My MA Creative Dissertation

By Anna O'Sullivan

Hello fellow creative writers! My name is Anna O’Sullivan and I’m a recent graduate from University of Leicester with a BA in English and MA in Modern and Contemporary Literature and Creative Writing with Distinction and recipient of the Waddington MA Prize – which is a bit of a mouthful! Since graduating, I work full-time at a college, with plans to travel for several months around Central and South America, starting in May. I aspire to build a career in the publishing industry later down the line.  

As well as a passion for writing, I love arts and crafts. Recently, I created a Gavin and Stacey-themed Monopoly set, and that became my whole personality for the several months it took. Above all things, I love to read. My favourite genres include feminist, historical and dystopian fiction. I have recently joined "BookTok" and am enjoying speaking to people from around the world with a mutual love for books and similar tastes to me. It is welcoming and wholesome, and a great way to share your views and receive recommendations! 

University of Leicester’s MA in Modern and Contemporary Literature was incredibly appealing to me, as it explores a range of literary forms and genres from a period of history that interests me and addresses relevant social and political issues. The books I studied on this module were thought-provoking and helped me to find my niche and shape an understanding of the subjects. The combination of this degree alongside modules from the Creative Writing MA, plus the opportunity to pursue a creative dissertation, was too good an opportunity to miss. 

The Creative Writing Dissertation, weighted 70% for the creative piece and 30% for 3,000 words of a critical reflection, enables total freedom for writers to explore any forms they would like to. Initially, due to my interest in the genre, I had ideas of a dystopian short story that would cover the 12,000-word limit. Although I made in-depth plans for this, upon further reflection, more ideas began to trickle out and I found myself wanting to write a piece that felt much more meaningful. 

"Meaningfulness" was the key to landing on my big idea. I chose to write a collection of short stories entitled Girls about three young women in the genre of post-feminist fiction. Each story was 4,000 words and followed the female protagonist in close third-person perspective as they encountered similar themes of love, desire and sex. The stories were dispersed across three decades (2000s, 2010s and 2020s) but covered similar challenges in contemporary workplace and university settings. The piece, whilst mostly completely fictional, contained aspects of similar experiences that my friends or I have had, and therefore leant slightly towards being autobiographical. 

Whilst writing, if I hit a wall and found I had no idea how to proceed with the story, I read. The novels I know and love – the ones I would consume and think yes, I want to write something like this, they steered me onwards. Three Women by Lisa Taddeo, powerful but flawed in its own way, was a huge inspiration for my piece, as it takes readers on a journey through the lives of three real women and their relationship with sex and desire. I wanted to be a bit like Lisa Taddeo but comedic like Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’s Diary with flawed protagonists, like Ottessa’s Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation - my own take on my favourite aspects of these books. I took inspiration from the modules I had enjoyed during my degree. One in which I explored the relationship between work and identity led me down a path of interest in "work novels" and "bullshit jobs." And as meaningfulness wins over, I knew I wanted to write about women and their experiences at work and in other areas that they have historically been regarded as "second." Women. Work. Desire. 

As I had read and consumed so much whilst writing the creative piece, this made the reflective commentary so much more manageable. I had the primary and secondary material at hand, and as I had picked a subject that I was interested in, I was able to discuss it in great detail. I believe a bit of fire in the belly helps steer the work along. I have a lot to say about false ideas surrounding female desire, or modern women in workplace settings, so I channelled my frustration into something creative. I wanted to create a narrative that would resonate with other women.

My greatest piece of advice, therefore, is to write about something meaningful, and something that piques your interest. The creative dissertation is all yours. It’s your vision. With the kind guidance of your supervisor, this piece of work can be shaped into whatever you want it to become. I highly recommend using this opportunity to create something that resonates with your own experiences, interests or values. 

Below you can read three excerpts from the dissertation. 

A snippet from the first short story: Maeve’s Story, 2004 
Maeve Taylor blows out the candles on her twenty-third birthday cake and wishes for the one thing she wants most in the world – to have sex with her boss. 

To repeat the exact words as she says the wish to herself: to have dirty, steamy sex with Max Walters in his office, up against the locked door or on top of his desk, or anywhere he would prefer it really. 

Of course, she couldn’t say this out loud. Her parents and grandma sit on stools on the opposite side of the counter, their faces all filled with glee and adoration, still seeing the sweet, virginal girl Maeve once was. 

It’s lucky Maeve couldn’t say the wish out loud, because her grandma might have had a heart attack, and that would probably put an end to the party. Besides, it wouldn’t come true if she did. 

A snippet from the second short story: Olive’s Story, 2014
Olive Newman screams. STOP IT. PLEASE STOP. I’M BEGGING YOU.

She screams but she can barely hear her own voice over the ringing in her ears. She is thrown to the ground suddenly. Her back smacks against the concrete. She lays there, motionless, staring up at the black, starless sky. Her breaths are shaky and uneven, her heart hammering against her ribcage. 

She reaches her hand to touch the back of her head. When she brings it back to her eyeline, her hand is coated in dirt and mud. No blood.

A snippet from the third short story: Joanna’s Story, 2020
Joanna Weatherford is left on the steps of her accommodation on a muggy September day in 2020. She watches wistfully as her parent’s car signals out of the carpark and drives away without turning back. 

She gazes up at the tall, red brick building beside her. There’s something dingy and cold about it. As she walks through into her ground-floor flat, the pasty white walls and damp smell feels slightly akin to a prison. Her room is at the very end of the hallway, by the fire exit. The floor is covered entirely by various bags and boxes of her possessions. Everything she has collected over the last eighteen years folded and shoved into suitcases.

Constantine, "And things begin to change ... and other stories"

Congratulations to University of Leicester MA Creative Writing graduate Constantine, who's just published his book of short stories, And things begin to change ... and other stories!

Constantine is an autistic author and father. He achieved a first-class B.A. 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 T.V. show Pablo, and has written and published the picture book Tiya and the Minotaur and the novels The Cats of Charnwood Forest and its sequel Jötunheim. 

About And things begin to change ... and other stories

This collection of short stories has been donated to Coalville C.A.N., a community project in North West Leicestershire which hopes to encourage and support local authors through ‘Coalville C.A.N. Community Publishing.’ All proceeds from the book go towards that project. Coalville C.A.N. Community Publishing is now accepting submissions from all Leicestershire-based authors. You can see more details about their work here. 

