The

Poetry, Prose and Other Palaver

Writer’s Quibble ©

October

Seventh Edition

Editorial of Despair

Writer s Rant By Tom Ashton

By Tom Keane

Halloween, a day synonymous with horror and all manner of nightmares, where the souls of the dead are said to be the most present on earth. In recent years and much to the thanks, or to the infamy of American culture (depending how you see it), Halloween has seeped into our own. Nowadays Halloween is a glorified costume contest, where both children and adults parade around as skeletons, vampires, werewolves, the undead, and the occasional school girl. For children, Halloween presents their looming diabetic fates on account of the copious amounts of sweets they will attempt to consume, whereas for adults, it presents a hangover, only to awake, your bed stained ten different shades of face paint and a ghastly ghoul lying next to you. A though occurs to me as Halloween approaches, people take this very seriously, it’s no longer a day affair either, people seem to celebrate Halloween all the way through October. Beyond

Tom Keane Tom Ashton Natalie Hill Tom O’Connor Submissions:

comic conventions and stag / hen nights, there’s little time in the year to Cosplay or dress up in a toga, so when Halloween rears its face geeks and drunkards unite. But let us not forget the true meaning of Halloween, which seems to have been buried beneath the detritus of midriffs and trick or treaters. Halloween celebrates the Celtic festival of Samhain, marking the end of the harvest and the beginning of winter. Samhain predates the Christian festival of All Hallows Eve, the night before All Saints Day. Samhain also celebrates Halloween similarly with bonfires and dressing up as spirits, and may have been celebrated relatively as a New Years’ celebration. Regardless of your affiliation with Halloween, it does show our very literal love affair with horror and the unknown, which should serve you well as we enter the catacombs of our horror edition. Watch your step.

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The other day, I heard some pretentious prat, upon being asked what her favourite horror books were, say, ‘Anything with Vampires! Like, I love Stephanie Meyer…Twilight.’ Urrrrgh, shudder. All that vile serpent woman did was utilise a classic rom-com formula and add the vampire: 1) Innocent female protagonist. 2) Has a nice guy friend who clearly likes her. 3) Meets a bit of a dick she knows is no good for her. 4) Falls in love with the dick because she thinks she can change him. Vampires are one of my favourite things to come out of horror, ultimately creating a nonsensical mushy mess that millions of lost souls took like a cigarette. It seemed like a good idea at the time, didn’t it? But it left a sour aftertaste and ultimately wasn’t very big or clever. As soon as Twilight hit the shelves, every other ‘creative type’ wanting to make a quick buck, jumped on the bandwagon. I began to see whole sections in Waterstones, of Twilight Fan fiction, including Fifty Shades of Grey (and what?), although I cannot claim I’ve ever had the stomach to read beyond the blurb, so I shouldn’t really comment, but look at the bafflingly popular Television series True Blood, it’s exactly the same thing. On the subject of some of the vampire piffle that followed Twilight I’d like to stress that there is still some good stuff

out there, like BBC3’s Being Human, for example, a complexly layered gore fest, with a seemingly simple yet really quite intricate plot following a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost sharing a flat in Bristol. Mitchell, the vampire, is found attractive by many females but tries to avoid intimate relationships for fear of getting too bitey. He’s portrayed much like a drug addict, constantly trying to escape the draw of his drug and other addicts. His only other ‘living’ friend and legal tenant, is George an effeminate werewolf, who, because he is about one hundred years the junior of Mitchell, is horrified by the world of monsters he’s been exposed too and manages his ‘time of the month’ with a variety of methods, i.e. cages, sedation etc. He also acts as a ‘sponsor’ for Mitchell, who cannot bear the disappointment in his eyes whenever he ‘falls off the wagon’. The only other occupant is a ghost called Annie, who the pair ‘learn to live with’. This avoidance of mushy balderdash and reinjection of a horror with dark humour is evidence that horror involving. Vampires can still be horrifying. Why isn’t there more of a stance on this! I mean, do we really want future generations to envision the Vampire as a seductive Calvin Cline model or as the bloodsucking beast it was intended to be? Stop ridding this poor creature of its identity. Vampires have rights too. Bob on.

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The

Poetry, Prose and Other Palaver

Note From the Editor by Tom Keane Writer’s Rant by Tom Ashton

1 2-3

Short Fiction - Andrew Krska - Father and Son - Amy Gosling - The Hanging Tree - Andrew Simpson - The Crimson Aristocrat - Tabitha Peterken - John Jo

5-25 5-9 11-15 17-19 21-25

Book review: by Natalie Hill - Peter Straub’s Ghost Story

27-29

Interviews - Julia Agahowa & Tom Keane

20-33

Poetry - Tom O’Connor - Clouds - Clair Miller - Recreational Terror - Natalie Hill - Horror - Julia Agahowa - A Skin for Dancing In

34-38 35 36 37 38

Serialisation: by Tom O’Connor - Memoirs of a Saint

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The prices for these walks are as follows:

Events and Review Upcoming Edition Thanks

43 44 45

City Centre Walk £21.00 per person (children under 12 and OAPs - £18.00) Friar Gate Walk £21.00 per person (children under 12 and OAPs - £18.00) Chesterfield Ghost Walk with Most Haunted's Richard Felix- Monday 15th March 2010

Derby Ghost Walks, established by Richard Felix The popular and infamous Derby Ghostwalks run throughout the year, and continue to be a success since they started over 15 years ago. There are a variety of Ghostwalks to choose between, which are led by experienced, informative, and friendly guides. Be aware though… Due to the popular nature of the Ghostwalks, pre booking is essential. All Ghostwalks start at 7pm sharp, and the price includes a candlelit supper. The city Centre walks start from the Shakespeare Inn in Saddlergate and the Friargate ghostwalk starts from Derby Gaol in Agard Street. Please aim to be there for 6.50pm. Tours last approx. 3 hrs

Join Most Haunted's Richard Felix for the worlds first Chesterfield Ghostwalk on 15th March Click here for further details or to book.

7th Edition, November 7th 2013 The Writer’s Quibble Publications 44 Stockbrook Street Derby, Derbyshire, DE22 3WP Copyright © 2013 by The Writer’s Quibble Publications Illustration Copyright © by Matt Watson 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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Derby Gaol 50 Friargate Derby Telephone - 08000 277928

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“Everyone else who has tried to do it has died. But if you do it, you can join our gang.” That’s it. That’s Luke’s test. He keeps turning his head from me to the large, rusted iron gates. Through the twisted bars I can see the outlines of headstones and the dense woodland in the background. The church looms over us all, the cross on the spire crowning the scene. Everyone looks at each other; excited. But Tim looks worried. “Luke, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” The others gawp at him, shocked. No one disagrees with Luke. He’s the leader, he decides everything. “And why is that, Tim?” Luke asks, moving closer to him. Tim’s much smaller than Luke. He’s really small. Even I’m taller than Tim. “Yeah Tim, why is that?” Matt adds in. Matt is Luke’s second in command. “Like you said, people die. And it’s night time. We’d be in trouble if our parents caught us.” Tim’s voice shakes a little. He knows he’s said the wrong thing. He knows everyone agrees with Luke. “What, are you scared Tim? Scared of the dark?” Sneering, he turns to me. “Joe’s not scared, are you Joe?” I am. I hate graveyards during the day, let alone at night. And I’ve never ventured near the hanging tree, not even when my brother Jack dared me to. He laughed at me, but he wouldn’t go either. Even he was frightened, and nothing frightens him. But I have to be part of Luke’s gang. For two years, since we started at the juniors, they have ruled the class. They are the coolest people ever. Luke stares at me expectantly.

