Read Write South West Report/Anthology

READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT& ANTHOLOGY

Welcome 1

Case Studies 4-8

Case Studies 24-27

Anthology 9-23

Acknowledgements 28

About Read/Write South West 2-3

WELCOME

I am delighted to introduce the Read/

Write South West Celebration Report.

At a time when everyone involved in the

literature sector, and particularly Library

Services, are facing unprecedented

pressures on their time and resources,

this project has provided a fantastic

opportunity to highlight the ways in which

local partnerships and collaborations can

bring together resources, writers and

communities to extend the benefits and

value libraries are able to offer the people

and communities they serve.

Literature Works is a charity which raises money to

ensure that as many people as possible can benefit

from reading and writing. We rely on private donations,

commercial sponsorship and public fundraising

to support the work you’ll see here, and so fully

appreciate the difficulties of the financial climate. In

Read/Write South West we saw a need to support

libraries at a local level in much more practical ways.

The feedback we received from libraries told us that

staff no longer have as much time to dedicate to

working with individual groups and younger library

members in particular rarely had opportunities to

be guided through the full extent of library services.

The feedback from professional writers suggested

they would love to share their expertise and stories,

particularly in ways which help them sustain a living

in their local area as well as building their own work

and audiences. The Read/Write project has enabled

us to bring these elements together, providing

workshops and knowledge sharing to over 80 writers,

embedding skills and experience which has led to

new relationships with local libraries in ways which will

continue to bear fruit into the future.

One of the most satisfying outcomes to this project

is our Young Writer Network through which we are

able to work with libraries to bring forward the next

generation of exciting writing talent by providing a safe

space, an expert writer and an expert librarian to help

them gain access to the world of book and words -

backed up by a whole range of library services and free

internet access!

We’ll be extending our successful Young Writers

Network to include other community groups and

organisations who can offer the space and resources

to help us deliver excellent work with young writers

in their local communities, and Literature Works will

continue to invest in libraries, supporting as many

people as possible to gain the social benefits which

creative writing and reading bring.

As the case studies you’ll see here testify, when

libraries are able to collaborate creatively with local

partner organisations who share their passion for and

commitment to the place they live in, then libraries can

truly take their place as the heart of the community and

lives can be transformed. This project has relied on the

tireless work of our partner libraries and organisations,

the writers involved and the sheer exuberance of the

people who took part, so now I’ll happily hand over to

them and let them tell you about it in their own words.

In Read/Write South West we saw a need to support libraries at a local level in much more practical ways.

1

Tracey Guiry

CEO Literature Works

READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT

ABOUT READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST

Read/Write South West is a Literature

Works project, funded by Big Lottery.

Literature Works is a registered charity

and is the South West’s Literature

Development Agency, core funded by

Arts Council England.

Read/Write South West is a partnership with nine

Library services throughout the region. It began in

March 2012 following an eight month consultation

process with the libraries to establish their needs

and challenges. The main aim of the project was

to build up collaborations and understanding

between libraries and the local communities they

serve, so that people of all ages engaged more

fully with the complete scope of services and

support a local library can offer.

This project has included 19 different partner

organisations, dozens of librarians and teachers,

over 80 South West based writers, and over 4,000

members of the public, ranging in age from 6 to 90!

The project included long-term residencies, where

writers worked with specific groups including

traveller children, young carers and children in

care, refugee children and people with mental and

physical disabilities.

We have worked in libraries, primary and secondary

schools, tertiary colleges, care homes and prisons.

We have delivered sessions on everything to do with

literature, from poetry readings and workshops, to

novelists talking about their work, to storytelling

sessions and reading group talks.

Our library reader and writer days gathered larger

groups of people together to learn what services

their library can provide.

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This tailored mix of inclusive project work and targeted

approaches made the project incredibly complex,

and there was more than one tense moment! But the

overarching outcome has been an investment of over

£80,000 in library reading and writing groups during

2012/13, and a legacy which includes the Literature

Works’ Young Writer Network, online resource

packs, and the ‘Writer Directory’ which has built up a

database of over 80 South West based writers who

are experienced at working in community contexts,

backed up by training days, seminars and open

sessions for readers and writers of all kinds.

The Read/Write South West project officially ended

on 25th May 2013, but Literature Works will continue

to invest in high quality literature projects. The

relationships and experiences we have all taken away

from this project will enable us to develop similar

work, and we are already extending our Young Writer

Network to embrace other community groups and

organisations who want to help us deliver Young

Writer Groups and support the talent of the future.

To find out more about the work of Literature Works,

or to help us achieve our ambition of ‘literature for

everyone’ please check out our website and join our

newsletter. And, of course, if you think you could

devote some time to raising money for a Young

Writer Group in your local area, we’d love to hear

from you!

From the writers and readers across the South West,

Thank you!

SOUTH GLOUCESTERSHIRE TRAVELLERS PROJECT WITH HOLY FAMILY CATHOLIC PRIMARY SCHOOL, PATCHWAY, AS PART OF A RESIDENCY PROJECT AT PATCHWAY IN PARTNERSHIP WITH SOUTH GLOUCESTERSHIRE ARTS AND LIBRARIES SERVICE & WRITER TOBY HULSE

DORSET RESIDENCY IN PARTNERSHIP WITH DORSET LIBRARIES AND BRIDPORT ARTS CENTRE’S OPEN BOOK FESTIVALWITH WRITERS ROSIE JACKSON, CHRIS REDMOND AND LIZ BROWNLEE

THE PROJECT

A class of 24 Year Four pupils with a high

proportion of travellers of Irish heritage

and Black and Minority Ethnic children

In ten half-day sessions using the school/

community library, the whole class wrote

a piece of poetry for performance, based

on the theme of ‘rivers’

Showcased in the school library and at

a school assembly to fellow pupils, staff,

parents, grandparents and carers

THE PROJECT

Focal point of local book festival aimed at

bringing books and writing to new audiences

Readings and workshops with primary and

secondary pupils, adult writers and adults

with mental health and confidence problems

Short story workshop at library

One-to-one surgeries at library

Performance with primary children

Workshops for adults with mental health

and confidence issues in partnership with

local charity ‘rethink’

Poetry and performance workshops and

performance with teenagers

FEEDBACK

“It was brilliant” THE CHILDREN

“It’s fantastic to see children and their parents who have never visited the library before!” THE LIBRARIAN

“The children gained an enormous amount from this project and we will definitely be working with the writer again. It was fantastic” THE TEACHER

“This was an enormous success. the development of the children’s use of language, and performance skills was very rapid!”

