (percussion) Alan Tee, (Drums), Stephan Marlot (cello) Yours truly vocals,guitar,keyboards

A tour is being planned for late Spring2023.

Forupdatesandmoreinformation: https://linktree/davidirelandmusic

THEEMPEROR

David Philip Ireland

anotherlostbrother anotherfallensoldier

hebequeathedtomehiswar-tornpastelbox andledmetounchartedpathways

iusethemstill myoily,dustyfriends

atreasuredlinktoanunrequitedpast

hewasabiggentlebeastofaman livinghere,ashedoes,inmymemory inplaidsandturpentinesmearsandsmudges thereinthegalleonofart

aramblingpinocchianassemblageofsensualchambers raftersandwoodwormtreads,gantriesandpulleys, andtarnishedgildedframes

abearhewas

buthewasbelittled

alltoosoon

andfelledinbattle

wesawhimnextinscrubs

ingreens

withbubblingtubes

andplasmamachines

fatigues

fatigued

faded fading

largerthanlifeitself ageneroussoul

theabstractinourgranitehall

denseandrich

abackdropforourautumnfruitsandwinterberries

andtheharlequinbequeathed hasfollowedus

curatingonelastshow

ofpaintingsatthisexhibition

anotherlostbrother

modestmussorgski

gnomus

somanyfriendsweepinggoodbye insun-drenchedsilence

andme

theoddballfromaforeignland

risingtoeulogise

inthisstrangegutturaldiseaseofalanguage

transformedintopoetryandtears

and here, the pivotal moment that my grasp of this tongue wouldtranscendsorrow

flutteringfrommyheart

inajewel-brighttranslucentstreamoflucidity ofunfetteredlove

allmywordsforg

andwordsforsomanymore

wordsforallthechancesmissed

wordsforthethreadsandweftsofmorrow

thereinthatbrightlithouseofmourningglass

brilliantshardsofreality

coalescingintotheartoftheman

andwewept

weweptwhenthewordswereexhausted weptforourdearfriendgonetoosoon

weweptandwailedandspilledourthoughtsandfeelings

asthemusicplayed

whenthroughtheglassdoors, avlinderflew

anemperortotakethesilentstage

hisshowycloakiridescentwithdeepestpurples

azurebluesandsungoldorange

rulerofkingdomanimalia

brightpainterofwillowleaves

sonofiris

goddessoftherainbow nature’sskylypaintress

throughdeweyartists’eyes

allsaw

briefsplintersoftime

drewtheseartistsclose noneshallforget

themasterpiececompleted

thebrushandpalettelaidaside

onefinalbreathofair

onefinalbeatofwing

thisemperorlivesforever

(for Gerardus Cornelis Wolvekamp - graphic artist, painter, draftsman)

SERENDIPITYATTHESALT-CAKEDSIGN

David Philip Ireland

‘Serendipity’iseasytomiss

Barelyadoorandwindowwide, atthefootofanalleywayofcrumblingsteps, tumblingdowntotheharbour ofalittleWelshfishingtown.

Abovethedoor,aswingingsign, allsalt-cakedandcreakful, wailsandwhimpersinthebitterwinds thatbuffetthewheelingseagulls ontheirconstantsearchforfishscraps andanythingelseripeforthecraw

Within,apungent,eroticperfumehovers. Amoulderingmelangeoffoliosandquartos fromfathomlessdepths ofharbouredthoughtsandwords. And,sonarrowisyourpassage, thattopassanotherbookishfool involvesanintimacythatfewbookstorescanmatch.

Volumesfallandtumble attheslightesttouch. Thereisnoorderhere Heredwellspureliterarychaos

Booksflutterandfan, shiftandrearrange, decomposeanddog-ear beforecomingupforair

…

Thensomethingfell, dislodgingmypince-nez, scrapingmynose, drawingblood Twoprintedvellumsheets, duo-tonefortiesgraphics, tiedwithabluesilkribbon fromadistantteadance hostedataLondonsalon innineteenforty-nine

Atemptationofexoticthings, seldomtastedsincebeforethewar, promisesofepicureandelights, offoxtrotsandwaltzes, ofgrandcrufromhallowedcellars, sparklingintoelegantflutes whileIwasbusybeingborn.

Iwaslessthanexotic.