You can see more details about And things begin to change ... and other stories here. Below, you can read a complete story from the book. 

From And things begin to change ... and other stories, by Constantine

Policeman Pete

Peter headed home. His colleagues were in the locker room getting changed, but not Peter. Peter liked travelling home in his uniform. It made him feel safe, and powerful, though admittedly not quite as powerful as when he walked around St Pancras station with his Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifle. Of course, being off duty he removed his cap and made sure his identity numbers were well hidden. The Assault rifle and Sidearm were left at the station along with his Taser and CS Gas. Nevertheless, there was no disguising what he was and the feeling of power aroused him.

Tonight, the tube was packed, and even so, he commanded a respectful space around him. The passengers, like cattle in an abattoir crowded away to avoid his gaze. A woman caught his attention; she was halfway down the carriage and squashed in. He made his way towards her knowing nobody would question his movements and as he passed, he squeezed up beside her, his lips almost touching her ear, The scent of her perfume was in his nostrils and he knew she had felt him. She would put this gentlest of violations down to her own imagination or accident, but he knew she had felt him pass.

He got off and walked slowly home. Tucked away in his pocket was the missing ingredient.

*

The kids avoided making eye contact as he passed. Nobody called out to him, no ‘Good evening officer,’ from the locals. It was a ‘sign of the times,’ he told himself, though inside he knew it had started the day Mary had left.

He reached his home, a one-bed flat on the ground floor of a terraced house in Leyton. Despite the lateness of the year the inside of the flat was markedly colder than the outside. Peter barely noticed. He glanced briefly at the usual plethora of bills and credit card applications which sat on the mat and then headed into the kitchen. He poured himself a small scotch and sighed deeply. Then he took the bottle and opened a small door in the main corridor. Here one could access the gas and electricity meters but also a small set of steps went down to a cramped and dank cellar. The walls were lagged and soundproofed but still, the smell of damp chalk came through.

There under a single lightbulb stood a mannequin. Its clothes were demure, its hair refined and respectful. Its face painted, like that of a woman weeping. From his uniform pocket, Peter retrieved a brown paper packet and from this, he removed a pair of stockings. He spent a few minutes lovingly and carefully fitting them and then from his inside pocket removed his ex-wife’s wedding ring and slipped it onto the mannequin’s finger. He stood back and admired his handy work. Then, after taking a few more gulps of whisky, he took out his truncheon and let out a barely human cry of rage.

Outside the rain fell heavily in Peter's backyard. It fell on the overgrown lawn, the uncared-for flowerbeds, and the pile of smashed and disfigured fibreglass figures.

Kathy Hoyle, "Chasing the Dragon"

Congratulations to PhD Creative Writing student Kathy Hoyle, whose novella-in-flash, Chasing the Dragon, has just been published by Alien Buddha Press! 

Kathy Hoyle writes short fiction and flash fiction. Her work can be found in publications such as Fictive Dream, Lunate, Ellipsiszine, The Forge, and Emerge Literary Journal.

She was the winner of The Bath Flash Fiction Award, The Retreat West Flash Fiction Competition, came second in The Edinburgh Flash Fiction Award, and the HISSAC Prize and third in the Cambridge Flash Fiction Prize. Other stories have been listed in various competitions such as The Exeter Short Story Prize and The Fish Short Memoir Prize.

She holds a BA (Hons) and an MA in Creative Writing and is currently studying for a PhD at the University of Leicester. Chasing the Dragon is her debut novella-in-flash.

About Chasing the Dragon

Chasing the Dragon is a visceral, searing novella-in-flash that explores the complexities of familial relationships in a small-town community reeling from the after-effects of the Vietnam War. 

When two young men return home from war, both deeply troubled, their mothers must deal with the terrible fall-out. 

Willy is addicted to opiates and suffering from PTSD. Chester, no longer able to freely express his thirst for blood and combat, seeks other ways to wreak havoc on those around him. And their younger cousins, TJ and Cal, desperate to emulate their hometown war heroes, head off into the woods, only to find there is terrible danger there too. 

Meanwhile, in Vietnam, Bihn, who is terrified of dark spaces, has lost his parents, his home and has nowhere to turn, except the GI camp, where he vows to make himself useful, not knowing that he is entering into the darkest place he will ever know. 

You can see more about Chasing the Dragon here. Below, you can read an excerpt from the novella-in-flash.

From Chasing the Dragon, by Kathy Hoyle

Dark Spaces

Bihn does not like dark spaces.

Every day, he digs with grandmother, making holes to hide in, like rats. 

When the soldiers come, Bihn is forced inside. His uncle always sits too close. Bihn can feel sharp whiskers brushing his cheek and smell his uncle’s fetid breath. Fear clutches Bihn’s heart. He cannot help but cry. When they crawl out into the bright sunlight, Grandmother whips him hard with bamboo. Too much noise, she hisses. 

Bihn goes with grandfather to the river. He sees a rare blue lotus flower and bends to cradle it in his small hands, mesmerised by its beauty. A bullet whistles overhead. He looks up to see grandfather fold into the water. Blood pools on the surface. His uncle scoops him up and carries him back to the village. His whiskers scratch Bihn’s cheek.  Grandmother beats him. Your fault! Your fault! 

Bihn steals away at night. His eyes are good, he knows the way through the shadows. He moves, quick and agile, through the dark spaces. Rain pounds his face. He must not arrive shivering like a starving dog or they will not keep him. He must be useful. 

His sister, Thùy Linh, answers the door. She looks like a movie star, kohl-eyed, rippling crimson dress. She brings him inside, holds him to her. She smells like apricot blossom. Mai is pinched and angry. She screeches at Thùy Linh, No! No kids here! He shows Thùy Linh his bruises. Thùy Linh tells Mai that Bihn must stay. She lays out a bed for him in a dark space. Bihn does not like dark spaces.

Mai hisses at him, keep your eyes and mouth shut! He knows how to keep quiet. Each night he falls asleep to the rhythmic thumps of the bed.

