What's Your Pride Story? by Writing on the Wall

Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Your Pride Story?

Writing on the Wall Kuumba Imani Millennium Centre 4, Princes Road Liverpool L8 1TH Published by Writing on the Wall 2016 ÂŠ Remains with authors Design and layout by Rosa Murdoch ISBN: 978-1-910580-12-7 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. 0151 703 0020 info@writingonthewall.org.uk www.writingonthewall.org.uk

Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Your Story? Liverpool Pride

Contents Emma Hulme Introduction

Helen Sandler A Note from the Course Leader

What’s Your Story? Group We Are Pride

Erin Wynn Beyond Eden Birds Above, Birds Below

3 5

Joseph Lavelle The Letter Pills

9 12

Rainbow Sparkle God’s Rainbow Special Angels How Dare You Judge Me? Rainbow Brain Blocker Punk Rocker

16 18 20

Pete Ryan Chaos

Daniel Riding Dead Like a Dandelion

David Mears Dark Days

Lynne Seibold Escape Saturday Night, Mazzie Night

27 29

Yasmine Walker October Parties

Jacqueline Dimbleby London to Liverpool MLU Rm 14 Mum

35 41 42

Nathan Cairns Memories of My Psychic Youth Liverpool

44 48

Lyndsay Price Concert Square the search

50 51

Catherine Warner Ammonite Memento Mori Library Flood

52 53 54

Brian Wharton Taxi Pride I Might Have Known

56 58

About the Writers

Introduction Emma Hulme ‘What’s Your Pride Story’ has been produced as a collaboration between Writing on the Wall and Liverpool Pride to support and publish new writers from the LGBT community in Liverpool. Liverpool Pride, now in its sixth year, was established as a response to the murder of young gay man, Michael Causer. Since then, Pride has produced an enormously successful annual festival. This year is their first in which they have received funding to work in partnership with creative arts organisations, and Writing on the Wall are privileged to have been asked to create and lead on the ‘What’s Your Pride Story’ project. Thirteen new writers came together on a ten-week course to share and write about their experiences of Pride and being LGBT in Liverpool. The project has already created many positive outcomes, with participants performing and sharing their work at poetry nights and events across the city. A special thanks to our course leader and published writer, Helen Sandler, who has delivered a brilliant and diverse course, producing this book and inspiring the group to carry on writing and performing in the future. Thanks in particular to Michael Carey and Joan Burnett of Liverpool Pride, whose hard work and support made this course possible, and Simon Ward, our Liverpool John Moores MA Creative Writing volunteer, for all his ideas and commitment. Our biggest thanks, and congratulations, are reserved for all of our writers, who have listened, supported, shared, laughed, cried and who, through their writing, have both reflected and challenged the world we live in. I am honoured to have been part of the process. The following collection is an honest and inspiring reflection of them and we hope you enjoy reading it. Emma Hulme Project Manager

iii

A Note from the Course Leader Helen Sandler I was delighted to be asked by Writing on the Wall to lead the What’s Your Pride Story? creative writing project, commissioned by Liverpool Pride. The group met every Thursday evening for ten weeks at Central Library, where we explored different forms of writing. This was a unique space where group members could share writing inspired by all aspects of their lives as lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans and agender people, knowing they would be heard and understood. It was a great pleasure to be around this group of funny, creative, supportive and irreverent people. Their writing is as varied and lively as they are. Some are experienced writers, while others produced their first creative writing on this course. We’re pleased to have this book as a permanent record of the project and we hope you enjoy reading it. From rainbow unicorns to lesbian liver birds, and from the sandy shore to St George’s Square, Liverpool’s pride stories await you. I’d like to thank Emma Hulme for overseeing the project with skill and enthusiasm. From Liverpool John Moores University, Simon Ward was a keen and imaginative assistant; Jim Friel an inspiring guest lecturer. My thanks also to Mike Morris of Writing on the Wall and Joan Burnett of Liverpool Pride for their support. Helen Sandler Course Leader and Editor

We Are Pride What’s Your Pride Story? Group The whistles scream Above the crowd As they joyfully proclaim We’re out, loud and proud A day of freedom To be open To be seen Hold hands with whoever Relax, be obscene There’s nowhere to hide at Liverpool Pride Freedom is fun when mixed with flamboyant creativity With a chance to be surrounded by colourful positivity You can only gain entry to Pride If you are dressed as a Sparkly rainbow unicorn One weekend-long group hug We thank the ones that came before us And fight for the ones who will come after us Giving and receiving love Sweat washes my face of makeup but I couldn’t care less

There’s nowhere to hide at Liverpool Pride Seeking shelter in the shaking portaloo Skinny straight girls push prams and sniff poppers Dear lord we’ve been infiltrated by orange-faced shoppers It pissed and hair gel ran down my neck But I’m loving life and I don’t give a feck A Jack Russell in a rainbow scarf Protesting Christians who make me barf Brandishing bibles on Castle Street corner calling: ‘Daughters of Babylon, sons of Jezebel, You’re all going to burn in hell’ There’s nowhere to hide at Liverpool Pride Leather boys shock English sensibility With their human dog bound in chains Four drag queens get into their drag car at Pride The inflatable slide It’s a devil to climb But we manage it somehow And yes this is Pride A girl in the Superstar says I’m a work of art She crowns me with flowers and steals my heart We don’t need to hide at Liverpool Pride!

Beyond Eden Erin Wynn You have probably heard it said that women are from Venus and beside them cloaked in red are the ones that are from Mars The Sons of the God of War and Daughters of the Morning Star And that Adam and Eve stand side by side in our current terrestrial home as husband and wife, they preside over their families, the foundation of society Father, mother, daughter, son It’s a matter of propriety But while for some it may be true That these opposites attract The other hosts of Heaven sent their children here, too You know them, you love them, you see them every day Daughters of Jupiter and Sons of Neptune Souls from Saturn, and the Children of the Sun’s Rays A warrior woman of Luna’s Light carries a silver labrys through a parade Beautiful, powerful and full of might And beside her walks the woman she loves Born of Venus but seeks not a man from Mars

gracefully she glides like one of the goddess’s own doves And with a soul from Mercury, there is a child to whom the words ‘male’ and ‘female’ mean nothing Twelve years young and free and wild with no desire to conform or change based on the rules of the world we live in that define the normal and the strange So always look up at the night sky and remember where you come from Don’t feel you have to live a lie because of the bigots’ behest In the Heavens who you are is as normal as the sun setting in the west.

Birds Above, Birds Below Erin Wynn Two birds of ambiguous species stand strong and proud atop a monument I grew up gazing upon. ‘They are husband and wife. They’ve had an argument. The husband is looking out at the pubs because he needs to get away from her nattering, and the wife is looking out at the docks because she’s pissed off at him.’ I can’t remember when or where I first heard someone say that. I just know at least three adults had told me that anecdote when I was a child. I remember politely laughing but not really understanding why it was supposed to be funny or charming. I contemplate this on my way out of my workplace, which happens to be a small gift shop on the docks. The shop is completely empty apart from myself, who was tasked with locking up. I knock over a stack of precariously placed Superlambanana figurines when my phone screams with the obnoxious default ringtone that I haven’t bothered to change. On the other end is Caitlyn, the closest thing I have to a best friend. Sociology student at University of Liverpool by day and party girl by night, she is as intelligent as she is beautiful, and I’ve fancied her since we met through a mutual friend a few years ago. Alas, though, she does not bat for my team (despite her insistence that she ‘wouldn’t say no’ to Megan Fox). ‘Hey, pal.’ In the background I hear laughter and screaming and other sounds adolescents make while inebriated. ‘Morgannnnnnnnnnn! Come out tonight.’ I chuckle. ‘How are you drunk already? It’s only just gone seven o’ clock.’ ‘Summer festival at uni. Please come out tonight!’ ‘I can’t, Mum and Dad are at a wedding so I have to watch my brother.’