Amy Gosling The Hanging Tree English and Creative Writing Student.

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“I told you the test wouldn’t be easy Joe. But if you want to join us, you have to bring me that rope. It’s not like you’re going to die in there.” He winks. I nod. “I’m not scared Luke. I’ll bring you the rope.” I say it as though it is nothing, as though the test really is that easy. Luke nods. I’ve answered correctly. “Good. Try and be quick. If you aren’t back in an hour, we’re leaving you.” I shiver alone in the graveyard, with nothing but a howling wind for company, heading to the place where they hung Jude Black, the most evil man who had ever lived in our town. When he was alive, Black murdered nine people. He would take his victims to his house, where he would hang them. However, with Jude Black, hanging someone wasn’t a case of just letting them drop. He would hold on to their feet after he had tightened the rope around their necks and pull them slowly. The victims would feel the bones in their necks cracking. With each snap, they would be closer to the realisation that there would be no escape, no rescue. Some people even said that Black would manage to pull the body clean away from the head; he was that strong. When Black was caught, the villagers had shown him no mercy. They dragged him to the tree at the end of the graveyard, where they tied a rope to the thickest branch and killed him in the same way he killed those nine people. They said he would burn in hell. That’s good for me. If he’s in hell, I have nothing to be scared of. That is what I tell myself as I head past the graves. Through the gloom, I can tell that these graves are pretty new.

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They are made of marble, smooth, defined shapes. Many are decorated with flowers. On one, I see daffodils, which I think is strange, since they are a spring flower, and spring is about new life. That’s what Miss Vessa said to us in school yesterday. Or rather, earlier today. I had quite liked Miss Vessa. But Luke said she was stupid, and Luke’s always right. A small white angel catches my eye. Like the other graves, it has flowers, but someone has also put a plush bear down. I look closer and realise that it’s a child’s grave. My gaze is once again drawn to the angel headstone. I get the unnerving feeling that

wanted to get rid of the corpse quickly. They cut him down and fed him to their dogs. However, they left the rest of the rope behind, which made the vicar uneasy as he felt that this served as a constant reminder of Black. He went alone to fetch it and destroy it, as though this act would finally eradicate Black’s presence from the village. Yet after he had been gone for several hours, his family and the other villagers, began to feel as though something was wrong. The men of the village organised a search party, and, when they reached the hanging tree, it is said that some of the men were sick. The vicar had been found with his

Exclusive interview with the Tom Keane on page 32

September’s Prose Winner For: The Forerunner its expressionless eyes are boring into mine, as though this angel wants to get into my head. I almost feel as though I could let her in, when a rustling of leaves jolts me back to reality. I freeze. Whatever it was has gone quiet, as though it knows it has interrupted something. I glance back at the angel. I don’t want to be here anymore. Not in the presence of this dead child and its guardian. I continue onwards, further into the graveyard. Jude Black’s story did not end with his hanging, as many believed it would. Once he was dead, the villagers

neck in a noose; eyes bursting from his head, blackened tongue protruding from his lips. They said his body was clinging to his head only by his spine and a few muscles that had refused to give way. The ritual of cutting down the body to rid the village of this horror was repeated. Although once again, that bit of rope was left behind. And there it remained. Throughout the centuries, many had tried to remove the rope, yet all had met the same, grisly fate. Some had wanted rid of it to destroy the memory of Black, as the vicar had. Others had tried for dares.

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Like me. I’m now in an older section; closer to the church. I can’t see them, but I’m aware of the saints in the church windows, watching me. The gravestones are less defined here, the writing becoming illegible. There are no flowers or soft toys here. The people beneath these stones have been forgotten; rotting alone as their headstones, the only thing preserving their memories wither away. The path has vanished. Grass and nettles reign here. I have entered a world of chaos, the world of those who are uncared for, unloved. The long blades reach out, clawing at my legs. I fight forwards, heading closer to my destination. Am I even going the right way? I’ve never been here, and Luke didn’t give me directions. Oh god, what if I get lost and my time runs out, and the others leave? Luke will think I got scared and ran home. He won’t let me join his gang. They’ll all think I’m a coward, even Tim, who’s always scared. The only reason he’s in the gang is because he’s clever and does Luke’s work for him. But at least he’s in the gang. I’m not, and I never will be if I don’t complete my task. I pick up my pace. Just keep going forward. The breeze has become stronger; pulling me along. I almost don’t have to use any effort to pick my feet up. Maybe I have a guardian angel somewhere, helping me? Or maybe he’s getting impatient? My heart leaps into my mouth. Where did that come from? I know that Jude Black isn’t there. He was killed and eaten; his body consumed by dogs. But being dead didn’t stop him hanging the vicar and everyone else...

NO! Those are just stories! Stories grown-ups tell children to frighten them into behaving. It’s like when Mum and Dad say that Santa Claus won’t bring me any presents at Christmas unless I’m good every day. Really, Mum and Dad buy my presents and they’ll give them to me no matter what. Adults lie to make you behave. If you go out at night, the monsters will eat you. Luke told me that, and he’s always right. Ghosts don’t exist. I am almost running now; I am determined to do this. There are a lot of broken headstones here; cracked crosses and headless angels. The area is so overgrown; I feel as though I have entered a forest. Branches join the grass and weeds in grabbing at me. I shove them out of the way. They are annoying. I can’t wait to see Luke’s face when I bring him the rope. Maybe he’ll be so pleased that he’ll make me into his new second in command, rather than Matt. Matt’s stupid. He always copies everything that Luke says or does. I’d be a much better second-OW! A sudden pain in my leg. What was that? I squint at the ground to see what could have hurt me. A stinging nettle! I’d forgotten about looking out for those. There are no dock leaves to relieve the bite of pain. “Damn!” I burst out, my voice echoing through the graveyard. I want to tear the thing from the ground, stamp on it. I realise that there is no noise here, no wind, no scuffling of animals. I look up, straight ahead. I freeze. They were telling the truth when they said that nothing grew on the tree anymore. When they said that it had become gnarled and crooked, and that the bark had shrivelled.

