Scribble 21

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Autumn 2016

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Creative Writing & Arts Magazine

Scribble Magazine

Scribble is part of the Tell Us Another One creative writing project run by Cartwheel Arts in the North West of England.

The project operates in the Greater Manchester Boroughs of Rochdale, Bury and Oldham and is funded by Big Lottery and supported by each borough respectively.

We run monthly creative writing groups for adults in locations around the three boroughs considered to be in need of cultural provision.

These groups are free and open to everyone with no previous experience of creative writing needed. You don’t need to have perfect grammar or for your first language to be English.

If you’re interested in creative writing and would like to work with professional writers and meet other people in your area, your local Tell Us Another One group is waiting to welcome you.

Scribble Magazine c/o Tell Us Another One Cartwheel Arts 110 Manchester Street Heywood OL10 1DW Telephone 01706 361 300 Editor Paul Stanley paul@cartwheelarts.org.uk www.tellusanotherone.org

Printed by Olympic Press www.olympicpress.co.uk Scribble is published four times a year by Cartwheel Arts. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or part without written permission is strictly prohibited.

HELLO!

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The nights are drawing in and the leaves are dropping from the trees. It is the season to be cuddled up with a good book… or magazine.

Welcome to Issue 21 of Scribble. The communication issue.

Communication seems like a good subject right now with half the country seeming to be angry with the other over something new each day. We hope our little publication helps make some sense of the fast changing world.

As well as the submissions from our writing groups, including two new groups in Fitton Hill and the LGBTQ group in Middleton, we have a brand new short story, ‘Dandelions’ from Manchester author Tamsin MacDonald.

Hayley Flynn looks back over the first half of 2016 with reviews of the World Refugee Day event at Rochdale Town Hall, Darnhill Festival and the Bilingual Authors project with Falinge Park High School and ALL FM. We also look forward to the future with previews of two Cartwheel events. Scribble Festival and our Art for Wellbeing conference ‘Impact: Led By You’.

Rebecca Lupton continues her on-going project documenting our creative writing groups with photos of members from Deeplish and the LGBTQ group in Middleton.

Paul Stanley Editor

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Zohra is a member of the Deeplish writers’ group who meet monthly in Rochdale. For more portraits by Rebecca Lupton, turn to page 16 for our Meet the Writers feature.

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Report: Darnhill Festival

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Report: World Refugee Day

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Tamsin Macdonald: Dandelions

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Meet the Writers: Deeplish & LGBT Writers

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Selected Submissions

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Interview: Danielle Porter

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Report: Bilingual Authors

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Report: Fitton Hill

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Darnhill Festival took place at the start of July at Argyle Parade as part of Cartwheel Arts’ summer programme. The day was jam-packed with events and activities, including All.FM in the Tell Us Another One tent who were there to broadcast the day.

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The British summer was as elusive as ever but despite the weather a brilliant crowd turned out to join in with the activities – from a graffiti workshop with artist Sumit Sarkar, and creative writing workshops with Martin Stannage, through to learning how to present and interview for the radio with All.FM. The day was a place for people to connect and to create creative material and content of their own.

We caught up with Martin Stannage, one of the day’s artists, about his role in the day. We asked Martin about how he got started with the Tell Us Another One project: “I’ve been lucky enough to do quite a bit of work with Cartwheel Arts over the years and I’ve been doing workshops for quite a long time, the

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main reason why I wanted to get into it is because that’s how I started myself. I started out as a youngster – not really knowing my place, being a bit lost, not knowing what to do with my spare time and I found out about these writing workshops…there might be a few kids for whom it might change the course of their life, like it did for me. You’ve always got a story to tell no matter what your background is.”

Martin, along with colleague Louise Wallwein, has been working with Cartwheel Arts and several local schools including Hopwood Community Primary School, Heap Bridge Primary School and Harwood Park Primary School to create a series of stories about the water cycle that were recorded by All.FM with some young actors ahead of the festival and these plays could be listened to from a booth within Darnhill Library.

Also in the library were three songwriting workshops with singer songwriter Claire Mooney, and a mix of both adults and children got to grips with new instruments, lyric writing, and even a mixing desk. Clare’s workshops also focussed on the water cycle and she created an interactive environment allowing the participants to make music with confidence and ease.

Back in the Tell Us Another One tent visual artist Sumit Sarkar held several graffiti workshops whilst stopping briefly to tell us the importance of working creatively: “If you enjoy any form or art, no matter what it is – perhaps music or film, you have to encourage it on all levels – the arts are vital”.

The All.FM radio corner was a huge success with young people lining up to have their say on air. Some of the young people started the day a little shy but through guidance and encouragement even the quietest of children were soon presenting their own segment on a radio show and we soon had all manner of content being created including rap, stories, and news items and even a ‘campaign for free sweets’.

It was such a delight to see the young people of Darnhill take advantage of the artistic opportunities to express themselves, and to see the workshops help instil confidence in them, and we look forward to next year!

This article was written by our resident writer Hayley Flynn.

You will see more of her work throughout the year as she documents the people we work with.

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At the start of summer Cartwheel Arts took part in an event at the magnificent Great Hall in Rochdale Town Hall for World Refugee Day. Schools from all over the region came together to debate the meaning of home, and to think creatively about a sense of place.

