Pen Sieve

Heavy Storm

Tom’s feet drummed against the dusty ground, dodging the trails of ivy that peered out through the cracked pavement and attempted to ensnare his feet. The siren blared loudly, drowning out Tom’s breathless panting. He stopped, clutching his burning side and leaning against an eroded lamppost, its surface bleached and bubbled by nature’s cruel hand. All around him, people were racing towards their homes or the closest shelter they could find, and Tom knew that he had to follow their lead, or he would most likely be killed.

He broke into a sprint.

He didn’t join the others as they hurried towards the ancient underground transport tunnels that now provided shelter against the harsh elements. The tunnels often became overcrowded and he wasn’t going to risk being cast out into the open during a level three warning.

He dashed down an alleyway between two derelict, scorched buildings and into the next street. He had almost reached his goal when he remembered the girl. Tom cursed, stumbling to a halt. What should he do? If he went back for her now, he could miss the evacuation window and then they’d both be stuck. And for all he knew, she was already at a shelter. But, he considered, thinking about the catatonic wreck he had found a few days ago, he doubted it. She was probably waiting for him at the Box. Tom yelled in frustration and darted back the way he’d came.

Plumes of smoke rose across the horizon. Fights had already broken out. There was always chaos when a level three warning hit the city, as looters tried their luck and shelters couldn’t take on anymore people. Tom had to dive out of the path of an accelerating truck as it swerved into the steel cage protecting a shop front. Its occupants sprang out, armed. Tom watched them as they barged their way inside. It was a TV store. Each television was stuck on the emergency broadcast, with twenty flickering screens shouting STORM UPGRADED TO LEVEL 4 THREAT. Tom cursed again. He couldn’t do it, he wasn’t going to be able to save the girl. He might not even have time to save himself. But even as he glanced in the direction of the Sanctuary, he could picture her, scared and confused and spending her last moments wondering why Tom had left her to die.

He saw a wrecked car sticking out of another building. One of its doors had been ripped off and was lying on the ground. Tom grabbed it, heaving it up to cover his head, before he dashed away from the craziness of the city. It wouldn’t give him much protection, but it was better than nothing.

Usually, storms weren’t too bad. If you were wealthy enough to own a copper umbrella, you could even stay outside during a low-level storm. But a level four was almost unheard of, it was just one level away from catastrophe.

He was close. He could see the Box, the wooden, one-room house that he lived in. He was going to make it.

And then the rain started.

Eating through his clothes, his skin. Tom cried out, ripping off his contaminated jacket, red burns already visible on his arms. He hefted the car door back above his head, the metal already thinning. The frantic shrieks of those who couldn’t get under cover echoed from every direction and Tom’s legs propelled him towards the Box. He knew he didn’t have long. Even if his makeshift shelter held out, the soles of his shoes wouldn’t.

The girl looked up at him as he threw the door open. Her usual blank stare had been replaced with the wide eyes of a trapped animal. She was curled into an upright ball on the floor, her ivory hair trailing over her legs which were tucked up to her chest. Tom motioned for her to join him under the door (which was already turning translucent), but she wouldn’t or couldn’t move.

Sweat started to bead on his forehead. No, not now, he thought desperately. Surely, whatever she was hiding from couldn’t possibly be worse than the storm. He could hear the plastic interior of the door sizzling in his hands. They didn’t have time for this.

She wriggled, flailing like a beetle on its back, as he scooped her up with one arm, clutching the door handle with the other. The rain had already claimed the roof of the Box and was beginning to devour the walls, so they left it to the storm, speeding towards the Sanctuary and praying they would make it in time.

Procrastination Poem

Don’t worry about the laundry,

it’ll dry on its own.

Stop reading through your emails.

Put down your bloody phone.

You’ve had enough to eat for now,

don’t need another drink.

Just sit down and do some work.

You have to try and think.

Sugar isn’t helping.

You’re hyper as hell.

