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-- Dumping data for table `truecontact`
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--
-- Dumping data for table `truefield_data_body`
--

INSERT INTO `truefield_data_body` VALUES
('node', 'article', 0, 1, 1, 'und', 0, '<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/Issue-1">Read the first issue here.</A>\r\n\r\n<p>It’s a real pleasure to announce that the first issue of The Puffin Review is now alive and kicking. Or should that be squawking? At any rate, it’s been hard work launching the magazine, and we’re glad we can sit back and relax. At least for a day or two, after which work on next month’s issue will begin in earnest. </p>\r\n<p>We’ve started from scratch with The Puffin Review. As a writer, I know how important the first few publications are, so we created the magazine to give new writers a chance at seeing their name in lights. Or, rather, in print.  </p>\r\n<p>We have no pretence, no artifice, no delusions of grandeur and no money. Our idea is simple: send us your writing. If it’s good, we publish it. We don’t care whether your publication record is yards long or non-existent. We don’t bother if you’re a student or a pensioner. We don’t mind where you live, what you eat, who you love, what you do. We just want good writing and to provide a place for emerging talent to publish.</p>\r\n<p>Thanks are obviously due to our writers, and you can find out more about them in the Contributors’ Section in the menu.  We’ve included links to their various blogs and their Twitter names as we want to publicise our writers and spread the word about them. So, if you like what you see, check their details and read more from them.</p>\r\n<p>We want to hear from more writers, so check our submission guidelines and send us your work. We’ll be publishing monthly and are already looking ahead to our next issue.\r\nAlso take a look at our poetry contest where you could win a weekend for four in the South of France. </p>\r\n<p>We also welcome feedback, so feel free to get in touch with the editorial team, or leave comments at the foot of each article. </p>\r\n<p>I hope you enjoy our first edition.</p>\r\n<p><br></p>\r\n<p>\r\nJulie McDowall<br>\r\nEditor<br>\r\n@ariel_mcdowall</p>', '', 'full_html'),
('node', 'page', 0, 3, 3, 'und', 0, 'Fiction - we accept flash fiction of up to 500 words, and short stories or stand-alone novel extracts of up to 3,000 words.\r\n\r\nPoetry - we accept up to three poems in one submission, with a maximum total of 150 lines. With haiku we will accept up to 10 per submission.\r\n\r\nArticles - we are looking for a range of essays, reviews and opinion pieces of a maximum of 1,500 words.\r\n\r\nBook reviews – authors and publishers are welcome to send books to us for review. E-mail editor@puffinreview.com for details.\r\n\r\nPlease attach your work in .doc or .docx format, in 12pt text, plain font, and direct your submission to the appropriate editor (see Contact Us)\r\n\r\nRemember to include the title of your piece and add a short third person biography which we will add to the site should we publish your work.', '', 'full_html'),
('node', 'page', 0, 4, 4, 'und', 0, '<p>Submit your articles and enquiries to the editors below:<br />\r\n</p>\r\n\r\n<p><a href="mailto:editor@puffinreview.com">editor@puffinreview.com<br />\r\n</a></p>\r\n\r\n<p><a href="mailto:fiction@puffinreview.com">fiction@puffinreview.com<br /> </a></p>\r\n\r\n<p><a href="mailto:entertainment@puffinreview.com">entertainment@puffinreview.com<br/></a></p>\r\n\r\n<p><a href="mailto:travel@puffinreview.com">travel@puffinreview.com<br />\r\n</a></p>\r\n\r\n<p><a href="mailto:opinion@puffinreview.com">opinion@puffinreview.com<br />\r\n</a></p>\r\n\r\n<p><a href="mailto:poetry@puffinreview.com">poetry@puffinreview.com<br />\r\n</a></p>\r\n<p></p>\r\n', '', 'full_html'),
('node', 'page', 0, 5, 5, 'und', 0, '<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/bethany-anderson"><Strong>Bethany Anderson</Strong></A>\r\nBethany is a writer, reader, book reviewer, and teacher-in-training. She blogs about her writing and reviews books at <a href="http://www.subtlemelodrama.com">www.subtlemelodrama.com</a>\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/f-harvey-anderson"><Strong>Fergus Anderson</Strong></A>\r\nFergus has lived and worked in Nepal since the early 1990s. He served as a Communications Officer with the Brigade of Gurkhas in Kathmandu from 1992 to 1997 and has trekked extensively in the Annapurna and Everest regions of the Himalayas. Fergus has travelled throughout the South Asian Region and has recently spent 3 weeks in Bangladesh traveling by bus, canoe, ferry, paddle steamer, rickshaw and train. He specialises in short essays of his encounters and places that he has visited and aims to compile them into a picture book using his pieces as captions. If you wish to read more of his writing or if you require any information on Nepal he can be contacted through his blog <A href="http://www.offexploring.com/fergusanderson/blog">www.offexploring.com/fergusanderson/blog</a>\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/anthony-ash"><Strong>Anthony Ash</Strong></A>\r\nAnthony works in English Language Teaching and is a postgraduate student of English Linguistics. He enjoys writing and producing quality journalism. His main interests are education, the economy and society. Comment is always free. Follow Anthony on Twitter @Ashowski  \r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/samuel-best"><Strong>Samuel Best</Strong></A>\r\nSamuel Best is a Glasgow-based writer and also runs Octavius, a literary magazine for students studying in Scotland. Samuel has been published in The Cadaverine, ClockWorks and Fractured West, and is writing two novels based on different blends of Scottish national identity, violence and running away. He tweets at @spbbest.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/richard-biddle"><Strong>Richard Biddle</Strong></A>\r\nRichard Biddle aka (bid) grew up in the brewery town of Burton-on-Trent. He has an MA in Performance Writing and has made a number of live texts, including work for 3 Bristol poetry festivals. Last year, his poem ‘A Bequest’ was published in ‘Brittle Star’ magazine and he was invited to read his short story ‘Endorphins’ at ‘Story Studio’ in Brighton. \r\nHe lives in Chichester, where he continues to experiment with writing using the Twitter account @littledeaths68. You can find more evidence of his work here http://writings43.blogspot.co.uk/\r\nHe is also a member of @echovirus12.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/jared-carnie"><Strong>Jared A. Carnie</Strong></A>\r\nis a writer in his twenties who fled the dull neon of Essex for the freedom of the Outer Hebrides.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/graeme-cooper"><Strong>Graeme Cooper</Strong></A>\r\nGraeme is a High School English teacher from South-West Scotland. He started writing poetry in 2012, having considered himself a poet for 20 years.  Initially, he used the pseudonym The Elusive Andrew Smith because he was afraid of his friends reading his poems.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/alan-crossan"><Strong>Alan Crossan</Strong></A>\r\nAlan is a writer of short stories and flash fiction from Barrhead. He is a member of the Glasgow Writers'' Group.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/patricia-duffaud"><Strong>Patricia Duffaud</Strong></A>\r\nPatricia Duffaud is a French writer who lives in London. She has a degree in English language & literature from France and an MA in social anthropology from Goldsmiths College. She writes short stories and is working on a novel. She is also a columnist for Litro Magazine.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/max-dunbar"><Strong>Max Dunbar</Strong></A>\r\nMax Dunbar was born in London in 1981. He recently finished a full-length novel and his short fiction has appeared in various print and web journals. He also writes criticism for 3:AM and Butterflies and Wheels. He blogs at <a href="http://maxdunbar.wordpress.com/">maxdunbar.wordpress.com</a> and tweets at  @MaxDunbar1. \r\nHe lives in Manchester and can be contacted on max.dunbar@gmail.com.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/daniel-gothard"><Strong>Daniel Gothard</Strong></A>\r\nDaniel Gothard lives in Oxford, UK with his wife and three children. He has a Masters degree in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University and has previously been published in three anthologies: Mix, Eight Hours and The Poet Tree. In 2008, his novel Relax and Swing was published in paperback. His website is <a href="http://www.inspiredwriters.co.uk/">www.inspiredwriters.co.uk</a>\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/verity-holloway"><Strong>Verity Holloway</Strong></A>\r\nVerity is a graduate of Anglia Ruskin University’s Literature masters programme, specialising in fiction, poetry and freelance journalism. She is currently finishing her first novel, for which she received the New Writing Partnership’s Escalator Award. Her website is <a href="http://www.verityholloway.com">www.verityholloway.com</a>\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/jones-jones"><Strong>Jones Jones</Strong></A>\r\nJones Jones was born in Wales but now lives somewhere else. He is the author of The Humiliation Triptych – a collection of dark, violent tales of woe set between central/eastern Europe and Wales. He blogs at <a href="http://jonesjones.moonfruit.com">jonesjones.moonfruit.com</a>\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/dj-mac"><Strong>DJ Mac</Strong></A>\r\nDJ Mac fouters (dithers) with an itchy, scratchy pen in an Edinburgh garret in the odd moments when the bewilderment of life fades. A proud member of the Binge Inkers writing group, he meanders, rants, muses and chortles on www.djmac.co.uk. He likes to look for humour in the darkness or darkness in the humour in order to craft good writing. Observers hope that some day, with the wind behind him, he may just yet succeed.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/rachel-macgregor"><strong>Rachel MacGregor</strong></A>\r\nRachel MacGregor is a graduate of Bournemouth University with a BA (Hons) Communication and Media degree. Despite being a Brit, she loves American television and is passionate about film and literature. She loves to review the latest releases as well as some old favourites. Rachel can be found on twitter @rachelmacgregor and also likes to update her blog (<A href="http://rachelmacgregor.wordpress.com/">rachelmacgregor.wordpress.com</a>) in her spare time.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/james-bruce-may"><Strong>James Bruce May</Strong></A>\r\nJames Bruce May is a writer and musician based in London, where he graduated from Goldsmiths’  creative writing MA course in 2011. May specialises in prose-fiction and is currently completing his first novel. He is also focussing on several short stories, a number of which are being considered for publication by various literary magazines. \r\nBefore studying at Goldsmiths, May attended Greenwich University where he graduated with a bachelor’s degree in creative writing in 2010. Prior to this, he studied at the Brighton Institute of Modern Music.\r\nHis blog link is <a href="http://jamesbrucemay.blogspot.co.uk/">jamesbrucemay.blogspot.co.uk</a> and his twitter address is @james_bruce_may\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/chris-markwell"><Strong>Chris Markwell</Strong></A>\r\nOrrin Christopher Markwell studied English Literature with Creative Writing at Bangor University.  In addition to his odd scribblings, he plays guitar for North Wales rock outfit Bad Excuses, and finds both pursuits strange and invigorating.  Chris Markwell''s tweets can be found at @MarkwellJones and his band can be found at www.facebook.com/BadExcusesBand\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/julie-mcdowall"><Strong>Julie McDowall</Strong></A>\r\nJulie is the editor of The Puffin Review. Her blog is due to be published by Blasted Heath in April 2013.\r\nHer website is <a href="http://www.juliemcdowall.com">www.juliemcdowall.com</a>\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/michelle-honey-mullet"><Strong>Michelle Honey Mullet</Strong></A>\r\nMichelle is a writer living in Cambridge, Massachusetts and her work has been published in a few tiny literary journals in New England. She recently self-published a book of haiku on Lulu.com, called Scrimshaw.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/vincent-oconnor"><Strong>Vincent O’Connor</Strong></A>\r\nVincent O’Connor is originally from Kilfinane, in Co. Limerick in Ireland. Having graduated from University College Cork with a B.A. in English and Sociology he lived and worked for a number of years in Spain and Japan. Vincent now lives in Cork, in Ireland, and is the Assistant Director of Studies at Nations Language Training Centre where he helps run English and communication courses for European business managers.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/laura-peatman"><Strong>Laura Peatman</Strong></A>\r\nLaura is an avid theatregoer and blogger with a particular interest in new interpretations of classic works – and a weakness for musicals. After graduating from Cambridge University last year, she is making the most of having no more weekly essays to write by spending as much free time as possible at the theatre, alongside her job at a secondary school. More of her writing can be found at <a href="http://laurapeatman.blogspot.co.uk">laurapeatman.blogspot.co.uk</a>.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/rachael-pells"><Strong>Rachael Pells</Strong></A>\r\nRachael Pells is an English Lit grad and freelance journalist currently fumbling her way through Mexico and Central America, where she will probably “find herself”, get a tattoo to scare her mother, and write for Mexican newspapers. She is @rachaelpells\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/michael-ray"><strong>Michael Ray</strong></A>\r\nMichael is a glass artist and Art therapist living in West Cork, Ireland. \r\nHis poems have appeared in The Moth and The Irish Independent.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/alistair-roberts"><Strong>Alistair Roberts</Strong></A>\r\nAlistair Roberts is a graduate of The MA in Creative and Life Writing at Goldmsmiths, University of London. He has recently completed a novel entitled "Chnam Oun" 16 [I am 16]. It is set in Phnom Penh, Cambodia during the last few months of the Golden Age of Cambodian Pop Music before its destruction by the Khmer Rouge on 17th April 1975. Alistair teaches creative writing and drama and is currently working on the sequel. Superman is Dead.\r\nAlistair can be contacted on aj@alistairroberts.my.co.uk\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/emily-sherwood"><Strong>Emily Kate Sherwood</Strong></A>\r\nEmily Kate Sherwood is a feral shop worker and 21 year old freckly lady. She writes frequently and is mostly silly, but only when she isn''t studying for her BSc in Health and Social Care. She also has fabulous hair and may or may not be considered hilarious. Tweet Emily here @voila_emily or read her nonsensical scribblings here on her personal blog <a href ="http://www.freckled-rambler.com/">www.freckled-rambler.com</a>.