Askinnedrabbit strappedtoaboard afather’sdisappointment inadistemperedroomatthecircus

Butsmallmiracleshappen. here,mylittlesliceofhistory.

myserendipitousbirthdaycard, myhour,myday,mymonth,myyear, mycelebrationfeast, mymother’ssurvival! andthedisdain, thelookinmyfather’seyes.

…

Inthatonemonumentalshift, Iwasconnectedtoabygoneage. Thisancientdocument confirmingmyownpassageoftime Thebooksellerdidnotsharemywonder. Hecouldnothavebeenlessinterested Hesearchedforsmallchange, andgrumbledinhistightwindowseat, surroundedbyhisprecariouswalls ofbooksandephemera

…

‘Serendipity’crumbleson inthelittlefishingtown attheedgeoftheworld

…

Icomeacrossthecardfromtimetotime.

Itremainsatouchstone, nestlingamongtheephemeraofmyownbrieflife, fullofserendipitousmoments, allburnedintoageneticmemory forthosewhowillfollowme whenIamgone.

SWANLAKE

Silyana Shtiliyanova

Talkingtoswansinmysleep

Icountthestepsfrommetoyoubutbackwards then

Iamborninmysleepwithyourface

yourmindismine

Iwalkalloverit

Icleanitswindowsofthoughtsmade

Iturnoffthesoundandsingalonelysong

ownintooursoulandstartmydancesopure withhisfavouritedoginthepark ndinallthefancymirrors

ngyourhair

putlipstickonyourlips

AndIgo

Iwalkwithyourfootstepstoreachyou

alongthewayImeetmyself

sayingmynamewithyourvoice

thenasparkflashesinmefromacross

Itouchmyselfandlookintoyoureyes andtheylookatme,theylookatmesilently!

Ifeelyoursoultremble

AndthenIjumpintomyownbody. TheturningpointIhavereached, Ican'tbeyouanymore

Afteranhour,I'mtroubled –noswanstotalkto...

Ilooktomyleftandsee, Youarelaughingatmewaitingattheentrance.

Andalittlelakeyoucreateinmymind,magicblue! Andtheretheyaregloriouslyarriving onebyone

wonderfulswans

‘howIwasyou’,theysay,andnothingaboutthemselves andtheysaynothingforthemselves...

ARTSANDCRAFTS

Marianna Pizzini Mankle

kidsbelieveartcanonly beachievedwithapencilor paintandapad ofpaper.soItriedto beanartistbutmystick figuredrawingswere indistinguishablefrom theirstick-likehomes andpets.learningthat beingcreative andbeingAcreative canbeachieveddifferent inwayscameonlywhen Ifoundmyselffacetoface withanentombingreality.when paintingpictures withsuperfluouslanguage wasneverconsidered anartform whilemyfriends punchedquartersinto arcademachines,Istrung wordswithoutmeaning intosentencestryingto findaplaceformyart inaseeminglyartless world.andnow,adulting doesn’tmeanknowingmy pathorbeingcreative inthespaceswherecreativity isencouraged,but learningtogrowunwanted artincoldand technically-intricate spaces

ONCOMFORT’STIMELINE

Marianna Pizzini Mankle

pitteringandpattering

pitterpitterpatter

pitterpatterpatter tinmetalsings. thepapercutonmy indexfingerno longerstings.

armin

edsocksbare

-outshadesoftan.

mylapashrine

prose

withnocalendartomind

Iintendtostaynestled hereforeternity’stime or,aslongastherain keepsgoingpitterpatter

pitterpitterpatter

YOUHELDMYHAND,BUTHADNOWHERETOTAKEME

Carella Keil

Blackandwhitefaces,greeneyesandmyfacecuppedinthepalmofyourhand Trustisafour letterwordhandcuffedtothebed.Wecan’tfindthekeysowedismantlethebedinstead.

There’saglassofwaterleftonthedresser,Ihaven’tawokenthirstyinmonths.Iusedtodream of waterfalls, fountains cascading around my bare feet But now, hiding between your sweaty shoulderblades,Idreamofnothingatall.Copperpenniesandsaltedtears,thestainoflastnight’s wineonmyteeth,Itucktheminthebrokendrawerontherightbetweenthesilkynothingsyou nevertemptmetowear

Snortingsaltandcrushingcrystal,thepromiseofsweetillusivegardens drowninginyoureye.I’monlyfreewhenfarfromhome,andsoI’malwaysru hand,buthadnowheretotakeme,soeventuallywebothletgo

FormonthsIachedwiththetaughtpromiseofloverscirclingeachotherliketigers,ambereyes locked,limbsreadytopounce Buteverynightwesleptbeneathheavysheets,rarelyunfoldingto desire.