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I remember my grandmother saying that Black’s evil had been soaked up by the tree. It was ugly and horrible to look at, but it could never die. And there, just like in the stories, is the length of rope wrapped around the thickest branch. It is perfectly still; waiting for me to approach. There is something about the tree that makes me not want to look at it. I fix my eyes on the floor and stride forwards, not stopping until I am right in front of the noose. …Noose? They had lied when they said nothing grew on the tree. Before, the rope looked as though it had simply been cut in the middle. And now it had grown, forming a noose. The knot tying it off tightened. Blood began to ooze out of it, followed by pale, maggoty flesh. I can’t move. All I can do is watch as a head sprouts from the noose; a grotesque, eyeless mass with matted dark hair and a cruel slit for a mouth. Years have caused the nose to decay, leaving a spongy black substance in the middle of the face. Then the body; rotten arms; the veins bulging, the torso and legs covered in moth eaten clothing. I want to run, but my feet won’t move. My heart beats faster. Jude Black slides himself out of the noose. His head balances at a strange angle; his neck had almost been snapped in two. The next thing I know, he is in front of me, his mouth twisting into a smile. He smells of death. Decayed hands lift me up. Maggots from his body writhe onto my skin. He shoves my head through the noose. I am going to die.

Like the first nine, like the vicar and those that followed. The rope tightens. Panicking, my fingers claw at the noose and I kick out at the corpse. My feet squelch against his chest. Almost gently, his hands circle around my ankles. As Black begins to pull on my legs, I feel the muscles in my neck stretch, the weaker veins straining… This time, Luke wasn’t right.

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‘Lock the door son!’ I screamed to him, over the sound of the passengers panicking; some of them had spotted the other plane drawing closer. I saw the door lock, my eyelids scrunched up, and tears oozed from the slits. There came a deafening crash, my body was helpless against the powerful wind that sucked me out. I saw the burning cabin get smaller. I turned my head and saw the other plane careening out of control. I had no bearing on what was happening. I could see a large white panel spiralling towards me. There was a crunch. I spotted blood fly out of my mouth and chest. I felt lighter. Stabbing pain and nausea were accompanied by a strong draft in my lower torso. My body flopped around in the sky. I dreaded the landing, but I was feeling lighter now, maybe I could fly. Fly back to my son. Make sure he was ok. I looked at my stomach. Slithers of blood were flapping and spraying in the breeze. Something long and slimy had slipped out of my abdomen and was dancing like an eel. I drifted and dropped. Lower and lower. Lighter and lighter. A rain of blood accompanying my wet thump against the ground. I snapped out of the daze. My son was holding my hand. He wasn’t smiling. I looked back and two women packed into thick winter coats were also holding hands. They were both roughly of similar height but one looked much younger than the other. I know them, I thought to myself. ‘Mind you don’t slip sweetie.’ She called out to my son. They were my wife and daughter. It must be those scarves and coats, I reasoned to myself, that’s why I didn’t recognise them.

Andrew Krska Father and Son Creative Writing Student and comic book guy.

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The pavement was slippery. A thick layer of ice made us stumble on occasion. The grit offered some footing but we all had to tread carefully. The Christmas lights sent twinkling reflections to the puddles on the road until they resembled a colourful night sky. The moonlight struck the buildings making them a dull blue, like my son’s eyes. Were we just going for a walk? It’s strange. I thought we were Christmas shopping but we didn’t have any bags of presents. We must have just been out for a walk then. I think we’d come to look at the Christmas lights. ‘Do you like the lights?’ I said. My boy looked up at me. ‘What?’ he queried. I smiled down at him as we walked. ‘I said, do you like the Christmas lights,’ I paused, ‘son?’ ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it’s not Christmas though. But I like the lights. That’s why they’re there.’ Not Christmas? What on Earth does he mean by that? I thought to myself. Perhaps he’s just being oddly pedantic for a child of his age. Yes, his age. I furrowed my brow and tried to remember what that was. God I must be a terrible father. As that thought lolled around my head I failed to notice the little mitten slipping out of my gloved hand. It was only when I stopped to tread around some dog muck that I noticed he wasn’t there. I looked around and spotted him on the road looking at some lights running between lamp posts. I looked to the girls who were staring back at me. I slipped a little on the ice as I darted forward. I found my footing on the road and not a moment too soon as the slick tarmac started to

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glitter with the yellow light of car headlights. My son hadn’t budged. The car started screeching to a halt but it would still hit him. I only had one chance. I had to get him out of the way myself. The leering lights drew closer to us; I was just inches away from him. The moment I felt his jacket against my palm I pushed. My shoulder surged with all available strength, my elbow keeping the trajectory upwards. His body was launched into the air, I worried for a moment if he’d be hurt by the fall but before I could go to him, the car’s headlights were blinding me. The car rammed into my chest, my face thumped on the bonnet. I woke

tiny freckles on her nose, her smooth skin; gorgeous. The hotel room looked pretty nice, wood panelled walls, rustic furnishings. I guess they were going for a log cabin look. Then there came loud fast knocks at the door. I almost dropped my water. I put some jeans on and scampered to the door, the knocking didn’t stop. ‘Alright, alright! Jeez, will you hold on a second?’ I opened the door and saw two young kids before me. One a round faced girl, slightly pudgy. The other was a boy. My boy. Short cropped hair and dull blue eyes. ‘Hey you!’ I said. ‘You better be quiet,

Exclusive interview with Julia Agahowa on page 30

September’s Poetry Winner For: The Crux of Life up as soon as my skull shattered on the road. My head jerked against the soft pillow coated with sweat. I leant up and wiped some perspiration off of my brow and neck. A woman with tight brown curls in her hair lay next to me, a perfect smile on her lips. She was picturesque and contented. Her right arm covered her breasts and her left hand was buried in her thick curls. I peeled the sheets off of my clammy body and made my way to an en suite. We must be in a hotel. I filled a plastic cup with water and greedily swilled it down. For a while I stood in the doorway looking at her. I looked at the

you’ll wake up… erm…’ The girl next to him chimed in. ‘Is mummy sleeping?’ ‘Err. Yes. She is. Mummy is sleeping.’ From behind, I heard her calling to me. ‘Is that the kids?’ ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘hey, kids. Why don’t you go to your room and wait for mummy and daddy to get changed? We’ll come get you when we’re dressed and then we can all get some breakfast.’ The corridors were rather nicely furnished too. Red wallpaper, in keeping with the warm tone, I liked this place. The kids walked by our sides and I

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held my wife’s hand. Daughter and mother held hands and swung them back and forth. I reached out for my son’s hand but he didn’t respond; he looked on down the corridor. The end of the corridor filled with four men dressed in grey camouflage, flak jackets and black balaclavas. They looked directly at us. One of them slowly aimed a pistol down at us. No one moved. Not until he opened fire. The beautiful curled hair on my wife’s head scattered around the corridor with bits of scalp. Her head leaked a red slop speckled with bits of grey. The girl screamed and ran away, shrinking down the hallway until another shot chased her down. I grabbed my son, held his small body tightly against my chest and ran. No shots were fired, the boy struggled in my arms, and I heard booted footsteps behind me. I reached the elevators, one was slightly open. I put my son down and pushed the doors apart. I looked down the deep pit. I could make out a network of scaffolding we might be able to climb down. I could hear the steady advance of boots, the rattle of flak jacket zips. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a piggy back.’ I said to him, trying to make it sound like a game. He obediently clambered on my back and wrapped his arms and legs around me. I got inside the elevator shaft, with my feet slanted on a thin ledge I tried to pull the doors back into place. I gave up when I sensed I was losing my footing. I edged along the ledge until we were completely behind one of the doors. I peeked out of the gap and saw the four men congregated and exchanging glances.