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/thomas-simpson"><Strong>Thomas Simpson</Strong></A>\r\nThomas Simpson has written and directed for both stage and screen. A finalist of the Sir Peter Ustinov Television Screenwriting Award 2011, Thomas has also directed music videos for up and coming Glasgow bands. He was recently appointed an Official Member and Charity Trustee of The Loch Ness Film Festival and is a regular writer for web magazine Moviescramble.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/ellie-stewart"><Strong>Ellie Stewart</Strong></A>\r\nEllie Stewart grew up in Wimbledon and Tunbridge Wells and studied English and Philosophy at The University of Leeds. She has been published in various literary magazines online and won The Writer''s Village Best Writing Award Winter 2012. Her stories have been included in anthologies by Fluster Magazine and Arachne Press. She currently lives in South East London and works for King''s College. You can follow her on Twitter @elliemayonnaise\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/sarah-taylor-fergusson"><Strong>Sarah Taylor-Fergusson</Strong></A>\r\nSarah Taylor-Fergusson was born in remote North Yorkshire and studied at the Mid-Cheshire School of Art and Oxford University. Since then she has lived in London, Italy and Cheshire. She works as a freelance editor on many wonderful novels and books for a raft of fiction and non-fiction publishing houses. She likes drinking coffee and wandering the borderlands of the Welsh Marches.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/mark-west"><Strong>Mark West</Strong></A>\r\nMark is a PhD candidate at the University of Glasgow writing on "The Poetics of Time in Contemporary American Literature." His writing has appeared in Type Review, Dancehall and TheState. He reviews books for Gutter Magazine and The List. He blogs at <a href="http://mpwmpwmpw.wordpress.com">mpwmpwmpw.wordpress.com</a>.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/nici-west"><Strong>Nici West</Strong></A>\r\nNici West lives in Manchester with her boyfriend and two guinea pigs. She doesn''t get lonely writers syndrome because she lives with her boyfriend and two guinea pigs. She has recently completed an MA in Creative Writing whilst curating the annual literature festival in Lancaster, and is currently in Naples, Italy pretending to speak Italian.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/bernard-wheeler"><Strong>Bernard Wheeler</Strong></A>\r\nBernard Wheeler is 22 and studied English Literature at the University of Birmingham before deciding he wanted to become a novelist. In the meantime, he is a freelance journalist working between Essex and London. He has a fear of flying.\r\n\r\n<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/tags/philippa-wilkinson"><Strong>Philippa Wilkinson</Strong></A>\r\nPhilippa is in her twenties and works in the slums of Nairobi. She enjoys writing about her experiences in her spare time.', '', 'full_html'),
('node', 'page', 0, 6, 6, 'und', 0, 'The Puffin Review exists to give a voice to new writers and journalists, whilst publishing reviews of the latest fiction and author interviews.\r\n\r\nGetting those first publications is crucial to a writer’s career, not only in terms of building a reputation and a record, but in terms of confidence. There’s also the matter of validation: it helps you cope with the dreaded day-job immeasurably if you have some publications to your name.\r\n\r\nThe Puffin Review wants to help writers take those first steps to begin making their name.\r\n\r\nWe have no limit on subject matter. Send us your delicate haiku poems about moonlight or meaty opinion pieces on welfare reform. You are the writer, and the floor is yours. Our only rule is that we demand quality.\r\n\r\n\r\nJulie McDowall\r\nEditor\r\nariel_mcdowall', '', 'filtered_html'),
('node', 'page', 0, 7, 7, 'und', 0, '<p>The Puffin Review is pleased to announce an exciting new poetry competition, which we are running with Le Manoir de Gurson,  a country house and writers’ retreat in the Dordogne.</p>\r\n<p>\r\nWe are seeking poems on the theme of peace and tranquillity, with a maximum word count of 200.</p>\r\n<p>The closing date for entries is 31st May 2013, and the competition will be judged by the poet Ros Barber, with the winner being announced in our July edition.</p>\r\n<p>The winner will be selected by Ros at the Manoir itself, where she will be running a poetry course  from 16th – 21st June 2013. Details of the poetry course are available at Le Manoir’s website <a href="http://www.manoirdegurson.co.uk">www.manoirdegurson.co.uk</a> </p>\r\n<p>The prize will be a self-catering holiday for up to four people for the 13th – 20th October, 2013. The party will have complete and private use of the manoir and of the pool, weather permitting.</p>\r\n<p>Entries should be e-mailed to <a href = "mailto: editor@puffinreview.com">editor@puffinreview.com</a></p>\r\n<p>Good luck!</p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n ', '', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 8, 8, 'und', 0, '<p>I couldn’t bear the quiet house a second longer, so I drove. I got into my car and took whichever turns led towards the darkening clouds. I sped through the suburbs and out into the countryside, the engine rushing loudly in response to my urgency, my need get close to the storm. Under the fringe of the weather my car was greeted by a few fat drops of rain. Puddles gathered and then gushed as the rhythm of the sky quickened. Hedgerow flashed by, its blurred green dividing the greys of the road and sky. I rolled open the windows, freezing air came flowing in about me, the drumming on the roof intensifying as flings of wheel-spray splashed about the car.\r\nI was led to a village where the rain was heaviest; I didn’t recognise the place. I pulled the car over by a little church, its thick stone walls darker where they were exposed to the rain, as if a bleak paint job had been abandoned halfway to completion. I stopped the engine. The windscreen wipers lurched once then stopped; the rain obscured the view almost instantly. It assembled and darted downwards, snaking over the glass, and fell directly onto my arm and shoulder through the open window. I opened the door.</p>\r\nFor an hour I sat reading and re-reading the email. Four years of close knit friendship and intimacy vanishing, as quickly as it had arrived. I knew we’d been having problems. I knew that recently we felt like something jarred, went against us.\r\nPlatonic, we called it, and we celebrated it. Friendship and love finely balanced; our great achievement. Had the balance been tipped? The email said that it had. We believed in investment, in work. We knew it wasn’t easy to carry this off. Had our friendship really overtaken our love, really made everything awkward? When we had made love lately, it was exactly that: awkward. Like Plato himself was standing at the end of the bed, disappointed, tutting. We both seemed suddenly nervous, or just not relaxed. How this had happened, I had no idea.</p>\r\nWe’d often joked about the fact that neither of us had met the one previously. And drank to our luck at meeting someone companionable to grow old with; someone sexy, funny, sensitive, who understood what life was about, knew how to respond to the other, not instinctually, but informed, intelligently. Perhaps it was unconventional, but neither of us had wanted more than space, freedom and time. There were so many advantages; neither of us had lost our friends, neither of us became controlling or paranoid. Neither of us felt envy, insecurity, stress. We believed it was genius, practically avant-garde. Of course there were doubters, but we ignored them, called them blind, narrow-minded. But now I could hear their whispers growing louder. I read the email again.</p>\r\nI loved this garden, especially first thing, especially at this time of year, the frosted grass crunching under my slippered foot, the laurel’s green withstanding the temptation to pale, the bare-knuckled sleeping roses, silent. My ritualistic morning cigarette and tea seemed larger, a more intoxicating awakening. The tea’s steam was doubled in the cold, my warm breath doubled my smoky exhalations so I seemed descended from dragons, not a human at all.</p>\r\nEnclosed, still, far from the main road; there was little not to love about this garden. The sky was azure, today in all directions but one. To the west a weather front approached, a wandering shadow of rain clouds. It would throw sleety, icy rain, driven by a cold, bitter wind. But our garden didn’t care, the darkening clouds were far off, could not be heard, and would probably pass us by. Here everything was quiet, calm, like watching a cellist playing behind thick glass.\r\nMy dressing gown swished as I moved from room to room. The computer was firing up in the study, the kettle chugging, boiling in the kitchen, the bath running and steaming, the bed unmade. I pulled the curtains to spotlight clothes scattered across the floor. You’d left in a hurry this morning; so used to being late, I thought.\r\nWorking from home afforded me amazing observations. I used to take advantage of the empty street and play music full volume, but these days I chose the dampened serene melody of the house instead. I watched as the sun cast away the condensation on the windows, I watched the slow advance of shade. The windows intrigued me, I’d seen all seasons through these windows.</p>\r\n\r\nI knew what was expected of me from work, and had developed a system of rush and wait, rush and wait. Hammer out umpteen emails and then wait for their replies, sit and watch the weather pass. Sip tea, think of you. Such a creature of habit, you’d probably chide. But today the kettle clicked off unheeded. The bedroom remained silently untidy. The computer, after delivering your email, sat shy. I slipped into the tepid bath, the drip, drip of the tap, peer-pressuring my tear-ducts.</p>\r\nI stood for some time next to my car. The rain was heavy, intense, freezing. The car seats were getting wet. Had I really wanted this, to stand in a storm, to let it pelt me, to let it soak me? I was not dressed for it, but I didn’t care. After all, what difference did it make?</p> I quickly unbuttoned my cardigan, wet cold fingers struggling, and threw it into my car. I wound up the windows and slammed the door, then stalked into the churchyard. The gate creaked, the puddles slapped, the yew trees glistened and swayed with reverence in the strong wind, grave stones leaned, moss-strewn, letters eroded by countless days like this one.</p>\r\nI stood for a moment a few strides back from the church door, watching its cobwebbed porch being assailed by the rain. Why was I here? I’d wanted rain, storm, recklessness. And if I’d driven further, the skies would have brightened. Here the rain was heaviest, here the distance had been crossed, the horizon met. The church stood as an image I had never felt attached to. It had always been normal, mainstream, conformist, whereas I had built up a world of forerunning, of freedom. The rain did not ease, slanting quickly across the day. The church stood in front of me, I in front of it.</p>\r\nI read your email again. It was short and frank, leaving no room for questions. How could I reply to this, should I even bother? Wouldn’t it be better to wait, to talk about it tonight? Assuming you’d be coming home tonight, if at all. It said you’d seen a decline, but a sudden end in response to a slow decline just didn’t make sense. Was there someone else? Had everything you’d said you’d believed, about the nonexistence of the one, your rejection and dismissal of fate, had it all melted away in the face of some new lover? Was it all worthless? Had you strung me along, taken what you’d wanted and now intended to move on? I stared at your words. I hated them. My head was full of questions, each as ground-shattering as the last.</p>\r\n‘Why?’</p>\r\nWiping my eyes, I tore my gaze to the window. I could see the rain clouds that had seemed so distant this morning now occupying more of the pale morning sky; turbulent, wintery and dark, cold as my thoughts. I felt close to them, then; at one. Gasping, I wanted to be that storm, I wanted it to blow my anger away, wanted the wind stabbing straight through me. I had a sudden need to be on the move, to feel like you felt. I snatched up my car keys.</p>\r\nInside the church, my world of rain felt far away. Dripping wet, I could hear the tiny descent of water from my jeans, falling onto the flagstones, could feel all my clothes were soaked, heavy against my skin. I stepped forward past the aisles. A draught pulled at my senses, cooling me further, attempting to bring my blood in line with the cold nature of the heavens. All was still in the church, dim and immemorial. Images of a desert came into my mind, dry sand at the base of a coarse cross, heat, thirst, blood; but it all seemed so far removed from here. My pain, my shock, felt closer, more real. My anger kept the cold at bay, but I was beginning to calm. The unfamiliar surroundings of the village church helped me focus and force all of my questions into order, and I prepared to feed them answers standing there under the rafters.</p>\r\nThis old building, it suddenly occurred to me, held within it the same quiet as I so enjoyed in our home, but with more shadow, more space. I then felt an unpleasant sensation of being watched. Turning slowly around, a full circle, revealed no one. The altar, a golden cross, candlesticks, stained glass windows, darkly varnished, smooth benches, carpeted kneelers, bibles, musty hymnbooks, gravestones in the walls. I imagined skeletons under the floor, owls hidden in corners. The space, cold and dusty, had me. Or I had it.</p>\r\nWhy now? Was I more in love than you, had I let my love show too much? I hadn’t thought so. I had loved quietly, as you had. I had walked the wire, balancing between love and friendship. That was our quest, both of us, to avoid betrayal, heartbreak, to build trust. Maybe we had besmirched love so much its role had become languid and the balance tipped. Perhaps we’d been fooling ourselves, wrong all this time, our unconsciousness storing every sigh, desire and fear, remembering them against our will. Had it all suddenly come to the surface? Our enlightened post-modern relationship: was it always going to be one day crushed by our human nature? Should I have told you I love you? Did I want to hear you say it?</p>\r\nI began to shiver and I hugged myself for warmth. Did I have the strength to start again?</p>\r\nThe tingling of stress lightened my lungs. I resented myself, standing in a church asking questions I thought would never be asked. Again, with an uncomfortable feeling, I thought of the similarities between this church and our house. This place did not feel empty, it felt like a home; a ghostly home. This made me stop and hold my breath. Nothing moved apart from the uncontrollable beat of my heart. I could not hear the wind; I could not hear the rain. The storm had passed.