Writeresque Literary Magazine Vol 4

WRITERESQUE

WriteresqueLiterary Magazine 04

EDITOR'SLETTER

'Isthereanythingmoreamazingthanthebirthofyourfirstchild?'I'veoftenheardand readpeopleaskthisquestion–well,notreallyaskitbecauseIdon'tthinkyouaremeantto disagree,it'soneofthoserhetoricalquestions Still,I'dthinktomyself,'Well,Idon'tknow theremightbe' Imean,itsoundskindofcorny,doesn'tit,tosomeonewhodoesn't haveanychildren,atleast Ormaybeespeciallytosomeonewhodoesn'thaveanychildren

Now,asIamwritingthis,Ilookovertomyten-week-oldbabygirlsleepingsoundlyinher cotrightnexttomeandthinkwiththewidestofsmilescomingstraightfrommyever meltingheart,'Cornyasitsounds,thereisn't.'

Aswriters,weareoftenchallengedtoputstrongemotionsintowords.Imean,it'swhatwe do,right?Butshouldthatmeanwehaveto?Andifitdid,wouldn'tweruntheriskof contaminatingtheseemotions,spoilingthembytryingtoassignthemwords?Making themsoundcorny Maybesomethingsarereallynotmeanttobespoken–orevenwritten –butonlyfelt Maybe andyetwedo Wetry,atleast

Thisissue'sthemewasinspiredbythebirthofmybabygirlandtherebirthofnature;of thesoul,ofthemind,ofthebody,andofthehumanimagination'stakeonallofthose things And although maybe we shouldn't attempt to describe, tell, write, portray, everythingwefeelsoasnottospoilitthroughtherestrictionsofthelanguagewespeak,I amgladthatwedo.Orthatwetry.

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 owncreativewriting

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

TeyaDancer

Editor-in-Chief

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

A rebel and a dreamer by birth, Teya believes that ‘ anyone can [write] but onlythefearlesscanbegreat’

Inthisissue...

MichaelRFrench,TheReconstructionofWilsonRyder

Forthisissue,weaskedwriterstothinkabouttheconceptofRebirth;to considerspringastheRebirthofnature,aswellastothinkofRebirthin aspiritual/theologicalway.Butmostofall,wewantedtoseewhatother associationscometomindwhenthinkingofRebirth,andencouraged you–asperusual–tobeascreativeandimaginativeasyoucouldin yourtakeonthistheme.

Oncemore,wereceivedanoverwhelmingamountoflocaland internationalsubmissionswhichwereadwithgreatinterestand attention Unfortunately,duetospacerestrictions,weweren'tableto includeeveryone'swork,andonlyselectedthesubmissionswefelthad exploredthethemeinthemostcreativeway

Wewanttotakethisopportunitytothankeveryonewhosubmitted theirworkforsharingitwithusandwiththeworld.

CoverArt

WewanttothankOliviaBoileauwhocreatedtheuniqueartforthis volume'sfrontcoverYouwillfindmoreaboutherandherworkinthis magazine'spages

Witheveryissue,weoffertalentedindividualslikeOliviathechanceto becomeapartofWriteresqueasacoverartist.Wepromoteallartists andtheirworkinaspeciallydedicatedpagewithinthemagazine,aswell aswithpoststhroughoutoursocialmediachannels

Ifyouareinterestedinbecomingournextcoverartist,pleaseemailsusat writeresquelit@gmail.com

SpellofCreation KATHLEENRAINE

Withintheflowerthereliesaseed, Withintheseedtherespringsatree, Withinthetreetherespreadsawood

Inthewoodthereburnsafire, Andinthefiretheremeltsastone, Withinthestonearingofiron.

WithintheringthereliesanO, WithintheOtherelooksaneye, Intheeyethereswimsasea, Andintheseareflectedsky, Andintheskythereshinesthesun, Withinthesunabirdofgold

Withinthebirdtherebeatsaheart, Andfromtheheartthereflowsasong, Andinthesongtheresingsaword

Inthewordtherespeaksaworld, Aworldofjoy,aworldofgrief, Fromjoyandgrieftherespringsmylove.

Ohlove,mylove,therespringsaworld, Andontheworldthereshinesasun, Andinthesunthereburnsafire,

Withinthefireconsumesmyheart, Andinmyhearttherebeatsabird, Andinthebirdtherewakesaneye, Withintheeye,earth,seaandsky, Earth,skyandseawithinanO Lieliketheseedwithintheflower.

