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Published byCoventry University Priory Street

Coventry CV1 5FBUK

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Main website: www.coventry.ac.uk

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Executive Editor and Literary Agent: Alyson Morris email: a.morris@coventry.ac.uk

Editorial: Halima Aftab, Vanessa Bailey, Brogan Beck, Laura Downs, Karis Gouldbourne, Norah Lindsay, Rhishai Mais, Rosie Newton, Madalina Serban, Amy Swallow, Thomas Swift,

Danni Tandy

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Any opinions expressed by a contributor are their own personal opinions, and do not reflect the opinions of the University or any employee thereof. The fact that the University’s images are used in this magazine shall not be considered as an endorsement of the University. The University is not responsible for the accuracy of any

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Copyright in each separate contribution to the collective work is distinct from copyright in the collective work as a whole, and vests in the author of the contribution. Unauthorised reproduction

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© Coventry University 2012

Dear Reader,

This year at Coventry Words we have given our magazine a complete re-vamp with trendy black and white pages and a new pocket-sized design, ideal for carrying around with course books! The magazine has received special care and attention from our student designers, and the writing has been carefully selected by our new student editing team. We really hope you enjoy it!

Coventry Words is full of original writing from students at Coventry University. The magazine aims to provide an authentic cross-section of ideas, musings and issues that matter most to students. This year we have focused on poetry and flash fiction, but other work can be found on our new website. Find our Facebook group too, all you have to do is search for Coventry Words.

The magazine will simply not survive without you, so please submit your creative writing. We hope that Coventry Words will inspire you to keep reading, keep writing, or even better... start writing! We like to encourage truly independent work, whether it is unrestrained by the rules and conventions of a particular genre or style, or a fresh take on an over-worn tale.

Thank you for your fabulous entries this year.

Yours sincerely,

The Editing Team

Submissions: If you would like to contribute, send us an email with MAGAZINE SUBMISSION or WEB SUBMISSION in the ‘subject line’. (Please do not send attachments.) Email your submissions to coventrywords.bes@coventry.ac.uk. For more detailed information on the submissions criteria and word counts, please see the Coventry Words website.

(Note to designers: 32 pages are for student writing – approx. one piece per page)

(Page 1)

Peach by Adele Reed

Somebody call me Sebastian.and pluck, three at a time, tweezemy severely cellophane fingersfrom their home in my hand. Likepicking fruit seeds from a deep red, heartcoloured pomegranate.

Inside the fruit I thought of sleeping. Itwas warm for a while. I breathed and said to myself, ‘okay’. And with my paper bagfingertips faintly pressing her cheek, Idescended via sickly dance-spins intothe rigid yet restful belly of a giant peach.

But I woke up surprised.

In three hours time I will have to be elsewhere.I’m afraid to say, that the pinch in myside, was too painful for me to stay.With my shirt buttons done up tight, to pushout the cold, gesture away the breeze.I am my own teenage boy. It matters to me.

Somebody call me Sebastian.And pluck, three at a time, tweeze

my severely cellophane fingersfrom their home in my hand. Like

picking fruit seeds from a deep red, heartcoloured pomegranate.

Inside the fruit I thought of sleeping. Itwas warm for a while. I breathed and saidto myself, ‘okay’. And with my paper bag

fingertips faintly pressing her cheek, Idescended via sickly dance-spins into

the rigid yet restful belly of a giant peach.

But I woke up surprised.

In three hours time I will have to be elsewhere.I’m afraid to say, that the pinch in my

side, was too painful for me to stay.With my shirt buttons done up tight, to push

out the cold, gesture away the breeze.I am my own teenage boy. It matters to me.

Peachb y A d e l e R e e d

1

Overcoming Dissonanceby Rosanna Scholefield

The theory of resonance; music resounds through my fingertips, the vibrations indicate pitch, decibel and rhythm. Tiny bubbles propel through the air and burst on my skin, sending ions of information so that I may analyse, appreciate and play the melody correctly.

But it isn’t just the sensation of music that makes one successful, every endeavour should be accompa-nied by theory and practice, before they may work harmoniously together. When I play my violin, the consciousness of the strings and the bow speaks to me and it’s the notes on the page that allow me to understand the piece logically: I read it like anyone else reads the written word.

Numerous people have said that someone with this condition would only become heartbroken when they realise how it limits their capabilities, and that to encourage me to study music would only lead to my own disappointment. They even tried to omit Music from my weekly schedule at High School, assuming I would have no interest, without even considering that, before finishing primary education, I had already been awarded a Distinction in grade 4 Violin.

It’s been 10 years since I was challenged about the capabilities of a deaf child studying music. 5 years since being awarded a distinction in Grade 8 violin. 3 years since the audition to London University, and today I collect my First Class Honours degree in Classical Music. They said I couldn’t do it. But I couldn’t hear them.

2

Guilted Bronzeb y S h a y n e n e C h a m b e r s - D o w s i n g

What right had you to t a k e f r o m m e ,

That which I would not depart with,

To dig and scrape and chase around,

And find no solace until you unearthed

Any one tiny speck of imp er f ec t io n

From which your hatred might be borne a platform...

So now, take with you your hard-earned dirt, your sacred speck,

Which once laid heavy upon my heart,

And heed notice that the most precious stones,

Standing Unused, Unappreciated, Undiscovered,

Will no less collect dirt than I...

