Creative Writing + Illustration from the South West

£2

EditorBenjamin Westlake Gustavo NavarroJames Tapp

ContributorsMark Haworth-BoothFran MattesonJack DeanPatrick AtkinsAmy McAllistarEd TolkienOliver TolkienAnne-marie JonesDaniel HaynesHaydn SymonsLaura RobertsVictoria Byron

DesignEd Tolkienbehance.net/edtolkien

PrintEx Why Zed

June 2015

Outwest is a publication dedicated to showcasing the finest, choicest new writing and illustration in the south-west.

We find great local writers, team them with great artists and bask in the glow of the exciting collaborative work that emerges.

In issue one, we display work from artists from Falmouth, Exeter, Bristol, Plymouth and elsewhere. We are thrilled to have work from the winner of the 2012 Exeter Poetry Festival Slam, Daniel Haynes; illustration from Falmouth University Illustration graduates Haydn Symons and Patrick Atkins; work from local writer Oliver Tolkien and design from Bristol based Ed Tolkien, to whom the project owes a special thanks. Special thanks also to Ex Why Zed print & design solutions.

These artists and more make it clear that the south-west is truly a fertile ground for creative talent.

We hope you enjoy.

Flash F

ictio

n by Oliv

er Tolk

ien

Amsterdam

by Laura R

oberts

Moth

by Jack Dean

Skylark by M

ark Haworth

-Booth

Champagne L

ouie’s Interstella

rw

Speakeasy by Roger V

illanova

Livin

g Room

by Laura R

oberts

School Photo

by Am

y Macalis

ter

Cover Me in

Chocola

te & T

hrow

Me to

the L

esbians

by Danie

l Haynes

3-6

7-8

9-12

13-14

15-18

19-20

21-22

23-26

CONTENTS

H e had a deep voice which cracked

intermittently as he spoke and was as dry

and as tired as the desert in which he lived.

He had lived for seventy four years and two hundred

and sixty days and on the morning of Thursday the

nineteenth of September 1978 he awoke and knew that

this day was his last. He reached first for his glasses

and then his Marlboro Reds and, despite knowing

as he did that it was in vain, he took one cigarette

from the pack and lit it and took a deep, cathartic

draft and fell immediately into a violent and painful

fit of coughing. He coughed until his eyes watered

and a long string of spittle clung to his chin and then

he spat out what it was he had brought up and rose

arduously to his feet. His cigarette had burned almost

halfway in the time it had taken him to recover from

his spell of coughing and still it burned in between

the tar-stained skin of his middle and forefinger and

knowing as he now did that this morning was his last

he thought to himself What the hell, and took another

drag. Some minutes later he had shuffled through the

03OUTWEST 01

Oliver TolkienFictionFlash

An

ne

Ma

rie

Jo

nes

04

Fiction

FLASH FICTION

An

ne

Ma

rie

Jo

nes

05OUTWEST 01

Anne Marie Jones

filth of his house to the counter in the kitchen and

acquired the pot of coffee he had made at the start of

the week which was now reheating on his stove. As he

waited he dressed himself from the clothes which he

encountered on the floor around him, a pair of blue

coveralls now resting over a stretched green plaid shirt

he had purchased some years before in a hunting store

in Alba, Wood County. It pleased him that this was the

shirt he had happened upon as it was his favourite

and he felt it appropriate he died whilst wearing

something of which he was fond.

Once his coffee had heated enough he poured

some of it into his best mug and made his way slowly to

his porch so that he may breathe in a little of the fresh

outside air and sit a while and think about his expiring

life. He looked at the panorama of red earth which

stretched out before him, unchanged for so long, and

he wondered when if ever it would alter. The day was

brilliant and hot and the azure sky was as blue as he’d

known it and it fell down to the terracotta ground on

the horizon with the trueness of all life. This was fine,

he thought, but he had hoped it would rain as that

was something he seldom saw and it would have been

a fine thing. But he had managed two drags on his

cigarette and he was wearing his favourite shirt and

drinking coffee, so to get the weather he had hoped

for too would perhaps have been asking too much. You

can’t have it all, he thought, and was content.