KathleenRaine,infull KathleenJessieRaine, (14.06.1908 06.07.2003) wasanEnglishpoet, scholar,andcriticnotedfor hermysticalandvisionary poetry

Rainestudiedpsychologyandthenatural sciencesatGirtonCollegeinCambridge InspiredbyPlato,WBYeats,WilliamBlake, andothermysticalandvisionarywriters,she soughttoabandontheeverydayworldfora worldoffeelinginherwritingHerwork, whichhasbeencharacterizedasmeditative andlyrical,isconcernedwithuniversal themessuchasnature,life,death,and eternity.Rainefoundedin1990Temenos Academy,ateachinginstitutionthatrejected the“secularmaterialism”ofthecurrentage; theTemenosAcademyReviewwascreated in1999andincludedlecturesgivenatthe academy.

"Yourlifecanendatanytime,anditcanendmorethanonce Butitcan alsobeginmorethanonce"

Source:Britannicacom

Source:goodreadscom

Theanalysisofrepeated,domesticfemininetrauma withinmythicalandreligiousnarrativesisthecontext basisbehindOlivia’spractice.

Portrayingwomenasdestroyers,Oliviaengageswith thedomesticnotionofweavingevidentwithin folkloreandbiblicalmythstocreatetuftedoutcomes andprints Therecurringimageryandmotifswithin theworkssignifyOlivia’ssubjectiveexperiencesof disassociation,depictingeachoutcomeasasacred space.

FINDOUTMOREABOUTOLIVIA'SWORK: www.oliviaboileau.wixsite.com/hunkneebunknee @hunknnebunknee;@triptychzines

SALVATION

Silyana Shtiliyanova

Itakeoffmyredrobetoafrightenedpasser-by Iuncovermypassions

paintedintheshapeofabattleship

oh,nono,Ican'ttakemyplaceamongyounomore

Sofarhasbeenmyfalserole

Thecandlesareextinguishedinfrontofyourfaces andtheglassesaresohappilyempty

pletosavemyself

fromwarlockssowildanddangerous.

Andthereshallbequietfreedom whitefreedom withoutmuchshinycontroversy

andIwillwhispertomyselfbarely withthebrightmoon forherlunarjourneys

andyoumaythinkofmeasasadmadman butamIamadman?

WithoutavoiceIwillonlysmile

andIwillaskyouhastherainalwaysbeenhappy andisthepathalwaysflat?

Ifallasleepwithmywordsinmyhands

andmyfearsIhavelockedinsidethecupboard Ikeeponwalking withoutwhitefreedommysoulisblind.

FORTHEDARKDAYS

David Philip Ireland

Didtheneedlesdrop?

No,notasingleone

Thereisaforestinthehallway

CoveringtheBerkeleyflags

Headypinescentsandstickyresingum

AndeachtimeIbrushpastIwonder

Didtheneedlesdrop?

No,notasingleone!

Thereisnothingwastedatourtable

Steepedinmacrobioticmagichowcouldthereeverbe?

ThehoundsloveourSundaysprouts

Chickenskinforthecat

MagpiesandJaysonthegardentable

Feastingfrommyupturnedhat

Boldasyoulike

Peckingwarilyattheremnantsofahome-madescone

Theyfeastthereagainstabackdropoflowingbeasts

Energystoresforthedarkdays

I’llkeepthisspringbornsunshinesnapshotsafe

Forthedarkdays

Themorningsunhitsthefivebargate

Attwenty-threepasteight

Andremindsmeofaperspectivequandary

Brunelleschi'ssharpsolution

AriddleIcannotsolvewithoutprotractingtheangles

Forthedarkdays

AsIlookoutacrossthemeadows

Thecattleseemlikegiants

Loweringatthegardengate

Ruminatingwhilethecud’sstillfresh

Forthedarkdays

Theploughwasbusyuntildark

Allofyesterday’seve

Andnowintheharshsunlightofdawn

ThereareArtDecoClariceClifffurrows

Sweepingacrosstheundulatingmounds

Towardtheescarpmentsound

Etchinganotherindeliblememory

Forthedarkdays

Andwhenthespringtimeends, Andwhenthesummerfades, AndAutumnfallsaway

Intothedarkofwinter

Wewillgatherthepreciouspine

Andfillthehousewithtreasuresbright

Forthedarkdays

Didtheneedledrop?

Yes,afinenumberthree

Ashellaconthewind-up

Envelopingthesilentair

Withheadytunesoflongago

Aswedance,Iwonder

Didwemissastep?

No,notasingleone!

Morememories

Forthedarkdays…

WILLOWARROWS

David Philip Ireland

IwonderifheknewIwascoming Idon’texpecthedid.

InthevillagesoftheForties,babiescameandwentwiththeharvestingofcabbages,thearrival ofDoctorO’Dowd,thecackleofstorks

PoorJohnny–liftedsmartlylikeachesspiecefromhisunassailableposition,tobedroppedinto secondplace–theclassiccaseofcheckmate

Therearephotographsofthetwoofus,meremonthslater,inspringsunshine.Hisquirky NormanWisdomsmilerestingonmyShirleyTemplecurls.

