The

Poetry, Prose and Other Palaver

Writer’s Quibble ©

January - February

Eighth Edition

Editorial Sins

The Seven Sins of Modern Times

as repressed as ever, which has as much to do with religion and conservative politics than anything else. But even the British aren’t blameless, women may have the vote and gays may have the right to marry, but women don’t have equal pay or opportunity, and gays can’t conduct themselves in public naturally without bigoted eyes preening their every move, and marriage at most churches is a sore subject even still. 3) Racism – this also has much to do with geography and nationalism as much as racism itself. In the 21st century we should be past the race divide, the old racial guilt us Brits seem to be born with seems almost absurd in the modern age. And yet, the media complains constantly about immigrants and asylum seekers. I say let them in. Which is the point at which all the conservatives leave and the bleeding-heart liberals swoon. Britain is essentially a mongrel nation, the same as France, Germany or America. If you think you’re British, truly British, the kind that has the Union Jack sown into their DNA, then think again. We are a bastard race of a thousand different nations, that’s a fact. Besides, people hark-on constantly about the British Empire, an Empire which ruled a third of the world. So why is it now that we’ve suddenly growth a cultural consciousness? 2) Money – money makes the world go round, though it’s essentially a drug, a drug we’re all hooked on. Wall Street estimates a total gross profit of 20 million dollars, every second. That’s no joke. Where does all this money go? To re-line their solid gold swimming pool or fund their mastabarory film projects? Meanwhile in Zimbabwe, the second poorest country in the world, a man can expect to earn shy of five hundred dollars a year, that’s three hundred of her majesties finest pounds. Consider that when you go to the pub. 1) Humanity – essentially all these problems resolve around one source. And that’s Johnny Everyman, you see, the problem with you and me is that we’re quantifiable bastards. I’ve prooved as much by essentially classifing our inhumanities and putting them into a neat list. Religion isn’t the problem, man is. Politics isn’t the problem, man is. Money isn’t the problem, man is. Do you see where I’m going with this?

Tom Keane

We missed a trick with the last issue, it being the seventh we perhaps should have made that the Seven Deadly Sins edition, but despite that minor kerfuffle in planning, this is probably my favourite edition to date. There’s a problem however, how relevant are the Seven Sins to the modern age. For this reason I have reinvent the Sins, something for the modern age, a comprehensive list of 21st century sins: 7) Religion – no matter what side of the divide you find yourself on, there’s always a certain amount of intolerance between the camps, mostly formed by a lack of knowledge on both parts. The war for religion is similar to that of the conflict between the people of Blefuscu and Lilliput in Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, the conflict having something to do with how to open an egg correctly. A belief system should never be ridiculed even if they believe the Earth to be six thousand years old. Similarly Atheists seem to jump the gun at this point, blaming religion for all of man’s woes and wars, despite the fact that war is a stereotype of human nature, and religion isn’t. 6) Politics – whether under the rule of a communist dictator or an incompetent bureaucrat, you are a slave to politics. The problem with politics is time, the origins of all political systems are built on good intentions, the Americans for example planned to become a republic and a democracy, though three hundred years down the road and things don’t look too peachy. All of this comes as a consequence of scandal and corruption, and generally not paying attention to the voters and taxpayers, which is why most modern countries are disillusioned by the mere idea of politics. 5 and 4) Sexism and Homophobia – the idea of equality of the sexes (and sexual preferences) seems to have been lost somewhere in the 1980s, because the modern world is as intolerant of these issues as ever. Sure the American’s may be sticking a middle finger at the Russian’s right now over the Winter Olympics, but back in the good old USA homosexuality is still

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Writer's Rant

And then I’ve sat around on my arse all day, eating pizza, drinking beer and playing FIFA, and I know which one makes me happier. Regarding Pride, my interpretation says if someone treats you with respect, then they deserve your respect in return. If someone is disrespectful it’s a natural impulse to regard them with contempt. My advice: don’t swan around with your head up your arse, no one likes that. The day I’ve enough money to build a cannon capable of firing Justin Bieber into the sun, I want to marvel at it with a feeling of pride. On a lighter note: Sloth. Sloths are awesome, although I preferred them before the internet portrayed them as perverts. Sloths are a noble people! Sloth is the equivalent of laziness. As I mentioned above, it’s nice to be lazy now and then, but what isn’t nice, is sitting around on the dole and never making a decent effort to find work. If you can’t find employment, volunteer somewhere, give something back; anything, whilst you spend other people’s money. Regarding Wrath, some people in life need to be told off, just in case what you say might make improve their life choices. You should certainly try to suppress your anger as long as possible, for two reasons: firstly, when you meet the wretched hell-weasel who boils your blood, you can give them a proper telling off. And secondly, if you find yourself exploding more than once or twice a month then you risk being likened to the common chav. As for Envy, that’s an easily curable vice, if you see someone with a better life than you, then strive to better yourself. Think about how they got there and follow their steps. I assume that most things in this world are achievable with ambition. Whose cake is that? How can I get that cake? To conclude, Lust, well we’re all at University right?

Tom Ashton

A Quibbler’s take on Sins

One of the many irritations I’ve encountered with this edition, is writing this rant, because the theme is such a damn vexing one. I wrote this introduction last, after what, I can assure you, was an arduous ordeal. Anyone who knows me might expect the following to consist of manic flusterings damning religion, because, for some reason, people naturally assume I’m an atheist. Maybe I just have one of those faces. To quote the dictionary definition: an atheist is person who rejects ‘the existence of God or gods’. I don’t passionately reject religion, I just don’t really think about it, and even now, as I try to consider it, I find myself thinking “Whose cake is that in the Kitchen? Could it be mine? Could I frame someone? Foxes sometimes steal cake right?” This may seem an ignorant way of looking at things, but I guess my brain considers some issues more than others and I feel suitably comfortable up here on the fence with my cake. Anyway, I’m getting distracted. The Seven Deadly Sins are Greed, Gluttony, Wrath, Envy, Pride, Sloth and Lust. At the risk of generalising, we commit most of these in some way or another, unless you spend all your time sat in your living room, in front of a dirty computer screen, thinking about cake all the time, of course. Or is that Gluttony? Probably, so let’s start with that. As far as Gluttony’s concerned, then fair enough, do whatever makes you happy. You want that extra side of onion rings? Go mad. What I can’t entertain is a person who complains about how fat they are and then chows down like a pig in mud. If you’re overweight then go on a diet, and don’t moan, otherwise, stick a pie in it (not literally). In terms of Greed, I think people confuse it with ambition and people who besmirch ambition are cowards, too frightened of failure to go out and make success of themselves. I’ve worked in retail and put up with moronic customers who whine because they’ve found a tin of beans one pence cheaper in another supermarket.

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Contents January-February 2014

Introduction - Tom Keane - Seven Modern Sins - Tom Asthon - A Quibbler’s take on Sin

Serialisation

1 3

In his newsroom cubicle, Gordan Galloway spends his days scowling at his vain colleagues, avoiding the gaze of his monstrous head editor and lusting after the beautiful but damaged intern, Nina Collins. He lives a life of painful numbness, his only pleasures being drinking and smoking, which is how he spends most lunch hours, until, one day, he comes into possession of BO-ZAC, a program that plunges him into a world of government corruption, terrorism, murder and madness. Will he be committed?