</p>\r\nIn dry clothes, I sipped hot tea and lit a cigarette. I haven’t smoked inside for years. Outside of the window the afternoon sun sparkled across the garden. It had been raining here, too. The house was warm, and the neighbourhood quiet, everybody still at work. You would still be at work. Sometimes, whilst sat, waiting for tasks to present themselves to me, I would write and tell you about my day. I loaded up your email and, without any right answers, began to respond.</p>\r\nThe roads were empty. The car’s heaters smelt of burning dust. Making mechanical transitions, I looked for signs towards home, wiping drizzle from the windscreen. Bringing you into my mind I tried to put myself in your shoes. How much of this had been ideology, how desperate were we to go against the grain? I’d always hoped that ultimately, love and friendship would really be one and the same. When we first met there’d been a spark, some chemistry, something natural blossoming. Trying to govern those emotions, to liberate ourselves from control itself, from hurt and disappointment, was a mistake. The conversations, discussions, plans we had made, beliefs we share; all we’ve worked for has clouded and relinquished the oneness of us. I pulled into our street, up to our quiet house; our home. I opened the door.</p>\r\n', 'A poignant short story about the inevitable changes in a relationship', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 9, 9, 'und', 0, '<p>He has a photograph of her just before it happened: holding on tight to the handrail, looking out to sea. She’s laughing, her dark hair blowing wild in the almost gale-force wind.</p>\r\n<p></p>\r\n<p>It was the morning after their wedding. They''d caught the delayed 10 o’clock ferry and he''d paid extra for club class so they could be among the first to board and sit in the lounge. They drank the complimentary champagne despite the rough sea that turned them both pale. The girl behind the bar said she’d had worse crossings, though this wasn’t good.</p>\r\n<p></p>\r\n<P>Going on deck was his idea. At least if it sinks we’ll have a better chance, he joked. They held onto the backs of seats and tables as the rhythm of the sea made them walk, then run, walk, then run.  Through the restaurant, cutlery and glasses slid one way, then the other.<p/>\r\n<p></p>\r\nThey had to push the door to the deck open together. Then they laughed as they ducked and ran to the handrail, the salty spray coming in bursts.\r\n<p></p> \r\nWhen they looked over the side, it was hard to imagine anyone loving the ocean.\r\n<p></p>\r\nHe took his camera from his pocket, lined her up and pressed the shutter. Then something hot hit the side of her face and she screamed. He ran to her, wiping the slimy, stinking mess from her cheek.\r\n<p></p>\r\n''He’s been sick on me,'' she sobbed. ''That man’s been sick on me.''\r\n', 'Funny piece of flash fiction where a couple take a memorable ferry trip…', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 10, 10, 'und', 0, '<p>If you’re like me, then you woke up one morning, turned on the news, and found a war suddenly underway. But when did this conflict in Mali actually begin?\r\nWe know it started with French intervention but when did they intervene? And why?</p> \r\n<p>The media doesn’t offer many answers, but the does keep us up to date with developments. Before we knew it, we’d gone from brief breakfast bulletins about French troops in Mali to lengthy reports on the six o’clock news about hostages and terrorist situations.</P>\r\n<p></p> \r\n<p>How did we get into this mess?</p> \r\n<p>If you consider the flow of events as a line of dominoes, it perhaps becomes easier to comprehend it all: Malian coup d’état, French intervention to help failing government, terrorists take hostages - including Brits, UK steps in with special forces.</p> \r\n<p>However, the enlightening question is not which dominoes have fallen but who actually put the dominoes there?</p>\r\n<p></p> \r\n<p>From the arrival of French troops in Mali on 11th of January to the first editions of UK newspapers on the 21st – a period of just 10 days – the situation went from being regional politics to the Prime Minister declaring, “this is a global threat and it will require a global response.”</p> \r\n<p>Do not be under any illusion that this is a natural flow of events with governments responding appropriately to each situation. On the contrary, the dominoes have been strategically placed by the powers that be to ensure these events occur.</p> \r\n<p></p>\r\n<p>How do we know this was all planned? One thing is for sure: the government will never release the Whitehall papers which show their cunning work. However, some deductions can be made, thanks to the press. Just days before French troops landed in Mali, the UK government, alongside other European and world governments, warned their citizens to leave the country.</p> \r\n<p>Asking ‘why?’ about everything and anything helps lead to the answers. Why would western governments (fore)warn their citizens to abandon Mali? The worst fighting of the Malian coup d’état took place over 6 months earlier and they weren’t asked to leave then. Is it perhaps because they were about to step up the game?</p> \r\n<p></p>\r\n<p>On the topic of ‘why’: why would governments in the developed world want to send their troops to Mali? The answer lies in the word which begins with M and ends in Y. It is the blood of our economy, without it we die; when it’s ill, the economists give it fiscal medicine. That word is ‘money''. Our economy lies at the core of our political system. That means business, economics and politics are all interlinked.</p> War is a political discourse, yet a profitable business for many, especially for large supply and service firms, such as Halliburton and Aegis. Halliburton in the period 2003 – 2006 alone profited $17.2 billion in Iraq-war related revenue. The British company Aegis sees an ongoing supply of income through its security contracts in Iraq.\r\n<p></p>\r\n<p>With the troops out of Iraq and the end in sight for the war in Afghanistan, it seems the profit margins of these big corporations are set to shrink rapidly. \r\nHave no fear – allow the politicians to step in. When David Cameron said, on the 21st of January, “This is a global threat and it will require a global response. It will require a response that is about years, even decades, rather than months," he laid the necessary foundations to begin building a war on terror in Africa which will last yet another decade.</p>\r\n<p></p>\r\nSo, bring the battles in Iraq and Afghanistan to an end but don’t stop the war. Just move it to another location and that way profits will continue to be reaped. \r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n', 'An analysis of what has spurred the West to get so hurriedly involved in the conflict in Mali.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 11, 11, 'und', 0, '<p>The Janny asked to meet me for brunch in the Go-Slow Café on Victoria Road. Not a great location. So, my first internet date was to be in an area known for its stabbings, its pound shops and its pit bulls – with a janny.</p>\r\n<p>It was hard to know what to wear. It’s a date, yes, but it’s also the morning, in a place resembling Hiroshima on one fateful 1945 day, and it’s with a janny.</p><p> I wonder what a janny looks for in a woman? Well, what does a woman look for in a man? Certainly not a janny, that’s for sure.</p>\r\n<p>We were meeting outside Queens Park station. He was there first, so I had a clear view as I walked down Victoria Road. I was horrified when I caught sight of him. He had a hump-back. Oh God, now I’ll always be known as Hump-Backed Janny Lover. As I got closer, I realised he was not deformed; he was just wearing a bomber jacket, and was all hunched up against the cold.\r\nWe introduced ourselves and shook hands. I wasn’t sure about the etiquette here, but is it normal to shake hands on a date? I thought not, but neither would it have felt normal to clasp the bomber-jacketed Janny in an affectionate hug or give him a peck on the cheek.</p> \r\nHe seemed very nervous, which was good for me as it meant I could act all calm and superior. After all, I’m not the awkward Janny in the bomber jacket. \r\nHe clapped his hands together and stamped his feet and we talked about the cold. Then it dawned on him we were supposed to be on a date, so he said ‘Well, shall we?’ and we started off down Victoria Road to the café.\r\n This was only my first internet date but I knew that the Janny and I weren’t going to hit it off. People say you must be patient, get to know someone bla bla bla, but I say ‘go with your instinct’, and that you can usually tell within the first few minutes. After all, first impressions count and my  first impression of this guy was ‘deformed janny’. It’ll take a lot for him to come back from that.\r\n<p>As we struggled down an icy Victoria Road he made painful attempts to start a conversation. It was a Saturday morning and the road was packed with shoppers and known-criminals. Everyone was jostling one another, trying to avoid the slush and the Big Issue sellers, so it was hard to get a conversation started. We both tried and were shouting ‘what?’, ‘I didn’t catch that…’ when I suddenly stopped. He looked at me, nervous.</p>\r\n      ‘I think we’ve walked past the café,’ I said.</p>\r\n He looked agonised, so I took over and headed us back down the road.\r\nWe finally sat down in the Go Slow, and ordered a latte each. (As he took his bomber jacket off, I gave him a cheeky glance to make sure he was definitely not a hump-back.) He also ordered a bacon roll with tomato sauce. I’d have loved the same, but it was unthinkable to eat a roll on a first date. Grease. Crumbs. Neon smears of sauce. Too risky. \r\n<p>The painful start-stop of conversation resumed. He asked me questions and it began to feel like an interview, but he was no Jeremy Paxman. So, we had strayed into something like ‘What are your hobbies and interests? List them for me, and show your workings.’ I would answer, and just as I tried to ask him the same, ie. draw him into a conversation, he would launch into Question No. 2, something like ‘How long have you been on the dating site, and what do you hope to achieve by this? Answer with reference to three novels you have studied this term.’</p>\r\n My spirits were low, and sank even further when his bacon roll appeared and I was deliciously assaulted by the smell of crackly bacon. I think it was at this point that I gave up and resigned myself to being interviewed and making a decent exit. I stirred my coffee and wondered how soon I could leave.\r\n<p>He asked me what bands I like. Not being 12, I thought this was just a silly question, so I turned it back on him.</p>\r\n  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s hard to say, but the best gig I’ve been to. I mean – like – the best. Do you know who it was?’\r\n <p>I admitted I hadn’t the faintest idea and stirred my coffee harder.</p>\r\n    ‘The best gig has to be Rolf Harris.’\r\n<p>For the first time, he had actually caught my attention. I looked at him. The phone vibrated in my bag. I knew it’d be rude to check it, but I needed a distraction. ‘Eh, tell me about Rolf Harris,’ I said and dipped into my bag. It was a funny text from my sister, asking me if I was still out with the weird janitor guy. I shoved my phone away and looked across at him. I was smiling, and he smiled too, no doubt thinking I was impressed with his talk of didgeridoos.</p>\r\n Suddenly, the café door opened and a blast of cold air came in. I put my coat on for warmth.\r\n<p>The Janny eventually stopped talking and scratched his ear. I mean really scratched it. He actually put his coffee cup down so he could devote his full strength and attention to it. His pinky was right in there, working away.</p> \r\n   ‘Funny to think it’s still morning,’ I said.\r\n    <p>‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It’ll be afternoon now.’</p>\r\n As we clearly had nothing else to talk about, I picked up the ball and ran with it. ‘No, I bet it’s still morning. Here, I’ll check.’ I lifted my bag back onto my knee and dug my phone out. I checked the time. ‘See? 11.58. Still morning.’\r\n  <p>He shrugged. ‘So it is.’</p>\r\n Then I had a stroke of genius. I’ve got my coat on. Now I’ve lifted my bag onto my knee. I’ve remarked on the time. It can’t possibly be clearer that the date is over, can it? Is there anything else I can do to nudge us out the door? Then I remembered…his love of ‘equality’.\r\n  <p>‘You must let me pay my share,’ I announced and put some coins on the table.</p>\r\n<p></p>\r\n \r\nThere can be no clearer sign: the date is over. He took the hint – and my money – and pulled his bomber jacket on. We parted at Queens Park station with not even a handshake. I gave him a nod and flounced off home.\r\n', 'An extract from a blog about internet dating which appears weekly in HeraldScotland.com and is soon to be published by Blasted Heath.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 12, 12, 'und', 0, '<strong>October</strong>\r\n\r\n<p>And in comes October<br>\r\nDrooling the first winter tragedies<br>\r\nWith a wink<br>\r\nAnd a crooked grin<br>\r\nOf old gravestone teeth.<br>\r\nThe heating breaks<br>\r\nAnd the hot water stops<br>\r\nAnd our breath taunts us<br>\r\nIn the air of our bedroom<br>\r\nAnd his claws come out.<br>\r\nBut still we laugh<br>\r\nSurrounded by candles<br>\r\nAnd wrapped in blankets<br>\r\nWith books and songs<br>\r\nFor we recognized<br>\r\nHis tattered outfit<br>\r\nBefore we met his eyes<br>\r\nAnd made sure<br>\r\nTo make sure<br>\r\nHe would have to come<br>\r\nAgain.</p>\r\n<p><br><br><br><br></p>\r\n<strong>Redemption</strong>\r\n\r\n<p>You take her supermarket flowers<br>\r\nLike they tell you to<br>\r\nAnd on the way<br>\r\nShe calls<br>\r\n“It’s over”<br>\r\nAnd you throw them to the floor<br>\r\nStamp on them <br>\r\nAnd finally<br>\r\nThey look beautiful.</p>\r\n', 'Two vivid poems with very contrasting styles but with equal punch.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 13, 13, 'und', 0, '<p><i>Warm Bodies</i> by Isaac Marion</p>\r\n<p>Zombies are great. I love zombie horror films, and The Walking Dead is the best thing going right now. So as soon as I heard about <i>Warm Bodies</i>, I knew I had to read it. More so because it''s zombies on the flip side.</p>\r\n\r\n<p>R is a zombie, a first person narrator, and an all-thinking zombie. He doesn''t know how it happened, and he doesn''t remember his name, but he does know that he doesn''t like this kind of living.</p> On a foraging mission to find some living food, he kills a young man and eats part of his brain. The next thing he does is save a human girl, Julie. The result is a relationship without precedent as the two try to figure out a way to co-exist in a world that is falling apart. Meanwhile, R seems to be connecting with the soul of the young man whose brain he has eaten, and so becomes a zombie both inwardly and outwardly conflicted.</p>\r\n\r\nI didn''t think it could happen, but apparently it is possible to be attracted to a zombie. R is thoughtful, and charming, and the reader is easily pulled into his nostalgia for living life. His passion and desire for all his good intentions is heart-warming. But, being a zombie, he''s still distanced from complete human life. Watching R change and grow through the book was exciting and nerve-racking: I wanted so badly for him to cope and to be understood.\r\n\r\n<p>Julie, the main human focus of the novel, annoyed me at first. Initially, I couldn''t put my finger on it, but I really think that it''s because I was so close to R and his world view that I was frustrated when Julie didn''t understand him and that she wasn''t treating him the way he deserved to be treated. That''s quite a testament to an author, to have a reader so keen on a protagonist, especially so early in the novel. She grew on me though, and the difference between her personality and R''s was often nothing short of adorable.\r\n\r\n<p>Isaac Marion has created a modern fairytale, a ''what-if'' scenario in a world that might not be too far off our own. <i>Warm Bodies</i> is written like Marion had a great time writing it and it often feels like he enjoyed creating R''s story as much as I enjoyed reading it.</p> <p>Zombies, decay, and death, and yet I closed the book with the fuzziest contentment.</p>', 'A review of the novel, Warm Bodies, which has now been released as a feature film.', 'full_html');