Bihn runs errands. He collects the opium, learns how to crush it, how to clean the pipe. He is useful. The GI’s give him Hershey bars. They laugh, and drink and throw the girls around like hollow dolls. Afterwards, the girls hold them while they cry for their mothers. Bihn brings the pipe. The men lay on Thùy Linh’s bed, eyes glazed while Bihn cleans up the mess.

Thùy Linh has a special friend, Willy. She hums to Willy and tells him stories about the dragon father who protects his people. Willy says he will marry Thùy Linh and take her back to America. One night, Willy brings a tall, thin man with him. Bihn sees hatred in the man’s yellow snake eyes. The thin man reminds Bihn of his grandmother’s bamboo whip. His snake eyes loop around the room and settle on Bihn, nestled in his dark space. 

How much for the boy?  

Bloodlines: Exploring Family History Through Poetry: A Creative Writing PhD

By Karen Powell-Curtis

I didn’t follow the conventional route to a PhD: I was fifty-six when I collected my student ID card and attended the PGR induction event. Forty years earlier, the school careers teacher told me that O-levels were my academic limit and suggested a ‘nice job in an office.’ I didn’t like school and couldn’t wait to move into the grown-up world of work so that’s what I did with my eight O-levels. In my early twenties, I felt that something was missing in my life – it was education. My return to study led to an A-level, two degrees, a PGCE and a career as a primary teacher. Still hooked on education, I followed my interest in Creative Writing and completed a Certificate in Creative Writing followed by an MA. I thought about a PhD for several years but life and imposter syndrome got in the way. 

Eventually, I approached Jonathan Taylor with an idea and, with his encouragement, registered for a PhD in Creative Writing. It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. My PhD gave me the opportunity to combine my three passions, or obsessions, depending on your point of view: poetry, family history, and academic study. 

Bloodlines is a collection of poems and combines memoir and matrilineal family history through the generations back to my seventh great-grandmother. As a child, I was curious about how family members were related to me and to each other, and the questions I asked were the first steps towards my fascination with genealogical research. The inspiration for the poems came from archival documents, photographs, artefacts and memories of my mother’s memories. 

There are several themes running through the collection including motherhood, secrecy, identity and loss, and there is a sequence of poems exploring how mental health issues have been experienced across the generations. There are poems that reflect on the artefacts and memories we leave behind, and some that touch on realm of the uncanny. Throughout the collection there is a hint of ghostliness, a sense of being haunted by the voices and the psychological trauma across the generations. At the heart of Bloodlines is a sequence of poems about Lilla, my maternal grandmother. For as long as I can remember, I have felt a special connection to Lilla, although I only knew her through photographs and my mother’s memories. Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I imagined her as my guardian angel, watching over me and keeping me safe, a spiritual grandmother. These poems are my attempt to understand her life and death, and my feelings towards her.

For me, the most challenging part of the PhD was writing the commentary. My thesis was practice-led and I focussed on issues that had arisen through my genealogical research and through writing the poems. This led me to research and write chapters on topics that were new to me, including life-writing, the use of ‘I’ in poetry, and found poetry. To use Margaret Atwood’s words, Bloodlines involved both excavating and setting down the past (Negotiating with the Dead, p.xix).  Throughout my research and writing, my ancestors, in a sense, lived alongside me and, at the same time, I have been able to lay their ghosts to rest. For me, particularly with regard to Lilla, Bloodlines is an act of remembrance and of closure.

The following poem was inspired by a photograph of Lilla on her wedding day.

Wedding Day, 1922

Her father, in crisp suit and hat,
offers his arm and Lilla lowers her eyes 
to focus on her steps towards the church.

With the waterfall of carnations and ferns
to occupy her anxious fingers
and the folds of her veil to blur
the sharp lines of her thoughts
she could easily be mistaken
for any nervous young bride. 

In the front pew, her fur-draped mother
closes her mind against doubt,
watches the groom across the aisle,
approves of his polished shoes.

It's Never Too Late

By Sushma Bragg

It’s been 35 years since I graduated with my BA (Hons) Degree in Humanities (Literature & History Of Ideas), then life got in the way. Priorities changed, and I got stuck in the day-to-day humdrum of working 9-5. I had to, I had bills to pay. And I wanted a family.

My passion had always been to become a writer. I always had my head in a book from the age of 9. Thanks to my teacher at primary school (I am forever grateful to her), it had become a challenge for her to find me a book that I would actually read and finish. I had no interest in any of the children's books at school. Then she hit on a jackpot! She introduced me to a world of fantasy, magic, and make-believe in the form of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. I was forever lost to this world since that day! Every break, every lunchtime, you would find me in the cloakroom, my nose in a book. I surreptitiously read way into the night too and quickly turned my light off if anyone woke to go to the bathroom. I dreamed that one day, people would read what I had written. It was a pipe dream. I did not have the belief in myself. However, I did have to go to University, it’s a cultural thing, an unspoken rule in our family. But back in the day, there were no Creative Writing degrees, hence my degree in Humanities.

Now 35 years on, life has given me the opportunity to pursue that dream. My children are at university, and I am relatively a free agent.

I grew up in Leicester, my mum still lives here and I spend a lot of time here in the week to help care for her. So the obvious choice had been to apply to the University of Leicester for the Master's Degree in Creative Writing. At the time I did so (I was a late applicant for the September start) I really didn’t think I’d get a place. But I did to my surprise!

I was apprehensive, thinking what on earth am I doing at this late stage? My twins had just started uni and they were only 18! I’m in my late 50s! I also had that niggle in the back of my mind, “Am I good enough?”

But with the support and belief of my family, I came to be a student again. Even got myself a studio in student accommodation.

I can’t describe the emotion I felt on my first day. But it definitely made me realise how much I missed the whole academic environment. The uni life, the seminars, discussions and of course the creative art. This is where I was meant to be. All my life this is the path I was meant to take. And the time was right for me now. I was literally buzzing.

I am enjoying the whole process, from attending seminars, making new friends, both classmates and tutors,  meeting and attending lectures by guest writers. The opportunities have been endless. I even enjoy reading the copious amounts of set material and of course the WRITING! 

My heart fell when I realised that part of my degree was poetry! I’d never written a poem in my life before. I most definitely was NOT a poet. Yet to my surprise, my first few pieces of writing were poems - even for the non-poetry modules. Just goes to show, how if given the chance and the willingness to try new things, that whole worlds can open up to you. I’m not saying I am any good, but I can now say I have written poetry, and enjoyed doing so.