This is a lie, but ‘I don’t want to’ wouldn’t have been an acceptable excuse. ‘Aww, okay. Next week?’ ‘Sounds good.’ ‘Okeydoke. Byeeee!’ ‘Bye, have a good night!’ I put my phone back into my bag and crouch down on the floor to pick up the yellow Scouse creatures, then I lock up and head towards the bus stop, which is right next to the Liver Building. I think about the liver birds a lot because I see them at least four days a week. It is also said that if the liver birds were to fly away from the building on which they are perched, then Liverpool would descend into chaos. Economic devastation, the flooding of the River Mersey, no one knows. But it doesn’t matter, because the birds are made out of stone, and stone birds cannot fly away. So, despite corrupt politicians, anti-Liverpool propaganda from certain publications, and other socio-economic factors, I don’t have to worry about the doomsday of my Liverpool home any time soon. We are a resilient city. At the bus stop, I recognise a girl that I went to school with. What was her name? Rebecca? Jasmine? Bethany? Who knows. Her friends were the typical all-girl-school bullies; the kind of kids who would make it their mission to ruin your life just because they didn’t like the way you did your hair or the length of your socks. I had a few run-ins with this group and they particularly hated me because I called them out on homophobia once, which resulted in a civil war in Year 10. This was before I had came out of the closet, but I think they had their suspicions after seeing how passionately I defended a tomboyish girl from anti-lesbian taunts, even though the girl herself was actually straight. Yet, after I’d almost gotten one of them suspended so close to our GCSE exams, they didn’t dare start on me. Whatshername looks awkward, like she’s expecting me to have a go at her or punch her in the face. She keeps her head down and her arms folded in her lap. I don’t spend too much time looking in her general direction, in

case she decides to suddenly revert to her old ways and ask me what I’m looking at. But I do notice the rainbow wristband with the word ‘PRIDE’ embedded into it. I have one exactly like it. Although straight allies wear such merchandise, more often than not they are worn by LGBT people. Suddenly, her name comes to me. It was Rebecca. Rebecca Cowley. And now that I think of it, she was one of the more mild members of her circle. Always there, and would laugh when one of her posse made fun of someone, but she was probably just protecting herself. She had also been strangely quiet during the Great Homophobia Incident of Year 10, while her best friends were throwing the word ‘dyke’ around and insisting the lesbians should have their own PE changing room. I then decide that I want to talk to her, even just to get her to recognise that I’m not angry at her, and that I’m not going to slap her in the face while waiting for the 14 bus. ‘Rebecca.’ She looks at me. ‘Hiya! Have you got the time?’ I ask, knowing perfectly well what time it is. ‘Morgan? Aw, I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure.’ I feel like she knew fully well it was me. She pulls her phone out of her hoodie pocket. ‘It’s quarter past seven.’ ‘Ta. How have you been, anyway?’ ‘I’ve been alright, loving this weather.’ Her accent is as heavily Scouse as I remember it being. ‘Me too.’ Before I can respond with more smalltalk, I see my bus in the near distance. ‘There’s my bus. Are you getting this one?’ ‘No, this isn’t mine. It was dead nice to see you, though.’ She sounds genuine. ‘You too, get home safely!’ The bus pulls up, opens its sliding doors, and I step inside. I turn around to say a polite goodbye, and she surprises me by what she says next.

‘I’m sorry about how horrible we were to you in school.’ There is so much I want to say to her. That the fact that she apologised means the world to me. That nothing from Diana House Girls’ School even really matters to me any more, and that I forgave her and all of her friends long ago. I want to tell her that we are sisters, two liver birds like the ones that sit atop the building behind us, and that I stand with her, even though we run in different circles and face different directions like the birds above, and will likely never see each other again after this encounter. But there isn’t enough time. The door shuts behind me, and all I can do is smile at her through the glass before I show the driver my bus pass and sit down.

The Letter Joseph Lavelle Dear Stephen, Since you received the letter from your dad, you’ve been so down. I know that you don’t want to talk about what’s in the letter, and I’m not going to ask again, but I just wanted to tell you something: I love you. I love your face and the way your brown eyes are flecked with hazel that in a certain light looks like gold. I love your snout and your mouth. I love your soft fair hair. I love the things that you don’t like about yourself, like that your gnashers aren’t dead straight or white and that there’s a scar at the back of your bonce. Those things make you, you. So why wouldn’t I love them too? And I love your body, your flat abs that I could crack an egg on. I love the way your back meets your arse. I love that you’re wiry and hard, or as you like say, you have ‘definition without bulk’. At the weekend, I loved you in your summer gear – your new Converse trainers and cargo shorts. The way the shorts hung low showing the waistband of your pants, which were visible below your favourite Hollister T-shirt. I love you like that, which is just as well – that T-shirt cost me one week’s rent. I love our lovemaking, our fucking – I don’t care what we call it. I love that you’re flip and I’m flip, that we can fuck and be fucked. ‘It’s democracy,’ you say, but a democracy where I fuck you less than you fuck me. I don’t mind that though. I’m just saying, that’s all. I love your wit and that you don’t take no shit, like that time when there wasn’t a timetable at the bus stop. You asked the driver of the 76, ‘How long’ll the next 75 be, mate?’ The smartarse said, ‘About 35 feet.’ And you said, ‘Will there be a shithouse at the front of that one too?’ That sort of thing,

that’s just you. And I love you at Liverpool Pride. Remember that first year after we got together? You showed me the thing about the Victoria Monument at Derby Square – how from a certain angle, Old Queen Vic looks like she’s got a dick. It’s ironic, because that’s where the bad Christians protest. If they were good Christians they’d celebrate love and not preach hate. Every year on the March, you always pull me out of the crowd and in front of them with their banners and their psalms we kiss with tongues. You always cup your hands around the cheeks of my arse, you devil you. You do it to annoy them, but really, you’ve got more compassion for them than they’ve got for us. ‘Poor souls,’ you always say, ‘they’ve forgotten the message and worship the creed.’ Sometimes it’s hard though, ain’t it? I mean I hate that you’ve got a profile on Grindr. And, yeah, I know I’ve got one too. And I know that I was the one who said about an open relationship, but I didn’t think it through. I hate when I do the night shift at work, because that’s when you always seem to go to Canal Street with Stewart. I know we set rules, that there’s no need to talk about what we do away from each other and that we must keep safe, but knowing that you might be out there with someone else kills me. It really does. And sometimes before I start those night shifts, if you’re not up for fooling around when you come in from your job, I think that you’re saving yourself for someone else. It’s paranoid, I know. I’m sorry, but I think we need to talk things through some more, don’t you? Still, I’m made up when I come in from a night shift and find you in bed snoring your kite off. When I climb in next to you, you never wake, but always roll into me. And I hold you. I look at you. I smell you. Do you know that you smell musky like no one else? I love our Saturday nights at Superstar, the way you dance. The way you shake your arse. You like your divas, Beyoncé, Gaga, and God knows who else. Any song with lyrics that say, ‘C’mon get up and dance’, and you’re up. And I love the way you have camp names for all our friends, though I don’t

think that Stan likes being called Stella Grabtrade, even if he doesn’t say as much. And on Sundays, I love that we’re always late for lunch at Mum’s, because you always want to fool around in bed. And when we get to Mum’s, I love how you talk footy with my Old Man and tease each other about being a Red and a Blue. And I love how you make Mum laugh – though did you really have to tell her that I fart in bed? And I love the way that you eat everything that Mum piles on your plate, then always say yeah when she asks, ‘Stephen, would you like some more?’ When I see you with Mum and Dad, I hate that your old man’s a bigoted prick. I know that you haven’t seen him or your mum in years. I’ve never met them and they’ve never phoned or sent a card or shown that they cared. Not even when it was your 21st. God, how much did that hurt? I don’t know what was in the letter from your dad the other day, but I’m here for you. If there’s anything you need, just ask. I’ll do all I can for you. I love you in me. I love you on me. I love you with me. I do. I really do. I’m here for you. All my love, You know who