Short Fiction - Tom Keane - The Dream Broker - Kiefer Friis-Smith - Devil’s Inn - Tom Ashton - Biblical Espionage - Richard Sinclair - The Sin Eater

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Reviews and Interviews - Book Review: Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Editors Choice - Interviews: Amy Gosling and Claire Miller - Events

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Thanks

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27 29 31 35

Poetry - Claire Miller - Lust - Tom O’Connor - Jaffacake Conundrum - Nathan Shepherd - Seven - Nataie Hill - The Greedy Tracks - Julia Agahowa - Mirror Mirror

38 39 40 41 42

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Tom Keane The Dream Broker

Short Fiction

Third Year Creative Writing Student and Science Fiction Writer

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The waiting room was a cold cerulean blue, the kind only familiar to the sky. Yannick rose from a heavy plastic recliner, oppressive against the curvature of his spine. He stirred an ache from the crook of his neck, and with the other hand spread his fingers across dull frosted glass. The facade transpired, shifting to a vista of urban sprawl. The city was thin white steel and clear crystalline, the mirrors edge; every inch of its architecture, a minimalists dream. Yannick traversed the city with obdurate eyes, close quartered clutter, nonchalant canals of commuters and the fine wake of the harbours mouth. He had the week past, entered the city aboard one of the many ships that drifted vicariously about the globe, a trade vessel, willing to smuggle a man for a price. He had left Ukraine in a hurry, and he was not alone. The continent prepared to shift in the wake of war. Daylight strained the silicon contacts of his eyes, dilating to a darker tone to compensate. A news broadcast scanned across his vision, nothing of relevance. He had become agitated of late, restless; driven to insomnia. An insomnia driven by a foreboding, paranoia bred by this new city; change was a ceaseless psychological force. The gaps in logic clouded his mind, what he could remember of Kiev; they bore not repeating, though a craving insisted the opposite. Though they returned in his dreams in part, to scour the conscious, wrecking him on a foreign shore; entire years had evaporated from his mind, lost in the maelstrom surrounding Kiev. A crude analog clock swayed through the minutes and hours. Instinct directed his glance across the room.

A woman addressed him with an overt glance; amorous Asiatic features sculpted every facet of her person, features Yannick knew, were not inherited, cultivated instead in a surgeon’s salon. ‘Mr Johannis, the Dream Broker, will see you now.’ Yannick collected a Calavarian jacket, silk sleek across his inner arm. His breathing slowed with the rhythm of their footsteps along the narrow corridor. The woman entered to a door. ‘May I scan your credit?’ Yannick presented his right arm; a handheld swiped his wrist and a network of thin electronic markings rose from the flesh, settling in time, it never failed to disturb. The Broker rested in wait, an assortment of stewards prepping the operating theatre. The room surrounded a central machine, a primitive holographic operating table, one which projected the patient besides himself. The device negated physical contact; human hands were inferior to their robotic counterparts, so that each and every movement was shadowed by a clinical computer. ‘I hope to quell any misconceptions you may have, before we start the process.’ Voice ebbed from the Dream Broker, a middling gentleman, possessing the thick Germanic tones of a Hanoverian and distinct Mallen streaks about his temples. ‘With all due respect, if I were unfamiliar with even the most minute of details, I wouldn’t be here.’ Yannick flinched in the precision of his uncomfort. The Dream Broker bowed in pleasant reply.

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‘Very well; the price is a standard, you understand. My business runs a risk, a very fine line. That little superfluous cost is merely an insurance policy. And I offer very good insurance.’ ‘The price is of no concern. I was told that you were the best. I have already paid a sizable fee in finding you, you see, I am not a man whom time waits on patiently.’ ‘You came here to forget, and I assure you, you won’t leave this room the man you entered. People come here to forget all kinds of things, good memories, bad memories, faces and names, secrets and promises. People come here to settle their sins, to resolve their

‘Perhaps I forget for a reason,’ Said Yannick through sardonic laugher. ‘When I escaped Ukraine, I heard stories of the Sandmen, they had come with the Russian’s in the advance, stories only, but my thoughts wander.’ Yannick unfolded a tanned piece of leather revealing an ornate hieroglyph. The image showed a dirigible towing an all seeing eye, as if an anchor. ‘You know the symbol? A man of your expertise surely does.’ ‘I know this symbol though you must understand; the Sandmen are a myth, a story. Men who g ‘I know the stories, that they were hunted, that their order was lost,

I don’t remember how I received the symbol, though I can hazard a guess to where it came from.’ The Dream Broker dropped the fleshen symbol. ‘I would not normally restore disremembered memory; powerful things come from lost memory. Though I am intrigued to find out the extent of this story, I want to know the truth.’

November-December’s Prose Winner For: The Hanging Tree transgressions, and resolve them you shall.’ ‘What I want from you is quite the opposite. I want to remember.’ ‘Perhaps you forget for a reason. I cannot cure amnesia, too much strain on the mind; men have died in the pursuit of such foolishness. Though if you are keen to die of folly.’ ‘I have no memory of the past nine years, valuable years missing. I need to know why.’ ‘And the last thing you remember before this blackout?’ ‘My family.’ ‘A happy memory?’

some went into hiding.’ ‘You believe them to have returned? You live in fantasy, they do not exist. This symbol: where did you find it?’ The Dream Broker held the scrap of leather between thumb and forefinger as if a butterfly, studying it like a scholar would a book, reverence beheld, despite his disbelief. ‘I remember a few things from Kiev. In the camps they told story of such a symbol, though you wouldn’t find it anywhere on a man who belong to the order, you would find it beneath the skin, a sub-dermal brand, a tattoo beneath the flesh.

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Short Fiction

Short Fiction

Exclusive interview with Amy Gosling on page 31

Sedated, the Dream Broker grafted Yannick to the operating table. Wheels of mechanised surgical equipment orbiting Yannick like a centrifuge. His body twitched as a series of syringed styluses probed the occipital lobe and grafted a neat incision deep into the neo-cortex. A screen of information exploded across the operating room, the Dream Broker studying the readings intently. ‘His mind is full of redacted memories, complete segments censored and extracted. The damage is extensive. See here the discolouration of the occipital lobe, subtle surgery, by an extremely skilled hand, not a scar, microscopic incision. I haven’t seen such a specimen, though I hear word. They call this a Lethian vault. The Greeks believed that the river Lethe which ran through Hades could make a man forget the torments of his life, forget the wrongs done onto him and done onto others. The vault is a temporal prison; memory is lost, preserved by a nanocomputer.’ ‘Can you open it?’ Inquired the Nurse. ‘A short electromagnetic pulse should render the vault operable, though I shall have to do the rest blind, without the use of the surgical computer.’ The Nurse prepped a series of diodes, inserting them into Yannick’s chest.

A charge built on a holographic screen, the sound of climbing voltage shrieking across the apertures of the room. The pulse compressed and Yannick fell into cardiac arrest, the baselines drone of a flatline sounding. Dextrous utensils excavated the vault, little more than a grain of sand to the naked eye. With the vault removed, the diodes re-charged, and once again a static compressed Yannick’s taut chest. ‘Wake him as soon as the sedative leaves his body, he’ll be anxious to find what it contains.’ The Dream Broker left the theatre, eying the vaulted bead as if it were gold dust. ‘I fear my assumption was correct. These memories must have caused you tremendous burden, perhaps this is why you erased them. Head my warning, if you relive these memories, I fear, you will return a separate man, a man lost long ago in that brutal war.’ ‘A different man. A different time. Show it to me, Broker.’ ‘And yet, if our place were reversed, I would ask you to destroy the vault and be done with it.‘ Yannick grimaced. ‘I’m paying you a sizeable fee to find these memories, not to deny me access.‘ ‘Ah, but I am a broker by trade, and if I feel the commodity of which I am brokering to be defective, then for all intensive purposes I should have it destroyed.‘ The Broker continued, ‘These are the memories of an unstable mind, a haunted mind.‘ ‘Do it, Broker, I need to see them.‘ The Dream Broker crowned Yannick with a cerebral inhibitor, and the memory began to relive itself.

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Short Fiction

Remember: Vortices of memory, a hurricane batters the coastline of consciousness, a dream adrift in a sea of static. The inciting event: Kiev. The old war renewed, siege and separation, love and loss. Execution squads stack pyramids of corpses; rape is ritual, families torn apart by gunfire. This is only the beginning. You see your mother across a burning field, the barn house ablaze, cinder crackles like a kettle. She’s holding her stomach, white apron stained red, holding her stomach in knitted hands. A bayonet strikes you in the thigh and you fall flat into the dirt, breathless. The crackle continues, this time gunfire; your aunties and uncles executed by the cattle pen. All you can taste is dry soil. All you can smell is blood and piss and gasoline. Your father hangs from the peach tree, limp and lifeless. The dream breaks.

