This Kitten I Knew

~ simonsylvester ~ 7 Comments

Here’s my short story from the Flashtag writing contest, in case anyone wants to read it:

This Kitten I Knew

My heartbeat rings a funeral:

dumb

dumb

dumb.

The tramp of feet, the pulse a memo: dumb, dumb, dumb, building from the distance, seeping closer, clinging to the timber frames and oozing in the cobbles.

You’ll love it, he said. The architecture. The history. The food.

In the rough-hewn gutter, a mottled kitten bats a leaf. Not even a kitten, but a scrawny juvenile, gawky and underfed. In the car, his hand rests on my knee, pulling it towards him, easing my legs apart. Gently, barely a suggestion: open up. A wedding band on his ring finger, and I taste of someone else’s toothpaste.

You’ll love it, he said. The music. The landscape.

I’d asked a neighbour to feed my cat. She’s younger than me, but we wear the same clothes.

Dumb, dumb, a bass drum. A marching beat. A cymbal, hissing wind through trees and tiles.

You’ll love it, he said. Just us two. A business trip. All expenses. Even Duty Free.

I put his fingers in my mouth. The wedding ring licked salty sharp.

The procession rounds a corner into view. Accordion and trumpet, clarinet and drum, and they sound the dirge as one: dumb, dumb, dumb. The coffin rolls haphazardly on a sea of bodies, the mourners packed too close together. They reach out to touch the box, shuffling and catching ankles. They wear black that is not black, grained with dust, and patches on the patches. The coffin is too big for a child, too small for an adult.

You’ll love it, he said. The people. The paisans. They’re such characters.

A mute hand on my knee; more than a suggestion. I let it fall, open wide. He bought me a necklace that costs more than some old ring.

We watch the procession from the rental car. Ragtag men, walnut women, carrying their coffin and looking in the window. They know every inch of us, now and in the days to come. The hem of my skirt, our breath in trickles on the glass. Rituals for peasants. A hand on my knee. A smirk on his lips. A kitten batting leaves along the gutter, skipping blind towards the graveyard. There’s nothing on my finger.

Listen, he said. This time, I’m going to leave my wife.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Last FM, at last…

~ simonsylvester ~ 3 Comments

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I can’t afford the premium subscription, so when Spotify shut me off last month, I tried Last FM. I was converted within the hour. Can’t believe it’s taken me this long. I love Last FM. I’ve created a library of a few dozen of the bands that have that tonal or emotional consistency I seek in my writing soundtracks, and Last FM mixes them up with random songs from their catalogues. I like not knowing what’s coming next, but it’s less random/irritating than BBC 6Music or iTunes.

As well as perennial British Sea Power, I have ambient, trip-hoppy jazz/fusion bands like Bersarin Quartett, Portico Quartet and Hidden Orchestra, and more abstract electronica from Stars of the Lid, Gonjasufi and Marihiko Hara. My fix of Scottish indie comes from Arab Strap, Meursault, Bill Wells & Aidan Moffat, Twilight Sad, Mogwai and Malcolm Middleton, with US indie in The National, Modest Mouse and The Antlers. If it’s all sounding a bit male, I’ve Russian Red, Cat Power, Bat for Lashes, Lykke Li and Daughter to redress the balance. I’ve also a spectrum of folk music from Beirut, Dan Haywood’s New Hawks, Bellowhead, A Hawk and a Hacksaw, James Yorkston and Dead Belgian. Some of my friends’ bands are on last FM, too, so I can throw Seven Seals, Dan Haywood’s New Hawks and Yeah Sparrow into the pot.

Last FM maintains consistency without the boredom of familiarity. I’ve discovered more new music in the last month than in the two years beforehand, but more recommendations would be very welcome – I’d especially like some more in the vein of Bellowhead, if anyone has suggestions…

Flashtag at The Nook & Cranny

~ simonsylvester ~ 3 Comments

Mon and I drove down to Manchester on Wednesday night for the live final of the Flashtag writing competition. Flashtag Writers are a five-strong collective of flash fiction devotees, organising and performing their work across Manchester, the northwest and beyond. This writing contest was part of Chorlton Arts Festival. Downstairs at the Nook & Cranny pub was the perfect place for my first reading in three years – small, close, and dark. It reminded me a little of Twin Peaks. I think the brightest thing in there was my shirt.