INSERT INTO `truefield_data_body` VALUES
('node', 'article', 0, 14, 14, 'und', 0, '<p><i>Metamorphosis</i> at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith</p>\r\n<p>Four years on from its original run at the Lyric, Gísli Örn Garðarsson and David Farr’s innovative and daring adaptation of Franz Kafka’s tale has returned from an international tour to its long-awaited homecoming.<br> Moving, intelligent, gravity-defying and laugh-out-loud funny, this piece may be short but it assails its audience with conflicting emotions, and possesses an intriguing focus and powerful pulse.</p>\r\nFrom the curtain-up, the set alone renders this show captivating. Designer Börkur Jónsson has done a superb job of creating Garðarsson and Farr’s vision on stage, as Gregor’s room is rotated in comparison with the room below to allow the audience a fly-on-the-wall view. As the tilted angle becomes apparent, the mind-bending perspectives of the two rooms enhances the contrast between the ‘normal’ and the bizarre – between a world with which the family can cope, and that which they cannot comprehend. It soon becomes apparent that Garðarsson is one of those almost sickeningly talented types, as not only has he adapted and directed the work, but he also utterly steals the show on stage.</p> His portrayal of Gregor, the man who wakes up one morning as a mysterious, apparently bug-like creature, is sensitive and engrossing, but also incredibly impressive in its gymnastic feats. As Garðarsson crawls around the sides of the set, hanging from walls and leaping from table to wall to window, his creeping, uncomfortable movements retain a natural and poignant humanity; the ease with which he appears to sit on his bed almost tricks us into forgetting that in fact this man is clinging to a vertical wall – the realisation elicits gasps from the enthralled audience. This is a perfect example of acting and staging working in perfect harmony; the attention to detail is delightful, and enables the figure of Gregor to evoke simultaneous warmth and discomfort. There is something so enchanting in the skill involved, yet a constant prickle on the back of the neck betrays the darker, threatening note which steadily increases throughout.<br> The decision to keep Gregor looking and sounding human to the audience – although his transformation is apparent in the reactions of others – is pivotal to the adaptation’s potency, as his marginalisation and rejection are all the more disturbing and touching. Kafka’s themes of persecution are powerfully present, without the political parallels feeling forced.</p>\r\nOf course, this is not a one-man show, and Garðarsson is ably supported by an accomplished cast. His bewildered parents provide many of the laughs, as Kelly Hunter and Ingvar E. Sigurðsson make the most of the comedic potential of their roles. Yet the humour never goes too far as to dilute the unnerving heart of the work, and on the whole the two balance their respective mischievousness and pomposity with a credible struggle to come to terms with their new reality.<br> Their performances are somewhat less nuanced than their co-stars, but the coupling provides a solid basis for the bizarre occurrences and conflicting emotions which emerge.<br> As events descend into the more traditionally and farcically comic with the arrival of Herr Fischer, the intelligent staging is once again apparent. As Fischer (Jonathan McGuinness) struts and flirts in his white suit, the pitiful figure of Gregor above is subtly bathed in a sickly green light, ensuring his agonising presence is not forgotten.</p> Rather disappointing, however, is Fischer’s reaction at Gregor’s sudden appearance: Garðarsson’s spectacular entrance into the bottom half of the set seems underserving of such a flat ending to the episode as Fischer’s exit, which appears anti-climactic, the aftermath unexplored.</p>\r\nDriving the progress of the plot towards tragedy is Greta, played by the highly adaptable Nina Dögg Filippusdóttir. Her progression from girlish innocence to controlling and decisive maturity is genuinely shocking and uncomfortable – particularly evident as violent white light silhouettes her abuse of her brother – although the changes in clothing were perhaps a little unsubtle. The code of soft-coloured skirts and cardigans for ‘innocent Greta’ and monochrome, severe suit and boots for ‘manipulative Greta’ threatens to undermine the nuances of Filippusdóttir’s portrayal of what Farr has described as the most fascinating character. However, her depiction of the role by and large manages to avoid the trap of such unsubtleties, adequately presenting the simultaneous potential for love and for ruthlessness which lies in this character – as Farr points out in an interview, the question of how good people can carry out seemingly terrible acts is a resonant one, and something which pervades this work with little hope for an easy answer.</p>\r\nThis production grips hold of its audience and refuses to let go. The lack of an interval is in fact welcome as the tension is held throughout, evident by the absolute focus of this audience, populated as it was by several school groups. The final tableau is reached deliberately, almost tortuously, and is incredibly moving in its duality of serenity and tragedy. Complimented by a unobtrusive yet effective soundtrack, it is fitting that an impressive display of aerial silks forms the main feature of the show’s climax. I’m sure it is Garðarsson’s physical performance that will be remembered by many for years to come. However, it is also the vision and the intensity of this production that will linger with audiences.</p> It seems certain to me that these 85 minutes of theatre will not stray easily from the mind.</p>\r\n<i>Metamorphosis</i> is playing at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith, until 16th Feb</P>\r\n', 'An insightful review of The Lyric’s current production of Kafka’s <i>Metamorphosis</i>\r\n', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 15, 15, 'und', 0, '<strong> The Drive Back</strong>\r\n\r\n<p>Drive back with me, in the country night<br>		\r\nUnder a supermoon (or so they say)<br>		\r\nChasing the path of an owl in flight<br>		\r\nIt’s a long road, and you are on my way.<br>\r\n<p><br></p>		\r\n\r\nSpring May is nearly summer June<br>		\r\nWe light up two forest rabbits, a hare<br>		\r\nYou drive us down through the trees, and this time the moon<br>  \r\nHangs there, slicing the hot night, arms legs bare.<br>\r\n<p><br></p>\r\nI drop you, pedal safe passage over the hills<br>	\r\nKill the full beam behind a polecat in the lane<br>\r\nWindow wound down, head full of wonder, love and thrills<br>	\r\nWholly consumed with when I will see you again.</p>\r\n', 'A poem about the first touch of love', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 16, 16, 'und', 0, '<p>I was jogging in the field not far from our house trying to lose a bit of weight when it happened.</p> It was a pretty evening and it was quiet. The grass was bleached golden by the sun as my feet prodded into the turf and I made my way up the hill. I felt my MP3 in my hand and my front door key jangling in the pocket of my shorts as a bead of sweat gathered above my eye.<br> Ahead of me the sun bled through clouds and made a wall of light on the milky horizon. The trees rattled around  in the breeze and dropped twigs before the calm settled in.<br> A fox darted into the bushes and it felt like the world was standing still and waiting for the warm night to settle in.<br> For a minute it made me forget my breathlessness and my heavy calves and brittle knees pressing into the soft ground. It was like scenery that couldn’t be undone. A setting that had always been there. Something pure.</p> I noticed a man and his son with a football in the goal across from me. I was tracing the perimeter, circling the dad and his son in the middle. The breeze returned and sent a flutter through my shirt and blew my hair across my forehead. My eyelids were frail and stinging from the salty sweat and then I remembered that I’d left my bottle of water from the fridge on the side in the kitchen.</p>\r\n	It made a sound like the end of the world. It didn’t fall or drift down from the sky. It just exploded out of the trees and roared like horrible thunder.  The nose of the plane smashed a deep trench hard into the middle of the field before the incredible explosion of hard red flame and thick smoke made it all disappear. I could smell jet fuel as the sound of the plane tearing through the skyline reverberated in my head. The mass of machinery.</p> I never saw a single person or heard a human cry. The father and son had never been there. Never been anywhere. The football pitches were blackened \r\n\r\ngrooves in the soft fields cut out for the machine’s final resting place.</p> I see the fields now on a cold day made of stone with the memorial littered with pale flowers and brown leaves and can never really imagine how it used to look before.</p>', 'Flash fiction as a peaceful day’s exercise is horribly interrupted.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 17, 17, 'und', 0, 'The ink of my newly penned New Year resolutions has barely dried, and already I’m being bombarded by that most dreaded of holidays, Valentine’s Day. Christmas is still warm on the commercial operating table, yet Valentine''s is already creeping into the waiting room of the bereaved like some sort of hideous organ harvester.</p> Unless you have a geniune reason to celebrate Valentine''s Day, it’s a holiday that sucks. On a scale of sucking I’d put it somewhere in between <i>Spiderman 3 </i>and <i>The Room</i>. So, if you are considering taking your beau to the cinema this Valentine’s, just don’t because unless, like me, they enjoy seeing Bruce Willis yipie-kay-aying some unsavoury mother-truckers, the chances are you’re both going to be disappointed.</p>\r\n\r\nThe last decade hasn’t been great for Valentine releases, which begs the question <i>why</i>? Surely someone moderately sensible would have thought about it, put two and two together, and come up with something good? Who thought that <i>Daredevil</i>, <i>Star Wars The Phantom Menace 3D</i>, or - God help us - Justin Bieber’s <i>Never Say Never</i>, would have the loved-up public flocking to the cinema? Who could fail to envisage a romantic evening watching <i>Inside Deep Throat</i> (yes its about porn) or <i>Final Destination 3</i>? The notion it seems, of a good romantic film on Valentine’s Day has definitely escaped the powers that be.</p>\r\n\r\nThankfully, all is not lost: if you fancy a-wooing with a good film you’re spoilt for choice as long as you step back a few years. There are so many fantastic romantic films out there to choose from and here are just some of the best:</p>\r\n\r\n<strong>When Harry Met Sally </strong>(1989)</p>\r\nBilly Crystal, Meg Ryan and <i>that</i> diner scene. A film about how sex can make or break a friendship, and how it very nearly does. One of Norah Ephron’s greatest screenplays. </p>\r\n\r\n\r\n<strong>Annie Hall</strong> (1979)</p>\r\nThe ever neurotic comedian Alvy Singer (Woody Allen) falls madly in love with equally ditsy Annie Hall (Diane Keaton). A testament to love in 70s New York and a very nervous romance indeed.</p>\r\n\r\n<strong>Say Anything </strong>(1989)</p>\r\nIone Sky stars as the lovely valedictorian with John Cusack. They fall in love over the summer before she starts college. A great film  from the trench coat, the ghetto blaster and the line "I want to be with your daughter. I’m good at it."</p>\r\n\r\n<strong>You’re Got Mail </strong>(1998)</p>\r\nAnother Norah Ephron classic. Two business rivals, Joe Fox and Kathleen Kelly (Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan), hate each other but fall for one other over the internet. Thank god for AOL and a good book.</p>\r\n\r\n<strong>Pretty in Pink</strong> (1986)</p>\r\nThe choices poor Molly Ringwald has to make! Who to choose? The rich boy Blane (Andrew McCarthy), or childhood sweetheart with amazing hair Duckie (John Cryer). Did I mention the superb soundtrack?</p>\r\n\r\n<strong>As Good As It Gets </strong>(1997)</p>\r\n“I might be the only person on the face of the Earth that knows you’re the greatest woman on the Earth”. Grumpy author Jack Nicholson, sassy waitress Helen Hunt, and gay artist Greg Kinnear make this a rom-com classic. </p>\r\n\r\n<strong>An Affair To Remember</strong> (1957)</p>\r\nFrom Europe back to NYC by sea, Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant fall in love, and vow to meet each other six months later at the Empire State Building (Sleepless in Seattle fans will love this). Cue a heart wrenching plot twist, and a film widely considered to be one of the most romantic.</p>\r\n\r\n<strong> Notting Hill</strong> (1999)</p>\r\nEveryone loves 90s Hugh Grant with his flustering and his floppy hair, and Notting Hill does not disappoint. He owns a book shop, Julia Roberts is the famous film actress on location, and a relationship develops in amongst Grant‘s oddball crew of friends. Written by Richard Curtis and featuring a stellar British cast, it’s a Valentine‘s staple.</p>\r\n\r\n<strong>City Lights</strong> (1931)</p>\r\nBefore you roll your eyes at a silent film, give it a chance. Chaplin plays the Tramp who goes through all manners of misadventures to give a blind girl her eyesight back. The fact there’s no dialogue is so worth those last final minutes when the two are reunited, and the look on Chaplin’s face when she realises who he is, is priceless.