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Kiefer Friis-Smith Devil’s Inn

Short Fiction

Kiefer is a Psychology and Criminology student at the University of Derby

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There’s only so long a demon can do the same things over and over again, and thousands of years is plenty for me. Torture souls here, torture souls there, and the heat was killing me. A nice break in the human world sounded perfect. So in our annual demonic board meeting, Death, that morbid villain, said, “I should join the stock broking business”. He and Greed had made a killing off the stock market and even made a killer profit when the financial crisis hit. After all, no-one can make money better than Greed. With his smart suit and slicked back hair, pushing around the crowded halls, feeding his addiction to material gain and wealth. “Ew. Death, that’s no fun at all.” I replied. With a flash of genius I came up with a devilish plan. “Death!” I shouted quickly grabbing his hand. “I have an idea for making money, souls and all kinds of fun.” “What sort of idea? And let go of my hand, demons will talk.” Death responded. I broke out into hysterical laughter. I let go of his hand and jumped backwards onto the table. “My dear friend, demons talk already.” I laughed and with a click of my fingers I transformed into a female skeleton. “Death my friend, my dear old friend, I have an evil plan with fun to no end.” And with a tap on my bones I reverted to my previous form. “Mr. Reaper my dear old chum, crack a smile and look less glum.” And with a crack of my tail, a line of undead cancan dancers appeared. I laughed and danced along. “ENOUGH!” Death boomed. He swung his scythe and disappeared.

“What’s this idea you have?” “Fine,” I sighed. “You’ve gotten boring in your old age. The plan is simple: we open a bar for humans, they lose their souls to my elite Sins and we make money at the same time.” Death nodded. “That could work. Let me guess, you want me to sort it out.” “Well that’s what I pay you for, my good man,” I replied. And with a cloud of darkness and disease, Death was gone. It was a good week before he returned, and I was in the middle of my daily torturing session. “Sorry for disturbing you Lucifer, I thought you might be interested to know I have acquired the perfect place for the bar.” “Fantastic news! But I have more pressing tasks at the minute,” I replied cheerfully. Death peered over my shoulder. “What’s so important about torturing this particular human?” He asked curiously. “I don’t know, but something about his toothbrush moustache he makes me really want to shave it off… Oh I digress, on to more enjoyable matters,” I said. I slammed the Iron Maiden shut and heard the delightful cries of pain. “To the mortal world!” I exclaimed. We appeared in the empty bar. It looked old and boring, but it was on a busy High Street. Death had chosen a good location. I looked up at him and realized how long it had been since I’d seen him in human form. He looked rather dapper in his suit, holding a fancy pocket watch and briefcase. “Well here we are. I have done my part. Now you have your fun Lucifer, but you might want to choose a more suitable form,” said Death.

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I looked down and realised I was still wearing my gear from the 1940s. Man, what an evil time that was, but oh such fun. I remember releasing Wrath on the battlefields. The terror on the human faces as he transformed... needless to say no-one survived that battle. The cries of fear and panic still bring a tear of joy to my eye. So with a snap of my fingers the uniform was gone and replaced with a snazzy white suit and my wild hair slicked back. I ran my hand around my mouth and chin and a neat goatee formed. “Very nice,” remarked Death. “Why thank you kind Sir. And now I can get to work.” I clapped my hands twice and the dull bar transformed it-

And such fun it was. Greed was my accountant - he kept the finances in check in both money and souls. He always was such a dab hand at gaining and keeping wealth. Gluttony was my chef, and he could make the most delicious food by the truckful in no time at all... but most of it never left the kitchen. Wrath was my doorman and he enforced the no crucifixes policy, as it upset some of our more delicate guests. I made a few duplicates of Lust as my general floor staff. She could easily tempt the poor humans into adultery, male and female alike. Pride sat in the middle of the bar to be the centre of attention, always showing off to all the humans about how amazing he was

November-December’s Poetry Winner For: Recreational Terror self into the sexiest bar a human would ever lay eyes on. “Right, I will leave you to it Lucifer,” Death said, looking at his pocket watch. “I have a date to attend,” “A date?” I spluttered. “Yes, a date. I figured I would cash in on the whole dating-supernaturalshype going around.” “Well you could say she has a... date with Death” I cracked a grin and nudged him in the ribs. Death rolled his eyes, and with a flash he was gone. And so my fun began. Of course my elite Sins were roped in to help me run the place.

at things, oh the arguments he would have. Envy hid in the shadows stealing various items from the humans, mostly shiny things. It was amusing when things went missing. Fights broke out, and that’s when Wrath got involved. A month later, Death returned to see how I was doing. He appeared on a busy Saturday night in the same suit as before. He sat down at the bar as I was drying glasses. “I see you are doing well Lucifer. Profits and souls are at a record high.” “Ah yes my old friend. The Sins are doing a splendid job keeping this place

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Short Fiction

Short Fiction

Exclusive interview with Claire Miller on page 33

booming,” I replied happily. “They are indeed doing well... but I only count six. Where is Sloth? I imagine he’s skiving somewhere?” Asked Death. “He’s right here,” I said seriously, and in a puff of smoke a Sloth appeared, scratching its belly as it lay on the bar. “This little creature always make me laugh, it’s so useless,” I beamed. “I’m guessing you’ve waited ages to make that joke.” Death said blankly. “Maybe.” I made the animal disappear. “So where is the Sloth?” Death asked “Not a clue. He never replied to my summons... funny that. Anyway what brings you back my good man?” I poured him a drink. “I figured I would do the human thing and drown my sorrows.” He said, taking a sip of beer. “I guess she dumped you then?” Death gazed down into his pint. “What’s so good about sparkly vampires anyway?” Grumbled Death. “Nothing, my good man. Absolutely nothing, but look at you pouring your heart out to me... anyone would think I was a barman.” Death looked up and smiled then. From across the bar came a voice. “Yo Death, look who I’m dating.” Death turned around there was Pride standing proudly with his arm around Death’s ex-girlfriend and as quick as a flash Death dove on Pride. What proceeded was a full on bar brawl. I pointed at the jukebox, which instantly began playing some smooth jazz. I stood back and watched with glee. This bar business can certainly keep me entertained for a long while. I suppose you could say the Devil is Inn.

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Poetry, Prose and Other Palaver

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Tom Ashton Biblical Espionage

Short Fiction

Third Year Creative Writing Student and Thriller Writer.

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They sat in the light, the Creator and his servant, considering the particularly unruly planet: Earth. Eventually, The Creator spoke. ‘There is a man, Gabriel. A human.’ ‘There always is,’ muttered Gabriel, lighting a cigarette, ‘Elaborate?’ ‘He is the Serpent’s experiment who, when his life comes to an end, Peter will allow through the gates.’ ‘He is ignorant of this you say? What of his character?’ ‘He is no dark artist but nor is he a good man.’ ‘He cannot be saved through repentence? You cannot communicate this to him?’ ‘He will feel he does not need to repent. He feels his place in paradise is assured. He has been blessed by my representative on Earth.’ Gabriel flicked his cigarette, sending embers sailing through space, too troubled by his Lord’s words to take amusement from the humans rushing to their telescopes. ‘Pope Leo XIV? Isn’t that who we’re up to?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘How is Leo associated with this would-be Burglar?’ ‘He uses charity to disguise his evil. He presents himself as the Samaritan.’ ‘What course of action do you desire, my lord?’ ‘You must intervene, Gabriel. Ensure the Satan’s Burglar commits the seven cardinal sins, so that when he expires, his soul returns to its master.’ ‘He was born in the flames though?’ ‘Before his blessing, he was not familiar to me. This is why cannot be saved.’ Gabriel digested the conversation;

‘Why have the enemy not ended his mortal life already?’ ‘They assume my ignorance and fear that if he does not die of natural causes I will notice their meddling. You’ll have to tread carefully Gabriel, if you are discovered they will execute him and peril will follow.’ ‘What about after he commits the Seven?’ ‘Gabriel, the Earth must be purged of this evil.’ ‘Thy will be done, my Lord.’ **** I finish unbuttoning my Armani blazer and slouch back against the bar, observing the approach of a petite redhead, being jostled amongst a gang of drunken playboys. ‘Now would you look at that? Shy, nervous, vulnerable... just my type.’ ‘Tits, on her!’ Grins Ferris, a string of a man I’d met earlier in the toilets. He’s wearing a fantastic burgundy Ralph Lauren three piece and I’m enjoying his sordid sense of humour and misogynistic quotes on the opposite sex. He reminds me a little of the killer from American Psycho. Jonathon Cohen, my lawyer and best friend is bristling next to me. He is not enjoying Ferris’ company, as much as I am. In fact, he’s always tried to steer me away from men like him; men who condone my darkest urges. ‘The girl’s engaged to Ned Dunn, him who works over at Microsoft...’ I sniff with contempt, ‘How the fuck did ‘Nerdy Dunderhead’ pull her?’ ‘They met at college, been together five years.’