MyfirstmemorywasofaJanuarydayatfifteenmonths Wesatcrampedtogetheronthefront seatoftheTownsend’slorrydadhadborrowed,ourthingsbouncingprecariouslybehindus.The lorrysmelledofcornandsweetpigmeal.WeheldSnowyonourlaps,bumpingoverbridges, feelingourtummiesriseandfall,clawssinkingdeep Wehadleftharshwordsandtearsbehindus

Thenewhouseateighty-onestoodalooffromtheunfinishedshellsrunningfromeighty-fiveto bleakcementhorizons Everywherewassand Coarsewhitebuilderssand Howitflurriedasthe streetkidsroamed.Likesummersnow.

I was alone Aboard the raft of my future, on the shore of alienation Johnny stood firm He untiedmymooringsandwatchedwithgleeasIdriftedaway,hopelesslybeyondtheirreach.He hadfoundhisbandofpirates.Hewashomeanddry.

Theyscrogged,theycherry-knockedandtheydidunnamedthingsonSnakeIsland Iwentto SundaySchoolwithahairgripholdingbackmyfine,blondhair.IsportedaHomeServiceaccent, buttoned my coat on the girls’ side and stared at the neighbours in dumb insolence. Johnny, frustratedbyhisownshortcomingslashedoutatmeinsecret,deviousways

Johnnyalwayswenttoschoollate.

Ialwayswentintears.

No one explained the rules. Mother left me stranded there at five years old. Two buttered digestivesinagreasybag.Shipwrecked.Myraftindriftwoodsplinters.Butthatsummerholiday wasareverieofcomicsandsleepybedsandendlessdaysalone

OnceItaggedalongbehindhim Bliss.

Weteeteredontheedgeoflocks,rollingfish-bait.Minnowsandsticklebacksthrashedgreedily, scatteringthepungentpondweed Johnnyprattledon,hiswarmburrfullofthepromiseofElvis, TedsandQuiffs.Agoodday.Trappedforeverlikeawaspinamber.

Wecrossedtheroadandpassedthedry-stonewallintotheyardofManorFarm.Thesoporific perfumeofcattleandhedgeflowersledustothecanal,amiledownstreamfromthedisusedlock OverthehighCotswoldstonewall,wecouldseetheleadedwindowsoftheManoritself,allpale stoneandiviedgables.Wefoundthewillowcoppicewithitsflat,bareclearingjustbeyondthe wallandthroughtherailwayarches Anislandinaseaofnettlebreakers

Idon’trememberwords,buttherewouldhavebeen:‘youbethisan’I’llbethat’.Johnny delvedintothedepthsofhiskneelengthflanneltrouserpocketsforaroll-up,sometwineanda penknife Helitup,thenflippedopenedtheknifewithonepractisedmove Thenhesettowork ‘Here-lookwhatI’vemade!’

Triumphantlyheheldthewithybowandarrowhighintheair.Withawhoophedancedhis littlewardance Tinycloudsofpollenflewaroundhim Smokesignals Hechasedme Itwas delicious. Just two kids who might have been friends. Two estate kids at play, far from the confinesofourbeleagueredbrotherhood.

ThesharpnessofthepainstartledmeandIfrozeinmidstep

‘Oh,bloodyhell,ourkid!’.

I knew his thoughts. What would SHE say! We both stared in horror at the withy. It had enteredmycalf,justbelowtheknee,re-emergingslightlylower Itwentcleanthroughtheflesh If therewasbloodIdon'tremember.Iftherewaspain,itwasthestingofthebelthewouldfeel. Johnnyfellbeforemetoexaminethewithy.

‘Bloodyhell,ourkid–it’sgonerightthroughyerbloodyleg!’

Ithad Ilookeddownatmylegindisbelief

‘We’ll‘avetogetitout.’

Thatwasthenastybit.ButIdon’trememberblood.Thearrowprotrudedlikeatrickshop novelty Iflinched Hissobsofstupidityandregretstilledme

‘I'msorry,ourkid,I’msorry!’

Heheldmyankletightinhisgrubbygrip.Hisotherhandgraspedthearrowresolutelyandhe pulled Slowly, so slowly He laid the stripped withy solemnly in my open hand He squatted beforeme,brighttearsinhiseyes.Hesearchedforunknownwords.Herewecouldforgethe unassailablebondofbrothersinblood.

Forsecondswesharedthatgaze Then,swiftlythelookchanged Realisationdawned Thereal mates,theSnakeIslandgirls,theciggiesandcokesintheGreenCafé,RedRiverRockandthe Brylcreemodourofquiffsoozedbackintohismind.Nosnivellingkidwasworththelossofface,

the admittance of love No, this was a coming of age Trouble would come anyway Make it worthwhile.Firstblood.

‘Don'ttellourmum.’