“The teacher and the head were involved in all aspects of the project”

THE WRITER

“My son came home every night and said this was the best thing he’d ever done at school…”

A MOTHER

“I was struck by the maturity of the piece…it was quite simply beautiful” SOUTH GLOUCESTERSHIRE ARTS OFFICER

“Great to share work in a safe and friendly place” ADULT STUDENT

FEEDBACK

“I felt I was encouraging a writing community…I was reminded of the power of writing to stimulate, inspire, support and heal…it hugely boosted my own confidence as a writer and facilitator” ROSIE JACKSON, WRITER

“First time ever working with a writer – very enjoyable and illuminating” ADULT STUDENT

“Rosie is a great tutor!” ADULT STUDENT

“Liz Brownlee was wonderful – the children were gripped throughout”

PRIMARY SCHOOL TEACHER

“Working with Chris has really improved my confidence in performing and in my writing skills” SECONDARY STUDENT

“The workshops with people with mental health issues especially were a great addition to the festival” DIRECTOR, BRIDPORT ARTS CENTRE

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READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT

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PLYMOUTH MUSEUM WORD MARATHON PROJECT RUN BY WRITER KATE CAMPBELL IN PARTNERSHIP WITH PLYMOUTH CITY MUSEUM, CO-FUNDED BY ARTS COUNCIL ENGLAND

READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST WRITER BABS HORTON

THE PROJECT

Young Writers’ Squad based at Plymstock

Library, Plymouth

Run by experienced, Plymouth-based

writer Babs Horton

Hugely popular, with up to 24 young

people taking part aged 12–16, including

some with disabilities

THE PROJECT

Workshops using the Museum’s objects and

exhibitions as a stimulus for writing

Working with many different groups

including home educators, alzheimers

sufferers, residential homes, race equality

council, city college health & social care

students, young people from deprived areas

of Plymouth and many more!

Working with hundreds of people from

6 to 90+

FEEDBACK

“I really love this group… I’ve accomplished more than I ever expected” STUDENT

“An opportunity to learn and share… it is also great fun and I really enjoy It” STUDENT

“It’s really helped me with my English assessments too” STUDENT

“The enthusiasm and energy of the group has been inspirational… an extraordinary and uplifting experience… young people from very different backgrounds have engaged with each other, forged friendships and grown in confidence both socially and in their writing” BABS HORTON, WRITER

“Everyone is enjoying this project … we have some very, very keen young people in the group” LIBRARIAN

“This creative writing project is proving a hit with local youngsters!” PLYMOUTH EVENING HERALD NEWSPAPER

“It gave confidence in their opinions and a sense of purpose” PRE-SCHOOL GROUP TUTOR

FEEDBACK

“Bad dreams of writing/splintered by haiku workshop/invigorating” YOUNG STUDENT

“Cyrus is a boy/a precociously young boy/he loves a haiku” YOUNG STUDENT

“It was great fun… developed my writing…inspirational” STUDENT AGED 59

“Really enjoyed this” STUDENT AGED 78

“It improved my reading and writing… I felt much more confident… it helped me talk to other people” SECONDARY STUDENT

“Very good… want it to keep going for a long time” STUDENT AGED 25

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ANTHOLOGY

The Writer Squads funded by the

Read/Write South West project have

given dozens of talented young people

across the South West region a unique

opportunity to spend quality time with

a professional writer, to learn about and

feel comfortable in their local library,

to improve their reading, writing and

communication skills, and to develop their

social skills and potential for the future by

interacting with, and sharing their work

with both their peers and with supportive

and interested adults. To celebrate the

achievements of this part of the project,

we’re anthologising some of their work

here. We hope you enjoy it!

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READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT ANTHOLOGY

READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST WRITERSARA-JANE ARBURY

THE PROJECT

SARA-JANE ARBURY is a writer based in

Gloucestershire. She has a wide range of

experience of working on community-based

projects

Sara-Jane worked with Read/Write

South West on three different projects;

storytelling for Year 7’s at Patchway

College, South Gloucestershire; a

residency with primary and secondary

school students, including young carers/

young people in care, in Gloucestershire,

and in Bristol with Year 5’s, mainly from

Asian backgrounds

FEEDBACK

Sara-Jane made the following comments and

observations about working with Read/Write

South West on these projects:

“I worked with a lot of young people – and teachers – who had never worked with a writer before, and a great many of them said how brilliant it was to do so, and how it helped both the learning AND teaching process”

“I also worked with some excellent library staff, who also said they had learned a lot from the project”

“One parent was delighted that her son, who had never read much before now loves books, and has joined the local library!”

“Another teacher said that she was amazed at how pupils who were normally very shy and almost silent in class had opened up and become visibly more confident in such a short space of time”

“Working on this project has been extremely rewarding and great fun” SARA-JANE ARBURY

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The Mighty Tree

Green, brown, yellow

The colours of nature in the plants

These are the colours of the mighty tree.

It curves and twists and goes everywhere

A flutter of feathers, a bundle of brown lands near

where I sit in the boughs of the mighty tree

The air is sweet in my mouth

Colours everywhere

Leaves, branches, trunks

This is the mighty tree

Rian

The Snowdrops

The snowdrops tell of hard times past

They huddle together in little patches

To protect themselves from the chilling wind

In the shadows

They hide, waiting to emerge in occasional spells of sun

Gaze cast down as if they can’t face

What stands above them

Quiet and unnoticed, they lie

Soon they will be gone, until a new spring arises.

Hannah

I curl up tight into a ball. I feel safe this way. My

head under the covers, my breath warming the

air. The smell of my room makes me cough, it’s

mouldy and musty. My owners can’t shout at me

from here. They moan about the standard of my

work. It’s never good enough. I never chose this

life, I never asked for it. It’s their fault. Whoever they

are. The taste of dry air burns my raw throat. My

skin, rough as ever, scrapes against the scratchy

bed covers. I am a boulder, stopping anyone from

getting past me. I block the way. It could be the

exit. It could be the entrance. It could be the only

way out. Whatever it is or wherever it goes I am the

defence. I am the one who gets in the way. The one

who is just there because. Because no one knows

why. They can’t finish the sentence. Can’t ever

tell me the answer. I don’t know why they chose

to do it. Why me? But all I ever hear is “IT’S NOT

GOOD ENOUGH”, “YOU’RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH”.