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With eight writers on the shortlist, four Flashtaggers (plus a few of Benjamin Judge‘s excellent ‘Very Short Stories About Very Good Writers‘ read out in his absence – check out the blog – they’re brilliant. My favourite so far is Haruki Murakami…) and headlined by yer actual flash fiction titan David Gaffney, there was an astounding breadth and depth of storytelling on offer. I’m consistently delighted with the sensations and stories that can be conveyed in remarkably few words: Allie Rodgers gave us a dystopia without printed books; Dale Lately perfectly captured the melancholy of an empty nightclub after hours; Sarah Butler told the tale of a girl who lived on a bus stop. Michael Conley read my favourite story – ‘Looking for an Astrolabe’ was perfect flash fiction, bundling the profound into the darkly comic. David Gaffney’s piece conjured an infestation of acoustic singer-songrwriters, and blamed it all on Badly Drawn Boy. I also loved the work of Flashtaggers Sarah Clare Conlon, Fat Roland, Tom Mason and David Hartley.

I was the last of the shortlisted writers to perform, and – as ever – I was terrified. But the reading went quite well, the audience were very generous and it left me craving more live events. Despite the fear, I always end up enjoying myself. I’d like to think that a few more readings might settle my nerves, but maybe they’re there to stay. Ach weel.

Up against consistently strong competition, I was genuinely blown away to be awarded second place for ‘This Kitten I Knew‘. That was really humbling. I was delighted that Michael’s ‘Astrolabe’ won first prize – it was easily my favourite on the night, and I feel honoured to come second against such a great story.

More than anything else, it was truly uplifting to have some social contact centred around writing. Facing a late drive back to Kendal, we couldn’t stay very long, but it was a real thrill to stop and chat with the audience, the Flashtaggers, the shortlistees and Mr Gaffney. It’s strange, sometimes, to live in relative isolation halfway between the vibrant literary scenes of Manchester and Glasgow. Nights like Wednesday help me remember that other people are excited by stories – by writing and reading.

Won’t You Marry Me?

~ simonsylvester ~ 10 Comments

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We don’t have a TV aerial in our house, so when we watch anything, it tends to be on DVD. One of the films we sometimes watch with Dora is a frankly astonishing 1980s compilation of classic nursery rhymes. The rhymes are sung by a raft of top folk singers like Martin Carthy, while the stories are acted out in a combination of puppets, animation, or against nascent green screen technology. Taken in one sitting, it’s like Alice is having a nightmare. WHILE in Wonderland. The whole collection swings between the trippy and terrifying, but there are a few surprisingly haunting songs in there. One in particular has stuck with me; it’s an old song, but I don’t think I’d heard it before watching the film. It’s called ‘Soldier Soldier, Won’t You Marry Me?’. It’s a duet between a young lass and a soldier, and it goes a bit like this:

 “Oh soldier, soldier; won’t you marry me?
With your musket, fife and drum.”
 
“Oh no sweet maid, I cannot marry you,
For I have no boots to put on.”
 
So off she went to her grandfather’s chest
And brought him some boots of the very very best
And the soldier put them on. 
 
“Oh soldier, soldier; won’t you marry me?
With your musket, fife and drum.”
 
“Oh no sweet maid, I cannot marry you,
For I have no coat to put on.”
 
So off she went to her grandfather’s chest
And brought him a coat of the very very best
And the soldier put it on. 
 
“Oh soldier, soldier; won’t you marry me?
With your musket, fife and drum.”
 
“Oh no sweet maid, I cannot marry you,
For I have no hat to put on.”
 
So off she went to her grandfather’s chest
And brought him a hat of the very very best
And the soldier put it on. 
 
“Oh soldier, soldier; won’t you marry me?
With your musket, fife and drum.”
 
“Oh no sweet maid, I cannot marry you,

For I have a wife of own…”

It’s really sad, isn’t it? It reminds me of Alan Garner. I sing it to Dora every now and then – it’s one of the few songs she doesn’t try to sing along with. She prefers to listen. It feels curiously grave. And what happens next? Does the sweet maid pine after the soldier, or pick herself up and find another man? I feel like she needs vengeance. I’ve been imagining another verse:

So off she went to her grandfather’s chest
And fetched out a pistol of the very very best

And the sweet maid shot him down…..

It doesn’t make the song any happier, of course, but the soldier needs comeuppance.I haven’t yet decided whether I can sing it to my daughter.

Speakeasy

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Over the last few weeks, I’ve become increasingly conscious of how much I miss reading my stories aloud. It’s been more than two years since I’ve performed at an open mic; back in 2011, I read for Words Per Minute in Glasgow, for Gutter magazine at the National Library of Scotland, and at my local open mic night in the Brewery.

It’s an excruciating experience to expose my stories for strangers, but incredibly rewarding, and I believe firmly that stories should be read aloud as much as read on the page. Each time, I was riven with nerves before the reading… but each time, once I’d finished, I wanted to get back onstage and tell another story.