Photography Rebecca Lupton

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The 240 children that attended the World Refugee Day event at Rochdale Town Hall, amongst them some refugees and asylum seekers, composed poems about their families, their homes and about more poignant subjects such as feeling safe.

Several of the children read to the crowd and we heard the sometimes harrowing tales about life as a refugee. From a family on the run from Iran because of fears over their religious beliefs, to a family living in Nigeria who had to flee in the night, leaving behind their father.

Later in the afternoon poet and MC Saquib Chowdhury read a poem by Warsan Shire – the young Somali poet whose work was used throughout Beyonce’s album Lemonade. Saquib then delivered a short workshop for the children exploring the senses associated with home; how it tastes, smells and feels. The children taking part in the day became particularly animated as they got on to the subject of home cooked food, and on the topic of smell they suggested everything from vanilla and coffee to samosas and, even more abstractly, the smell of freedom and love. The students went on to write a lune (a poem similar to a haiku) based on one of the senses they most identified with.

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previously worked with today’s poet Saquib Chowdhury on a Bilingual Authors Project.

“I think it’s very important to allow people to know that they have a voice that they can use to send messages.” says Saquib.

“Sometimes when you write a poem it’s the most concise way of putting your feelings down. I think it’s very empowering especially for young people at this age to actually understand that writing isn’t just about what you do at school and answering questions, it’s about expressing yourself and knowing that what you’ve got to say is equally as valid.”

What the day achieved was to strengthen cohesion amongst the children, to demonstrate through their differences they ultimately their family needs and relationships were, in fact, all remarkably similar, and to illustrate that home is a moveable thing – it’s about people as much as place, and that even if you are displaced it is still possible to be safe and happy within a new community once you are part of it. — (s) This article was written by our resident writer Hayley Flynn.

You will see more of her work throughout the year as she documents the people we work with.

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DANDELIONS Tamsin Macdonald

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hrough the cracks between our paving slabs, dandelions push. Their leaves fumble at the air and creep wide across the concrete. And on next door’s driveway Reg Malpas glares down through steel-rimmed spectacles, sprays weed-killer and sneezes into the cool morning air.

“Swine,” he mutters.

You put your sunglasses on, start your car and draw out of our drive, pulling daft faces and miming a cork popping from a bottle, like you always do. I smile, give my plus-size belly a theatrical rub through my now undersize dressing gown and pray for the temperature to stay below thirty today.

Your car engine noise fades.

And at the corner, your car also fades to nothing, like it does every morning now.

The deep blue of the cloudless sky presses down and my hand tightens on my bump.

“You should do yours.” Reg Malpas whines, mosquito-like.

“Do what?” Hoping my eyes aren’t too red, I face him over the strip of

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grass separating his drive from ours.

“Weeds.” He looks like a mosquito, now I think about it: hunched on spindly legs, arms dangling from sharp-edged shoulders.

You were better with him than I am. You always knew the right thing to say. You sounded forceful without malice. He never approved of us and he still doesn’t approve of me. His face is the same when I emerge each morning at the same time to stare at you not going to the hospital and when he looks across at Number 23. You heard him muttering about terrorists and no standards one day, as he leant on his broom.

“The ideas don’t even go together, Becca,” you said, over wine and a box set later that night. “Terrorists must have standards. Surely standards are what drive them to commit terrorism.”

“For a doctor, Claire, you can be very daft,” I replied, stroking her wedding ring.

And we both chuckled…

I attempt a placatory smile, bend – with effort – and pluck one of the ragged yellow heads. There are no clocks today. I like the clocks. You liked them too.

“They just grow back, Reg.” I thumb the oily yellow petals and drop the flower on the ground.

“They wouldn’t grow in the first place if we all put weed-killer down.”

“It’s bad for the baby, Reg: the fumes.”

He snorts. “Never did ours any harm.”

Nothing will come except, “Well.”

He looks then at my belly, points. “Isn’t it… due?”

“He is, yes.” I roll my eyes. “Late. Nine days. Kelly would be furious: she was such as stickler for time-keeping.”

“Knows where he’s best off. Nothing but trouble once they’re out. And he won’t exactly have an easy time, will he?” The corners of his mouth twitch.

This is why I avoid anything but pleasantries with him. They say people don’t get to know their neighbours, like we don’t communicate like we used to. This is why.

“I can only do my best, I suppose, Reg. It’s all any of us can ever do.

Excuse me, won’t you? I’ve work to do.”

Grumblings about my morning ritual follow me back into the house.

You’ve only been gone five months though; what does he expect? A scream presses at my throat, but I swallow it.

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I wasn’t lying anyway; I do have work to do. I can almost feel you wagging your finger at me as I pass the photos lining the hallway walls. Emails are waiting in the kitchen.

I make raspberry leaf tea, take another pineapple ring from the fridge and lower myself onto my exercise ball at the table. All these things, we were told at antenatal classes, will help the baby along. Sex and a hot curry may also help, though not necessarily in that order. The things you discover when your body plays host to a new human.

Nine months though. I’ve found out I’m not very good at being pregnant.