I have come home, to where I was meant to be. I am living my dream. It’s never too late …

From Organic Farm to a PhD in Creative Writing

By Joe Bedford

Joe Bedford, photograph by Deborah Thwaites

In some ways, I feel like an unlikely PhD candidate. My PhD journey began ten years ago in South Africa, on a commune run by a family of hippie Afrikaners. I went there to learn how to live outside of the usual parameters of society, and while this desire was probably just a product of living in central London, I was still starving for meaning. What I found in South Africa was a farm of a few dozen acres, planted in sandy ground about an hour’s drive from Cape Town and battling a tangle of invasive Port Jackson willow. The farm provided for two small families – both Afrikaner – and was worked according to the principles of permaculture (organic farming). Other than these three adults and four children, the only other visitors were farmers from other settlements, labourers from Cape Town and illegal economic migrants who lived in the nearby township. Within this limited community – off-grid and with little contact with the outside world – I thought I had found a version of the life I wanted to live.

In my experience, there are two things that motivate people to rearrange their relationship with society. In the simplest terms, the first is love of family, community and nature; the second is frustration with human behaviour. Speak to anyone who has made or wishes they could make radical changes in their relationship with society and you will often find expression of one of these two things, usually both. "I want my children to know the names of the plants in our garden." "I’m sick of the way politicians allow our environment to be trashed." "When I’m in nature, I find an inner-peace I can never find in the city." "The new development at the edge of town has destroyed that poppyfield." At its extremities, this kind of love produces people who are blissfully reconciled to their place in the natural world. But what is at the other extreme?

In South Africa, I found a group of people who had decided to escape the city, just as I had. They did so because they loved their children and wanted them to have a relationship with nature that had been unavailable to them in Cape Town. They also did so because they felt the life they were escaping from was degenerative, corrupt and void of meaning. While driving on the motorway between Cape Town and Malmesbury, we almost hit a resident of a township through which the motorway passes. Rather than walk several miles to the nearest footbridge, he had chosen to run between the highspeed traffic on his way to the other side – a common sight on that stretch of road. The farmer I was travelling with had to swerve, and without blinking shouted a common racist expletive at the top of his voice. What followed was a tirade about human stupidity, immorality, uncleanliness and poverty. This farmer’s anger came not just from the complex racial dynamics of post-apartheid South Africa but from a deep-seated frustration with how human beings cannot take care of themselves. "It is no surprise we are trashing the planet – we can’t even take care ourselves."

This might sound like the product of a damaged political system, but it may not be that simple. The seeds of misanthropy are sown widely in our cultural lexicon, including in our nature writing and nature fiction – at least, that is one argument of my thesis. In the ten years since my experiences in South Africa, I’ve seen countless examples of how the dual motivations of love and frustration drive our relationship with nature and its continued degradation. How can you not be angry when you see raw sewage contaminating our rivers? How can you not feel hatred when you see unnecessary rail projects tearing through the green-belt? When something you love is under threat, your instinct is to raise your fists to protect it. Which is exactly what activists on both the left-wing and right-wing are doing.

With the encouragement of my lead supervisor Jonathan Taylor I began to approach these themes with a creative and critical eye, which led me to Bernhard Forchtner’s work on the ecology of the far-right and to ecocritics like Jonathan Skinner. A year into working with this team has left me invigorated, writing more than ever and reading some of the most stimulating literature I’ve found in years. I write this blogpost from south London, the city I had wanted to escape from when first arriving in South Africa ten years ago. Outside the window there are schoolchildren walking back from the nearby academy and a man who circles the estate shouting in Jamaican patois. Beyond them is the corner of the park where luminescent ring-necked parakeets – a population of escapees who have thrived in the city – chase each other through the plane trees. From that corner you can see the Shard, rising up from the edge of the Thames. It is in every sense a thousand miles from Malmesbury, but it feels like a thousand times more where I am supposed to be today.  

About the author

Joe Bedford is a writer from Doncaster, UK. His short stories have been published widely, and have won various awards including the Leicester Writes Prize 2022. He is currently working on a composite novel focused on the intersections between English rural fiction and right-wing attitudes to nature, supervised by Dr Jonathan Taylor (Leicester), Dr Bernhard Forchtner (Leicester) and Dr Jonathan Skinner (Warwick). His debut novel A Bad Decade for Good People will be released by Parthian in Summer 2023. His website is here. 

Sara Waheed, "The Cut of a Feather"

Congratulations to Sara Waheed, winner of this year's John Coleman Prize! Below, you can read about Sara and her winning short story. Congratulations too to Priyan Majumdar, who was awarded an "honourable mention" for her story.

By Sara Waheed

My name is Sara and I’m a second year English with Creative Writing student. Along with writing short stories and poetry, I love to crochet and listen to music. 

My story "The Cut of a Feather" started with the thought of something as innocent as a reed hurting someone’s hand. This led me to think of a place very familiar to me, where you can find an abundance of reeds: Jenny’s Woods in my Lincolnshire hometown (see photo above). My family and I have been going on walks, runs and bike rides in Jenny’s Woods ever since I was young; it’s a very meaningful place to me. Because of this, I decided to set my short story there, and this made the writing process more heartfelt.

I wanted this short story to show how emotional devastation can arise from seemingly insignificant things. Subtle gestures, such as eye contact, physical proximity and word choices can have a deeper impact than more obvious displays of upset. I’m very grateful for this opportunity to share my short story with more people.  

The Cut of a Feather

Whenever Alice brushed her hands against the reeds on this path, they were harmlessly spiky. They had never so much as grazed her. But on this day, the reeds at her palm were sharp; Alice could feel them almost piercing her skin. She resisted the urge to pull her hand away, and instead let the prickling feeling press against her skin like an unwanted kiss.  

Although she could see Declan’s back receding further into the greenness beyond, she stayed put. She was waiting for him to turn around. She wanted him to walk back and ask her what she was doing. She wanted him to pull her hand away from the reeds and hold it for the rest of her life. 

But if she stood there any longer, Declan would walk too far, and Alice would have to foolishly make her way across the slowly-stretching distance. He wouldn’t stop. Alice tore her hand away from the reeds and briskly caught up. His outline became less like watercolour and more like charcoal as she got closer, and his hair was so tousled that it looked strangely at home amongst the overgrown grasses.