So I curl into a ball. A tight ball. And block off the

outside world. No one can get me here.

Lucy

The day me and my twin felt the pain!

My family and I were making our way through

a graveyard, past a rundown, deserted, ruined,

haunted-looking house, to get to where we had

parked our car. Me and my twin Harriet were

shaking in fear at the sight of the figure in the

window. We looked at each other and thought

that we had been bitten by someone or something

and we could see a figure behind a stick-like tree.

If someone lived in it they sure had a problem I

thought to myself.

When we arrived at our car we got in and drove

off at the speed of lightning – well that’s what it

felt like anyway. As usual sisters being sisters we

have a fight now and again. So that’s what we did:

we started messing about. Obviously that’s when

it happened! First our parents were telling us off,

the next thing you know you’re in a big fire. That’s

when you’re DEAD!

If anyone had experienced such a painful death

it was me. A person going past said, ‘’I couldn’t

believe my eyes. A lorry was coming from one

direction, the person in the car wasn’t looking

where they were going, and BOOM. The oil that

the lorry was carrying set on fire and that was that,’’

explained the lady terrified. That’s how I and my

twin sister became zombies. I’m really sad that my

parents died as it wasn’t their fault, it was ours. If

you’re watching us right now even though we look

revolting we’re really sorry! You should know that

come midnight we turn into Zombies.

Annabel

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ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY

When I look up

peaceful

sleepy

stars

moon

planets

hopeful

warmth

curious

like flying

small

wonder

surprised.

Jorden

I see a wonderful glittery sea-green pool with little

dotted islands all around it. It shines out in front of

every planet and star. Its sparkle makes the universe

shine. It had soft fluffy bubbles gliding around the

surface and a soft baby-blue sky. I have seen little

aliens wander around the islands and I wonder if

they’ve ever seen me.

Jasmine

If a star exploded above you in the sky, what would it be like?

Implosion

Pain blisters

Giant gunpowder BOOM

Craters

Fuses fire

Asteroids.

OW!!!

Ears hurt.

Lian

I woke up. It was cold – snow was throwing itself

from the black stony sky. I went downstairs hurriedly

lighting the Rayburn – ‘Snap, Crackle, Pop!’ It lit

with amazing speed and warmth sprang out into my

watching eyes. Slowly, coldly, I walked through to

every other room and lit the heart-warming hearths.

Despite the deathly cold, I walked outside and

stacked a basket with wood and another with coal.

Once inside I sat on the rug in front of the frolicking

fire holding my chubby red face close to the heat.

My brothers and parents came down to join me.

We knew we’d have to leave the dancing, red flames

soon and get to our daily jobs. I work as a servant girl

at a manor house and get paid five shillings a week.

The rest of my family also work here. I take one,

long, last look at the steaming, cosy, lively fire.

I reluctantly tear my eyes and self away from the

warmth. I want to come back but I know I can’t.

Well, not today anyway. Oh, I do so love fires.

Becky

Halloween

From caves at dusk the black bats fly

like leather flitting through the sky.

As darkness falls, they dart and flap;

with sonar skills who needs a map?

As Jack o lanterns light the night

they give the witches quite a fright

but squashy soup and pumpkin pie

are warm and good for us to try.

Pointed hats and whizzing brooms,

witches fly across the moon.

Let cauldrons spit their sparking smells

as ragged hags cast magic spells.

When creepy cats lurk in the dark,

owls hoot and foxes bark

and all souls fear this spooky scene,

it’s definitely

HALLOWEEN!

Poppy, Eve, Alice and Joseph

Sealife

The solid black of the deep stretches endlessly

below me. Sunlight sparkles form the surface above

me. Little silver fish go swimming past me, leaving

a trail of stirred up seawater. They flicker past, their

shiny scales reflecting into my eyes. Bubbles leave a

shiny trail behind them.

I blow out my sticky net. Oblivious plankton swim to

their doom as I suck them back in.

Scratchy rope suddenly envelops me. I am pulled up

towards the light as I give a mournful wail.

An enormous hunting ship greets me as I burst

through the surface, giving a huge splash. A man is

hauling at the thick rope on a large contraption.

Our eyes meet.

He lets go.

I fall with a tidal wave back to the sea.

I am a blue whale.

Yana

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ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY

The planet was expanding at a phenomenal speed.

Bits of debris were flying, zooming past. You watch

for a second, then a thought comes to your mind.

As earth was close by, if the rocks collided the race

would be wiped out. Soon a massive rock came into

Earth’s orbit, gathering speed. Jade had to stop it

but there was no oxygen; her strength was fading

fast. She struggled and tried not to lose the fight.

Suddenly a rock collided with Jane, pushing her

towards earth. Once close enough, she pushed the

colliding rock out of the orbit but was too weak to

save herself. She plummeted to the ground. Nothing

but black.

Chloe

Fire

Marshmallows toasting,

chestnuts roasting,

baked beans boiling

on the fire.

Flickering flames

playing games

singing song

around the fire.

Red and yellow, orange too,

burning bright for me and you.

Warm and glowing, bellows blowing

cinders dancing,

in the fire

Wet wood’s hissing,

sparks are kissing.

Roaring, blazing,

it’s a fire.

Cinderford YWS group

Water

Dew drop, sprinkle, shower and rain;

puddle, pond and stream;

river, lake and oceans deep;

rush around again.

Froth and spit, squish and spray,

trickle, drip and splash;

foam and boil and spill and flood;

swim and sail and play.

Cinderford YWS group

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ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY

The Pen

Words

Tied up inside

Bundled so small you can only see them with a

microscope

The lens of your page

The nib

Blowing them up to full size

Flowing out unaided from their world to mine

Shocked by what I see

Cities grow, fall, burn

People laugh, people cry

A menagerie enters stage right

And exits stage left

A match flares

The darkness rolled back

Words written on the walls

Hidden until now

And all the while the pen, the pen

Races alone across the page

I watch, helpless

Half afraid

The magic unfolds

There is no end to the words

Great lakes and pools on the page

The pen is infinite

Unstoppable

Even if I wanted to.

