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CELEBRATE From Keats to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle our writer submissions occasion the voices that are now lost and different ways to celebrate.

THE FESTIVAL OF WORDS A closer look at Nottingham’s first Literary Festival in decades.


Jemma Utley Editor in Chief Olivia Auckland Co-Editor Jennifer Mclean Columnist Leanne Cartwright Columnist Symon Rose Columnist Hamid Jalloh Marketing Samuel Pyle Creative Director

SPECIAL THANKS Abbie Louise Birtles Cover Art kirederf7 Illustration The-Chairman Illustrations

INSIDE FROM THE EDITOR Welcome to the second edition! Firstly, I would like to say thank you for reading, and if you read our last one welcome back and enjoy the improvements! Our February edition’s theme is ‘Celebration’ so join us as we celebrate the written word and the little moments that make life worth living. This month we are pleased to introduce Nottingham’s first Festival of Words since 1970, some more budding writers, an exclusive interview with Down Radio who are an awesome new band from Leeds set to make ears bleed nationwide, interviews with established writers including Zachary Kluckman a notorious and award winning performance poet from New Mexico, some lovely amateur photography and artwork, and hell of a lot more.

What I am most pleased to present to you is our magazine’s new look put together by our Creative Director Samuel Pyle. This month we take advantage of modern technology with videos, slideshows, and music! Every month we look to improve so feedback is always welcome, but I think you’ll agree things are already looking pretty special. We want new writers, new photographers, and new artists to keep this love train going so please submit your work. Also, if you know anyone who would benefit from submitting then tell them about us! Enjoy x The Editor.








We’re at Nottingham’s first festival of words since the 1970’s to celebrate the written word with old and new writers at Nottingham Trent University. We also reveal A.L Kennedy’s secret to writing success.

The Tongue is out for knowledge as we have an old fashioned chin wag with the up and coming band Down Radio, the award winning slam poet Zachary Kluckman, and get some valuable writing advice from Robert Swereda.

We keep letting you into what makes us tick with our hopes, hates, and embarrassing drunken behaviour.







We showcase wonderful writing that celebrates the happiest moments in your life, your favourite writers, and just being alive. We look forward to seeing more from you guys in the future.

We shamelessly plug our own work! Enjoy!

This month we have reviewed Rebel Moms by Davina Rhine, The Innocent Mage by Karen Miller, and due to the pending film adaptation of The Wizard of Oz we revisit this classic written by L. Frank Baum.





Welcome to this month’s special feature!

with lofty ceilings to cram the mass of

weekend there was a sense of unity and

It’s the inside scoop on Nottingham

imaginations into one building! This

inspiration that was very much focused

Trent University’s (NTU’s) contribution

festival reminded the team and me of the

on helping new writers, encouraging old

to Nottingham’s first Festival of Words,

importance of being around other writers

ones, and showcasing talent!

which ran throughout the city from

after graduating from University as it’s

In this section Olivia Auckland and

9th-24th February. NTU hosted from the

very easy to feel alone and uninspired

Jennifer McLean will be reviewing some

Newton Building on Saturday 16th and

without regular contact with the local

of the events, such as writing and life

Sunday 17th, and it was a fitting setting,


advice from the uncompromising author






Introduction Jemma Utley


A.L. Kennedy Keynotes Olivia Auckland


Why LGBT Writing? Jemma Utley Here is LeftLion Jemma Utley Tongue Magazine’s very own Olivia Auckland inside the Festival like some crazy trojan.

Between the 9th and 24th of February this year Nottingham hosted its first Festival of Words in nearly four decades. Help it become a regular appearance on Nottingham’s cultural and literary scene. Show your support by following these for future updates: and Facebook

A.L Kennedy, a vivid discussion about

feature in the magazine. In order to do

whether LGBT writing needs a separate

this successfully and consistently we

section in the book shop, enactments

are on the lookout for voluntary field

of NTU Creative writing MA students’

journalists who are local to the city so

screenplays, readings from the writers

please, get in touch with us; we’re really



nice. Email us with your CV and samples of

Magazine and finally, a review of the




your writing to recruitment@tonguemag.

Species anthology that was compiled by, if you’re awesome and we like your

some more of this year’s MA students. We

style we will put you forward to the next

will also be introducing some new faces

step! In the meantime, sit back with your

influencing the literary event scene in

hot/alcoholic drink and enjoy the reviews!

Nottingham. Many thanks to the organisers; Robin Vaughan




Antonia Bell, and a special thank you to the Media Officer Ian Douglas who gave us our press passes! If you would like more information or footage from the rest of the festival you can find it here: I look forward to attending next year, with a better camera this time... Over the next few editions we hope to make these event reviews a regular 5

Jemma Utley Editor

pg10 pg11-12

LoveLace Olivia Auckland


Species Review Jemma Utley


Festival Photos



Olivia Auckland Co-Editor


Where it began

riety of conditions that meant they would

and stand-up comedian A.L. Kennedy

Kennedy graduated Warwick University

writing group. Together they wrote poet-

sits before a lecture theatre of eager fans,

in 1986, in the middle of a recession, and

ry; a collaboration which allowed those

writers and press. While Kennedy is in-

struggled to find a job. In a sense, Kenne-

without a voice, to find one. Challenging

troduced she appears at ease, hearing her

dy explained, this gave her a gift – the gift

the notion of group writing, forever rid-

work complimented dotingly, by a slightly

of desperation. As most writers and cre-

iculed for being fake and inexpressive,

quivering NTU lecturer.

ative can vouch, when you are so close

Kennedy brings forth writing as a ther-

to the edge of your mind, your patience,

apeutic process. Working with people in

or even your life, desperation can be an

prisons, psychiatric hospitals and psy-

infinitely powerful tool. For Kennedy, this

cho geriatric wards, Kennedy addressed

situation gave her no choice:

the archaic classifications of “the writer”,

Renowned short-story writer, novelist, Guardian blogger, multi-award winner

“For some reason I make people nervous” Kennedy says, before commenting on the distribution of the guests, who have avoided the front row.

never be literate, became Kennedy’s first

demonstrating through her work that the

“All I could do was what my heart wanted to do.”

essence of writing is simply in establishing what you want to say and how best to say it.

Kennedy earned a living for ten years working with people with “special needs”, She’s hilarious, as we knew she would be,

noting that the term would now be ‘so-

with a dry sense of humour and a reserved

cially excluded’ and the socially excluded

delivery. She gesticulates madly, accentu-

would come to include, well, everyone.

ating every syllable, and I want to grab

She explains that her employment be-

onto her hands and ask her how? How did

came, surprisingly, a wonderful way to

you do this? Will I be able to do this too?

get into writing. The group, all with a va-

“My experience was that it made people happier. And medically speaking, it made people better.” Kennedy recalls a poetry recital from a group of people who would receive ‘funny looks on buses’, and the ‘curdling’ smiles of the social workers and community education workers, as they witnessed the groups’ raw and fearless approach to poetry. By offering this tool to those who are considered weak, and low-status, Kennedy was controversially giving people authority. It seems a horrifyingly present belief today that literature and writing is off limits to anyone who is considered lacking in mental capacity or social privilege. Writing is still a process considered high-status and reserved for the intellectually gifted. As Kennedy declares, “If you find your voice, then you find your voice,


there is no messing around with that, you

himself to be. He had been beaten, her

find your voice,” banging her fist on the

grandfather explained, not by his oppo-

desk, as if to end the debate.

nent, but by himself.

“I owe, if you like, the disabled community, my entire career because they helped me to understand the power of language. And that it could change the world. And that it would change people’s lives.”

Although it took decades, Kennedy came to realise:

“I can defeat myself with fear at a moment’s notice.” Her grandfather’s story became a sustaining one, and after years of constructing lists regarding the ‘rules’ of writing, it came down to one golden key; be without fear. Kennedy talks of fearful young writers, and claims they often claim that their plot intentionally has no meaning, or their protagonist intentionally has no feelings. Kennedy asserts that this is a writer being ‘shit scared’; this is the result of fearing that your essence will leak through the cracks and you will be exposed. She laughs to herself, and points out that this is one of the joys of being a writer- you don’t have to be there when you are vulnerable and exposed. But by cultivating this fear, by tackling the tasks that you think are beyond you, by writing some-

The Golden Key: Fearlessness

thing you believe to be beyond your capabilities; that is when writing becomes really wonderful fun. She urges the writer

Kennedy’s latest works, On Writing (out

to face the blank page or the white screen

7th March), is a three part examination of

and ask “Who are these people? What is

writing. The dividing section of the book,

this about?”

a story about her grandfather, is the section Kennedy claims to be “the most im-

Kennedy ends this chapter, with a moving

portant…the key to everything that you

statement. It is one which leaves the room

need to know in order to write”. She reads

hushed, and me feeling very…unexpected-

it to us, and we are a sea of silence, ab-

ly powerful:

sorbing every word. The section focuses on one story in particular: the one and only boxing match her grandfather ever lost. Her grandfather had claimed that he had climbed into the ring viewing his opponent as someone better, and stronger, than he believed


“Procrastination, half-heartedness, cowardice; they are all fruits of my fear. And they have all robbed me daily, sometimes hourly; of joy…Our nightmares are fearful enough. Our dreams, I think, must be better and louder and unafraid.”