Pills Joseph Lavelle In the morning, we fooled around in bed. In the afternoon, Colin packed his bags again. ‘I’m leaving,’ he said. ‘Colin, please,’ I said. ‘Stop smothering me!’ he bawled, rousing Bert from his basket. ‘Please Colin, just take your pills, eh?’ ‘Fuck the pills!’ he shouted and that got Bert barking. Then Colin said something about us having good sex, but a bad relationship. I said, ‘Have you been reading The Lady’s Digest again?’ And that’s when he really lost it. Before he left he said, ‘You kill me. You absolutely fucking kill me.’ But if Colin doesn’t take his pills he’s killing himself. The following Saturday, I visited Mum. She reckoned that Colin was like Dad. ‘Your father, God rest his soul, wouldn’t take his pills either. If he had, I probably wouldn’t have divorced him.’ ‘Dad and Colin,’ I said, ‘they’re not the same.’ Mum didn’t want to debate the issue. She got up to brew tea, but then she had one of her turns. ‘Are you alright?’ I sat her back down. ‘Go and get my pills from the kitchen,’ she gasped. I fetched the pills and when she had recovered, she told me to go home. ‘I’ll stay just a little longer,’ I said. ‘Really, it’s alright. I’ll be fine.’ Then, out of habit, she told me to take home the magazines, a stack of The Lady’s Digest and other things that she had finished reading. Out of habit, I

took them even though Colin was the one that always read them. As I left, she said, ‘I’m sure he’ll come back to you.’ She smiled, kissed me. Bert moped for weeks. Stupid hound would lie in the hall looking at the front door. Stupid me would sometimes lie on the rug next to him. We are both creatures of habit. We don’t like change. Without Colin, we continued our regular routine. Bert’s barking woke me at about 6.15 every morning. I ate breakfast then took him for a walk before feeding him. When I left for work, I always left the radio on, as if that was company for him. At the office, I put the hours in, but did the minimum and no more. I was polite to everyone, but never said how I was feeling or what was going on at home. After work, I would return to the house, eat, then take Bert for another walk. In the evenings I read, or watched TV. At weekends, I visited Mum as usual, but otherwise it was just Bert and me. On weekday mornings when Colin lived with me, I used to kiss him goodbye, then on the number 86 into town I always worried that he wouldn’t take his pills. I knew that he sometimes didn’t. Whenever he wasn’t there, I counted the pills in the bottle. Once, he caught me. We argued. He left that time too, but soon returned. I still worry that he won’t take his pills. Maybe I will never stop worrying about that. I don’t know. I used to tease Colin about reading The Lady’s Digest, but it has its uses. There was an article in one edition about eulogies to famous women – Indira Gandhi, Florence Nightingale, Jackie Onassis, and others. I borrowed from that article. In the eulogy to Mum, I said that when it comes to someone’s death there is one question that we are bound to ask. We ask, did they do the best that they could? I said that Mum did. I said that Mum wasn’t welleducated and that life threw shit at her – Dad’s schizophrenia, the still-birth of a child, and her health problems. ‘Mum suffered, but never really complained,’ I said. ‘She just got on with it.’

There were so many people at her funeral: the women from the factory where Mum used to work; aunts and uncles; Dad’s friends; cousins I hadn’t seen in years; and people I hardly knew. Colin was there too. He looked well, I thought. Outside the church he asked, ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Yeah,’ I lied, but he knew the truth. He hugged me. He kissed me. I asked if he would come back to the house with the others. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’ ‘Thanks for coming,’ I said. ‘It means a lot.’ And it did. It really did. There’s a pill for everything. Isn’t that what they say? Dad wouldn’t take his pills, he drank instead. Any wonder he lost Mum? Mum took her pills and they kept her alive for years. Yet, they didn’t stop the heart attack that killed her. They just postponed it. And Colin, he’ll die too one day whether he takes his pills or not. And me? I’m taking pills now too. They help or, at least, seem to. They take the edge off things. Nothing has changed, but things seem less daunting, more distant. Perhaps Mum was right. Colin might come back to me. Anyway, he popped around one evening. It was good to talk to him and to hold him again. When we held each other, I felt his erection against my leg. There was something though, he looked so pale. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, then fussed over Bert. I didn’t like to ask if he was taking his pills. ‘He needs to be wormed,’ Colin noted. ‘Well,’ I said looking down at Bert, ‘I put the pills in his food, but the bastard always avoids them.’ ‘Well, just get the vet to give him a shot.’ ‘A shot, it’s that easy?’ ‘Yeah,’ Colin said, and I could have cried. He didn’t stay long, but before he left, he said, ‘I’ll pop in again in a few

days, eh?’ ‘I’d like that,’ I said. He smiled. I smiled. The thing is, it’s been over a week now and he’s still not been around.

God’s Rainbow Special Angels Rainbow Sparkle Date June 12th 2016 Time 2am – 5am Location The Pulse nightclub 1912 Orange Avenue Orlando Florida United States of America How weird that 1912 was the year the Titanic hit the iceberg And orange is one of the colours of the rainbow 49 God’s Rainbow Special Angels Another date to remember this summer 26 June 2016 Location Birstall West Yorkshire Jo Cox our Labour MP Her crime was standing up for human rights And fighting for the refugees’ plight God Bless Our Rainbow Angels Looking on us with Rainbow Wings Sitting on different coloured clouds Looking after all the people who carry on their beliefs Who love humankind Jesus forgave and took a lot of pain for our sins So we must learn to forgive and make this world a safer place

For our children’s children This poem is for past, present and future God’s Rainbow Special Angels One day when I die (at the age of 104?) I would like to be chosen as God’s Rainbow Special Angel And sit on my own Rainbow Cloud.

How Dare You Judge Me? Rainbow Sparkle Every day I hear people say Is that a man or a woman? I told you it was a man, one person says. I am not â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; or a man, lad E, T, C. I am me, not what you would like me to be. Bus drivers calling me Sir When I am in tights, high heels and a skirt, Taxi drivers calling me lad when they see me with makeup on my face And wearing my favourite dress. BACK OFF! BACK OFF! BACK OFF! People think they know my gender Better than my female birth certificate. Duck off, you are driving me quackers. I am me, Not a that, lad or man E, T, C. Now I ride my Rainbow Ringo La Ostrich In my rainbow clown costume heading across Liverpool to my home-town pride.

Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hide from the River Mersey tide! Ride, ride, ride, on the River Mersey tide With an ostrich on a rainbow surfboard across from New Brighton to Liverpool Pride: I will not be ostrichised.

Rainbow Brain Blocker Punk Rocker Rainbow Sparkle I am not a Rainbow punk rocker Who wants to be the first space rocker To ride a Rainbow rocking unicorn over the third rock from the sun I will not be a weekender Or put out to legal tender Who I am and what I am Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t treat me like spam from a sender Who happens to be a policeman Who eats a lot of ham in his base van Rock your block off said the Rainbow punk rocker When he was blocked by Blockbusters on Facebook University Challenge HA HA! Where I live we are all Universal Credit challenged My granddad wanted a docker And all he got was a transgender female Rainbow daft punk rocker with Rainbow hairspray in her mohican Who likes booting work lockers Likes the film Meet the Fokkers and rides a Rainbow rocking unicorn From the third rock from the sun Give you some advice Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t read the Sun In Breck Road Liverpool

Chaos Pete Ryan It was lashing down, the rain pouring like Niagara into the drains; you could hear the rush of water as it raced along the gutter to escape into narrow grids. I love the rain when it’s stormy. It makes me feel so alive, makes me tingle with anticipation at the memory of a time and place where I was never more happier. Never thought he’d actually fucking throw himself from the tenth floor, but there he was, sprawled out with his head buried in the tarmac. ‘Is he dead?’ ‘What do ya fuckin’ think?’ He was a good header of the ball, was Robbie, when we were at school. No fuckin’ good for that now. I just stood there numb, remembering that last phonecall less than a week ago. I should have realised that Robbie was in trouble. If I’m being honest, I knew it was a cry for help but I could no longer face up to the pain of Robbie’s mental torture. Someone was yelling into their mobile for an ambulance to come. We were climbing up a mountain in Wales; we had gone camping there. When we got the top we looked out across a valley towards the sea. Robbie had this kinda dreamy look in his eyes, like he was searching the horizon for something. I shoved him, ‘What are ya lookin’ at, soft lad?’ He turned away and looked me straight in the eye, the spell slowly fading. ‘It’s not what I’m lookin’ at; it’s what I’m lookin’ for.’ ‘Poor lad.’ ‘Did he fall?’ A woman’s loud piercing scream bruised the air as the wail of sirens and flashing blue lights came closer. Neighbours and strangers billowed toward the source of commotion as murmuring voices sheltered under death’s dark umbrellas, gleefully informing each other of Robbie’s horrible demise.

