Colette Paul, "A Complete Success"

 

Colette Paul was born in Glasgow. She is the author of Whoever you Choose to Love (Weidenfeld & Nicolson/ Phoenix) , a collection of stories which were serialized on Radio 4, and shortlisted for The Spirit of Scotland Writer Award. Colette’s work has appeared in several anthologies and magazines, including Mslexia, Edinburgh Review, Stand, and Litro. Colette’s story ‘O Tell me the Truth About Love!’ won the Tom Gallon / Royal Society of Authors Prize, and three of her stories were included in Victoria Hislop’s edited anthology, The Story: 100 Great Short Stories by Women. Her second collection of stories, A Complete Success, is due to be published this Autumn. Colette lives in Cambridge, where she teaches Creative Writing at Anglia Ruskin University. 

About A Complete Success, by Colette Paul

This is a sharply observed collection which finds comedy and sadness in the ordinary lives of ordinary characters—teenage girls, middle-aged divorcees, a man facing his last night alone in hospital. The stories are linked by a sense of lives in transition, with the attendant fear, exhilaration, and sense of loss those moments can bring. Time after time, characters struggle to understand and communicate their feelings, to their loved ones and to themselves. Despite the melancholy theme, the stories are shot through with humour and lightness, a sense of life in all its complicated messiness. 

You can read more about A Complete Success on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read an excerpt from the opening story of the collection. 

From A Complete Success

From 'Rats'

Before my boyfriend leaves for work he says, ‘I saw another rat last night. You better talk to that neighbour today about feeding the birds.’

‘You talk to her,’ I say. 

‘You’re the one who’s lumbering around the house all day,’ he says. ‘I’ve not got a minute to myself from the moment I get into the lab.’

‘Lumbering,’ I say, ‘that’s very nice!’

‘You were still in your dressing gown when I came home last night.’ 

‘Because I didn’t feel well!’ 

He stops fiddling with his bike helmet and says quietly, ‘Why are you crying?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Why do you think I’m crying?’

He lets out a sigh of frustration. ‘It’s really annoying how you answer a question with another question.’ He sits down next to me with a look of defeat. ‘Do you think you might be depressed?’

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘is that a question? I thought we weren’t allowed to answer a question with another question.’ 

Since we moved here six months ago, we argue all the time. I blame my boyfriend for bringing me here, where I have no job and no friends. It doesn’t matter that I’d just got made redundant, or that my best friend had moved to Spain, or that I was actually excited to move somewhere new—I still blame him. It’s not fair, I know, but that is one of the downsides of being such a decisive and definite person, like my boyfriend. 

*

I get dressed and put on some makeup and knock on my next-door neighbour’s door. She is a tiny, stooped old woman, with bright eyes like Mrs Tiggy-Winkle. From our bedroom window we have witnessed her throwing bird seed around her garden with surprising energy.

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I say, ‘but we live next door, and we’ve been getting a lot of rats in our garden. The internet says it might be because you’re feeding the birds—the rats are attracted to anywhere they can find food.’ 

‘Oh dear,’ she says, ‘have you got them as well?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Loads of them. They seem to be coming from your garden.’ 

‘I hear them scurrying around, scratch-scratch-scratch, all hours of the day.’ 

‘In your house?’ I say, horrified. 

‘I don’t know,’ she chuckles. ‘The council’s been round a few times, but they can’t see where they’re coming from either.’

‘Well maybe you could try stopping feeding the birds,’ I say. ‘That’s the biggest way to get rid of them, the internet says.’ 

‘Oh I love my birds,’ she says. ‘I sit and watch them all day. They’re the only thing that keeps me going since my husband died.’ 

Roger Bygott, "Ginsberg & Manchester"

 

Roger Bygott is a writer and researcher living in Manchester. He was an ordained Buddhist for twenty years and lived in a monastery in the Spanish mountains for three years. He studied Interactive Arts at Manchester Metropolitan University, which led him to co-found and co-direct Manifest Arts, a biennial arts festival in Manchester that highlighted the city's network of arts studios between 2015 and 2019. His essays have been published in Beat Scene and Dark Mountain.