06 FLASH FICTION

Anne Marie Jones

07OUTWEST 01

We had an idea about

How a world might be

Unexpected solace

In rows of crooked homes

And narrow streets

A stranger’s bicycle

Foreign conversation

Always at home when

I’m far away

Or at train stations

Nights on Leidseplein

With people we just met

A long way to travel for

A kiss

And a French cigarette.

Amsterdam Laura Roberts

Vic

tori

a B

yro

n

08 AMSTERDAM

09OUTWEST 01

In July on the hot nights,

I open up every window, turn on all the spotlights and let the moths fly

through the bedroom, hallway, kitchen,

flickering epileptic flaps of nightshade,

flopping over the dusty air towards the nearest lamp where they....

frantic like Frankenstein fleeing the mob

like those blubs might embrace them and lead them to God

or put back the brightness of being they lost

MOTHJack Dean

on the cool afternoons,

I park up under trees with a tesco sandwich,

and let the conveyor belt of humanity roll by

the grannies, the trannies,

the full-time nannies and the part time daddies,

miscellaneous melancholy of dark blobs on the hill,

the cider fumes of long lost sundays

playing overture for operatic dogs and frisbees

there is nothing left to write about

Sometimes making words rhyme is not nearly enough,

because there isn’t a line break longer than the pause on

the phone when my mum asks me if I’ve found a job yet,

10 MOTH

Pa

tric

k A

tkin

s

there isn’t a title bold or underlined enough to stop my

friends referring to me as “jack the rappy poetry guy”.

And so I throw that doubt-soaked paper to the wind

and tread light over the city

like the paving cracks could swallow me whole

then I look down at the brand new shoes I bought to

impress my brand new girlfriend and I think:

fuck it, you die alone anyway,

and I start pegging it, jumping in every puddle, kicking

up every pebble,

picking up speed, sights on a higher level,

arms outstretched like the boys we were who dive

bombed climbing-frame dresdens,

hurricane boy, kamikaze bachelor with laces everywhere

hopping the department stores leaving stone

faces buried there

leap the longitudes and clutch the feet of peter pan

until they find me in a michael jackson mess on London Rd

mud on my name, dirt in my mouth

curled in a ball mumbling

11OUTWEST 01

Pa

trick

Atk

ins

Not all of us get to be butterflies

those sexy technicolored stripes that flutter by

some of us are moths

12 MOTH

Patrick Atkins

Pa

trick

Atk

ins

banging our heads against anything

that might bring us light or warmth

when the sun rises

we will swarm outside like children

on the first day of snow.

13OUTWEST 01

Fra

n M

att

eso

n

14 SKYLARK

Alauda arvensis

2.5 million across the UK, but

the population down by 58% since 1969

High above the Skylark sings

dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane

and vanishes along the wind.

Mark Haworth-Booth

15OUTWEST 01

F rank Dempsey filled his lungs halfway with

smoke and observed what was left of the job

before him. Twelve more crates, he thought

sullenly, we’ll be here two more hours. Exhaling he

turned and made for the edge of the loading bay and

looked out at the vista of open space. He pressed his

nose to the Perspex of the depressurisation chamber

and considered the two small circles of condensation

left as impressions of his nostrils. Below him yawning

darkness. The endless expanse of the cosmos made

a duller impression on him today than it had in his

youth but staring in to it as he did now never failed

to move him in some profound and strange way. He

looked at the supernova remnants of a crab nebula

some billion miles in the distance and flicked the

last of his cigarette lazily in the general direction of a

nearby receptacle. It bounced off the edge and landed

in a heap of sparks on the floor. He thought about

picking it up for half a second before turning away

instead and shouting at his crew. “Alright crew, twelve

more. We’ll be here two hours!”