Tabitha

The Pond

The water glistened a green shimmering glisten.

Dragonflies hovered over the vast expanse of the

pond like stars on a clear night sky. Willow trees

wept dew drops from their elegant branches. The

breeze filled my lungs with the very essence of

nature. The sun a shimmering orb in the glassy

reflection of the pond. The contra flow of traffic

buzzing with life at the corner of the landscape. The

silence was so loud it hurt to listen to the calming

hush of Mother Nature. The lush grass under my feet

was like a velvet carpet luring me to a swim. Like a

hungry cheetah I ran. Like a bird I soared through the

overall feeling of euphoria in the pond had planted

in my soul. If only I had taken the time to judge the

depth of the lake I would not be here in a smelly,

dirty and disgusting hospital with a cast around

my neck.

Sam

Snow

Snow

Falling slowly like whispers

Ice in my hair

Softly, softly

The world is grey

Because that’s what white and cities make

Branches droop

A flurry, a rebound

The snow a little thicker on the ground

And softly, so softly

The silence surrounds me

Peace in isolation

I walk in the woods

A close-pressed world

Sounds flutter down to join the leaves

Stepping on eggshells

My feet sink deep

Lost in the quiet

Calm and beautiful

Shadows lengthen

Evening falls.

Tabitha

Alone

I sat upright, fear smoothly running through

my body like silk. I didn’t want to move, I just

couldn’t help myself. He told me to. I got up

and stood next to my bed. He whispered in my

ear sending chills down my spine. His voice was

like a beautiful nightmare. I didn’t want to listen

to him, but when he wasn’t talking to me, I was

pulled into a black hole and swallowed in misery.

His voice was my drug.

I walked over to the old wooden drawer carved

with Victorian patterns, and pulled out the metal

shiny blade. Certainly something a magpie would

have wanted. I have done this so many times, he’s

told me to! But every time, he saves me. Only to

put me through this misery once more.

I lifted the knife to my chest and plunged it deep

into my heart; creating another hole. I could feel

myself struggling to breathe. My lungs felt knotted

and dried out. I started to jolt uncontrollably as

my vision began to fade. That’s when I saw him.

That face I knew oh-so-well, yet not at all. A

booming laugh echoed around the old dusty room.

I suddenly realised. How long have I been here? A

voice interrupted my thoughts. The same voice I

heard every day, every night. Except this time, it was

full of hatred and disgust.

“I’m not saving you anymore, Bo.”

Those words rattled in my skull, even after I

was gone.

Elsie

Where will tech take us next?

Where will tech take us next

Facebook is a hook grabs you and

pulls you into the web

Twitter is a tiny little critter

With the trolls being bitter.

Youtube is the main video site

although the spam people bite

Wikipedia is an online encyclopedia

Full of facts some real and some fake

Amazon is an endless shop

With prices to make your wallet pop

Danny

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ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY

Striving for Perfection

Her heavy breathing was clearly audible in the stone

prison. Dank and dirty floors caressed her back,

relieving her from the day’s toils. Etchings in her

skin burned as moonlight streamed through gaps in

the barred window. Clanking chains rubbed against

the raw wounds on her ankle, adding to the blood

smattering the floor. Then she heard the footsteps.

They had decided what to do.

He stood at the window, watching the scene before

him. The sprawling lawn held a sea of black and

white. The mourners came in tidal waves, coming

to appease the greatness of The Eldest. “Great in life,

even greater in death.”

He muttered bitterly, turning away, head down and

shoulders hunched.

His mother had certainly left a large impression.

He looked down at his suit, sighing as he picked

at the fabric. The expensive clothing could have

bought thousands of sought after flowers.

Looking back towards the mourners, he noticed that

each had brought a more elaborate gift than the last,

showing their love and appreciation. As a keeper

of antiques, his mother prided herself on having all

possible makes of all possible technology; and yet,

there were more bizarre and extravagant contraptions

in the fields than had ever graced the halls of his

mother’s house. The stampede of people slowly

made their way towards the giant wooden doors. He

groaned at the tyre tracks being left by the old Model

T’s and various sports cars; his prized gardens were

going to ruin.

He stormed down the many levels of stairs and

threw open the front doors, making the mass stop.

“That is it!” he screeched, flapping his hands

dramatically, “I don’t care if she is dead, it does not

warrant the destruction of my life’s work!”

And with a loud scream he stormed back inside,

leaving thousands of shocked faces in his wake.

Closing the doors behind him, he slowly slid to the

floor, cradling his head in his hands.

She huddled against the wall below the window,

shrouding her face in darkness. From her position

anyone who stepped through the door would be

bathed in light, but would be unable to see any

expression that crossed her face.

As the ring of moving bolts echoed through the cell,

she cowered further into the wall. The ominous

clanging signalled the imminent arrival of The Mace.

The large, imposing hood obscured the scar riddled

face she knew to be there. His large boots produced

billowing dust clouds as he padded into the cell. His

towering frame filled the small expanse of a room

as he loomed closer. He flung his hood back and

stalked towards her. The moonlight caught the dents

in his face, casting eerie shadows against the pale

shape that was his head. His blackened and chipped

teeth showed through his shiny flesh.

And before he had even reached for his infamous

tool, she had started to scream.

Anna

Fools

They pull against the chain they think they have me

leashed with, but I’m not so easily trapped.

The three boys dressed as men cackle at each other,

laughing at their prey. I smile.

I’m not the one who’s prey.

There are three of them, two on the end of the chain,

one in a cap, the other in a Just Do It jumper.

Cap Boy cackles as his feet slide over the grainy gravel

making a grinding sound like crunching bones.

“Make a nice coat!” Just Do It grins.

They laugh while the third in the trio shuffles nervously

in front of them, holding a gun in his shaking hands.

A part of him knows what I am.

Who I am.

And it’s scared him senseless.

Smart boy.

“Pete, just shoot it,” cries the boy in the rather fitting

Just Do It jumper.

Pete steps closer, wiping sweat off his brow.

“Shut it, Max,” he snaps back.

I slacken on the chain, causing Cap Boy and Max to

straighten and adjust their hold.