About Ginsberg & Manchester, by Roger Bygott
Allen Ginsberg visited Manchester twice. He barely figures in the city's history, and Manchester barely figures in his. Yet two brief visits — a summer afternoon in 1973, a Library Theatre reading in 1979 — hold richer stories than the bare facts suggest.

Ginsberg & Manchester brings together several figures whose lives were touched by Ginsberg in different ways: Alan Wise, a charismatic music impresario (manager of Nico, John Cooper Clarke and Donovan) from Salford, whose letters to Ginsberg span fourteen years; Steven Taylor, a guitarist born in Gorton who became Ginsberg's closest musical companion for two decades; Jonathan Williams, the American avant-garde publisher (Jargon Press) who first brought Ginsberg into the city centre; and Jampa Thaye, a Manchester grammar school boy who discovered Buddhism through Kerouac, became an influential Buddhist teacher, and who was Ginsberg's host when he came to the Library Theatre. This is a story about how a great American poet left a faint but enduring mark on an English city that never quite noticed he was there.

The book also features rare and unpublished photos of Ginsberg and his associates.

You can read more about Ginsberg & Manchester on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read an excerpt from the book. 

From Ginsberg & Manchester
In one of Allen Ginsberg’s date books, there’s a barely intelligible squiggle across the boxes for 4–6 June 1979. On the sixth day, at the end of the squiggle, is an arrow and the question: ‘Manchester?’ 

What was the story behind that asemic flourish? It had been five years since Ginsberg’s fleeting visit to Manchester in August 1973. There weren’t many reasons for him to return; his connection with the north-west of England was primarily with Liverpool, thanks to his fascination with the Beatles and connection with the Merseybeat poets. 

That arrowhead was inviting enquiry. What was he doing? Who was he travelling with this time? The existing biographies were of little help. Ginsberg could pack his days with meetings, readings, socialising and cultural events, so it’s not surprising that his all-too-brief visits to Manchester get short shrift in his letters and the many biographies of him.

Michael Schumacher, in his biography Dharma Lion: A Biography of Allen Ginsberg, notes that in 1979, ‘Allen’s European reading tour included visits to Paris, Cambridge, London, Newcastle, Rotterdam and Rome – all in a whirlwind schedule that lasted less than a month.’  Manchester has got lost in the whirlwind. Barry Miles’s biography of Ginsberg mentions neither his 1973 nor his 1979 visit to Manchester. I started to wonder if the question mark in Ginsberg’s date diary might indicate a possible visit that never materialised. 

Then I discovered a June 1979 letter to his friend and fellow Beat poet Gary Snyder, sent from the Netherlands on 14 June 1979: 

After triumphant tour of the capitals of Europe – Genoa, Milan, Spoleto, Paris, Manchester, Cambridge, London, Amsterdam, Rotterdam – we’re dragging our weary tongues o’er the sea to Newcastle to visit [Basil] Bunting and last reading there … We brought Steven Taylor to guitar and sing and all turned out funny and energetic like a folkie tour. 

Steven Taylor, Ginsberg’s guitarist and musical director, is an integral part of the story. He was born to a working-class family in east Manchester, who emigrated to the USA in 1965 when he was ten years old. 

On 5 June, Taylor joined [Ginsberg, Peter Orlovsky and Anne Waldman] on the 12.55 p.m. train from Euston, heading north for a reading at the Manchester Library Theatre ...

Katherine Howey, "In Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens"

 

Katherine Howey lives in Leicester. She has a special interest in the social history of the late Georgian period, and realistic portrayals of neurodiverse and disabled people. Her historical fiction focuses on themes of outsidership and disability, and the struggle to break free of stereotypes to achieve a fulfilling and authentic life. In Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens is her debut novel and book one in the Lucinda series. Book two, Reeve’s Emporium, is also out now. She has published academic work in the fields of assistive technology and has a certificate in Creative Writing from the University of Leicester. She previously taught neurodiverse students in both further and higher education.

About In Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, by Katherine Howey

In her debut novel, In Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, Katherine Howey weaves a compelling tale of heartbreak, courage and love set against a background of revolutionary politics and social unrest in late eighteenth-century England.