Itriedhardtolimp,butIwasunsurewhichfootshouldlead,soIranwithhim.Weracedlikethe wind toward the pale grey past. He stormed upstairs to his sweaty, socky side of our shared bedroomandclosedthedoor SaturdaysleptbyandJohnnytossedandturnedinhisbed Sunday dinnerandhearrivedsullenanduncommunicative,drummingHeartbreakHotelontheoilcloth.

The world seemed oblivious to the subtle shift in the scheme of things, but that willowed instantdividedourlivesasclearlyasthefoldsofamap

Ihadnoideahewascoming

Wehadn’tbeenintouchforsomanyyears.IndesperationIlookedouttowardtheglorious pinksandorangesofthesunset.Fromhilltopsandroofgardensandbalconies,loverssighedand baskedinthediffusionofcolour Thoselastdyingfingersoflightdrewmetoo–nottowardlove, buttopeace,hoveringinhalflife.

Theendsimplyaccepted

Highonthepalestone,Iwasunawareofhisburstingpride,ofhisdesiretotellme.Ofallthe placeshecouldhavegone,hechosetobewithme.Somanysplintersofmomentsfusedtogether.

Theharshclamourofthedoorbellshotthroughmelikeanarrow,joltingmeback Thesunfell awaybehindthedistantMayandblackedout.ThesixflightsofstairsIwouldnothaveusedagain flewundermyfeet.

Therehewas

WeracedlikethewindtowardthepalegreyAnglia,hisnewlicenceproudlydisplayedonthe dashboard.IacceptedhisNumber6withashakinghand.

WeracedlikethewindtowardthepalegreySevern,brightstarsinhiseyes.Twokidswho mighthavebeenfriends

Sharingbriefwind-blownmomentsoftimeastwoentangledlivesbegananew…

David'snewhardcoverlyricbookisnowavailableto pre-orderathttps://www.davidirelandmusic.com

DRIVEN

Daniel Tobias Behan

Iam thedrivenforcethenurturing, explosivecoursemoving through thejuvenile, acne-speckedface ofthefreshgreenspring

andon,through summer 'srainbow, goldenautumn,and argentinewinterthisessenceoflife: creatures,plants, microbes, landscapes, skiesandoceans: thecanvasofrenewal.

Iam thedrivenforcethenurturing, explosivecoursethegenerative principlethroughout cyclesofcreation:

birth,death, dissolution andrestitutionthefruit-bearingtree andthe seed-bearingfruit andthetree-bearing seed, whichshootsanew throughthick mulch-layersofleavestheinterwoven generations:child, parent,grandparent, anddistantancestor: ofevolution andsurvival; redesignthrough environment,adaptation, andpurpose boundwithin nature'sspiralledhandwriting: thedouble-helixoflifeitself.

Iam thedrivenforcethenurturing, explosivecoursethrougherasof language,thought andcommunication-

thechange anddevelopment ofart,fashion,andculturethefuturepromise ofpossibility andtechnological progress.

WE

Daniel Tobias Behan

Wearenotwhowethink; wearemorethanweshow–solearn,andevolve, andbecomeallweknow;

wehavefears,andfrights butofnousearethey–toletgo, ethemaway; hem,wemust kingofus–

we’llseemostarenomore thanshadows,anddust;

we’llsoonrealise we ’retheworld,indisguise–forallwecouldask isbeforeourowneyes.

BREDBYFIRE

Marianna Pizzini

Safeleftmyvocabularyandwaserased frommydictionary

Bedroomlightswerealwaysdimmedin yourhead,justenoughlightto getin and getout.

Corpsed Scavenged Leftfordeadinamorgue,all brokendown.

Iwasusedandabused, bruisedbyonehadtothechest andtheothertotheheart, but self-inflicted drowningwaslessmiseryand morecompany

but now

featheredfeelingsrunupmyspinewhile fire-likesparksfind

homesinmy

brittle bones

There’sadifferencebetween aforestfire fightingtodestroy, andacampfire strugglingtoprovide.

Mysmolderingcorelightsup withthecolorsofredandorange, oppositeofmyusual blue hues butmorenaturalwithmy phoenixeyes

SULPHUR Bodhisattwa Das

Thefrettershonefromthesouth Iknowsomeofthem,Ihavebeen Someofthem; Theyseekalandwithloudmusic; Aboutseventypercentequity; Sinatrablue,acoupleof Pigmiestotakecareofthem; Twocansoftuna, chair,dishelved days lbatross.

Thesedaysthough, Icondescendfreely; Thinkingback, Hadthekisseswishedfordignity; AndIknowverywell mypoeticinjustices; I'dratherplayattheirgames.

This,whenallwasapparent; Afiatofwhich Icannothold, Anybodyelseaccountable; Wasdevisedinclarity, Andinsubordination.

Butterfliesarestrangecreatures, Theypeelthebellybutton Likehotparmesan Andreachtheguts; Onlytoloseways

Andmergewiththe Half-digestedleftovers.