“That thing ain’t right man. Look at its eyes,

they’re smart”

Cap Boy and Max laugh as Pete’s cheeks redden.

“What you been smoking?!” Max guffaws. Their holds

on the chain loosen as they laugh.

“It’s just a big dog,” Cap Boy says dismissively.

I laugh, the sound coming out as a broken growl

through vocal chords not made for laughing.

Oh, I’m more than that. And I think it’s time I show you.

I stalk forwards, Pete’s gun clattering as it hits the floor,

falling from his slack grip.

“Pete, shoot it!” Max cries in horror still desperately

clutching the chain.

I bite through the cursed leash, shattering it between

my teeth leaving metal shards that rattle like ice cubes

against my teeth.

They run.

I pounce and, soon, the metallic taste of the chain is

replaced by the taste of their blood and fear as I reduce

them to an unidentifiable stain on the ground that

shines in the lamplight. All that remains of the boys is a

cap, gun, a Just Do It jumper and clumps of their flesh.

I shift and watch the magic play over my form in the

pool of blood, my skin rippling back to that of a man

with my father’s dark hair and eyes.

Only fools mess with the Devil`s son.

And they only do it once.

Scarlett

The lights of the car ahead blinded us for a

second as it shot by. Mum’s hair was silhouetted

momentarily against the window as headlights flew

past, carrying cars on their backs.

Today I discovered the meaning of my Grandad’s

favourite saying, “Go where the road takes you”. The

curves and bends of the road led us instead of Mum’s

steady hand on the wheel. A journey of chance.

I turned my gaze to the window. A full moon. Even in

the dark I could see birds covering huge patches of

midnight sky; each one with the moon on their wings.

“Hungry Em? I’ve got food in my handbag, if you want.”

Mum’s eye caught mine in the rear-view mirror.

“No thanks, I’m not hungry.”

“Alright darling, it’s there if you want.”

I didn’t waste breath replying, I wasn’t into talking

tonight. Mum risked a few worried glances at me,

thinking I didn’t notice.

“Go on Mum, you obviously have something to say.

Come on then, tell me it’s time to go home. I know

you want to. But I don’t. Not now, tomorrow or the

next day. I’m not ready.”

“Honey, you have to go back sometime. You can’t just

run away when things get tough. Life isn’t made with

escape routes, sometimes you just have to face up to

things. It might seem like the end of the world now

but...“

“But it isn’t and some day, I’ll understand. Yeah I

know, thanks for the reminder. But where’s the harm

in avoiding something for awhile?”

It was lashing it down with rain, clouds filling the sky

as though it was an end to happiness. Forever. I was

just about to talk to my Mum, when all of a sudden

she slammed on the brakes.

Screeeechh!

“What the…?” I began. And then I saw him. The boy

with the baby blue eyes. The boy that stole my heart.

He was wearing a black leather hoodie and jeans

that looked as though they belonged to his dad.

The hood of his jacket was pulled right up, over his

hair and most of his eyes. But I saw them. A flash of

lightning illuminated his eyes. His baby blue eyes.

He was standing just a metre in front of us – soaked

to the skin but standing there in the rain. His hands

were in his pocketes, clenched in fists. His mouth a

straight line, droplets touching his lips.

But then I blinked. I should never have blinked.

Because when I opened my eyes after a millisecond,

he was gone. No trace of him left.

“Stupid boy. What does he think he’s doing?” Mum

snapped.

“Um, er, er…”

Mollie

“Something? Or someone?”

I didn’t reply, so she carried as if she’d never

expected an answer.

“We’re going home tonight and you’re going to

school on Monday. End of.”

I didn’t have the heart or energy to argue any more -

after everything she’d done for me. So I just nodded.

We hardly spoke on the journey back. I think Mum

guessed I wasn’t in the mood. She made a point of

turning on the radio and humming away to herself;

trying to get in my good books. Typical Mum, feeling

like the bad guy for doing the right thing.

But home? There, everything was wrong.

Sometimes, I like to think I’d go back to find him on

my doorstep, telling me he loved me and I’d forget

he’d ever broken my heart. Ha, Fat chance.

Niamh

As I lay on the grass in this secret meadow I feel

alive. I love smoothing the grass and running it

though my fingers, I know I’m safe here as I have

my dog beside me and now and then she glances

at me and nudges me with her cold wet nose, I

feel her panting down my arm. I see the geese

soaring, screeching high up above. I hear the sound

of the wood pecker on the big old oak. I hear baby

ducklings calling out for their mother.

That’s one thing I haven’t got. I’ve got a step mum.

Dad says I have to call her Mum, but to me she is

just a step monster. I miss Mum. The only reason I

come up here to this secret meadow as Mum called

it, is to escape the step monster and forget about

reality and think about the beautiful memories me

and Mum made. As I sit up to watch the sunset

slowly into the horizon, I sit quietly and watch the

swans nestle down together in their warm nest on

the bank, so elegantly. The heron tucks his head in

so delicately under his wing and carefully lifts one

leg up.

I see the deer frantically leaping to get to their

mates, their antlers bashing into every tree.

I turn to lie on my belly and watch the hedgehogs

wake up and snuffle in the undergrowth, little

fox cubs come bounding out of their den, rolling

around, stumbling over their brothers and sisters

and themselves.

It starts to get cold but it doesn’t bother me;

I am used to the cold.

I like coming up here but I never have told anyone

where it is. Dad doesn’t even know as Mum used to

say that we were just going for a walk. We would spend

hours here, on the rope swing and feeding the ducks.

There is only one other person who know where this

place is and how to get in and that’s Maggie. And her

dog Skip. Skip is a Jack Russell terrier. He’s a dirty white

with one big black spot on his eye and back, the rest of

his spots are brown. Maggie helped me make a bench

when Mum passed away. With a memory plaque.

This is mine and Mum’s place. When I’m here I feel free.

Amy 18 19

ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY

20 21

ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY

I saw them come with their parents and dungarees.

They were here to enjoy the freedom of fresh air,

giggling at worms and childish jokes. Their mothers

watched with a relaxed smile, wishing they could

always stay this age. The little girl swung me unsurely

of the clouds; the little boy as fierce as someone

who hadn’t yet suffered.