They didn’t say anything. All four of them looked at the door we were hiding behind then back to each other. They turned and left quietly. When I felt like they were gone for long enough I pushed at one of the doors. My son leaned forward and shoved at the door. My feet fumbled. I prepared my hands to catch myself on the ledge. I just managed but not before my chin struck it causing my head to lurch back. I didn’t hit the kid though. Thank god. The opening was just wide enough for him to get though. ‘Climb up.’ I said, ‘Climb up daddy’s back and through the doors.’ He gripped my shirt tightly, his fingers pinched my skin. His foot pushed down on my shoulder and then the other one. I gave a satisfied sigh when I saw him clamber onto the ledge. The gap I’d made in the doors was perfect for him. He then turned around. In between the doors with the light shining behind, he looked like he was in a picture frame. He looked down at me. His dull blue eyes were all I could focus on. They were almost grey. He smiled. I realised then that I’d never seen him smile. I hadn’t seen him smile since, since when? I don’t think I know his name. He bit in his lower lip, raised his little leg up, and brought his foot down on my left hand, digging his ankle into my finger joints. Before I could scream he’d lifted his foot again and planted it on my nose. I fell. Of course I fell. I plummeted into the deep rectangular cave. All that went through my mind was: why did he do that? The dry air

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was cutting into my eyes, I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t see the bottom. I couldn’t see the scaffolding. I couldn’t see what my body whooshed past but my head stuck to. Why won’t he love me? I gave that little shit life didn’t I? Didn’t I? Even if I didn’t then he must know that I care for him, I keep saving him. Why does my child hate me? I wish I could hate him, and then there might be respite from this. Why not join us for a night at one of the country's most haunted locations?

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Derby Gaol featured in the very first series of Most Haunted and became famous for the poltergeist activity which was captured on camera in the Condemned Cell. With some of the other guests, spend time yourself in total darkness in that very same cell, whilst the rest of the guests monitor your progress on CCTV. Participate whilst we try to contact some of the former residents of the building and grounds, or who knows, maybe one of your own loved ones, as we use a range of divination devices. Listen, whilst those who have passed before us try to communicate with us through electronic devices. And to round off the night, join us in a communication circle where, using all your senses, you might just experience first hand, what makes Derby Gaol one of the most haunted locations in the UK. There are no minimum group size restrictions, so you can come alone, as a couple, or with a few friends - the choice is yours! Total number of places available is 20. THE WHOLE NIGHT IS HOSTED BY DERBY GAOL'S OFFICIAL PARANORMAL TEAM.

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9pm - 4am. £45 The price includes soup and a roll at the start of the night.

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Humanity has always feared the great unknown; you humans always will. You fear and flee from the absolute darkness, afraid of what you cannot see. You fear death, disease and conflict. Yet when offered an alternative, you are too afraid to accept. I didn’t make such a mistake. I left mortality behind in the year 1810. I was naive then, afraid, just as you are, but I took the chance, and I never regretted it. Vampirism affects not just your appetite, but your physical and mental capabilities. You are able to achieve things you could never have dreamed of. At the time I was a thief, I had to acquire things in order to sustain my lifestyle, but this was not always the case. My family were killed over financial disputes and I, the sole survivor, was left on the streets to fend for myself. I lived in the grand city of Venice. The bustling trade made my “occupation” simple; there was so much stock travelling amongst the narrow canal bordered streets, that nobody noticed the odd missing steak or apple until it was too late for them to reclaim their stolen goods. This didn’t change once I left my mortal life behind. I struggle to even remember her name, but after two centuries I would not expect myself to recall it. I met her whilst I walked along the maze of canals. The moonlight was reflected by the calm waters, bathing the buildings in a translucent aura, alike to that of the glow radiated from the finest pearls. I heard no footsteps, no sound, yet she appeared before me, with the promise of immortality. She wore a long, flowing regal blue dress; the image is still burnt in my mind,

Andrew Simpson Crimson Aristocrat Creative Writing Student.

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the most beautiful scene I have ever seen. The kind of beauty, which could never be replicated. I took her offer in the hope she would stay; but to no avail. I awoke the following morning and everything felt different. Lights appeared brighter and colours more distinct. I could locate someone from sound alone, and I could see over great distances. My body had undergone the greatest change. The colour of my skin had changed from a tanned hue to the most brilliant white, yet it still retained enough colour not to draw attention. The colours of my eyes at first seemed unchanged. Yet webs of silver could be found laced around my pupils. My physical form did not change in appearance but I gained immense speed and immeasurable strength. My mind, oh the most fantastic transformation of all! I gained the ability to think unrestrained by imagination. I could devise the greatest plans, and instinctively calculate every move the individual around me would make. My “work” blossomed. Yet the fine food I acquired no longer satisfied my hunger. I longed for something more, something fresh and wonderful. I longed for blood. I discovered this after a skirmish over an apparently valued pocket watch I chanced upon, in fact I still have said watch today, but I digress. The man to whom it belonged had no hope of victory and sure enough, my new found strength enabled me to quickly dispatch him. However I was drawn to the scarlet waters that erupted from his neck. Curiosity and hunger overcame me and I feasted upon the matured liquid within. At last, I had found the

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golden elixir which could cure my insatiable hunger. Blood. Human blood. The greatest liquor could not rival the taste provided by this naturally occurring wonder. When I first discovered said wonder I drank for days, bleeding hundreds over the duration of a month. If I had carried on in such a manner I would have soon been discovered. So I changed my habits, I drank just enough to sustain myself, nothing more, nothing less. This way I could kill to feed, yet remain unnoticed. Over time I grew weary of Venice. I searched many years to find a new calling in life. I have lived all around the world; Canada, France, Germany, Japan to name a few of my favourite spots. In France I continued thievery but in a more approvable manner. I became a merchant of rare objects. Clients would approach with a request and it was my job to find the object of their desire. People, animals, jewels, I delivered everything. Until one day I was given a new contract. I was to terminate the life of an aristocrat. Of course by now I had enough experience to succeed. Of course I succeeded and was paid finely. I became a hit man...no an assassin. From thereinafter my job was no longer to obtain objects but to end lives. I moved from country to country carrying out contracts and terminating lives. Some of my work you may know, others you may not. My next job was given to me by an offshore business man, he claimed a valuable item had been stolen from him and tasked me with the objective of retrieving it. Which brings me,

loosely, to why I am here today, talking to you. The item of which I have been sent for is in your possession according to my detailing. Your company, your money, your cars. None of that will help you anymore; you live a life that does not belong to you. The man you robbed ten years ago sent me here. To regain the life that is righteously his and to end yours. It’s been wonderful talking to you but I must be departing. So if you don’t mind holding still, this may hurt a little.