We decided by week ten, laughed about it between my bouts of vomiting: you can do it next time. You can carry the parasite, the thing that makes you feel like you’d be better off with a real parasite, because this one was making me feel like I had Lyme disease. Fine, you replied, and your eyes glowed with wonder in the bathroom mirror as you watched me brush my teeth and spread your hand over my then still flat belly.

I scroll down through my inbox, hover the cursor over the message that’s been waiting the longest. I know who it is – a company down the road in Altrincham, who want a new network setting up. They’re long-term clients, but I can’t face clicking. I sip my tea and stare at the garden instead.

The last of the dew’s burning away from the grass and the dandelions and daisies have opened up, tilted southeast. In the top left corner of the patio doors as spider’s made a web and it’s sitting there, fat, comfy, majestic, sunning itself amid the droplets clinging to the silk. A plane flies over, vibrating the air. I’ve a sudden urge to push the baby out that very second, lift him up and point at everything and tell him that this is life, all these details, all these minor things. If my body could snigger, it would, but the baby at least seems to hear me, giving a kick and setting off ripples in the cup resting on my stomach. I put the cup on the table and bounce.

“Is today the day, young man?”

He squirms a little, comes to rest, elbows out.

Clearly, today is not the day.

Work.

I set to, clearing my inbox and filling my paper diary, but just as I’m about to get up and make some more tea, another message shoves in at the head of the line, headed: URGENT. It’s not a name I recognise, but if it had been some company offering orgasms in a bottle it would’ve gone straight into Spam, surely?

When I open it, I feel my stomach crunch in on itself behind the baby

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and I have to run to the toilet.

As I sit, trying to regain control of my breathing, I can’t stop tears flowing.

I’m the risk-taker; you were always the staid one.

It makes no difference how many times I repeat this to myself; the message is still there, seeming to roll across the white tiled walls in cold clean black type. After a few minutes, the words blur into the background, the white becoming so bright I have to shut my eyes against it. It’s no less dizzying when I re-open them. Through the haze, I think about calling you, but anger knots in my chest and I dismiss the idea.

Eventually, my body slackens and the walls dull. I’m still panting, but I can move, so I wipe, flush, wash, consider my next move. As I do though, two waves strain upwards through my legs and down from my chest and collide over my bump. As they pull back out again, I let go of the sink, forget the birthing pool in the cupboard under the stairs and feel one word consume me, overriding all the offers of help once the time comes and the phone numbers stored in my mobile.

Hospital. * My birth bag is in my car boot; I know this. It’s been there for weeks, stuffed with everything from paper knickers to an iPod full of Madonna and Oasis. But this doesn’t smell like my car. It smells like distant stale cigarettes and artificial pine. And I’m lying down and I can feel whatever car this is, is in motion. Through the window I can see sky and trees flicking past. I’m clutching my bump, and it’s so tight there can’t possibly be a baby in there; the whole thing must just be made of rock. I must have been nurturing a dead weight for nine and a bit months.

“You’re awake then.” A familiar voice scratches through the thick air.

“Steady as you go. We’ll be there in a minute.”

“Reg?” I want to sit up, but there’s a tremor like the hum of telephone wires inside me that says that’s a bad idea.

“Well it’s not the Queen of flaming Sheba, is it?”

“What –” “You passed out next to your car. I was all for calling an ambulance, but the wife said, ‘Reg, they’ll take forever. Get that girl to the hospital. Only take you five minutes.’…”

The rest of his words fade as I grope for my mobile, but it’s not there.

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My car keys are there, but not my mobile. I want to call you, but then I remember.

Reg, still yattering about something and nothing, makes a sharp left, brakes. A machine beeps, the waves come again and I cry out, almost expecting a stream of blood to emerge with the sound.

When I open my eyes, the Accident and Emergency sign’s gleaming red and white through the window. Reg blocks it as he opens the door.

“Come on then,” he says, like I’m a stubborn child, “out you come.”

I’m sure I’m going to be sick, and I croak, “I can’t move.”

“Well you’d bloody well better, because the wife’s just had the interior done. Twenty quid it cost. Daylight robbery. Out.” As I haul myself up, a straw-like woman swamped by dark green paramedic overalls joins Reg. “What’s the trouble, mate?” Then she spots me.

“Oh. Let’s get you out of there then. How close are your contractions?”

I choke bile back down and shake my head. “I’ve no idea.”

“Four minutes,” Reg says. When I stare at him, he stares right back. “Five flaming kids I’ve had. Five. I’ve learned a thing or two.”

“Are you the father?” the paramedic asks, unblinking.

Reg bursts into laughter so wheezy I start to wonder if we’re both going to need this place. “Me?” He wipes his eyes as he calms down. “That’s a good one, that is.”

The paramedic brings a wheelchair over. “Take a seat and we’ll get you up to maternity. Do you want me to call the father for you?”

I lower myself into the chair, my whole body hunching at the thought of another contraction hitting in the next couple of minutes. “No, it’s… No.” Then I realise. “This is Wythenshawe, isn’t it? I was down for Wythenshawe, not the MRI. And it’s important.”

You worked here.

“It’s Wythenshawe.”

We begin a steady roll towards the doors and I turn to thank Reg. He gives a dismissive wave and gets back into his car.