</p> \r\n\r\n<strong> WALL-E </strong>(2008)</p>\r\nDon’t laugh. I have a soft spot for animated films, and this Pixar great is no exception. WALL-E is a little robot with a pet cockroach, designed to clean up Earth and make it habitable again. He falls in love with robot EVE and they go on adventures through the universe, changing the destiny of man. </p>\r\n\r\n<strong>Amélie </strong>(2001)</p>\r\nFor those sophisticated international film buffs, or lovers of Audrey Tautou. Amélie is all about a lonely waitress with a big imagination discovering love and doing good to those around her. In French with subtitles, it won 4 César awards, including Best Film. Why not opt for this French fancy.</p>\r\n\r\n<strong>Jerry Maguire</strong> (1996)</p>\r\nPre-crazy Tom Cruise stars as a high-flying sports agent. He also ends up falling for Renee Zellweger, and the film contains possibly one of the most recognisable quotes all time - “Shut up, just shut up. You had me at hello!”</p>\r\n\r\n<strong>The Ghost and Mrs Muir </strong>(1947)</p>\r\nHaving had enough of her insufferable in-laws, young widower Lucy Muir (Gene Tierney) finds a new lease of life in Gull Cottage. However, the cottage also comes with the ghost of Captain Daniel Gregg (Rex Harrison) and together they make quite the unlikely duo. Then, children''s author Miles Fairley (George Sanders) comes to town. If you don’t cry at the end then we’ll presume you have no soul.</p>\r\n', 'A witty take on the best romantic films for Valentine’s Day', 'filtered_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 18, 18, 'und', 0, '<p>Three weeks after returning to the abandoned townhouse in the village of my birth I dreamt of a horned devil in a high castle throwing babies down alternating tubes after tapping their foreheads with a blackened claw and intoning one or other catechism: <i>Alone. Not alone. Alone. Not alone.</i> I understood then that all the euphemisms we make about one’s course through life, our talk of a balance between talents and failings and sorrow and joy, were all conscious or unconscious lies, and the truth was as William Blake had recognised it two hundred years ago in his poem ‘Auguries of Innocence’: <i>Some are born to sweet delight/Some are born to endless night.</i> </p>\r\n	I wouldn’t have seen it any other way of course, being at a point where I felt that the delight had tipped some time ago and the endless night was only just beginning. I’d been living and studying in London for four years, and for the last six months of those I had barely gone out, getting my food from the Sainsbury’s website, living off freelance editing and the Amazon sale of review copies. I had got into political blogging during that time, and had had fun, but the constant point-scoring and intellectual one-upmanship depressed me; the world of progressive politics was a cold second childhood of mockery and derison, and I reverted to writing long pieces about romantic poetry and different aspects of romantic love.</p>\r\n	Eventually, money and fear drove me onto a first-class train passage bought with the last two hundred on my credit card. I never thought returning to the old town would cure me completely; in fact it made me worse. I believed then that I would be there the rest of my life, for not only had the National Government driven people like me from the cities (the cities of England were now machines working towards the appeasement of the capricious volcano god of the deficit) I was now incapable of commuting by bus to Stockport or by train to Piccadilly without going through borderline psychotic panic attacks. Halfway down to the Bowl there was a train station with services to Yorkshire, one of the few places I could contemplate without fear. As a kid, I’d see these trains come and go beneath the bridge, and I knew that if I could handle myself in the tramlined streets of the seven hills I could work my way back to Hyde Park, get a job at the Brudenell Social or the Picture House, there to read and drink and live anonymously and die happily. But these days I could go nowhere near this bridge. Any irregular degree of altitude or angle made me want to scream. How good stasis must be. A house of ordered lines. Linear pathways to the job and the pub. I wanted two dimensionality over anything and everything else.</p>\r\nI recognised my state as that of paranoid anxiety, something external, the result of drugs and booze, overwork and undersleep, but the head and the heart are very different organisms. For food and wine I staggered around, dazed and scattered, through the tiny precinct in the last hours of light. In the evenings I had the Facebook newsfeed on for hours, drawing strength from the evidence that the people I’d known in cities were still out there, drinking and watching movies and playing in bands; I wandered through the bookshelves of the big house trying to find a book that would bring comfort and carry me down to sleep; I usually settled on Elizabeth Wurtzel or Martin Millar or Stephen King. I needed to know about good things, of positivity and love, people who were into things cute and silly and had no money but enjoyed life nevertheless on the ragged alternative edges of the cities and who risked pretension and weakness, yet still had the strength to reject the cynicism of the wider world. I believed that people were coming for me in cars.</p>\r\n	Still, one must face one’s fears, and towards the year’s end I began to run and work out again and got a job in the pub nearest to my house and got another job doing part time data entry for some estate agent on what passed for our high street and got into the habit of walking down to the Bowl and up the Curve to the pubs that my old gang had used as a child. Most of them were still around, some had got married and actually bought property in this town or ones like it. I was friendly enough at these times and bought loads of rounds; I wore Paul Smith shirts and ironed jeans and a Thai silk scarf given to me by my father; words tumbled out of me and formed sentences like birds falling into flight formation as they are kicked out of the nest; it’s still a source of pride to me that I looked so good and carried myself with style. For if you don’t have looks and style, what do you have?</p>\r\n	‘So, did it not work out for you in London, then?’ This was a small blond runt who was now teaching in a secondary school and engaged to some fool from central Stockport.</p>\r\n‘Well, it worked out for a while, and then, really suddenly, it didn’t.’ Again, my tone was jovial enough and so were the feelings behind it. The hate I’d felt for these people had been exhausted long ago. All I felt these days was terror and relief.</p>\r\n	The talk skipped on to other topics and I tuned into the chat of a married man who had been my best friend when we were younger. We shared pretty much the same interests in music and books and games and would talk late into the night in pubs and on parks. I’d looked down on him in recent years, first for fucking his degree and then for buying that place in fucking New Mills with April Barrington, but then my own situation – broke, alone, riddled with anxieties and regret and running from real and imagined enemies – didn’t exactly recommend the road I’d walked.</p>\r\n	‘So where do you see yourself in the next ten years?’ April asked me now.</p>\r\n	‘Christ knows, honey. I don’t know even where I’ll be in ten days. Hand to mouth, baby, that’s where it’s at.’</p> \r\n	‘Okay then.’ This was a small blonde girl with buck teeth who all the men of the group lusted after for some reason. ‘How about all of us? Where do you see all of us in ten years?’</p>\r\n	‘I see you as a Cheshire woman. Playing golf. Wearing Laura Ashley. Occasionally having sex with waiters and barmen.’</p>\r\n	April cut in before she could answer. ‘And me? Where do you see me?’</p>\r\n	‘I don’t know. Maybe you will own that residential home company. I just see you and Harry continuing to be this positive unifying force of the group.’</p>\r\n	‘I always thought that you would write the book of the group,’ April told me.</p> \r\n	As the year turned and lightened I developed a habit of meeting up with April on Friday or Saturday nights and having a platonic pint. I would walk across the bridge I had walked across so often as a child. I could see the Yorkshire train over the craggy rim of the bridge. At some point, just after the clock change, I got on it.</p>\r\n', 'A scathing short story on returning to the old home town, to see the old familiar faces', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 19, 19, 'und', 0, '<p><strong> Smoke Signals</strong><br>\r\n<br><br>\r\nThose nowhere days at the dog-end of a year,<br>\r\nOn which I have inhaled deeply even though,<br>\r\nIt sometimes made me cough.<br>\r\n<br><br>\r\n\r\nMarch lit the match and hope smouldered,<br>\r\nIn April''s fancy ashtray waiting for,<br>\r\nThe long hot summer which never came.<br>\r\n<br><br>\r\n\r\nThe pungent fumes of self doubt made me green,<br>\r\nWith choking paranoia until a window opened,<br>\r\nLetting in a sharp draught of words,<br>\r\n<br><br>\r\n\r\nWhich mingled with the madness, painting<br>\r\nOn the smokescreens a mirror of my insanity,<br>\r\nClearing the air.<br>\r\n<br><br>\r\n\r\nNow the wind howls and the lighter won''t spark,<br>\r\nAnd I wait in the wintry dark, nervously toying,<br>\r\nWith the pristine filter of the New Year.</p>', 'An evocative poem on the passing of the seasons, and the change of our mood with them', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 20, 20, 'und', 0, '<p><br><br></p>\r\nsummer storm exhales<br>\r\nthe bee and butterfly stretch<br>\r\nlimb and wing to air<br>\r\n<br><br>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\ncarelessly<br>\r\nbeer suds spill<br>\r\non a barmaid’s hand<br>\r\n<br><br>\r\n\r\n\r\ndarting<br>\r\nbetween leaves<br>\r\nblue rain<br>\r\n<br><br>\r\n\r\n\r\nrippling air<br>\r\nthe cocooned butterfly<br>\r\nhears sky<br>\r\n<br><br>\r\n\r\n\r\nthe cat’s eye<br>\r\nopens softly<br>\r\nscreaming suspicion<br>\r\n<br><br>\r\n\r\n\r\nbefore bedtime<br>\r\nthe parents play<br>\r\nthe waiting game<br>\r\n', 'A selection of haiku poems. Using a minimum of words to evoke clear image and sensation', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 21, 21, 'und', 0, '<p>Although I fancy myself as <i>Rachael Pells, Strong Independent Woman Traveller Extraordinaire</i>, I do have a weakness. Just one, mind:  and a perfectly respectable weakness at that. I require tea. A good, proper English brew: splash of milk, nice and strong, no sugar, thanks. Like many, I drink tea as if it were going out of fashion, and depend upon that first morning cuppa like Juliet does her Romeo.</p>\r\nWhen I moved to Mexico last week for a newspaper placement/ travelling mega-fun, I came pretty prepared for the tea drought. In my suitcase - much too large to ever be included in that hip group known as ´backpackers´ - I may have forgotten a few vital things such as toothpaste and a plug converter, but I did bring 100 Yorkshire Teabags. For proper British tea. Now, I knew that 100 teabags would not nearly be enough to last me the whole trip, or even the first month, but I had a plan to ration them. One hit a day, before gradually weaning myself off them and embracing the more readily available Mexican version of mint leaves and tepid water.</p>\r\nBut it wasn´t that easy. Oh, no. </p>\r\nI´m staying with a retired couple and their crazy dogs in a house which is pleasant and has a roof-terrace (albeit decorated with dog shit and cannibis plants.) The latter may explain why, as I sit writing this, Flacco the dog is attempting to swallow his entire leg whole. The shower consists of a series of pipes which run across the roof and down into the bathroom to either scald or freeze the victim, depending on the weather. These things are all perfectly charming- I can live with them. But <i>there is no kettle</i>.</p>,\r\nEvery morning I am offered a cup of coffee, which,, in turn I offer to my plant. I wait with great anticipation to see whether the plant will die or turn into some kind of pimped up Super Plant. The kitchen belongs very much to my host, Rosita. To demand she boil up my bag of Yorkshire goodness would be rude, no matter how desperate I am.</p>\r\nTwo nights ago, the couple went out to visit some family and I seized my chance.</p>\r\nStepping into the kitchen with that mixture of guilt, fear and excitement that only a ten year old embarking on a midnight feast might understand, I inspected my available weapons. How to boil the water? All pots had remnants of food left in them for later. I could tip out some coffee and use that pan? But then the gas switch… which dial would create a flame and which would turn me into ash? Besides all this, what if the taste of coffee remains and ruins my already tainted cup? What is this <i>casa de simplico</i> is actually all a facade and they have a power shower tucked away at the back along with a hub of CCTV cameras hidden in the fruitbowl, watching my every move?</p>\r\nIt was all too much. I retreated and admit defeat for now. I sit with a cup of hot water, watching silly little Mexican dogs get high and I accept my detox. Of course, there´s always Flacco´s choice of herb if I fancy a good gnaw on my own leg for comfort.</p>\r\n\r\n \r\n', 'The first in a series of ‘postcards’ from our fearless girl in Mexico', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 22, 22, 'und', 0, '<p><strong>A Vocation Is Hard Work</strong><p/>\r\n\r\nWhen I''m asked what I do and I answer by saying that I''m writing a PhD in English literature, the next question is usually about what I will do afterwards, with that qualification that allows me to put ''Dr'' in front of my name? The implication is that if someone is still in education as they enter their 30s, the rewards must be worth it. Acutely aware that hearing someone talk about their PhD is not the most riveting of subjects, I sometimes say I want to lecture and make it sound like the PhD is just a kind of practical training for that job. Sometimes I actually pretend not to know what I want to do afterwards, and usually people respond positively by admiring my desire to retain the purity of learning for the sake of learning.</p> \r\n<p></p>\r\n\r\nBut I am lying. Neither of these answers is true. But neither is entirely false, either. In truth, the reality is some messy amalgamation of both, hard to pin down with any clarity. Because it is true that I would like to gain a lectureship at a university when I finish my PhD, but the very nature of the work means that no-one would undertake it for purely practical reasons. A PhD is (usually) three years researching a question you have set for yourself, with the possibility that the question will morph endlessly and lead you to play catch-up for those three years, or even that you may never satisfactorily actually answer it. This would be a lot less daunting if you didn''t have to turn in a document of some 100,000 words after those three years, and then defend what you''ve written verbally, in person, to a panel of experts. When those who ask me about the PhD say “You must really like reading books!” they are asking a much more existential question than they realise.