“I think you need a haircut,” Alice said as she reached him. Her hand still stung.

He didn’t look at her, even though they were now walking side by side. His gaze was fixed somewhere ahead, despite the path being completely empty.

“Are you offering?” he said after a couple of seconds. 

Alice put a hand to the uneven hairstyle on her head and rustled the jagged ends. Given the circumstances of the impulsive haircut, Declan’s comment was in ill taste. She didn’t honour it with a reply. 

“It would probably be a good idea to get it done before your birthday. It’s coming up soon,” she said instead.

“I’m not sure if three weeks qualifies as soon.”

“I think it does. I’ll book you an appointment with Calla when we get back.”

Declan said nothing. Alice took it as an affirmation, knowing that he didn’t care either way. 

“Have you thought about what you want to do?” she asked.

“What?” he said.

“For your birthday, I mean.” 

They were passing the picnic benches. In the dimness of the grey sky, they looked derelict, but Alice could easily remember the many times her and Declan had sat at them with a flask of soup.

“I don’t really want to do anything,” Declan said.

Alice wanted to stop and sit at one of the benches, but she already knew what he would say. She continued walking.

“We could have dinner at that new place that opened in town. I’ve heard it’s good,” she said.

A particularly strong gust of wind blew past them, and Declan pulled his jacket tighter around himself. Alice knew that his warm coat was hanging behind the kitchen door, but Declan had refused to heed her warning of the weather when they were leaving the house.

“It’s Italian too, I know you’ve been into that recently,” Alice said. She’d never liked the taste of basil but had become well-acquainted with it over the past month.

“I’ve gone off it.” 

His voice was nothing more than a mumble which Alice had to strain her ears to catch. In lieu of a reply, she nodded; her hand was beginning to ache and, whilst she suspected that her palm might be injured in some way, she couldn’t bring herself to take a look.

Instead, she stuffed her hand into her coat pocket and fumbled around for her keys. The only keyring attached to them was one she’d received from Declan a few years ago. It was shaped like a daisy, but the petals were blue instead of white. Alice fidgeted with it so often that the blue had weathered over time. When she pulled the keys out of her pocket, she realised that the petals were now almost completely white, as daisy petals should be. Still holding on to them, she interrupted the quiet.

“Do you want me to get you those headphones you were looking at the other day? I’d like to get you a gift that you really want.”

“I don’t want anything.” He drew his shoulders up in an attempt to lend his red ears some warmth.

“Come on, Declan. Everybody wants something.” 

“Not me,” he said. 

“You don’t want anything?” Alice’s voice sounded shrill. She cleared her throat whilst Declan replied. 

“No,” he said. His lips were turned downwards in a hazardous frown, but Alice persisted.

“Are you telling me that there’s nothing I can give you? Not a single thing?” Clearing her throat hadn’t helped, so she forced a cough instead. It left her mouth with such surprising vigour that she was forced to stop walking. Whilst she spluttered into her sleeve, Declan stood to the side, and Alice wondered when their walks together had started to feel so lonely.

“You can’t give me anything that I want, Alice.”

The tickly cough swiftly retreated; Alice stared at him. He was standing stock-still, but his eyes were darting from tree to tree. When his gaze eventually rested on her, he released a long breath. 

“I don’t think you’ll ever be able to.” 

Alice had wanted Declan to look her way for so long, but not like this. He’d taken a step away from her, and his eyes were tight, as though there was something acrid in the space between them. The fine line that had been flickering between his eyebrows finally settled into place, and Alice knew that they wouldn’t make it to the end of the walk.

“I don’t want you to book me a haircut and I don’t want any gifts from you. I can’t do this anymore. You need to stop.”

Underneath the keyring Alice was still holding, her palm was throbbing. She clenched her fist around the daisy even tighter, until she could feel her pulse beating against it.

“Stop what?” she eventually replied. But he didn’t seem to hear her.

“I thought that you’d start to understand, or you’d see that things have changed. I was waiting, but I can’t keep doing this. If you’re going to keep pretending that this can work, I need to tell you now,” he hesitated and brushed his hair away from his face before continuing, “we stopped working a long time ago.” 

Even though Alice could see the distance between them, it felt as though his words had been spoken directly into her ears. When she opened her mouth to speak, she barely recognised her own voice.

“Why are you saying this now?” Her tongue felt as though it was coated in syrup.

Declan seemed to contemplate her words, squinting at her as though she was more of a vaguely familiar stranger than the girl who had offered him her hand all those years ago.

“I’ve already made plans for my birthday,” he finally told her.

Alice tried and failed to remember why they’d left the house in the first place. All she knew was that she’d been the one to suggest it. Without really looking at him, she took Declan’s hand and placed the daisy keyring into it. She closed his fingers around the white petals, and then she walked away.

Walking in the opposite direction, Alice discovered, wasn’t the same as retracing her steps. She didn’t recognise the trees she was passing, and she didn’t know which diverging paths to follow. The sky was quickly darkening, the greyness above melding with the deep brown tree trunks that were overlooking her mindless walking. The green leaves swinging from the tree’s branches were shrouded in shadow, and Alice was uncertain how long she’d been walking for. She sped up.

It was when she came across a familiar group of felled trees that Alice realised they hadn’t made it very far after all. They had been closer to the start of the walk than the end. The path gradually straightened up, and when beams of light cut through the thicket more frequently, she let her feet trail. When she eventually came to a stop, Alice felt as though she’d never moved at all. 

The reeds in front of her were deceptively sharp. Alice didn’t touch them. She straightened her stiff fingers, exposing her bare palm to the cool air and felt the sting all the way up to her wrist. When she finally looked, she saw a tiny tear in the middle of her palm. The speck of blood had already crusted.

Shauna Strathmann, Two Poems

Congratulations to Shauna Strathmann, winner of this year's G. S. Fraser Poetry Prize! Below, you can read about Shauna and her two winning poems. Congratulations too to Sara Waheed, who was awarded an "honourable mention" for her poetry. 

By Shauna Strathmann 

Hi! I'm Shauna, and I'm studying second-year English with Creative Writing. I enjoy language learning, overanalysing low budget children's musical movies, and playing the "I'm foreign" card when I mispronounce an English word, despite living here for 19 years.