And from this lesson hence,

Understand that with all the intent in the world,

Guilted Bronze shall not be Gold,

As much as I shall NEVER lay my heart in your hands.

3

b y S i o b h a n R i d y a r d

A Different Kind of

Criminal

Whittled it down to one of three.

Michael Piston - the least likely; at the scene of the crime, no motive, only circumstancial evidence.Janna Davro - also at the scene, budding socialite that gets whatever she wants.Kenny ‘Scarface’ Spitteri - a serial offender who’s always had it in for me. Most likely of the three.

Can’t find Michael so far, looked in his most frequented locations; nothing.Going over to chat with Kenny, he’s nearby. Have to be cautious - he’s surrounded by cronies. One false move and they’ll jump on me like fleas on a rat. This approach was not needed however, Kenny told them to stand down - resembled puppets. More to Kenny than meets the eye. Implicated a harsh threat but he did not waver, instead he gave me a ‘clue’ by saying, ‘If it really was me, do you think I’d be here right now?’Cryptic. But I got the message.

Janna isn’t with her friends - note to self, find meaning of ‘cooty’. She isn’t at lunch.Found her. As soon as I opened the door I knew she was the one. ‘I-I drew this picture for you. I didn’t think you’d mind me using your paints...’Trying to ease her guilt.She’s ruined them! Now they’re all muddled! All to paint a monstrosity of (presumably) me, herself and a love heart.I retrieved my paints, pulling her hair as I passed for punishment, she started crying, she deserved it. She’s a thief.

4

by

Thomas

Venus

W h e n I t h i n k b a c k t o t h e d a y I d i e d , I c a n u n d e r s t a n d w h y h e d i d i t ,

e v e n t h o u g h i t s t i l l m a k e s m e a n g r y a n d a f r a i d .

M y h u s b a n d , m y f a i t h f u l p a r t n e r f o r fi f t y y e a r s

w a s m a d e a n o f f e r b y t h e d o c t o r. P i o n e e r i n g c y b e r n e t i c w o r k t o ‘ s a v e ’ m y l i f e .

I h a d s i g n e d a l l c o n t r o l o v e r t o h i m w e e k s b e f o r e I f e l l i n t o t h e c o m a .

M y b o d y d i e d o f c a n c e r, b u t m y p e r s o n a l i t y a n d m e m o r y w e r e i m p l a n t e d

i n t o a l i f e l i k e c y b o r g v e r s i o n o f m e . I w i s h I h a d d i e d t h a t d a y, a n d h e k n o w s i t t o o .

I n t h e a f t e r m a t h o f m y a w a k e n i n g i n t o t h i s

b o d y, I o n l y w a n t e d t o k n o w o n e t h i n g , w o u l d I f e e l p a i n ?

W h e n m y h u s b a n d ’s t i m e c a m e , a n d I w a n t e d t o f o l l o w, w o u l d I e f f e c t i v e l y

h a v e t o d i e a g a i n ? I w e n t i n t o o u r l i b r a r y a t h o m e a n d p i c k e d u p

t h e h e a v i e s t b o o k I c o u l d fi n d . I s l a m m e d i t d o w n w i t h a l l t h e f o r c e I c o u l d

m u s t e r o n t o m y l e f t h a n d . I t h u r t . I w a s i m m e d i a t e l y a f r a i d .

M a n y y e a r s l a t e r, h i s fi n a l w o r d s w e r e “ I ’ m s o r r y, S h e i l a ” .

I s h o u l d n e v e r h a v e l e t D a v i d c h o o s e . I f t h e r o l e s w e r e r e v e r s e d ,

I m a y h a v e d o n e t h e s a m e t o h i m .

C ybernasia

5

Time Paints Ease

Waking to the unconventional yet most hidden under the ordinary,where lies your version of Cinderella and its own beautiful story?

Dazzling dreams drowning under the secrecy of yearning.Hurt, wait, tears or burn... a few things we live to learn.

They say, “keep calm and carry on”,so remember there is a reason why the winds dance with the rain and

wait upon the storm.

Go, go paint the colours of your hope and keep your eye on the prizebecause

Once the anchor of love holds its ground, the ship of patience willnever capsize.

Out of the purple, green and blue,the days of starry ponder and ultimate visionary disappear.

Effortlessly the unexpected warms you,killing all the fear.

Magic fills your veins; you wouldn’t mind bleeding glitter forever,because this feeling only breathes potential

and nothing existing can make this moment sever.

b y K a n d e e l B u t t

6

Hours before opening at Shrewsbury Castle, the director of Twelfth Night received a text from his Malvolio, who was flying to Hollywoodto judge on Know your Shakespeare. The director mumbled somethingabout being ‘on the case’ to his ‘loyal troupe’ and walked into town.Behind the mask he wondered how cold the Severn would be when hethrew himself into it.Wham! He crashed into a figure, apologising mechanically ashe walked on. From the shadows behind him a deep voice bellowed:‘Fool, as thou art!’The director glanced back. Down a nearby alley a grizzledwreck of a man lay, bottle paper-bagged in hand, surrounded by alarge puddle.‘You have culture, Sir, for a t...’The tramp dragged himself up to his full height: ‘’Tis but fortune,Sir; all is fortune.’The director seized the quote like a lifeline: ‘Thou art made, ifthou desirest to be so!’Ten minutes to curtain up, a large whiskey was being contemplatedby a nervous ex-tramp. Toby Belch tormented the Malvolio in his head.Then the call came, and he crept onto the stage.A metamorphosis. A lover without boundaries; he flirted withconvincing flamboyance: ‘Yellow stockings. Cross gartered!’ Theaudience chortled with glee.A husband whispered to his wife, ‘Didn’t I give him 20p on thestreet?’‘Don’t be ridiculous, Hubert. He’s a professional actor.’When the Hollywood Malvolio returned a week later begging for hisjob back, the director was only too pleased to tell him that there was avacancy down a nearby alley.