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Short Fiction

**** I wake up gagging, the residue of cigars and hard scotch forming a thick coat on my tongue. The room is thick with the stink of sweat and... perfume? Turning slowly to my right and lifting my duvet, I’m surprised and delighted to find a pretty young face beneath a mess of red hair, a petite body, and huge breasts. I immediately reprimand myself for being surprised I pulled. Of course, I had... and Nerdy Dunderhead’s bitch no doubt. Fucking loser. I rise quietly, pull on some boxers and exit into the living room, where I find Ferris and Jonathon amongst a sea of empty bottles. My best friend is scowling at the snoring Ferris. ‘He was watching you with that girl last night, Marty. Opened your door and everything. He’s bad news.’ ‘Oh, give over Jonathon,’ I snort from the kitchen, pulling a bottle of Evian from the fridge and re-joining them. ‘He’s harmless, just hero worships me a little bit.’ ‘Don’t hide your pride will you?’

‘Oh shut up, you dull prick.’ Ferris is yawning, heaving himself off the floor and onto the sofa. Jonathon ignored him and continued at me; ‘You saw Dunn with someone nice and you had to ruin it, didn’t you? I hope you’ve learnt your lesson.’ ‘Learnt my lesson,’ I laugh, ‘I want to fuck them all.’ ‘Wouldn’t put it past you.’ Ferris chuckles, lighting a cigarette. I collapse next to him, only to immediately realise that I’ve left my phone in the bedroom. Urgh. The thought of having to speak to Dunderhead’s bitch again installs instant nausea. Why is she even still here? ‘Johhhnnn...’ ‘No.’ ‘Johhhn, can you go and get my phone?’ ‘No, get it yourself.’ ‘Oh, but it’ll be awkward. Dunn’s woman’s still in there.’ ‘Deal with it yourself. Be a grown up.’ ‘But I can’t be arrrsed.’ ‘I’ll go.’ Ferris laughs. ‘No Ferris,’ Jonathon snaps warningly, ‘he shouldn’t be so lazy.’ ‘Ah, I don’t mind.’ ‘Cracking,’ I laugh, ‘yeah, so if you could get rid of her as well, Ferris, that’d be great. I’m going for a shower.’ **** As I’m dressing, in the spare room, I hear the soothing sound of kind words and Dunn’s bitch leave quietly. Upon hearing the front door shut, I cautiously re-enter the front room to find Johnathon glaring at Ferris, every inch of his face is etched with fury. ‘It was Ferris that got her to leave,

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Short Fiction

‘But she’s stunning!’ ‘Don’t Marty!’ ‘Oh, shut up mate,’ Ferris sniggers. ‘If she cheats then it’s her decision! She’s in the relationship not Marty! Marty Miles doesn’t do relationships, do you mate?’ ‘Fuck no!’ I say, downing my scotch. ‘It’s on.’ As I approach the frightened little thing, with my arsenal of tales about the Pope and charitable giving, I hear Jonathon snap suspiciously at Ferris, ‘Who are you?’

Martin, he was uncharacteristically kind.’ ‘Needs must.’ Ferris shrugs. ‘Wait here!’ Jonathon orders, backing into the master bedroom, ‘I need to call the boss.’ ‘What’s his problem?’ ‘Oh I dunno,’ Ferris says quickly, ‘his time of the month I reckon. Anyway, while he’s through there talking to whomever, we should go and meet these girls I know for coffee. ‘Uhh, I’ve not even eaten yet.’ He presses a cellophane package into my hand. It’s a BLT. ‘We should wait for Jonathon.’ I say, not wanting to piss off my friend anymore. ‘Did I mention they’re Victoria Secret models?’ ‘Oh...well come on then, the fun sponge can catch us up.’ ‘That’s the spirit.’ Ferris laughs and leads the way into my private elevator. As the elevator descends and I press Ferris for information on the girls we’re meeting, I can feel my phone vibrating furiously in the pocket of my trousers probably Jonathon, ringing to bitch and whine about us leaving him. I ignore it for a dozen more vibrations before whipping it out to tell him to fuck off. I have four missed calls from Jonathon but also a text from my publicist; ‘Check the fucking headlines!’ Puzzled, I load BBC News on my Blackberry and manage just a few lines before the elevator doors open; ‘Hero Businessman in sex scandal; Martin ‘Marty’ Miles, personal friend to the Pope, vast donator to world charities and Homewrecker? exclusive sex tape revealing affair with Microsoft shareholder Mr Ned Dunn’s fiancé...’

The doors open and the press, barely contained by the burly doormen, immediately batter us with flashes and heckles. ‘Holy fuck! How...Ferris, look at this... the headline!’ ‘Come on, out the back!’He yells, taking off, as the pack of wolves wriggle free. ‘But look...look!’ I’m squealing as we run, wafting the phone in Ferris’ face, ‘I only banged her last night, how could this have happened?’ At first I think we’re running blindly through the streets but then I get the sense Ferris is running with some direction. ‘It must have been your mate!’ ‘Of-fucking-course! That phone call!’ We skid to a halt, next to a grubby alley, with just a bum, sucking from a brown bag, for company. ‘How could he do this to me?’ The bum’s reaching for the sandwich bawled up in my fist; ‘Scuse me...Mister.’ ‘My friend, all these fucking years! Since we were kids...’ ‘Mister, are you going to eat that?’ ‘After all I’ve done for him!’ ‘Mister...’ ‘Fuck off! You fucking, stupid, waste of skin!’ I gobble down the sandwich, hardly chewing, spitting crumbs into the bum’s face. Then, still incredibly hung-over, I regurgitate it at his feet. ‘That’s enough,’ Ferris mutters, ‘come on, we better get off the main street.’ I collapse against a bin in the alley too distressed to worry about the damage it’s causing my suit. Ferris takes my arm gently and at first I think he’s trying to comfort me but instead he presses something hard and metallic into my hand. It’s a revolver. ‘What the...?’

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Short Fiction

‘Well, aren’t you going to kill yourself now?’ He’s grinning, ‘You’re finished.’ ‘It was you! Not Jonathon.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But why?’ ‘Because you claim to be a servant of God; donating to charity, opening hospitals, appearing in church but only when the public eye’s upon you, whilst behind the scenes, you steal, sodomise and destroy.’ ‘You...’ ‘I filmed the pre-marital intercourse that will ruin your life; I revealed it to the world.’ My breath catches in my lungs as I gaze upon my enemy, feeling the arm holding the gun rising, the finger squeezing... Suddenly, a voice booms down the alley; ‘Martin Miles...Stop!’ It’s Jonathon, but not quite Jonathon - his tone has a screech and a hiss to it and he’s approaching on all fours. ‘You’ve lost your company, this scandal will ruin you.’ ‘Shut up!’ ‘All manufactured by me.’ ‘Put the gun down!’ Jonathon screeches, sucking in the shadows of the alley, morphing, growing rigid, horned and reptilian. I’m horrified by the thing advancing on me, the thing that was once my friend, scrabbling, tearing, roaring down the alley way. ‘I am the devil!’ Screams Ferris, ‘and this is my accomplice, come to take you to hell!’ ‘Fuck you!’ I bellow and empty the chamber into him. Each bullet passes through Ferris, peppering the bins behind him.

Shell-shocked, I turn dreamlike to the monster almost upon me but feel the chamber of another gun press against my temple. I hear a strange variation of Ferris’ voice, an Archangel’s tone, rather than the evil he’d claimed to be; ‘That was Wrath; the last one, and now, as the King said unto Daniel ‘“Your God, whom you serve continually, He will deliver you.” My head explodes and my soul falls for eternity, through darkness and invisible flame. Jonathon bites.