Lucinda arrives in London, bright, pretty, but impoverished. Her efforts to support herself through respectable work as a seamstress are thwarted when she becomes ill with rheumatic fever and is unable to continue in her trade. She encounters the handsome but troubled physician, William, whose path mirrors her own, but her hopes of love collapse at the whims and tyrannies of the upper classes.

In desperation, she goes to Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, a notorious meeting ground for all levels of society. Can she find a path out of destitution, and claim her independence?

You can see more information about In Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens here. Below, you can read an excerpt from the novel.

From In Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens

Chapter 17

Drowsy in the heat, Lucinda could hear the small waves slapping against the sides of the boat as it made its way upstream to Vauxhall. She had not been to the Pleasure Gardens before, their being considered less salubrious than the Gardens at Ranelagh which she had visited with Richard Meadows just a few years before, her heart full with such soaring hopes, but she knew of them through reputation. The small craft glided through the water. She looked curiously at the riverbank. They had left the looming white mass of the Tower and its sinister, moss grown Watergate entrance far behind them, and she could see the vast edifice of St Paul's jutting on the skyline beyond the mudflats of the shore and she fancied that the grand cathedral held her in its protective gaze.

Her palms were sticky, and she began to feel apprehensive at what could lie ahead. Reluctantly, she turned her thoughts to how she might carry out her intention. She had heard many times of how the courtesans and street-walkers came to the gardens. She wondered if she had the courage to take a step that would take her beyond the pail, and yet how else, no matter how hard she worked, could she save enough money to leave London? At least in Vauxhall, away from her locality on the fringes of Southwark, she could conceal her actions. She dreaded the thought of her landlady, Daphne, and her girls finding her out, and had no wish to become known in Southwark as a streetwalker. At least she could keep her reputation and her respectability as a teacher to the trades people of Southwark who send their children to her to be educated. 

The current was swift and soon the power of the river had carried them swirling through the arches of Westminster Bridge. Alert now from the reviving splash of the water, Lucinda felt the prickle of dread crawl up her spine as she observed the huddled forms lying precariously atop the starlings, surrounded by the lapping waters, drowsing in the filth. Her heart wrenched as they swept by and a woman lent towards them from her perch with outstretched hand clamouring for alms. Her face was swathed against the heat, and Lucinda thought she saw the pale orb of a babe’s head at her shoulder. Uncomfortably, she faced towards Vauxhall, her resolve strengthened.

Claire Walker, "How to Shape Our Mouths"

 

Claire Walker’s poetry has been nominated for the Forward Prizes, and shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award. Her work is published in journals and anthologies including Poetry Wales, Poetry Birmingham Literary Journal, Finished Creatures, Dust, Aesthetica, and Ten Poems about Daughters (Candlestick Press). Her new pamphlet is How to Shape Our Mouths (Black Cat Poetry Press, 2026). Claire is co-editor of Atrium poetry webzine, and is currently studying for a Creative Writing MA at the University of Birmingham.

About How to Shape Our Mouths, by Claire Walker
How to Shape Our Mouths is a consideration of womanhood, exploring experiences of artists, writers, muses, mothers and daughters, often through an ekphrastic lens. 

You can read more about How to Shape Our Mouths on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two sample poems from the collection. 

From How to Shape Our Mouths

In which I am one of Modigliani’s nudes

We share a cigarette at the window, blow smoke out into the evening. This is our 1917 Paris skyline, and you are in full bloom, the exhibition imminent. We’re down to embers, so I remove my robe, the cliched silk slipping easily away. I move to the couch and recline. There is tenderness as you ask if I’m comfortable. Amedeo, here I’m so comfortable I could dream. You lift my head, place another cushion for me to rest on. By now, you have a reputation for drink, though you’re not yet tragic, and I am not yet grieving. The walls of your studio are blush-soft. You take up your brush, mix colours to match my hair, contemplate the correct earthy tone for my skin. My spine uncurls, my neck grows long upon the canvas. Here, we are comrades, the moment both abstract and acute. Let’s take my sadness, your poor health, and let’s make something beautiful. This is not sex, or love. There is a little pigment of my heart that wishes to be seen, and there is your longing for greatness. Come, see you whisper. I notice you have captured the exact shade of my irises, the exact shape of my eyes, not your go-to almond form. You tell me you’ll paint the background warm and red like the soul. Modi, by now, all the good light has gone. We circle back, we share a cigarette, blow smoke out into the Paris night. A night so black we no longer see our breath escaping us.