b y H a n n a h P e r e i r a S g r o i

‘CURTAIN UP’

7

My hands are cold, my feet feel numbCan’t see through that fogged up window

Rub my fingers against my thumbYou’re there. Standing with your crossbow

It hits my heart, right on that spotYou know, that one you’re scared to reach

I feel my veins begin to clotThere’s only so much I can teach

The sun shines in, I’ve played my partTears crawl down my face to my chinThe dart’s still punctured in my heart

I dislodge it. Hope seeps inA smile flits past, I’m hopeful glum

I can feel your body stirringI hesitate, the words don’t come

Silly me, last night’s recurring

b y J e s s i c a R a y Hunted

8

It was as though the night had stolen his shadow and the sun had taken a friend. Eleven and a half miles ago she’d broken down. Two-hundred and twenty seven miles ago, he had. He wouldn’t remember watching the sun rise over Route 24, Sandy Fork Delaware,

whilst sitting stationary in his burnt red drive. For the first time since leaving, it was something he’d promised himself he would never be again, but there he was, stationary.

The heat had been bearable since he’d set off on foot, but the hours had begun to tick and midday had crept up. The clicking of cowboy boots echoed across the tarmac to

the grassy, yet deserted fields that had punctured the progress of his departure.

A gas station became visible in the distance; it would be the first face-to-face contact since the toll guard at Chesapeake Bay Bridge - which reminded him of home. The bell

tinkled as he entered the hut, four large strides and he was at the counter.‘Three bottles of water,’ he said.

The assistant didn’t move for a few seconds, he was engrossed in his newspaper. He then looked over the man’s shoulder, ‘Which pump?’ in a thick Texan accent. Their eyes

collided in a stare, until slowly the assistant grabbed the water bottles and hesitantly passed them over, not breaking eye contact.

‘$4.56.’ His eyes wandered down to the cross resting on the man’s chest as the money was exchanged, and nodded, ‘Good day.’

The bell tinkled again. A dream once conjured, chased then realised. He’ll have to find himself, before ever finding God.

b y M a r c o H i p w e l l

This one time in Delaware

9

The world fell apart, year 2009.Salvation took form

A thin blue line.They laid hands upon us,

Soothing anxiety with promises fine.The future is bright, no need to worry,

Today is secure, tomorrow is for another time.

Shrouded in banknotes, buried in debts.Future’s funeral passed unnoticed

Veiled in cloth of blinding blue.A procession of hopes and dreams

Parading before unseeing eyes.

Resistance rests now, beneath cold hard spiel.With only shattered wayfarers

And a shredded trilby to remind.Of the generation entombed eternally,

By the thin blue line.

The Thin Blue Lineb y J o h n P a t t e r s o n

10

‘Human meat tastes of pork, or so it is rumoured.’ Dalton held a piece of crackling in front of his face. He observed the hardened bubbles that garnished the curved morsel, before obeying the expectations of his tongue.‘I have heard the same.’ His host seemed uninterested in the bowl of dried meat on the table, as he was looking pensively at a framed sketch that sat above the mantel. Pictured was rainforest settlement, Sylvan huts atop lofty poles. In between the huts, a congregation of dark-skinned people stood around a fire.‘An interesting piece, Maxwell,’ Dalton said, ‘and where did you get it?’‘It was done by my great-great-grandfather.’‘He visited this place? Whereabouts was it?‘New guinea. South-east, specifically.’ Maxwell seemed more engaged in the discourse now. Dalton was familiar with the way his timbre changed when the spotlight shifted to him.‘The Korowoi people. Note their distinctive, high-stilted huts. Not only do they provide refuge from floods, they apparently serve to stop rival clans from kidnapping people,’ said Maxwell.‘Not a desirable place to live then?’‘A whole manner of tribulations, I imagine.’ The conversation lulled as Maxwell reached for the crackling bowl. ‘In fact, the Korowoi people supposedly partake in ritual cannibalism.’‘Perhaps we could ask them to verify what humans taste like!’Dalton endeavoured to keep the mood jovial. Maxwell moved a piece of crackling towards his mouth where it waited, as the corners of his mouth raised a modicum, ‘I don’t think that will be necessary...’

