A Plea to Seamus Heaney by Melanie Branton

Last Quarter's Humour Verse Winner 

I may sound like a meanie,
but, hey! Seamus Heaney!
Isn’t it time you retired?
I wish that you would:
you’re just too bloody good
and you make me feel cowed, not inspired.

You’ve won the Nobel
and the Whitbread, as well,
awards of all shapes and all sizes.
Bugger this for a lark!
How can I make my mark
when some Irish bloke hogs all the prizes?

When you keep writing verse,
I just holler and curse,
‘til I work myself into a tizzy.
Since you’re so fond of digging,
can’t you just get a frigging
allotment to keep yourself busy?

Or perhaps you could try
taking up DIY?
Plumbing might suit you the best:
you could keep your own log
of stuff found in the bog,
since it’s something with which you’re obsessed.

If you lay down your pen
and don’t use it again,
I’ll be much more calm and less huffy.
when I’m feeling less vexed,
I can concentrate next

on taking out Carol-Ann Duffy…

Flash 500 runs three competitions. We have an open-themed category for fiction up to 500 words. There is also a humour verse section, asking for any form of funny poetry, from a limerick to a poem of 32 lines.

Both of the above are quarterly competitions with closing dates of 31st March, 30th June, 30th September and 31st December.

The Novel Opening Chapter & Synopsis Competition is a new annual competition, opening for entries on 1st May and closing on 31st October.

For information on all three competitions, visit the Flash 500 website: www.flash500.com 

There Are More Tears Shed … by Lynne Voyce

Last Quarter's Flash 500 Winner

Imagine the scene…

... a woman in her forties, smartly dressed in navy skirt suit and court shoes, lies, belly down on the grass, head and shoulders over the cliff edge. One hand grips a gnarled, emerging tree root. Splay legged, she gains purchase in the mud with the heels of her shoes. The friction of the turf has ripped her tights. Her face is a mask of pain and concentration. Her other arm reaches down, the strain on the sleeve belying the strain on the flesh and bone underneath.

We travel down to the hand, on it is a tired, gold band. It has been on the third finger of her left hand for twenty six years. The skin of her hand is painfully pale but for the redness of the points where the other hand, gripping so tightly has contact with the skin. The other hand is smaller: a child’s hands.

Today, as the woman sat at the bank taking bags of ten pences from fat market traders, she had longed for adventure. In the toilet cubicle at lunch time she had sat and prayed for excitement, eyes closed, face to heaven, palm to palm. “Please God send me something to break the boredom.” She’d wanted a stolen kiss by the water cooler from Eric in personal finance or for her numbers to come up on the bingo.

Below the small hand is a sun tinged arm, then a shoulder, then a terrified face. A knot of fear and exhaustion. The girl cannot speak, she can barely breath or swallow. She wants to cry out for her mother, even though she is nine and three quarters. She wants to wail to the lady above: “Please don’t let go. I am so scared. How will this be OK? Why doesn’t the help come quicker?”

The girl had been pushed, the woman had seen it happen. A silly fight between siblings taking the short, dangerous way home. The girl had tumbled over the lip of the cliff, finding her feet resting on a soil outcrop. Though in a moment the shelf had crumbled beneath her, crashing to the beach, to be washed away by high tide.

Somehow, already, there was a hand holding hers. A passer by: the woman.

But it is too hard to hold on any longer. In a film there would be a last scrap of strength, a redoubling of effort just as the police arrive. But it is not a film. The drizzle starts; tiny beads of wet slip between their palms. Slowly, slowly the small hands slides down the bigger one, until the grip cannot be sustained. The bond is broken.

The girl falls. The thud, the rattle of shingle can be heard for a mile. There she lies a pink frocked swastika, a blot of deepest red spreading beneath her.

I no longer use my hands to pray for excitement because one of those hands was mine and I let go.

Flash 500 runs three competitions. We have an open-themed category for fiction up to 500 words. There is also a humour verse section, asking for any form of funny poetry, from a limerick to a poem of 32 lines.

Both of the above are quarterly competitions with closing dates of 31st March, 30th June, 30th September and 31st December.

The Novel Opening Chapter & Synopsis Competition is a new annual competition, opening for entries on 1st May and closing on 31st October.

For information on all three competitions, visit the Flash 500 website: www.flash500.com 

Ask the Agent - Andrew Lownie answers a reader’s question

Q: I have been offered a two book deal with Harlequin's Carina Digital Imprint, should I still continue on my quest to find an agent?

thanks

Helen Phifer
Barrow-in-Furness

Contemporary Crime/Paranormal writer, proud member of the RNA new writer's scheme. Writing Murder, Chills and Thrills.

A: I think it is still worth finding an agent and you’ll certainly be a more attractive prospect now. A good agent : may improve terms and protect your interests over, for example, reversion clauses; will certainly be there to give editorial advice alongside the editor and other advice about publication; may be able to exploit other rights not sold to Harlequin . Remember an agent should be for life and not just for a particular book.