Questions from the Audience What is your opinion on Ghost Writers? I’ve only ever met one ghost writer and she was truly the most soulless, deadeyed person I’ve ever met. The only way it could possibly work is if you work alongside someone in a therapeutic way and as a creative act. It could be a better experience and you could really catch their voice. But unfortunately that is not what people seem to do. Do you feel a responsibility to use your craft in bleak times to inspire people? I don’t think I’m Che Guevara or something. If you are a loud person, and especially if you are being paid to be loud, then you should use your loudness to some kind of end. With journalism, yes, because you are mostly dealing with specifically contemporary issues. It’s difficult with fiction, but there is still a level of responsibility. I think the nature of fiction is to show you and to allow you to be in the mind of someone else. You might

be in the mind of a fictional character, but

“Who are you writing for?” so not the

it has power in allowing us to recognise

market audience, and not the teacher

that other people are as important as

that gave you a low grade, or the relative

ourselves. That has to be political.

who doesn’t agree with your views… you shouldn’t write for someone who

Have you faced difficulties being a

made your soul get smaller. People need

woman and a writer?

to adjust in their minds who they are writing for, to someone of a similar level

Being a woman I have been expected to

of intelligence, a similar personality,

say certain things at a certain time. And

someone you respect, someone who you

when I haven’t I have been told I was

love, very much. Not a scary monster.

wrong. I have tried to stay away from this issue, but yes, I think the characteristics

Is there ever a reason to stop writing? To,

of a writer and the lifestyle are something

say, stop yourself from being destroyed?

people accept in men more; like the notion of spending time with other people, even

I believe that, your mind will not allow

if they are fictional people. But I make

you to go somewhere that it doesn’t

women characters that I believe in. And I

want you to go, unless, maybe, you have

write about stories that I feel in some way

a mental illness. But yes, writing does eat

are true. Lots of people think that by using

your time. You get compulsive-obsessive

my initials I was trying to hide my gender,

about it, and it can be very hard to have

but I wasn’t, I was just hiding.

real relationships. If you are emotionally, intellectually, spiritually tired then take a

What were some of the writing tips you

break. Take a long break and re-charge

used to believe in? “Write what you know” is a limiting and boring rule. You should find something you don’t currently know, and learn about it and write about it. 8

THE KEYNOTES At NTU’s Newton Building






and reassurance, especially now that ho-

uals can be faithful, and just because your

mosexual sex has become increasingly

five year old son likes pink clothes doesn’t

The discussion panel was chaired by Rus-

mainstreamed; it is time to move forward.

mean he’s transgender/transsexual! And

sell Christie with Greg Woods the first pro-


fessor of queer studies in Britain, Victoria

ginalisation incurred through the use of

Oldham of Bold Stroke Books, Nicki Hastie

stereotypical characters such as stylish,

group came to regarding the future of

a member of the Sapphist Writers group,

fit, white men to describe gay sensibili-

Queer Literature, was to ensure that mar-

and Jonathan Kemp an awarding winning

ties. They addressed the fact that ‘as long

ginalised groups within the community

writer and lecturer. They discussed the is-

as you have enough money to buy things

are represented; race, age, and class dif-

sues behind categorising Queer Literature

then they don’t care what you do with your

ferences should not be ignored in a genre

in bookshops also with describing your-

genitals’ (Kemp) in American consumerist

of writing focused on representation. Of

self as a Queer writer. As a bisexual I could

culture and the negative repercussions

course this brings up a series of issues,

identify with the importance of having a

this has on the intellectual perception of

such as making sure that those that are

section of books on queer literature rath-

Queer society. A certain large bookstore

marginalised are encouraged to repre-

er than allowing those books to become

did not initially stock Bold Stroke Books

sent themselves to maintain relevance

muddled in with the rest as, when there

under the misguided assumption that gay

with their audience. However, it also begs

are those moments where you are looking

people don’t read. Needless to say, having

the question: can a straight writer write

to relate with that part of yourself, they

completed a literature degree, I can tell

queer characters and visa-versa? But on

have to be accessible. In the same way it

you with conviction that this is NOT the

the whole it reiterates the problem: can

is important to be identified as a Queer

case. Plus, you try telling that to the rest of

a writer write about what they have not

writer as it means that you are voice for

the Tongue Magazine team; only half are

lived convincingly, and if so, how?

that community. It’s not just about hav-

straight. I apologise for the outburst but

ing literature that is focused on sex, and

it reflects the passions that were stirred

that this expectation in Queer Literature

up by that revelation during the discus-

is actually damaging to the development

sion! Just to make it clear to a certain

of the genre. It is important to continue

large bookstore: gay men can eat carbo-

catering to those that look to it for advice

hydrates, not all lesbians are butch, bisex-

They also considered the mar-

The conclusion the discussion

Jemma Utley Editor


Jemma Utley Editor






On the backdrops of some unique and

pentameter about John Smith and James

honest and expressive and I would suggest

beautiful illustrations by Steve Larder,

Pratt who were the last two men to be

adding any poetry by Greg Woods to your

Aly Stoneman who is the poetry editor of

executed for sodomy, as witnessed by

reading list. He is part of the LGBT Writing

LeftLion magazine introduced a group of

Charles Dickens at Newgate prison in

discussion that I attended earlier in this

poets that had submitted in the last twelve

1895. He faces the injustice of the act and

feature. He is definitely not ‘just a gay poet.’

months. Here are a few of our favourites.

the dehumanisation of those men, human

Starting proceedings was Alex ‘Motormouf’

beings left nameless as wild beasts. His

had set up a stand at the festival called

Young with a poem called dedicated to

imagery and voice is vivid and intense and

‘Balls to Poetry’ a group activity where

Rosa Parks, a beat-boxing local poet; he

contradicts Dickens’ silence regarding his

people threw a ball to each other and

spoke with truth, viciousness, and quick

opinion of the execution. His second poem

wrote a line of poetry each that followed

rhythm about how the experiences of

is called ‘Dream Midnight’ about forbidden

on from the last. Her poem called ‘Black

Rosa Parks are still as relevant today (don’t

sexual yearning and stifled love. His work is

Box’ was about a plane crash; detailed and

Next up was Rosie Garner who

forget to check out the video at the end of

from the perspective of a passenger, as he

this article!).

thinks back to a box of keepsakes back at






Patience with a poem that got her the

Nottingham Poetry Society Prize called ‘I

Hubbard of the poem called ‘Jack and the

Didn’t Want To be a Victim.’ It discussed

Beanstalk’ about when her son found a

gang culture and knife crime and how it

cannabis plant in the alleyway by her home.

spreads through fear, and that an innocent

In a distinctive tongue-in-cheek style she

child can end up wielding a knife and

discusses how when money is running out

getting killed. It was hauntingly blunt

any opportunity to make money has to be

and clear and definitely deserved the

made; even when it comes to breaking the

recognition from the society.

law. She has once again provided us with

another example of her excellent work

Greg Woods, a lecturer from

Nottingham Trent University who reads two poems one a sonnet in iambic


After was a reading from Michelle

with a poem called ‘Perfect Timing.’





of LeftLion’s excellent poetry you can pick up their magazine from many Nottingham bookstores or have a look at their wonderful website! They are an inspiration for our little ezine

ABOUT LEFTLION launched on 1 September 2003 Leftlion are a Nottingham based magazine that is both printed and available online. They focus on all aspects of Nottingham culture,

specifically the local music and arts scene. Their mission is to give local ‘creative sorts’ a chance that they might not get from anywhere else.




With one of the UK’s longest established

postgraduate creative writing courses,

examples of the excellent standard of

Nottingham Trent University brings to the

literature being produced in Nottingham,

Festival of Words a series of readings from

we couldn’t possibly cover them all. But

the work of this year’s MA Creative Writing

a special mention has to be made to

students. Rehearsed and performed by

Georgina Lock. Her reading of Birthday

local actors, the work is introduced by

Present reminded many of us BA Creative

Georgina Lock, a senior Creative Writing

Writing postgraduates that we had

lecturer at NTU, and a writer, director and

been truly lucky to be taught by such

producer of short films and plays.

a wonderful writer during our time at

Nottingham Trent University.

Working with the theme of

With so many readings, all

‘Love’, the readings open with a powerful

and fierce monologue; the desperate

an example of the fluidity of writing.

and childish voice of a “mad woman”

For those who believe poetry, or the

reflecting on and questioning love, sex,

monologue, to be static and outdated,

beauty, and family. And, of course – the

we urge you to attend further events

ineffective search for “Mr Right”. Written

from poetry performers and monologue

by Trevor Huddlestone and performed by

performers alike. Events like this reassure

Becky Matter, this piece, entitled When I

the writer, and the non-writer, that

Look Back at my Life, was both touching

writing, literature, and creativity are

and amusing, and graced the Festival with

more alive now than they ever were

an example of natural, unadulterated writing.





Loneliness of the Travel Writer, was written by Nick Jowett and performed by Julia Damassa and Peter Rumney. Damassa’s



captured beautifully the voice of a travel writer during her stay at “The Boutique Hotel in Bakewell”. Making the mouths of the listeners’ water almost immediately, the piece opens with the sensuous descriptions of the chef’s famous gourmet food. Alternating between the strong, independent, and slightly bitter voice of the woman as a travel writer and the true, lonely voice of the woman as an individual, this poignant piece of writing reminds us of the vulnerability of humanity. 13

Finally, this event was again

Olivia Auckland Co-Editor






This year’s NTU MA Creative Writing

students have put together an excellent

Creatures Die Every One’ is a cold and

anthology of work called Species and I

haunting study of childhood trauma that

had the pleasure of hearing some of their

led to homicidal psychosis written as a

work being read out at the Festival of

poem. The innocent voice is demonised

Words. The talented writers that came up

into one that is not aware of its progres-

on stage presented their work confident-

sion into madness. The repetition of the

ly and did justice to their hard work. The

title line shows how the protagonist is

careful writing embodied David Almond’s

stuck in the first moment of trauma. As

(the author of Skellig) interpretation of it,

Dixon couples this with little indication of

‘This fine book brings together a range of

the passage of time the reader is left un-

writers with impressive application to the

sure of the age of the protagonist in the

craft of writing, and to the conjuring of its

final grisly stanza. Out of all the pieces I

art’. The variety of work brings together

have read, this one has remained with me,

so many different styles that are at the

still unsettling my thoughts.

forefront of contemporary writing.