And listening to Death Note tunes

won’t turn you into L.

You’ve made seven essay plans

each one pretty much the same.

You only write half the piece

before deciding to start again.

The deadline is approaching,

You’re getting far too tense.

Just write the damn assessment

and pray it makes some sense!

Pokemon Gold and Silver Review

The Pokémon franchise is enormous, with twenty-seven main series games that have been released over the last twenty years. However, despite the continuing expansion of the Pokémon universe, the 2^nd generation games, Pokémon Gold and Silver, continue to be revered by fans as the best games of the series. Even eighteen years after their release.

Pokémon Gold and Silver were developed by Game Freak and published by Nintendo in 1999. These two games were the sequels to the original Pokémon games, Pokémon Red and Blue. The storyline of the first two generations of Pokémon games are very similar as they are both single player role-playing games that follow the adventures of a young boy as he leaves home and attempts to become the greatest Pokémon trainer in his region. During their journey, the player will also encounter countless other Pokémon trainers, who they can battle to raise the level of their own Pokémon, and they will have to fight the evil Team Rocket to stop them from stealing innocent Pokémon to use in their sinister schemes. As in the first games, players can trade their Pokémon and battle against their friends using a Gameboy link cable. Some Pokémon only appear in one of the two games and so this brings players together so that they can catch them all. However, In Gold and Silver, once the player has defeated all eight gyms in the Johto region, they are then able to unlock the Kanto region, where the 1^st generation games are set, and battle the Pokémon gyms and the main character from those games. Gold and Silver also include a range of new features. Some of these features simply enhance the gameplay for an easier and more enjoyable experience, and others have become iconic parts of the Pokémon universe, such as: male and female Pokémon, new Pokémon types, the ability to breed Pokémon, shiny Pokémon, day and night cycles which allow the player to catch certain Pokémon depending on the time of day, and of course, a hundred new Pokémon to catch.

Pokémon Gold and Silver are also the first Pokémon games to have full colour, as opposed to the in-denial originals that simply replaced black and white with red and green. The graphics are greatly improved in the 2^nd generation games, meaning that the Pokémon sprites are more detailed and aesthetically pleasing. The glitches that appeared in the earlier games and caused data files to become corrupted, have been fixed in Gold and Silver. Because of the early technology of the Gameboy Colour, the player is still able to clearly see every pixel. Despite the less detailed imagery, this gives the game a level of nostalgia that the later games lack, and the added effort that went into creating interesting and original creatures for the earlier platforms definitely shows, especially when compared to the new sprites from the later games, which appear rushed and show little change in variety. Unfortunately, like the earlier games, the player is only able to select a male character as their sprite. However, this issue is fixed in the following generations of Pokémon games.

The 2^nd generation games are easier to navigate than their predecessors. The locations are more clearly labelled and the game guides the player better so that the player knows exactly where they need to take their character next. This makes the games more enjoyable because the player doesn’t feel confused or frustrated from being unable to find the next town, an issue with the previous games. Nintendo’s Gameboys are ideal for first time gamers as the simple controls allow anyone to use them. The controls in Pokémon are self-explanatory and easy to follow so that players can focus purely on the game. The concept of the game also remains simple as the battles continue to follow the turn-taking, rock-paper-scissors format of the original game.

Pokémon Gold and Silver are ideal games for both returning fans of the franchise and new-comers because they follow the distinctive pattern of the other Pokémon games, yet also include a range of features that make them vastly more enjoyable than their predecessors. Gold and Silver still capture the nostalgia that was lost in the later games in the ever-expanding Pokémon universe. The graphics and sound effects are ahead of their time and the action-packed content has made every other Pokémon game released since 1999 almost boring by comparison. 9/10.

The Graveyard

Under the black yew tree, the pale girl waits.

Hair knotted, eyes sunken, feet coated in mud.

She sits in the gloom from dawn until late,

singing strange notes, garbled by blood

that pours from her mouth, her nose and her eyes.