</p> \r\n\r\nBut actually there is no reason to think that my two answers are mutually exclusive. In fact I like reading books so much that I want to carry on doing it after the PhD. It seems like common sense to say that loving something and wanting to do it for an extended period of time (usually a career) go together. By contrast it seems rather perverse, not to say cruel, to suggest that someone should do something they love for three or four years and then abruptly give it up and settle for a career they don''t care for. Love of something suggests an abiding connection, not a flash in the pan which ends when you get your cap and gown. It seems equally odd to suggest that someone who does something for practical reasons is by definition excluded from also loving what they do.</p>\r\n\r\nWe''re dealing here with the concept of a vocation, which can be applied to both of my answers. The OED defines it, partly, as “the fact of being so called or directed towards a special work in life” and notes “especially” its “spiritual” or “religious” nature. Its etymological root is the Latin vocāre which means to call or summon. The word''s meaning has various strands in different religious contexts and denominations, but some of them include: the idea that each individual has a special talent which with the proper application can contribute positively to the wider community; that this special talent can be developed and if not perfected at least bettered; that this development includes (and espouses the value of) work, understood not just as something you do but the result of toil, a thing undertaken willingly despite the possibility of suffering because through that commitment and endurance it becomes somehow noble and a way for humans to approach God.</p> \r\n\r\nAlthough it is defined as a summons, then, having a vocation also implies the need to apply oneself to hard work, often to a specific goal (benefiting the community). A vocation is both being called or summoned to a course of action and choosing to devote oneself to it. In this sense there is a profound connection between vocation and struggle; despite being summoned, a vocation is not undertaken easily. Precisely because it is a vocation it must be worked at and worked at, slowly and enduringly. And it asks that the individual take responsibility for their action. </p>\r\n\r\nI cannot conceive of doing what I do without some sense of it as a vocation. At times, though, it veers to close to fate. I say, If you''d looked at me when I was six and had to guess what that six year-old would grow up to be, you would most likely have said English literature academic. Yet I know that although I did indeed discover a love for literature at an early age, much of my other circumstances pointed toward a different path. While I felt a connection with literature that could be construed in some way as a call, insofar as I responded to it and what the study of it involved, I also spent years deliberating over whether to enter postgraduate education. I chose to do this. And I''ve also worked hard at it, balancing a Masters with a full-time job and working six days a week on the PhD. These last experiences, although chosen, would not have been possible for me if I didn''t love doing it as much as I do.  </p>\r\n\r\nThinking about vocation leads you to think in these terms of obstacles and tests and it encourages a religious outlook, although I think for me the religious outlook came first and I later applied it to my work. My parents are church-goers, and took me with them every Sunday until I was ten or so, when I decided not to go any more. Nevertheless the influence of those early years runs deep. Among other things, it offered a structure for seeing the world which because it was the first one has had the most impact. I associate particular ideas I hold with these early visits: a sense that meaning is always just out of reach yet we should not stop striving for it, for instance, or the feeling that commitment and endurance are important-yet-difficult qualities to possess which need nurturing in order to fully develop. These are things I imbibed somehow at a young age, singing along to hymns I didn''t understand the words of and following rituals whose significance I barely registered. But these rituals, with their carefully specified movements and the ceremonial way they linked my own repetitions of language and action to the time of the world, acted as sediments to my character, layering within me ways of thought and ways of seeing that are now irreducibly part of who I am. </p>\r\n\r\nWhat I most associate with my young exposure to religion is a particular sense of time. It''s one that other people might associate with other things, a political cause for instance, but I associate it first and foremost with religion, and I can best describe it as an understanding that is often unconscious, influencing unseen my reaction to events and requirements. In a very basic way, it is the acceptance that things happen slowly and often imperceptibly, and that one can only really notice or chart change by paying careful and sustained attention to it. Noticing the world is slow. To my mind, it is no accident that some of the earliest scholars were monks, whose lives carved out time by cutting away any superfluities, which allowed them to focus on their vocation. </p>\r\n\r\nMy religious upbringing has certainly helped me. It has given me a context in which to place my choice, a choice which at times is cause for doubt. It provides comfort in this way. It helps to imagine early scholars for whom acedia, that ancient kind of tiredness, was the biggest enemy, not because their work was dull but because it required such attention to detail that it was exhausting. David Foster Wallace, one of the writers I''m looking at in my PhD, wrote of the experience of Benedictine monks who suffered this affliction. In his novel The Pale King, he suggests in much the same spirit as those religious interpretations of the word “vocation” that this is not an experience to avoid, but rather the sign of something worth doing. </p>\r\n\r\nOne word of caution, though: I find thinking in these shapes very attractive, and it is easy to get caught up in what can be quite a romantic view of things. Remembering that to have a vocation involves both responding to the world and choosing a particular way of responding, that it includes the very un-romantic daily trudge and training oneself in the practicalities of repetition, is a good way of avoiding such sentimentality. </p>\r\n \r\n', 'Could you devote your life to books? Mark West puts forward the case for learning for learning’s sake. ', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 24, 24, 'und', 0, '<p><i>Hydrangea macrophylla</i>\r\n<br>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\n\r\nPink bubble hydrangeas – </p>							\r\nLittle girls’ dreams	</p>							\r\nDrifting clouds of childhood	</p>						\r\nLanding in beds		</p>						\r\nA lawn, the leaves tinted	</p>						\r\nEvery shade, green.		</p>						\r\nBoys’ footballs of petals	</p>						\r\nLavender, mauve		</p>						\r\nAluminium sulphate-soaked blue	</p>					\r\nLow-maintenance flowers		</p>					\r\nLike old ladies’ rinses		</p>						\r\nStyled and set in matins dew. 	</p>					\r\n\r\n', 'A short powerful poem on the beauty of flowers.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 25, 25, 'und', 0, '<p>	\r\n			                             \r\nMy next date was with The Accountant who wore the eyepatch. It wasn''t a fashion statement-eye patch (if such a thing exists) and he wasn''t trying to dress like a swashbuckling Johnny Depp. Rather, he looked as though he''d just spent a Saturday night in A+E and had been sent home, concussed and bandaged up.<p> We were meeting in Beanscene on Saturday afternoon. He seems to have a very bossy streak, having intructed me to sit in the window. This riles me as it means I need to perch awkwardly on the spindly bar stools. I had intended to get there first and be found lazing seductively on the brown leather sofa. But no – The Accountant has ordered me to sit there ''so he can find me’. Suddenly I realise he might still be stumbling around with that eyepatch on and will genuinely need help in ‘finding me’. This softens me a bit, though I’m still not happy with the window and the harsh daylight on my face. I can feel the sunlight showing up every blemish and pore on my face. All the fine make-up skills don’t matter a jot if you’re not ‘well-lit’. Don’t accountants know this?</p> So, I stir my coffee and try to twist around on the stool to get away from the glare. Feeling very exposed. My stupid feet don’t even come close to touching the floor on this chair. How am I supposed to get down without looking like a heaving hippo? As I’m pondering these difficulties a man appears, wearing my clothes. It’s him.</p>\r\n \r\n‘Check this out,’ he says and gestures to his red cowboy shirt.  ‘This is practically the same shirt you’re wearing in one of your photos. I thought it’d be a laugh to wear it.’</p> \r\nImitation is the highest form of flattery – yes – but not when it’s middle-aged accountants who’re copying you. Nonetheless, I admit it is indeed ‘a laugh’. ( I also secretly admit to being glad he’s not wearing the eyepatch and crashing into things. These dates are stressful enough without shattered crockery.) </p>\r\nHe sits down and we start the nicey-nice first date chat. It’s hard to work him out. He’s a middle-aged accountant and seems very tidy, prim and serious, yet he has turned up dressed as me. I’m intrigued. \r\n‘So I’m doing my third degree just now,’ he says. ‘A Masters in Statistical Modelling.’</p>\r\n I’m baffled by anything involving numbers. I still use my fingers to count. I ask him what Statistical Modelling is, exactly.</p> \r\nHe puts his coffee cup down and scoots his chair closer. ‘Well, it’s quite difficult to grasp. It’s basically maths with fashion design.’ </p> This knock-out punchline is delivered in such a serious manner that I miss it completely. </p>\r\n He helps me out. ‘Joke,’ he says.</p> ‘Oh,’ I say. Then I laugh, but the moment has passed.</p> I look at him. Not fair to crack jokes with that grim accountant face. How do I know when the gags are coming? Statistical models, indeed! Well, here’s a statistic for him: 99% of women don’t like their dates to dress up as them.</p> He whistles and stirs his coffee. Silence descends. </p> He shakes the foam off his spoon and places it on the counter next to mine. ‘Hey, is it OK if our spoons touch?’ he asks.</p>\r\n Eager to make up for missing his last attempt at humour, I giggle heartily at this one. But I’ve come too soon, because he then says, ‘Oooh look, we’re spooning on a first date,’ but I’ve used up my big laugh, so can only smile.</p>Argh…it’s not going well. Our humour is out of sync, and I can’t relax with a man who’s wearing my togs.\r\n I try to start a new topic by telling him how much he looks like Woody Allen, but I quickly realise this is a bare-faced insult. We grind to a halt. More silence.</p>\r\n He goes off to order himself another coffee, and I take this valuable time to discreetly peep into my hand mirror to see if my skin still looks like the surface of the moon, or is the afternoon sun becoming kinder? </p> It’s always a risk to take your mirror out on a date because it seems if you’re desperately wanting to look good for him. I don’t – I just need assurance that I’m not the Elephant Man in a purple shift dress. The Accountant is in the queue with his back to me, so it’s safe. I’m checking my face when he appears at my side, suddenly, and catches me, mirror-handed.</p>‘Listen, I’m short of five pence. Can you…?’</p>I give him the money and watch him re-join the queue. That’s five pence I won’t be seeing again. And that’s a man I won’t be seeing again either.\r\n\r\n', 'An extract from the popular dating blog which appears weekly in HeraldScotland.com and is soon to be published by Blasted Heath. ', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 26, 26, 'und', 0, '<p>\r\n\r\nIt isn’t that <br>\r\nyou don’t provide.<br> \r\nIt’s more you choosing <br>\r\nto forget to tell me <br>\r\nthat you’d had a few<br> \r\ntoo many; <br>\r\nseemed much better <br>\r\nas his couch was free, <br>\r\nto wait until I’d given up <br>\r\nand gone to bed <br>\r\nbefore you tiptoed in <br>\r\nand woke me.<br>\r\nYou seem intent <br>\r\non staring at the floor<br>\r\nin this early morning <br>\r\ngloom; <br>\r\nis there something <br>\r\nin your eye, <br>\r\na fading light perhaps.<br>\r\nAnd that smell, is that <br>\r\nmy kind on your skin?<br>\r\n\r\n \r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n', 'A poem about jealousy and uncertainty.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 27, 27, 'und', 0, 'In the garden, children handle sparklers like magic wands. Hot trails glimmer for a moment, spelling out names or patterning the dark with lines and circles, before vanishing. You stand watching in the doorway with a glass of wine, eyes tracing the designs as they faint. Somewhere in the house a CD player is turned up and it takes you a moment to place the song. A gaggle of voices in the other room start to sing along but fall away after the first verse. You tap the beat on your glass before taking a sip. The wine is sharp but nice and you drink again, deeper this time.</p>\r\n“Hey stranger, is this where you’ve been hiding?”</p>\r\nA woman’s voice behind you. You turn and smile, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she leans into you.</p>\r\n“Having fun?” you ask, and she looks up at you before nodding. “How long to go?”\r\n“Not long now,” she says.</p>\r\nIn the distance a banging sound echoes. You think of earthquakes and thunder before you see the whole sky illuminated pink and white for a moment. The children in the garden all stop to look up, sparklers fizzing still in their gloved hands.</p>\r\n“The fireworks are keen,” you say, and you both stand in silence waiting for more but none come.</p>\r\nBack in the house, the CD player is turned down and a tense hush forms. Quiet for a while. The only sounds a faraway siren, a dog barking. Then in sudden unison, every voice shouting a countdown.</p>\r\nTEN</p>\r\nNINE</p>\r\n “Here we go,” you say, squeezing her close, your eyes both fixed on the sky.</p>\r\nEIGHT</p>\r\nSEVEN</p>\r\n“Any resolutions?” she asks.</p>\r\nSIX</p>\r\nFIVE</p>\r\n“To spend more time living life,” you say, “and less time waiting around for it to start.”</p>\r\nFOUR</p>\r\nTHREE</p>\r\n“Mine is to capture down every moment I feel boundless,'' she says. ''I’ll write down where I was and why I felt it. The first one is tonight because you never know what the New Year will bring.”</p>\r\nTWO</p>\r\nONE</p>\r\n“Good things,” you say. “I have a feeling.”</p>\r\nYou hold on to each other, eyes reflecting the sky as overhead, fireworks blossom like orchids under a hot sun.\r\n', 'Flash fiction capturing those crammed, elongated moments as we wait for New Year to strike.', 'full_html');
INSERT INTO `truefield_data_body` VALUES