I saw them come after school, full of grazed knees

and scruffiness. The nostalgically bright jumpers

once worn with pride were unravelled, tugged at in

the last few moments of irritation before lunch and

playtime. He joked as they swung on me in unison

that they were married, oblivious to her blushes.

They were as close as always. I was their favourite

place of all time, ever ever ever.

To everyone else, I looked like your normal piece

of apparatus. So expected, I blend into the park

landscape, only noticed on a second look. But

to them, I was magical. I could transport them

to the clouds and back, in under five seconds. A

brave scream, and... WHHOOOSSSH! You’re flying!

And for that brief moment, they were completely

happy, worries on the horizon. A less than graceful

landing, but a few tumbles were worth it. I was more

wonderful to them than jobs, money, all the things

adults hold close to their hearts.

I saw them grow up.

I saw her wander to me alone. She almost was the

same, cautious makeup distorting her youth. She

absently sat down on my right swing, her side. The

left was empty. Her phone was in and out of her

pocket, last hope shattered at each glance. Time

crept by as it does when you’re waiting, and I saw

through the brave face. Hopelessness shone in her

eyes; finally stood up and walked away, her face

fixed on the grass.

I saw them both again when they were here with

“friends”. Shock seemed to ripple through the park,

and his apologetic smile was finally accepted. With

excuses plucked from the top of their heads, given

to their peers, they shuffled over to me. Time apart

was nursed with his explanation, and an awkward

hug banished her disappointment.

They met me and each other most days, and they

were taller, mature every time. Brown envelopes

were strangers to their meetings once, and a

joy-bomb exploded when they were opened.

Universities suddenly burst open, brimming with

opportunity and promise. But a shadow was cast.

Different choice and futures constructed a barrier

as solid as a lighthouse in a storm. They both knew

what was coming, and twenty six days later, sad

smiles sealed their separation.

I didn’t see them for a handful of years, all my other

visitors blurring into one. My seats became creaky

without their affection.

I saw them again when they had grown. Her hair had

the same streaks of colour as her school jumper,

his hands still slightly grubby. I could see remains of

childhood as strongly as they felt delight at being re-

united. They still swung on me, age and expectations

flung into the clouds. She joked as they swung on

me in unison that they were married, oblivious to

his blushes. Both slowing down, he stood up to get

down again on one knee. A velvet box was shaking

in his palms; upon opening it, her face crumbled into

a teary smile.

I see their children swing on me. They watch from a

distance, and smile. The joy has been passed on.

Kitty

A Lonely Crow

The garden was wildly overgrown, with unwelcome

weeds sprouting everywhere you looked, so the young

boy on the old swing did not look out of place there.

His hair was a mad fiery red, long and very knotted.

You could barely see his nose, and no one had seen his

eyes for years. It was a pity because they were certainly

the best bit of him. They were a bright crystal blue;

always appearing to look right through you. His clothes

would be better described as rags, and as for his shoes,

well he didn’t have any. His poor feet were filthy, and

rubbed almost raw.

This small boy went by the name of Crow. No one knew

his real name, in fact they had never asked. No one

dared to speak to him at all, and that was the way he

liked it. He was Crow, and he didn’t need anyone else.

He never had. He didn’t remember having parents and

certainly never any friends. His past was forgotten, never

to be remembered. His future was to be lived, not to be

imagined. Those were two of the rules that he lived by.

He had only one other. Never be emotional. That was

his strictest one of all. He had never yet broken it, and

was determined that he never would. “Feelings are for

girls,” he would say, if anyone asked him.

Crow liked to watch people. He would hide in this

garden, where no one ever went, and watch from

his special tree. His tree was the highest one in the

garden, it was an oak tree, and he was very proud

of it. He was also very proud of his climbing skills,

though he never said so.

On this particular day he was up in his tree, watching,

as he did every day. He had spotted a big family, out

shopping together. They were fun to watch, because

there were young children, who were being naughty

for their mother. They were all very happy though,

Crow could see that.

All of a sudden the youngest boy fell over, and Crow

could see the scarlet blood on his knee. The boy was

crying, but Crow kept watching. He watched the

mother fall to her knees beside the boy, and hug him.

He watched the mother scoop him up and kiss his knee

better. Crow felt something inside him, as he watched

the family leave. Something he had never felt before.

He knew what it was. It was breaking his rules. He was

feeling lonely. His heart pounded at the thought of it, but

it was true. Watching the way that little boy relied on his

mother to make him better, to take away his tears and

replace them with a smile, made Crow wonder what it

would be like to have a family. The people he watched

didn’t normally affect him this way. Watching was fun

and Crow enjoyed it. It wasn’t meant to make him feel

things, to make him need someone.

Crow tried to make himself forget the family he’d

seen; for the rest of the day he pretended he was an

adventurer, trekking through a jungle, with vicious

beasts chasing him. It was a fun game and Crow liked it.

But it wasn’t enough to make him forget. Crow began

to feel frightened, what if he could never forget that

family? Then he felt angry. Why had they walked past his

garden? Why did that boy fall over, just in front of Crow?

Why didn’t they see him and ask if he was alright, ask

him where his family was? Then Crow remembered. If

they had asked, he wouldn’t have known, he couldn’t

have answered. Crow didn’t have a family. Crow would

never have a family. Crow would never have anyone. He

was Crow and that was the end of that.

Niamh

“No, but I’ve only gone and booked us in to see the

skateboarding competition in Newcastle today!”

he cheered.

“Oh wow! I had a dream about that! Oh thanks Dad!”

“That’s ok. Hurry up and get dressed!”

In no more than twenty minutes, we had had breakfast

and were on our way to the most exciting thing I had

ever gone to in my life.

Crowds. Busy. Amazing. That is how it was.

Dad would shout “Go on!” to my favourite skater; Steve

Rogers, and it would look as though he was miming.

I would boo and hiss to Quentin Smith (the most

rubbish skater on Earth), and the person sitting next to

me would give me a filthy look. That is honestly what it

was like. But I enjoyed it.

Though every good thing has to end, and my skating

dream was just one of many that I will have. And

I hope that you too will one day have your dream

come true. I’ve had my skating dream and I am now

one step closer to making it happen. Maybe this is the

start for yours, too?

Mollie

22 23

ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY

He appears beside me, dark red hair swept over

his face, the lamp light making it look like a licking

flame. We both wear black.

