Neil Campbell, "Saying Dirty Things in Regional Accents"

 

Neil Campbell's new collection of short stories Saying Dirty Things in Regional Accents is out now. From Manchester, England, he has appeared four times in the annual anthology of Best British Short Stories. He has published three novels, six collections of short stories, two poetry chapbooks and a poetry collection, as well as appearing in numerous magazines and anthologies. His website is here. 

About Saying Dirty Things in Regional Accents, by Neil Campbell

Campbell gives voice to the extraordinary (never ordinary) men and women of Manchester. He goes beyond the King's English and formulaic approaches to short stories to capture, in print, how people really talk. Think James Kelman, Irvine Welsh, but Mancunian. Funny and heartfelt, this book is a romp to whizz through with pleasure. Forget mad for it Madchester, this is the Manchester of now, where Hacienda clichés turn into corporate nightmares and the only art is in marketing.

Read more about Saying Dirty Things in Regional Accents on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read an except from the collection. 

From Saying Dirty Things in Regional Accents

Job and Knock 

Chris does the nightshift because no other fucker wants to do it. So he deserves the better money and the fact that they can usually get the job done early doors. It’s what they call job and knock.

Most of the lads are on the iPlayer all night, catching up on the football or Line of Duty or whatever. But they’ve been getting away with it so long they’re even getting bored of the iPlayer.

Why don’t we just go to the boozer for a bit, says Chris, to Phil, the lad he’s on the job with. Phil can’t come up with a reason not to.

Nobody ever mentions management. They’re a joke anyway. Most of these nightshift lads said could have got management jobs if they’d wanted but they couldn’t be arsed with the hassle of going to meetings and all that, they just wanted to crack on with the job.

They started the nightshift at six bells and by eight they went to the boozer. It was only about a thirty-yard walk from the exchange. Months they’d been dragging this job out, on and off.

They went in the pub and it wasn’t like they remembered. Instead of cosy corners and comfy seats it was full of tables and families sat there having meals. Screaming kids all over the place. Both Chris and Phil had enough of that at home. Part of the reason Chris did the nightshift was that he got more kip on the hammock in the back of the van than he did in his own bed.

The pints cost a fortune and of course you had to go outside with your fags as well. Just wasn’t the same. It was like they were deliberately trying to get rid of pubs for the drinker. They were just restaurants that sold the occasional lager now. This boozer didn’t even do Guinness anymore. They always used to have great nights on the Guinness in there.

On the way back to the exchange they stopped at an off licence and picked up a four pack of Foster’s and some fags. Back in the exchange Chris turned on all the lights and they flicked on one after another. They sat there at the tables and then Phil asked if Chris knew the way onto the roof.

Yeah, think so.

Better than being stuck in here. Let’s have a wander up there.

They trailed up the stairs carrying the beer with them and went out through the fire escape and onto the roof. The bright lights of the big city stretched out before them.

Phil went back down and brought a couple of chairs back up and they sat there on the roof smoking and drinking.

This is fucking quality, said Phil.

 

Nice and cool on here as well. Boiling in that exchange.

Better get these beers down us.

Save a couple until tomorrow mate. No sense driving home pissed. One’s enough anyway. It’s like the fucking Shawshank Redemption up here.

Ailsa Cox, "Precipitation," with images by Patricia Farrell

Ailsa Cox is Professor Emerita in Short Fiction at Edge Hill University. Her stories have been widely published and collected as The Real Louise (Headland Press). Other books include Writing Short Stories (Routledge) and Alice Munro (Liverpool University Press, Writers and Their Work). She is also the editor of the journal Short Fiction in Theory and Practice (Intellect Press). Born in Walsall, she is now based in West Yorkshire.  

Patricia Farrell is a poet and visual artist. She has collaborated with other writers, artists and musicians on a range of projects and publications. Her work is published in magazines and collections, as well as individual pamphlets: most recently, High Cut (Leafe Press). 

About Precipitation, by Ailsa Cox
Precipitation is a collection of three stories by Ailsa Cox, two of which are published for the first time. It also features images created by the artist Patricia Farrell in response to the stories. The book is the fifth in a series of collaborations between writers and artists - the first, Interpolated Stories by David Rose and Leah Leaf, was published by Confingo Publishing in 2022.

Set mostly in North-West England, with excursions to Wales, Paris and the Arabian desert, these stories map the inner and outer world of their characters, excavating layers of time and memory. Two of the stories take place on the fictional street of Bethel Brow, where a grandmother nurses a long-held grievance, while two young incomers live the dream of a house in the country. In the third, the thwarted ambitions of a disappointed novelist take him on an imaginary journey. Sharply observed and often darkly comic, they hinge upon those small moments that can change your life for ever – a missed train, a turn in the weather, or a puzzling encounter with a neighbour.

You can read more about Precipitation on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read an extract from the opening of one of the stories. 

