Tina Cole & Michael W. Thomas, "Nothing Louche or Bohemian"

Tina Cole was born in the Black Country and now lives in rural Herefordshire near Ludlow. She has three published pamphlets, I Almost Knew You (2018), Forged (Yaffle Press, 2021) and What it Was (Mark Time Books, 2023). As a poet and reviewer, she has led workshops with both adults and children and judged a number of U.K. and international competitions. Her published poems have appeared in many U.K. magazines and collections, including in The Guardian newspaper. She is a past winner of a number of national poetry competitions, 2010-2023, and completed an M.A. in Creative Writing / Poetry at Manchester Metropolitan University in 2023.

Michael W. Thomas has published ten collections of poetry, three novels and two collections of short fiction. His most recent poetry collection, prior to this, is A Time for Such a Word (Black Pear Press); his most recent short fiction collection is Sing Ho! Stout Cortez: Novellas and Stories (Black Pear Press); his most recent novel is The Erkeley Shadows (KDP / Swan Village Reporter). With Simon Fletcher, he edited The Poetry of Worcestershire (Offa's Press). His work has appeared in Acumen, The Antigonish Review (Canada), The Antioch Review (US), The Cannon's Mouth, Critical Survey, Crossroads (Poland), Dream Catcher, Etchings (Australia), Irish Studies Review, Irish University Review, Magazine Six (US), Pennine Platform, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Times Literary Supplement and Under the Radar, among others. He has reviewed for The London Magazine, Other Poetry and The Times Literary Supplement, and is on the editorial board of Crossroads: A Journal of English Studies (University of Bialystok, Poland). He was long-listed for the National Poetry Competition, 2020 and 2022, and long-listed and short-listed for the Indigo Dreams Spring Poetry Prize, 2023. Michael's website is here. He blogs here. @thomasmichaelw

About Nothing Louche or Bohemian, by Tina Cole and Michael W. Thomas
A miscellany box of memories, intense and disconcerting; a gently encouraging piano teacher; teddy bears that knew better days; tinkling bottle-tags; classroom faces happy, wistful, preoccupied; a district nurse’s long-ago phone call; an assignation beneath a canal bridge; a father’s jokes worn down to the metal. These and so many other scenes find their places in the landscape of Nothing Louche or Bohemian. As the collection unfolds, threads are caught, drawn out, found to be markers on the map of what once was—and what, in these pages, lives again … enthralling, troubling, never less than vivid. Tina and Michael have known each other for several years but discovered that they’d grown up in the same area of the Black Country – and gone to the same secondary school. Those coincidences prompted Tina to suggest that they collaborate on a project. This is it.  

From Nothing Louche or Bohemian

Intoxication

It's all in the way you look at things 

or so they say. I remember them being purchased 

in a junk shop just behind The Miners Arms.

My hand went out instinctively to three silver

bottle tags, fingers tracing the engraving, whisky, 

gin, vermouth, how they glinted in the forty-watt 

light amongst tarnished soup tureens and discarded 

cutlery, but oh, that word    vermouth! 

                          It was evenings in cerise silk pyjamas, 

something louche, bohemian, a life away from corseted 

cares. Listening to Rachmaninov, nights at the Royal Opera 

not the sixpenny stalls at the Sedgley Clifton. No, the life 

I deserved sitting in a green Lloyd-loom chair, wafting 

about a Hampstead flat thin and mysterious, smoking

something sweetly scented. I would have written 

a clutch of acclaimed collections, beautiful poetry

not the usual tat that is continually rejected. 

                          It's all in the way you look at things, 

in the way one's hand reaches out for beauty,

a rose, a baby's hand, a moment of success, 

and that word vermouth    is still    intoxicating. 

- Tina Cole

Jacqueline Burnett

           Holy Trinity Roman Catholic School, Oxford Street, Bilston, 1958-1965

We were in the same class

at primary school. Shared 

the same birthday. One year

were told to stand up

so the room could sing

and toast the nothing we'd done.

Slight, she was, freckled:

tawny keeps coming to mind.

Already bringing on a bit of a stoop

to oblige the future.

You'd glimpse her 

slipping out to play,

edging the shadows

of the manager's son

and the town-clerk's daughter.

She answered each question perfectly

then retrieved her stillness,

putting the world away from her

till called upon again.

She rarely smiled,

perhaps never,

certainly not the day she and I

held an end apiece of coincidence,

like a pageant-flag

golden from a brush of sun

fluttered in a pocket of wind.

- Michael W. Thomas

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.

Kerry Hadley-Pryce, "God's Country"

Kerry Hadley-Pryce was born in the Black Country. She worked nights in a Wolverhampton petrol station before becoming a secondary school teacher. A leading exponent of ‘Black Country noir,’ her previous Salt novels were substantial critical successes and helped popularise Gothic writing from the Black Country. She wrote her first novel, The Black Country, whilst studying for an MA in Creative Writing at the Manchester Writing School, for which she gained a distinction and for which she was awarded the Michael Schmidt Prize for outstanding achievement. Her second novel Gamble was shortlisted for the Encore Second Novel Award. She has had several short stories published both in print and online. She has just completed a PhD in Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University. God’s Country is her third novel. She lives in Stourbridge and tweets @kerry2001

About God's Country, by Kerry Hadley-Pryce

In God’s Country, Guy Flood returns to the Black Country with his girlfriend, Alison, to attend his identical twin brother’s funeral. The reasons he left, and the secrets he left behind, slowly become clear. A chilling dark fiction, dominated by unknown and all-seeing narrator.

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

From God's Country

Guy looked at her, and she’ll say she knew that look well. She’ll tell how she rubbed her fingertips lightly and briefly on the outside of his thigh. 

‘Oh, Christ, Guy…’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’ 

Guy sighed. He would have sighed instead of saying anything.

‘That was thoughtless, me saying something like that,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry.’

Ahead of them, she’ll say the traffic had just begun to move. They would have been able to see it begin to shift, like the vertebrae of an enormous monster that they were part of, and up ahead, the blue lights of the fire engines, the police cars. 

‘I really am,’ Alison said, and she would have been squeezing his thigh, and her breath would have been chemical with thirst. ‘I’m an idiot for saying that.’ 

She’ll say now, she just needed to keep him on-side. 

Don’t feel sorry for her.

She’ll tell how she remembers Guy finding first gear, saying, ‘Thank Christ for that,’ and how he was concentrating on the horizon, leaning forward, seeming to want to push forward physically. She would have taken hold of his fingers if she could have, if she could have brought herself to, that is, but both his hands were on the wheel, and it was late, and nobody wants to be late for their own brother’s funeral, especially when it’s your twin brother ...