Iwantedyoutoknowmedeeperthanskin.

OnceIskippedacrossarustybridgeandsawpiecesofmarsinthesidewalk Ifeltthemoonin mywingsandforgotIcouldn’tfly.Therewasamagicinme.Iwanteditback,ifonlyforan instant.Istoppedeating,sleeping.Ilosttrackofthepillsbecausethestarswereblottingoutthe days Myskindissolved Sunbeamsstunglikejellyfish Thesoundofyourthoughtshurtmyears I felteverything,withsuchintensity.Realitybecamepliable,adreamformetoshapeanywayI wanted.Everyoneelsemovedslowasinsectsinmolasses.Ifeltsorryforthem.Isprinteddown the middleoftheroad,daringtraffictostopforme Ineededtotugmybodyloose Ineededasfar awayfromthislifeaspossible.Tryingtooutrunamanicepisodeisliketryingtooutrunaneclipse. Eventuallyblacknessswallowseverything.Oh,butthosemomentsofstaringstraightatthesun!

Silverwristsandasphaltskies,thesinkingfeelingofstaringupatthecloudswhenmyheadis spinningwithtoomuchme.Icouldn’trememberhowthestreetswenttogether,butIknewit hadsomethingtodowiththemeshinmyveins Theentireworldwassuspendedinmyarteries, kissesweregiantpinkplanets,Ispunatthecoreofitall.

Youlookedsotiredandsad.

TwoweeksIsatinsidethemirror,watchingmyselfontheotherside Flatbluerhythmworld, vibratingatmyfingertips.Littlesaltandsugarpacketsfascinatedme,Iwastemptedtocombmy

hair with a fork. Cameras never left my face, I felt safe and protected. And then like thread throughaneedle,theypulledmethroughintosomeoneelse

Handcuffsrattlinginthecorner,andourlivesarethrownonthefloor.Youstepovermelike somethingempty,I’veleftyouunfulfilled.Itriedtoshowyouitwouldbelikethis.Waitforyou towipeawaythedreamscaughtinmyeye Idigthroughpilesofdirtylaundry,huntingforthose orangeafternoons,pigtailsandwarmsinksofsoapandyouhungrymaulingtender.Purplecave evenings, heavy breathing. Your kisses between my toes in the bathtub. I try to believe in somethingbeautiful “Getyourheadoutoftheclouds”yousay No,see,I’drathernot You’ve turnedmeintosomethingveryugly,andIdon’tlikeyourfaceanymore.Youholdthedoorfor measIleave.Inreality,Idon’tlookback.But,underthecoverofdreams,Ialwaysdo.

Istillsleepontheedgeofthebed,andimagineyouundressingmethewayyoudidthefirsttime, likethemoonstrippingtheshore.Bare.ButIalwayswalkaway.SometimesIwakeinthemiddle ofthenight,onehandclaspedwithintheother,andIrealizethesearebridgesIwasmeanttocross alone.

ASIGROWOLDER

Harry Wilding

Moreandmorethingssetoffmytearducts Honestly,it’sridiculous Anincreasingnumberof songs,ofcourse.Icameacrossthatliveperformanceof‘DirtyHarry’byGorillazatthe2005Brit Awardsattheweekend,andwhenthekidsstartedsingingtogetherIlostit.Ican’tlistento‘Into MyArms’or‘ToBuildaHome’inpolitesocietyanymore Even‘Worms’byViagraBoyssetme offtheotherday;Iknowyouhaven’theardthesong,itwasonlyreleasedacoupleofyearsback.I mean,thelyricsaremacabre,butinastrangelybeautifulway.Andfilms!Theyallseemtohave someteartrigger,especiallyonesaboutloveanddeathandloss Anddogsrunning Horses,too,as longasahumanisn’tstraddlingthem.Sunsets.Clouds,sometimes,ifthey’reparticularlynice.A starrynight,obviously.Largegroupsofsynchroniseddancers.Peoplehugginghelloandgoodbye attrainstationsandatairports