('node', 'article', 0, 28, 28, 'und', 0, 'Chavy woke with the sun, took a strand of hair from her eyes and rolled sideways into the river. Kicking her legs in the water, she held onto the edge of her punt and reached in to grab a small cake of yellow soap that sat impaled on a nail forced into the wooden hull. She slipped a hand inside her t-shirt and washed armpit and breast on her left side, and then swapped hands. Next she dredged the soap across the outside fabric of her shirt, pressed the yellow cake back onto its waiting nail and dived. She kept her eyes closed in the muddy water and dreamed of being on a riverboat, under an umbrella, smoking a cigarette, a glass of wine, a boy staring at her in rapture. And with one fierce wriggle of her body she pushed herself to the surface of the river and shook the water from her face.<br>\r\n	Chavy leant her arms on the side of her punt, reached for her water bag and filled her mouth with clean water. She lifted the lid of her wooden box, removed a twist of brown paper and unfolded it. It contained salt, and she dabbed a damp finger in and rubbed it around her teeth, feeling her way to the back of her mouth. She twisted the paper and put it back in the box, picked up the remains of an old lime, popped it in her mouth and bit down to removed the last of its bitter juice. She spat the lime into the river and finished the last of her drinking water. Chavy grabbed her grabbed her plastic sandals, put the straps between her teeth, snatched a small water apple from her boat and made for land. She was good in the water, someone must have shown her how to swim when she was a child.<br>\r\n	She climbed from the Bassac into the early heat of the day and the sun became her towel as she headed towards the city. Lines of women were bringing in their daily haul of vegetables; yardlong beans, Chinese broccoli, bitter melon and unripe luffa. They would have been up before sunrise to pull the produce from the sleepy earth and there should have been more women, and they should have been carrying more produce. At the market, stalls were thin, the prices high and the customers rank and poor. Chavy only went there to steal, and that was getting harder to do, as the women were now more alert to any loss. She walked along the sun-baked path, between the clouds of dust raised by sandals, pumps, buffalo hooves and the wheels of carts. She looked across the flat fields and the straight and lonely lines of sugar palms, last night she had heard the long rolling explosions getting nearer.<br>\r\n	Chavy paused at the edge of the city and prepared herself for the suddenness of concrete after bamboo, the turmoil of the streets, the jostle and the forests of elbows. Chavy moved silent and near invisible through the mess of feet, the spin of rickshaw wheels. No one ever halted, if you didn’t weave you were felled and bruised. And if you drifted someone might steal you. Once a man had grabbed her hair and forced her face against a wall. He had bit her ear and tried to put a finger right inside her, but she had stomped on his toes and run away never seeing his face, or knowing his age.<br>\r\n	She turned off the busy boulevard into a quieter street and came to the silent alley that led to Thy’s house. The entrance was flanked by his sentries, two smoking boys that flattened themselves against the wall as she squeezed past, as if one touch of her might be fatal. One day, when things had changed for her they would beg her for a kiss and say: but you knew us once, we all worked for Thy, do you not remember, we were friends? And she would laugh, and spit in their faces.<br>\r\n	She stood outside Thy’s door and waited, behind her one of the boys said something and the other laughed. The door opened slightly, just enough to let her slip inside, and there was Theary, blank faced, mute and towering above her. She moved quickly past him with her eyes cast down. He was Thy’s brother and known for his brutality. Quite often she had overheard Thy’s boys talking in hushed tones about the hideous things he had done to someone who had displeased his brother in some business deal. But she didn’t trust one thing those boys said. They had less brains than teeth and they didn’t have many teeth at all, and those they did have were stained with smoking. And none of them were any older that herself and she was struggling to reach sixteen and failing. But she wasn’t stupid and so she avoided Theary as much as it was possible to avoid someone you met everyday.<br>\r\n	She went into the dark little kitchen area, took the kettle off the gas ring and went over to the tap and began to fill it. The tap came right out of the floor on one leg and looked like it had appeared there by accident and had never been able to escape. It shook when you turned it on. Once she had told it that there was nothing to be scared of and then she remembered that the world was full of things to be scared of. When the kettle was full she put it on the gas ring and took a match from a small box, she slid the match along the wall and watched it catch. The gas popped when she lit it. Outside in the wash area she picked up the bucket, brought it back in and half filled it with cold water. The kettle sung and she turned off the gas and added the boiled water to the cold water in the bucket and headed back outside again. This was her place of work, a walled off concrete area under a roof of corrugated iron held up by two wooden posts. On one post there was a handgun hanging from a piece of cord, it was worn and dirty and she had never seen it used. She had held it sometimes and no one had rushed out to beat her. It was quite heavy but she liked the weight of it, but she had never tried the trigger.  On the other post a pair of scissors hung from a nail. In the centre of the concrete floor was a single hole, and in the corner were the things she needed for her work, a glass jar, an enamel bowl, a sponge and a cake of soap all sat on a low wooden stool.<br>\r\n	Theary came out with Thy in his arms and placed the stump of his brother upright over the hole in the centre, turned and went back inside. Chavy knelt down behind Thy and steadied him as he strained to do his morning toilet. The smoke from his cigarette drifted across her face but she couldn’t enjoy it, because she had to hold her breath against the stink of his dung. The toes of his one foot wriggled like impatient infants and when he was done he relaxed and spat out the end of his cigarette. She eased him to the ground so that he was lying on his side with his back to her. She looked at the greasy hole and wondered how far the turds fell and if they sailed away, how far?<br>\r\n	Chavy took the bucket over to the corner and dipped the glass jar into the water and filled the enamel bowl, she picked up the sponge and soap and brought them over to Thy. She wondered what he must be thinking as he lay there. Business she imagined, threats and boasting.  She wet the sponge and passed it over the bar of soap and began to wash around his rectum. She liked to think of herself as someone who could be trusted to do a delicate job, she was a nurse, brisk and efficient. She had known nurses that time when she was taken ill, and she had an ambition to be just like them. She squeezed out the sponge, poured the water from the bowl down the hole and went to the bucket to get fresh water. She rolled him over on his back, his eyes skywards and her not there at all, and washed around his groin. He wet himself at night and there were red sores in the morning. She replaced the water again and soaped and rinsed his chest and around the stumps of his arms. The Theary came out just at the right time, as he always did, as if he had been watching her working, picked up his brother and took him inside to dry.<br>\r\n	She went to the room where Thy slept and bundled up the sodden straw, took it out to the back and flung it in a corner, it would be gone by the next day. She went into the kitchen where Pauk was eating at the table, his eyes hidden by the mirror shades he always wore, his baseball hat perched on the back of his head. He was one of Thy’s boys, although older that the rest and she thought that he looked at her when she came in each morning. But of course she couldn’t see his eyes. Thy was now dressed in one of his bright picture shirts, strapped to a metal chair with a soft scarf while Theary shovelled fried rice and egg into his brother’s mouth.<br>\r\n	She boiled the kettle three times in a row and hated standing there. They never asked her why she needed so much water. And everyday she waited to be asked and told to stop. There were empty wine bottles on the floor in the corner of the room and she was allowed to have any of the dregs that still remained. As the men sat in silence and the water boiled for the third time, she poured what little was left in three of the bottles into a fourth. She filled her canvas bag right up to the brim with the boiled water and it was time to go. Theary handed her a portion of fried rice and pork belly wrapped in a page of newspaper, her reward for the job that she had done.<br>\r\n	Chavy went down to the river and sat upon the wall that ran along the quayside. She opened the newspaper and snatched up a piece of fatty pork and stuffed it in her mouth. She swilled it down with a glug of wine and looked across the river with some pride. She watched the life along the water and hoped that it was watching her in return. The fishing boats, motor launches with their guns, a very few foreigners under sunshades on boats that went nowhere, all watching her enjoying fatty porn and wine. She dandled her legs above the water and noticed that there was a tear in the plastic of her right sandal; a small piece of wire would hold it, if she could find one.<br>\r\n	Stevedores were unloading barrels and bails onto the quayside, she waved but they were hard at work, singing as they heaved their cargo. She picked up her water bag and slung it on her shoulders, finished the wine and flung the bottle out into the river, proud of the distance it covered.\r\n	The stevedores were always glad to see her, but too involved in their labour to speak or smile. The blind man sat on a bail, in ragged trousers, shoeless with calloused feet.  He pounded his guitar and bellowed a line and the stevedores repeated it back to him.<br>\r\n	''Lift a weight a hundred times!’<br>\r\n	-<i> Lift a weight a hundred times</i>-<br>\r\n	Chavy took the blind man’s battered tin mug from by his side and skipped amongst them as she did each day, filling the mug with the water she had boiled.<br>\r\n	''A hundred grains of rice you earn.’<br>\r\n	- <i>A hundred grains of rice you earn</i>-<br>\r\n	They took it from her roughly and drank without breaking stride.<br>\r\n	''I hear someone saying.’<br>\r\n	- <i>I hear someone saying</i>-<br>\r\n	Later the boss Mr Deng would make sure she had something to eat.<br>\r\n	''What’s that singing?’<br>\r\n	-<i>What’s that singing?</i>-<br>\r\n	That’s the sound of the Mekong stevedores!’<br>\r\n	-<i>That’s the sound of the Mekong stevedores!</i>-<br>\r\n	They slowed down very slightly towards the end and then the boat was empty and the quayside piled with barrels and bails, and they squatted down and passed round cigarettes. Chavy longed for one but they never offered. An hour passed before Mr Deng beckoned her over, he had the book in his hand. Chavy loved the covers of the books he read, with their dead bodies and beautiful women, soldiers and lovers. All in colour. <br>\r\n	''I got to the end,’ he said laughing, ‘but there were no Tarantulas.’<br>\r\n	Yesterday he had shown her a book called The Tears of a Tarantula, and she had asked if the story had many tarantulas in it, and how big they were, and how poisonous they where? Mr Deng said that so far in his reading of the book he hadn’t come across any tarantulas at all. And she had said that maybe they all appear at the end and bite all the bad guys, and the girls are all saved and the boys fall in love with them. But now she knew they didn’t.<br>\r\n	She liked Mr Deng, she would have gone to live with Mr Deng if he had asked, he never mentioned family and she wondered if he lived alone. She would happily be his child, or his mistress if he demanded it.<br>\r\n	Mr Deng stood, the sign that it was time to eat and they crossed the road to eat at the Chinese café that stood between a shop-house and a ship’s chandlers. The sun was at its highest now and no one would want to work this time of day. They sat inside and ate pig’s trotter stew with whole fat eggs. She lavished her meal with fish sauce until the taste of it made her tongue explode, and as she ate she thought about the bar she had passed by accident a few weeks ago. She picked up her bowl and drank the last of the broth and scurried off wiping the fat from her chin with the back of her hand.<br>\r\n	The bar was set back from the street with a small shaded area in front for a few tables, chairs and potted plants. Each day, voices choking with melody burst from the open sides of the bar. And the boy came out into the street to tend the flowers with his green watering can. And each day she watched him do it hiding in the shadow of a building a few doors down. The music swayed her hips, coaxing her towards the sound and the boy, but she didn’t dare, didn’t dare to let it take her. Oh she wanted to, wanted to, to walk out into the sun and reveal herself, but she worried, worried that there might not be anything for the boy to see, for she sometimes wondered if she were invisible. No one ever talked to her apart from Mr Deng. And what is she were not real at all but a character in one of the books he read?<br>\r\n	She watched the boy put down the watering can and look up the street towards her; he had never done that before. She froze, pretending to be nothing more than shadow and the boy went back inside and she just stood there breathing and waiting to see if he would come out again. He had forgotten his watering can. She would have happily have stayed that way for hours, but she had to leave, the city would hurt her after darkness fell. She had to go, she knew she had to. Her t-shirt was very thin and she looked down at the shape of her breasts. She looked the street up and down; it was deserted. She put her thumbs in the waistband of her shorts and pulled them down to show her belly, then she pulled her t-shirt up and let the city see her breasts. Then she gasped and pulled the t-shirt down again, pulled up her shorts and ran.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n', 'An excerpt from the novel.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 29, 36, 'und', 0, 'The world broke down, in a small way, when my mother was wheeled out of the house on a stretcher. The last time I saw her she was sitting up in her armchair, waxen and pale, after her heart stopped beating. The next time it was only her shape, zipped up in a body bag, sailing away. I watched from between the banisters as the men and women in green sombrely removed her from the house.</p>\r\n\r\nI turned my head another way and they transformed. No longer were they uniformed professionals, but headless women- three of them, in billowing dresses that flew around them like wings.