“Yes us. We’re the same you and I, or did you just

think I was so lonely I had to waste my time with

some damn do-gooder?”

I’d never really thought about it, he was just a

nuisance, a buzzing fly in my ear trying to tempt me

away from saving innocent lives.

He sighs.

“You’re doing this all wrong you know.”

I ignore him again.

The girl is getting closer to them now. I crouch on

the edge of the roof, leaning over and fixing my gaze

on the youths as they hear the feminine footsteps.

“We’re not meant to save them.”

There’s that we, that suggestion he knows exactly

what I am. Who I am.

“What?” I ask impatiently, if I lose concentration at

the wrong moment, she dies.

“How did you know this would happen? How did

you know to track her?”

I don’t answer.

“You felt it didn’t you? A pull, a sort of magnetic pull

dragging you towards her. Only you assumed it was

a cue to save her.”

I growl again.

“What else am I supposed to do?!” I curse myself

for falling for it and turn my attention back to the

youths, the girl has spotted them now. She tries to

turn and escape but they’ve already seen her.

“We, my dear brother are not meant to save her.”

He unfurls his black wings just as I do the same.

“We are meant to harvest her soul.”

Scarlett

The Skating Dream

I opened my eyes and suddenly realised I was upside-

down. Finishing my flip and landing, I put my foot to

the floor and stopped just before the next ramp. That’s

when I actually realised how much the crowd was

cheering for me. I was impressed. For a moment, I just

gazed into the crowds before I was interrupted by the

judge’s voices.

Then they called me over. Oh no, the scores I have

been waiting for, for my whole life go up.

“It’s a ten, nine and a half, ten and…What? Another ten?

That’s got to be the highest score ever achieved! Well

done, and give a round of applause for Tony Day!”

“I’m now the world champion!”

At least I thought I was…

It’s pitch black and there’s nothing to see. This isn’t the

podium where I should get my trophy that’s as gold

as the sun. This isn’t where the crowds are cheering

so loudly I can hear my heart banging in my ears. This

is home, boring old home. Where my Mum has died

and my Dad is down at the pub 95% of the time, drunk

and unable to come home on his own. I look over at

my platinum clock. It’s funny really, my Dad can afford

pretty much anything but to other people, we look

poor. We live in a run-down house, with a garden that

has weeds growing in every space possible.

Anyway, it’s 4:45 in the morning and I decide to turn

my lamp on. I want to fall back to sleep and be lost

in thoughts all over again. But I’m awake now. No

chance.

Then I hear the door open, and at first I think we’re

being robbed. But soon, I come back to reality and

realise it’s Dad coming back from the pub.

I quickly turn my light off and pretend I’m asleep until I

hear my Dad get into bed. Soon enough, I feel my eyes

slowly close and then I fall into another deep sleep…

“Hey! Tony! Wake up! Guess what?”

“What? Are we going to see Manchester United

play against Chelsea at Wembley Stadium?” I asked

sarcastically.

Reaper

I don’t know me.

Who I am, I mean.

All I know is I’m different.

She crosses the road, hugging her elbows against

the cold.

Not that I can feel it.

Her blonde ponytail sways with each step, her heels

clacking in the stony silence of the night. The street

lights cast an orange-yellow glow on her, the leather

of her jacket seeming to catch fire as she passes

under each one. But soon, the street lights become

few and far between.

I close the distance between us.

I don’t know if she can feel my presence, a change

in the air pressure or an electric current seeming

to prick at her skin, but she starts to worriedly cast

nervous glances around her. Maybe she has heard

the tales. If she can feel my presence then she

knows that something bad is about to happen.

That’s why I’m here. I leap onto the next roof as

she speeds her pace, stalking like a panther and

watching like a hawk as the hooded, rowdy youths

begin to accumulate further down the street, not

that she can see that.

“Don’t do it,” a familiar voice says quietly from behind me.

I ignore him.

“You can’t protect her forever.” He laughs. “How will

you save all the others if you’re watching her?”

I growl, short and sharp my eyes catching the glint

of a knife in one of the boy’s hands.

“Come on, just let one go will you? I’ll take you for a

pint, I know a place, one of us owns it.”

My concentration wavers, he’s never mentioned an

“us” before.

I tilt my head fractionally towards him.

“Us?” my voice feels rough, unused.

24 25


BUILDING COMMUNITIES FOR A NEW LIBRARY: THE LAUNCH OF JUNCTION 3 LIBRARY, BRISTOL

THE PROJECT

Read/Write South West provided opportunities

for activity in and around Junction 3, the new

Big Lottery funded library and learning centre

in Easton, Bristol

Working with library users, writer

Sara-Jane Arbury and graphic novelist

Joff Winterhart encouraged visitors to

write about what libraries mean to them

and hundreds of visitors experienced the

vibrant sessions in progress and many

gained first-hand experience of working

with writers through active participation

“As all participants were self-

selecting and the entrance policy

was completely open, the groups

were truly diverse and represented

the vibrant local area. Among

others, members came from

the local Pakistani community,

were newly arrived immigrants

(from Spain, South Africa and

Poland), were members of the

established African and Caribbean

community, or were in recovery

(from drugs/alcohol and mental

health crises). This diversity led to

fascinating writing, and to truly

inspiring discussions about what

characterises our city and what it

means to be Bristolian”

AMY MASON, WRITER

“The project provided an excellent

opportunity both to strengthen

Bristol Libraries’ relationship with

two excellent local writers and to

allow them to explore working with

new groups and communities. The

library is in an area of considerable

deprivation – the majority of those

participating in Read/Write South

West activities have not previously

had the opportunity to benefit

from working with a writer”

ANDREW COX, BRISTOL LIBRARIES

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Junction 3 Launch event

FEEDBACK

“Safe and secure”

“Completely at home and proud to be a Bristolian”

“Happy - like an elephant squirting water”

“It’s lovely and playful”

“It gives me breathing space”

“Amazing”,

“Exciting”

“Magical”

“Extraordinary”

“Fantastic”

“I gained more confidence in managing to produce something”

“Very helpful and inspiring”

Sara-Jane Arbury helped to strengthen

and deepen the library’s relationship

with the adjacent Millponds Primary

School. Pupils were chosen by teachers

to attend two library based workshops

each to encourage their creative writing.