In contrast, Joanne Dixon’s ‘My

This is only a small example of

For example the prose piece,

the quality of the work within this excel-

Skipping School and Other Things That

lent anthology, and I would recommend

Albert Einstein Taught Me, by Clare Cole

purchasing a copy. I look forward to see-

questions the continued importance of in-

ing more work created by the MA writers

stitutionalised education as the internet is

and will certainly be reading next year’s

a universally accessible educational tool.


This is written under the guise of a young girl who has taken Einstein’s words, ‘the only thing that interferes with my learning is my education’, very seriously. Cole writes the narrator’s voice convincingly without a patronising representation of the voice of a child. The effect that this has Jemma Utley Editor

is to create a playful and honest piece that throws issues with the education system into relief.





click me


e h -T


Z a c h a r y Kluckman is an award

Tongue: What projects have you taken

Margaret Randall, among others. I won the

part in?

Red Mountain Press National Poetry Prize loaded

and have been nominated for the Pushcart

winning poet from New Mexico who


question, I have been very active in the




Prize and Best of the Net. I also have a book

has paved the way for young writers by,

poetry and literary scene for several

called Earthships: A New Mecca Poetry

despite hitting rock bottom, becoming

years, and a writer for long before that. To

Collection that we published ourselves

a rallying call amongst slam poets.

answer your question, here are a few of

anthologizing New Mexico’s poets, and

He developed the Slam Poet Laureate

the highlights.

a chapbook called ‘Per-City Poems’. I

program in New Mexico and has compiled

I recently had my book Animal in our Flesh

also have been published nationwide

a number of poetry anthologies.

published, which received some very nice

and have had audio tracks of my spoken

comments from Jimmy Santiago Baca and

word available on over 500 radio stations 16

kirederf7 Artist


worldwide. I’m also New Mexico’s highest

legacy I can leave my children but I knew

spoken or written language, so it is a

ranked spoken word artist for the last

I wanted to at least leave them with the

person’s first tongue, you know? When the

4 years consecutively and have toured

faith and the determination to take the

words began to be added, they allowed

and performed all over the nation. Also

risks and pursue their dreams.

music to develop further and express

worth mentioning is the fact that I have

more succinct thoughts, to narrow the

been part of making world history with

Was there a particular author that

abstract into more focused imagery and

the Slam Poet Laureate program which I

sparked your desire to become a writer?

almost narrative thought. I tend to view

developed and as an organizer of the 100

Good question. Actually, and perhaps not

poetry and music as the same soul in

Thousand Poets for Change event.

too oddly, it was a musician who really

different suits. I definitely draw more

inspired me to write. Roger Waters work

from people like Komunyakaa, Hicok and

That’s very impressive!

with Pink Floyd was so profound and

Hoagland these days because I think they

Thank you! I have been blessed in many

so utterly and implicitly HUMAN that it

are quite simply, geniuses of the eye, able


made me want to be able to capture the

to capture and reflect human beings in

essential aspects of life and humanity

powerful and potent ways. For instance,

Now that I have been sufficiently

the way he did. Like I said, I was an

Hoagland’s poem, The Story of the Father,

impressed, let’s take a few steps back.

observer of human nature because of

made me weep openly in a Tattered Cover

How long have you been writing for?

my introverted nature, and to realize

bookstore in Denver. Are you familiar with the Sublime period?

I’ve been writing since I was 13 years old,

someone could build art and connect to

so that makes it 25 years now. Oddly I only

others through writing was a challenge

started really doing anything with the

that stirred my imagination. I grew up

No, I haven’t looked into it, short

writing about 7 years ago, even though it

around musicians and always appreciated


was always part of my identity.

the affective nature of music, the almost

Basically it was sort of a sub-period

Why did you delay making writing your

transcendental quality of well written

of the Romantic era, and the artwork,

career? Did life get in the way or weren’t when I started out I wanted

philosophy, poetry, music, etc... All tended

you confident enough in your work?

to achieve that same level of connecting

to reflect on two major foci, essentially it

Honestly, I think as a born introvert, I was

to the basic, inherent things that define

was the period when artists were focusing

always more of an observer of human

us as people. I still write very much with

on nightmares and the ideas of man

nature and I think I felt like no one was

the goal of being one human connecting

versus nature. So it was, for me at least,

interested in my confessional style of

with another through the simple, and

a magnificent time because there was

writing. I knew from the time of my first

not so simple, experiences of being alive.

an effort to understand and find beauty

memories I wanted to be an artist and

Since then, I have developed a passionate

within the very things that scare us on the

when I realized words were my medium,

love for several poets who inspire me on

most basic levels...

it became very clear what I wanted to

a daily basis...Tony Hoagland, Bob Hicok,

do. But I never really had anyone in my

Yusef Komunyakaa, Sharon Olds, Adrian

So it’s almost a blending of the Romantic

ear telling me how to approach it. Also,

Blevins, Dylan Thomas and some of the

and the Gothic?

life did get in the way for a long time. I

contemporary spoken word artists like

Indeed! A fascinating, but very short lived,

spent many years struggling with extreme

Buddy Wakefield, Jeanann Verlee; they are

time that went almost unnoticed in the

poverty, drug abuse, and homelessness

all a major inspiration for me these days.

history books; but that idea of finding

for a time. So it wasn’t until I reached a

beauty in the ugliness is still something

certain level of maturity in my life that

People do forget the link between lyrics

I realized I was facing the prospect of

and poetry and the ability that lyrics

getting old one day and facing the what

have to unify the listeners under causes.

if questions. I don’t know what kind of

I agree. Music is probably older than


that drives me to write as well. Jemma Utley Editor


Jemma Utley Editor

SOME SOLID ADVICE INTERVIEW Robert Swereda is a member of the Filling

Tongue: What made you want to start

Station collective in Calgary, Canada.


He studied creative writing at Capilano

Robert: I`ve tried my hand in a few different

Your visual poetry is beautiful, yet

University in Vancouver. Recent work has


somewhat incomprehensible; can you

been published in: In Air/Air Out, Steel

painting. For me, writing has a lot of

explain the creative process behind it?

Bananas, CV2, The Enpipe Line Anthology

flexibility, genres and styles to poke at and

Some pieces are more like alphabet

and Poetry Is Dead. He`s a 30-something

work with. When I was more involved


that spends half the time traveling. His

with photography, I liked taking photos

manipulate the text of words and phrases

first printed work was featured in The

of graffiti, and my painting was a hybrid

the way I imagine a sculptor would

Capilano Review in 2009.

of calligraphy and expressionism. For

approach a block of clay. Other work look

me, writing and images always meshed

like collage pieces, and they are. There is




together in some form or another.





also a collection of pieces that match old photographs with newspaper text, and another piece where I take characters from Asian languages and make a “translation” of how they appear to me. I’m interested in how we communicate through sight and sound. I enjoy the interaction with the viewer and how I can affect them with images; bizarre, puzzled, and uncomfortable, interested, and intrigued.

I want to leave them

questioning. The first form of written communication was in cave paintings, then fast forward to Mayan and Egyptian, still images.

BEYOND WORDS We will be showing off some of Robert’s visual poetry at the end of this interview. Don’t miss it.


What inspired you to work visually?

walking around the city, my back yard, on

As mentioned before I worked with imag-

my laptop with music blaring, day time,

es and words all the time. Some writers

late at night, off my face or with a coffee

and artists I could name drop would be


The Third Mind a collaboration of Brion

Gysin and William Burroughs, Paintings

do need a distraction. A couple years ago I

of Jean Michel Basquiat, The work of Gus-

went on a 6 month vacation and I thought

tave Morin. I wanted to expand from us-

“I have so much free time, I`ll be able to

ing just text, I felt like I was reading (and

write until my hands fall off.” …I wrote

probably writing myself) the same poem

3 pages in those 6 months. After, I came

again and again.

back home and started working a day job

One thing I have noticed is that I

again. That`s when I started writing more What suggestions would you give to a

frequently. I needed to look forward to

new writer when it comes to getting an

having time to write. Working a mundane

article published?

job while ideas stew in my brain.