Anyway, I was thinking all this through earlier, laughing at myself on the tram, and my thoughtswereinterruptedbythisridiculouslyloudmusic.Aguy,perhapsinhisearlytwenties, wearingthisskewedbaseballcapandtorntracksuit,hadsteppedontothetramwithaspeaker A big one, like what you’d normally have at home with a stereo system. Honestly. He was just carrying it around, blasting something awful out of it. Dubstep, perhaps? I don’t really know whatdubstepis,butIimaginethatmighthavebeenit Heplonksitdownbesidehim,anyway, thisspeakerthing,andhestandswide-legged,holdingontoapole.Ishiftedinmyseat,andthe crinkleofplasticaroundyourflowerstriedtopenetratetheboomsandsquigglesandbeepsafew feetawayandIimaginedbeingthetypeofpersonthatwouldsaysomething Likeyouwouldhave done.I’dsaysomethinglike:theyhavesmalldeviceswhichplaymusicwithheadphonesnowyou know. Something a bit shit like that. I played this scenario through in my head and imagined fluffingthelineandtheguylaughingatmeandalltheotherpassengersrollingtheireyesatmy stupidity.ThenIplayedaversionofitwhichincludedyou,eventhoughIdon’tknowexactly whatyou’dhavesaidbecauseIcan’tthinkofanythingascleverasyouwouldhave.

Anyway,atthepeakofmyannoyance,Ilookedacrossattheguy,perhapsevenconsideringa well-placeddisapprovingheadshake,andhe’dstarteddancing.Notevenholdingthepolenow,he wasjustlostinthemusic.Eyesclosedandeverything.Itwascutereallyand,attheriskofoverusingthisword,likeIseemtobedoingmoreandmoreasIgrowolder,beautiful Thelackofselfconsciousnesstodothatinapublicplace,toletgolikethat.Isupposethatsameenergy,thatsame lack of caring for other people’s feelings, are why he could blast his music so loudly, but it completelychangedmyoutlookonthesituation,thedancingdid Iletatearescapebutmanaged topushmostofitdown,ha!

Butyeah,whatelsehasbeenhappening.NickCavehasanewalbumout,notlistenedyet,will

letyouknow.ViagraBoys,too,actually,ha.Icouldn’tbringSammytoday,Ihavetogostraightto workafterhere,buthesaidtotellyou:woofwoof-woof,ifthatmakesanysensetoyou?Weboth disapprovedoftheGrandNationalthisyear,enoughforthethreeofus,because,unfortunately,a womanjockeywonforthefirsttimeever;equalitymeansequalityinthebadstuff,too,suppose.

Ilovedlayingunderthecloudslikethiswithyou,creatingshapesandcharactersandstories outofthem Rememberthattimewesawdancersinthecloudsandthenthatflashmobsuddenly appeareddancingtoGorillaz?Amazing.

Harjitsitsup,thedewygrassdepressedintotheshapeofhisshouldersandheadbehindhim. He looks at her headstone, with its fresh flowers, focussing on the dates like he often does: October5th1988-December3rd2017.Heholdshishandagainstthem,hiseyesfilling.

Ibettergetoff,then.

Heletshishanddropandgetstohisfeet Andwaits It’salwaysdifficulttoleave I’lltellSammyyousaidwoofback.AndI’llbringhimnexttime.

Hebacksupslowlyandthenhurriesoff.Hevowstostopcomingasoften.Especiallynotnow thathe’sseeingsomeone Itisn’tfaironeitherofthem Perhapstomorrow,though Thenatthe weekend.Butlessoftenfromthenon.

Whatinspiresyourwork?

I’m fascinated with the poetic hiddenintheordinary.Asaresult,a lotofmypoemsarehard-won,that is they’re dragged kicking and screaming from the jaws of seemingly innocuous events, everyday occurrences that on the surfacearedevoidofaestheticvalue. Those poems are the most fun to write and often the most frustrating.

However,I’malsoinspiredbybig ideas,thosehumanquestionsthatat timesstunandoverwhelmus Being abitrebelliousbynature,thereisa part of me that wants to wrestle those questions to the ground and force an answer out of them. Of course, it never works, and more often than not I’m left with more questions than answers, but the process itself makes for fruitful poetry.

RYANDIAZ

RyanDiazisawriterandpoetfrom Queens,NY.Hiswritinghasappeared inWriteresqueLiteraryMagazine,as wellasinpublicationslike Transcendentals,DappledThings, Ekstasis,ChristianityToday,and PremierChristianity.