“Is there someone called Amy Hibbs here?” I ask. “She’d be in coronary care. She’s a nurse. It’s not for this. I just want to speak to her.”

The wheelchair’s picking up speed on the polished lino and another contraction’s building.

“I can see if she’s in today. Do you really not want me to call someone?”

“No. I –” The contraction starts and I don’t give a shit whether I’ve got anyone with me.

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Four hours later, I’m sitting up in bed and George – now named for my grandfather, not yours like we’d agreed – is snuggled on my chest. The midwife’s put a clear plastic cot at the bedside, but I can’t bear to put him down. If I do that, the quiet might snap and everything’ll come pouring out.

He’s beautiful, is George. Everyone thinks that their own babies are beautiful though, don’t they? Stops them being left on mountainsides.

Even without the lemonade light pouring in through the window and over him, he’d be beautiful.

The midwives are muttering and pointing from their station and they’ve asked me if there’s anyone they can call, but I don’t want to. Not yet. I haven’t even looked at George’s face. I’ve examined his hands, his feet, his dusting of yellow blonde hair, felt his heart beating inside his ribs… The face is different though. When I look at his face, I might see you, even though I know technically that’s impossible. Or I might see nothing of me and everything of a dead man’s face.

The air’s still weighty, both outside the window and in the ward. I close my eyes, listen to my body. Under a film of sweat, and under my skin, everything between my chest and knees feels stretched and ripped. An image of a steep scree dotted with tiny wrinkled humans sliding away into nothing appears behind my eyelids. You’re hiking upwards, picking your way among the stones and the bodies.

“Are you Rebecca?”

My eyes snap open. An unfamiliar woman’s standing there, dressed in a creased blue nurse’s uniform. The space between her pale eyebrows is furrowed and the rest of her face is worn, almost threadbare with tiredness.

“Hi.” She pushes a sweaty strand of hair off her forehead, rubs her hands on her uniform, studies her sensible shoes. “We never met, but I’m – I’m Amy. I’m Stephen Hibbs’ sister. They said – They said you wanted to see me. Thanks.”

On my chest, George stirs a little; I can feel his breath through the hospital gown.

“I know…” Amy rubs a toe against the floor, like there’s a spot she wants to get rid of. “I know the message was bad timing and I’m sorry. I just…

I didn’t dare come to her Claire’s funeral and I needed to see the baby.

I thought it’d already have been here and I could’ve come and seen you at home.”

Earlier, I experimented, poking my belly. It felt like a thin plastic bag full

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of pork pie jelly or cottage cheese. But even in this state it twists.

“Why do you want to see George?” I ask.

“Well, because he’s all that’s left, isn’t he? Of Stephen. And Claire.” Her eyes are getting redder by the second.

I told you we should’ve gone to a clinic. But you knew someone, you said: brother of a work friend, heart surgeon too, perennial lad, donates anyway. I didn’t want to meet him, I didn’t want to see his face, I trusted your judgment. We made jokes about turkey basters and got the job done and it was just us. All the way.

But now, this woman who I don’t know from Eve, this woman who’s said that when we hit that rut that you and she – This woman is staring at our baby and I want you here right now to tell me she’s some kind of nutter who made up everything I read earlier, some weed shoving up through cracks I didn’t even know were there.

George turns his head and Amy lets out a little gasp. He must look like Stephen. Talking to her is not an option; I’ve nothing to say. What would I say? That I watch you vanish from our driveway every morning? That I can’t sleep on your side of the bed still? That your clothes are still in the wardrobe and smell of the perfume we bought from that tiny shop in Ontario?

“I’d like you to go,” I tell her. “I don’t want to hear from you again. Is that clear? Your brother signed an agreement.”

Amy lowers her eyes. “I’m grieving her too, you know. It was difficult to write that message. I –” “Rebecca?” A midwife with a blinding smile’s walked over. “Your uncle just dropped this off for you. Says your aunt made him. He also says he’s done your drive for you, so the fumes’ll be gone by the time you take baby home.”

I don’t want to go home; here’s better. Here, I don’t know anyone and it smells alien and the sheets crackle, remind me this isn’t my space or anyone else’s. We enter, perform the simple business of splitting apart and leave.

Taking the bag, I peer in. The contents smell faintly of cigarette smoke, but they’re a jumble of everything I need. You ironed everything for the proper bag, bar the paper knickers. There are limits, you grinned.

I don’t care how hard it was for Amy to write that email and I tell her so. I don’t care about motorbike crashes or cancer or youth. Then there are tears and screaming – George’s and mine – and I afterwards I ask for water and the curtains to be drawn around the bed. s cr i b b l e

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Two days later, we arrive home in a taxi at teatime. The sun’s admitted defeat and the windscreen wipers have performed a manic dance all the way. I beat a hasty path for the front door, gripping George and the bag tight.

He doesn’t look like Stephen; he looks like my dad; I checked last night.

There isn’t a trace of Amy via Stephen, you’ll be pleased to hear. Your secret would’ve been safe.

The driveway dandelions are dark and shut tight against the rain, or maybe because Reg’s weedkiller is doing its thing. The rain’s also drowned out the light inside the house when I go in. I settle George in the Moses basket in the front room, because I’ve been told that’s what I should do.