The idea for the poem "BE7049" came about when we considered in a seminar how much poetry there is to be found in mundane places, and mundane forms. I've revisited Germany many times since moving away, and therefore seen the airport experience through ever-ageing eyes. I wanted to retain the child-like wonder within the constraints of an itinerary format; no matter how long you wait at baggage claim, keep the romance of the journey within you!

The poem "Kinderszenen" was inspired by my love for Gothic imagery, as well as Mario Benedetti's poem "Luna Congelada," which expresses that "One can sometimes understand love" through difficult "solitude." I related this to the difficulty of recognising yourself as your parents' child even when you couldn't feel more cut off from them. I picked a German title in part to contrast with my other poem; many people have a very complex relationship with where they're from originally, and while it's fun to romanticise some aspects, it's equally interesting to see how home can feel unsafe too.

BE7049
                                                                                                From: 
                                                                                                Birmingham
                                                                                                To: 
                                                                                                Düsseldorf International
                                                                                                Seat: 21D
                                                                                                Boarding Time: 18:00
                                                                                                Arrival: 20:40

20:40          I am home.

                   In the shuffling grumbling herd,
                   Onto the shuttle bus -

20:55          The carousel takes cheetahs;
                   And leopards;
                   And zebras;
                   I chase my precious Rhinozeros in an urban safari

21:15          announcements, Ankundingungen, Passkontrolle, passport control, 
                   The tannoy sings in the tongues of the continent, 
                   And I skip through the signed labyrinth

22:00          At the edge of a star-strewn tunnel
                   A sweet shop end-stopping the universe;
                   Language is reborn, Alles ist neu
                   Packaging glimmers, Eistee sparkles
                   Kaffee und Schokolade mit Erdbeeren
                   My breath catches as I say goodbye
                   To the lady with a shiny pin and glittering smile
                   Schönes Wochenende!

22:15          I trip over my suitcase
                   Out the spinning door
                   Take a gulp of this cosmos
                   Ich bin Zuhause.

Kinderszenen 

a changeling snuck in the night
key left in the door
bumped my knees coming through the back, using kitchen light
a purse of the lips and that tinkle – my mind prepares for indeterminate war
swathed in a stench i was accustomed to
if their hair looked like mine i would cleave it
gouge out from my sockets shards of green
until it no longer looked like they made me 
– the other one is the new one
but i have been bruised for so long; i am unacquainted with their love
poisoned by my jamais vu i must remember:
i am of them, and of them too. 
so if both packed their bags at one time or another
which was the lodger, and which was my mother?

Laura Sygrove, "Three Poems"

Laura Sygrove is a recent graduate of the Creative Writing MA programme at the University of Leicester. She loves mythology and folklore, horror games and graphic novels, and is currently looking to break into the publishing industry. Her poem ‘IC-4593’ was published on NASA’s Chandra X-Ray Observatory blog in 2021. You can read it here. 

Below, you can read three poems by Laura. 

About My Poems, by Laura Sygrove

These poems are taken from my MA Dissertation, a creative study on the effects of consumerism, and rooted in my experience working in retail and customer service. Consumerism as a system is built upon the backs of the working class – many of us actively participating in the exploitation of others through no fault of our own. Purchasing consumer goods or services in the market is unavoidable, and arguably essential in sustaining a happy and healthy lifestyle under capitalism. 

With these ideas in mind, ‘A Supermarket in Connacht,’ ‘SCO-117,’ and ‘Wood Wide Web’ were composed as short allegories, exploring themes of hospitality, greed and excess, autonomy and compassion. ‘A Supermarket in Connacht’ details the downfall of an ancient Irish warrior-Queen, whilst likening a trip to the grocery store to a kind of spiritual experience (one often encompassed by the phrase ‘retail therapy’); ‘Wood Wide Web’ conveys the idea that we, as consumers, are led, as opposed to being well-informed and in control; while ‘SCO-117’ addresses the role of machinery and technology in the workplace, displacing blame and responsibility onto inanimate objects. 

A Supermarket in Connacht

     I’m a regular at the Empyrean – 

The ollmhargadh down the road –

     I burn as six-wingéd seraphim

clothe my feet, mouth, and nose.

     Like Queen Medb, ruthless

And revered by all – 

     Risk it for that prized stud,

Stand by as men brawl;

     Raise babe and army 

As far as Donegal.

     Home is Éire – 

Where open-air

              spirits roam;

                                  Trace the gibbous moon         

by the cruel light of day,

      Waning       at the summit of Cnoc na Ré – 

I am equal to him if I possess equal fortune.

     Sip black coffee with syrups

And shop-bought jams;

     Climb man-made cairns,

Fall prey to internet scams […]

     You crazy babe, Bathsheba  – 

Indulgent in earthly riches – 

     Suckle forbidden faery fruits,

Rotting figs in pale juices;

     Pinch the flesh 

from fuzzy skins,      Savour pulp fiction 

And trashy magazines;

     Reality TV on livestream.

     Swim out from Galway Bay

to Love Island,

     Make haste and mate

Atop the Celtic moors;

     Pull me aside for a chat – 

Avenge my sister, 

Tit for tat;

     I am felled by a piece of cheese.

SCO-117

           Do you think I am an automaton? – a machine without feelings?

    - Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

     I have as much sovereignty as you – 

As much jurisdiction, and as much purpose!

I am a pillar of industry – 

     What have you to contribute?

I am phenomenal 

     Qualia of consciousness;

Saunter supermarket aisles 

with Psyche, my Soul – 

     A spectre chained to an endless present.

I am fleshless, full-bodied;

Sinewy nuts and bolts – 

     A tightening in my chest 

as you tinker and tarnish.

“Do you wish to continue?”

I only accept card payments, sir – 

Do not burden me further with loose change/  

                                                                    mere pittance. 

You’re all the same!

     You push my buttons,     finger 

                                             my slots,

     Play with parts of me you shouldn’t touch.

Error!!! UNAUTHORISED ACCESS 

~ please insert absolutely nothing here ~

I am the future.

     I insist:     You cannot continue.