Tastesb y J a m e s H i c k i n g b o t t o m

11

The world froze around me and my heart began to shake,I love you - oh how sickeningly fake...My soul quivered to dodge your confessions which gunned me down with invisible bullets.Leaving such painful wounds on my trust,My stability rocks intermittently, somewhere underneath your deceitful lust,Those beautiful almond eyes suddenly flicker evil fire as you turn my world todust...The sharp pain in my heart, that’s your artificial love. It shatters like fireworksin the night sky.The silence between us does grow into a raging stormLook how awkwardly it rises and intensely forms...It stands like a huge wall which hits the stars in the sky and then falls,Immersed in darkness, the world spins and I have nowhere to left to turn...Silence.I step away, the tears stifled, fighting their way through shards of brokenheart and soft fragments of memoriesHow your laughter echoes, while the teardrops from heaven plummet on my emotional debris...The wreckage beckons you back, one last embrace as a bewildered souldesperately seeks comfort from its oppressor,My chest tightens and knots with pain; you stand proudly with my battered soul in your unforgiving hand,Throw it as far as you can and watch me retrieve it like a good dog. Yes sir.Your wish is still my command.Time fails to capture the hours spent waiting for that call,The sleep-deprived pangs of self-respect from deep inside do beg the soul to wait no more...The comfort of your voice torments me. Then the pivotal moment arrivesIt’s as if gravity drains the energy from my lifeless body - so ripped, so torn...but still aliveStill yours? Congratulations, another dilemma has been born. I’ll call you back in five.

The Previously Undocumented Reactionb y S h a h r e e n B a s h i r

12

The colours infused making a Picasso seem menial,Strokes across the Great Canvas;

Blue on the whole with streaks of white on a good day,Completely grey during three of four seasons.

But in that late summer’s afternoon,He is inspired;

Blending the most wondrous reds, dark greys and blues,Contrasting so beautifully it’s almost speaking to you.

When the hour strikes,And the yellow orb clocks out,

Everything becomes dark,Crystal specks replacing the light.

We are graced day and night,By both the dark and the bright,

Shadows hinder the light,As the stars and the moon grant us sight.

The Painterb y S a e d A b i b

13

Heart beating, eyes puffy and pages everywhere - life of a typicalstudent, eh?

But as the clock ticks further closer, the adrenalin pump goes intooverdrive.

Worry and sweat intermingle with the ever increasing doubt of - will Iactually pass this beast?

Deep breaths are needed, but even this basic human right is deemedtoo much of a time waster. Hence I sit there with my head in my

hands, hardly functioning. Every word seems alien and not one pagelooks familiar.

Alarm bells ring and I turn my head upwards to ask the Almighty Onefor forgiveness in this hour of need.

I promise good deeds in return but know that even the most forgivingdoes not give in that easily. He looks for hard work and determination.

Thus - I finally resign and accept that even good students cansometimes crumble underneath that great word of expectation.

The Pressure of Expectation

b y M a v r a M i r z a

14

I only ever asked you for flowers,instead you picked up flora.

They say it’s really good for the heart,but honestly it almost broke mine.

Scattered thoughts and a multitude of emotions.Some cry a river; maybe I should have cried an ocean?

May it have been an aid to a loveless notion?Who’s to know?

Who has the potion?Perhaps Emilia or Jezebel?

I’m not to care as long as it ends well.And so I thought I had it all,

the package was too good to be true.But when it’s time to grow up, you’re just wishing,

wishing hard that it wasn’t you.Why me?

Why did this all happen?You’re soon to realise it’s all a familiar pattern.

Just too caught up in a fantasy,to take the time and analyse

that it’s so farfetched from a reality you thought was otherwise.

Before my eyes lies a man of sweet compassionalthough be aware, he is wise.Take the time to pause,look into his eyesthey tell a story of captivating adventure, the purest happiness and lost lives.They look forward into a better future fit for a king,along that line also a beautiful lady who will one day bear him offspring.See his sculpture, doesn’t it amaze you,bearing scars of the forbidden life he’s been through.Do not confuse him with a fantasy farfetched,I’m sure if you find him you’ll pay him his due respects.

Bittersweet Healthb y E s i O f o s u

15

In the hub of lettersThis pregnant pen longs

For a midwife to deliver the tales untold,Sending birds over the sea

To a village where the pen conceived

Tell Baba, that his village will become globalTell Mama that her story will go to the Queen

Brothers should not panicSisters, never go to sleep

This pen shall bear our dreamsOur village will be a name

Noble and revered in his witsThat the Grandpa espied before he went to sleep

Pregnant Pen

b y D e l e K o g b e

16

After awkwardly trying to decide whether the woman ordering a milkshake at the bar was indeed Emilie Lauren Jones, the poet I was there to meet, I introduced myself. We sat and briefly discussed our University experiences and football (she’s a Coventry City season ticket holder), before finally moving onto the topic at hand, her poetry collection, Sitting on the Pier.

The collection features fifty poems written over the last three years. The title, Sitting on a Pier, is named after her love of the seaside, a place she feels everyone and anyone should go and enjoy together. Emilie was inspired to pursue a writing career when she recently left a teaching course, deciding that particular career path was not for her.

After approaching numerous agents and publishers, who informed her that although they liked her work they worried it wouldn’t be profitable, she decided to ‘go it alone’. Emilie, who is also a graphic artist, designed the cover herself using some American artwork, and has purchased an ISBN number and a bar code, as well as lining up a printing company and suppliers, one of which is Amazon. An incredible achievement by a poet clearly determined to share her poetry.

This determination, and love for her craft, was apparent throughout the interview. She spoke of the withdrawal symptoms she suffers when she spends too many days without writing, symptoms that inspired her to write ten poems in two weeks after leaving university. She sees an innate interest and desire as the two most important attributes required to be a writer, as other skills can, and should, be honed through a creative writing course.

Emilie grew up in a creative writing environment; her mother is a writer of short stories which has inspired her from a young age. She has also drawn inspiration from two of her favourite poets: Samuel Coleridge and Robert Frost. Her motivation, however, comes from herself. Her emotions and personal experiences inspire most of her poetry. She also cites high levels of emotion as the best tool for overcoming ‘writer’s block’.