From Precipitation

Heavy Showers and Thunder

He stops for a minute to take in the view – the hills unfolding, wave upon wave, the village hidden deep inside the valley – the faint susurration of traffic only accentuating the stillness and the silence here at the edge of the moor. Above the ruined house where the farmer feeds his cattle, the clouds are rolling in like enormous grey whales, but they’ve been that way all day, with no more than the briefest scattering of rain. Pale from lack of water, the paths are hard as concrete; the stony tracks that turn into streams in wintertime have run dry. He swigs a mouthful of water, cycles on. This is where he comes to get away.

Soon the rain’s falling sheer as a curtain – the noise Barbara thought might be a plane was definitely thunder. The view from the window is quickly erased, the dingy outlines of buildings dissolving into the landscape. The culvert will be rushing with the force of cannon fire, rain boiling up against the manholes on the towpath, and the waterfall surging like dark beer. Tonight’s a night to stay indoors, listening for the warlike wail of flood sirens. George and Barbara are safe up on the hillside. They don’t mind the rain; they’re glad of it. The ground could do with a soaking. All the same, Barbara wishes George would pay some mind to the flashing on the chimney.

‘Luke’s rung,’ George says, coming back from closing up the greenhouse.

‘Luke?’ Barbara’s salvaging some bendy carrots, the tips disintegrating when she tries to peel them. 

‘He’s been on a bike ride.’

‘Oh, that Luke.’

‘The line’s flooded. He can’t get home.’

‘So he wants to stay the night?’

‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘I’ve no choice, have I?’

Julian Stannard, "New and Selected Poems"

Julian Stannard has written nine volumes of poetry including Sottoripa: Genoese Poems (a bilingual publication, Canneto, 2018). His last single collection was Please Don’t Bomb the Ghost of my Brother (Salt, 2023). In January 2025  Salt brought out New and Selected Poems. He has been awarded the International Troubadour Prize for Poetry and nominated various times for the Forward and the Pushcart. In 2024 he was awarded the Lerici Shelley Prize for his contribution to  Ligurian/Italian culture. He has written critical studies of Fleur Adcock, Basil Bunting, Donald Davie, Charles Tomlinson and Leonard Cohen. He co-edited The Palm Beach Effect: Reflections on Michael Hofmann (CB editions, 2013). In 2024 Sagging Meniscus Press (USA) brought out a campus novel called The University of Bliss.

About New and Selected Poems, by Julian Stannard
This new book brings together some twenty-five years of writing. Julian Stannard moved  to Italy in 1984 and worked  at the University of Genoa  for many years. He started teaching at the University of Winchester in 2005. Many of these poems draw on his experiences of living in Genoa / Liguria, though he also writes extensively about contemporary Britain and further afield. New poems represented here have appeared in The Spectator, The Dark Horse, Bad Lilies, Wild Court and AN Editions.

You can read more about New and Selected Poems on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two sample poems from the collection.  

From New and Selected Poems

The Pool

The chief leaf man rises early.
A breeze in the banyan tree.
The water laps.
Skink lizard on the prowl.
 
Perfection. Blue. Perfection.
No leaves on the water.
Miles Davis - his ghost -
becoming the banyan tree.
 
Chief leaf man sees a leaf
in the corner of the pool
and shouts in Vietnamese.
Leaf man number two crouches, 
picks it out.
 
The apprentice leaf boy,
conical hat,
takes a broom from the storeroom.
Sweeps.
 
The hotel dog – a Saigon mongrel - watches.
 
Eternal – mythological – war of leaves.
The frangipani quickens.
 
I watch its petals drop upon the water.
 
A stiffening breeze from Saigon River.
The palm trees writhe and thrash.
 
 
Gigi Picetti

Actor, Genoese Activist, Molotov Cocktail 

1939-2022

I lived in the caruggi, lived in the Sottoripa
the streets pushing deeper and deeper.
 
I lived in the vicoli:
lamentation, catastrophe, chicory.
 
Ubiquitous Gigi would come and go.
He once knew Dario Fo.
 
I seem to remember Gigi Picetti
had a machete.
 
The day – in question - was hot and hazy.
He swirled it about
 
to frighten the piccolo borghese.
 

Kristina Adams, "Revenge of the Redhead"

Kristina Adams is the author of 20 novels, 3 books for writers, 1 poetry collection, and too many blog posts to count. She publishes ghost stories as K.C.Adams. When she’s not writing, she’s playing with her dog or inflicting cooking experiments on her boyfriend. Her website is here. 

About Revenge of the Redhead
In her debut poetry collection, bestselling author Kristina Adams channels female rage. Anger, hatred, envy – all those things society tells women they shouldn’t feel, let alone express, are explored in this confessional collection. It takes you on a journey from heartbreak to friendship breakups to workplace bullying, ending on true love and hope for the future. Whether you’re in a good mood, a bad mood, or somewhere in between, Revenge of the Redhead has a poem for you. You can read more about Revenge of the Redhead here. Below, you can read two poems from the collection.

From Revenge of the Redhead, by Kristina Adams

Enough.

I split myself in two
in the hopes of pleasing you
But it doesn’t matter what I do
I’ll never be good enough
for you.


