Claire Booker
GLAD TIDINGS
A strange nativity has bloomed at number twenty two.
Snow White (but no dwarves) virginal among
the pert and purple winter pansies, anticipates the sign
of hope in deserts of pea shingle neatness.
CCTV In Use hangs slipshod on the lintel –
uncertain star protecting German shepherds
(poly-resin moulded) a lantern at each throat,
silently watching their flocks of jubilant gnomes.
No wind turns the mill wheel: a plastic fish
struggles mutely on its line, unseen by mallards
that baste in tin foil lakes, and wait for tidemarks
of discarded fir along next month’s pavement.
So This Is Christmas seeps beneath
the pzschizsh of Polish builders laying roof tiles.
Twitching lights wink back a semaphore
of gaudy gladness and passers-by with smiles
attempt to catch the who and why of
private lives ventriloquised in garden bric-à-brac.
Groundsel, yellow starred, shoots a crack beneath the steps.
No faces at the pane. Just a cactus patient in its pot.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Lisa Owens
PHONE BOX
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Helena Michaelson
CREATION STORY - Part two: Bum
After lunch, wandering the house with nothing to do, she came across the sight of Francesco’s bum. The door to Bea’s room was open, and as she passed by, she glanced in just like anyone would. It’s possible that if no-one had been in there, she might have gone in to look at the books on the bookshelf that was made of a plank resting on bricks, or the collection of ticket stubs blu-tacked to the wall, but she hadn’t been snooping by anyone’s standards, and it wasn’t her fault if she was downstairs by herself with nothing to do and people were leaving their doors open. People should not leave doors open when they’re doing what these two were doing. She hadn’t stopped to stare, or anything like – but since seeing it – the bum – in its state of quick motion, and glimpsing towards the head of the bed, beyond Francesco’s matted brown hair, the bold red dye of Bea’s, her pale neck stretched back, and hearing their quiet synchronised mutterings of the word ‘Fuck’ again and again – she had felt a rush of adulthood and knowledge – as if it had been her body he’d been working on. She had to lie down on her own bed for the rest of the afternoon, and tell herself over and over, I have had a sexual awakening.
Certain things about her sexual awakening really surprised her: that Francesco and Bea were both wearing socks for example, and that Francesco’s many-pocketed trousers were still clinging tenaciously around his thighs. Perhaps this was the very romanticism she would have to rid herself of as she flung herself towards adulthood: the idea that people would bother to undress – and close the door – before fucking. Or perhaps this was romance itself – passion too great to withstand those moments of forethought. She hoped it was that.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Heba Zaytoun
EDEN UNNAMED
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
BLAKE MORRISON ON TRUTH
Interview
BM: What’s interesting about memoirs and non-fiction is that sometimes a really awkward truth turns up that demands to be understood. You could not have made up the fact that the ‘other’ woman in my father’s life, who my mother had every reason to despise, was actually tremendously close friends with her after his death, and that even before his death they had a perfectly okay relationship. If you were dealing with that in fiction there would be a whole plausibility issue to be faced. It might just seem far-fetched: but it’s the truth. There’ve been little awkward facts I’ve had to deal with in memoirs that I’ve been glad of, because they’ve forced me to deal with the more difficult things, the harder to believe things.
Fiction will always look for drama, for conflict.
BM: Yes, but as long as there’s enough narrative power in a story, and you can find it without overt or sensational or melodramatic conflict, then that can be much better.
I guess it boils down to the question: what’s more important a good book, or the truth?
BM: What’s more important from what point of view? There are people who will say, “I’m not going to publish this book because doing so will destroy this or that friendship.” It might have been a really good book, but they’ll say no. Actually, its not the truth that’s more important, its life that’s more important. “I can leave this book, but I can’t lose this friendship.”’ It’s a balance. In the life-writing group its something we talk about a lot. I encourage people to feel they can leave things out. Not make things up – but omission is a useful thing. You do have to think about what makes a good book, and memoir requires you to practise those skills as much as a novel.