I went to college and Robbie drifted aimlessly. We went out at weekends, mostly to the local pub. But now and again me and Robbie would just take off for the weekend, go anywhere to get away. Robbie loved the mountains, anywhere that took us up high above the chaos below. Sometimes Robbie would just take off on his own and I wouldn’t know where he’d gone until he came home and he would always bring me some little reminder of where he had been. It was always a small smooth pebble with unusual contours. He seemed to be out there exploring a different land, a place where everything fitted or charged his imagination. We couldn’t always escape to the mountains. When we had to stay amongst the chaos, we found ways to relieve that pressure by becoming blood brothers. The easy slide of the blade and ripple of blood as we held our skin close and felt each other’s life pour into each other was like no other high I have ever experienced. Every line blurred into other lines and each one told its own story. Queer! Gay boy! Poofter! The storm was at its highest and we lay star-shaped, staring up at the thunderous sky as giant sheets of lightning blasted across the heavens. We killed ourselves laughing at the sheer strength and force of nature. The rain came and speared us to the ground, soaking us through until our bodies squelched in the mud. When our lips touched that very first time, the shock of how tender and powerful it was erased all the chaos around us in one emotional explosion. We, two rough lads, kissing each other like it was the most natural thing in the world – and it was natural. It felt right. It was right. I was in Robbie’s once and his mum and dad were watching the telly when a gay character in a programme came on. ‘Fuckin’ queer bastard,’ Robbie’s dad shouted with white-knuckled malice. ‘If any of mine was like that I’d fuckin’ disown ’em.’ We knew only too well what the consequences would be if ever our secret was revealed, so we led covert lives, our true selves hidden from the world. Only in the mountains were we free to express the real people we were. We lived idyllic lives and

I chose to bury any thoughts that surfaced about this being only fleeting, that this was but a summer of madness. The visits to the hospital were depressing. Robbie, the person I knew and loved, receded with each visit to be replaced by a thoughtless imposter who barely acknowledged who I was, rarely lifting his head in response to my greetings. My visits became few and far between. I searched his eyes for that spark that gave life to our dreams so long ago, but they remained dull and sad. I had had a new beginning in a new relationship, but for Robbie there were no new beginnings. No new lands to explore. The text I received from Robbie was surprisingly lucid but I knew something was up. ‘You’ve been a good mate to me, Ste. See you later…’ So here he was, all twisted in a grotesque mess on the road, his mother trying to cradle what remained of Robbie’s head, rocking back and forth. A head that once, a long time ago, held a fistful of dreams and a quiet passion. I like to think that as Robbie stood there, on the edge, he lifted his arms out wide and flew away from the sickness that imprisoned him. He’s still flying, looking to the horizon, looking for a safe place to land.

Dead Like a Dandelion Daniel Riding Singled out, weeded out, a target to eliminate I am not a dandelion, a piece of nature for you to hate Remove me, destroy me, for what reason I can’t be sure I am dead like a dandelion, here for evermore I have my place, my roots set in this earth I am of the soil, the sky, yet you question my worth Sometimes I look up at the sun, but most of the time I hang my head All you see is a parasite, something you think would be better off dead Wait a minute, just a second, who are you to decide my fate I am not a dandelion, just because that’s what you dictate The breeze that caresses my petals, encourages me to stay alive I am dead like a dandelion, yet it’s my choice to thrive and thrive, and thrive Look up, look around, though it chills you to the bone Loneliness is solitary, but you’re not in this alone Take your time, grow your strength and find your place Salute to the sun, give thanks and let it warm your face Yes I am a dandelion, I close my petals and weep I would bloom forever if I could, until it’s time to sleep When I wake no more sunshine, but snowflakes do you see I should be dead like a dandelion, but amongst the wind I am free.

Dark Days David Mears The smell of TCP was cloak like. The furniture was dark brown and ugly, covered in dust – it was hard to breathe. Murray mints were scattered across a table. All I could see were classical music LPs and dated Liverpool Echoes strewn about the floor. Speakers hung from each corner of the ceiling on brackets – they helped to drown the noise out. The badly worn carpet brought no comfort at all. Cheap rugs tried to hide the carpets; union magazines along with political propaganda were signs of an interest more healthy than others. Old utility bills lay next to the light grey telephone. I had just found out my mum wasn’t my biological mother and my emotions were smashed to pieces. I was confused and scared, hurt and depressed. Harry, my father’s friend, was a 70-year-old former seaman, sitting in his favourite armchair gazing at me intently. I had confided in him with many of my problems; he listened and showed me the attention I had always craved. First of all, I was 13 or 14 and puberty was very difficult because I’m attracted to both women and men. Harry knew of this. I had been getting cigarettes, alcohol and money for cannabis from him for some time now. I truly believed he cared about me; I thought he loved me. Did I love him or the attention? I just don’t know. Lustful conversations would arise between us whilst I was under the influence. I thought I was attracted to him. I always fancied older men when I was drunk; it was different when I wasn’t under the influence. But anyway, the story goes: one day when I was really down, simultaneously drunk and high, he leaned across from his favourite armchair and placed his hand on my thigh. Slowly he moved his hand towards my belt buckle, undid my belt buckle… you can guess what happened next. And this went on through the whole of my teenage years.

That’s why I thought of my sexuality as a dirty little secret. That’s why it was so difficult for me to come out.

Escape Lynne Seibold ‘You can’t cook,’ she sneered. I was a single parent, superwoman me. Took a degree, did it all In my life before her. ‘Can’t I?’ I said, feeling crushed and small. Organised me, could cook from nothing In my life before. ‘You’re nothing,’ she said, drip drip in my head. In my heart tears fall. I was strong, divorced, clothes outsourced in charity shops, I’d boiled nappies on the stove, with bleach up my nose, Strong and real. She made me feel Ugly, no loving, not even hugging, Who would want me? In another life I’d laughed and loved, I’d danced with my baby to Marley, ‘No Woman No Cry’. I sit still and sigh. I dreamed night after night I was trapped in a cage,

Trapped in a cage after each fight. ‘You should be happy on your own,’ Accusingly, nastily, ‘You don’t need your daughter, your friends, You only need me.’ But she still saw her mates, or so she said. I sneaked out to see mine but full of dread. What if she came home and I wasn’t in bed? I stayed late at work to avoid going home, My cold empty house, my haven had gone. ‘What took you so long, your child is grown? You should be happy to be mine alone.’ I sneaked and I watched, I became like her. Out with her friends she had an affair. I dreamed of a knife. ‘Get out of my life!’ I’d escaped from the cage, I was free as the air.

Saturday Night, Mazzie Night Lynne Seibold Smooth-skinned cat walk to the club. Busy shopping streets changed to the dark secret city night. City night filled with expectations, hushed hidden excitements to come. Tripping over litter in the gutters, sliding on chippy batter-fat newspaper amid acrid ciggie fish smells, the doorways emitting hushed lights. Linking my mates, strength in my crowd, androgynous girl-women together, leather jackets, blue jeans, spiked yellow pink hair. Sharp hardedged girls, a world apart from the loud laser-lit straight crowd. We walked with hard faces and wary eyes down the dank alley to the dark door. Saturday Night, Mazzie Night. Sneaking silently into the club, unseen with my mates, me in green dungarees, flat shiny black boots, dyed spiked bleached-blonde hair, hard faced, my uniform for attraction and courage. The club: dark, sticky beer-oozing carpet, ciggie smoke in our eyes. Halves of beer, pints for the butch girls standing over the pool table, winning to impress their red nail-varnished girls. Mrs sitting on Mister’s lap, Mister in a sharp suit and tie, shirt collar up, Mrs in her silky dress and high heels. Mister wary of the other butches and Mrs flirting. Saturday Night, Mazzie Night. Excitement at seeing the girl I fancied and moving around the disco-ball floor to dance near her: ‘Please notice me.’ Not quite brave enough to speak. Sneaking glances. We laugh into the loos, down fly-posted stairs, concrete stairs, flipping my braces back down the loo, again. The drag queens

giggling in blonde wigs and putting lippy on with squeaky voices. Our shoes awash with smelly water. Back upstairs, is ‘she’ here still? Dancing with Holly and Paul, Sandi and Tracey, dancing our bedroommirror dances, posing to each other with secret smiles in the disco-ball scattering light. Black girls, white girls, boy girls, girl boys, camp boys holding hands and kissing in the corners of the secret, dark club. Outside, the city forgotten. Saturday Night, Mazzie Night. The last dance, ‘Sexual Healing’, wishing I was with her but happy to be on the floor anyway: not sitting at the flashing-lights wet table on my own. Larry with his boot-polish hair and rubbed shiny suit handing around the curled bloater-paste butties. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ We ate them anyway, starving after our beer and coke. Saturday Night, Mazzie Night. Out in the early-morning night, blinking in the dark, our clothes and hair cold with sticky sweat. Scurrying up the streets out of the city, the long walk home: feeling small past the Cathedral with its lowering enormity, past the girls of the night in Percy Street, along The Avenue, laughing in whispers in the two in the morning darkness. Finally the familiarity of Lark Lane with its shuttered shop windows and home. Back to the real world tomorrow. Hurry to bed, drifting off to sleep but ecstatic that ‘she’ smiled at me. Maybe next Saturday Night, Mazzie Night…