Know where you are sending it. Read a few issues of the magazine before you

Any advice on keeping the faith to keep

decide to submit work. As I assist editing

writing even when the debt collectors

a literary magazine, I can tell you that

are knocking on your door?

sometimes it seems like we get submis-

Write or don`t. Some people I went to

sions from writers who are very unfamil-

university with ended out dropping out of

iar with what we are into publishing. And

creative writing classes to enrol in jour-

the writer has probably spammed their

nalism so they can get paid to write. Af-

piece to any mag they can find, with their

ter that they never did anything creative

fingers crossed. Honestly, this is a waste of

again. In the past 4 years I made a whop-

both parties time.

ping $350 from pieces I published. Most journals pay with contributor copies; if I

This month’s theme for the magazine

wanted to write for money, I’d spew out

is ‘Celebration’, what do you do to cel-

the next Tween saga or self-help book

ebrate? Gluttony and Sloth. Do you need a particular environment to write successfully? The cliché thing of writing in a café just works for me. I used to care that people will see me and think whatever. But really, if they notice anyone doing that it probably just looks like they`re studying for some university exam. Unless you`re wearing a black turtleneck and a beret. What is your technique for escaping the dreaded writer’s block? I`ve had a fiction project on the back burner for a few years. I look at it now and then, and I just can`t get it going. For poetry, I try writing in different places - in a book while in some café, at a Laundromat,










play the guitar and eventually it fell apart.

who are marching away from current

Andy: We were jamming afterwards the

musical trends and towards cult fame.

same night as the other band ended and

With lyrics that question and probe

we realised that we could do better any

the social norms and an unmistakeably

way! Then we just had to find a singer, we

explosive sound they have the potential

tried out a girl first she was very talented

to be this generation’s, much needed,

but she just didn’t fit. I was round at Joes

mouthpiece. The band consists of Ed

and Ed was doing a bit of freestyle at a

Cottle on vocals, Sam Lawson on guitar,

house party.

Joe Thom on keyboard and samples, and

Sam: I think we always wanted a rapper

Andy Siron on drums.

rather than a singer.

The night of the interview was the 9th of

Ed: I’ve never rapped in a serious way but

February before they played a gig with

I’ve always loved hip hop so I feel like I

The Spector Effect and Hell Fire Jack

can bring a lot to the table regarding that

presented by Glasswerk at The Cockpit

influence as it’s always been my favourite

in Leeds. A crowd are packed into the

style of music.

smaller room with two monstrously large

What kind of style of music are you aiming

PA speakers blasting all other sounds and

for or enjoy playing?

eardrums away.

Ed: Well we like not sounding like anyone

After the gig, I wish I could say it was a

else really!

night I will always remember, but it was a

Andy: I always wanted to play a hip hop

blur of gin and Jaegermeister that ended

groove and pretty bass heavy, and let Sam

by passing out on Joe and Ed’s couch. I

make some crazy noises!

love Leeds.

Joe: Well I think if we were to pin it down it would be hip hop/dub/ rock.

Tongue: How did the band form?

Ed: We’re all bringing different styles to

Joe: I met Andy on a pretty wild night out

the table and we’re not trying to go one

and we started talking music, he was the

way more than another.

bassist in his previous band so I kind of filled in there and Sam joined as well to 22

What made you pick the name Down

such a small city, there is a lot of diverse


stuff going on but still….

Sam: I think independence is an important

Ed: Well that was Sam’s genius.

Andy: A big part of the Leeds scene is Indy

thing, a lot of bands once they get a label

Sam: Yeah well, we struggled with it for a

bands but there is so much more going on

they eventually morph into what the label

couple of weeks.

unnoticed. There’s a massive funk scene

want from them.

Andy: I think it’s one of the worst parts of

as well and a lot of others.

Ed: If you’ve got a proven track record it

forming a band.

Joe: Unfortunately most people only see

makes you more attractive to get a deal

Sam: I just jotted down 10-15 different

the standard 5-piece Indy band and just

anyway and a lot of labels won’t actually

names and reeled them out and it stood

assume that this is all Leeds has to offer.

sign you until you’ve proven yourself, and

out from the rest.

Sam: You have to dig a little deeper.

that’s what we’re looking to do.

Joe: I think it was the one that seemed the

Would you ever get signed to a commercial

one that was most relevant and one we


How do you feel about the digitisation of

could find most meaning in. As it reflected

Andy: Depends on what terms, I’d rather

music that caused HMV to close down?

how music is quite samey at the moment

just get a distribution deal from a major

Andy: I think that the digitisation of music

which you can hear by what is played on

label because now, with the internet you

is a good thing, but it was HMV’s own fault

the radio.

don’t really NEED a label and that’s why

that they didn’t adapt.

the industry is on its arse.

Sam: They missed the bus.

How do you actually feel about the state

Joe: We’re not saying we wouldn’t want

Ed: They should have gone into digital

of the music industry and the Leeds

a deal if we were offered one but at the

music but they didn’t.

scene today?

end of the day we want to take the band as

Joe: Well obviously it’s sad that a lot of

Ed: Leeds has a very good scene to say it’s

far as we can by sticking with its original

high street shops are closing and people



intentions and having fun.




Press the buttons above to listen to Down Radio’s awesome track Its Too Late (You Skank)

are losing their jobs but at the same time it

Sam: The silver lining for the HMV situation

would be general hatred for things going

is a very exciting time for music because it

is that it gives independent shops more

on around me. I see a lot of things going

means a lot more people can get involved

of a chance to thrive and once you start

on in the world that I think that are wrong

and get heard.

going into the independent shops you can

and need pointing out. A lot of what I write

Ed: It’s happening across the board, a lot

get more of an idea of the local scene.

resonates with other people, or at least

of industries are changing, and like in self-

So who writes the lyrics and what are

I hope that it does, but even then I care

publishing it’s a very exciting time to be

your influences?


Ed: That would be me, my influences 24

Jemma Utley Editor


about what I write so much it shouldn’t

us. It would be awesome to play Unity Day

really matter what other people think!

at Hyde Park in Leeds because there is such a big dub scene there and it would

Are you feeling positive about the future?

fit with our style.

Sam: Well we’ve all been in so many

Andy: We just want to get out there and

different bands before and I personally

get as many people to hear us as possible.


Ed: We’re all just feeling really psyched!






progression of a band as I do now because of the positive reaction we’ve had from the

What is your favourite boozy beverage?

first few gigs; the balls definitely rolling.

Ed: Me and Andy are Gin and Tonic men

Joe: We’re going to start recording in

Joe: Well I can’t say Gin and Tonic now can

March and we are hoping to be lining up


some festivals for this year so things are

Sam: Well I’m partial to a Blue WKD.

looking pretty rosy! We’re looking to play

Joe: Liar! Well as a band, let’s say Gin and

Lime Tree and for anyone who will take




The-Chairman Artist


e h -T


For most of my childhood I was the quiet,

mind. Then, after winning a simple high

unassuming geeky child trying to fit into

school writing contest, I realised I had

a family in which I was abnormal; this

a way with words, and that I could tell

manifested itself in a passion for books

these stories and perhaps offer others the

as a way to escape from reality for a

nourishment and escape I enjoyed. Over

little while, nourishing my imagination.

the years this became distilled into and

Throughout years of creating monsters for

insatiable desire to write so I can share

playground games, producing all variants

stories, provokes thoughts and inspire a

of art I could and generally investing time

new generation.

into any creative pursuit I could access

I found seeds of stories growing in my

village, small enough that the entirety 26

Growing up I lived in a rural


of my year group in primary school was

hour, where I describe the ins and outs of

fourteen students. My primary school was

my ideas related to the story I’m working

run by the church and up until national


curriculum came in was rather light

One thing I often find annoying as a writer

on teaching science and other faiths,

is the typical ‘what inspires you’ question

a factor which some what alienated

because, perhaps unusually, I don’t have

me as a predominantly non-religious

any finite ‘this inspires me’ answer. My

person, which I think appears in much

ideas rarely, if ever, have anything to do

of my writing as a trope of ‘us v them’

with current things. I do not particularly

and the power, or lack of, knowledge

look up to any writers or musicians to

brings. Walking around my village you

inspire me. My only true inspiration is the

knew pretty much everyone by name or

knowledge that my words could influence

by their house so secrets were hard to

others and my dream to get published

keep and even adults partook in a very

and have a proper printed book with my

stereotypical curtain-twitching gossip.

name on the cover. It would have to be

I think the closed of society helped to

dedicated to my mum because she has

fuel my interest in social interactions,

always been supportive of my dream. It

witnessing social conventions that are

would be nice to give her something back.

lost in a city, something I feel also shows in my work. My writing has always been centred on a very human experience. I like to get inside my characters heads and explore the way they deal with other people rather than focusing on the external events around them. I like to weave little details into my narratives that pay off later, creating mystery elements that unfold for the reader. I also have a passion for fantasy, especially the longer works. The flexibility that is created by a world defined entirely on your terms is an amazing tool for a writer if they can control it. It also offers the ultimate escapism.

I procrastinate too much and I

think this is my biggest writing weakness. The actual writing of a piece can stagnate for weeks or months if I don’t enforce a regime on myself. I can sometimes get ahead of myself, coming up with ideas that are too in depth to include in the piece. Anyone who knows me has experienced a conversation that lasts for at least an


LeanneCartwright’s Questions and answers

the first time I read them.

Most hated grammar mistake: It’s not so much a mistake as just

Desert island book:

something I think is unnecessary. The

This is no joke it would be Tolstoy’s ‘War

over use of brackets. Sometimes it just

and Peace’. I’ve only managed to read the

doesn’t make any sense.

first page of it before realising how hard Book that you got a bit too obsessed

going it is. I’m guessing I’m going to be on

Favourite word to say:


this desert island for a while and it’s the

Indubitably, can’t stop saying it with a

This may be cliché but the answer is the

only way I’d ever manage to get through

Homer Simpson voice.

entire Harry Potter series, except for


‘The Philosopher’s stone’. I still haven’t

Most hated word to hear:

managed to read it all the way through.

Favourite set text at university:

Snog…it almost sounds like snot, making

I used to read the whole series from the

‘Cat’s Cradle’ by Kurt Vonnegut. It’s

something that could be romantic sound

beginning each time the next book came

funny, well written and well realised. It


out so that I never forgot anything that

deals with the apocalyptic notion in a

had happened and even then I skipped

completely satirical and light hearted

Favourite nursery rhyme:

the first book.

way. It is genuinely a very good read.