Rocking Chairs

You said we’d be old ladies in our rocking chairs
But how can we be when you were never there?
Friendship is more than just fair weather
I want a friend who’s here forever
not someone who’s in love with spring
but can’t handle the bad weather winter brings

You left the rocking chair beside me empty
When you decided you’d had enough of me
But you were ‘just’ a friend.
And no one talks about how when friendship ends
it hurts just as much, if not more
sitting beside that open door.

Rough Draft in Leicester

Here (below) is information from the organisers of "Rough Draft," a bi-monthly event for writers held in Leicester. MA Creative Writing student Anna Walsh says of the event: "I enjoy trying out my new writing at Rough Draft. It's such a supportive setting for connecting with other Creatives and getting feedback on developing ideas."

We love new stuff. We can’t get enough of it. From gut-wrenching theatre to side-splitting comedy, melodic music to punchy poetry, and all those arty bits in between, we love seeing all the new and exciting things that fall out of those creative brains. But more often than not, the first stumbling block when making something new is getting it seen, finding out if it works, and finding people to help you make it.

Enter Rough Draft. Put together by a handful of Leicester creatives, Rough Draft is a platform for artists to do just that.

Once every two months we hold our scratch nights, and programme three artists who each get fifteen minutes to share their work, be that script in hand or something more polished. We then chat with the audience, ask questions, get answers (or we have paper forms too).

Rough Draft is free to attend and open to all. If you would like to be involved, come along to one of the nights and chat to our team, or pop us an email at roughdraft.le@gmail.com

We'll be changing things up in 2025 by hosting our nights every other month! We'll be kicking off in January with our Leicester Comedy Festival Special and then we'll be back with you in March - which is already fully booked by the way. 

If you're working on anything new and would like constructive feedback from a supportive audience of peers, we next have availability at our May night - So get in touch to book your spot! Our upcoming nights are January 28th, March 25th, May 27th 2025. 

Find out more on our Facebook page here. 

Kerry Hadley-Pryce, "Lie of the Land"

 

Kerry Hadley-Pryce has had four novels published by Salt Publishing: The Black Country (Michael Schmidt Prize); Gamble (shortlisted for The Encore Award); God’s Country, and her fourth novel Lie of the Land (January 2025). She has a PhD in Creative Writing from Manchester Metropolitan University, teaches Creative Writing at the University of Wolverhampton, and has contributed to Palgrave’s Smell, Memory & Literature in the Black Country anthology. She has had short stories published in Best British Short Stories 2023 and Best British Short Stories 2024, Takahe Magazine, Fictive Dream and The Incubator and read by Brum Radio. 

About Lie of the Land, by Kerry Hadley-Pryce
Lie of the Land is a dark, domestic literary thriller set in the Black Country in the Midlands, UK.

When Rory and Jemma meet, Rory already has a girlfriend, but that doesn’t stop them getting together and, much sooner than Jemma would like, they’re buying their first house together in the heart of the grimy Midlands.

"The Rocks" is a run-down, "doer-upper" and right from the off, Jemma is reluctant and unhappy, far from ready for commitment. But there is something about the house that is both compelling and sinister, and the situation takes a darker turn when a terrible accident happens involving their new next door neighbours, forcing both Jemma and Rory to tackle their inner demons.

Themes of toxic relationships, secrets and deceit are intensified by a judgmental narrative voice which propels the plot to its even darker resolution.

You can read more about Lie of the Land on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read an excerpt from the novel. 

From Lie of the Land
There is, she’ll say, a certain type of bird – she’s not sure which – nesting in the oak tree in the garden. It keeps repeating the same three notes. It must do this, this repetition, hundreds of times a day. Maybe it’s a blackbird, or a fieldfare, it’s that kind of shrill, persistent sound. She’ll admit she’s haunted by it, the sound of it. She hears it coming, the sound – she feels it coming – and it’s like a torture, and she’s formed the habit of stroking the palm of her right hand, stroking the broken life-line there, for comfort. There are eyes everywhere – to her, there is – and she’ll tell how she’s taken to standing in the new conservatory, the one they had built, looking out over the back garden. She’ll concede that Rory did a competent job of making it good, the garden. The plants have taken rooted well; there’s clematis starting to creep up the wall and wisteria against the fence, and the new turf is bedding in. She’ll say she can smell it, all that greenery. The concrete, the rocks, the mess, they’ve all gone. All cleaned up. But the secrets aren’t buried, she’ll say she knows this, they’re still there, somewhere. The oak tree, they thought about removing, is a feature now, and anyway, it seems there might be a family of those birds in there, and everyone, everything needs a home. Standing there, looking out, even with the feverish, constant three-note chorus going on and on, she’ll say she’s not sure she could bear to take the tree down now, not with the nest in there. She’ll say she’s not sure she could bear to destroy it. She’ll say this now.

But, see, people are strange, they’re capable of surprising us. And we’re talking about Jemma Crawford here. And we all know she’s destroyed enough already.