October Parties Yasmine Walker Mid October has always been my favourite time of the year; we’ve all settled into our new year of school, it’s just starting to grow cold, animals are getting fluffier and those beautifully awful Halloween commercials have cropped up out of the woodwork again. I’ve always been a fan of Christmas, Valentine’s is alright, my birthday’s amazing, but something about Halloween just gets me into a festive mood. The only thing I think I enjoy more than the season is the parties; no, not the horrible wrecks you see in most horror films, the smaller ones. The ones you spend with a close-knit group of friends, getting so hammered that you wake up feeling like a changed person. That’s my type of party. Funnily enough, I can’t quite remember much from those parties. Though I do remember the main parts, the better parts. It’s any other weekend; we all sit on the floor while the others crowd around the television and Molly lies on her bed with the largest bag of chippy chips I’ve ever seen. A bottle or two of vodka and rum lie on the ground next to her as she sits with him, laughing and chatting the biggest amount of shit I have ever heard, but they don’t care. ‘Have you ever thought about how mermaids are stealing all of our whales?’ Their conversation never breaks. It only ever stops for those odd couple of minutes when Hollie drags the poor guy into the usual ‘rap battles’ between her, Georgie and him. Battles so magnificent that you need to witness one to fully appreciate its beauty; battles which solely consist of them ranting at one another, trying to string together a list of beautifully shit off-the-cuff rhymes in their narcotic-infused haze.

Liam starts, trying to accentuate the fake American accent as he speaks. ‘Yer tunes are shit, so watch out before you might get hit, so let me pass this to my mate, go ahead Nate.’ ‘Yo, yo, yeah, my name’s not Nate and I’m not yer mate, because I’m great!’ Georgie continues, scrambling to find his words. ‘Ahhh-eight?’ ‘Yer rhymes are shit, because you are a tit. Yer name’s not mate, your American accent’s not great, you’re so high I think it’s too late, too late to win, mate.’ Hollie spits, trying to hold back her laughter. ‘Ooooooh!’ Amy and Danielle are sat alone again with their backs against the wall as they try to make out what’s written on each card of the stained deck of Cards Against Humanity below them. The ‘biggest and blackest of dicks’ card is covered in pizza, while what I’m pretty sure is half a bottle of spilt rum covers the ‘child abuse’ card. The other half of the cards weren’t around to be stained, having been used as filters for our hangover fags. ‘Mate! I found Madeleine McCann,’ Danielle giggles as she picks up the ketchup-covered card, handing it to her friend. The stench of alcohol mixes with the clouds of smoke circling the box room. The night grows into morning and the morning grows into night once more. The party traps us in an endless cycle of booze, drugs and emotional wreckage. That’s how most parties go at Molly’s house, so it isn’t too hard to remember them, but the one where I met ‘Her’, that party was different. That party was one of the better ones, that party was an October party. Molly had decided it was time for us to finally meet her childhood friends – and according to her that called for a party. I didn’t particularly feel like going: I’d just been through an awful breakup and I wanted to avoid the world for a few weeks, but at the mention of alcohol I was hooked on the idea. So, on the last Friday of the month I sat on Molly’s bed and stared at her monstrously tall towers of books. The books crowded Ash and me from each and every corner of the room, menacingly looming over us despite our tall statures.

‘I am going to get well pissed tonight,’ I laughed, soaking in as much of the literary beauty as I possibly could. ‘I really need it after this week.’ ‘I feel yer, man,’ Ash responded, groaning down at her phone. ‘You don’t have to kill them every time, you know.’ ‘Look, you play Fallout Shelter and tell me that it’s possible to save one of them from radiation poisoning.’ She glared, turning away from me at the sound of the door opening. It was Molly with two other people, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off of ‘Her’. ‘Her’ name was Maria. At first I couldn’t quite figure out how I felt about her. She resembled a mixture of all the things beautiful in the world: fun with a tint of maturity, kindness with a hard exterior, confidence with a down-to-earth attitude, all while being full of a mystery so complicated I could never get bored. She was perfect, she is perfect. She wore a sleeveless band t-shirt, the red in the ‘Misfits’ perfectly matching the red of her suspenders and the rim of her monster boots. She wore the skimpiest torn shorts I had ever seen, which perfectly accentuated her ass-ets. As I looked her over, I almost felt ashamed of my worn-down outfit that I’d worn over a hundred times before. So, how did I handle this extremely delicate situation? Tequila! Things get a little hazy after that; my nerves urged me to pour four too many shots into my tequila sunrise and that did come with some lovely consequences, such as the portion of the night where we quite cleverly decided to play the Harry Potter Wii game and take a quiz to see who knew the series better. ‘Oh I see how it is,’ Maria half-joked as she shot daggers at the other three from the corner of the room. ‘We’re all friends until the second we play a Harry Potter quiz and then you lot jump in a group!’ ‘Well, you can always go with Yasmine,’ Molly quickly replied. ‘They love Harry Potter.’ The blood rushed to my cheeks. ‘That’s still not particularly fair, Moll–’

‘Sure, why not?’ Maria cut me off, her smile widening as she made her way over to the spot beside me. And that was it; the rest of the night was spent drunkenly arguing over whether Moaning Myrtle was actually killed in the bathroom or whether she killed herself. It also continued with my drunkenly trying to impress Maria with how much alcohol I could drink, which later resulted in stumbling to the ground to try and catch the train I almost missed. However, the night also resulted in me getting the drunken balls to message her later that night to ‘let everyone know I was home safe’. This then resulted in an array of embarrassingly flirty texts, an embarrassing date where I invited my friend around to help me clear the awkward air (which I later found out was actually non-existent) and a future where tonight, ten months later, we are at Molly’s house once again. This time as a fully-fledged couple who have just gone through the most amazingly confusing nine months of our lives. Thank fuck for October parties.

London to Liverpool Jacqueline Dimbleby My Pride starts in London Where I, I was born It takes me to Liverpool Where I, I am torn I met a wife in London Such a small thing was she My life changed forever Once she laid eyes on me Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d moved back to London Hoping the ex would follow The ex did no such thing I guess there was sorrow? The ex did not like it when I met someone new The ex didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want me but no one Else could have me too So my new life began In Gassiot Road I made new friends And my love I bestowed

On a dragon-eyed beauty My betrothed-to-be We met in Boots Kensington And first kissed over a wee In a pub in Stockwell We went to the loo as girls often do She gave me the come-on So I snogged her then puked It wasn’t the best start To any kind of relationship But we soldiered on With our fair share of mishap The ex came to visit To a nightclub we went My talking to Nicola Got me a slap that was meant To make me see clearly I had to remain faithful To someone who didn’t want me But didn’t want me on the pull I was supposed to stay true To my first big lover But I realised I couldn’t Because I loved another So the ex was ditched Well and truly forgotten

And now adventures with Nicola Could totally be gotten There were a few bumps Bumps in our road Some family issues But away they were stowed We moved to Queens Park A heaven it was We made love every night With barely a pause We flitted across London Moving here and there We finally settled In Croydon, it’s fair To say, we were happy We enjoyed our stay But soon we were itching To get on our way We made a nice profit On the flat we had sold So we moved to Liverpool London’s bombs barely cold We didn’t leave because of bombs We left ’cause little occurred The two weeks after everyone spoke

To each other, but then nothing heard We wanted a society, a camaraderie We searched the island almost entirely Then I said why not Liverpool We’ve family there, so finally We decided to move To this fair city of ours But before we did We visited the land of the flowers Thailand and Malaysia we went And what fun we had We overcame fears Had a ball, we were sad To leave these countries Which will forever be In both our hearts As we travelled free But now to real life We had to come home To Nicola’s country We were free to roam We landed in Liverpool Found a flat in the centre But I just couldn’t wait So quickly did we enter

A strange little flat The ceilings so high There were only two windows We needed to buy And that’s what we did We bought brand new We should have bought a house We didn’t think it through So there we were In a home so delightful We started our plans To move on and live life full The first thing we did Was to win the lottery Loadsa money But we couldn’t go potty There were debts to clear But it wasn’t all bad My inheritance came through Plus I won a grand On a newspaper compo No thought I put into it But it meant we could marry And enjoy every minute of it

On my 32nd b’day we CP’d up We were bound for life Next came the kids Not ’fore the honeymoon with the wife I’d always said I wanted kids in wedlock Ridiculous really as I’m not religious But that’s how we did it We wanted kids to come with us On a Pride journey From beginning to end We want the next generation With us as we send A message to everyone Don’t matter who you are The world is YOURS So reach for the stars!