Emilie believes her poems reflect her as a person, sometimes to the extent that she feels the poem is

so personal that no one else would relate to it.

As a poet Emilie always writes for an audience, she wants people to enjoy and connect with her

poems. She was visibly proud when describing an occasion when a reader contacted her to say thank

you for helping her through a hard time.

I asked Emilie if she thought a poem could change the world. She told me this was unimportant, as it

can change one person’s life and that is enough.

Emilie’s book, Sitting on the Pier, is available now and more information can be found on her website.

A Grand Launch by Emilie Lauren Jones

Treading on stepping stones towards the stage.In Limbo - back through the door

or forwards to the world?Heart punching against my ribs,

sweating, gasping, choking, walking on.A feast of expectant faces hungrily waiting to feed

on a masterpiece or a failure.Journalists like Hyenas already suggesting Headlines.

A button’s pressed, curtains open,the rocket’s launched.

But systems are shutting down until it’s just a charred stickthat clatters to the ground.

Fifteen minutes is up, yet I want to say, okay. I just can’t think,

but all my blank page says is:

‘I’ve got writer’s block.’

www.emilielaurenjones.co.uk

17

After awkwardly trying to decide whether the woman ordering a milkshake at the bar was indeed Emilie Lauren Jones, the poet I was there to meet, I introduced myself. We sat and briefly discussed our University experiences and football (she’s a Coventry City season ticket holder), before finally moving onto the topic at hand, her poetry collection, Sitting on the Pier.

The collection features fifty poems written over the last three years. The title, Sitting on a Pier, is named after her love of the seaside, a place she feels everyone and anyone should go and enjoy together. Emilie was inspired to pursue a writing career when she recently left a teaching course, deciding that particular career path was not for her.

After approaching numerous agents and publishers, who informed her that although they liked her work they worried it wouldn’t be profitable, she decided to ‘go it alone’. Emilie, who is also a graphic artist, designed the cover herself using some American artwork, and has purchased an ISBN number and a bar code, as well as lining up a printing company and suppliers, one of which is Amazon. An incredible achievement by a poet clearly determined to share her poetry.

This determination, and love for her craft, was apparent throughout the interview. She spoke of the withdrawal symptoms she suffers when she spends too many days without writing, symptoms that inspired her to write ten poems in two weeks after leaving university. She sees an innate interest and desire as the two most important attributes required to be a writer, as other skills can, and should, be honed through a creative writing course.

Emilie grew up in a creative writing environment; her mother is a writer of short stories which has inspired her from a young age. She has also drawn inspiration from two of her favourite poets: Samuel Coleridge and Robert Frost. Her motivation, however, comes from herself. Her emotions and personal experiences inspire most of her poetry. She also cites high levels of emotion as the best tool for overcoming ‘writer’s block’.

Emilie believes her poems reflect her as a person, sometimes to the extent that she feels the poem is

so personal that no one else would relate to it.

As a poet Emilie always writes for an audience, she wants people to enjoy and connect with her

poems. She was visibly proud when describing an occasion when a reader contacted her to say thank

you for helping her through a hard time.

I asked Emilie if she thought a poem could change the world. She told me this was unimportant, as it

can change one person’s life and that is enough.

Emilie’s book, Sitting on the Pier, is available now and more information can be found on her website.

A Grand Launch by Emilie Lauren Jones

Treading on stepping stones towards the stage.In Limbo - back through the door

or forwards to the world?Heart punching against my ribs,

sweating, gasping, choking, walking on.A feast of expectant faces hungrily waiting to feed

on a masterpiece or a failure.Journalists like Hyenas already suggesting Headlines.

A button’s pressed, curtains open,the rocket’s launched.

But systems are shutting down until it’s just a charred stickthat clatters to the ground.

Fifteen minutes is up, yet I want to say, okay. I just can’t think,

but all my blank page says is:

‘I’ve got writer’s block.’

www.emilielaurenjones.co.uk

18

Grown in blessed ordinary, Raised on selfless absence and penny sweets,

I am the tortured branches of the Chestnut tree, I am pounding pavement and forgotten summer heat.

Concerned with wars an age beyond, Erased from future claims and childhood dreams,

I am the frozen doorway at your solid back,I am sweat-sticky palms and fist covered ears.

Consumed unknown of creature fear,Sheltered of muffled screams and silent thumps,

I am the glistening shards across the floor,I am soft thrumming engine and the still of night.

Fooled in heart with weaving words,Exposed to endless void and powdered delight,

I am the enraged sirens bearing down,I am cold steel blade and unfocused staring eyes.

Wizened through unwanted growth,Sheared of care and childish restraint,

I am the looming piss-stained stairwell,I am inhaled revenge and tear induced sleep.

Cautioned to requited trust,Flawed in faith and careful tread,

I am the lust quenched table-top,I am hardened skin and sharpened tongue,

I am no life-time of regret,

And I, am not my mother.

by Samantha WilliamsI Am Not My Mother

19

by Luke Brady

Can I tell you a story?We can dance as the sun starts to bleed,Paint the world in its blood red flame,Part the ocean with this Devil’s Game. Love is lost.So lost, beneath the stone of the earth,Like the faintest light, glowing in the dark.But the glow’s not pure – it’s the Devil’s mark. Love is broken.So broken, shards of a mirror lie on the floor.A story so cold, so dark, so dead.A lifetime so wasted, so useless, so missed.You are the one the Devil kissed. Love is gone?Not gone, but stolen,He left a message on the face of the swollen:“I’ll claim your heart; I’ll claim your life,Just place your hands upon the knife.You played my game; you’ll pay the price,Now take your turn and roll the dice.”