Unzipped

"It was as if another woman had been waiting inside her all along, ready to slip out" - Rachel Joyce, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry.

After I gave birth to my daughter,

I cradled her on the crisp clean sheets.

My body grew a new version of me,

one long exhale, skin unzipped 

and out she slid, quiet and instinctive. 

I knew how to hold the girl, 

was so sure of this fresh employment. 

My baby and I made friends with ourselves 

and those like us. I felt sweet at ease 

teaching how to feed, smile, count on fingers, 

how to shape our mouths into mama.

  

At thirteen, our certainty is delicate 

as sugar work. Those two, who slipped 

knowingly from me, have less to say. 

Still entwined by blood and love,

some days laughter halts in thickened air. 

The bared teeth of that zip pull away, 

come apart. And although we remember 

how to smile, sometimes our mouths cloy 

with stuck apologies. There is a confusion

within us. Those people we once knew —

not quite gone, not quite there either. 

Constantine, "The Lady of Atlantis"

Congratulations to Constantine, MA Creative Writing graduate, who has just published his new children's novel The Lady of Atlantis!

Constantine is an autistic author and father. He achieved a first-class BA at Middlesex University in 2017 and completed his Master's Degree at the University of Leicester in 2022. Between the two degrees he wrote four episodes of the Children's TV show Pablo and has written and published the picture book Tiya and the Minotaur and The Cats of Charnwood Forest and its sequel Jötunheim. He runs the not-for-profit publishers Coalville C.A.N. Community Publishers. 

 

About The Lady of Atlantis, by Constantine

Sa‑ra has always heard the voices. On Thira, that makes her a priestess. But as the mountain stirs and the earth convulses, she realises the truth: her world is running out of time.

The Lady of Atlantis is a vivid retelling of Atlantis, not as myth but as living history. It is inspired by the archaeology of Akrotiri and the author’s own translations of Minoan writings.

You can read more about The Lady of Atlantis on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read a sample from the opening of the novel. 

From The Lady of Atlantis
I was about eleven when I first was asked to pa-pa-ra-te.*
 
A young woman from Akrotiri came to the palace in great distress. It appeared she carried a great burden in her mind. For she was wealthy, even by Therian standards, where it was the custom for women to be the heads of households and to hold the purse strings.

Being both wealthy and not unlovely to behold, there were men in plenty wishing to court her. Two in particular caught her eye. One was a hard-working fisherman. He was kind and pious, the years at sea had roughened his skin, and at first glance perhaps, he was certainly not what the fashion of Thira saw as "beautiful." However, he was not "unlovely," he had a sparkle in his eye and a wit which was hard not to become enamoured with. Indeed, I had seen this man, and he reminded me of my father. No greater praise could I give

The other man had recently returned from the games on Crete. Where it is said he bought Thira much honour.

He was handsome and well-knit in frame, being an athlete. He was a good man by all reports. But he was vain, caring more for his own looks, and it seemed that women in plenty flocked to him and were enamoured of him.

She wished for me to take the vapours and tell her who she should marry.

"You do not need the vapours," I said. "You already know."

"But I am in great doubt," she said. "Can you not help ease the burden?"

 It seemed strange to me that having to choose between two good men to be a burden. 

 "You desire children," I said. It was a statement, but she nodded.

"Close your eyes," I said. "Picture yourself in bed. A priestess hands you your first child. You look up into the face of your husband ... Who is it?"

Her face betrayed her shock, and then she smiled, knowing truly where her heart lay.

"I do not prophesy for good or ill," I said, "for marriage is the work of two people, and there will always be hardships unknown and joys unlooked for. But if he wants you as you him, you will both be happy."

In time, she married her choice, it was the athlete, for though he was vain, he was not conceited. Whilst he sought fame, being a good husband and a role model for his children was his first concern; and he had eyes for this woman from when they were youths. 