Dear Ed ... Letters of the Satirical Variety

Dear Words with Jam,
They say you should always grasp the opportunity to try something new, so a couple of weeks ago I tried being a racist by voting for UKIP. What fun. And just as soon as they have finished building my conservatory (which is on budget and on time and looks fabulous) we should send them all back. At the next local election I’m going to try out being a homophobe by voting for a Conservative councillor.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs S Endembak

Dear Editor,
I am offended by a letter you printed on this page in this edition about ‘trying out’ being a racist. I’m sick of the middle classes and their whimsical changes of heart. I’ve been a card carrying racist all my life and these johnny-come.lately’s are spoiling it for everyone. My granddad would be spinning in his grave if he was dead.
Yours in disgust,
Wojciech Kowalewski

Dear fan of Dan Brown,
No amount of calling me a snob will change the fact that you like shite.
Yours truly,
Ed Ucated

Dear Words,
I recently went on a trip to IKEA where I spent an afternoon buying garden furniture and a barbeque. Imagine my embarrassment when I got all the stuff home and I realised that I live in Britain. How I laughed.
Yours laughingly,
D Ingbat, Chester

Dere Editor,
I have recently discovered that despite having a pretty good grasp on spelling, I regularly spell dere incorrectly. What am I like?
Yours truely,
Miss S Pelt
PS – I also have trouble with truely.

Dear Words,
I recently parked on a pelican crossing on my way home from IKEA and then hurled abuse at a traffic warden for ten minutes while they wrote me a ticket. Imagine my embarrassment when I got home and realised that I’m a cunt. How I laughed.
Yours laughingly,
D Ingbat, Chester

Dear Words,
I recently posted a photo of my dinner on facebook after getting home from IKEA. Imagine my embarrassment when I realised that I’m unbelievably boring. How I laughed.
Yours laughingly,
D Ingbat, Chester

Dear Sir,
I recently saw a news item on the television about a guy who has invented a gun that you can simply print out on a three dimensional printer. Ah, yes, all very clever, but can it print out bullets? Also, can it print out some quality weed?
Sincerely yours,
Kle VerCloggs, Holland

William Boyd: Going Solo with James Bond at the London Book Fair

by Catriona Troth 

There seems to be a theme developing here. Last year at the London Book Fair I heard Anthony Horowitz talking about stepping into Arthur Conan Doyle’s shoes to write his ‘continuation novel’ House of Silk. This year, William Boyd is the Fair’s Author of the Day, and the shoes being tried on for size are those of James Bond creator, Ian Fleming.

William Boyd with Erica Wagner at the English Pen Literary Cafe 

Boyd makes an interesting choice to write the next Bond novel. On the one hand, he has taught English literature at Oxford University and written novels (such as Any Human Heart and Nat Tate) that push the boundaries of what the novel can do. On the other, he has penned two spy novels (Restless and Waiting for Sunrise) and has written about both Ian Fleming himself and that other great spymaster, John le Carré.

It wasn’t a foregone conclusion that he would get the job. He faced an interview with the Ian Fleming foundation. “I think I got the job because I showed them I was interested in Bond, the man. It’s something enormously fun, but you have to take it seriously.”

Before embarking on the new book, Boyd read every Bond novel and short story in chronological order. “Reading them forensically was a fantastic experience. Fleming left an enormous amount of biographical information about Bond the books.”

Did you know, for instance, that Bond is not English, but half Scottish and half Swiss? That he spent two terms at Eton before being chucked out and finishing his education in a Scottish public school? That he was captain of the judo team?

Boyd has chosen to set his novel in 1969, the year he himself came to London from Africa as a 17 year old. “I could remember the music, the fashions. It was the height of swinging London.”

But at this point, Bond is a 45 year of man – a product of the 50s and of World War II, not of the 60s. “He has no technological gimmickry to fall back on. On the other hand, there were no security checks at airports. You could smoke anywhere.”

Boyd is not channelling Ian Fleming’s voice. “From my academic background, I could analyse Fleming’s style. But I didn’t want to do a pastiche. This is a William Boyd novel.”

And now comes the Big Reveal. ( Hey, you probably all know this by now but, when I tweeted it yesterday it was practically an exclusive! ) The title of the new Bond novel is going to be:

SOLO 

And Bond is indeed going solo – heading off on a mission of his own that will take him from Africa to the USA.

As someone in the audience pointed out, can’t you just picture the classic Bond silhouette, aiming a gun out of those two round ‘O’s?

You can read more of the Library Cat’s adventures at the London Book Fair on the Triskele Books blog.

The Death of a Giant

I saw a giant die today.

Giants have a unique way of their own. They come into the world with a bang. Everyone notices their arrival. People look up to them in awe. When they flex their muscles, others run for cover. They forge their own path. More often than not, they trample over others who stand in their way. Occasionally it is on purpose, as the giant sees the others as a minor obstacle which needs to be brushed aside like a fly. Most often they don’t even notice the ones trampled, for they are not in their line of sight. The hapless ones were merrily going their own way, till they realized too late that the giant had also chosen to take the path they were on. As the giant marches on, it collects accolades and occasionally brickbats. Many a time they can get drunk on their own success, and not even notice that another bigger, stronger giant is on their path.

