<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Back Issues<\/strong><\/p>\n He kneels at the stacks of Exchange and Mart, dates set. gaps. But not in his collection, which stops a spine. Everyone needs backbone. He lifts up a copy: ink. The only way to print, the sort that soaked into skin, on Southend sandbars. The white Renault 5 that kept in defence: crumpled bumper, smashed wing mirrors, no broken bones. wife. He laughs at that, holds up page 33:Yammaha 650cc. Key streetlight… The old lady snatches, tears at paper; confetti He cradles it tight to his chest, crinkling thud of his heart <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Emily Bullock<\/strong> won the Bristol Short Story Prize with her story\u00a0My Girl, which was also broadcast on BBC Radio 4. Her memoir piece\u00a0No One Plays Boxing\u00a0<\/em>was shortlisted for the Fish International Publishing Prize 2013. She has a Creative Writing MA from the University of East Anglia and completed her PhD at the Open University, where she also teaches Creative Writing. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Conjurer<\/strong><\/p>\n The house rang to the rhythm of your hunger. You got served first. There was glory in the work of your hands, Always that race towards pudding, Vast quantities came to the gate <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Sibyl Ruth<\/strong> remembers writing poems. She is the author of two small press collections Nothing Personal<\/em> (Iron Press) and I Could Become That Woman<\/em> (Five Leaves.)\u00a0 These days writes about pictures. Her blogs are on www.sandjfine.art\u00a0 <\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Back Issues He kneels at the stacks of Exchange and Mart, dates set. Wouldn\u2019t mean nothing to no one that the Austin Princess sits atop the Ford Transit. Some use crosswords or those Japanese squares with numbers missing. He has lots of gaps. But not in his collection, which stops when they […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7438","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7438","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7438"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7438\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7456,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7438\/revisions\/7456"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7438"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7438"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7438"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nWouldn\u2019t mean nothing to no one that the Austin Princess sits
\natop the Ford Transit. Some use crosswords or those Japanese
\nsquares with numbers missing. He has lots of<\/p>\n
\nwhen they switched to that net thing; like Technicolor
\nruined the precision of black and white. Pages feel
\nsoft as winceyette pyjamas; a static pulse as he rubs his finger down<\/p>\n
\ngreen Hillman Imp that clung to corners; all except one.
\nHis mum kept clippings and the solitaire ring, mourning
\nthe nearly-was-daughter-in-law. Red and black<\/p>\n
\nnever smudged lines. Transferred words sit
\nin his palm, makes and models catalogued inside: the caravan
\nhis dad built, anchored on a Bedford Van base; shipwrecked<\/p>\n
\nby his side through football hooligan Saturday nights, to poll
\ntax riot Sunday mornings. Faithfull as a German Shepherd
\nhe had as a boy. The car, not the dog, died<\/p>\n
\nThe dog went to live in the country. He reaches for March
\n\u201876. Scanning rising pricing for cherished plates. A grey-flecked woman
\nenters the room, stands between him and his back issues. Calls herself<\/p>\n
\nto the Door: birthday Heinekens; key in the ignition. Leather jacket
\nbut not a Rocker, invincible as only young men are. Here comes
\nthe roundabout, spit-up oil winking in the phosphorous<\/p>\n
\nfalls. The order is scrapped, the stack needs MOTing again.
\nHe shuts his eyes: elbows on glass counter, counting out
\nfarthings; spring rain tapping outside the newsagent’s, the shopkeeper slips
\nhis copy into a bag \u2013 lifted, not torn from the hook – hands it over.<\/p>\n
\nagainst brown paper. Issue number one. Mint condition.
\nOne careful owner.<\/p>\n
\nHer debut novel The Longest Fight<\/em><\/a>\u00a0 will be published by Myriad in February 2015.<\/p>\n
\nLunch at one. Dinner at six sharp.<\/p>\n
\nProper hot food. Beans and bright carrots,
\npotatoes, gravy.<\/p>\n
\ntheir deft packing and stabbing,
\nthe knifeblade\u2019s flash and shimmer.<\/p>\n
\nYour hope of fruit tart
\nor crumble, in a lake of custard.<\/p>\n
\nof your throat. And vanished.<\/p>\n