*This meant "to let the goddess’s radiance speak through you." Over time, this idea became the word prophecy.

 

Ellistown Primary School, "The Sum of Our Parts"

 

About The Sum of Our Parts
The Sum of Our Parts is a new anthology of Creative Writing by Year 6 students at Ellistown Primary School in Coalville. It is published by Coalville C.A.N. Community Publishing. Congratulations to all the students involved! The anthology is edited by Constantine, University of Leicester MA Creative Writing graduate. 

You can read more about the anthology here. Below, you can read the foreword by the headteacher of the school, and two of the stories from the anthology.

From The Sum of Our Parts

Foreword
by Simone Fellows (Headteacher)

Once again, it has been a pleasure to work with Coalville Community Publishing, to give our year 6s this fantastic opportunity - a chance for our young people to receive feedback from an author/publisher in Constantine and to see work that they are proud of in print. It is especially exciting for the children, knowing that a copy of their anthology will be held at the National Library alongside the works of some of their favourite authors!

Having a real-world audience and knowing that their work would be published creates a real buzz in class, inspiring even our most reluctant writers to aim high. Some of our children sent multiple drafts and received feedback two or three times in pursuit of a finished piece they can be proud of. This created a real discourse between writer and editor and enabling the children to develop their resilience and set high expectations for themselves.
 
As ever, a heartfelt thank you to Coalville C.A.N. and Coalville Community Publishing for this opportunity. Special thanks to Constantine, for your patience and support in bringing this together over many months. It is a pleasure to work with you on this important project and your openness about being neurodiverse gives our children permission to embrace their own individuality and to find a voice they may not have known they had. Every time we create an anthology together, you help Ellistown Primary School children see their own potential.

The Beach of Hell

by Myles H

Decades have passed since D-Day. I fought in many battles after that. I even fought in Vietnam.

But D-Day? That was a hell of its own.

Normandy: Dead bodies everywhere, bullets ricocheting … Up above Germans stood behind turrets firing at anything that moved.

The objective: There was a wall which offered some cover, getting there was the job.

I waited for the boat door to collapse open. A soon as it did a soldier in front collapsed to the floor: between his eyes was a gaping hole where a bullet had shot through. I dived forward to shake of the fear. As I stormed through the water a bullet screeched past the man in front and rebounded off something before slashing through my foot. A throbbing pain shot through my body.

"Medic!" I screamed over and over again before something grabbed me and dragged me behind the wall. There a medic stood holding my foot before strapping a belt around my ankle.

"It needs amputating!" he shouted in my face. I had no idea what that meant.

I know now. I know what amputation means. When I wake in the night it still takes me a moment to remember that I only have one foot.

Her

By Layla T

Walking through the heart of the field, as the sun dipped behind the clouds, I carried my backpack trying not to look too interested. Football practice was ending, but one player was still out there-running drills after everyone had long packed up.

Her. The girl who played football like it was part of her heartbeat.

She sprinted, slowed, set the ball and shot. The sound echoed through the field-sharp and perfect. I stood there for a moment, watching her determination, the way her ponytail swung with each stride, she didn't seem to care that the sky was turning gold.

She glanced up and noticed me. I froze.

She jogged over, wiping sweat from her forehead.

“Hey," she said with a breathless smile, "you need the field?”

I shook my head. "No ... um ... I mean I'm just walking home."

She laughed softly, not in a teasing way, but like she found your awkwardness kinda cute.

 "I'm Layla," she said tapping her boots on the grass.

"I'm Johnathan," I replied with a smile, "You're really good." And I meant it; I thought she has great potential.

“Thanks," her eyes lit up with pride, the kind only passion can give. "I love the game.”

I hesitated then added, "I can tell! ...The way you play - it's like you were born with a ball at your feet."

She was shocked, "That's the nicest compliment ever ... I mean everyone normally says I am just a girl."

“I see a lot of potential here ... in you ..." I replied. "So, sign this form, and come this Friday.”

Her face lit up like Christmas morning. "OMG... NO WAY!" she cried.

"Yes way," I said smiling.