MLU Rm 14 Jacqueline Dimbleby I couldn’t believe we were back in the same room. Nicola didn’t realise until I told her, but then she was the one in labour. I had full and lucid awareness, she had contractions. It was the same black bed with its removable parts, accompanied by stirrups. The most important thing in the room was the clock, simple and understated yet essential. No matter what happens, you have to know the time the baby is born. The room was dated, the wallpaper and artwork were hideously pastel, yet you could see how they’d tried to make it like home all those years ago. The innocent bystanders would only have known it was a place of birth from the scales and the stirrups, and of course ‘that hospital smell’ – it’s hard to describe, some say disinfectant, but I’m not so sure, I think it smells safe. I stood in the same spot I had three years before. To Nicola’s right. The last time there were tears and fear, this time absolute wonder. I couldn’t keep still, I kept saying, “Oh God, WOW!” over and over because right before my eyes, no forceps this time, my child was fighting his way into this world. With every contraction he made his move until, pop, he was with us. I announced his sex like I did before, for our girl. Our family had grown perfectly in these four walls. Once again I cut the cord, and in cutting that cord, our family was complete.

Mum Jacqueline Dimbleby When I was eight My dad threw my bike over a wall What was he thinking? It only needed some oil I once sat on his ashtray A statue-like thing He didn’t get angry It got me wondering Then not that much later My grandad died He always kept ferrets Perhaps that’s why I cried My dad worked in London So important was he It was only a post office How stupid of me To think he was important When what had he done? He’d stolen money Should have gone on the run!

He stayed and then left us For a woman on the train She looked like my mum People said again and again My mum is beautiful There is no other Who can look as good As my perfect mother It was easy to annoy him Maybe thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why he left He tore our family apart And left us bereft My mum, my brother and me It was just the three of us now There were no magic beans To exchange for a cow We had to crack on As best as we could So my mum worked hard Harder than she should Now Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve kids of my own And now I can see Just what my mum did What she did for me

Memories of My Psychic Youth Nathan Cairns I discovered the thrills of sagging off school at the age of 13. This was a habit that had grown from previously successful attempts at sagging off PE, my last lesson on a Friday, which signalled my freedom and a long weekend of self-indulgence and generally getting up to no good. I took full advantage of poor schooling, a school and parents disinterested in my education as long as no attention was drawn to it by the relevant authorities. In my mind I had left school, cutting my 15-year sentence short by two years that seemed a lifetime to me. Even though I was nearing the end of that sentence, I had other plans; there was a big world out there and I was determined to get off this council estate and see it. My rebellion and heretical epiphany were further fuelled by educating myself in Liverpool Central Library, free now to search beyond the Catholic shackles of the mainstream education from which I had escaped. My fascinations and curiosities itched: my penchant for philosophy, the supernatural and everything shoved under the counter mysteriously entitled Occult. There would to be no more mysteries for me: if it was banned, I wanted to see it, read it, feel it, experience it. I spent many hours within the baroque-embellished, Victorian, wooden-panelled surroundings, with only the eerie echo that the acoustics of that vast circular room provided for company. This room and its echo had become something of an international legend. A triumph of enlightened engineering and an industrial revolution could be heard in that echo, in that room, which was to be my unofficial classroom for the majority of my two final years of selfimposed home-schooling. In later years I watched with great fondness the Harry Potter films, seeing Harry reading grimoires within his castle surroundings, having escaped his

own muggle council estate, and was drawn back to that time with such love of memory that it made me cry. It was no longer fantasy – unbeknownst to me then, I was creating my own reality, and I still often think my homeschooling may have paid off, grappling with the notion of whether life imitates art or vice versa. I discovered not only that the Catholic church and its doctrines were nonsense, but that it was a very rich, corrupt and abusive institution; furthermore, the pennies that went into the Sunday collecting plate were paying to direct all of its institutional vitriol at me. One previous Christmas I had stayed with a relative who was a more devout Catholic – more practising, as Catholics would say – than my immediate family, and when I stayed over we religiously went to mass. By this time I had begun to loathe the dirge and boredom of the mass and dreaded the hour that seemed like an eternity of death worship. A prerequisite of the mass was time alone with a priest to confess your sins in order that you could take holy communion, the body of Christ ingested by eating a blessed wafer. It was inconceivable not to do this: to be stood alone in the pews, whilst the rest of the congregation returned from taking the host to look at you with damnation. Your unknown but obviously serious sin was already judged, your unworthiness and lesser devotion. I don’t know what took over me – probably boredom or a recent Hammer Horror movie had inspired me to re-enact the opening scenes of a film about possession – but I decided I would give the priest, my unsuspecting victim, the thrill of his holy life during my confession. Confessional boxes reminded me of standing coffins: tiny spaces of dark oak which were also very much like a coffin on the inside. In the middle was a tightly meshed brass grille and a dark-wine velvet curtain that smelt heavily of moth balls, stale incense and damp. It hid your identity and that of the priest on the other side as it was to be strictly confidential; this was a major plus for me and my little game of payback. The confessional box smelt old and musty, around four feet by three feet wide and six feet high with a

low wooden panel, covered, cushioned and studded with red leather, on which to kneel. Whilst kneeling there was a shelf at chest height and the grille through which the sinner spoke. On the shelf were a bible and a crucifix. People sat queuing in silence in pews, praying, outside each box; as one person entered and exited the row would shuffle its bottoms, caterpillar like, closer to the ornate gothic door of the dreaded coffin. My breath was tight and nerves began to rise in my throat, but at the same time a wry smile crossed my lips as I got closer to the door, knowing the unholy satanic bombshells I was about to unleash. Soon enough it was my turn and I entered the sarcophagus, kneeling upon the low bench. A voice came like a spectre in a Victorian séance from the other side of the dour curtain, drifting, calm and solemn: ‘Bless you, my child. How long has it been since your last confession?’ My heart dropped and soared at the same time. It was an old Irish priest and this bomb was going to be bigger than I thought. I swallowed hard, the heavy incense and dust that thickened the air adding to my nerves and making it hard to breathe. I replied, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two years since my last confession.’ It was game on. ‘And what do you have to confess?’ I came clean. It was as though a spiritual exorcismic tsunami had taken over me. All of my previous dread, fear and corporal punishment at the hands of my Catholic masters came to me in words, calmly if somewhat shakily delivered. I threw grenade after grenade, while a hiss grew from behind the curtain. Having strong sexual thoughts about men, masturbation, the occult books, the secret fire I had lit in woods nearby and the pentagram I had drawn against my bullying enemies. The hiss from behind the curtain reached a crescendo and then came a quiet Catholic roar. ‘You pick up that crucifix and kiss the feet of Christ. You hold that bible and pray to God that you will be delivered. You have turned your face from

the Blessed Virgin and defiled Christ on the cross. How old are you, my child?’ I giggled and replied nonchalantly, ‘Twelve.’ His reply was seething. ‘Ten Hail Marys and five Glory Be’s. Pray hard, pray for your soul, that you will not be cast into eternal damnation. Now get out, get out.’ I did this immediately. As I heard from the other side a quick exit from the box by the priest and a slam of a door, I fled from the church to avoid direct discovery and confrontation. I was a walking Catholic thought crime. Although initially painful and powerful, this psychodrama was enough to send any adult insane. I wonder at myself in amazement now, at how cathartic and painful my awakening from Catholic brainwashing really was, as intense as leaving any cult – a mean feat for a 13-year-old child. In the eyes of the church, I was a walking diabolism. I had nothing to lose but a lot to gain from my new-found wings. All of my attempts at being an altar boy and being good would always amount to nought; no amount of holy water could wash away my sin, and in defiance I didn’t want it to. Life had seemed so dull so far, anything was better than this. My previous curiosity had become an avid search, sin upon eternal sin. Being born not heterosexual with my own mind, I was a true daughter of Babylon, Jezebel, Judas, a diabolical perversion of Adam, a hermaphrodite, crowned and conquering child, Horus, god of war at such a tender age, who was gorging on forbidden fruits from The Tree of Knowledge. And I relished it. My yearning passion for the dark, mysterious, baroque and gothic would forge the darkness that was my refuge in my teenage years, and a path I was to follow for the rest of my life.