Hisworkseekstofindthedivinein theordinary,thethinplacewherethe transcendentandthemundanemeet.

How do you manage to fit writinginwithotherdemandson yourtime?

Mywritingscheduleisprettystrict. Iwakeup,usuallyaround6:30AM, andafteracupofcoffeeIsitdown atmydesktowrite Thisissortofa non-negotiableformeandItreatit withthesameseriousnessIwoulda professional appointment. I treat writing like a job, a punch in and punchout,evenifitmeansstarting my day earlier than I’d like. In the immortal words of Stephen King, “Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration,therestofusjustgetup andgotowork.”

Where is your favourite place to write?

Ihavetwo:inmyhomeofficeinthe early morning and at our local coffee shop outside under the awningwithacupofhotcoffeeon

Is your writing influenced by your degrees in History and Biblical studies? Or perhaps the otherwayaround?

The English author, GK Chesterton,inhisessay‘TheEthics of Elfland’, states that, ‘Tradition meansgivingavotetomostobscure ofallclasses,ourancestors.Itisthe democracyofthedead.’Thestudy of history is not the veneration of the past but is instead the acknowledgment of the past, lookingbackinorderthatwemight betterunderstandthepresent.Asa writer history helps me to locate myselfinthepresent,tounderstand whereIaminordertobetterknow whereIamgoing Byjoininginon theongoingconversationIposition myself to learn as well as react againstthosewhocamebeforeme.

acrispFallday

"Nowriterisanisland.Weare theproductofamyriadof voices,eachhelpingusshapeour own.Ibelievewhenweignore thosevoices,weignorethematour peril."

Nowriterisanisland.Wearethe product of a myriad of voices, eachhelpingusshapeourown.I believe when we ignore those voices, we ignore them at our peril.

In regards to Biblical studies, it's hard to be a writer of any kind in theWestwithoutengagingwiththe Biblical Narrative Cards on the table,I’mareligiouspersonandso the Christian scriptures occupy a unique space in my psyche. But even if that wasn’t the case, the Christianreligionoccupiesasimilar space in the mind of the West Theseideashavehad2,000yearsto workthroughourculture.Wecan abhorthem,believeinthem,orcan beagnosticaboutthem,wecannot do is ignore them. But even taken solely as a work of literature, the scriptures are fascinating in and of themselves and I often find myself drawn to them either to better understand them or poetically reinterpretthem.

Do you show your work in progresstoanyone?

IhaveafewfriendsIsendmywork to and usually, that’s after a few edits. I try not to invite them too early in the writing process. Those early moments are important for a writerandIthinkwritersneedtheir solitudetosolidifyideasandcreate confidence.

I try not to use feedback as a sourceofvalidation.IfIdothat,I usuallyendupwritingforthem,

and rather than take risks and expandmywritingIdowhat’ssafe in order to secure praise It's a delicate balance but at the end of the day writers need readers and those early readers often offer pricelessinsight.

What would you say is more important: to be original or to deliver to readers what they want?

As a writer, it's tempting to give readers what they want. After all, we all have bills to pay and following publishing trends seem likeasurewaytosecureacareerthat pays Wesawthisaftertheadventof Rupi Kaur. After her success, 1,000s of Instagram pages began popping up trying to imitate her style and secure for themselves the samemeasureofsuccess Asofyet, noonehassucceeded

Poetry is all about perspective. Weadmiregreatpoetsbecausethey are original. Because they refuse to bedominatedbytheirpredecessors andtheirpeers.Theystepintothe ring of language and cement for themselves a legacy of their own Thepoetsweforgetarethosewho tried to be anyone else but themselves.Wedon’tneedanother SeamusHeaneyorSylviaPlath,we need new poets with new perspectives, who care little for what sells and only care about what’strue.

publishpoetry?

Don’t write to get published, write for the love of it I realize thatthisisaclichébutit’sacliché that stands true. Poets obsessed withpublicationtendtowritefor publicationsratherthanwritefor themselves.Indoingsotheylose their voice and in exchange for magazine placement, they lose thatwhichmakesthemunique

Tell usaboutrecent/upcoming projectsofyours.

This past August I released my second, full-length poetry collection, Skipping Stones I’m really proud of this collection, I thinkoutofallmyrecentworkit reflectsmypoeticvoicethebest.