Jann Qualto smoothed out the blueprints of

the Negotiarentur-7 on the table before him and

studied the mechanical integrity of the ship he was

about to commandeer. These shitty Tradefreighters,

he thought dourly, they’re all the same. He knew this

ship would never outrun his Star Skiff and that they

would have little trouble catching up to it, but that

if they were seen coming the freighter would simply

lockdown and remain suspended in space under the

impenetrable wall of titananium that would lower

around every inch of its outer casing. They wouldn’t

be able to fly anywhere under the trillion metric

tons of metal but they could alert the Federation and

wait where they were safely like a balled hedgehog

until the relevant authorities turned up and arrested

Qualto and his crew. Nope, he thought, that wouldn’t

do at all. He got up from the table and paced around

his dimly-lit quarters with his hands together behind

his back and meditated on how best to go about his

business. He was a tall man, with long muscular legs,

sallow skin and a weathered face from which two

discerning eyes stared that had seen much in a short

time. There were twenty crates of Mercurial Mezcal

on board the Negotiarentur-7 and he knew that such a

bounty would keep him off the highways for a month,

perhaps more. He needed a way on to this ship, that

much was certain.

Dempsey sat in his cockpit and fingered his

navigation instruments with a bored half interest.

His ship was running on autopilot and had been

for several hours now, and he knew he had no real

business contemplating his apparatus in this way

but he had exhausted all other idle distractions and

had nothing else to do. Jesus Christ, he thought

Champagne Louie’s

Interstellar

Roger Villanova

Speakeasy

16

resentfully, what the hell am I gonna do for

the next nine hours? He couldn’t sleep, that

much was certain. If his vessel came under

attack and he was found asleep at the helm, the

federation would revoke his Interstellar Trader’s

License and dishonourably discharge him. Such a

fate, however, was inconsequential, and provided

comparatively little vexation when he considered

who he was taking this cargo to and the far higher

price he’d pay if it went undelivered. He shuddered

at the thought and rose from his chair to stave off any

further thoughts of sleep and went to the window.

Frank Dempsey was an unremarkable humanoid from

the Outer Quadrant. He was sullen, unshaven and had

a wife at home whom he cared little for and several

children who worried him even less. He wore an oily

pair of overalls in favour of the Trade Federation

Uniform he had been issued because he saw little use

in constantly cleaning it and he didn’t like the way it

fell on him. He had been delivering cargo for the last

fifteen years and was as wearied and uninterested by it

after the first year as he was today. He had never stuck

his neck out for anyone, but he had never had the

chance to. Had he had the chance to, he wouldn’t have.

He was staring at a passing asteroid when something

slammed hard into the rear of his ship and caused his

head to smash forwards into the window breaking his

nose and sending him tumbling gracelessly to the floor.

CHAMPAGNE LOUIE

Ed

Tolk

ien

Qualto pulled on his controls and with the

grappling hook he had just used to breach the rear of

the Negotiarentur-7 he ripped off a large section of

the ship in front. Once he had successfully done this

he released the metal panel from the hooks clasp and

used a different set of controls to drive his ship to

the breach point and set about temporarily attaching

his craft to the other. This was a delicate manoeuvre

and he knew the window of opportunity would not

last long so he went about his business in an efficient

if slightly hurried manner. He was an experienced

pirate though and the operation proved easier than

he had first supposed, and once done he hastily left

his cockpit and set about mustering his crew to board.

“Alright you motherless fucks,” he barked fondly as he

made for the stricken craft, “let’s make some money!”

Dempsey pulled himself groggily to his feet and,

hastily leaving his cockpit, he set about mustering his

crew to make a defence. “Alright you useless pieces of

shit,” he yelled unkindly, “time to earn your money!”