They told me in the hospital that I’d be having daily visits, just to keep an eye, because I ticked a few boxes on the PND symptoms list. But I don’t feel depressed looking at George; I feel alive. You feel alive. I sit, watch him breathe and a brittle silence encases us as he sleeps on.

I don’t know how long I sit, but after a while the quiet’s cracked by the doorbell. When I open the door, Reg is there.

He sniffs. “The wife asked me to get the bag, and she wanted me to ask how you are.”

“Fine, ta.”

He gestures at the ground. “Did Number 23 as well. They weren’t in, so I didn’t have to speak to them. They’ll never know. You’ll thank me.”

I go for the bag, pass it out to him. He accepts and retreats down the drive.

Next to the door, a dandelion has shed its petals and burst into seed.

The rain must have washed the chemicals away. I pick it up and blow the seeds into the house, see them settle.

The morning after, George wakes me at seven. My parents arrived last night to help out and so we sneak down to the front door. I open it, peer out. Your car’s not there and neither are you, and the weeds have shrivelled overnight. — (s) Tamsin Macdonald is a Manchester-based secondary school teacher by trade who is in the process of earning her writing stripes. Recently, she was a finalist in the Storgy short story competition and one of her short stories is published by World Weaver Press in an anthology of sirens-themed fiction. She writes at great length (novels) and short length (flash fiction, short stories, poetry) and enjoys performing at spoken word nights in Manchester. s cr i b b l e

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MEET THE WRITERS D EEPLISH Photographs by Rebecca Lupton

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Writer and group facilitator, Anjum Malik

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Parveen

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Praveen

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Maliha

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meet the w ri te r s

MEET THE WRITERS LGBT WRITERS

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Opposite: Shammy. Above: Scott, Thomas.

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communication blues Phil Barling

Messages, missives, texts, e-mails entreaties demands decrees instructions & graffiti they creep up on you, you just can’t avoid ’em they’ve a habit of biting if you’ve annoyed ’em messages from Mumbai, some from unknown places are you the house owner, laugh out loud and smiley faces roll over Alan Turing, tell Berners-Lee the news I’ve got those Bluetooth, Broadband, gigabyte Google blues Our love affairs used to be conducted eye to eye now we only communicate thru texting and wi fi my on line love was really touch and go till I decided to touch and she told me to go she’s still wearing my kisses and I’m carrying the scars hurtful words hard as hailstones, hanging out in toolbars messages from everywhere, they hurt and disparage I just don’t believe in texts before marriage roll over Mr Zuckerberg tell us all the news I’ve got those firewire data system goddamn Google blues The fallout is a tear on one more jilted cheek a stain on your Facebook page, another wasted week all the jobs for people are disappearing fast, in banks, hotels, car parks, libraries and laundromats we used to use quills and pens, American Indians used smoke Once I saw a banner from a plane saying, “Gill, you married the wrong bloke” & when it all goes wrong, the only one who understands is the go-to-guru, the bloody IT man roll over Steve Jobs and Wozniak, tell Bill Gates the news I’ve got those mouse potato, phishing, spamming, cyberbully blues

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one thing missing Rukhsana Haq

In my life there is only one thing missing I haven’t given up hope or on Allah Who will hear my prayer one day When the time is right and bring about What I long for, it is there for me, I know It was once, almost to be, I was nearly Complete but God had other plans We can hope and pray as always The power above is the one who Decides what is to be – I believe that 25

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postcards from the past LGBT Writers

Smoking like a chimney he walks wherever I go – he ain’t go no choice Tracksuit, trainers and trolley the Dolly Sisters of Dolly Towers memories The Benidorm crowd that grows every November The Blackburn Girls friends in Blackpool, in Wrexham friends in Leeds memories Me, staying off school to help Mum move do the right thing Smoking a pipe, playing a trumpet Infectious smile If you need it, he’ll give it

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memories Smell of sausage and mash cheese and onion pie, I scranned the lot Sunday tea and banana bread Veg and roast beef on the hob Two o’clock I want more memories 27

Caretaker of a school that got knocked down telling me off in the office and then we laugh about it afterwards If you need it, he’ll give it: the last penny in his pocket infectious smile memories

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air is communicating with me Rakhshinda Aslam Edited by Rakhshindah, Shellah and Shamshad

Nobody with me when I wake up. I am alone. I feel like less air is surrounding me. It seems that nature is asleep and dull. A few times I open and close my eyes. Then I open my window. Air comes and goes from my body, then I realise nature can’t be asleep. Nature helps us to create our invisible light.

I inhale air. My fifth sense wakes up and helps my sixth since. Then I feel the hidden truth of nature coming to help me. Giving thanks is a good source of positive energy, so our abilities take our negative energies in a good direction. If we can’t thank nature, then we can’t thank anyone. Air gives me life energy, because we came from nature and go to nature.