It runs from her body and pools on the ground.

If you were to visit, then it would be wise

to keep your mouth shut and not make a sound,

as she hates people and will not delay

in charging towards them, eyes frenzied, claws splayed.

She doesn’t distinguish between friends and prey.

If you have a brain then you should be afraid.

For the blood that runs freely is not her own,

You don’t want to be under one of these stones.

When Considering Which Publishers to Approach

According to an article in The Guardian, the United Kingdom publishes more books per inhabitant than any other country in the world.[1] When it comes to approaching a publisher with your manuscript, there are plenty of them to choose from. Everyone has most likely heard of the ‘big five.’ Faber and Faber, Hachette Book Group, HarperCollins, Macmillan Publishers, and Penguin Random House have grown into massive publishing companies which produce thousands of new titles every year.

There are also plenty of new publishers and small press publishers who tend to focus on niches. An example of this is Daunt Books Publishing, who focus on travel books, non-fiction and literary fiction that explores a sense of place, or the Feminist Press who will only publish content written by female authors. Independent publishers differ from massive publishing houses which are more commercially focused and often produce a range of different genres and styles of books. The publisher you decide to approach will depend on the type of book you are writing, how much you are willing to compromise, and the goal you are trying to achieve.

If you are planning to approach a big publisher, you will most likely need to get an agent. Big publishers won’t accept unsolicited manuscripts as it would be impossible to keep up with the sheer number of submissions they would receive. If you don’t want to publish your book through an agent, then small press publishing might be more suited to you. A large number of small press publishers accept unsolicited manuscripts and are often more open to new authors if their work fits what they are looking for.

Small press publishers tend to let the author have more of a say about the publishing process too. If a small press publisher accepts your submission and decides to publish your book, they will work with you to create the finished piece. This isn’t to say that you surrender the right to any input if you choose to go to a big publisher. The author can still turn down cover illustrations, for example. But it is more like selling your piece to the publisher and being told what changes they want to be made, than working as a team to create a final product. Big publishers have a wider audience and therefore will try to edit your book as much as necessary to appeal to a broader market, whereas small press publishers often try to target a specific readership. This means the final piece will be closer to your initial submission and the editing process will be more concentrated on ensuring your book is at its best quality, rather than censoring any of your ideas or removing your favourite character.

However, if you don’t mind compromising and are looking for a way to make a living or write the next bestseller, big publishers have the budget to promote your book. They will also be able to pay you a nice and healthy advance. True, you will have a lot of competition as big publishing companies print thousands of new books a year, whereas a small press publisher may only print around twenty. But small press publishers wouldn’t be able to spend as much money on promotion or give you as large an advance as a money-making giant like Penguin Random House could.

In conclusion, there are many different publishing houses of varying sizes and who desire various types of manuscripts. While a small publisher could be easier for a new writer to approach, you will probably need to continue your day job to receive a manageable income. While a contract with a large publishing company isn’t a guarantee for success, it would be beneficial to your bank balance, as long as you don’t mind adapting your work to fit their preferences.

Personally, I think I will submit my work to small press publishers first to build up my writing profile. Then, if necessary, I could try to pitch my later work to bigger publishers for a healthier income. After all, if you are lucky enough to become an established author, even the bigger publishers might let strange plots and alternative characters pass as long as your writing sells.

[1] Alison Flood, The Guardian, https://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/oct/22/uk-publishes-more-books-per-capita-million-report

[accessed 19 May 2019]

Writing for the Market

‘Write from the soul. Not from some notion the market-place wants. The market is fickle; the soul is eternal.’

– Jeffrey A Carver

I have to admit, that when writing or coming up with an idea for a written piece, I never think about what trends are popular at the moment, or what my market would be interested in reading. As Carol Blake wrote, ‘starting your novel today means that the earliest it could be published is three years from now (…) you would need a crystal ball to know what will be hot in the marketplace in three years’ time.’ This means that by the time your work is published, all of your readers will have moved on to a new trend. Vampires become dystopian fiction, dystopia becomes medieval fantasy which becomes zombies or romances about snowmen. There is no sure way to determine what readers will want next.