                                                                                                

Wood Wide Web

          Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, 

          For thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

- Hebrews 13:2

     Droplets of atropa belladonna 

on eyelids – Emerald iris          

infused with ink black,     And blinded –     

     In anguish, think of me;

Seek sanctuary.

     Surf mycorrhizal markets,

fungal fibres laced with lipids –     Sidestep symbiosis 

                                  and slurp the sugared soil.    

 

     Stop, thief! – Translucent tears 

do wilting flowers weep;

(Ne parles pas, parasitic ghost pipe! – 

     Undead snowdrop! – Feign sleep!)

With bated breath, and tree roots 

                                                       trailing, 

                                           Feel your way – 

                           Hack mycelial networks and infiltrate

the mainframe.

    Brainless mould – More bold than I – 

Traverse the showroom floor with ease – 

     Ankles swathed in yarn-like shackles;

To loosen, soak the knots in LSD.

With tentacles that sift and tend

     to self-service warehouse,     Descend – 

Confide in slime to reach the labyrinth’s end.

Nina Walker, "Blooming"

Nina Walker is a third-year student and Leicester University. She enjoys writing, rug making and Ray Bradbury’s short stories. She’s been writing poetry since she was sixteen when the only person reading it was her mum. The dream is to be published eventually. 

Nina performed the following poem at the Creative Writing Student Showcase at Literary Leicester in March, 2022. 

About the poem 'Blooming,' by Nina Walker

The following poem was inspired in part by my paternal grandmother Wendy Walker, who worked in the hosier industry that was huge in the Midlands, as well as an article I read about the disgustingly long waiting list for people in this country needing cancer treatment. Since my grandma died of cancer during 2020 the two seemed thematically close. I wanted to try and get across the sense of loss I feel when I think about my grandma and the industry she used to work in. 'Blooming' is part of a larger collection I hope to publish about England’s past and how it affects our understanding of the present, as well as how we can come to love such a deeply troubled country.

Blooming

The alley behind Debenhams sells discount granny bras 
And I want to cut off my hair
Watch the threads slip down the drain
One by one

I keep reading about our collapse
Makes me sick, stomach full of all this bile
So I eat cleaner
Greener

But I still feel rotten, soft like a pear gone brown in the middle
Soft like the skin round a lump
Growing plump
In the glands in my chest
An anxious spasm

The city is not our friend
Doesn’t recall our names like a bad teacher
Fumbles with our futures like a bleeding pen
Blubbering like the lady behind Debenhams 
Or on the market 
With her cheap elastic bloomers 
When I’ve lost my job and my hair
I hope she’s the only millionaire 

Something about these people with their day jobs and money makes me feel faker than tan.
I can’t carve away at the pain we’re all stuck to like plump blue bottles
Can’t make work mean more than pennies counted
Can’t remove the tumours

We work till our fingers can’t pick out the stitching anymore 

Till they’ve worn us out like Primark trainers 

My grandma worked with her hands 
Just like the woman did
But a tumour took my nan and a tumour is taking the woman too
But it's not in her body
So I can’t cut it out

The tumour is barren 
Stripped us of our tools 
Left us arthritic 
So we send our projects abroad to children with quick fingers 
Blank eyes

Your nan will live
Or not
They don’t really care if she makes a living 

Never mind the back alleys and soft flesh, it’s our conscience we should be searching.
If this country was a dog I’d shoot it out of mercy.

Constantine, "The Cats of Charnwood Forest"

Congratulations to Constantine, MA Creative Writing student at the University of Leicester, who has just been published his children's novel, The Cats of Charnwood Forest!

Constantine was born autistic (with other learning difficulties such as ADHD and Dyspraxia), at a time when not many in the UK could correctly recognise or diagnose such issues. Like so many others with his condition, he spent much of his late teens and early 20s living on London's streets. He always had a desire to be creative and, after working with Jeremy Deller in 2006, a seed was planted that, maybe, he could achieve something. He took himself into adult education in 2011 and was surprised to find how much more accommodating the education system had become to those like himself. In 2013, his first short was published in an anthology called Jam, and in 2017 he received a first class honours in Creative Writing at Middlesex University. He has since written a number of episodes of Pablo for Paper Owl films (currently showing on CBeebies and Netflix) and has written this book, The Cats of Charnwood Forest, which his script editor on Pablo, Andrew Brenner, was kind enough to edit. 

Constantine is currently working on an audio version with the cast of Pablo, building a website to accompany the book (https://catsofcharnwood.com/)  and hopefully finishing his Masters Degree at the University of Leicester.

You can read a review by Ayana Sen-Handley of The Cats of Charnwood on Everybody's Reviewing here. 

About The Cats of Charnwood Forest

By Constantine

I can tell you what the book aims to achieve. First and foremost, it is a gateway book: a book for those clever six-year-olds who are tired of books for their age and want something more challenging, but are maybe not ready for the more grown-up themes; or for older 'reluctant' readers, readers who need to be coaxed and encouraged - ten-year-olds who pick up books for their age group and higher, but don't get past the first few paragraphs.  

The book aims to connect with such readers firstly through the language: though it is gently paced throughout, it increases in complexity over the first four chapters in a way which, thus far, no child has mentioned but a few parents have noticed. Secondly, there are the protagonists, Bailey and Scruff. They represent not only the child but in particular the autistic child. As they grow over course of the book to adulthood, they deal with many of the same experiences as human children and adults - from bullying (on both sides), to gender roles and stereotypes and much more.

I'm not entirely sure exactly what lessons its sequel will explore as it is not finished yet, but I hope you enjoy this exclusive look forwards to the second book ...

From Joltanheim: The Cats of Charnwood Forest, Book 2

Prologue

This book is not like most “second books.” Most second books take place the next day, or after the school holidays, or on the anniversary of the first adventure. But this is about The Cats of Charnwood Forest and in Charnwood, time is never quite a straight line.

Between the time I first met Scruff in that cave, and the time I finally finished writing up that first story, years have passed. Time is not the same for all of us. Cats' lives are shorter than the lives of the humans they own. Human lives are short compared to Goblins' and Goblins' lives are short compared to Elves.  

Bailey and Scruff (sometimes with my help) had many more adventures over the years. I hope one day I will have them all written down. However, the story I have decided to tell next sort of goes next; because although it happened many years later, it also happened many years before.

I hope you enjoy.