BABIESINTHEPOND

Lyndsie Conklin

Theirsmallyellowbacks areobviousagainstthemurk, blackandopaque.

Theneighborhoodgawkers approachtoobserve thegoslings’brightcontrast.

Theadultfowl soundmelodicwarnings thattheobservers havecapturedtheirattention andtheirstepsarelimited Thebrightbabies floatintoeachother unawareoftheirwatchingneighbors orthetricksofnavigation. Oncecuriosityissatisfied thegawkersretreat todwellingsbeyondthepond. Andthenewborngeese fumblearoundthewater astheirguardians resttheirsong.

NEWSKIN

Lyndsie Conklin

Ipeelitofftostick

itbackon,tolook atmyattemptatflying. It’sfesteringbeneath dirt,bindingwithpus, andhurtingwithaninnocentfantasy: Iamabird!

akwings hercannotsee

desirecorrupting

Anotherstep forcingmyselftostare atuncertaintybeforesinging screamsbecometucked behindnewskin’sgleam

THECONVERSIONOFST.IGNATIUS

Ryan Diaz

St.Ignatiusreturnedtotheplacewhere Hetradedhisbladeinexchangefora Limp;thetomboftheknightheshould’vebeen.

Thereherecalledthecannonfire, Thesearingheat,theblazingflame Andthesuddenparalyzingpain.

Herememberedthenthemedic’stents, Theendlesscyclesofbreakingandbinding, Theemptypromisesofwell-meaningmen, You’llbegoodasnewandthiswon’thurtabit, Beforetheyproceededtobreakhisleg Andbeganthecyclealloveragain.

Maybethat’swhatittakestomakeasaint; Tragicloss,brokenlimbs,andalingering Limp,andmaybebrokenmenmakefor

Lousysinners;theirlimbsaconstant Reminderofwhotheycould'vebeen Foreverlimping,broken,holymen

ArticlebyTeyaDancer

Did you know the tuition fee for a Creative Writing course in UK universities startsfrom£9,000peryear for an undergraduate degree, and £7,000 for a graduate degree? You might think it must be worth it for that price; that, surely, you'll come out a well-polished writer, readytopublishandmake money off of your best sellers.Well,letmeaskyou this? How many books by successfulauthorshaveyou got sitting on your bookshelf?Andhowmany of those authors have a master'sinCW? Exactly.

Creative writing degree: What is it goodfor?

No, not 'absolutely nothing'. The benefitswilldependonyourreasonsfor joining a university course, and more specifically a master's course in Creative writing.AdegreeinCWhastransferable skills,depending,ofcourse,onthecareer pathyouhaveplannedforyourself.

CWandMarketing

Inmarketing,forexample,it'sdefinitely handy to be on the creative – but also technical–sideonwriting Acareerasa marketingassistantormarketingmanager is usually the most common positions available with a degree in CW One wouldneedtobringafewextrathingsto the table, though Just the degree itself won't cut it You'd also need skills like onlinecontentwriting,technicalwriting, targeted post writing, writing press releasesetc.Thegoodnewsis,theseskills canbeacquiredbyobservationandthen appliedintopractice,andbeingskilfulin creative writing will make this process easier.

Blogging

Another possible career is in blogging. Blogging does require a creative writing mindevenwhenthemostcommonformis informal, diary-style writing. It may look easy to write a blog – and don't get me wrong,I'mnotsayingit'srocketscience-but agoodblogstillrequirescreativity.Alotof bloggers are self-employed which can be a good and a bad thing (we all know why). Still,thepossibilityisthere.

CWinPublishing

Now,manythink,includingmyselfwhenI chosetodothedegree,thatwhentheyhave anundergraduatedegreein,say,Englishand Linguistics, and then they add a MA in CreativeWriting,theycanstartworkingin publishing, no problem This is usually dream number 2 for many who start the degree(afterbecomingasuccessfulwriter,of course). Unfortunately, there's very few positions available in publishing, especially right now, and the ones available are not givenawayeasily.Andthefactthatyouhave a master's in CW means little to the employersinpublishing.

I have recently spoken with a few literary agentswithquestionsaboutrepresentation, publication,aswellasabouttheirjobsand qualifications.Itturnedoutthatsomehad degreesinrelatedfieldstoCW,likemedia, journalismorEnglish,andsomedidn'teven have a master's degree, but had a BA in Media and Marketing, English and Marketing,orHistory.So,itlookslikewhile aCWdegreewon'thurtwhenapplyingin publishing, it's hardly essential or irreplaceable Actually, this applies also to theothercareerpossibilitieslistedabove

MAinCW:Howisittaught?