I am also working on a memoir/novel Myfamilyisfrom Puerto Rico and every year we would travel to visit my grandfather.Mygrandfatherwas an important figure in my life and the book chronicles my relationshipwithmygrandfather as I move from boyhood to adulthood and all the changes that come with it. I am editing the first draft now and hope to shop it around to a few publisherslaterthisyear.

What advice can you give to someonewantingtowriteand

REDUCEEMISSIONSPERFOOTDRILLED

Seán O'Neill

pathlesswaythrough waterwalkwherewaylaiddrovers’ keelsoutspunandsnaptunlovelylike herepinpoint, teamplayer wepairourprintstokisstheclouded cast-backdefeat whereflexibleSmartThinkingisamust thesebackcastssettowringhopethrough apuddle’sfringe ofwishorlithicbloomagainst familiarfingerprints,remains,effects ofcrueltyincricketnetsmightsee greyskulkingshattersmatterbruises slightstintsaturateturf strategicallyinvesting incapabilities ringedwillowherbroundrubbish;flecked, cheaploamsoilsstamensbendingthat weareourshoppinglistedfreshlyXR’sglut ofgracejust Pridemeansbeingunaba-shedlywhoIam howlateinthedayloomravels spunasnestedraingonemistedpane wesuccessfullyinterceptedastretchoftheshowerbelt carer,loved;thereisthisundersunder ofconvenienceforced,atissueas accepting theroadtoaffordableautonomousmobility asaseasatunconvincedso

laybeneaththeshoalofsandwithme gentlygentlysoarwithintheshoal; allwehavemissed

isatiltofmeltwater,sillionshine,palliativeofice.

THEDECIDUOUSVOLUNTEERSOFTHEGAELICATHLETIC ASSOCIATION

Seán O'Neill

waxy,acutelittleadaxialcuticles ofegg-washedbrush,freshlashed andbreeze-wrackedpastheather propagatingathwartmydark, defended,dim,block; ofallthetreesthewoodsofEnglandboast thehollybearsthecrownandcheersusmost.

Laminateflooringunderwentitall,really, asIcleavedtohismartialarms–full-burstenbrinksandrambleripped rimeburnshole-diggin’inflicts–againsttheraucoushurleypeels uproaringtillthetranceinIrishreels fixatesattention,likeaflame-caughtstare, asroundourblazingfireswethrong, awake Ididn’tmeantobesolongawaiting amhránnabhfiann,forthereonestands togentlysoundoutgarments forthegentleslip-churnedlands

YouperfidiousfogofHealyPass, mysilenceisnotdefeatedbyyoursilence; yoursilencehereandthereamongthesphagnum, commonmyrtle,wheretheasphodelgleams withasterbythesnakingshoulderstreams

Herewithhimthesilencetoobutrent bybodhránsrippling,soundingssent thisparishcentrewild;toJonny’sweddingsprang themanyboyssobeautiful,andladieshandinhand, theyslippeddownKillashandra’slanesledsprightlybytheband. Outside,thenightswarmswithwinnowedbranches andunheedednestsofrainamass godhowitfell

crossways,scoring windscreensluiceshomeward,hey ho!shecomeswhohasmyheartinkeep; singlullabymycares,andfallasleep droolingagainstthecarsalesmansticker throughwhichleeringlybornescotopiclumens ran,panning,andreceded

likeanunderwhelmingphantomoftheFianna. Thatneitherhairwascut,nortruetearsshed byme,o’erthee,inreverencetothedead, forgive,forgivemesinceIdidnotknow theblindimpressesofmyparentstem,

havingbeenmoresinnedagainstthan sinningcanbeknown,beingaCorkman soimpetuous,excitable,bloodyphysical, willstartsomewherearoundAD1100orableakDecemberday, whenthelandlordorthesheriffcametodrivethemallaway

butstayshade,stayenviableounce ofmadness,ofinstantambuscade isn’t thisisoneofthosegameswhichordersconditions towill,tofree virtuosofromdiffidence?

Infact,thisisthemeanstolightyourdifference; atoilingthatbearsyoubacktome.

IwishIcouldoutgrow yournurseryambits,beforeyougo.HowI’dholdyou,whenyou soughtinanill-fitting suittosueforshelterinChiswick, fourteenandsopolitelyknockingforstrangerelations, fordiscontentedcolloquies,sotospeakand farunfurlthehungryCahapeaks,yourstonerunsthrough myfeetatthewater’sedge.