Richard Sinclair Sin Eater

Third Year History Student and Historical Fiction Writer.

The Derby Scribes are a writers group that operate in the Derby area, open to all members of the public with a passion for poetry, prose and script. The meet next on the first Thursday of each month in the Parlour Room of the Brunswick between 7 and 9PM. For more information please visit them at:

Vistit: DerbyScribes.Com

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An acolyte greeted Janus, a look of sheer contempt stricken about his young face, ‘the family wishes it of you to commence the rite with them present.’ Janus checked the chamber with a glance. ‘Have you prepared the room?’ The acolyte produced an expression of scorn towards Janus. ‘What of the family’s presence, will you have them watch–’ Janus struck the boy about the ear. ‘Let them watch, and let them be damned, it matters no difference them there than without.’ The acolyte collected his thoughts and the sting from his ear in an acute expression of malediction, ‘There are many in the community who would be happy to see that back of you and I. Be careful how you act amongst them, the knowing is a great enough burden upon them.’ ‘What would you have me do?’ spoke the teacher to the pupil. ‘I would have them stew in their own ignorance than see such sights.’ With that he left to prepare the chamber. Janus walked on, seeking the voices, the cries of lamentation, the shuffling of feet. The hall of old brick and weathered bone creaked as often as the bodies among it, the gathering came to a soft chatter and finally descended to a quiet as Janus broke onto the room. ‘When the soul departs from the body it leaves behind everything bound to the moral body. Blood, breath and bone remain, but with them linger the poisons and the festering limbs of sin.’ Several gasped at the fury of the image, ‘Sin is apparent in all men, even from the first we experience the original sin given to us by Adam.

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Short Fiction

Short Fiction

Fog steeped the steppes of the valley; cyclonic undercurrents pooling air in a gentle repetitive ballet, as water might flow in a whirlpool. On the moor top, all was still, but for the majestic movements of heather, their magenta hue, a shrill contrast against the grey watercolour horizon. An Irish winter descended along the flowing contours, a winter which even fire would not cease the hoarfrost. Father Janus rested against the amiable curve of a dull rock, in the rockery about his feet sat a mottled china teacup, its contents long consumed. The wind broke about his dark vestments, a single band of crimson about his waist. The priest checked a time piece, collected the china and returned to the house. The funerals processions continued, as people came and went, paid their respects, spoke to the reverend, the family, and resumed their many routes along the moors. ‘A very good ceremony, Father, wouldn’t you agree?’ Spoke the reverend from the doorway. ‘Indeed, very apt, Killian would have been blessed for the thanks. What a wonderful turn out,’ in truth, he had not known the man until that very day. The wake was held within Killian’s own chambers, yet to have been moved from his deathbed. A cold bitterness held the house, a feeling of spent sorrows, each room filled with the mewing of children and the cooing of women. The men walked about the building, speaking in halves and exhibiting staunch and stoic demeanours, perhaps they would weep in the privacy of night, though never in front of the children, never in front of the family. Janus bowed to the second son.

Even the babe on his mother’s breast knows this sin. Sin remains a part of the body, abandoned on this plain. Without the ritual, without a need for excision, to exorcise the spirit of sin, they will continue to linger and pollute the very soil you stand. ‘Killian has departed from this Earth, so that he may sit with God in the kingdom of Heaven for all eternity. For us the living, he leaves joy and he leaves sorrow in these memories of joy. And for us the living, he leaves his sin, intact, the complete writings of his transgression. Each and every trespass, each and every veniality and iniquity remains, for us the living. It must be exercised.’ Janus drew the gathering into the chamber; the congregation began to seat themselves about the room’s terminus. The acolyte rested a spherical ornament onto a stylus that had been hammered into the stone floor, atop the ornament hung a loose silken cloth. Janus inspected each element of the room, pacing here and there to find the perfect acoustical spot. ‘All that is needed is a simple meal. Each and every atom of sin must be absorbed by a new vessel.’ Father Janus knelt beside the body, cupping his hands in prayer, as he did this the whole room followed. He asked God for protection. He held the implements ahead of him, inspecting the cutting edge of the knife with a thumb. With a bead of blood running down his palm he began to eat his sins and as he consumed the last morsel, he rested the cutlery diagonally across the plate.

Father Janus rested his napkin against the cold cobbled floor, removed his shoes and earthed himself as a conductor on the napkin. Janus took a deep exhalation, ‘utter these words now. ‘Come ye to the vessel of truth, the vessel of light, the vessel of absolution. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I demand this rite to exorcise the sins of the sinner.’ Janus’ eyes filled with the heat of blackness, retina swelled to encompass all. Facial muscles straining, neck taut against the sky, a voiceless howl emerging from his throat; a vaporous fog arose from Janus, every pore of his body perfumed the blue gas. The phantoms breath travelled towards the orb. The sphere amplified both size and shape, consuming the energy within an instant. The room fell dark, rising a moment later greater than before. Janus stood, sphere aloft in his hands. ‘Into this vessel flow the sins of the sinner. I banish sin and suffering of the soul to this vessel for all eternity. May it be gone from the world and left not to linger. Amen.’ The congregation sounded the reply. The first son rose, ‘Father, to where does the vessel go?’ His expression was grave. ‘Why, to the Vatican, all sin must be abolished by a hand guided by divinity. The Pope himself will deal with this vessel.’ Muttering filled the chamber. Old Killian’s sin would go to the Vatican, old Killian a boy from the southern tip of Ireland, a boy who had grown and died on these lands, a part of him would emigrate to the hallowed bastion of Catholicism.

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Author Biography

When I first considered the theme for this issue, I wondered how I would ever find a novel that could embody each of the seven deadly sins and not seem completely ridiculous. But I started to realise that beyond the surface plot of any novel there will always lie a thousand different unwritten ideas. This month a novel that takes me back to my years at college has recently fell into my lap- Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. Having always been a Hardy fan, I found it impossible to avoid this novel when I was in my teens. But as I re-addressed the novel with the urgent apprehension to find a book that evoked the deadly sins I realised how well Hardy does this. The novel is set in the late 19th century and follows the life of a young peasant girl- Tess Durbeyfield who lives in Wessex with her parents.One day Tess’ father, John Durbeyfield is returning home from haggling when he happens upon a minister, who tells him that he is the distant relative of the once famous family the d’Urbervilles. Fooled and driven by the prospects of the shallow tale, One day Tess’ father, John Durbeyfield is returning home from hanging when he happens upon a minister, who tells him that he is the distant relative of the once famous family the d’Urbervilles. Fooled and driven by the prospects of the shallow tale, Mr and Mrs Durbeyfield resolve to seek out the d’Urberville’s and send their daughter Tess to be acquainted with them.

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Reviews and Interviews

Reviews and Interviews

Natalie Hill’s Book Review

Thomas Hardy was born in Dorset in 1840. A contemporary of Charles Dickens, Hardy wrote over a dozen books of poetry and prose, as well as being a prolific short fiction writer. He is most notable for The Mayor of Casterbridge.

Related Reads 1. Charles Dickens Bleak House

2. George Eliot

The Mill of the Floss

3. Elizabeth Gaskell Ruth

4. Daniel Defoe Moll Flanders 5. Henry James

The Wings of the Dove

Here lies the first sin; consumed by greed Tess’ parents send their daughter out into the world in hopes of wealth and status regardless of morale. Tess arrives at the d’Urbervilles to meet a young and mischievous boy named Alec. Upon meeting Tess Alec decides he is quite attracted to her and employs her as the caretaker for his blind mother’s poultry. Once Tess begins working for the d’Urbervilles, Alec tries and fails to countlessly seduce her. After months of resisting his advances, Alec takes advantage of Tess on a fateful night in a field. The night results in Tess’ pregnancy and she is forced to return home to her parents. This is where we see the second sin of the novel; lust provoked by Alec’s attempts to seduce Tess, which is also seen in later parts. From this point the novel takes a massif of turns, and ultimately it’s hard not to sympathise with Tess’ character. Tess soon after loses Alec’s baby and after a spiral of depression decides to accept a job as a milkmaid at the Talbothays Dairy. There she meets and falls in love with one Angel Clare, the respected youngest son of the Reverend and Mrs Clare. The story is ultimately heart-breaking, but it’s impossible not to be emotionally involved with Tess throughout. The reason the novel embodies the seven deadly sins so well is because it captures the results of true sin. The third sin that is so largely recognised is pride- shown when Angel Clare cannot accept Tess’ dark past regardless of her own acceptance of his. The last of the leading sins are Envy and Wrath, the first which is depicted through the relationship between Angel and Alec, and the last between that of Tess and Alec in last part of the novel. Although they aren’t recurring themes the novel perhaps even portrays the last of the sins, in that of the nature of Mr and Mrs Durbeyfield; sloths and gluttonous to their greed. Overall it is incredibly powerful and tragic; but no means something to be avoided. If you enjoy the overall injustice of existence (especially in women) then I urge you to read this novel. No doubt most of you who have read it will love it- but those of you who have heard bad things and strived to ignore all this time, give it a chance, for the sake of sinners!