Positions for Editorship Interns Applicants apply at: [email protected] We are currently recruiting first and second year interns to shadow our editors in the hopes of progressing into editorship. There is no prerequisite of applicants coming from within creative writing, other disciplines will be accepted, however there will be for Creative Writing students. If you have a passion for poetry and prose, and are hard working these positions are fit for you. You will need to meet deadlines, be able to respond to emails and questions, promote the magazine on your time, attend editorial meetings, and learn to construct the framework of the magazine. This is a fantastic experience as it will show future employers a fastidious and well developed understanding of the publishing business, the market place and a sound understanding of the editing process. An editorship with an independent magazine is invaluable, especially when expanding your portfolio. There is no better time than the now to immerse yourself in the creative market place, writing and editing a magazine will help you conform to course deadlines, increase your knowledge of the publishing process and introduce you to an expanding network of editors and publishers outside the University of Derby.

West North East is an impossible compass direction: a direction only manifest in an imagined or re-imagined world. A stunning collection of poems, chronicling halcyon moments and snapshots into peoples lives

The

Vistit: Matt-Clegg.Com

Poetry, Prose and Other Palaver

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Today has a bad feeling about it. I can sense the coldness and I haven’t even got out of bed. The flat is still quiet and I can see my breath in the air; I get the feeling I am all alone. My flatmate has been missing for two days now. This is the third morning I’ve woken up and he’s not been here. I saw him last on Thursday night. We’d gone out together with a big group of friends. He’d got a phone call and disappeared. I found him outside the chippy; he’d said he would be home after he’d seen a ‘friend.’ I had assumed it was a girl. He’s never short of company that one. He’d flashed his eyes and looked all coy, but hell I’ve known him for years, I know his track record; the exact opposite of mine. I’d raised my eyes, we hugged and laughed, he pinched a chip. I’d seen him last outside ‘Flashy’s Fast Fish & Chip Emporium’. I left the light on for him so he didn’t have to fumble about and wake me up, then I snuggled into my bed. When I woke the light was still on. I grumbled about the waste of electricity, made another brew and took a cup into his room in preparation of a good moan. His bed was cold. I showered and tutted, ate my breakfast and assumed he’d gone back to which ever lady friend he’d met on the chippy corner. I’d not bothered after that, I’d been out and about all day, one of us has got to earn a living eh? But the flat was still the same when I returned. No mess in the living room, no cup in the sink. I checked my phone, no text or calls. Some girl might distract him for a bit, but he always called. We looked after each other, that was the deal. I rang a few people, asked around his usual hang outs, but nobody has

Tabitha Peterken John Jo

Creative Writing Student.

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seen him since Thursday latest. The feeling I’ve got now is just plain bad. This is not right. And I don’t know what to do. The doorbell is ringing. I pull on an old cardi and open the door. It is Rob. ‘You heard from, John Jo?’ ‘No, Dollface, I take he’s not been home then?’ I shake my head, he looks at me, I look like the arse end of no-where. ‘Get dressed girl, breakfast’s on me.’ Rob puts his hand up to silence me. ‘Get in the shower and put some slap on girl, I’ll not take you anywhere looking like MacNally’s ghost.’ I do as I am told. The café’s warm and smells of a big fat greasy fry up. I tuck into mine. Rob suggests I go back to Flashy’s and ask if they remember seeing anything. It’s a good idea. We go in that chippy so much they know John and I by name and by order. Mines always with lashings of scraps. John likes the odd gravy only chip shops have, the type that is slightly spicy. Flash is called so because of his shop, but why he picked to call his hovel of a chip shop an ‘emporium’, I’ll never know. Environmental health has shut him down more times that I care to remember. Some refer to his shop as ‘dial a dog’, which I don’t doubt. ‘No, not seen him.’ Flash turns his back. ‘Were you serving on Thursday night?’ I wrinkle my eyebrow and look right into his back. Driving my eyes right through him. He turns, shifts his weight then avoids my gaze returning to dipping tonight’s fish in batter. ‘He was outside, waiting.’ ‘Did he stay long, on the corner?’ I raise an eyebrow, he catches the look and shifts again..

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‘I don’t see him, I busy. He wait and go.’ I smile, ‘I suppose it must be a girl...’ He quickly disappears and I am left standing on the sticky tiles wondering why that conversation was a sham. I dawdle, meandering anywhere but home. Where’s John Jo’s bike? It’s not at home, I suppose it could be at this girl’s flat? But if he’d have met a girl and left his precious bike with her, he’d have let me know her name surely. This whole disappearing thing just doesn’t add up. I look at my watch, seven thirty, early doors, time for a pint to help me thinks. Our local is a bit shabby on the outside and none too clean on the inside either, but it does a frequent lock in. I step quietly into the vestibule, one side is the lounge door, the other side the bar room. As always I push the bar door. But I stop. There’s a man with his back to the door. He’s standing over someone. The pub’s suspiciously empty. He’s different from the usual clientele, he doesn’t belong here, his clothes are clean and ironed, they’re expensive, designer. I let the door gently shut. Then I decide to go quietly into the lounge. The two rooms are separated by the bar. I duck down. There’s a small wall for the optics which means you don’t have a clear view from either side, but in this quiet I can just about hear what’s been said. The man is angry, his voice a growl, ‘She been asking questions?’ ‘She know nothing. Just that he is gone. She think he with woman.’ Flash. He’s the man on the stool. ‘She comes asking again, you deal with her properly- or I will.’

The man who I don’t know, but knows something of me continues, ‘You found the bike?’ Flash must’ve shaken his head. The stranger thumps the bar, ‘You find it! You’ve got one day. You know what’ll happen.’ The bar door slams. Paula the landlady ventures back, she goes to Flash and begins to pour him a pint. I crawl on my knees and am unseen as I stand and slip out of the back door. Using the alleys I weave my way back to the flat. I search John Jo’s room. Tipping out drawers, looking at his trainers under his bed, but I don’t know what I am looking for. Inspiration comes to me. I go to my room and eventually find it behind the headboard. It looks like a spare key for his bike lock and a mobile number. I take them, change my clothes to something black and hooded, and leave the flat via the back entrance. I stick to the alleys, my main company cats and the odd glint of a rat’s eye. I head for Flash’s. Time passes slowly as I crouch in the coal-hole of the chippy’s neighbour. I count every heartbeat, I measure every breath. Flash lives above the chippy, but I hear the girl who works for him leave. I rise from my haven. All the lights are off. I flood with fear. Quietly I tip the latch of the back gate. The click echoes through the silence. I wait a moment. The brick shed is my mermaid in the blackness. I try to move my feet but I hear a screaming in my head. My stomach feels thick with bile. This is silly, all I’ve come for is his bike. I don’t want this Meatface to get it, so I go in, I get it, I leave. Simple.