Amaster'sdegreeinCWcanbetaughtfulltimeorpart-time Thefollowingisbasedon myexperience:

When you are doing the degree full time, youusuallydo6hoursaweek:2*hours

Ihaverecentlyspokenwithafewliteraryagentswithquestionsabout representation, publication, as well as about their jobs and qualifications Itturnedoutthatsomehaddegreesinrelatedfieldsto CW,likemedia,journalismorEnglish,andsomedidn'tevenhavea master'sdegree,buthadaBAinMediaandMarketing,Englishand Marketing,orHistory.So,itlookslikewhileaCWdegreewon'thurt when applying in publishing, it's hardly essential or irreplaceable. Actually,thisappliesalsototheothercareerpossibilitieslistedabove

MAinCW:Howisittaught?

Amaster'sdegreeinCWcanbetaughtfull-timeorpart-time.The followingisbasedonmyexperience:

Whenyouaredoingthedegreefulltime,youusuallydo6hoursa week:2*hourshourscoremoduletheory,andfourhourscreative modules.Whenpart-time,it'susually2hourscoremoduleand2 hourscreativemoduleofyourchoiceeveryotherweekinthefirstyear Inthesecondyearit's2hourscreativemodule,andameetingeveryso often with an assigned dissertation tutor. These are usually quite short

Thecoremodulecoversbasictheoryonwriting Ifyouhavealready done an undergraduate course in CW, or read any old book on writing,I'lltellyourightnow,don'tbotheratall.Theinformation andtheoryisthesametheyteachundergraduates TheonlyperkI foundwastheCreativewritinganthologywhichissomethingthat usuallygetspublishedannually Studentsareinchargeofitsentire development,althoughIfoundthistobeadouble-sidedbladebecause atsomepointitstartedtoremindmeofpartsfromLordoftheFlies...

Thecreativemodulesarewhereyoudiscussyoursandotherpeople's writing Whilethere'sminimumfeedbackprovidedbythelecturer present(thisexcludesthefeedbackyougetaccompanyingyourgrade onyourassignmentfeedbacksheet),peersarestronglyencouragedto providelengthycommentsoneachindividualwork Theseareusually verysubjectiveandmostfailtomakethedifferencebetweenfeedback andcriticism

Doesitofferaplacement?

No,itdoesnot AtleasttheoneIdid,butfromwhatI'veseen,this appliestomost.

IsitworthdoingaMaster'sinCreativewriting?

Writer George Guthridge, winner of the Bram Stoker AwardforNovelhasansweredthisquestionslikethis:

‘[ ] I have a master’s in cw Complete waste of time Most creative writing classes are taught by people with little knowledge of the real world of writing. Worse, creativewritingtakespeopleawayfromdegreesthatgive peoplesomethingtowriteabout.TheInternetcanteach youprettymucheverythingthatcwclasseswillteachyou ...andit’sfree.’**

It's certainly a comment worth noting, and although I can't agree that all or most CW classes are taught by 'peoplewithlittleknowledgeoftherealworldofwriting', Idoagreethat'theInternetcanteachyouprettymuch everything that CW classes will' – the way they are currentlytaught,anyway.

IfauniversityCreativewritingcoursewantstostandout and be worth its money, the structure of these courses needstobechanged.Placementsneedtobeofferedand writers should be provided with more valuable information about the publishing industry, about the laws (or at least the main laws) when it comes to intellectualrights;thingslikewhenandhowdoesyour own work really become your own; be warned against vanity presses; provide their students with contacts of literaryagentsthatcouldbeinterestedinthewritingthey produce, and, possibly, also be recommended to these agents It'sthoughoutthereasitis

Somealternatives

Ifyouwanttodoamaster'sinCWpurelytobecomea betterwriter,orifyouthinkitwillhelpyougetpublish, I'msorrytoconfirmGuthridge'swords,but,asitisat this moment, it would most likely be an expensive disappointment.The best thing to do if you want to becomeapublishedwriteristowrite.

Writeallthetime,asoftenasyoucan.Andwhenyouare notwriting–read.Readtowritebetter.

Andifyoufeellikeyouneedfeedbackorencouragement from fellow writers throughout the process, you don't havetopaythousandsofpoundsforit Tryjoininglocal writinggroupsorreadinggroupsfirstwhereyouwillfind writersnolessqualifiedthanthosethatwouldbeinyour workshop in a higher education Most writing groups offer annual memberships on a modest price that wouldn't be enough to cover only one semester in a universitycourse.

Oryoucanjoinanonlineworkshopwhichwon'tcost youathing!AnyoneCanWriteisafreeonlineworkshop, createdforwriterswhowanttomeetlike-mindedfellow writers.Aplacewhereyoucanswapwritingexperience, talk about ideas and even do a reading of your own writing.Allyouneedtodoissignupandshowup. Wecan'twaittomeetyou!