Well, be careful what you wish for. The good news that I’ve made the shortlist for the Manchester Flashtag writing competition also means that I’ll be performing live rather sooner than I’d thought: I’ll be reading my story at the awards event in Chorlton on 22nd May. I’m already nervous, not least as the story is an internal, claustrophobic piece with a polyphony of tense and voice, and it’s a bugger for reading aloud. I’d better start rehearsing.

Any tips appreciated….

Soundscape

~ simonsylvester ~ 9 Comments

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When I’m writing, I listen to music. I can barely type a word without it. Music helps me focus. Occasionally, I’ll use music to steer my emotional response towards a certain tone in my writing, but more usually, I simply need a soundscape filling the space in my head. I tend to avoid music with vocals – or rather, if there is someone singing, I prefer the vocal to blend tonally with the track.

I’ve returned to some records endlessly over the years. I’ve listened to Mogwai‘s Come On Die Young literally thousands of times. I’ve spent entire weeks working to the British Sea Power back catalogue on repeat – or Arcade Fire, Arab Strap, Throwing Muses, The Antlers or Godspeed You Black Emperor.

All these bands have similar musical themes: they drone and fuzz, they soar and soothe – but ultimately, the music they create is cohesive, regular or continuous. Their albums tend to run without breaks or interruptions, creating sonic soundscapes. Call it post-rock – call it what you like – it works for me. It helps me tune out and focus on the story.

I develop different soundtracks for different projects. My 2008-2009 novel-length prose-poem Meat was soundtracked almost exclusively by Godspeed You Black Emperor’s 2-disc, 4-track epic album Lift Yr. Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven!, while first novel The Visitors was heavy on Mogwai and British Sea Power (two of Flora’s favourite bands). As I moved from writing to editing and redrafting, the soundtrack changed, and I built a playlist that was energetic and snappy; exactly what I needed to fuel my 12-hour redrafting sessions.

Now I’ve started work on my second novel, the music has changed again. At the moment, if I listen to Mogwai or BSP – as much as I love them both – it takes me back into The Visitors. So I need something new, at least while I’m making the transition from one novel to another. Even as I’m feeling out a fresh vocabulary, I’m developing a different soundtrack. While working on Grisleymires, I’ve been listening to a lot of Beirut, Bat For Lashes, The Antlers and Super Furry Animals. Thanks to Last FM, I’ve discovered Portico Quartet, Hidden Orchestra and Bersarin Quartett, all whom play organic, slightly sinister trip-hoppy movie-type soundtracks. At the other end of the spectrum, childhood favourites Crowded House are also back on the stereo, though I’m not totally certain why, as they go against all the conditions I suggested above; but they just fit, and that’s fine. Most startling (to me) is that I found myself wanting the sound of wind chimes to work to, and downloaded an hour-long track of chimes and trees designed for meditation. I can’t see it lasting, but for now, it helps me into the world of my story.

Does anyone else need music to work? Who and what soundtracks your writing?

Hello Sunshine

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I had a few hours working on Heaven yesterday. Over the last week, slowly but surely, I’ve crept up to 5,000 words. That’s still a drop in the ocean, but to consider it as 1/20th of a first draft is strangely sobering.

Long miles still to come, and I’ll try and write some more tonight… but for now, the sun is shining, Mon and I are taking Dora to the wildlife park, and here’s the Super Furry Animals doing what they do best. Enjoy.

A painting on the wall, a kite in the sky

~ simonsylvester ~ 3 Comments

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Kites are a big part of my second novel, and I’ve been doing lots of research into their history, construction and art. This morning I was browsing my favourite charity shop, the incredible Age UK South Lakeland warehouse (which is here, if you’re ever in Kendal). Monica called me over to look at a Chinese dragon head she’d found in a decorated box. I was absolutely blown away to discover that the head had a body, and that the whole assemblage was in fact a two-metre centipede kite.

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Centipede kites are one of the scores of primary kite types. Each of the circular discs – usually made of painted silk, stretched over rattan, with feather stabilisers – is essentially a miniature kite. By the time dozens of discs are combined, there’s enough lift to support a lightweight dragon head, decorated with deer horns for longevity and luck, tiger eyes for strength, catfish whiskers for wealth, and a human beard, signifying wisdom.

This dragon is in a rather sorry state. He’s missing one of his polystyrene horns and some teeth, his paint work is chipped, and one of his whiskers has broken. His ribs are tangled and some of the feathers are missing. He looks quite angry about it, doesn’t he? Well, he cost me 50p. He’s now sitting in his box on my bookshelves, waiting for me to try and revive him. I’d planned on building a kite for myself as part of my research, and this will be a nice warm-up.

I found this excellent quote (which I’ve paraphrased) while reading up on centipede kites:

“It’s a painting on the wall; it’s a kite in the sky.”