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There’s a siren in the street out front. I use the rush of noise to try the metal door, the padlock is easy to pick. I pull my hood, the moon is hidden behind a cloudy night, under the darkness I slip inside. A funny smell hits me making my eyeballs curl. Fumbling for my phone to use the screen light to see I look about. There’s a freezer to my right, shelves of polystyrene cartons and mushy pea cups. To the left of the door is a stack of oil drums. I tap the side, they sound full. I move to the back of the shed. That smell is stronger. Plastic sheets have been nailed to the ceiling to create a separate area. I reckon the bike must be behind there. Confidently I feel for a split in the plastic, a gap to peek around and get John Jo’s wheels, I put my phone in my mouth to use both hands. The curtain is caught on something. I pull. And pull again. The bloody thing is heavy and stuck. I give it one last yank. The thing falls and the plastic pulls from the ceiling. ‘Fuck fuck fuck.’ I’m pushed down, my legs are under something limp. If that noise hasn’t woken someone I’ll be fucking amazed. I scrabble for my mobile, tearing at the curtain which has now wrapped around the shape. It’s not a bike, I shine the light. Then I can’t breathe. I hold all my muscles then gip. But I have to stay calm. Stillness takes me. It’s cold, my hand trembles. I can see the scene in front of me like watching a TV. It’s there and I’m inside, over here. There’s batter all over this cold thing. My fingernail picks at a chuck. A tear falls, salt into my lip. He looks scared. Red and purple, blotched and scared. His skin has turned a violent magenta.

John Jo’s eyes have melted into his cheeks, replaced by pools of hard congealed fat. My friend and soul mate, dead. I want to cry. I want to scream. But sense takes me. A bright light flashes into the yard, it dazzles my eyes. The image of his busted face imprints like a negative onto my memory. I close my eyes to shake it away; it won’t go. It’ll never go. As fast as I am able to, I run. Run for my life. I’m in no doubt now what will happen to me if I’m caught. So I run and for a moment I feel like I’ve been given winged feet. My only company is my thudding heart in my ears and my eyes seeing that horror. It takes a moment to realise where I stop, a car park. It’s empty, just dotted orange lights sending their glare into the grey. Rows and neat rows. Just one light by the back near the middle is out. Like scales form my eyes I see what I’ve been looking for. In the dark between the lights is the shape of a push bike. The number, I ring the number. ‘Jea’sus, do you know what time it is?’ It’s a voice I don’t recognise. It’s not the Meatface. ‘Who are you?’ I ask. It’s early and the automatic response from the man is unhelpful. ‘I have John Jo’s bike. He’s dead.’

Story Continues on the next page.

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The man it turned out was a copper. John Jo was feeding him information about a drug ring. Apparently they would use the free bikes, fill the frame with drugs to move them about the city. Who’d a thought to stop a Boris Bike? It took a while to get John Jo released, the Coroner said he was ‘evidence’. Cleaver John Jo had Meatface’s hair in his hands, before they battered and fried him. The police could prove everything. Rob was at the funeral. ‘Did they really fry him?’ I look non-plussed into his face. This is what life will be if I stay. That question. ‘Yeah. It’s put me right off scraps.’ I turn, and I walk and walk.

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:

DerbyScribes.Com

Get involved with out Polls Just visit:

Writersquibble.blogspot

November’s Polls If you are a writer, be it in a professional or an amateur capacity, living or working in the East Midlands, then Writing East Midlands is here for you. They provide a brilliant service supporting writers across the East Midlands, hosting events and readings in the local area.

Prose Amy Gosling - The Hanging Tree Andrew Krska - Father and Son Andrew Simpson - The Crimson Aristocrat Tabitha Peterken - John Jo

A brilliant opportunity to get involved with Writing East Midlands is to attend the fourth annual Foot in the Door event taking place at the University of Derby on the 12th of November at 7 PM. For further information please check our EVENTS section. Foot in the Door will be a brilliant opportunity to discover all that the East Midlands has to offer for you in terms of book clubs, writing groups, magazines, support networks and chances to get published and noticed by publishers and literary agents.

Poetry Natalie Hill - Horror Claire Miller - Recreational Terror Tom O’Connor - Clouds Julia Agahowa - A Skin for Dancing in

Twitter: @WritingEM Facebook: WEM Write

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As ever choosing one novel to review for any issue is tricky- but when you have an affliction to stay as far away from horror novels as possible, it becomes even more so. However I am completely fascinated by the genre, the only qualms I have come in

the form of being too ‘scared’ to read them- but then again, is that not their purpose? Well anyway, I decided to go out and find a book that really captured the essence of horror none the less. After considering the various Stephen King novels I settled on Ghost Story by author Peter Straub, who has collaborated with Stephen King on novels The Talisman and Black House. The novel takes place in a small fictional town Milburn in upstate New York- following the lives of four men who call themselves The Chowder Society. The members of the society regularly come together in their formal attire to indulge in cigars and liquorenjoying the splendours of age at an attempt to 1. Thomas Tryon forget their foreseeable The Other retirement. When one of their members dies the 2. Dan Simmons four remaining men start Summer of Night to tell each other ghost stories at their various 3. Richard Matheson homes- which are seemingly spooky. Subsequent Hell House to these events, the 4. Robert McCammon members start to have recurring nightmare, simulThey Thirst taneously the town starts to be terrorised by an 5. Robert Marasco endless paranormal presBurnt Offerings ence. In hopes to uncover what might be happening

Book Review By Natalie Hill

Related Reads

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in the town the members contact the deceased’s nephew; who has an active success in writing horror novels. His arrival to the town is what the society hope will salvage the past and help them uncover the truth behind the ‘hauntings’. Not wanting to act as a total spoiler, I’ll simply say it’s what The Chowder Society uncovers about their suppressed past that has led to the current events in Milburn. The novel frequently jumps back and forth between tenses, to explore the pasts of the main protagonists and the events from their youth leading to the present terror. Although the novel is relatively long; the pace is fast but also allows for superb build-up of tension. Arguably the main characters are not particularly ‘likeable’ but nevertheless are brilliant to the role and extremely interesting and complex. The novel covers such a large area and despite the title is far more than your regular ghost story. I simply couldn’t put this book away, and although I have very little to compare it to I would say it was probably the best novel I’ve read all year and very truly scary.

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EDITORS FAVOURITES Natalie Hill Max Brooks World War Z

Tom O’Connor Stephen King Salem’s Lot

Tom Ashton

Bram Stoker Dracula

Tom Keane Richard Matheson I Am Legend

Following the diary accounts of the Zombie Apocalypse from a dozen voices, World War Z is an indepth glimpse into the human condition in the aftermath of tragedy. Following Brooks’ best selling Zombie Survival Guide, Zombie Fiction’s Apex.