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Editors Review Tom Keane

Reviews and Interviews

Reviews and Interviews

Natalie Hill Bernhard Schlink - The Reader When he falls ill, fifteen-year-old Michael Berg is rescued by Hanna, an older woman, the two enter into an affair—then she inexplicably disappears. When Michael next sees her, he is a young law student, and she is on trial for a hideous crime. As he watches her refuse to defend her innocence, Michael gradually realizes that Hanna may be guarding a shameful secret. Tom O’Connor Stephen King - Gerald’s Game Stephen King cranks up the suspense in a different kind of bedtime story. A game of seduction between a husband and wife goes horribly awry when the husband dies. But the nightmare has just begun...

Claire Miller

Jeyn Roberts - Dark Inside Since the beginning of mankind, civilizations have fallen: the Romans, the Greeks, the Aztecs...and now us. Huge earthquakes rock the world. Cities are destroyed. But something even more awful is happening: An ancient evil has been unleashed, and it’s turning everyday people into hunters, killers, and crazies.

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Chuck Palahniuk- Rant Buster “Rant” Casey just may be the most efficient serial killer of our time. A high school rebel, Rant Casey escapes from his small town home for the big city where he becomes the leader of an urban demolition derby called Party Crashing. Rant Casey will die a spectacular highway death, after which his friends gather the testimony needed to build an oral history of his life. Laurelle Mckenzie Margaret Atwood - A Handmaid’s Tale Offred is a Handmaid in the Republic of Gilead. She may leave the home of the Commander and his wife once a day to walk to food markets whose signs are now pictures instead of words because women are no longer allowed to read. She must lie on her back once a month and pray that the Commander makes her pregnant. A harrowing image of Dystopia. Tom Ashton

Chalres Bukowski - The Post Office “It began as a mistake.” By middle age, Henry Chinaski has lost more than twelve years of his life to the U.S. Postal Service. In a world where his three true, bitter pleasures are women, booze, and racetrack betting, he somehow drags his hangover out of bed every dawn to lug waterlogged mailbags. Following his day-to-day trials of sadistic bosses and certifiable coworkers.

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An Interview With Amy Gosling

I am a third year English and creative writing student. I’m from Sheffield and studied at Stocksbridge high school and then went on to Longley Park college. At both of these places I was good at English and enjoyed reading. I also gained some experience in writing short creative pieces for coursework, and this led me to want to write my own stories. I am big fan of the horror genre and a lot of my best pieces tend to lean towards the macabre. I also write a lot of poetry using similar topics and themes.

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Reviews and Interviews

Reviews and Interviews

Writer of The Hanging Tree

What’s your favourite Genre and why do you like to write it? Horror. I feel that the genre has a lot of possibilities for interesting plot twists that can shock readers, and because I like writing atmospheric and gory pieces. Plus I enjoy scaring readers. Someone told me that The Hanging Tree gave them nightmares. It was one of the best compliments I’ve ever had. Why did you decide to get into writing? Was there a book you read that got you started? It’s just something I’ve always enjoyed doing. I’ve liked reading ever since I was a child; I think that made me want to write my own stories. What was your inspiration for writing The Hanging Tree? There’s a graveyard close to where I grew up, and like most graveyards, it’s quite creepy at night. There’s a tree in the distance, and it isn’t hard to imagine a corpse swinging from it when staring at it from across a load of graves. Even though they have been used to death, I find that the graveyard setting can still be effective. What research did you do for the piece? I didn’t do a great deal of research for the piece. I looked at a few books which were written from the point of view of a child in order to get the voice right. For the gory parts I just imagined what particular things would look like. The graveyard itself is loosely based on one close to where I grew up. What do you plan to do after university? In an ideal world I’d be writing full time. I’m not sure what to do immediately after university other than look for work in the writing industry. What are you reading at the moment? In addition to books for my coursework, I’m reading ‘Doctor Sleep’ by Stephen King. Anything in the pipeline? I’m working on a few different stories at the moment.

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Interview with Claire Miller Writer of Recreational Terror

I Claire has wanted to write fantasy novels for as long as she can remember. Hailing from ‘sunny’ Rhyl but England born and bred, she came to Derby to study Creative Writing to fulfil her childhood dream. She has experimented with her craft, and now has ambitions to become a television scriptwriter as well as a novelist. She joined the Writer’s Quibble for experience and regular publication.

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Reviews and Interviews

Reviews and Interviews

How would you describe your style of writing? Depending on what mood I’m in, I either write horror/ gore or more nature-based stories and poetry. Big fan of fantasy writing too... maybe I should try to combine the three one day. What are your influences as a writer? I often feel compelled to write on walks or long train journeys where I’m left to my own devices. Nature is a big influence on my writing, as well as friends or even snippets of conversations. What was your inspiration for writing Recreational Terror? Watching my boyfriend’s over the top reactions to horror games. What research did you do for the piece? None; it was based on my own experiences. What are you future projects? I am currently working on a poetry anthology, as well as a few novels-in-progress. What book would you recommend to read or a writer to follow? Watership Down - Richard Adams. One of the few books I’ve read that I never wanted to end. Any Writer’s to look out for? And Why? Laurelle McKenzie. Her stuff’s awesome.

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Events

Get involved with out Polls Just visit:

Assorted Events

Reviews and Interviews

Writersquibble.blogspot

ONLINE WRITING WORKSHOP 15th February 2014 10:00 Find out how to share your love of writing with the world at our online writing workshop, Ripley Library on 15th February 10.00am. We will be looking at the use of online resources to produce and share your own work. This event is free but places are limited so please book in advance. tel:01773743321 ROMANCE WRITING WORKSHOP 27th February 2014 09:30 Join Mills & Boon author Lucy Ashford (Elizabeth Redfern) for a half day workshop to gain an insight into how to write a successful romantic novel. This event is free but places are limited so please book in advance ‘IN MEMORIUM’ POETRY COMPETITION 28th February 2014 23:00 Up to 40 lines Entry fee per poem: – £4 1st prize: – £100 plus book publication Runners-up: – Publication Email:- [email protected]

Saturday 16th February 12.00noon – 1.45pm NTU Newton Arkwright Building Free entry with Festival day/weekend pass Jay Eales and Selina Lock, publishers of Violent! and The Girly Comic, are veterans of the UK comic publishing scene. In under two hours, they will attempt to pour some of their hard-won experience into your heads. Why your best friend is a long-arm stapler! How to approach comic artists, editors and publishers small and large without fear of biting! How to put together a pitch! How to go it alone and publish that comic in paper or pixel form! Followed by a Q&A session as time allows.

January-February’s Polls Prose Kiefer Friis-Smith - Devil’s Inn Tom Asthon - Biblical Espionage Richard Sinclair - The Sin Eater Tom Keane - The Dream Broker Poetry Natalie Hill - The Greedy Tracks Claire Miller - Lust Nathan Shepherd - Seven Tom O’Connor - The Jaffacake Conundrum Julia Agahowa - Mirror, Mirror

Buy tickets at here

Further details

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Claire Miller Lust

When often people wonder what Lust would shape to be, They do not often think it would look anything like me. They expect the tall and slender female rubbing at her breasts. Naked, save the finest silks and braced for your requests. But I am not this image: I am the antonym Not in fact a Her But rather more a sexy Him.