II. Youidiot,you animal minuteambermud-stucksedge yields flogger,swaggeringotiosebliss

downhome,sometimesitreally islikethis Ireallymissherthen I’msorryum,decorticate topturfandsocommiserate hislateplantingthoughtheysay

thathewashalfinlovewithperturbation sohecouldnotrest,Ialwaysthoughthisparting wasatestofwhatstretcheswhenbereft fullofperilinthesnappingofit butbromidicandslitheringisthisocean windoffKenmaresilence’smid-motion, terseintheteethoflineation.

Myearforhismythsshutsupandisshed asshadscalesalightandspinroundthebed ofLoughLeane,solightless,unsounded,and passesthroughtosomerestlessness,tosome passingthrough song Greenandyellowlarches,too,

exhaletheirdross,tobreatheanew

Youbottomlessrootsofthebottomlesstree, acceptingofallthatthereisandcanbe, theseairsaretooearlyoralwaystoolate tomustertheblusterofrebels’rebate.

Sowedrovehomefromthecéilí

andonthewalktoschool,Isaw

theholly’s

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WriteresqueVolume6 OutinJanuary2023

“Toappreciatethebeautyofasnowflakeitisnecessarytostandinthecold”

Aristotle

Amagazinethatcelebratesthebraveryofbeingdifferent,whatWriteresquestandsforispridein individuality

Forourquarterlypublishedmagazine,we arelookingforcreativeswhodaretoexploreandbreak therulesofconventionalwritingandconventionalthinking.Wewelcomepoetryandprosefilled withcuriosity,textsembracingdiversityandauthorsunleashingtheirstrivingrebelliousspiritto produceapieceofcreativewritingthathasasoulofitsown Ifthisisyou,wedefinitelywantto readfromyou Sendusyourworktowriteresquelit@gmail.com Pleasemakesureyouhaveread ourSubmissionsCriteriaandTs&Cs.

Finduson:

AuthorsVolume5

DavidPhilipIrelandisawriter,poet,musician,artistandexperimentalist RattlesnakeJar,David’snewestbookandalbum,isavailablenowonAmazon. DavidPhilipIrelandhasworkedinmanyaspectsofthearts,includingmusic, theatreandphotography,publishinganumberofsoloandcollaborativemusic projects,twonovels,SlowPoisonandBloodstones,plustwoanthologiesofpoetry.

TodiscoverDavid’sbackcatalogue,visit:linktree/davidirelandmusic

CarellaKeilisapoetanddigitalartistwhosplitshertimebetweentheetherealworldofdreams,and Toronto,Canada,dependingontheweatherHerworkinvolvesthemesofmentalhealth,natureand sexuality,ofteninasurrealisttoneCarellaistherecipientoftheStanleyFeffermanPrizeinCreative Writing(2006)and2ndplacewinnerintheOpenMindsQuarterlyBrainStormPoetryContest (2017)Shehasnumerouspublicationsforthcomingin2023

instagram.com/catalogue.of.dreams twittercom/catalogofdream

MariannaPizzini MankleisaMontananativewhonowcallsNebraskahomeShelovestoread, write,andserveatchurchSheisstudyingforanMAinCommunicationatArizonaState UniversityWhensheisn’twriting,shecanbefoundwatchingrealityTVwithherhusband

Instagram:@mdpizzini

mari@hurrdatcom hurrdatcom

SilyanaRumenovaShtilianovais22yearsoldandlivesinBulgariaSheisawriteranda poet.Silyana’spublishedbookofpoetrywasawardedanationalliteraryprizein2020. SilyanagraduatedtheFrenchHighSchoolinBurgas,Bulgariaandisnowastudentin PsychologyattheBurgasFreeUniversityCurrently,she’sawriterfortheBulgarian magazine,Magazine8.

HerpoemshavebeenpublishedinvariousBulgarianmediaaswellasintheBurgas LiteraryAlmanac.

HarryWildingwritesinNottingham,whereheisworkingonacollectionofwords thathehopeswilleventuallyturnintoanovel.Hehashadfictionpublishedbythelikes ofPopshot,FlashMagazineandInk,Sweat&TearsHelikesdoughnutsandequality verymuch

@harrywilding

https://harrywildingwriteswordpresscom

Notes&Thoughts

Notes&Thoughts

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