An Inteview With Julia Agahowa Writer of The Crux of Life and Under the Rose Garden

Julia was born in a little landlocked African country called Lesotho in 1986. Her father owned a donkey sanctuary which she became a patron of in 2012. In 2004 she won a silver medal at the commonwealth games in badminton and in 2010 she came second in Lesotho’s bi-annual rear of the year competition and in 2011 she came to derby to study English and Psychology. Julia has always written poetry, as long as she can remember into childhood. She tends to lean towards nature as a lot of what she writes (including The Crux of Life) is about the beauty and atmosphere of African landscapes.

Something strange is going on in Jerusalem’s Lot ... but no one dares to talk about it. By day, ‘Salem’s Lot is a typical modest New England town; but when the sun goes down, evil roams the earth. A true blood curdling horror from the master. The legendary account of Jonathan Harker’s encounters with the mysterious Count Dracula, the pinnacle of Gothic Fiction, Stoker explores the dark recesses of the genre. The book that birthed the vampire genre, burning their image into our collective. Robert Neville is the last human, haunted by day and hunted by night, he is trapped between his own humanity and the baying vampirism at his doorstep. He seeks a cure to reclaim what remains of the world, though a strange new breed of vampire begins to rise.

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Interview with Tom Keane

Why do you write? It’s relaxing and therapeutic, and I find it’s a great way to capture the vividness of what we see and feel in a way that we can relate to other people.

Writer of The Forerunner and Walkabout

How would you describe your style of writing? I write a lot about nature and try and to make new ways of saying things that have been said before. There are only so many ideas you can have about, say, a tree, so part of my style is trying to describe that tree’s movements in a way that is new. What inspires you most? (i.e a walk in the park, heartbreak, intoxicants?) The world around me. I know that’s vague and obvious, but when I see something that’s beautiful or interesting I feel inspired to write about it.

Tom was born in North Yorkshire in 1993. An avid writer of fantasy from a young age, he aspired to become a writer, finally finding himself a place on the University of Derby’s Creative Writing Course. During his time in Derby he set up the Writer’s Quibble as a chance for young writer’s to find their voices and become aware of the world of creative writing. In recent years Tom has focused his craft on the writing of Science Fiction, hoping to publish his Science Fiction Anthology - Halcyon, by the end of this year, comprising of fifteen short stories, a series of dazzling visions of the future.

What about ‘The Crux of Life’? Where did the idea for that come from? Well, the theme was origins so I looked back to my own origins, and wrote about how, even though Africa is a third world continent for the most part, there are still things that can be learned in the west from their simpler ways of life. What’s your ultimate ambition for your writing? Do you want to do it in a professional capacity? I don’t really have an ambition per se, I just write as I like doing it, and if that ends up being my profession that would be amazing, but I’m not actively trying to make ends meet that way. Excluding yourself, which was your other favourite piece in this edition and why? Swansong for a Raven was a piece I particularly enjoyed as it was a lot different and darker compared to anything else I have read in the magazine before. Tom O’Connor’s use of imagery and descriptions of animals were particularly interesting.

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Why do you write? I find writing a good source of escapism, somewhere I can pool my thoughts and kill my cancers. I seem to return to similar ideas, flaws in my personality forge characters and the situations they get themselves into no matter the future I set them in, are never far from the truth. How would you describe your style of writing? My style is very descriptive; I like to think that the environment I create is as detailed as my characters. I spend as much time world building as I do sculpting the ins and outs of my characters. For the most part I try to write a fluid prose, where imagery and dialogue come together rather than grate against each other. What inspires you most? (i.e a walk in the park, heartbreak, intoxicants?) Science has inspired me the most over the past few years, whether it’s through fact or fiction, my jumping into science has fuelled my imagination. The authors I keep returning to time and time again are Robert Heinlein and Kurt Vonnegut, their prose style is so seamless, they write how I wish I could write, reading their work is a joy. What about ‘Forerunner’? Where did the idea for that come from? The idea came with a fascination of psychology and artificial intelligence. A though occurs to me that a computerised brain and a human brain run on the same circuits, if a human brain can malfunction, say creating a bi-polar personality, then so too can a computer function in the same way. Evolution by nature is a string of random mutations, so by assumption such a complex system as a robot could evolve, perhaps to become self-aware and ask the questions that puzzle us on a daily basis. What’s your ultimate ambition for your writing? Do you want to do it in a professional capacity? I hope, and not a far off hope, to become an author. Success isn’t in the big picture, neither is recognition, I want to write for an audience that appreciates my work and the worlds and characters therefrom. If possible I’d like to take this magazine or at least my experience and forge a career out of it, a career as a magazine journalist, especially a literary magazine would be ideal. My ultimate ambition is to work for Analog Magazine. Excluding yourself, which was your other favourite piece in this edition and why? Andrew Krska’s Father and Son, in this issue, struck me as such a brilliant piece of fiction, if I had the moral predisposition I would steal it for myself. The short story feels like a lucid dream in the way it flows in and out of these scenes, at one point the piece actually felt like a genuine memory. He is definitely a writer to look out for.

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Claire Miller Recreational Terror

Tom O’Connor Clouds

September sun, exciting skies Whirlwind whites in every suit. The cleanest air, this empty field, Natural noises shot down today. The heat is thick below red skiesMaybe it’s painted for you? Clumps of woolly shapes above This green and fair old hill. Electric clatter, generator roars Farmer Douglas forgot his pills. Derek the sheep squeals his bleated goodbyes As he’s fed feet first to the wood-chipper. Green turns to red, maniacal laughter Mutton’s buttons pushed of far; The sky is cloudless, the silence dead Flakes of Derek pepper this place.

A screech of shadows scratching sheets of glass. The creaking clack of several windows breaking. An arctic shiver trickles down the spine, Setting even the bravest souls aquiver. The dim lights flicker, blink to black. You grab my hand for comfort in numbers. Our visions see us tortured, torn asunder. And that’s when chilling music starts to play. We resort to torchlight in the startling dark, Try to ignore the building hissing sounds. In contagious fear you moan my name, As someone screams in overwhelming pain. We find him sobbing outside the door. His blistered skin is swelling red with heat. Pus pops, bubbles flesh and cracks his lips. The brink of death denied the peace of nothing. You shoot the poor bastard in the head. Blood and brain spatter the floor. We turn the corner, hearts thumping with the drums And crash into the beast with gaping jaws. “That’s it, I’ve had enough,” you say. You throw the headset on the desk. The laptop’s off, and I’m to blame For playing this stupid horror game.