*often,thesepaid,two-hourlonglectureswouldactuallylast1.5 hours

**Source:https://wwwquoracom/Is-a-creative-writing-degreeworth-it-in-the-long-run

AHISTORYOFWATER

Bethanie Knapper

Thewaterisclosinginonmeanditstingsandswirls.Itfeelslikeitispiercingmylungsand everytimeItrytogettothesurfaceIampushedfurtherunder.Thelightglintslikeabeacon abovethatisimpossibletoreach,rippling.

Irememberbeingtiredofthatmomentoftryingsohardtogettothesurface,thenjust feelthesenseoflettinggo Ofsinkingandsinking

AndnowI’mrisingupandupintothelightandfamiliarvoices,liftedwithstrongarmsback intothelandoftheliving

Igaspedforair,frozen,thensobbed.Iremembertheadjustmenttotheair,howloudand overwhelmingtheworldseemedatthatmoment Theconsolationofmyparents,thewarmth ofthesandandthedeliciouslysicklysweetnessoftheicecreamIhadtocheermeup.

Weweren’treallyreligious,butthefamilywantedaChristeninganyway.Someolderaunt orotherhadsuggestedit.TheytellmeIcriedinthefont,thegrown-upschuckling.

When I was a bit older, I was on the same beach with different people, the voices of my parentsreplacedbytheTop40andtheicecreamreplacedbythosesweetboozydrinksyou dranktooquickly Thesunwassettingacrossthehorizon,andwediscussedgoingtoanew placetofindanewadventure.Pickingupthetowelsandthebags,weheadedacrosstothe harbour,musicplayingaswewentandourlaughterilluminatingthestreets.

Wethoughtnothingcouldstopus,everythingseemedlikeapotentialstory,somethingto laughatintimestocome.

Irememberthelookofherbeautifulhairassheleantoverthebanister,thewaythelatenight windblewinandthesmellofcigarettesmokethroughtheair Shecackledasshesuggested divingintothedarkblueofthewaterfromtheharbourwallslikewe’dseenthelocalkidsdo, drainingthelastofbottleswehadn’tbeenbotheredtocountandputtingittooneside

Thesplashmadeusallsoberup Thesecondsstretchedintothewateryzonewheretime

stoppedthatIrememberlikeafragmentofadreamoraframefromafilmyousawawhile back Itriedtoconjureuphermum’sfaceformchildhoodvisitstoherhouse Shelookslike her.

And there she is, gasping for air with makeup streaming down her face in angry black streaks.She’slaughing,butthejokestops.

There’llbemanyofthosemomentstocome,wherethejokejustisn’tfunnyanymore, whereshehastokeepthejokegoing,keepthepartygoing,untilit’stoomuchandthemumI rememberfromherschooldaysiscallingtoseewheresheisandIhavetotellherwe’venot spokenbecauseit’stoomuchandthosedayshavebeenlosttothewaterandI’msorryit’stoo muchbutit’stoomuch.

Whydoescaringaboutsomeonehavetofeeltoomuchsometimes?Isthatright?Ithink aboutifshe’llbetherewhenyou’reababyinthefont,ifshe’llbelosttotheblueandthe depthsandsunkunderorbeabletofloat

Thebeachseemsdifferentthesedays It’scolderandthepebbleshurtourfeetwithoutthesoft sandandthewindisbracingwithoutthesun.Butyoudon’tnoticethis.Youjustwanttosee thesea.

Iseeyoudisappearintothehorizon.Ow,ow,owasthepebbleshurtyourfeetbutyouget there.Wheretheblueiftheskymeetstheblueofthesea.

Yousquealbutlaughasyoudipyourfeetintothecoldwater,runningbackontothe beach,thenbackin.Itoldyouitwouldbecold.Eventhoughwe’reinwintercoatswetryto findchipsandanicecreamvan Youmakedowithasnowglobefromastallwherethewoman wasn’texpectingusoffseason.Yousitmystified,watchingitswirlinyourtinyhandsinthe seatofthecaraswegetourfoodfromachipshoponthewayback

Ithinkyoutookitawaywithyou,butIjustseeyoutuckedinbed,readingabouttheocean andlookingatthefakesnowswirlingaroundaplasticfish.

Wewalkthedogalongriverbanks,trytopicnicbyalake,buttheseawastheplaceforyou

THEKISSOFALTERATION

T. Z. Dancer

Itwasshortlyaftermidnight,inthethirddayofspring,whenYanatookherfinalbreathbefore shelivedagain.

Thenightwasstillinexpectation,thetreesheavywithrain Scatteredacrossthevastblackness oftheclearsky,thestarswerelookingdownatRilaandallthelifethatwastobe.Andthelifethat wouldnotbe.Springhadcome.Whitefeetgentlypressingagainstthemeltingice,approaching. Thewoodlandshadbeguntheirtransformation.

Inthestillnessofthewoodlandworld,asongwascarriedintheair Asongoflamentation

Bruisedandbroken,tornclothessoakedinbloodandcoldness,Yanamourned,throughsobsand pain,herpurityandyouth.