"Thank you so much .... I .... I will be there," she said happily.

 

Hannah Stevens, "On the Bodies of Strangers"

Congratulations to UoL PhD Creative Writing graduate Hannah Stevens, whose new short story collection, On the Bodies of Strangers, has just been published!

 

Hannah Stevens is a writer of fiction and non-fiction. In Their Absence, her debut collection of stories was published by the Stretto imprint of Roman Books and was translated into Bulgarian by Ana Pipeva for Altera Press.

Her writing has featured in numerous anthologies including The Fairlight Book of Short Stories, High Spirits: A Round of Drinking Stories and Unthology 10: Fight or Flight. She is widely published in literary journals and magazines globally including Archer Magazine (Australia), Loose Lips (Canada), Necessary Fiction (USA), Litro Magazine, Idle Ink, Losslit, Fictive Dream and TSS Publishing (all UK).

She is currently working on her third collection of stories inspired by her time living and working in Taiwan. She has undertaken writing residencies in Yangon, Myanmar, The Literature and Translation House in Sofia, Bulgaria and the Taiwan Literature Base, Taipei.

Hannah is also an editor and creative events producer and has worked around the world on projects using writing and storytelling as tools for positive social change, partnering with the BBC, the British Embassy, Greenpeace and many others. Her website is here. 

About On the Bodies of Strangers, by Hannah Stevens

Shortlisted for the W&A Working Class Writers’ Prize 2022. A collection of short stories linked by the theme of tattoos.

Our lives, our experiences and the people we encounter leave behind indelible marks. On the Bodies of Strangers explores marked lives and marked flesh. The stories in this collection are linked by a single thread: the tattoos of their protagonists, traces of experiences and meaning etched onto their skin.  

 

These are stories about the chaos of ordinary lives, about people who are flawed, complicated, but always deeply human. From domestic abuse to unexpected friendship, mixing horror and hope, intimacies and lies, On the Bodies of Strangers explores the many ways we mark each other and ourselves as we deal with the complexities of human behaviour.  

You can read more about On the Bodies of Strangers on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read an excerpt from one of the stories.  

From On the Bodies of Strangers

Extract from Stick and Poke

The sun is higher now and the air is hazy with dust. The factory is in full sun, and so they’ve had to move for some shade. They sit beneath a tree across the wasteland close by.

Angel opens her bag and pulls out an old towel. She lays it carefully onto the floor, smoothing out the rucks as best she can on the uneven ground. Alma watches, nods her head in approval.

"It’s getting real now," she says. Angel doesn’t speak, takes out a plastic pouch filled with a handful of sewing needles. Next she brings out a pencil, a spool of thread, and then a tiny pot of blank ink. 

"This is everything," says Angel, sitting up and straightening her back. 

"So, how does it work, then?" Alma asks. She shifts slightly, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. 

"Well," says Angel. "You dip the needle into ink and then poke it into the skin. Like, over and over again."

 

"Yeah, even I got that," says Alma. "So the tattoo is made out of dots, not lines?"

"Yes," says Angel. "I’ll be poking dots, not drawing lines, and I’ll have to go over it a few times. It’s going to hurt." She stops talking and looks at Alma.

"It’s fine," says Alma. "I can handle it." She sniffs, avoids looking directly back at Angel. 

"What design do you want?" Angel asks. 

Alma doesn’t want to say, somehow. "I thought you were supposed to be the artist," she shrugs.

"I wouldn’t say that," says Angel. "Anyway, you should choose. It’s your body." 

A woman with two kids appears on the canal towpath. She is carrying shopping bags in each hand. They look heavy, and her shoulders sag. Alma can see the woman’s face is red, set hard against the distance she’s got to walk home. The two boys trail behind her, struggling in the lunchtime heat. Alma wonders who they are, who they’ll become, if they’d disappear eventually too. Just like her dad. 

"Maybe a moon," says Alma finally. She remembers that time when her dad was home. Just for a short while. How he showed her the moon from her bedroom window, said that whenever she saw it, she should think of him, how he loved her. It was the only time she’d heard him say that he loved anyone. She remembers the moon’s white glow, the curl of it against the dark, empty sky.