As writers, we are warned time and time again not to write for ourselves, but personally, I think that if we aren’t writing something we can become emotionally invested in, then why do we need to be the one to tell that story at all? If even the author doesn’t feel strongly about the work, then who will? And how do you intend to promote something you regard only with indifference?

As Jeffrey A Carver says, ‘the soul is eternal.’ To write something that has significant meaning to you, or have characters you can relate to and feel a bond with, makes a novel feel worth writing whether it becomes published or not. If you write something that meets the market’s demands, but the writing is dispassionate or the characters dull, it will still end up at the bottom of the rejection pile. If you write something you are invested in with believable characters and a strong narrative voice, eventually the market may change in your favour and you can submit a manuscript you’re proud to have your name on.

I have found in the past, that trying to mimic other writers’ styles or attempting to write about things I am unfamiliar with simply because they have worked well for other people, has never produced work that I could be happy with. If I tried using a voice that wasn’t my own, the writing felt forced. I struggled to say what I wanted to because I felt that I couldn’t use my own words. Writing things outside my comfort zone has resulted in a similar experience because I couldn’t feel enthusiastic about writing something I wasn’t interested in.

In conclusion, I feel the best approach for me to take is to write about subjects that interest me and develop my own style, meaning that I can create characters in a world that I care about so that I am able to produce a piece of high-quality work. There is always an opportunity to find a way to tailor your novel to the market once it is finished, but it must be how you envisioned it or something that you are happy to be associated with. After all, if it does get published, it’s your name on the cover.

Walk Between the Lines

Stocky legs heave up the playing field.

White tipped angles pieced together

by dirty blotchy green skin.

The divide between victory

and defeat.

They compete

as the cubist tower

spills across the floor

and the lonely tree watches

Stocky legs hold up the playing field.

White tipped angles pieced together

by dirty blotchy green skin.

Empty on both sides.

The lonely tree

can’t compete.

It stands alone.

Stubby joints rusted red

in the ice blue sunlight.

Journey to Liskeard

The sour smell of sweat

lingers in the metal tube

where ants scurry to their seats,

governed by a muffled voice

that echoes down the throat

of a scaleless snake.

He slivers down a parallel path

adorned by fuzzy green

that clings to walls and telegraph poles.

Sunlight gleams off every leaf,

as if the trees bare gold

instead of seeds.

Wild grasses crowned

with floppy pink and purple hats,

wave in a gentle breeze

that cannot sway the riders

who travel in

the belly of the beast.

A World Away

The rolling grey water rolled forwards and swept across the sand, over Christopher’s feet and sank into his shoes. He shuddered. The icy wind cut into Christopher’s skin and blew his hood up against the back of his head. It hadn’t started raining yet, but he reckoned that it was only a matter of time before it did. Christopher didn’t mind. He actually quite liked the dull weather that had settled over the seaside town where he lived.

Another wave crashed into the beach, foam sizzling as it retreated. Christopher watched, his mind numb. He had been coming to the beach a lot lately, ever since that day.

He knew his mother wanted him around, but staying in that house just made him feel strange. There was nothing to do there now that Emma was gone. All of the toys in his room seemed so childish all a sudden, and there was no one to talk to. He tried talking to his parents (if he could find an interlude between their constant arguments), but they just wanted to talk about Emma. Christopher didn’t know how many times he could tell them that he didn’t know what they wanted.

Christopher sat on a mound of sand. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it was actually quite comfortable to lie down on. From there he could watch the clouds as they passed along each other, overlapping to look like snow on the sky.

His vision started to flicker. He was aware of his head tilting back, his breathing getting deeper. He pinched his forearm, trying to keep himself awake. The skin turned white to match the sky. He let go and winced at the angry pink crescents that remained.