And then, after a while … they die.

They get crushed by a bigger, newer giant on the block. Their death is often more spectacular and feted than their birth. It is always like a supernova. A brilliant flash of light, thundering explosions that can be heard and felt light years away. And as they die, they take many others with them.

As they fall to the ground, they don’t pass away quickly. They lie there and whimper, struggle and prolong their agony. They attract vultures and onlookers by the truckload. The vultures peck away at the parts they find the juiciest and the tastiest. As the vultures come and go, they leave behind a giant, which is little smaller, uglier, disfigured, more hapless. The vultures go and pass on the message about the waiting feast to others of their clan. Till the time only a skeleton remains, with some rotting body parts that no one, not even the vultures wish to partake of. Then it’s over. People talk sympathetically about the giant for a while, then it is forgotten, relegated to myths and memories.

I saw a giant die today.

It wasn’t a person. It was a name many people would have heard of – ‘Borders’. They are, or rather were, one of the biggest names in the book selling business, at least in the English-speaking part of the world.

And the way I discovered it was as much of a shock as the news of them going away. Walking down Broadway in NY, from Battery Park up to Manhattan downtown, we spotted the familiar black and white sign of Borders from a distance. The pace of the kids quickened, fuelled by the possibility of laying their hands on some more of their favorite books. As we inched closer, it seemed strange there was no activity around the huge doors. On reaching the front doors, we were greeted by a dusty porch, peeled carpets and paint and huge signs proclaiming ‘Prime retail space for lease’. We, being tourists in NY with a million things to see and do, raised our eyebrows and carried on.

Later, after spending an afternoon at the iconic Central Park, we headed into the Lincoln Center. Everyone was cheered by another sight of the Borders sign. As we climbed the escalator and reached the first floor, I was shocked to see huge, ugly, black and yellow signs – ‘Going out of business. Everything 20 – 40% off’.

To see these signs pasted all over the glass walls, which otherwise would be adorned with the posters of books, was like being hit by a heatwave, when you are expecting a gentle, soothing spring breeze. I looked at my wife; we both stared back at each other puzzled. We gingerly stepped inside to witness signs of chaos. Books piled up in unruly stacks, hundreds of people jostling to get their hands on a bargain. Huge red signs proclaiming the death of a giant. Instead of the nice soothing piped music, the sound system was continually blaring announcements about warning people to not to sit on the ground and read, as it was a fire and safety hazard.

Where one would normally find friendly helpful staff who would go out of their way to suggest books and help you discover new books, there was no one in sight. Every info counter was a deserted mess with strewn papers, packaging and computer screens displaying a blank white screen or a message about no network available. Much like small ghost towns. With great difficulty I was able to track down a staff member to inquire about the whereabouts of a specific kids’ book. I was greeted by a steely eyed, grim faced girl, who pointed to a far corner and asked me to go search myself. The far corner, the erstwhile kids’ section was a deserted place. The bright and colourful covers of kids’ books seemed glaringly out of place among the carnage that surrounded them.

Catching another rare staff member later for her help in searching in the catalog, the explanation emerged. She explained that Borders was now owned by a liquidator. They had no access to the catalog and it was just a matter of time before all this would be gone. There was genuine remorse and tiredness in that face. Whether that feeling came from having repeated that answer to a hundred customers, pain of losing her job or a sense of loss due to passing away of a place where books were respected, I’ll never know. What was clear to see were the remains of the giant. Its skeleton in the form of empty shelves, the discarded bits in the form of unwanted books, crushed mints and sweets packages near the checkout counter and bargain shoppers rummaging in the piles for a succulent morsel.

While this does reflect on me being not completely in touch with going-ons in the world, but I could sense a wormhole open up in the fabric of space-time. As we walked around the bookshop trying to look for books, I couldn’t help but wonder – Am I nothing more than a vulture, scavenging on juicy bits of a dying giant. Are the discounted books piling up in my basket, small bits of the giant? Did I at some point in time, inadvertently play a part in its demise? Or the giant that I could see dying in front of me, was not Borders, but the printed book. Will all physical bookshops soon meet the same fate, and did Borders fail to reinvent itself in a world of publishing and book retailing that is or has changed radically?
Lots of questions, and very few answers. What’s even more ironic is that this piece is being typed on a tablet. One of the reasons for buying it was to being able to occasionally read magazines and books on it. So maybe that was my part in its downfall. But does that mean that one should stop evolving and not foster progress and new approaches?

As one would expect, there are no right or wrong answers here. And an issue like these can be argued equally passionately both ways. All I know is that I watched a giant die, and it certainly wasn’t pretty.

By Brijesh Luthra
http://www.brijeshluthra.com/

A little teaser for our Matt Haig interview ...

As a teaser to an upcoming interview with Matt Haig, author of THE HUMANS released in May, today's WWJ blog features a promotional trailer for the book made from snippets recorded by his Facebook followers.