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summer Maliha Parveen

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In the summer I help out By working in play-schemes We share looking after Local Children on their Holidays. I have many happy Memories of making many trips Playing games Today we are having a celebration Party for all the children’s achievements Who have completed Their first two weeks

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down the old bull and bush Fitton Hill 2 O’clock Club Andrew, Gail, Cath, Debbie, Dennis, Alan, Jeanie, Zoe

New Year’s Eve in the Brewer’s Tavern and she wouldn’t let me to the bar until I gave her a kiss Millenium, and the world changed at midnight Singing competitions and karaoke Glossop pubs with a reet good voice mad on David Bowie her hair the same as him cut short, two colours Grandad, sat on the sofa, smelling sweet Bakewell Tart with a cherry on top my head on his knee giving me the cherry every time He’d come in the chip shop while I was working dirty oily overalls, dark glasses, full of muck fingerprints and all sorts and he’d wind me up till I’d say ‘You’ll get what you’re given’ fish, chips, peas and gravy caring and stubborn always forgiving

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The only guy in the kitchen, he was my dinnerlady and then, a litter farther on, my brother-in-law MUFC on his shoulder, the first of many tattoos Sundays, all day doing the dinner Mum – cooking pies for the week, baking cakes: Dundee Cake, Treacle Cake I’d come back from work, open the door and the smell would hit me: home

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Netball in bare feet thirteen years old and ‘Ey up, the three perverts are here’ Dennis, Colin and John nicking off school to sit on the wall, and watch She moved away, years went by till she came back for her nephew’s wedding creamy suit, pink blouse and we walked out together to the Black Bull deserted except for us and the rest, as they say is history

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ramadan Attiya Malik

In my heart there are many messages of happiness bursting Ramadan has arrived, bringing us all together with smiles Leaving behind all the negative and looking forward to The new, being with families, loved ones, friends Loving each other, talking, praying, giving to charity Filling our homes with laughter, happiness and the Word of Allah, another year to celebrate and enjoy.

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the weather Nasim Aslam

The weather theses days is very strange For a few days it is lovely, sunny, hot And then it pours nonstop with rain Wind blows hard, harsh and noisy We human beings are helpless Against the works of nature Whatever it is doing outside Get out there, stay active Keeping going despite is the solution.

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*** Eric Maney

1st September 1939 Germany march into Poland Don’t give me those good old days Girls in corsets, stockings and stays Popping pitch, blowing up frogs Skipping ropes, sparkling clogs.

Gas light, candles, moonlight flicks, Organ music, silent flicks Yanks, leg tan, peroxide blondes, Sweets on ration, pawnshop cons Jam and bread, rabbit stew, Jaffa wrappers in the loo.

Germalene, derbac soap, White fivers, what a hope.

Coal fires, fog and smog, Warm beer bought in a jug.

Woodbines, pasher and wash houses, Peg rugs and button up trousers.

Dolly tubs and donkey stones, Board-of-guardian, dodgy loans.

Newspapers for table cloths, Diptheria, rickets and whooping cough.

Tuesday 8th May 1945

Eric Maney’s autobiographies Manchester Urchin and Boy Soldier can be found on Amazon Kindle as well as his novel Lady Florence. s cr i b b l e

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hello mother Anjum Malik

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why did you go away when death came, why didn’t you fight she wouldn’t look at me, I carried on you were young, why did you give in so many people come back from the brink but you you left and never looked back, I look back all the time through fading grainy photographs the tiny old biscuit tin, your jewellery box she was gone. Stars were in the river, magical, languid calm, deep, dark, inviting as a friend calling holding pieces of moon – burn me and then scatter me – I shout.

She was back , you’ll be all right. I’ll look after you, she said.

Liar… you never did, there were tears in her eyes.

The river like an old favourite song called, I wanted to go in and never come back, I shimmered my death colours bright. My mother’s trembling hand reached, entranced I watched – Hello mother – her tears were the river, she was moving out of reach. Mother – I called – Mother – why did you go away, when death came, why didn’t you fight you were young, why did you give in, so many people come back from the brink, she was fading, she stopped tears surged deep as an ocean, she held my hand, squeezed it tight, her eyes looking back into mine before she was gone.

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life Zohra Ahmed

Living alone is a difficult task With a partner it passes with ease When my daughters visit my home Is brighter through their chats and Laughter, when they go, I am quiet Sad. My children are my life If not for them, I would have nothing

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month of ramadan Shagufta Malik

Month of Ramadan comes only once After waiting for it for the whole year We clean, we prepare, we are so excited Waking up before sunrise to start the fast And then looking forward to breaking the fast Together, we say prayers together and alone And contemplate the word of Allah and what It all means, there is the rest and sleeping Days of prayer and being together Month of Ramadan comes only once After waiting for it for the whole year 37

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missing you Phil Barling

I was thinking of you and your Manhattan moods one minute your smile, a sea of joy the next, your face crumpled as a paper bag in the rain once, while shopping for flip-flops on the Rock on a night as black and wet as a labrador’s nose I was thinking of you & I bought two return tickets to St Peter’s Square before I realised I was alone

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my beautiful children Parveen Akhtar

My beautiful children A joy, so well behaved They are my pride I am their life They are happy With their children I am happy With them

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my life Jamila Begum

My life revolves around my children And also being with their children Like the sun going around the earth When they all return to their homes I am not alone, I am around their Memories and happy times spent And I pray for more to come

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missing you? just not yet!