Sara-Jane used a series of exercises

to encourage the children to draw

inspiration from books, pictures and their

own knowledge and experiences

Writer Amy Mason has worked with

elders (some more than 90 years old)

from the area’s large African Caribbean

community, encouraging and enabling

them to tell their own stories. Amy used

lived experience/oral histories to inspire

creative writing and sessions were

recorded to enable those with poor

eyesight to take part

JOFF AND SARA-JANE

26 27


CA

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TREAD/WRITE SOUTH WEST: LIBRARIAN EMMA SHERRIFF, OUTREACH SUPPORT OFFICER FOR PLYMOUTH CITY COUNCIL LIBRARIES

THE PROJECT

The set up and coordination of Young

Writers Squad Plymouth, a group for

young writers aged 12-16 years running

fortnightly at Plymstock Library. Emma

also hosted a blog writing skills workshop

with the group and facilitated library

sessions. The young people now regularly

publish work on their own blog: http://

youngwriterssquadplymouth.wordpress.

com. Emma worked closely with local

writer Babs Horton who led writing

activities. An anthology of the squad’s

writing is to be published this year

FEEDBACK

The Librarian made the following comments and observations about working with Read/Write South West on these projects:

“The Young Writers Squad have been inspirational to work with, reading their stories and poetry is exciting and incredibly entertaining”

“Working with a professional writer has enabled young people to become more confident in themselves as individuals, and hone their writing skills”

“With the support of a professional writer, librarians and library facilities, a young person with special educational needs, and experiencing difficulties with writing and speech, has been able to attend independently, share work with peers, integrate with other young writers, and develop in confidence”

“The Squad received a welcome tour of the library and made use of library resources made available to them, including teen and adult novels, free internet access and use of word processing software”

“I am delighted that the library could help to unlock and share their creativity and talent” LIBRARIAN

EM

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READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST: WRITER AND LIBRARY SALLY CRABTREE, WRITER

THE PROJECT

Sally Crabtree was able to use her

experience in inspiring young people and

working with different partner organizations

in Cornwall to present a series of workshops

that would help libraries reach local primary

schools in their area

The aim of the workshops were to bring

words to life, give children the confidence

to find their own voice and break down

preconceived ideas of what reading and

writing could be – to add an element of

surprise and delight into peoples’ notions

of what literature is

Those taking part experienced the

unexpected – they discovered that they

themselves could write and make books

in all shapes and sizes using their own

imaginative ideas, that they could perform

their poems and songs, create dancing

poems and even eat their words and

become a walking living poem! Literature

really could come alive. They discovered that

grown ups aren’t always boring, that poets

can do cartwheels, that words can carry in

their arms one’s own amazing ideas and

hand them like a present to others – not

necessarily just in book form but perhaps as

an objet d’art, a song, a performance poem,

in an installation or as the icing of an edible

poetry cake

The project showed that libraries can surprise

you by offering you somewhere to discover,

and be a place of vibrant, meaningful fun

FEEDBACK

The Writer made the following comments and observations about working with Read/Write South West on these projects:

“As someone who has always found libraries exciting places, it was inspiring to see children who had never set foot in one before become enthused after a session and ask “ How can I join?“

“The project brought the libraries to life and proved that young people are eager for such positive experiences. It made me as a writer want to think of even more new ways to capture their imaginations”

“The project was a very successful way for the libraries to forge a link with local schools and to see how projects such as this can bring communities together in positive and exciting ways. It showed the schools that libraries can offer a fresh approach to literacy and bring it alive in ways that young people respond to, giving them a new found confidence that they can take back to all their lessons and their life”

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS WRITERS

28


Literature Works would like to thank the following people and organisations for their

support and hard work in making this project such a success:

Arts Council England, South West

Bridport Arts Centre

Bridport Open Book Festival Polly Gifford

Bristol Library Service Andrew Cox

Cornwall Library Service Merryn Kent

Devon Library Service

Dorset Library Service Sharon Kirkpatrick

Gloucestershire Library Service Carole Bowe

HMP Leyhill, South Gloucestershire

Hall for Cornwall, Truro Isobel King

Learning SW, Taunton Gill Millar and Anna Sayce

Lit Up! Literature Project Poole & Bournemouth Amy Mason

Patchway College, South Gloucestershire Kerry Roberts & the English Department; Sherie Humphreys

Plymouth International Book Festival

Plymouth Library Service Emma Sherriff

Plymouth Museum & Arts Gallery Kate Campbell

Rethink

South Gloucestershire Library & Arts Services Alison Catlin

Take Art, Somerset Mark Helyar

Torbay Library Services Paul Trainer

Plymouth University Marc Lintern

Wiltshire Library Service Chris Moore

Writers in Prisons Network Clive Hopwood

Moira Andrew

Sue Ashby

Sara-Jane Arbury

Carly Bennett

Sarah Benwell

Phil Bowen

Liz Brownlee

Mark Bunhope

Kate Campbell

Sarwat Chadda

Lucy Christopher

Julia Copus

Jo Corcoran

Sally Crabtree

Barry Cunningham

Sophie Duffy

Debi Evans

Jane Feaver

Jonny Fluffypunk

Thommie Gillow

Ann Gray

Helen Greathead

Deborah Gregory

Rebecca Gregson

Anna Groves

Babs Horton

Clive Hopwood

Toby Hulse

Printed on 100% recycled stock

Rosie Jackson

Sally Jenkinson

Susanna Jones

Tim King

Steve Lake

Amy Mason

Simon MacCormack

Annie McKie

Tina Orr Munro

Brenda Read-Brown

David Reakes

Chris Redmond

Ali Reynolds

Carol Rifka Brunt

Sophie Rochester

Vicki Ross

Patrick Ryan

John Seagrave

CJ Skuse

Helen Slavin

Sophie Tallis

Rebecca Tantony

Liv Torc

Tom Vowler

Clare Wallace

Rachel Ward

David Woolley

Cliff Yates

Literature WorksPeninsula Arts, Plymouth University Roland Levinsky Building Drake Circus PLYMOUTH PL4 8AATelephone: 01752 585073

Company Limited by Guarantee Registered in England and Wales

Company Registration Number: 06858956 Registered Charity: 1132586

www.literatureworks.org.uk

Documents

Read Write South West Report/Anthology