Liverpool Nathan Cairns Chip butties, scouse and tea Boss buildings and sights to see You’re messin’ lad, you’re havin’ a laugh The Beatles put us on no map. Liverpool, the muddy backwater Built with the blood of working classes, not mortar Scouse humour, not for the faint hearted, If you’ve smelt it, you’ve dealt it, you’ve farted. A proud city that doesn’t take shit Tories and racists we’ve hit Stood by miners and put up a fight Liverpool’s never taking yer shite. There are two types of Scousers you’ll find Give you the shirt off their back or rob you blind There is a code in Scouseland that’s not written Rob your own and you will surely be bitten. Liverpool, a refuge of port Where slaves were sold and bought Were the Irish fled from the famine And Welsh built their own little heaven.

Liverpool, a world of its own Separate from England alone A city thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s built on its past Like liver birds we rise from the ash Of unfairness of arl arses down south. If you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like it then just shut yer mouth Because we are Scousers, you see, Brave, proud and born to be free.

Concert Square lyndsay price We

walk

around

side

our

matching

Converse,

watching Saturday night unfurl. The smell of strawberry-scented shisha smoke fills the surrounding air, the distant boom of bass and club songs and summer and excitement and potential plays. A flock of girls tumble past us and the smoke is replaced with the scent of cheap perfume. I can see white stickers kissing the bottom of new shoes and recognise the cuts and prints of whatever items Topshop have been pinning as ‘must haves’ that week. I remember when my friend first started university and was living in accommodation on Catherine Street. I remember coming to stay with her after college. I did the Superdrug lashes and the Rimmel fake tan, did the vodka Red Bulls, did the bag of potato wedges in the oven at the end of a night out, did Hollyoaks and Jeremy Kyle in the morning, wrapped in a duvet. At the time, I remember feeling like those two or three nights were enough for me. I felt like I got the gist, like I didn’t need a whole term or three years of the pre-drinks on camp chairs, of disposable barbecues, of fire doors slamming at 3am. I didn’t feel like I was missing out I guess. It’s funny looking back on that now today, feeling the same as I did with this night: it was nice to get a first-hand glimpse of the highlight reel without having to really participate.

the search lyndsay price i overturned stones moss side facing up i shouted your name into the creek i lit a cigarette and let the smoke curl toward the sky but nothing, leaving me to wonder if you had ever even

Ammonite Catherine Warner I remember you on the beach Facing frail rock pools An image of you elusive Running back to the sea, Leaving marks indelibly High tide Salty as tears You â&#x20AC;&#x201C; rock-hearted. I can still hear My cries in a cockle shell, Deep inside a subterranean well Of hurt. My hands digging you out of sand Veins of grains, Caught fast in the stalks of time. Then as light Sinks into dusk I found you an ammonite Hard, bone-white. And what is an ammonite But a memory solidified in stratas of time

Memento Mori Catherine Warner I have died many deaths, Each more deadly than the last. So many hands have cast Death masques in brass I fear it’s not my eyes that peer But a painted reliquary. Lying dumb, I’ve heard The same obituary Of death’s siren’s requiem, Whose elegies proclaim My end and plant me in a tomb. Each grave that bears my name Erodes and maims my gild of youth. They pronounce me dead, But every time I lift my hands Waiting to be led, Grappling for whole breaths to resurrect, To leave dry clothes of death And rise as a swallow’s song Fans out towards skies Of Prussian blue.

Library Flood Catherine Warner It’s raining in the library Books like toothless cogs Drop and drift along shelf banks Tipping into tepid bogs They float wordy logs Along the public-service Green-meadow carpet A flurry of recipe books circuit The photocopier pit Suddenly engulfed A waterfall thunders on my head More ponderous than lead Making me glide and tilt Along the oyster white pages that wilt A 1992 Small Press Guide Floats like Moses through bulrushes As bucket in hand a cleaner rushes Whoosh the Who’s Who flounders As panicking assistants blunder ‘Quick save the books’ It’s too late! The Dewey decimal system’s in disarray

The atlases have lost their way; In the reading bay A travel guide on Aix-en Provence Seeps Pater’s Renaissance Music and crime beat a furious swell As Dante’s Hell Interlocks Sidney’s Arcadia And by the encyclopaedia chart Mathematics and art Conjoined galleons On silent seas depart A treatise on socialist revolution Lies entwined in Newman’s absolutions As Dawkin’s The God Delusion Suffers the pages of Ephesians To bleed ink into channels Until its own pages Loosen, bridle, unfurl And for a moment I’m in a jungle As song sheets and pages tumble And I can almost lift the heavy fronds To see clear horizons Free of all culture’s bonds

Taxi Pride Brian Wharton A pair of pale pink socks smothered in silver shoes stepped from a black cab outside TJ’s. “Is this where you want?” asked the driver, with a queer look. “Yes,” said Graham nervously, as he handed over his money. “Well, have a gay day then!” sniffed the man, staring at Graham’s feet. He drove away waving his hand like the Queen. He must know where I’m going, thought Graham. Am I that obvious? He had dressed up for this special occasion and sneaked out of the house while his mum was still in bed. He wore his silver-grey work suit, but jazzed it up with a purple paisley waistcoat, lilac shirt topped off with a polka-dot royal-blue tie. The shoes he dyed courtesy of Lady Esquire. He wanted to be noticed. He walked slowly down London Road to approach the crowd outside St George’s Hall with care. If he saw anyone he knew, he could always turn back. He had thought about popping into Ma Egerton’s for a stiff one, but him and drink didn't mix. One reason why he never really did the scene. As he turned the corner by the clock, he was overcome with excitement and suddenly wanted to wee. The crowd was strong and instead of crossing over straight away he stalled outside the Empire, pretending to look at the posters of the many musicals he had sung in his sleep. After about five minutes he turned around tearfully to face the music. There was a band playing and fireworks flew through the air as he joined a group of men of around his age. One of them, who looked like a burly bouncer, put a sticker on his shoulder. It said ‘Gay Pride’. Their voices were friendly and fun. They were soon joined by a party of beautifully made-up drag queens in pink wigs, tight miniskirts and the highest heels he had ever

seen. He felt at ease and began chatting cheerfully. Across the plateau he saw a group of serious young women by the lions, in men's work clothes and boots. Their hair was cut short and greased back on top. One wore a waistcoat just like his. Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Hello Graham! Having a good time?” It was Marjorie, his deputy office manager, looking much the same, except she was smiling for a change. He began to panic. “Don't worry love!” She kissed him on both cheeks, which were still wet. “Meet Jane, my other half!” He looked around quickly to face her… and realised everyone had disappeared. “Graham, Graham!” his mum shouted. “You're going to be late!” He looked at his watch. It was 7.30 and he had to be in court at 9. As far as she knew, it was just another day for him at the office. He couldn't face breakfast and ran out of the house, past his father talking excitedly about England's World Cup win, as the Beatles played on the wireless. What a lovely dream, he thought, while still thinking of his momentary indiscretion: kissing a Terence Stamp lookalike when the police had raided the club. They were in each other’s arms until the officers pulled them apart with punches. He stepped outside into the bitter air with a mixture of defiance, fear and shame. What would he tell his parents if he was charged? It would be in the papers. He would lose his job. What would he say to Liz? He hailed a taxi, which soaked him as it stopped. The driver grinned at him with a queer look.