Ifyoucanhearme,deardaughter, don’tyoufret,donotgivein Ifyoucanhearme,deardaughter, lovelessyoushallnotremain,[1]--

TearswererollingdownbothcornersofhereyesasYana’svoicegrewquiet.Herfinalstrengthhad leftherandherlamentwouldremainunfinished,likeherlife.Shelaysilentonherback,numbin pain,passing,butunwillingtoclosehereyesandletthevisionsofherviolationbethelastthingin herconsciousmind Shethoughtofbirdsinstead,andofbeautifulbrowneyeswatchingand marvellingattheflocksofstorksandswallowsflyingbyoverthefields–herlittlebrother.For him,shetriedtowhisperafinalblessing,butherbreathnevertooktheshapeofwords.Amere sight.Thennothing.Yana’seyes,wideopen,remainedlookingatthestars,unblinkingandno longerseeinginthisworld

Whispersspreadamongtreesandhedges.Winddisturbedthestillnessofthebranchesand waterturnedtorainagain.ItfelldownpouringontoYana’sfrozenbody,washingblood anddirt intotheearth Asthewindgrewstronger,thewhispersturnedtosong–voices,clearasmountain ice,echoedinthedarkness,bornebywindandstarlight

[1]ThisisatranslationofarealdedicationinscribedonagravestonefoundinthefoothillsofPirin.Ihave altereditslightlysothatitrhymesandreadssmootherinEnglish

ONLYAVAILABLEINPRINT

WriteresqueVolume5

“Everysummerhasastory:Writeyours”

MarciGohn

Amagazinethatcelebratesthebraveryofbeingdifferent,whatWriteresquestandsforispridein individuality

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

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AuthorsVolume4

DanielTobiasBehanisaLondonborn-and-based poetandelectronicmusician.From2017to2019, DanielperformedregularlyattheLondonIrish Centre,Camden;in2018,Danielwasinterviewedby theIrishPostaspartoftheirLondonCallingpodcast series,andin2020hadashortfilmmadeof‘The Visit’,featuringacclaimedactorNoraConnollyand directedbyPatrickO’Mahony.Hewasinterviewed forWombwellRainbow,andcommencedapoetry series,called‘Findings’onchannillocom

LyndsieConklin(she/her)isaMontanan transplantedtoColorado,livingwithherhusband andcat,BeansSheenjoysgettingoutside,beingacat mom,breakfastfoods,DietCoke,and(ofcourse) writingpoetryanderotica Instagram:@lc poetics

BodhisattwaDasisa20-year-oldundergradstudent fromKolkata,India.Heisalsoanaspiringwriter, heavilyinspiredbytheworksofHenryCharles BukowskiHisfirstpoetrycollection,"INeed Coffee",waspublishedinDecember2020.

RyanDiazisapoetandwriterfromQueens,NYHe holdsaBAinHistoryfromStJohnsUniversityand iscurrentlycompletingaMAinBiblicalStudiesHis workhasbeenfeaturedinpublicationslikeEkstasis, PremierChristianity,DappledThings,andCommon GoodMagHisfirstpoetrycollection,ForThose WanderingAlongtheWay,wasreleasedin2021 Ryan’swritingattemptstofindthedivineinthe ordinary,thethinplacewherefantasyandreality meet.HecurrentlylivesinQueens,NYwithhiswife JanieceKeepupwithRyan'sworkat wwwavagueideacom

DavidPhilipIrelandisawriter,poet,musician, artistandexperimentalist. RattlesnakeJar,David’snewestbookandalbum,is availablenowonAmazon

DavidPhilipIrelandhasworkedinmanyaspectsof thearts,includingmusic,theatreandphotography, publishinganumberofsoloandcollaborativemusic projects,twonovels,SlowPoisonandBloodstones, plustwoanthologiesofpoetry

TodiscoverDavid’sbackcatalogue,visit: linktree/davidirelandmusic

MariannaPizziniisaMontananativewhonowcalls NebraskahomeShelovestoread,write,andserveat churchSheisstudyingforanMAin CommunicationatArizonaStateUniversity.When sheisn’twriting,shecanbefoundwatchingreality TVwithherfiancé Instagram:@mdpizzini

SilyanaRumenovaShtilianovais22yearsoldand livesinBulgariaSheisawriterandapoetSilyana’s publishedbookofpoetrywasawardedanational literaryprizein2020SilyanagraduatedtheFrench HighSchoolinBurgas,Bulgariaandisnowastudent inPsychologyattheBurgasFreeUniversity.

Currently,she’sawriterfortheBulgarianmagazine, Magazine8

HerpoemshavebeenpublishedinvariousBulgarian mediaaswellasintheBurgasLiteraryAlmanac

Notes&Thoughts

Notes&Thoughts

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