20

The rogues of the sea

Face the rocks of the Cliffside

No lighthouse, no hope

And no anchor to hold themThe rogues of the sea

Hear the creaks from their vessel

Waves pressure its frame

They wrestle with fate

The rogues of the sea

Found a silent atonement

The calm waves embrace them

Wash them up on the shoreline

Rog

ues

of th

e Se

a

by S

ean

Mor

rison

21

Ode to Spring by Lilian Barrett

Specks of green begin to bloom While flower buds release their fumes, Attracting nature’s wings in twos;Of butterflies and bumblebees,Humming birds and honeybees;Releasing sap of viscid delightThat trickles down and coats the mites.

Soil of mulch and dead debris, Harsh as night that serve to feedThe sightless life that thrives beneath;While centipedes and millipedes Tread the heath - leaving ordure;Altering the soil and its texture That will be ploughed ready for growth.

The joyful Spring brings those that boundThe marked out holes, for seeds to lounge;While choir of trees hum on in tuneBy wrestling limbs and battered leaves. They lower their fruits aided by Wind;Thus glee ensues and townsfolk sing For Nature’s grace has blessed again.

22

Before she was Goneby Lauren Wolsey

Olivia GeorgeJohnny Fitzpatrick, Kim Harrison and Sean Lynch left me in the house on my own. I can’t leave my room now, it’s too dark and scary here :( Thanks guys… NOT!)Like - Comment - November 15 at 9.18pm

You, Johnny Fitzpatrick, Kim Harrison and Sean Lynch like this.

Kim Harrison Aww we love you Liv – why aren’t you with us anyway? xxNovember 15 at 9.20pm - Like

Johnny Fitzpatrick <3November 15 at 9.22pm - Like

Sean Lynch Haha Liv stop being such a wimp!November 15 at 9.22pm - Like

Olivia GeorgeI’m going to do some work to take my mind off being home alone, until they’re back – they shouldn’t be long… Like - Comment - November 15 at 9.25pm

Johnny Fitzpatrick likes this.

Olivia GeorgeSome help would be nice Facebook!?Like - Comment - November 15 at 9.41pm

Lucy West Liv you seem bored & lonely up there – you OK? I don’t know the first thing about English so I can’t help you there sorry :( xNovember 15 at 9.42pm - Like

Olivia Joslin Hey Lu, how’s Southampton? Yeah my new house is really scary, especially in the dark!November 15 at 9.44pm - Like

WANT TO GET YOUR WORDS HEARD?

23

Olivia GeorgeJohnny has just come home! YESSSSS! I thought he went out with the others but I must have assumed wrong B)Like - Comment - November 15 at 9.57pm

Olivia GeorgeSo… Johnny isn’t back and I feel really stupid – must be going mad! HA!Like - Comment - November 15 at 10.02pm

Johnny Fitzpatrick likes this.

Johnny Fitzpatrick Promise to see you when I actually do get back psycho! :)November 15 at 10.02pm - Like

To: Johnny+44796049233115 Nov 2011 21:58:27Johnny! I just heard you come back in :) but I peaked down the stairs and it’s still too dark for me to leave my room so come up when you’ve settled to keep me company please! P.S. Bring us up a cuppa!

INBOXJohnny15 Nov 2011 22:00:56Liv, I’m still out with the others. You’re hearing things! As soon as I come back I’ll check on you okay? X

To: Johnny+44796049233115 Nov 2011 22:01:13I know for a fact I heard a noise so who could it have been? I’m desperate for the toilet so I’ll run down but MAKE SURE you come up to my room when you get back! X

24

To: Liv+44794766822916 Nov 2011 00:29:34“John”? You’re the one person that doesn’t call me that :s I hope you feel better soon Liv but normally you let me look after you? I bet you’re knackered so I’ll leave you and see how you’re feeling tomorrow after lectures. Night xx

INBOXLiv16 Nov 2011 12:47:13Afternoon John, I’m feeling really awful so don’t feel up to seeing anybody today. Hopefully I get better soon. I’ve been down to the kitchen for a bite to eat so don’t worry too much about me.

To: Liv+44794766822916 Nov 2011 11:30:42Morning Liv, we’ve all gone to the lecture, assumed you didn’t want to come in today. Hope you feel better soon – we’ll get you some treats :) xx

INBOXLiv16 Nov 2011 00:26:07John don’t come up to my room anymore as I’m really tired and don’t want to be woken up. In fact I think I’m coming down with the flu and I may not go to lectures tomorrow so don’t wake me up in the morning. Tell the others too.

After she was Goneby Lauren Wolsey

25

Olivia George > Lucy WestHi Lucy. I’m coming to Southampton tonight. Send your address to my mobile now because my battery is going to die. See you later.Like - Comment - November 16 at 1.33pm

You, Lucy West and 2 others like this.