There were seven of them in total and, whilst most

were armed and unscrupulous in some way, they

were but mercenaries and cared little for the fate

of the Negotiarentur-7, less still for Frank Dempsey,

who they felt was a bully and didn’t conduct himself

in a principled way. They knew that they planned to

surrender directly, and were thinking already of the

next job they would need to get and lamenting the

wages they had already spent from this particular

contract despite these wages not having been received.

when Jann Qualto and his crew boarded Frank

Dempsey pulled out his pistol and strode bravely to

meet them with his own crew behind him. “My name

is Frank Dempsey!” He boomed formidably down

the corridor in the direction of the breach, and but

for the clotted blood which was muffling his words

he sounded unusually fierce, “I am captain of this

ship, the Negotiarentur-7 of the Trade Federation

of Interstellar Commerce, and I order you to lay

down your arms and – ” whatever he had planned to

order next went unspoken as the largest of his crew,

a loading hand named Vasto Terra, had brought the

end of his gun down hard onto Dempsey’s cranium

and, for the second time in as many minutes, the man

was sent tumbling gracelessly to the floor. “Almost a

shame,” he murmured after having done it, “that was

the most action I’d ever seen from the prick.”

Some minutes later poor Frank Dempsey was

tied up and groaning self-pityingly as Qualto and

his crew set about the arduous job of transporting

all twenty crates of Mercurial Mescal from the hold

of the Negotiarentur-7 to their own. Qualto liked to

think of himself as a fair man, ruthless though he had

often been, and in exchange for the unexpected and

welcome compliance of Dempsey’s crew he had agreed

to let them take command of the vessel and make their

own way home, on the condition that they helped

load the loot with his own men. They were grateful for

17OUTWEST 01

this, and had hoped such a deal could be struck when

they made their surrender, but were a little put out at

having to reload the mescal so soon after having done

it in the first place. “You’re making a…a big mistake,

you fools.” Qualto, whose long legs were perched on

a table near Dempsey’s head and was sitting merrily

back in a chair as he smoked and oversaw the crews’

work, rolled his eyes slightly at the bland unoriginality

of Dempsey’s threat. “Is that right?” he probed with

an unrealistic attempt at feigning interest, “why so?”

“This cargo…belongs to Champagne Louie.” One of

the crew members yelped suddenly after becoming

the only man left holding his particular load. The rest

of them turned abruptly toward Dempsey and Qualto

with emptied hands and mouths hanging open. Qualto

was looking at Dempsey very seriously. Concerned

lines played across his forehead and his previously

comfortable disposition began to fade. “You’re lying…”

He was unconvinced by his own declaration and as

he watched the cruel and sardonic smile grow across

Dempsey’s lips he knew immediately that this man

who he was becoming decidedly unfond of was telling

the truth. “I’m not having anything to do with this

if it’s Champagne Louie’s shit, boss” piped one of

Qualto’s crew and was joined in hurried agreement by

most of the others, “you know what he’ll do to you –”

“Shut the fuck up and let me think!” Qualto’s former

manner had now faded entirely as he leapt to his feet

and began pacing madly with his hands behind his

back. “Fuck fuck fuck!” he intoned frantically under his

breath, “fuck!” Dempsey watched his languid hijacker

pace around agitatedly and, in a growing confidence,

decided to turn up the heat: “This mescal is bound for

the Speakeasy. It’s on course to be there in five hours.

In six they’ll call the ship and ask where it is. Let me

go, reload the stuff and I’ll call now and tell them I’ll

be half an hour late because of an asteroid shower…”

Qualto was no fool and knew that they were at least

nine hours from Champagne Louie’s Speakeasy and

because he did not like being lied to and was about fed

up with this man anyway he pulled his pistol from his

holster and shot Dempsey in the face. Once that was

done he found he could think more clearly and took

his time making a reasoned decision. “We’re taking the

loot,” he said defiantly and this time convincingly, “as

you were, men.” The men looked sheepishly from one

to the other, but because they had followed him for so

long and because he had just shot Dempsey in the face

they picked the boxes up and carried on with the job.

Qualto turned from them and walked to a

window and looked out at the vista of open space.

Fuck, he thought grimly. Fuck.

18 CHAMPAGNE LOUIE

To be continued...