Poetry

My perfect chiselled body Attracts all types of sex. The women and the men all want To feel my rock hard pecks.

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But alas, one touch is all It takes to snare them in my spell. One soft caress or lose your dress You’re going straight to Hell.

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Nathan Shepherd Seven

Tom O’Connor The Jaffacake Conundrum

Power and energy for the sake of Seven crowns, Seven heads, princes with scaly flesh engrossed in pro- balance must be equally dispersed between king and faker found immortality

Greed and gluttony, biscuit cake A deadly sin? An honest mistake Bowels pour scorn upon yon answer A lust compelled competes with cancer

Or be lost to the chaos born from an Fallen from the throne room to dine with the demons upon the fruits of ancient paradox due to a incomprehensible level treason

Envy as digestives munched in wonder A tragedy lost, combust asunder The Kit-Kat kid leaves all eyes wide, While the Hob Nob just can’t stem the tide

A multiverse of heavens and damnations occur for balance despite informality Tip the scales of dichotomy upon either side and chaos shall swallow the sun and all reason

Yet, lo I see no paradox Come to the ‘fore in a Foxes box. But how many of 7 sins disagree? I only wanted something to dip in my tea.

Reason which means little to the damned but clung to by man and gods Perverted and executed to recruit a third of the host, weaponry of the prince of light

Poetry

Poetry

Nay the prince of lies the devil of our world with whom his brother he was at odds

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Tricks and trifles learnt from the master of the extreme upon the black tip in a most desperate fight.

Seven angels, seven demons, seven dragons and seven knights Sevens sins, seven seals, seven battles and seven fights Seven horsemen embodying the wraths of deified light Seven traitors tainted by the king of darkness whom destroys the contrite A battalion of soulless soldiers at his command To level the playing field with their rival His chosen captains from the thrown on his right hand Whereby maintaining the balance and all dimensions survival

What say I ye saints gesticulate? That the tempter was tempted to betray the maker? The beguiler was beguiled, even the devil was demented by another devil?

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Julia Agahowa Mirror, Mirror

The brittle crack of breaking of bones; Soliloquies screaming, never shown In this place where others dream And some are tearing at the seams.

The tracks they ring like the bells, Bells, In your head, That night, before you flew So short, Short, In your flight, as you looked down And cursed people you didn’t know, Know that, you sent them away, Far from home, and the beast You encountered, on your journey, Was no beast- but a man, A man who wept, Wept, after it was done And could never return To work, support, Like a crutch, for family, Family, Which you left, when you flew And fell, And broke my heart like you broke The clocks of people’s days, Trying to reach loved ones And trying to be safe In the early hours of the Evening, but left Waiting, Waiting, until the dangerous night, Your last night, Night, my flightless bird, You selfish bird, Greedy bird, how I miss you, But not your Greedy thoughts, Greedy, for the death, The death of you

Vengeance marred by empty thoughts Of love and lust, and pain forth brought. Cities burning ‘round the globe Just for gods seldom bestowed Dare to question values lit By flames from mouths of hypocrites, Pennies for fucks, the chemicaled brain And all the while some fake disdain. Each act an act to judge out loud High on your pedestal: the pedastalled crowd And in the end we cannot win As every life will toil in sin.

Poetry

Poetry

Natalie Hill The Greedy Tracks

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Serialisation

Tom Ashton BO-ZAC

Serialisation 39 43

I remember the first time I saw Nina Collins, taking her first timid steps into the bustling news room; such a pretty little thing, with deep brown curls that flowed silkily down her back and a pair of rabbit-in-a-headlight-eyes that made her look so adorably nervous. Looking at her now, as she backs up his CD ROMS, I see only smudged make-up and trembling knees. All of a sudden, he pushed his waxy face into the newsroom and summoned her. She looked wearily over her shoulder at him; a gaze of miserable submission, in otherwise lifeless eyes, and then began her sluggish funeral march towards and into his office, having to squeeze past his rotund gut and bulging groin. He grinned as she did so; shot the room a challenging look and then slammed the door. From his office came the usual rythmic shifting of his desk, the slap of flesh on flesh and muffled whimpers. We chose ignorance, when these daily molestations occurred, but today we heard a terrible shriek, we were unable to disregard, followed by the sounds of light assault. Security came pounding past us and man-handled her out his office, with her skirt; a belt, and her bra exposed. He stood glowering at the door, his lip bleeding. ‘Get her out of here!’ He bellowed, unable to button his trousers, ‘Crazy bitch! She’s insane!’ As they dragged her, writhing and screaming, I saw something leave

her tiny hand and land on my desk. ‘Get on with your work!’ He hollered, before returning to his lair. I searched through the coffee stained papers and crumpled crisp packets until I found the alien CD-ROM. Maybe it was something incriminating about him; a scandal, I could anonymously flog to the tabloids or grass him in to the police for. It’s about time karma punished that arrogant lech-goblin. I glanced the room at all those designer haircuts, preening themselves, in front of the Barbies; all low V-necks and pencil thin skirts. Shockingly, none of these hateful, beautiful people were interested in what I was doing. I scowled at their cringe-worthy existences in comparison to the ridiculousness of mine, bashed in the disk and pulled up the file. It was called ‘BO-ZAC.fl’ and had two links; Subjects for Deletion and Deleted Subjects. The crushing disappointment was instant. This was clearly some IT Maintenance Software, not the dirt scoop of the century. Grumbling, I clicked one of the links anyway; Deleted Subjects. TOP SECRET By decree of Her Majesty; the Queen, and Prime Minister, Michael Horton, the following target is to be deleted; Diana Frances Mountbatten-Windsor Target’s status: Deleted Target’s whereabouts; N/A

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***** A peculiarly high pitched tone, uncomfortable to the ear, brought me groggily back to reality; ‘my, my,’ he snickered, ‘you must have been a naughty boy for them to send you to me.’ ‘Where…where am I?’ ‘Not the time for questions.’ He whispered, ‘First…pain.’ He removed his baton and brought it crashing down. The initial pain was incredible as my knee cap shattered and displaced under the skin sending jolts of agony shooting up and down my leg. ‘In a moment I will break the other one.’ He muttered..

‘Please…’ I wailed, ‘I don’t know what you want.’ He brought the baton down on my other knee cap, reducing me to howls again. ‘Now you might never walk again.’ He said calmly, ‘Don’t lie. Tell me about BO-ZAC.’ ‘BO-ZAC?’ ‘I’m going to knock out one of your teeth for every second of my time you waste,’ He sang, ‘when I can no longer understand you, I will push this baton into your eye until it pops.’ I located my words all of a sudden, ‘I loaded the CD ROM…it had some information about deletion.’ ‘Where did you get it?’ He asked. I paused, eyeing the baton. ‘She’s dead you know?’ He smirked. I stared. ‘Last week, one of our Agent’s, disillusioned with recent protocol, copied the file; BO-ZAC and met with a journalist, eager to publish the contents. One of our boffins got an alert that the file had been copied, and had the Agent and the Journalist immediately arrested. However, the morons left the disk behind, right there on the table, where your nosy editor found it. He must have taken it back to his office and forgotten about it. Either way that’s where your female colleague found it before she gave it to you.’ You killed the girl…Nina?’ I gasped. ‘We didn’t kill her, Mr Galloway, you did; she was your obsession and when you found out your boss and her were lovers, you just lost it. No doubt, your history of depression and manic schizophrenia will do you any favours either.’ ‘What history?’ I asked. ‘The one your medical records will reflect when they’re checked, Mr

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Galloway.’ He smiled,’ You will now be remanded in a facility for the criminally insane, for the rest of your life.’ *****

Serialisation

Serialisation

I hastily ejected the disk and threw it back amongst the debris on my desk. It had to be a hoax; The Princess of Wales? If it was authentic, how on earth did it end up on fatty’s desk? Was Britain’s biggest conspiracy theory legitimate? Wait…could I sell this? So many questions…I’d go to lunch…. fuck lunch, I need a pint and a cigarette. I strode promptly across the room and thrust through the glass doors into the hallway, which was aberrantly clear, save for three thick uniforms, stood shoulder to shoulder. ‘Excuse me.’ I muttered nervously. ‘Mr Galloway,’ one of them said, ‘There’s a car outside. Follow us.’ ‘What?’ I inquired, smelling the danger, ‘Are you the police or something?’ ‘Mr Galloway,’ He repeated in his regimented drawl, ‘Follow us.’ ‘I’m not going anywhere until you show me some ID.’ I demanded. Two of the men had me on the floor in an instant, whilst the third slowly pressed a syringe into my neck.