Christopher woke to find that his lips tasted of salt. He sat upright. He was drenched. The sea had washed over his entire body. It was a miracle that he hadn’t drowned. He jumped to his feet and yelped. The entire beach was lost under water. His feet sloshed towards a grassy bank at the top of the slope, now the only place not submerged. He was almost there when movement caught his eye. A swished of a tail. Big enough to be a shark.

He froze.

The water rippled from where the tail had been, spreading in rings that reached out to him. Panic rushed through him and he sprinted towards the grass, sweat beaded at his forehead as the water slowed him down. He wasn’t going to make it in time.

Something brushed against his legs and he yelled.

And then a face broke the surface of the water.

Its skin was a pale green. Its hair looked like clumps of orange seaweed that framed the creature’s face like a lion’s mane. Yellow marble eyes blinked at him. The creature reached out a tentative hand, and very, very slowly, it reached out and brushed Christopher’s shoulder with wet fingertips before jolting away again.

Christopher stared, his eyes wide. He copied the creature’s gesture and reached out, eager to touch its scaly skin, its webbed fingers. His hand was just an inch from the creature when it suddenly grabbed his wrist and dragged him under the water.

Christopher was aware of the sound of blood thumping in his temples. He screamed as they descended, propelled by the creature’s tail (which must have been twice the length of its body), and realised too late that he had just wasted his oxygen. He struggled, trying to work his wrist free, but the creature held on. It looked at him with frantic eyes and for the briefest moment, Christopher saw something familiar about it. It seemed desperate, not spiteful. Christopher stopped fighting.

They moved faster and faster until they hit some kind of invisible barrier that pulsed as they passed through it. The darkness of the deep sea became sapphire, became turquoise. The slimy seaweed that got tangled with Christopher’s legs released him, and was replaced with technicolour corals and underwater flowers. He could see stone ruins that looked as if they could house many creatures like the one holding his arm. The creature stopped swimming now and released Christopher’s arm. The moment they had passed into the colourful place, Christopher had been able to catch his breath. He gasped for air, wondering how this was possible so far beneath the surface of the water.

He tried to speak, but his words came out as muffled nonsense. He frowned, wanting to ask the creature why it had brought him here. And, what was the creature? Why was it all alone down here?

The creature watched him with intelligent eyes. Christopher realised what the look he had seen before was; loneliness. It was eager to show its new guest around its home.

Christopher smiled. He moved his limbs until he was confident with moving around this strange place. The creature showed him around the houses, where beds, tables and chairs had been carved into the rock by the water. He was shown fields of algae, forests of coral, and when he looked up, he saw thousands of moon jellyfish, their luminous white patterns lighting up the dark water above them like the stars above the surface.

The creature was staring at Christopher.

It wants me to stay here with it, he realised.

He hesitated. While it was true, earlier all he had wanted was to be away from his family, he knew that he would miss them. His stomach grumbled. He wondered what the creature ate down here? Suddenly he thought of Dad’s amazing Sunday dinners, Mum singing as she worked at her laptop, and Emma. What if Emma came back? He had to be there for when she did.

Christopher winced as he remembered that day. The day Emma had crept down the stairs in the middle of the night. She had forgotten that the seventh one creaked and it had woken Christopher up.

‘Go back to bed, Chris,’ she had whispered. ‘I won’t be out for long.’

He should have asked her where she was going, if she was ever coming back. All that he knew is that she had gone to the train station and disappeared.

He looked back up at the creature, waiting patiently for an answer.

He shook his head.

The creature swam closer, taking his hand again. It’s scaly skin soft between Christopher’s fingers. With a lurch, the creature swam straight up and into the blackness.

Christopher woke on dry sand, a tall figure standing over him.

For a moment, he thought it was the creature but then saw that the figure was standing on two legs. She was wearing the same jeans and black jacket as the night she had left and instead of seaweed, her head was covered with straight brown hair.

