Farewell to the Gold

Eleanor Catton won the 2013 Man Booker with her gigantic novel The Luminaries last week. First of all, congratulations to her. Secondly, a pox on the condescending sexist drivel surrounding her win. I’m looking forward to reading The Luminaries when I get a chance. (My reading is list is currently stacked longer than my arm.)

I know Catton’s novel is partly about gold-panning in New Zealand, and it’s a neat connection to this song by my father-in-law, Paul Metsers. He wrote ‘Farewell to the Gold’ thirty-three years ago, not long before leaving New Zealand for the UK. It’s his best-known song, having been covered by Nic Jones, Bob Dylan and countless dozens of folk singers through the decades. I still think Paul sings it best. I made the video and Paul’s son, Ben Metsers, recorded the sound.

 

Short Short Story Slam: 28 June 2013

More great flash fiction events in Manchester…

Fat Roland's avatar#FLASHTAG

Story Slam socialThe Flashtag Writers’ will host a live literature battle for Didsbury Arts Festival where you, the audience, are the judge.

In the Short Short Story Slam, a panel of plucky contestants will take to the stage with their best very-short stories, battling other fiction-writing foes in a series of tense but hilarious head-to-heads. With voting cards under their seats, the audience decides who stays and who is deleted… there can only be one ultimate Short Short Story Slam gladiator of grammar.

Just to add to the excitement, the event also includes the grand results of the Didsbury Arts Festival Twitter fiction competition (launching on June 15th).

Join us for the contest of a lifetime!

Date: Friday 28 June 2013
Time: 8pm
Venue: The Albert Club. Didsbury
Admission: Free
More details: Here.

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This Kitten I Knew

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.

Flashtag at The Nook & Cranny

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.

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….

The Shortlist 2013

Check it out! I’ve made the shortlist for the Flashtag Writing Competition, and I’m very pleased about it.

David Hartley's avatar#FLASHTAG

Well hello. We’ve bished, we’ve boshed, we’ve bashed. We’ve taken the stories you sent us and picked apart every single individual letter to find our favourites and, inevitably, all five of us rocked up with different favourites. Seriously. Happens every year. So we bish, bash, boshed it all out and agreed on our tip-top eight. And here, ladyfowls and gentlecocks, are those 8 arranged alphabetically by story title:

Let the Librarian Hold the Book by Allie Rogers

Looking for an Astrolabe by Michael Conley

Nothing Left Behind by Dale Lately

Occasional by Clare Kirwan

Pins and Needles by Guy Garrud

The Clockman by Cathy Lennon

The Girl Who Lived on a Bus Stop by Sarah Butler

This Kitten I Knew by Simon Sylvester

Congratulations Allie, Michael, Dale, Clare, Guy, Cathy, Sarah & Simon! BUT – who has won? You don’t find out, not yet. We will announce the magnificent winner…

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