That evening, I was transferred to a high security psychiatric hospital, shoved roughly through heavy doors, my protests answered only by the manic squawks of the lunatics. The principle of the thing infuriated me, yes, I was a wretched loner who wouldn’t be missed, but being a nobody didn’t give the government the right to set me up, torture me and out me as a psycho. For a while, only my sorrow filled the silent void, until I noticed the pounding of the blood in my ears. I screamed for help; pleading for freedom, until I could hardly hear my voice over the barking hounds of madness, nipping at the corners of my subconscious, as the crushing boredom replaced my desperation. This is what they want; it’s working. Eventually, numb vacancy set in; nothing but dull bleakness and soundless ramblings. Occasionally, I heard the rumble of voices or the squeak of the door but otherwise; nothing. Days blended, each one as unremarkable as the next in my torturous mind, until one day a gigantic boom, shook me, a little, from my daze. The door was hanging from its hinges, black smoke was billowing in and emerging from the gloom were three white Guy Faulkes masks. ‘Gordon Galloway?’ One of them asked.

‘Gordon Galloway…’ I mimicked, confused by the name’s familiarity. ‘Gordon Galloway, we are Anonymous. You must come with us.’ ‘No!’ I screamed, crashing out of numbness, seeing uniformed men with syringes. The masks huffed and pressed a damp rag against my nose and mouth, releasing me into sweet delirium. ***** A splash of water, to the face, stole me from chemically induced paradise, back to nightmarish reality, where Guy Fawkes stood a few feet away from me. ‘Are you going to torture me then?’ ‘No, Gordon Galloway,’ He said, ‘we are your liberators, the forces of justice raging against governmental oppression. No media outlet; no peddler of mind bending propaganda is safe from us. We have your systems riddled with our viruses, we are everywhere, we see everything. Tell me, what is ‘BO-ZAC’? ‘Will you smash my knee caps and knock my teeth out if I don’t tell you?’ I moaned. ‘Galloway,’ He said gently, ‘we know you were taken by their people, we know you had a CD ROM briefly in your possession, called ‘BO-ZAC’. We were the enslaved, we are now the rebellion. Please, I beg, not demand, that you tell me everything.’ He didn’t really want to know everything, indeed I told him a great deal more than he cared to hear; I told him about the metrosexual dogs in my office and their gullible bimbo harlots, about poor Nina Collins and my lascivious employer.

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***** We descended on the news station; an army of masked men, lead by a conditioned mad man, quickly scaling the glass staircase and bursting into the corridor leading to the newsroom, which, unlike the day I was taken, was filled with employees, which we were happy to shoulder out of our way. Now I was rabid, tongue lolling out of my mouth and a gun in my hand as I crashed through the news room door. The metrosexuals and bimbos dropped their pens and forgot their conversations, to gawp at their ex-colleague, whom none of them recognised. I could hear the sound of flesh on flesh and moans of displeasure. I pushed open my boss’s door to find him fucking her doggy-style on his desk.

They both yelped and quickly covered themselves the best they could. ‘Gordon what are you doing?” He yelled. ‘I heard him Nina...I won’t let him hurt you anymore.’ I said softly to the girl. ‘Gordon,’ She gasped, ‘we had an argument, but we’re all made up now.’ When I shot my boss, Nina Collins fell on him, screeching; ‘No…you sick creep, what have you done to him?’ ‘He’s still hurting you, in your mind, my love. I will keep my promise.’ I shot Nina Collins too and then sauntered out to my desk whilst my ridiculous audience screamed and fled from their unfamiliar ex-colleague. I was alone, with the sounds of sirens rising from below, but at least I wasn’t invisible anymore; I was a hero. In a few hours an online message would go viral, ‘Royalty, government; the established order…we know what you did, we have ‘BO-ZAC’. We are Anonymous. We are Legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us.’ ***** I awoke, back in the asylum with a slight stiffness in my knees and a mouthful of false teeth. An elderly man, in brown tweed and glasses, sat beside my bed whilst a burly orderly loitered by the door. ‘Good Morning, Mr Galloway.’ He smiled, ‘How’re you knees? You’re an un-walking, talking example of why one shouldn’t resist arrest.’ ‘Who’re you?’ I asked. The elderly man’s face fell, ‘Mr Galloway, we’ve met every day since you got here.’ He sighed deeply, ‘Why are you here?’

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Serialisation

Serialisation

The masked man endured the lunatic, as he regurgitated years of my pent up hatred for the human condition, right up until his ravings arrived him at the ‘BO-ZAC’ file; the subject of interest, which drew his other familiars into the basement room to listen. The group of Fawkes masks buzzed and rumbled initially, as they heard of deleted Diana but immediately resumed their silence, when the first mask said, ‘And now the enemy holds this evidence of evil? You had it on you when they took you?’ ‘Yes, but Nina Collins.’ I said suddenly. ‘Alas’ said one of them with a sullen tone, ‘your dead colleague is of no use to us.’ ‘That day, she had the file…’ I murmured, ‘She was backing up data… she was copying CD Roms.’

‘But didn’t you kill your boss and Nina Collins?’ ‘I rescued her from him.’ I repeated. ‘So the government imprison you for a crime that you then break out to commit? Does that sound likely?’ He mused. I hesitated, my brain hurt. ‘Mr Galloway, you had a long obsession with Nina Collins, and a longer history of mental illness. One day you came across Miss Collins and your employer engaged in sexual intercourse, this distressed you, so you shot them both dead in front of your colleagues.’ ‘No, I’m a hero’, I said, ‘it’s a trick.’ ‘We have previously agreed that your articles on conspiracy theory, like the one that Princess Diana was assassinated by the royal family, and your previous affiliation with the computer vigilante group Anonymous, are key factors in your fantasies.’ He explained wearily, ‘Though I really thought we’d made progress.’ ‘BO-ZAC?’ I asked. ‘Prozac, Mr Galloway,’ said my psychiatrist, ‘that’s right, time for your medication, hopefully, things will seem clearer afterwards.’

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‘Romance and Revenge’ Seranades and strangulation. Trists and tourture. Violets and violence. whatever your take on the love game, here’s your chance to send a valentine’s message.

Special Thanks

Short Fiction Small Short Story – Approx. 300-350 words Medium Short Story – Approx. 500-700 words Long Short Story – Approx. 700-1,500 wordsv

Poetry Short Poetry – Approx. 10-15 lines of poetry Medium Poetry – Approx. 15-20 lines of poetry

Reviews Book Reviews – Approx. 200-300 words Event Reviews - Approx. 200-300 words

Editors

Writers

Poets

Tom Keane Tom Ashton Natalie Hill Tom O’Connor Claire Miller Laurelle Mckenzie

Kiefer Friis-SmithRichard Sinclair Tom Ashton Tom Keane

Natalie Hill Claire Miller Nathan Shepherd Tom O’Connor

Illustrator

Online

Amy Gosling

Tom Ashton

Illustrators Send a brief of your work to [email protected]

Info Please make sure that your submissions are word processed (PDF acceptable) You can submit as many pieces as you wish, however it is unlikely the majority will reach final publication; nevertheless don’t let this spur you from submitting several pieces.

Send all work to: [email protected]

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Illustrations by Amy Gosling ©

Publishing Information 8th Edition, February 5th 2014 The Writer’s Quibble Publications 44 Stockbrook Street Derby, Derbyshire, DE22 3WP Copyright © 2013 by The Writer’s Quibble Publications Illustration Copyright © by Published by arrangement with the author. All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this magazine or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by International Copyright Laws. ..... .....

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Eighth Edition