Kathleen Proctor

I’m just not missing you yet, Your perfume impregnates my sheets, And the hollow of your head indents my pillow, You’ve left your pink toothbrush and your special shampoo.

Your shape is imprinted in the soft cushions of the sofa.

My fridge contains uneaten hummus and wraps Well past their sell by date.

Are we also past our sell by date?

You told me so and then you left.

But yet, I listen for the noise of your key in the lock.

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Has our best before date been and gone?

I remember our best before all this happened date, When things seemed simple and we loved.

Your Jazz music fills my solitary silence, and I am blue.

But yet, I listen for the noise of your key in the lock.

You still sing to me in the bath, the words bouncing, echoing.

I watch you dancing, twirling, on the kitchen floor, Your sharp stiletto heels tapping rhythms into my brain.

I know it will not last, but I am just not missing you yet.

Listen! Is that the noise of your key in the lock?

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motormouth Chris Bainbridge

You’re not a bad guy but you’re obviously high, your face is going red and there’s that look in your eyes that I’ve seen before when you start slamming doors and you’re talking too fast, see I think I know the score, You made a valid point thirty seconds ago, we could have a conversation if you talked more slow, Three hundred words a minute, I think I’ve reached my limit, there’s a whirlpool in your brain and I think I’m falling in it, It’s a hundred things and then a thousand others, I’m coming up for air because I’m feeling kind of smothered, You’ve the arrogance of youth but you wrap it in untruths, silence can be golden and now you’re the living proof, The basis of your mind-race is what I find absurd, tying me in knots, you think I’m hanging on your words, You hardly pause for breath when you’re going on and on, I think I’m going deaf and my patience has gone, Getting off your face is the way you cope, getting out of this place is now my only hope, So for now I’ll say goodbye, we’ll make another date, I’ll try again tomorrow when your head’s a bit straighter, (Top one, nice one, sorted, later!)

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*** Rakshindah Aslam

As little infants, we cry, we smile, we frown, we laugh. We communicate through our expressions and actions.

When we are a little older than schooling, we then speak with family and teachers.

We want to speak but we can’t. Teachers don’t always have time to listen.

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Then in practical life after our twenties, our early life helps us. That time is very important.

People talk and twist things, maybe they are embarrassed.

We shouldn’t be embarrassed to share our weak points. We try to cover our weaknesses and place the blame on others.

Nature helps us to speak the truth. When we are emotionally true then natures hidden truth helps us.

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r ep ort

Autumn is a busy time of year for Cartwheel Arts, what with National Poetry Day at Radcliffe Library and the Arts and Wellbeing Conference. As well as these exciting events Danielle Porter is arranging the annual Scribble Festival at Chapter One Books on Sunday 6th – Monday 7th of November. We caught up with her as she finalises the details.

Hi Danielle, tell us about Scribble Fest, what is the theme, what can we expect?

There isn’t really a theme for Scribble Festival more a meeting of original minds, a gathering of people who want to put their thoughts into some form of creative writing. On the Sunday you will be able to participate in workshops in Flash Fiction with award winning and published authors David Gaffney and Sarah-Clare Conlon (pictured), alongside workshops in songwriting, zine making and poetry. Also self-publishing platform MacGuffin will be on hand to record your work and you will have the chance to perform.

In the evening you can watch or participate in the Poetry Slam with a cash prize up for grabs, listen to Manchester’s finest, and catch a live reading from Roger Robinson, an acclaimed writer and musician and chosen by Decibel as one of 50 writers who have influenced the BlackBritish writing canon.

Monday will be a day of conversations and networking, discussing publishing, partnership working and social activism – can the words we write and speak change the narrative of the world we live in? Followed by speed networking, your chance to meet the publishers and organizations that you want to work with across greater Manchester, to share ideas and discuss potential partnerships. s cr i b b l e

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You’ve worked on a number of different festivals in the past, tell us a little about your background Oooh! Well firstly I love festivals and have visited too many to list, I got the bug in my twenties and since then I started working on them, from organising community festivals across the North West, to compering In The City, Hungry Pigeon Festival and my biggest experience to date, Kuwait Stock. Currently as well as working for Cartwheel Arts, I work for Eden Festival in Scotland organising their press and marketing.

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Les Malheureux David Gaffney & Sarah-Clare Conlon.

Photograph Kezia Tan.

What do you think Scribble Fest adds to the Tell Us Another One project?

The festival gives us another opportunity to meet with the people we have been working with across Rochdale, Bury and Oldham, to get their feedback, which helps form the Tell Us Another One Report. It also helps us to engage with new people, and gives us an opportunity to showcase Tell Us Another One projects and raise our profile. For the participants it’s a chance hopefully for them to try something new, to inspire their creative writing minds, to meet like-minded individuals, and to have the opportunity to get their work heard and published, which all form part of the projects objectives.

The Sunday and Monday tickets are free. You can register your interest for the Monday panel and networking session with Danielle Porter at danielle@cartwheelarts.org.uk s cr i b b l e

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Cartwheel Arts, along with eleven children and their parents, have been working together with poet Saquib Chowdhury to create a series of bilingual talking books.