‘Mary had a little lamb’, it used to be the

Book that was your first love:

Worst set text at university: ‘End Game’

My first love? Narnia, it has to be Narnia.

we studied it for a module on Nuclear

When I was a child my mum would read

anxiety. The book as a whole seems pretty

Favourite children’s program:

the books to me every night and my

pointless. I spent the whole time waiting

‘Scooby doo’ I’ve always loved that

favourite was always ‘The Magician’s

for a bomb to go off.

cartoon, I love a good mystery. Even now

only one I could remember all the words

Nephew’, one of the many that have never


I watch a bit of ‘Midsummer Murders’ and

been made into a film. Other than ‘Winnie

Favourite poem:

detective programmes, and it all started

the Pooh’ it was my first real experience of

‘Miles Away’ by Carol Ann Duffy. There’s

with ‘Scooby doo’.

the Fantasy genre and I have been in love

something so personal and beautiful

ever since.

about the words. My favourite line: ‘The stars are filming us for no one.’

Book that is your guilty pleasure: Hold back the pitchforks. My guilty

Favourite film:

pleasure is… ‘The Twilight saga’. I

‘V for Vendetta’. I really love the ending,

know that the books are badly written

it gives me chills every time. As soon as

and a poor representation of teenage

all the people, including those who died,

relationships, showing that abuse is okay

start to take off their masks it’s the most

as long as you’re a vampire. I know that

striking image.

the protagonist is a whining wannabe heroine who tries to kill herself to get the

Worst film:

attention of the man she loves, however,

‘The Golden compass’. It is an abomination

when I was sixteen and I read the first

of a book adaptation I have ever seen.

book it was amazing. Hindsight always

Watching it makes me angry. If you want

gets you in the end though. I still own all

lessons on how to ruin a classic then

four books and haven’t pick them up since

watch it, if not let it die.


Most embarrassing piece of writing you

On the way out of a job interview. The

have ever written:

interview had been successful and just as

This is from my first year of studying

I was shaking hands and leaving I tripped

creative writing at University. At the

on a step. Really embarrassing. Thankfully

time we were studying poetry, not my

I got the job.

strongest medium: Biggest drunken fail and what drink caused it?: Goodbye horse with long black mane

Spilling an entire glass of milk down my,

You have been a friend to me.

now, boyfriends back. It was caused by

And never once have you needed to

being seventeen, naïve, and mixing: WKD,


white rum and dark rum in one glass and drinking it really quickly

From allowing me to ride upon your sturdy back. I will miss the feel of your hair And the gentle way you walked around the track

What I hate most about this piece is how desperately I tried to make it rhyme. Favourite song: Awolnation: Not your fault. It’s really catchy and yet has a really nice meaning behind it. Favourite drink: Alchoholic:- Amaretto, non-aclhoholic:Dr. Pepper, even though it makes my hyper. Favourite sweet: Nerds, they’re tangy and have so many flavours. I’ve only found two places that sell them in Nottingham and seeing them again made me so happy.

Nightmare food: Fish. Especially fish with its head still attached. Dream food: Roast beef with all the trimmings and lots of gravy. Worst place you’ve fallen over:





The-Chairman Artist


ADRIAN J C LEACHMAN The Mystery of the Fourth Wall

I AM THE LITERRARY EQUIVALENT OF A BIG MAC AND FRIES — STEPHEN KING From Keats to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle our writer submissions occation the voices that are now lost and different ways to celebrate!

ERIC BOYD WeeklyRegime


JOSEPH PLASEN The Wayward Dragon


ANON By the Way




SHERYL MALIN Between Moons


HACENE RAHMANI A Letter to Queen Mother




Gerald Yelle Tribute to Writers


MICHELLE MOTHER HUBBARD Perfect Timing For this edition we asked writers to

poets like Keats, Dickens, Shakespeare



and Emily Dickinson. Amongst the mix

and our favourite writers. We’re very

we also present to you a wonderful poem

happy and eager to celebrate this issues

called ‘loss’ by Ian Messenger, the poem

submissions that really breathe life into

expresses how most of us feel when we’re

some well-known authors and some that

grieving. ‘By the way’ we also have a poem

are not so well-known but still worth

that mimics ‘This is Just to Say’ by the

celebrating! We have for you: a brilliant

poet William Carlos Williams, a tribute to

short story that mimics the voice of Sir

a very interesting and experimental style

Arthur Conan Doyle with a new take on

that looks like it is just a note left on a

Sherlock Holmes in ‘The Mystery of the

kitchen table or stuck to a fridge, ‘By the

Fourth wall’. Tired of the weekly college

Way’ recreates this image. And we have ‘A

and university reads? Well so is Eric

letter to queen mother’, an angry poem

Boyd, the writer of ‘Weekly regime’. Want

that takes on the royal establishment

a look into celebrations of a different

right after the jubilee and ‘Untitled’ that

culture that could shock, amaze and

will take you on the writers journey to

excite you then check out ‘The Wayward

create a masterpiece. Last but not least

Dragon’ submitted by Joseph Plasan. We

we also have a poem that celebrates the

also received some poetry tributes that

balance of the universe and everything.




express the voice of other writers. From Gerard Yelle we have several tributes to




THE MYSTERY OF THE FOURTH WALL The oddest mystery I ever encountered was also the briefest, played out in minutes one evening on, of all days, my birthday. It was, however, an adventure that caused anguish for my closest friend and one he never fully recovered from, for he failed to draw the solution you see, and that failure always haunted him. Never before, nor since, have I been involved in, recounted, nor heard of any problem in which Mr Sherlock Holmes did not deduce a most singular solution. Holmes pejorative efforts amongst the criminal element in the world had resulted in a dearth of work with which to test his mettle and he had slipped ever more upon a dependency to his oldest enemy, cocaine, for diversion from the drudgery of daily existence. I had tried to dissuade him from this course of action, with acute knowledge of the unenviable deterioration of mind that use of the powder brought. The inevitable occurred and Mrs Hudson happened upon my friend in a state approaching catatonia. I was worried, but not surprised and I arrived at 221b as both his friend and his attendant physician to ascertain his condition. Holmes was ensconced in his favourite chair, upright and breathing, but totally immobile as if frozen in situ, the devilish accoutrements on the table beside him. When we were alone, his animation returned.

“You’ve come!” he declared.

“My dear Holmes,” I gasped. “Of course I came. What kind of physician would I be if I did not attend to one in need?” “You assume too much, Doctor,” said he in an uncharacteristic tone. “I have no need of physicians, but of my friend, John Watson. Has he come?” “What on earth can you mean, Holmes?” I asked, at a loss to the sudden change of form. Rarely, if ever, did he refer to me by my Christian name; he professed to finding first names a quaint affectation. “I needed you,” he said, “and the surest method to guarantee your attendance was to feign illness. I knew Mrs Hudson would impress upon you the need to come, and despite your present celebrations, I knew your need to prolong life would supersede a desire for enjoyment.”

“Holmes,” said I, flabbergasted, “It is my birthday!”

“Time waits for no man,” responded Holmes, “and neither do I. Listen to me, John, and listen well.”

“Whatever is it?” I asked. “What has you so rattled?” I gave a cursory nod towards the open leather case. “Is it the drugs again?”


Holmes shook his head vehemently. “The syringe offers but the path, and I have walked it to its end. The destination is truly terrifying, but must be told; all must know of it.”

“All?” I asked.

“Indeed,” said he curtly. “All must. Now heed my words; hear and understand.”


Suitably chastised, I listened as Holmes began:

“I have had an epiphany, John. It is true I have indulged myself in the powder, but the stimulation I received from the needle has led me to an insight, from this very world to another.” “Surely it is but a hallucination,” said I. “The effects of the drug on the mind...”

But Holmes was having none of it.

“No, Watson, no. I have seen my maker, and he is not the white-robed figure of tradition, but rather, is a well-dressed man, solid, tending to the portly, with a sharp head of hair and sporting a fine moustache. From his demeanour I see he is a physician himself and this deduction is supported by the nitrate silver that stains his fingers. Yet by the calluses on the same hand I see he is a writer, and the spots of ink that pattern his cuffs tell me that he writes much, and often. He said his name was Arthur, and told me all about myself and of what I would be doing during the whole of this year, and the year after, and the year after that.”

“Surely not,” I cried.

“Indeed it is true,” responded Holmes. “This ‘Arthur’ knows all about me. Instances of which I have told no one, not even you, and plans I’ve made which are not yet ready to fruit. ‘Arthur’ knows so much about me that I believe he may as well have written me, or drawn me upon a page.” “Hallucination,” I maintained, “dreams, nothing more; chemical stimulation.” He fell silent and I sat back, confident that I had convinced my mentor, but Holmes looked at me sadly, and said more.

“Do birthday celebrations spark an iota of interest for me?” he asked.

“Why no,” I replied. “Frivolities such as presents are not in your nature. But I would never condemn you for not buying me a gift!” “Indeed, I never have,” he said. “Nor would I, so pray tell how I know that today Mary presented you with a splendid pewter hipflask as a gift for your anniversary.” me?”

My mouth hung open and I stared aghast. “How could you possibly know that? How? Did you spy on

‘No,” said he. “It’s more elementary than that. Arthur said he wrote it and that it would come to pass.”