“What is that doing in here?” He asked, freezing

in the doorway as he caught sight of it.

“Don’t ask me, I thought you let it in.”

“I most certainly did not.”

“You must have. It frightened me half to death

when I got up this morning.”

Laura Roberts

He hopped awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Either way, let’s shift it.”

She did not reply so he didn’t mention it again for

the rest of the evening. Two weeks passed and still it

stood in the middle of their living room. He brought

the subject up once or twice, only to be met by a

dismissive shrug from his wife. He was getting tired

of having to squeeze past it in order to sit down and

craning his neck around it to watch the television. He

was also becoming uncomfortably aware that his wife

was growing rather accustomed to it. He even caught

her feeding it one morning.

“Right, that’s enough. It has to go.”

“It isn’t doing any harm.”

“If that’s the way you feel, I’ll move it myself.”

He exclaimed dramatically, throwing all of his weight

against it and pushing as hard as he could. It didn’t

move an inch.

“You look ridiculous.”

If she wasn’t going to help him there was no way he

could ever get it to leave. She refused to talk about

it and so they continued in this way, ignoring the

occasional spraying of water and never complaining

about the ever rising price of peanuts.

19OUTWEST 01

20 LIVING ROOM

Vic

toria

By

ron

21OUTWEST 01

She told me not to smile and show

My teeth or I’d look ugly.

So I pressed my lips together

And gave them wary staring when they

Wanted ‘Cheese!’

And looked forward to losing these

Baby milks and growing bigger ones

To bite back.

Amy Macalister

22 SCHOOL PHOTO

Ed

Tolk

ien

23OUTWEST 01

Ha

yd

n S

ym

on

s

24 COVER ME IN CHOCOLATE

I’ve got

a

jumper

It is plain.

It is grey.

It is generally quite unremarkable

save for a quite fantastic phrase

it says:

Cover me in Chocolate

and throw me to the Lesbians

Cover me in Chocolate

and throw me to the Lesbians.

I like it.

Because it’s true.

They live in a pit

where the sun don’t ever shine

by the light of a bra-fuelled bonfire

with one thing on their minds -

that’s me

in chocolate

Poor things,

they’ve suffered long enough

“Hey Mickey,

bring the van round

to mine at 4 o’clock,

call Bobby, Dave and Balthasar

that’s right mate,

we are off...

to Brighton.”

Da

niel H

ay

nes

that gives me just over an hour...

?

A trolley full of chocolate bars and a

mad rush to the till

why’s everyone giving me funny looks?

I’d better set them right

“they’re for the MISSUS

she’s on the BLOB”

you know what they get like

?

Spoon on some

molten Yorkie for the undercoat

some Bounty for the gloss

taking care in sensitive areas

shitting hell, that’s hot

It burns!

I need a plaster or a patch

though with a little improvisation

I can apply this Caramac.

?

You’re bang on time boys!

Don’t you think I’m looking pretty sweet

I’m gonna show the lezbos how to do the birds and bees.

ARGH!!

Fucking Wasps

?

Alright we made it!

oh

no...

me pants have all gone brown

“Do I still look alright lads?”

Yeah,

I thought so.

I’m going down.

25OUTWEST 01

“Get ready all you Naughty TARTS

your dreams are coming true

it’s ME, covered in CHOCOLATE

and I’m coming down to you!”

“No need to overdo boys,

just a gentle toss will do.”

Christ.

Me back.

“Why do you cower in the shadows girls?

there’s no need to act all shy

it’s me, covered in chocolate

what’s there not to like?”

“It’s true.

It was our fantasy

but the reality

is not quite what we’d dreamt.

26 COVER ME IN CHOCOLATE

and come to think of it, we’re lesbians

we don’t actually fancy men.

Please don’t get upset though

the idea was not that bad

with the right person,

the right circumstance

I might enjoy

If you

wo

uld

like to

sub

mit to

Ou

twe

st or w

ou

ld like

any

furth

er in

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est p

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