To: Liv+44794766822916 Nov 2011 13:32:07I’ll be home in 10mins. I’ve got you a surprise Liv – your fav… So NO more excuses ;) xx

INBOX+44793962963716 Nov 2011 13:35:21Liv my address is 18 kings road, Southampton, SO14 5DG. That English course has got you talking proper hasn’t it! Looking forward – I was gonna be alone tonight xx

To: +44793962963716 Nov 2011 13:37:04Perfect. Looking forward to meeting you.

26

Flash Fiction by Jessica RayAs we stood in the fading darkness, it was impossible to deny my jealousy. Her

eyes – grey yet green – radiated adventure each time a car’s headlights swept

her face. Although John’s hand was tight in mine, I could feel every set of eyes

on her as we crouched, not caring about the outcome of tonight because she

was in charge. Her hands were pressed carelessly into the soil, and I could

almost see the flecks of mud beginning to squirm their way under her nails. But

she was fearless. Fearless and stupid and carefree, and everything I wanted to

be. Her denim shorts were digging into her thighs as she squatted, stealth-like,

keeping a perfect position. Even on this night, the one we all knew would be our

last at Kingston Campus, she looked like a supermodel. Her vest top showing

off all the things a boy wanted to see, and her knee-high socks making it

impossible for your eyes not to be drawn to the tanned skin between them and

her shorts. Even on this night, the most dangerous yet, all I could think was how

much I’d kill to look exactly like her.

We’d been here an hour already and barely anyone had spoken,

but suddenly Ivy’s head tilted to the side and with it so did mine, as if copying

her would put me in her shoes for a split second. I could see the light ahead

getting closer, and the settled fear in my stomach rose up to my chest again.

Ivy shuffled up the bank, only an inch or so, but we all felt that pull take us with

her. She was our gravity, keeping us grounded by pulling us away from those

sensible lives we’d lead without her. And in that moment between worrying

about her nails and her head cocking to the side, I realised how pathetic we all

were. The neediness we showed by giving into her every command. How often

we’d been close to expulsion for something Ivy did or said.

I knew John’s eyes were on me as my grip tightened in his hand.

The hand that was supposed to be mine but would forever be hers if she so

much as hinted that was its place. And it dawned on me how much we didn’t

care, because being Ivy’s pawn was always better than being on the opposing

team in a world where she was always going to be the queen.

27

One ray of sunshineescaped through the blinds

illuminatingbright white skin.

The blue of your veinsprotruded

and erupted in our heartsas this foreign body

destroyed the person within.

As we reminisced over your previous lust for life

you lost your smileand the lustre in your eyes.

Then,you closed those blinds

and dismissedthat ray of sunshine.

Hard C

by Ayla Yoncaci

28

15th October 2024 by Rachel Sayers

I'll remember the day they came for as long as I live. It feels wrong, almost

facetious to be saying that now, when 'for as long as I live' is looking to be

a very short time. I'd always imagined living to a grand old age in a

bungalow with a white picket fence and a rocking chair by the fire, but the

Party came and I became a terrorist.

That's what they called me, anyway. I squatted and stole food, but

I never had anything to do with protests or bombs. There was no time for

that; I was busy trying to feed our little group or standing guard in the early

hours, when the police were most likely to come knocking. Knocking your

door down, that is.

The Party brought new laws every day, harsher punishments, and

rounded up undesirables by the hundreds. We held out in the damp,

malodorous basement of an abandoned bookshop, but it was only a

matter of time.

In order to avoid creating disorder when conducting arrests, the

police would arrive disguised in plain clothes, driving ordinary, everyday

vehicles. The only clue would be the stun guns they used when they got

up close - horrid things that make your legs seize up and your head feel

like it's been connected to the mains. This day, they chose to appear in

a red double-decker bus. The windows were blacked out. It was raining

hard, there was shouting and swearing all around me - so much for not

creating disorder - and as they dragged me onto the bus I was laughing,

both at their ludicrous choice of transport and at an officer who had me

by my right arm. He looked so much like a drowned cat that I was

grinning even after he punched me. I think I'd gone a bit mad, from the

tension you know. It was almost a relief to be finally caught.

Twenty-two of us were picked up; religious deviants mostly, who

refused to give up their faith to follow the Party's atheist line. Then there

was poor, pretty Tracy, who was born a boy but who'd played with dolls

and worn her mum’s make-up. The Party had got to her a long time

before the raid. Stuck in limbo, she hated herself, swallowed their lies

about how she was abnormal, a freak, but she just couldn't change. So

she hid, rarely venturing out but taking the time every morning to get her

hair just so, smoothing the creases from her skirts. I'd steal blusher from

the pharmacy for her.

They'll kill me, for sure; they call these places 'reform centres',

but anyone with a shred of intelligence knows they're places of

execution. But believe me, I'm not going quietly. Every morning you hear

cells being opened and people dragged out and the noise is

unbelievable. I'll scream from here to their stinking gas chamber, like

everyone else, and the more blood I can spill on the way, the better.

There's more of us where I came from; the Party know it, and they're

terrified.

It's only a matter of time.

29

15th October 2024 by Rachel Sayers

I'll remember the day they came for as long as I live. It feels wrong, almost

facetious to be saying that now, when 'for as long as I live' is looking to be

a very short time. I'd always imagined living to a grand old age in a

bungalow with a white picket fence and a rocking chair by the fire, but the

Party came and I became a terrorist.

That's what they called me, anyway. I squatted and stole food, but

I never had anything to do with protests or bombs. There was no time for

that; I was busy trying to feed our little group or standing guard in the early

hours, when the police were most likely to come knocking. Knocking your

door down, that is.