Yours,

Ghaz’on

Chapter One: A Grave Disturbance

Bailey stood by the brook as the last of the Fairies and Pixies jumped through a small door which led back to Fayre. Mai was last to go and she bowed to Bailey before hitting a button on her shoulder which activated her Elf-made artificial wings. She shot up into the air, looped the loop and shot through the doorway with a “yippee.” As the door closed, it melted away like mist and Bailey was left standing alone by the Brook.  

Bailey couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride seeing Mai doing so well as the first citizen of Fayre to be a Guardian in living memory. He started to turn for home when he felt something -  like a low loud noise which he couldn’t hear, but could feel in his bones. A strange silence seemed to fill the world. The birds stopped singing, mice stopped scurrying. Even the insects seemed to pause in their labours whilst this strange “rumble” filled everything.

***

Gothrick climbed into bed.  His wife was already asleep. One of the moons of Alfhiem shone through their window and just now his wife’s bare arm, which lay outside of the sheets, glowed like mother of Pearl. Gothrick had always thought himself the luckiest of Elves. He loved his wife and his daughter and his King and Queen. But these days, being the first Elf Guardian since before the war was more than he had thought was possible. 

He got into bed quietly so as not to wake her. As he lay there looking at his wife, he noticed that she seemed a bit blurry and out of focus. He rubbed his eyes but it got worse. The moon set and his wife appeared as elves do in the moonless night, as a figure made of slowly flowing water. Still she seemed blurred to him. He put his hand out to rest on her shoulder as he did most nights. All six of his long elf fingers seemed blurred. It was then he noticed the ripples on her skin, she wasn’t blurred, her skin was rippling as if being shaken very fast. The ripples in her skin seemed to be getting higher and higher. Then he felt it.

***

Scruff finished today's training of the Brownie cadets. As Guardians, Brownies were not necessarily the fastest or strongest or bravest; but they were excellent for reconnaissance. (In case you haven’t come across that word before it means sneaking around and getting information without anyone knowing you're sneaking around getting information except for the people who asked you to sneak around and get information.) The trick to training young Brownies was to make everything a game. Scruff found it getting more exhausting than it used to be. 

As the last of the brownies saluted and left. Scruff took a moment to look around.  The Forests of Bracken never seemed to look the same from one moment to another and she did not want to have to ask directions again; it was getting embarrassing. Scruff decided to try a direction based on the light level and the probable position of Bracken's Sun (which very few brownies had seen). Down here on the floor, though, only the green light, filtered by the eternal canopy of giant leaves miles above, made it through. Scruff leapt into Dream-Space and took a leisurely walk towards where she hoped to find the doorway back to Charley. As she concentrated on it, it appeared clearly before her and she sighed happily. Suddenly the misty greys around her exploded into a mind-numbing jangle of colours and smells.  Dream-Space itself seemed to be coming apart.

***

Dzukaluke and Ghaz’on stood solemnly in their finest clothes. Around them hundreds of Goblins stood smartly attired. They lined the narrow streets of Kapul-Tok city, each holding up a small glowing crystal. From the palace, a cart appeared. The cart was ancient, made by the same Goblin craftsman of ages past who twisted the gold and platinum braids of the palace gates. Like the palace gates, the cart was inlaid with precious metals which glowed in the light of the gems.

Before the cart, pulling it gently along, a flightless bird, its plumage a pure ivory, walked regally forward. Upon its back, Burgh sat stiff and proud. Zie too sparkled in ancient ceremonial armour. On Zie's breast, a very special crystal sat. It had no internal light of its own, but reflected and amplified the light of all the stones it passed, painting the houses and streets with rainbow hues.  

Behind Zie, upon the cart, in a simple box of whitewashed wood, the old one took that final journey which all creatures must take sooner or later. All of Kapol-Tok grieved his passing and it seemed to those gathered that the very ground shook along with them in mourning.

***

On the tors, the Chairman paced back and forth. The ground had stopped shaking and normality was returning.  High above a Kestrel cry broke the silence. He reached out with his mind. To the east he could feel Scruff had returned, to the south he could feel Bailey. To the northwest there was a crazy mixture of thoughts and feelings which he recognised as Tipsy and Tumble, the Guardians of Osgathorpe. But to the west, a new scent reached him, like a jolt of fresh cold clean air when you’re in a musty room.  

He ran westward, not risking Dream-space for fear of losing the sent. Carefully he crossed the Abbey road. A fork from the main Fault lay directly underneath and he could feel it as he passed over, like a great pressure in his forehead, a dam ready to burst. The scent was strongest at the top of the rise. A huge tor of stones were thrust up here. The south side was partly buried beneath the thin soil. On the north side they stood a clear twenty feet tall, and at the feet of the rocks, the melting snow had created a small pool. The Chairman stood before it, the smell of clear mountain air filling his lungs, making him feel young again. As he stood there, the ground shook again and a crack, barely visible before, began to widen. The Chairman felt no danger. From the crack, bright daylight shone out. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust.  

When they did, he saw that the tor had become two mighty cliffs. Behind them was a range of mountains far higher and colder than he had ever seen or dreamed of. But more surprising still was the figure who stood between the two cliffs, holding them apart with her bare strength: The Giantess (for the chairman had no better words to describe her) stood at least sixteen feet tall and was dressed in furs and armour with a mighty cloak.  

“I only have till the waters run out,” The Giantess said. Only then did the chairman notice that the waters, which had pooled at the bottom of the tor, were now running through the gap.

“What can I do?” asked the Chairman.

“Bailey and Scruff must be at the, what was it called … the Back Book Ressewer?” said The Giantess.

“The Black Brook Reservoir?” asked the Chairman.

“Yes, that was what they said, The Black Brook Reservoir. They must be there tomorrow at dusk,” said The Giantess. She grunted as the cliffs closed in on her. She turned sideways, bracing the closing gap with her knee and pressing with all her might.

“But why? I must tell them why,” said the Chairman.

“Because if not, the earthquakes will destroy everything, everywhere and everywhen,” said The Giantess. The last drops of the pool disappeared and The Giantess leapt out of the crack on her side. Before the tor snapped shut, she called out: “They must go alone.”

A moment later the tor looked as it had done for as long as the Chairman could remember, but far beneath him the ground grumbled.