I Might Have Known Brian Wharton ‘Where are you from?’ asked the brassy, buxom blonde with the big teeth. ‘Liverpool,’ I replied, thinking I sounded posh. ‘Oh, we might have guessed!’ She winked at her mousy friend. Then why did you ask, you silly cow? I held back my breath. ‘You sound just like Holly Johnson – or that Alan Carr, but then he’s a southerner.’ ‘What about Graham Norton?’ I chipped in. ‘Oh yeah, him as well. It’s a different kind of accent,’ she said with a searching smile. ‘But then some Liverpool accents can be quite camp. Don’t you think?’ ‘Yes, we are quite expressive,’ I said, becoming impatient. ‘Are you a red or a blue?’ She grinned, showing more molars. ‘Neither,’ I sighed, ‘but blue is my favourite colour.’ ‘Oh I see,’ she said, unrelenting. ‘My son loves the theatre as well. Maybe you two should get together!’ ‘No thanks.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘I’m not looking at the moment.’ ‘Is that normal for gay men?’ she asked, aghast. ‘You’d love him. All the men do, only he’s fed up with cruising at the moment. He has had long-term relationships. He was with Tom for about a week but he didn’t know what he wanted. Dick was a bit longer but you know Dicks, they always want more! I think you could be his Harry, happy to take what life gives you. Can I ask,’ she sneered, ‘are you the man… or are you the woman?’ ‘Not if it kills me!’ I snapped. ‘Only he’s got a bad back, so he’s not that fussy.’ ‘I can tell,’ I said, flaring my nostrils. ‘He can get you a line or two. Take you out of yourself!’

‘I’m staying where I am.’ ‘Or what about those tablets? I know you men like to go on all night.’ I shook my head and began to edge away. ‘Oh come on, liven up!’ she said. ‘I’ll I just take your picture? I’ll have you on Grindr in a few minutes. He’ll be able to see you tonight. But if you’re lucky, he’ll catch you on his phone. He works just by Hampstead Heath. Lovely place for laying out.’ ‘I go in all weathers,’ I said with bitter sarcasm. ‘I thought that. But do tell him if you’ve got any infectious diseases. He’s had pubic lice a few times – but doesn’t everyone, these days?’ ‘I wouldn’t know,’ I lashed back. ‘Have you?’ She threw her head from side to side with nauseous laughter. ‘You gays are cases – good for a laugh. You might be a bit miserable and old but I have a good feeling about you,’ she said, pulling out her phone. ‘I’m sure he’ll take you on, only he wants to settle down.’ ‘Tell him to get a pipe and slippers.’ ‘Oh, I never thought of that,’ she said with poppy-out eyes. ‘Smile and say cheers!’ ‘Cheerio!’ I replied, as I turned and fled for my life.

About the Writers Nathan Cairns (Meeka Babalon) studied at Manchester University and received an MA in visual arts and art history. Having travelled extensively and been a practising Occultist for over thirty years, he draws on these experiences â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and on gender politics â&#x20AC;&#x201C; in his written, visual and performed live art works. Writing and spoken word have become more central to his work; and his goals are to write both memoirs and esoteric-inspired novels. Jacqueline Dimbleby: I am a Londoner born, but a Scouser adopted. This is my first foray into literature in any way, shape or form. I owe everything to Writing on the Wall! I am a gay woman with children and cannot think of anything more important than the education of the next generation. I say we take this world of ours with no fear and make it what we can: educate, innovate, elucidate. BOOM! Joseph Lavelle currently lives in his native city of Liverpool. In the 1980s, he lived in London and worked with Jimmy Somerville, Richard Coles and others on the award-winning Channel Four documentary Framed Youth: Revolt of the Teenage Perverts. He has also lived in Manchester and Berlin. His short fiction appears in literary journals, anthologies and other publications in the USA, Canada, Germany, Australia, Vietnam and the UK. He is the author of Alone with the Germans, a collection of short stories about encounters between German and British gay men. Further details at: www.josephlavelle.uk David Mears is currently in recovery and started writing poetry as a kind of therapy. He has recently started writing his life story with a view to being published.

Lyndsay Price is a spoken-word artist and creator of salt water poetry. She runs events, performs and teaches workshops around the UK. She wants to help people understand that their words have power. Daniel Riding is an aspiring author of poetry, romantic fiction, young adult fantasy and MM (male/male) erotic romance. He currently works as a bookseller in Waterstones and lives with his husband and two cats in Liverpool. Pete Ryan was born and grew up in Liverpool. This is his first short story to be published. Pete is a volunteer with a variety of city-wide organisations, including LGBTI peer support worker with PSS, North Liverpool Citizens Advice, a trustee with Liverpool Mental Health Consortium and a volunteer at Sahir House. He is also a member of the Citizens Advice National LGBTI Network. Pete likes to sing and is a member of a community choir; he is a Liverpool supporter and likes hill walking, exploring local history and reading. Oh! And he is known to enjoy the occasional bevvy. Lynne Seibold: I am a mother, grandmother, teacher, artist, feminist and activist. I have identified as lesbian for the past thirty-seven years. I love people-watching, the sun, the sea, humour, my garden and my city of Liverpool. Rainbow Sparkle aka Alison Stokes: I have faced prejudice and harassment in the past and will do again in the future. But comedy and creative writing break down barriers, getting rid of embarrassment and ignorance. I moved to Liverpool with an ambitious aim: to be like Ken Dodd and Bernie Clifton rolled into one â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a larger-than-life character that people love coming to see. I want to become the number one transgender entertainer in Liverpool and perhaps, one day, have a statue on Dale Street.

Yasmine Walker is an 18-year-old Arabian-British creative writing student from Merseyside. They’re hoping to become a publisher one day, and are currently working with their talents as a freelance author and screenwriter. Website: www.wherewalkerswriting.weebly.com Catherine Warner lives on the Wirral with two cats, but originally hails from a small town in the Pennines. She qualified as a teacher in 2006 and has taught in both Greater Manchester and South Korea. After becoming disillusioned with teaching, she worked for National Museums for five years, before studying for an MA in English. She loves poetry, and can often be found reading poems in parks, on New Brighton beach, or on the misty moors of the Pennines. Brian Wharton wrote and directed his first full-length play, Horoscope, in 1991. He subsequently trained as an actor and played many roles in fringe and community theatre. These included his adaptation of Gogol’s Diary Of A Madman, and his one-man show Footballer’s Boyfriend, commissioned by Theatre Workshop for the 2007 Edinburgh Festival. His work has been performed by Network Theatre and Grin. In 2013 he directed his one-act play, For Emily, about domestic violence. Brian is a member of North End Writers. This course has moved his writing along in a positive direction. Erin Wynn: Some say Erin is a two-hundred-year-old alien from a planet of matriarchal lesbian women who has been sent to Earth as a spy. Others say she is a strange witch who exclusively hexes heteropatriarchal, capitalist men. Others say she is just a 20-year-old woman with too much time on her hands and too big an imagination. Nobody knows the truth.

Writing on the Wall Writing on the Wall is a dynamic, Liverpool-based community organisation that celebrates writing in all its forms. We hold an annual festival and a series of year-round projects. We work with a broad and inclusive definition of writing that embraces literature, creative writing, journalism and nonfiction, poetry, song-writing, and storytelling. We work with local, national and international writers whose work provokes controversy and debate, and with all of Liverpoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s communities to promote and celebrate individual and collective creativity. WoW creative writing projects support health, wellbeing and personal development. Special thanks to Liverpool Pride for choosing Writing on the Wall to help run this project and to produce this book of wonderful writing, and congratulations to all those who participated for producing such quality writing and being generous enough to share their stories with us. If you have a story to tell, or would like to take part in, or work with WoW to develop a writing project, please get in touch â&#x20AC;&#x201C; weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d love to hear from you. Mike Morris and Madeline Heneghan, Co-Directors

info@writingonthewall.org.uk www.writingonthewall.org.uk 0151 703 0020 @wowfest

Liverpool Pride Liverpool Pride is an entirely volunteer-led charity aiming to combat homophobia and transphobia across the Liverpool City Region and beyond. Our core values are that we are FREE, INCLUSIVE, VISIBLE and all about LIVERPOOL. Formed in 2010 in response to the LGBT+ communitiesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; outcry in the wake of the murder of young gay man Michael Causer, we have since produced an annual festival and large number of smaller events to raise awareness of LGBT+ lives. New volunteers are always welcome from board level to our invaluable community fundraisers to help us continue to develop our vision of a fully active, diverse and inclusive Pride. To find out more information or get involved please get in touch. www.liverpoolpride.co.uk @LiverpoolPride