“This is incredible!” I announced. “I cannot believe it! Our very lives, planned and documented by another? One named ‘Arthur’ decides who we are, and what we do?” “It seems to be; but as to why, I do not know. But I shall work on it, John. As you are my witness, I shall work on it.” And work on it Holmes did, but for as long as I knew him after that day, he never mentioned it again, which led me to believe that he never found the solution, and finally, he took his wondering to his grave. I often thought back to that day, that fateful day, and thought it truly a day for celebration, because if what Holmes suspected could be true, that someone wrote our lives, then... well... we would live forever.


WEEKLY REGIME “a fighter tries to defeat his heroes.”

Looking in the mirror: “Sure kid, you’ve got heart. You got good defence and you can take a hit— but can give out a hit? Can you pound the fucker’s heads in? Can you put hurt in their bellies? Can you punish them like they’ve punished you? “Can you beat them?” I turn away, wrap my hands, and begin my routine. The week starts on Sunday with the nervous Catholic, Fante. I work on speed with him, throwing quick shots, leftleft-right-left. I dance a bit. I don’t take him too seriously, partly because he reminds me of myself: a dumb kid with a lot to prove. Finally I bash Fante in the pancreas a few times; he goes blind. His last book is written by dictation. Monday I go to work with Carver. A recovered drunk, there is a mystery in Carv that I try to slice through with an uppercut. Wake him up a bit, have him stop being so fucking ambiguous with me. I shift my weight a lot, stepping around; finally I plant in and toss a right into his gut. Carver’s last stories were far more sentimental. I’m just getting warmed up by Tuesday, with Kerouac before me. Ole Jack, you were smart enough to drink by yrself at home, but you should’ve at least considered correcting yr work. He’s sloppy, with a ton of passion, but little defence. I have no plan against him; I simply throw punches at will. At first it’s like he doesn’t even feel pain; he just watches me mangle his face, almost in wonderment. He’s amazed by everything in the world, it seems. Until I begin pounding on his liver. “I’m bleeding!” he yells between spittle trails of the red stuff. He dies, knocked out, a true testament to the Beat generation. I feel terrific on Wednesday. I decide to try something different. It’s a fine day for a fight, I think. Papa laces up and throws a quick jab at my nose. My confidence bends, but doesn’t break. Ernie stands perfectly still, fists held high and out in front of a barrel chest. I try my best to get him to move, but he refuses. I throw everything I can, but he only seems amused. I try too hard. I get tired. I wind up for a hay maker and Ernie destroys me with one short stroke of his arm. He dies in his own way, like a man, and I never get the chance to fight him again. I wake up on Thursday, pissed. “I won’t touch the floor again,” I tell myself. Where is that stinking Céline at? That miserable, nihilistic fool. He’s all mine. I look all around for the old crank, ready to redeem myself, but he never shows up. I look out the window and see him in the woods. He’s running away through the plains. I can hear him up there, bellowing about war and illness. Too bad. It’s the middle of the afternoon, but I was ready to send him on a journey to the night. With an evening off, I do some drinking. Friday morning, Bukowski stumbles in, hung over, looking like a dog from hell. “You ready to get whipped?” I say. “Balls,” he grunts back. We’re both wasted, but it’s a good fight. Hank’s got a huge, lumbering body, but light legs. He’s quick, far quicker than I imagined. He’s strong, too. I feel myself getting weak; every punch I throw at him just makes him angrier. I respect him. Truly. I can even hear him in my head. Find what you love and let it kill you. No, I think. Fuck that. I start moving all around Buk, confusing him. His vision isn’t so good. He starts throwing punches at nothing, screaming at no one but himself. I know I cannot beat him, but he can beat himself. He finally dies of exhaustion and bad blood, and I feel worse off because of it. The weekend is in full swing by Saturday, my last day in the routine, and Thompson swaggers up. My first true love—Hunter is a man I admired—I even had his ‘Gonzo’ symbol tattooed on my chest. He was a great man, once. He learned his craft by redoing others greatest works. But now, he seems tired to me. He’s too silly all the time— even when he’s trying to say something serious. He’s created this image of himself that doubles as a Halloween costume. I don’t try any funny business with Thompson— I keep it simple. Left jabs and right crosses mixed with fear and loathing... With one last ounce of energy in me, I’m able to knock Thompson what seems like 150 feet in the air. He EXPLODES like a firework. A fitting way for the bastard to go out. “Welp, you proved yourself this week,” I say to the mirror, unwrapping my fists. “You’ve got heart, and now you’ve got some strength. You’ve devastated them like they did you. No need to feel bad anymore; all of your idols are dead. Maybe take a few days off next week, eh? You’re gonna wear yourself out. Too much too soon, y’know? “So maybe stay away from the library for a while,” I tell myself.



THE WAYWARD The wayward dragon festivities in Tongsucheon, South Korea, are unlike any other in any surrounding mountain town. On September 21st the sky turns black, and young men and women hold their breath in anticipation. A strange aura of fried squid and dried honey bee milk permeates the carnival air with the forthcoming promise of extreme sexual deviancy. This town is of high moral reputation 363 days out of the year. The law officials are blindingly stern. There are more Christian and Buddhist churches than any self-preserving Atheist would dare shake a stick at. Many people, me included, can’t help but sit back and wonder if God is watching the actions of the Wayward Dragon festival. What good is God? A loud conga drum booms then a clarion of bells, as the clock strikes midnight in a dark cobblestone Tongducheon alley. Young women fall to the sidewalk, bodies pelting the ground in blasphemous carnal gyration as a group of men run in a circle around them like stampeding cattle. Soju (rice vodka) is sold and given to young children. Cocaine is distributed amongst a group of gun toting teenagers with ragged cut-off tee-shirts around a table on the sidewalk. Then comes the large wooden dragon with curiously phallic horns being paraded down the street by a group of elderly women with sticks; corn sugar blood spews from its mouth and a cage full of silver painted ravens is opened. The glittery demon fowl beat their tick eaten wings into Tongducheon’s night air. This dragon, the Wayward Dragon, is the mascot of sin and depravity. Two hours into the festivities and a young boy is murdered. The street is shutdown, but only temporarily. In thirty minutes homemade fireworks go off, the music starts again. For the next twenty four hours children will be performing sexual acts upon each other in public view- these acts are not only accepted but encouraged by a group of forty-something year old men and women wielding cameras and sharp katanas. I wait out the remainder of the madness in a small bar. Where are the parents, where is god? I ask myself. The morning after the Wayward Dragon Festival business is back to normal. Women smile sweetly as they open their shops; men listen to talk radio in dire effort not to dirty their suits with their morning coffee. What just happened? I ask. Really, we may never know.


By the Way


I hope you enjoyed my plums that were in the icebox

Not to write down what I’ve discovered, but to discover  by writing down, drowning  in rational thought, I venture down paths of my unconscious, to own what I  uncover,  trying to get lost, (take that road  less travelled) not knowing where I am going, find unreasonable reason, soft, death of  consciousness down,  down,  down, mine,  moon’s mom’s to find that mother  of hidden spectra,  bidden by,  sought by, the unthought.

of course you were probably thinking “free food.” Forgive me they were cultures sweet bacteria to grow needs cold

What keeps the healers company in sleep? Silence between moons Earth plays base in balance with the coiled universe. That it is and was and will be. We lie awake in dark so black we swear we’ve gone blind waiting until the first star’s gone. The moon turns a corner. When the shaken air releases its hold w we know that the true art is living. Becoming something new and over all that is lost.


The story I hear is not the same as the one I tell. And buries its head under the spilled milk. The longest bridges have opened their slender. And names it over, which is forgiveness.


Queen mother! Answer me Tell me how can I get in touch with you!  I forgot to introduce myself  I’m that young of great promise  I’ve heard that your castle is the heaven of peace  And your garden open to outsiders  I‘m a bottle fed child  I’m beginning to cut my teeth  I’m that orphan, crying out in pain  Enough to wake dead  I’m that boy in the street  I’ve no diploma hanging on the wall  But I’ve an answer to everything  You mother of gloomy weather  Diamond of the first water  Tell me where are your good readers?  I’m that bar tender, I‘m that thinker  And my words burnt to cinder  Queen mother answer me!  I’m in towering rage  I’m that writer, and my papers yellowed with age  I’m that bird of good omen  Prisoner in my golden cage  And my innocence sold into slavery  I’m that busker, I’m always playing my own accompaniment  And the story of my life is quiet romance  Queen mother believe me !  You can’t see the wood from the trees  If you come to me, to see how the land lies  You queen mother! in that island difficult of access  Your all sweetness, pureness, and light  You woman whom I trust  You who have a power to act  I’m in a hell of a mess  Allow me to sing in your beautiful streets  To row round your green wood  That will do me a world of good  I’ll swear queen mother!  To sink in my second childhood  And to distinguish truth from falsehood  Queen mother!  Forgive me my trespasses  and all my wishes for your happiness.

The Gods of minute daisies and specks of grass are dancing to the sound of car horns and policemen whistling. I drink scotch and play tennis with the moon’s half brother until Mamma comes out in her black cloak and demands the folding up of the car park. girls girls girls when will they sing upon the soft stage of my outstretched palm. like cabbage. and the foul old sherry left over by the previous owner.


there is ice in the Antarctic. there is ice in my drink. and I am constantly rejected by girls half my age. they only see loss. IAN MESSENGER LOSS



Teacher wanted poems, something off the top of our heads, vivid images, heightened diction, rhythm, duende and spunk. She played Bel Biv Devo and Grandmaster Flash to show what pop culture icons poets can be. But Asher wasn’t into hip hop –he wasn’t old school; neither was he new school. No school made sense. Although he liked the poem about alien corn. That he could relate to. He rode his bike through a crop of it in seventh grade. The ears had eyes that sniffed at you. It came from seed shot from a planet orbiting Rigel in the galaxy Ursula Minor Cassiopeia –seed that fell through interstellar space on solar wind and black hole backwash, landing in the field back of his house where earth’s atmosphere had no ill effect and no bird would eat anything alien. Those who sent it depleted their soil. They knew their chances were slim, but they checked their monitors: The first spring rains made it blossom. When it was ready they came. Asher didn’t write about it. He didn’t feel like it –but he told the teacher that he had and that he put it on her desk. She frowned and shook her head in disbelief.