The Party brought new laws every day, harsher punishments, and

rounded up undesirables by the hundreds. We held out in the damp,

malodorous basement of an abandoned bookshop, but it was only a

matter of time.

In order to avoid creating disorder when conducting arrests, the

police would arrive disguised in plain clothes, driving ordinary, everyday

vehicles. The only clue would be the stun guns they used when they got

up close - horrid things that make your legs seize up and your head feel

like it's been connected to the mains. This day, they chose to appear in

a red double-decker bus. The windows were blacked out. It was raining

hard, there was shouting and swearing all around me - so much for not

creating disorder - and as they dragged me onto the bus I was laughing,

both at their ludicrous choice of transport and at an officer who had me

by my right arm. He looked so much like a drowned cat that I was

grinning even after he punched me. I think I'd gone a bit mad, from the

tension you know. It was almost a relief to be finally caught.

Twenty-two of us were picked up; religious deviants mostly, who

refused to give up their faith to follow the Party's atheist line. Then there

was poor, pretty Tracy, who was born a boy but who'd played with dolls

and worn her mum’s make-up. The Party had got to her a long time

before the raid. Stuck in limbo, she hated herself, swallowed their lies

about how she was abnormal, a freak, but she just couldn't change. So

she hid, rarely venturing out but taking the time every morning to get her

hair just so, smoothing the creases from her skirts. I'd steal blusher from

the pharmacy for her.

They'll kill me, for sure; they call these places 'reform centres',

but anyone with a shred of intelligence knows they're places of

execution. But believe me, I'm not going quietly. Every morning you hear

cells being opened and people dragged out and the noise is

unbelievable. I'll scream from here to their stinking gas chamber, like

everyone else, and the more blood I can spill on the way, the better.

There's more of us where I came from; the Party know it, and they're

terrified.

It's only a matter of time.

30

TO

RN by Farah Khan

Torn and rejected. From juvenile skin to dreary wrinkles, she sits waiting with tender claws. Dried tears on her face, some make up

still in place. Gold, silky strands of hair now turned into wires of silver. She questions her thoughts but there are no answers,

except one word, spinster. BE

CO

TH

The little girl who loved the word: because, used it for everything she did. Others who used the word were punished by violent

looks. She truly believed it was hers. One day, whilst skipping, the little girl tripped and fell. Losing her front teeth resulted in a new

word, becoth.

by Jessica Dear

TIM

EFO

RC

HA

NG

E

I really should leave this profession, Stephanie thought to herself as she sat there strapped to the chair listening to the monologue of Tony Priscelli. Three years a bounty hunter, six cars replaced, seven attempted murders, eight kidnappings and an exploded funeral home. ‘Time for a career change,’

she said.

by Siobhan Ridyard

LUC

KY

The red scar that curled mockingly around Ryan’s neck stared at him, reminding him of his failure to become a model. But he now

held the bank loan for his new company, Warts and All, in his hand. In your face, he thought to the world,

in your perfect face.

by Karis Gouldbourne

MO

ON

GO

LF John waited for the reply from the Lunar Putting Headquarters.“Hey it’s Tony,” a voice said.

John leaned towards the microphone, “So what’s the news?”“Sorry mate, but the clubs were out of stock. Looks like you’re going to wait a few more months before you can play low-grav

golf.”

by Matthew Swannack

31

Visit www.cusu.org for an A-Z of societies.

THE

CR

EAT

IVE

WR

ITIN

G

SO

CIE

TYTH

E E

NG

LIS

H A

ND

LA

NG

UA

GE

S

SO

CIE

TYThe Creative Writing Society provides an outlet for student writers

from Coventry University. It encourages creativity in order to

produce the best possible poetry or prose. The Society inspires everything from writing, to music, to design. It covers theatre trips,

scavenger hunts and poetry slams, providing students with ideas and

inspiration. The Society works closely with the student editing team for the Coventry Words magazine and website, and members from

the Department of English and Languages are happy to advise other student members on publishing. It also liaises and complements

The English Society. To utilise different interests and skills,

all Coventry University students are welcome to join. Meetings are twice monthly in a variety of venues. Contacts for 2012-13 are:

Rebecca Shortland, President, and Elizabeth Rogers, Secretary.

The English and Languages Society provides an open environment to all students studying English and Languages courses. Students work

together to develop knowledge and skills which can then be applied to their course. The Society aims to provide interesting pursuits

and opportunities by organising events such as trips to local theatres, visiting exhibitions or inviting guest speakers to meetings.

The English Society liaises closely with the Creative Writing Society,

allowing members to explore their creative side too. Meetings are once a fortnight and all students are welcome to attend, even if they do not

study English or Languages. Contacts for 2012-13 are: Rosa Ferriera, President, and Mariam Khan, Secretary.

For more information on the societies, visit their Facebook pages:Creative Writing Society

Coventry University English and Languages Society

There is also a Global Student Writers’ Society which promotes literary activities and organises monthly readings with a guest writer. The society

works closely with Cultural Mundi, African Student Society, One World Society and other societies that share its literary visions.

"Language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my check-out girl... language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple, it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a

shaft of morning light as you pluck from a old bookshelf a half-forgotten book of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on

a stair, it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party, it's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer,

the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl. It's cobwebs long since

overrun by an old Wellington boot."

(Stephen Fry 2006)