She helped Christopher to his feet. She was chewing her lip, eyes cast down.

‘I know I shouldn’t have left,’ she began. She got as far as I know before Christopher threw his arms around his older sister.

‘I knew you’d come back.’

The clouds broke up enough so that the sun could peek through as Emma and Christopher walked across the beach, over the grassy bank and towards home.

Silent Journey

The huffing metal body emerged from the tunnel. Golden sunlight struck the carriages, momentarily blinding Stephanie and her companion.

Richard sat across from her, broad, belligerent man. He was stuffing a sandwich between yellow teeth, chunks of food trickling down from his plump lips and sweat stains spreading underneath his pale blue shirt. The overwhelming stench of his spicy food made her want to gag. He sniffed as he continued to cram the oozing wad of bread and curry into his face, spraying crumbs and debris into his own lap with every word that he obviously didn’t think could wait until he was finished with his lunch.

Stephanie watched him wipe his mouth, smearing grease onto the back of his hand and then rubbing it into the velvet seats. She cradled her stomach, wondering if she consumed as much food as Richard could, would it feel like before? Or would the reminder just make everything so much harder to bear? Stephanie thought back to when she was a teenager, that time when she took a swig from a bottle of vodka her parents had been keeping under the sink. She remembered the burning pain and spilling the vile liquid across the kitchen floor. She had filled the bottle up with water and put it back, hoping her parents wouldn’t notice. She could remember her father roaring at her. Not for the theft, but for ruining the rest of the bottle. She imagined that trying to fill this hole inside of her would be the same. What had happened, happened. She could only make things worse.

A baby’s mournful cry cut through the air, travelling from one carriage to the next. Stephanie’s head popped up, searching for the source of the sound, forgetting. Richard looked up too, watery eyes locking with hers. Something in his face changed. She could see a fragility in him that was usually hidden. The sounds of their fellow travellers faded away into nothing as they stared, seeing each other for the first time since it happened. A branch smacked against the window as the trees blurred past, jolting them both back to their senses.

He reached for his newspaper, building a barrier of rustling black and white lines against her inquisitive stare. She glared at it, wishing she could reach the other side with her anger. Just notice me. Just notice me. Talk to me, ask me how I really feel. The page flapped as he turned it. She hated the sounds of all his little distractions. For the past week, her life had been filled with rustling paper and the clattering of pots and pans. He kept hiding behind his papers and disappearing to the kitchen to cook comforting meals for her, as if somehow a Sheppard’s pie was going to fix everything; fix their marriage, fix the painful void inside of her. Stephanie wouldn’t eat a thing. Her ribs pushed against her skin and her cheeks were becoming concave. It wasn’t the same as before, no one was depending on her now. So, what was the point of filling herself up? She was damaged. Broken. She would only fall into pieces when someone tried to make use of her.

The baby was still wailing.

Stephanie could only see Richard’s hands, pale claws clutching at the edges of his paper as he tried to ignore the sound. A muffled voice spoke from above, echoing out of its little black box. We regret to inform you that we are running about ten minutes behind schedule. We’re sorry for any inconvenience this may cause. The words ran through her head. Sorry, so sorry, so sorry.

‘Sorry isn’t an explanation, it’s an excuse.’

She could remember Richard angrily shouting those words. She hadn’t been able to speak at first, but he had. Frantically roaring and demanding, before breaking down and crying. All she could remember was the Nurse’s confusion when Stephanie had finally found her voice.

‘Where did its life go?’

‘They removed him. The body has been moved downstairs.”

‘Yes’, she had said, ‘I know. But where did its life go?’ How could a heart beating in rhythm with hers stop so suddenly?

Everyone seemed so keen for her to get on and grieve, but all that remained was the confusion. Where did its life go? Why had everything become so quiet, so distant? When did the sound of excited chatter get replaced by papers and pots and pans?

The baby’s crying stopped.