When late afternoon sun strikes the water you see train tracks ten feet beneath the surface. Then darkness falls and a man plunges head first from the bridge. You wait and watch, fear he’s cracked his skull. You call a policeman whose flashlight plays a disk on the water and you see it –just the leg at first and then the upper torso drifts from under the tracks and turns face up, bloated. The cop fishes the drowned man out and calls in his report. Dark water oozes from the man’s slack mouth and you lose it. A leg jerks and you realize what you took for dead is what your training and inheritance and all your culture call ugly.


Hay is for horses, Ly, and you’d be a hell of a Pyramus with your curious cold heat. You do see how this could be us. Was it yesterday our trip through the forest put a crimp in Dad’s plan? I don’t know what would be worse: a father’s kiss of death or the convent Theseus picked out for me. Then running in the night: if only we hadn’t got lost –and you hadn’t hit on my BFF. I ran into Demetrius when you ran after her. I didn’t know where you were and I thought –well I thought –I thought Demetrius killed you. Say nothing of our marriage in Theseus’ palace with no memory whatsoever of a ceremony. And Dad: like he’s still in charge, with his wall-eyed conviction, fear creasing his brow. “Something there is that doesn’t love it,” that makes me want to take an alias, lets fairies dew orbs, eggs Pyram and Thiz on to risky behavior. Meanwhile I drink myself sober. Get Philo over there to pour another triple sec. There’s an inner violence I can’t disguise –an anger that jumps and grabs –that hides behind everyday objects and erupts when the comfort level drops below the waterline. Sometimes you’re busy and I have something to say and I know you don’t want that kind of influence and I don’t want you to have it –but there you are, you mean the world. And neither of us can do what we don’t already. It’s just that life is full of noise and additional requirements. I don’t want to bring it up because neither of us needs reminding, but we have to keep the phones charged and throw away the clocks. And here comes my sister with her Charles DeGaulle avidity that never fails to get her in trouble. I don’t say it’s something I have to help with but I have to tell myself she doesn’t so much take me for granted as fail to see that we might have problems of our own. I should be glad our problems are not the same as hers –they’re minute by comparison. Frankly I’m ashamed at how small they are. But forget that. It’s not what I wanted to say.




When you walked into my morning, Delivering day like a fat slice of cake I had to readjust my watch. When your words were seconds, I prayed for the hour You baptised me with your psalms. When our bodies pressing Was a timely blessing Like worlds colliding At the beginning of time We created our own solar system. When the colour of your eyes stole midnight I no longer prayed for the return of day. When counting on you for support Was a mathematical equation That required no persuasion And loving was as easy As One, Two, Three... ... There the world stopped revolving. Moments were permanently frozen, And that glass falling from the table Never did hit the floor. Then our particles mingled And never again Could time or space Come between us.







AS ALWAYS - SEND ALL SUBMISSIONS TO: SUBMISSIONS@TONGUEMAG.CO.UK CLICK ME Writing Font: Calibri, size 12 Format: Double-spaced, indented paragraphs Word count: prose, 1000 words. poetry, 30 lines Files accepted: .doc, .docx, .pdf Accompany your work with a premise sentence. Keep it short. Art, Photos, Video 5 photos/images maximum Video submissions should be 10 minutes maximum Files accepted: .jpeg, .mp4 You will keep all intellectual rights over your work. Submissions are free, but you won’t be paid for them, it’s all about exposure.




The-Chairman Artist


OLIVIA AUCKLAND The Honerable Guest SYMON ROSE The Writer JEMMA UTLEY I Look & Monday

Slapstick may be a very bad book. I am perfectly willing to believe that. Everybody else writes lousy books, so why shouldn’t I? What was unusual about the reviews was that they wanted people to admit now that I had never been any good. The reviewer for the Sunday Times actually asked critics who had praised me in the past to now admit in public how wrong they’d been. My publisher, Sam Lawrence, tried to comfort me by saying that authors were invariably attacked when they became fabulously well-to-do… I had suffered, all right — but as a badly educated person in vulgar company and in a vulgar trade. It was dishonorable enough that I perverted art for money. I then topped that felony by becoming, as I say, fabulously well-to-do. Well, that’s just too damn bad for me and for everybody. I’m completely in print, so we’re all stuck with me and stuck with my books.” — Kurt Vonnegut Gitibust rumquo earuptatis a dolorum

oriosantotae nit aliatqu aturit eum faccus

qui dolendandae asperi tem. Obitia simus

mint et quam veliquis et aciet as sunto

num fuga. Pudae. Officiis earum que

eicitatur ad que poreiusciis a destObis

nulpa doluptae. Bis dolupta assimusdam

Natur, totam core perum inum quidero

id ea ellictaquid qui conseni maiosti

inveles sequistrunt harum expererrum


pg44-46 pg47 pg48-49

On F. Scott Fitzgerald The immortal writer of The Great Gatsby

The true essence of celebration, and what Fitzgerald has so beautifully captured of the party world, is the fragility of humanity. Beneath the flamboyant celebrations drifts the broken hearts and the lost souls. Beneath the friendships and the relationships lies the tension; the anxiety of the unbalanced perspectives and the tangled minds. Snarling out, between the gaps in the merriment and the festivities, is the bitter tongue of cruelty and the sharp tooth of mortality. And somehow, kindness, compassion, and human aptitude for acceptance, is woven in-between.


The Honourable Guest: A tribute to F. Scott Fitzergerald My mother always advised that the honourable guest comes

Venice, and I greet the maid too loudly. I move quietly

bearing a gift.

by her towards the lights of the garden. Elegantly dressed people swan between rooms; women in

“If someone brings you a gift darling, they have a strong heart,

eccentric, embellished dresses and feather head pieces.

a red heart full of blood.”

A thin queer floats by, topless, dressed in a fur coat. He’s wearing sunglasses, and dips them to look at me. Why he

She said that only one with a greying heart arrives without

feels the need to flaunt so garishly, I shall never grasp. It

a gift. But you’ve got to get it right, see? Something second-

sure doesn’t matter what I’m wearing here.

rate leaves you looking common; something too lavish and you are an exhibitionist. Mother’s anxiety manifested when

I needn’t have worried about the bottle either. There are

we inherited a large fortune from my father, who, as far as I

hundreds of people, hundreds, easy. I’ve made it through

am aware, had been misplaced before I was born. I snubbed

the drawing room, fingering the velvet of the couch as

this advice when my mother was alive, along with the rest. I

I pass, and just out of the French door. Celia appears at

considered her efforts of adapting to our new lives to be rather

my elbow, hair a flame-coloured nest, and presses her

tedious and, well, phony. But she’s gone now and recently I’ve

breasts against me. She holds me tightly, and takes my

found myself converted. I was in Benson’s for an hour this time,

face in her sharp hands, staring into my eyes.

talking to the salesman, touching dusty bottles. “Sweetheart, I heard you’d moved down this way! Don’t I wrap the bottle of champagne, and am unsure how to carry it

you love it? How are you?”

without holding it to my chest like a queer. I end up swinging it in my hand, all carefree, and try to ignore that I’m tearing up

“Well, thank you, Celia, and yourself?” I watch the haze

the paper.

of guests; lit by the chandeliers of the back rooms and the lawn lanterns, spilling onto the first and second floor

I swiftly feel like a fool. The bottle makes me nervous, like I

balconies, from the ground floor French doors, and way

will give away the very essence of myself in my choice of

across the lawn, disappearing into the darkness. People

name, or the precise angle of the italic print. The host could

travel hundreds of miles for these evenings, so I hear.

take one look at the bottle and say I am neurotic, psychotic, or

They are famous or infamous- I suppose depending on

narcissistic. I press my finger to my temple and focus on the

the circles in which you move.

breeze whispering past my ankles. “…doing so well…must introduce you….” Celia chirps, her My skin is hot, grilled right through to my bones, after a long

bouquet of hair bouncing. I smile at her, and scan the

day spent writing at the lake. The sun has dipped below the

lawn, trying to chase the host. I sure need a drink.

lavender hill, but a dull heat still hangs in the air. A layer of

“Yes, absolutely Celia,” I say. And I must have agreed to

dew is settling on the grass- a sprinkling of fallen stars, and the

something, because she beams, takes the bottle from me,

moon hangs pink and premature on the twilight sky. There is

and slips past into the house. I undo my shirt a button,

the pulsation of life, off beyond the stripe of poplar trees. It is

feeling the roughness of the linen on my throat, and

going to be a fine evening, alright.

smooth my hair. The band is loud, and the garden is filled with the thrill of conversation. I am aware of my empty

A maid opens the door. I blink in the spotlight, the marble floors

hands, and ask a suited man next to me for a smoke. He

shining. A vast hallway stretches before me. Majestic paintings

gives me one, lights it, and turns back to his friends.

and sweeping curtains make me think of the courtesans of


I think of my mother and how grand of a party she’d consider

I hear my mother screaming my name, I hear my mother

this to be. It is grand of course, but it is a sordid event full


of false extravagance. Despite her efforts to conform to the society my father’s money bought her, she was always I’m sure,

I feel liberation here, and constraint. The strips of poplar

underneath, still a liberal. Nonetheless Mother would have

trees caging us in are both protection and imprisonment.

been horrified at the disappearance of my gift…heavens. I put

Much of what happens within the walls of this garden

my hands in my pockets, let the cigarette hang from my lip, and

are kept here, cast aside by their perpetrator before the

skip down the steps, like I haven’t got a care in the world.

gates are locked as the sun begins to rise again. Only then may they sleep, shower, pull on their uniform, and

The barman whisks me up a little something lightening quick,

return to their duties of pretence.

and I’m relaxing now I have a warm chest. He’s a handsome young man, with the tautness of youth and a glint of wisdom that took thirty years to show on me. What a sorry profession for him, with a face like that. I ask him where I can find the host, but he doesn’t know who it is. I watch the crowds; clusters of flamboyant people murmuring and tittering, or barking and bellowing. And dancing; there are all kinds of dancing. I see a few gents I know from the city, and share some handshakes. They pass on by, quickly.