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Natalie Hill Horror

Julia Agahowa A Skin for Dancing in

Pirouette on this marble floor, my dear This unearthly waltz into ethereal pleasures. My gloved hand reaches out for your naked shoulder, A scimitar smile beneath midnight leisures. The pianist will play this song all night The vacant beauty, so much like your face This is our time in the year 1659 And to your family you left without a trace. I can worship you, dear, if you’ll worship my name This mansion in Marseille: you’ll call it your home. The scene can’t demean as you lean close to me In the fore of the backdrop where lost souls can roam. No syllable uttered, you talk with your sways. I grasp at your breast and puncture the skin You don’t flinch this time, you’re getting used to it The wine is running low so I call for the gin. Your twirling elegance, amethyst eyes steal my gaze The coldness of your hand, the soft slapping of your feet. There’s no dreaming to daylight, no sights on the future, No stairway to heaven, just the ladder beneath. The grandfather clock metronome ticks along with the music, The black and white squares, portraits over each wall. Hand in hand we keep swaying, out there someone’s praying But you’re mine; don’t forget it, so tender and small. You’re positively divine tonight, my precious, my love I envy how you could make the heads of men turn But I am your king and your body’s my kingdom My sweet – remain silent, there’ so much left to learn

To those witnessing this verse, I urge you please belay, For your ease shall not return, If you enter upon this secret, A plague of hate has ascended, To feed off your unborn souls, A conjuring of death watching, As you stew in your unkept minds, Thoughts of depression allure, Your enemies crave your fears, Consume them with tricks, One movement to capture hope, The unseen more terrifying than any, Our efforts shall be no use, For once you shall know them You will cease to be.

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Tom O’Connor Memoirs of a Saint

Hello my kind friend, please hear my tale I’d tell Scrawled truths from a desolate cold prison cell My story: from a graceful life I fell But I found this so... delightful A celestial path to for ever hold my name I’d rid ladies of the night from their ethereal shame And cleanse them of sin with hell’s hammer flame A glimpse into this working mind; insightful Myself a small boy a face of mediocrity Denied miniscule pleasures, like a parent’s knee Eternal in thought –‘mother shan’t care about me’ A concern I believe merely trifle I sit before you an ordinary man of twenty-five Employed as a bookmaker, my wealth how it thrived But of contentment in life always so cruelly denied Until one day I had this thought so frightful The first such an addiction she just couldn’t fix, The desperate gents in dozens her legs betwixt. Baring her fruit browned from more than just licksSo Excruciating for young maiden to fornicate I pondered how much for a tender sweet kiss; Unfair lady spoke in riddles of some point that I’d missed. Pontificated laughs, thought my naivety such bliss, I claim the pencil to her throat was never in hate.

Serial

I told her of my violence, heard the silence, saw dread; “What-what?!” She inquired as she stood in my stead My mind’s eye in the tedium, the anger she fed But I the customer, my actions were right as they state.

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I bleed guilt for my choice of her wet dumpster tomb, The pieces in bags under a saturnine moon, Her digits removed found new home by her womb; Had I tasted her tongue then her grave more prostrate.

Maybe a moment of madness when I heard sirens whine I reached in through her chest and ripped out her curved spine, This little bitch had worked wonders for the blue clad bobby swine A small smile daubed ear to ear on my skull’s twisted front.

As I strode from the street where young lady lay cold The thrill and adrenalin of my heart had a hold In my mind I’d cut free her dirtied soul, bold, My motive to liberate from divine disaster.

Eight men in blue whistled and ran toward the scene; I didn’t clock at the time as she’d not close to scream, The act of amore they’d been watching obscene; These wicked, clever fellows and the entrapment was done.

I struck again in a fortnight with absent regret, Her eyes and her smile I could ne’er forget, As they were lost, rain poured, my eyes ‘coming wet. Her release was my knife, on to heavenly pastures-

I’d not speak of the torture I received from their fists On my knees in their transport struggling to subsist, My calls for hero’s welcome so swiftly dismissed These barbarians would never see my saving social decay.

Her sepultura this time would be laid under arch, In the middle of London where the soldiers march, But burned beyond recognition from my lighters small spark Under the watchful eyes of the Castor.

So here I am close to trial, in her majesty’s cell An admission to more crimes to hear you’d do well My coat around my neck, I kick the chair, my eye swells If they’d be so blind to my helping, I’d not suffer so thank you, good-day…

For you see here my friend, I always planned to be caught, Do you think the praise I’d take for my actions was naught? Leaving these vermin in carnal terror so fraught Would make me a hero to mothers here after. The third of my trysts I’ll confess on this page A little abhorrent when papers told of her age. So too my adorations, not just for her smaller wage Post copulation I tore her from her nose to her cunt.

Like what you’ve read? Visit Tom O’Connor at:

Despite she had granted me a taste of her lips And so tender the small hole between the not quite grown hips, I licked some of the blood from her neck in its drips This girl they called thirteen had duped me with this stunt.

Other Fine Ramblings

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Next EDITION

Events

‘Seven Deadly Sins’

Assorted Events GERVASE PHINN AT WATERSTONES DERBY 11th November 2013 12:30-13:30

Waterstones Derby is thrilled to welcome back bestselling author Gervase Phinn. He will be signing copies of his new book ‘The School Inspector Calls’ in store. If you would like to reserve a signed copy please call us on 01332 296997.

FOOT IN THE DOOR 4

12th November 2013 19:00 University of Derby, Kedleston Road Lecture Theatre OL1 The University of Derby’s fantastic free writing night returns this November for a great night of talks and Q&As with experts from inside the world of literature. With a superb host of speakers, and a closing panel for your questions, this is a night not to be missed for anyone with an interest in developing their writing and breaking into publishing. For more information, contact Alex Davis at [email protected]

Capital Vices and Cardinal Sins. Wrath, Greed, Sloth, Pride, Lust, Envy and Gluttony. The sins that keep the world turning. What’s your sin?

GRASS ROOTS WRITING, DERBY THEATRE STUDIO 23rd November 2013 19:00 7 – 9pm, Derby Theatre Studio, Saturday 23 November 2013 An evening of insight & discussion, for anyone interested in new writing or pursuing a career as a writer, with wine and refreshment. Meet our three distinguished Midlands’ guests who have all, in their way, been strongly influenced by their background and formative experience.

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

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

Tickets, £9. Concessions £6. Box Office Tel. 01332 593939 or www.derbytheatre.co.uk FREE to Writers’ Guild Members! Ring B.O. to book and bring your membership card to collect your ticket.

LISTEN WHILE YOU LUNCH WITH VIXEN FICTION

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

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

21st November 2013 12:00-17:00 12.10 to 1pm

Info

Short story readings, discussions and book signings with complimentary tea and biscuits for female short story writers. Venue: Derby Central Library, The Wardwick, Derby DE1 1HS Cost: Free, no booking required. For more information call the Derby Central Library on 01332 641701.

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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 Matt Watson ©

Special Thanks Editors

Writers

Poets

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

Amy Gosling Andrew Krska Andrew Simpson Tabitha Peterken

Julia Agahowa Claire Miller Natalie Hill Tom O’Connor

Illustrator

Online

Matt Watson

Tom Ashton

Find us at Blog: Writersquibble.blogspot.co.uk Facebook: Facebook.com/Writers-Quibble Twitter: @WritersQuibble Illustrator: [email protected]

Writer’s Quibble ©. All Copyrights remain with the authors. Publication date: 7/11/2013 We do not accept previously published work. Any published submissions cannot be used for future course work and may be barred for future publication. Writer’s Quibble ©

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November Seventh Edition