The Bilingual Authors Project is based at Falinge Park High School and those involved have produced stories in both their mother tongue and in English. The stories written by the children of Falinge Park have been transformed into illustrated audio books and during summer the authors visited All.FM to share their works and experiences.

Anita Jaffa-Brown, a teacher at Falinge Park, has overseen the project from the beginning: “I strongly believe in story writing as a form of therapy; a way of processing issues that children may be having, and a way to create confidence in a community. It’s important on many levels, and Saquib gave them the confidence to jump into writing”.

The project is predominantly made up of children from Bangladeshi families, with several other young people from Algeria, Albania and Pakistan also involved. “Each child uses another language at some capacity in their lives and the project hopes to improve confidence amongst them.” says Anita. The project not only gives a voice to these young authors but promotes bilingualism. s cr i b b l e

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With the expertise of poet Saquib Chowdhury to guide them, the authors have been able to develop their writing skills. “We’ve explored what makes a great story and recapped some favourite movies and songs, then started to think about stories from our own lives” say Saquib, “We had four sessions and the children learnt to understand conflict and drama, and to create a middle and an end”.

The stories created include a gripping horror set in an asylum, and a close encounter with a strong current in a Bangladeshi river. With the use of a rather nifty smart pen these riveting narratives can be translated at the touch of a button. “We’ve set the pen to read in their mother tongue and in English, but you can choose and listen to the book in any language you choose.” says Anita.

The show that created for All.FM was delivered in a variety of languages by both parents and children, and the children were given the opportunity to present and interview live on air.

With plans to showcase the books at the Literature and Ideas Festival in Rochdale, and in the Bangladeshi Community Centre, the authors hope to have their voices heard all across the region with no language constraints to hold them, or their readers, back. — (s) s cr i b b l e

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Over the summer holidays we ran creative writing and digital sessions for young people in Fitton Hill, Oldham, working in partnership with Villages Housing and the Eden Project.

The group learnt several skills including song writing and producing with artist Claire Mooney, MCing and poetry with Martin Stannage, and film making and story telling with Edwin Pink.

One of the objectives of the project was to improve confidence and self worth through performance, and in the end some of the members took the plunge and performed live at the Fitton Hill Gala and presented on their own short feature.

The project ended with a final packed out showcase at The Brew, with presentations, poetry and the first screening of their film. There was laughter, singing, and much food gobbled.

Thank you Fitton Hill for having us and we hope to work with your again soon!

You can watch their video on our YouTube Chanel: cartwheelartsonline

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Events: Autumn/Winter 2016 Rochdale Literature & Ideas Festival Michelle Green: Sparks Creative Workshop Number Ten Gallery Sunday 23rd October, 4pm. £3 Amani Creatives: Global Fusion Church of St. Mary in the Baum Sunday 23rd October, 7pm. FREE rochdaleliteraturefestival.co.uk

Black History Month Chris Jam FREE Poetry Workshops Deeplish Community Centre Thursday 6th October, 11am – 1pm.

Moorside Community Centre Thursday 6th October, 2pm – 4pm Darnhill Library Monday 10th October, 1pm – 3pm Demesne Community Centre Thursday 20th October, 2pm – 4pm Dumers Lane Library Friday 21st October, 11am – 1pm Spotland Community Centre Wednesday 26th October, 9.15am – 11.15am

Art and Wellbeing Impact: Led by You Art for Wellbeing conference Thursday 13th October, 9:30am – 4pm Chancellors Hotel (The University of Manchester) 100 Moments Week Sunday 23rd – 30th October Full details at 100momentsuk.wordpress.com Art for Wellbeing Studio Open Day Dandelion Create, Rochdale Friday 28th October, 10.30am – 3pm

Invitation to Submit Material For issue 22 of Scribble we are looking for submissions on the theme of ‘independence’.

Independence can be about the individual or the community. It can mean physical independence or emotional.

If you are a writer or a poet based in Greater Manchester or the wider North West we want to hear from you. Send your submissions to: paul@cartwheelarts.org.uk Deadline 12th January 2017

Join in!

Anyone can join our Tell Us Another One regular writing groups which we support across Greater Manchester, Boroughs of Rochdale, Oldham and Bury. Groups meet monthly and are always looking for new people to join them.

First Thursday 11am – 1pm — Deeplish Community Centre Hare Street Rochdale OL11 1JT First Thursday 2pm – 4pm — Seedfield Moorside Community Centre and Library Parkinson Street Bury BL9 6NY Second Monday 1pm – 3pm — Darnhill Library Argyle Parade Heywood OL10 3RY * Langley Writers are an independent writing group.

For more information: 01706 361 300

Third Thursday LGBT Writers 7pm – 9pm — Middleton Arena LCpl Joel Halliwell VC Way Middleton M24 1AG Third Thursday Langley Writers * 2pm – 4pm — Demesne Community Centre Asby Close Middleton M24 4JF

Third Friday 11am – 1pm — Dumers Lane Library 245 Dumers Lane Radcliffe M26 2GN Fourth Tuesday 2pm – 4pm — Fitton Hill Library Fircroft Road Oldham OL8 2QD Fourth Wednesday 9am – 11am — Spotland Community Centre 92 – 96 Spotland Road Rochdale OL12 6PJ