I get a flush of guilt up my chest, and a strange pride, like mother knows what I’m up to. In her final days, she seemed to no longer care for the lacklustre of high society. “You really do need to take a lover darling. I know you aren’t emotionally or spiritually prepared for a romantic commitment but, oh, for goodness sake, commit to something will you?” She had said, nodding at my crotch. I had stared on, and she had continued to eat her oatmeal. I consider this, remembering the sallow hollowness of her cheeks, and her body, fragile as a wishbone. I watch a rose-coloured girl, with a pink kiss of a mouth, dancing among her friends. Her two piece outfit leaves the underside of brassiere exposed as she swings her arms in the air, and her midriff is a perfect strip of curvature. I glimpse the radiance of Celia’s hair as she passes through a crowd of people. I remember now, the submissive calm of her body beneath mine, many years ago. I see the smooth skin of the barman, in all his youthful beauty.


A writer? They scorn We all can write It’s a basic education So cast off then I say Join this sea of words Let’s see your creation Gliding from the shore A name, a place, a thing; That it is where we all begin Find the sunken treasure, Take me to your world, Go ahead - Make me care! I feel a storm is brewing. I see your brow is sweating, You strain against the tide. Better hold on tight. You’re in for a fright. This beast is breaking free. Your net was weak; you’ve sprung a leak. Your ship is sinking fast, This premise could never last. Allow me the helm, dear friend. This storm can rage, But my sail will capture the mind And sail us smooth to shore. A writer you say? Now there’s a snarling beast That only the brave dare face.



When I look into a tree I see leaves waiting to fall Suspended by a twig ready to self-destruct Like a ballerina on its toes it dances, Fluttering in the wind determined not to rip; As others tumble down to settle on the ground.

When I look onto the ground I see leaves waiting to be flattened By thousands of senseless feet, Who enjoy the golden brown crunch And kick them, briefly, back into the air; Like pollen on the breeze.



I’m marching down the vomit painted path, As the sun creeps over the horizon. Pink bleeds into the long, thin, clouds Which conform to a line in the glimpse of sky. Takeaway boxes and mushy chips lie abandoned Ready to be savaged by the waking birds, That whisper over traffic noise. My head aches and my stomach churns As the full weight of Monday morning hits; That mistake we’ve all made, the night before work.







terrifying leap into motherhood. They

are a reminder of how single mothers

Rebel Moms to everyone, men and

are able to look after their children and

women, Rhine has created a topical and

not drag up future convicts, and how

engaging book that will relate to anyone

having lots of tattoos doesn’t make you a

who has struggled or had to fight to get

bad mother who encourages dissention

ahead. I think it is reasonable to say that

in your children. Instead these ‘Moms’

these days that’s most people. It’s not a

promote individuality, strength of will,

self-help book, but a series of testimonials

and nurturing the next generation. Rebel

that aren’t forcing an ideal, but are simply

Moms is not just parenting book it’s a

cries of hope.

commentary on the multiple pressures on parents today that are detrimental to the upbringing of a child. It also considers how children are born into these conditions and therefore are forced to grow up too soon by becoming sexualised in order to function in a consumerist society. It is a testament to the importance of having self-esteem throughout your life, including within relationships, by being strong enough to end a relationship that is damaging to you and your child’s wellbeing.

The effect that the series of

biographies had was to present the testimony of women which created a sense


of unity that would have been impossible

By Davina Rhine

without it. I think it’s very important for young mothers that are marginalised by the Martha Stewart expectations of the

Rebel Moms is a reactionary

Post-Cold War housewife to know they’re




not alone and are to be celebrated.

subculture mothers; it stands up against

Women that have their stories written on

the misogynistic views held about the

their skin, hair that changes with their

role of mothers in society and introduces

moods, fighting for their country in army

those women that you will never see in the

gear, and fighting for the future on the

fairy liquid adverts. The American writer,

picket line with babies on their backs.

Davina Rhine, celebrates those women

They might not know how to put together

that have not fallen to the social pressures

the perfect dinner party but Rhine’s

that force many mothers to lose their

rebels are inspirational in a way that truly

identities, and who have instead fought to

matters. She writes difficult topics without

create a more promising future for their


children. This book presents women who,

them as a victim, but at the same time

despite some terrible and unspeakable

with sensitivity and appropriately applied

beginnings, are warriors against gender

humour. As a result Rhine’s work has

inequality, the sex trade, racism, and war.

an experienced tone that reminds the

As I’m not a mother these women have

reader of the importance of growing from

become, inspirational and reassuring,

negative experiences rather than letting

mentors for when I’m ready to take that

them pull you down and enveloping you.





For this reason I recommend

The title gives everything away

because, as you guessed it, the novel is SPACE HERE FOR OTHER DETAILS

about an ‘innocent Mage’. It isn’t even a secret at the beginning of the book who the innocent mage is, you pretty much find this out in the prologue. In this sense the book plays to the readers delight in dramatic irony. The reader knows who the innocent mage is as do some of the other characters but the innocent mage himself doesn’t know who he is.

The novel’s focus is more on

the relationships between the characters than plot progression. Yes, there is a story but Miller spends more time easing the reader into who each character is and making you care about all of them in different ways, saving the huge plot twists till the end of this book and the entirety of the second book.

As a reader you can’t help but

find a favourite character: From the surly Asher to the kind and caring Matt. Even Gar, the often moaning prince has some likeable qualities. For me the ditsy book shop seller, Dathne, whose day to day life revolves around a prophecy. The novel


doesn’t really have a villain until right near the end, there is no danger to Asher that goes beyond politics. In some ways this is a negative thing as it takes away

The Innocent Mage, by Karen

Miller, is one of those rare fantasy gems that doesn’t force you to troll through pages and pages of world description before getting into the story. Miller is very upfront from the first page with what the story is going to be about and the blurb hardly holds anything back. The narrative is clear and informal, as is the majority of the dialogue. The book is part of a mini-series, or duology as some are now choosing to call these two part books. Miller did decide later to tag a third book

some of the excitement leaving sometimes dull passages involving characters talking about the current state of the country with no real quest. Even at the beginning when Asher decides to go to the city of Doranna from his small fishing village there is no huge journey. He’s at home on one page and in Doranna the next. If you’re a lover of epic fantasy adventures then perhaps this novel isn’t for you. However, if you’re more interested in well-developed characters that you actually care about in a well written world then give it a read

to the front but as this is a prequel, and has very little to do with the still living characters in the duology, I’m not really going to go into it.



Beyond the Yellow Brick Road

Oz commentary from our columist, Symon Rose Dating from 1900 L. Frank Baum’s The

instalment pending) as recently as 2006;

it was not for the lovingly crafted world

Wonderful Wizard of Oz is one of those

many of which have even been recognised

Baum created in his fourteen novels (even


by the Baum estate as official cannon.

if some do contradict each other!).

musical and film adaptations, with the

The fact this legacy is some how lost to

With this great momentum of Oz fandom

empowering moral message that what

popular culture is a great shame in my

upon us bringing two great origin story

you need has been within you all along,

eyes, after all it is not like Oz itself is lost to

movies to life I cannot imagine a better

(which even as an adult can be difficult

us – 1995-2011 has brought us The Wicked

time, as many book lovers will, to return

to remember). Yet mention Billina, Tik-

Years series whose re-creation of the

to the original texts and conjure up that

Tok or Ozma and people will probably be

origin of the Oz witches received critic’s

world of childhood memories with the

confused as to who you mean because

praise and even spawned the better

new insights of an adult mind – but let us

somehow the thirteen further Oz novels

known Broadway show Wicked (which in

not just read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,

– each as charming as the first and with

turn faired so well a movie adaptation is

let us indulge in the books oft forgotten

equally well crafted moral messages -

due out next year). Equally Disney’s highly

and allow Ozma, Billina, Tik-Tok and a

written by Baum have been relegated

anticipated Oz The Great and Powerful is

whole myriad of other wonderful Baum

to dusty shelves. The Baum legacy was

set to hit screens in March this year, telling

creations a chance to expand this world

so great, at the time, that there are even

a tale which fleshes out the origin story of

we know and love and get us beyond just



Oz himself. None of these projects could

the yellow brick road.

since his death, including a trilogy (final

have ever hoped to get off the ground if





know and love, not least because of the





Issue 2- Celebration  

This edition celebrates the written word by documenting Nottingham's Festival of Words