<br>\r\nGreek statues in marble depict solidified gods and nymphs, like this my eyes reformed the matter in the air, from mirages to new deities. They took the stretcher in their long white arms and their clothing flew slowly round, as if underwater. Silently, they moved in a procession, out the door and down the steps and out of sight.</p>\r\n\r\nI don’t know where they took her. A hospital, a stainless steel-lined morgue, to cut her up, to sew her back together, to dress her up in clothes we had selected.<br> Perhaps.<br>\r\nThen: she was in a box, carried up the hill to the grave by four men with sunken skin and stiff black suits. <br>\r\nThen: they lowered her into the ground and we looked down into the pit.<br>\r\nThere was a body in the box; they told me it was her.<br>\r\n<br>\r\n * <br>  \r\n<br>                                                                           \r\nTime shifted along, like ice flows at the poles. I sat on my piece of ice that floated slowly on the Arctic seas, aimless. Never moving forward. Cracking on contact, freezing again. The seals moved as dark shapes underwater. The sun shone cold. I reached out a hand and found hope- another human’s warmth. A young man: with eager hands and straining clothes, and growing impatience. He grew afraid of the look in my eyes, the watery imprint of another realm, a place of darkness he did not want to visit. He couldn’t bear to look at me, and he left. My mother had left me all over again.<br>\r\nI looked up to the bareness of the sky, and longed for God. My ice sheet moved away and onwards through the freezing sea.</p>\r\n\r\nNo, this will not do, I thought.<br>\r\nI will find her again.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n*\r\n<br>\r\nThe Nereids: the headless women in their underwater movements who had taken my mother away. They took the souls of the departed and carried them across the sea to the afterlife. If I could find them, I could find her. I could go back to where we had begun.</p>\r\n\r\nI called to the narwhals, and they pushed me along. Northward, onwards, to the top of the world where the sky swims in Technicolour, shot with electric green.</p>\r\n\r\nThey stood in front of me, those three headless women. They swayed like seaweed. Their bodies hummed.<br>\r\n‘Down to the underworld?’ one said. ‘But you’re not dead!’<br>\r\n‘I know,’ I said, bowing down in supplication. ‘But I can offer you whatever you want. Please: let me descend, so I can see her again.’<br>\r\nThe Nereids moved their torsos distractedly. If they’d had heads, they would have shaken them. They turned to each other.<br>\r\n‘This is not allowed, surely?’ said one.<br>\r\n‘But we’re not fussy, are we?’ said the next.<br>\r\n‘As long as there’s no guarantee of her ever coming back…’ said the last.<br>\r\nThey paused.<br>\r\nThey turned back to me.<br>\r\n‘We can take you there,’ one said.<br>\r\n‘But we can’t promise we can take you back,’ said the next.<br>\r\n‘Only Hades decides who leaves,’ said the last.<br>\r\n‘I know,’ I said, ‘I understand the terms.’<br>\r\nI gave them each a cup of my blood, and they were satisfied.<br>\r\n‘Come, then,’ they said.<br>\r\nAnd off we went.</p>\r\n\r\nThey carried me in their arms across the sea. We skimmed the water with our feet, rode on the vast backs of blue whales, and travelled through the turns of the clock from light to dark and on to endless day when the sun never sets and the doors to the underworld stand.<br>\r\nThere, they set me down.<br>\r\n‘We’ll go no further,’ said the Nereids.<br>\r\nI stood on the glittering rock and nodded.<br>\r\n‘Thank you for your kindness,’ I said.<br>\r\nThey paused a moment, sighed collectively, and left.</p>\r\n\r\nI stood at the edge of the world.<br>\r\nThe gates opened out of the ground, and the earth gaped wide. It was a leap of faith to jump. I knew I might never return again.<br>\r\nThe sun blazed in the sky, that was nowhere, and endless. The darkness rumbled.<br>\r\nI jumped.<br>\r\n<br>\r\n*\r\n<br>\r\nI landed on the damp shores of the River Styx. It was an underground river, with a great ceiling above it dripping cold water that echoed in the cavern. The mud was black, and sucked down my feet as if it meant to swallow me whole. On the shore, the boatman stood.<br>\r\nHe was old and tired and he looked at me from under hooded eyes. He knew I was alive.<br>\r\n‘It’s only one way,’ he croaked. He looked worried. On the other shore, the air shifted. No one stood on the other side.\r\n‘I know,’ I said. I stepped forward. ‘Please take me across.’<br>\r\n‘As you wish,’ he said, and stepped back to let me board the boat.</p>\r\n\r\nThe oar moved through the smoke stained river. My eyes took in the space around that stood still, like stems in water. The air watched. It chose when to move.<br>\r\nI looked down into the water that passed slowly underneath. Dark shapes moved on its surface- debris, shadows, memories. It sighed. A heavy, sad sigh. The sigh that departs the human body in the final moments of life, a sigh, I thought, that came from the souls swimming in the river, though I saw no evidence of them, no matter how hard I tried to bend my eyes into the deep dark of the River Styx. <br>\r\n‘We’re here,’ he said, as the boat jolted onto the shore.<br>\r\n‘Thank you,’ I said.<br>\r\nHe said nothing, but turned the boat around and began to row back to the other side.<br> \r\nThe air was thick with something that felt like soot in my lungs. It wasn’t meant for the living.</p> \r\n\r\nAs I walked along the path I felt eyes watching me from the rocks and mud. They moved as I walked. They wondered at the heavy reality of my presence. I tried to pretend they weren’t there, and trod on through the land of the dead.</p>\r\n\r\nThere was a kind of sky in the underworld. It slid and shimmered above like petrol, and reflected the underside of the sea. Looking far through, I thought I could see the pilot fish drifting on. Down there, there were no bird calls, only the whale song way above, in the dark water, where life peels away.</p>\r\n\r\nHades met me on the riverbank.<br>\r\nHe appeared as a dark shape that grew larger as I grew nearer. He looked like an undertaker with long fingers, and he turned his head like an owl. The water changed colour when he did so, and the air shivered and morphed into new forms. He could fashion new beings with the blood from his fingers; he could extinguish lives with a motion of his eyes.<br>\r\n‘Now what do you want, my dear?’<br> \r\nI bowed down low before him. I pressed my hands into the dark mud at his feet. The sadness of the water soaked into my skin. <br>\r\n‘Lord, please- let me have her back. I’ll do anything.’<br>\r\nHades laughed.<br>\r\n‘Ah, my dear,’ he sighed. ‘They all say that.’<br>\r\nHe crouched down. I looked up and saw his face. The shadows lowered. I looked into his eyes; his eyes stretched backwards into the darkness. I felt dizzy- I wobbled.<br> He pressed his hand onto my shoulder. He was like a cliff falling and I, the trembling waves beneath.<br>\r\n‘You really want her back?’<br>\r\nTears from my eyes fell onto his arm and echoed in the cavern.<br>\r\n‘Please,’ I said. ‘I’ve come so far.’<br>\r\nHades nodded. And for a moment it seemed as if he had changed into a shark, a great shark lying on the bank with its fin on my shoulder and its great mouth opening wide with rows and rows of teeth and the black forgetting falling away inside-<br>\r\n‘You have come far,’ he said.<br>\r\nHe was a man again.<br>\r\n‘You can take her back with you,’ he said, softly and singsong, as if talking to a child. He rose, and so did I, and he gestured behind him.<br>\r\nThere she was. Standing in white. Her eyes looking nowhere.<br>\r\n‘Mama!’ I shrieked, and jumped and tried to run-<br>\r\nHis body fell across my path. He shook his head.<br>\r\n‘On one condition,’ he said. ‘You can walk back to the land of the living, and she will follow you- but you must not look back. You must not look back, even for a second, to see if she is there, until you have walked into the sunshine.’<br>\r\nBehind us, a towering staircase carved from the rock appeared. It led up, up, through the shuddering depths of the earth to the first break of sunlight of the new day.\r\n‘If you look back- even once- she will return to me forever.’<br>\r\nI looked at mama. She stood still by the rocks. I turned to Hades. His eyes, his tunnel eyes, said: What choice do you have?<br>\r\nSo I ascended the stairs.</p>\r\n\r\nAs I climbed them, I listened for the sound of her footsteps. I trod as quietly as I could upon the rocks, and strained my ears- but I heard nothing.<br>\r\n‘Please mama,’ I said, ‘Please- give me a sign that you’re there. Say: ‘I’m here.’ Please.’<br>\r\nI kept walking upwards. The air became clearer, the shadows fell away. The rocks became luminous with the light from above. Yet still, I could not hear her.<br>\r\n‘Mama!’ I cried, ‘Please- just a sound! A cough, a sneeze. Just let me know you’re there.’<br>\r\nI felt the warmth of the sun on my arms.<br>\r\n‘Just say hello.’<br>\r\nI heard the birds singing. I hear the waters of the ocean falling on the sand. I was almost there.<br> \r\nBut what if Hades had tricked me? What if she hadn’t followed me, and was back down there, in the dark? If I turned now, I would still have the chance to run back down, say he tricked me, demand a new bargain. Even if it meant living down there forever, with her.<br>\r\nI stopped on the last step.<br>\r\nBefore me, the sand opened up under the sun. The sky was blue. There was a boat on the shore waiting for me.<br>\r\n‘Mama…’ I sobbed, ‘Please let me know that you’re there.’</p>\r\n\r\nNo sound. She was not there. He had tricked me- she was back down in the underworld; he had kept her there and tricked me into leaving her!<br>\r\nI turned, furious, ready to fling myself back down those infernal steps-<br>\r\nBut I saw her, standing for a second. The sun was on her face, and she was smiling.<br>\r\n‘Mama-’<br>\r\nThen she was gone.<br>\r\nAnd the door to the underworld closed. <br>\r\nAnd she was lost to me forever.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n*<br>\r\n<br>\r\nAt the end of the world, I sat down on the beach, and cried. The ocean rolled back. Underneath it was the corpse of the boatman, and all my memories, scattered like glass.</p>\r\n\r\nAnd I am at her bedside again, where I always return. Her lids are lowered, her mouth half-open. The oxygen tank hisses beside her and her moaning has finally stopped. There she is, at the mouth of the cave, returning to the dark elsewhere. There she is, in a nightgown that hangs on her skeletal frame, exposing the lumps of tumours and her stretched out skin.<br>\r\nThe image repeats, and repeats.<br>\r\nI always look back.\r\n\r\n', 'A haunting short story about loss.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 30, 30, 'und', 0, 'There’s nothing I like better than curling up with a good book or watching a new film. So when it’s announced that a film adaptation of a popular novel is to be released, I make sure I read the book straight away.</p> \r\nWhilst I love film, I often find I prefer reading original stories because so often, despite the talents of the actors, I find they can’t convey the amount of emotion and empathy you can feel for a character when reading a book.<br> \r\nFor example, nothing pains me more than people referring to <i>Harry Potter</i> as a film. Or than when people say they’ve never read the books but have seen the films. To me, watching a film, rather than reading the book it’s based on, limits you to being passive. On the very rare occasion that I cave in and watch a film before reading its source text, I find I don’t connect with the characters as well as I could have when I get around to reading the book and I don’t find myself rushing through the chapters in anticipation of what happens next. Instead, I find myself skimming through the pages without actually taking anything in; after all, I’ve already seen all the action unfold on-screen.<br>\r\nWhere I’m adamant that you should always read the source text first, I find it irritating when people define a book as ''rubbish'' after just seeing the film. The most common case of this is with the <i>Twilight</i> saga. I remember being in Sixth Form when the film was announced and the whole common room was full of girls reading the novel; we were all completely captivated by it and would discuss how perfect Edward Cullen and Jacob Black were in our spare time. <br> \r\nWhilst Robert Pattinson and Taylor Lautner were, in my opinion, great in their roles, one thing ruined it for me: the protagonist, Bella Swan. The novel, by Stephenie Meyer, is told in a first-person narrative through the eyes of Bella and, as a reader, I loved being able to feel empathy for the character. For me, the best part of the novel was the fact that it was from her viewpoint; she was grounded yet extremely vulnerable at the same time. But on screen, Kristen Stewart doesn’t convey those feelings; there is only so much that eye rolling and lip-biting can convey and, without a narration of her thoughts, it is hard to find her portrayal of Bella very appealing. </p>\r\nThat isn’t to say I think all novels which have been turned into film franchises have ended badly. The recent adaptation of <i>The Hunger Games</i> was right on the mark for me. Although only one of the three books has been adapted so far, it showed promise of faithfulness to the book series. In the adaptation, only a few plot points were changed and most were for the better. It also added clever new twists that even hardcore fans had to agree were good. <br>\r\nIn my opinion, <i>The Hunger Games</i> may be the turning point in attitudes towards film adaptations. This is probably because of its appeal to both sexes and the fact that it isn’t just focused on romance: it has a more substantial plot than most recent franchises. The fact that it doesn’t have supernatural elements and is set in a dystopian future makes it far more believable, and not as easy to mock.<br>\r\nThese elements are a testament to the brilliant trilogy of books by Suzanne Collins. Her incredible writing technique keeps the reader constantly intrigued and the pace of action is truly incredible. With franchises, it is often the case that they are less faithful to the text with each film, but I really hope that isn’t the case with <i>The Hunger Games</i>. I think because there is never a dull moment in the novels, we may see a turning point where each film is, almost, as good as the book it is based on.</p>\r\nAnother thing that annoys me with film adaptations is the obvious influence of the ‘Hollywood’ film industry, especially in romantic comedies. David Nicholls’ <i>One Day</i> was one of my favourite novels of 2009. He created truly captivating characters – to this day Dexter is one of my favourites – and I think the time frame of the narrative was incredible: the way in which Nicholls would only write about the characters on one day of the year was incredibly innovative and it was very hard-hitting for the reader to see how much things can change in such a short space of time. <br>\r\nWhen the film adaptation came out I was hesitant to see it. Although critics were saying Jim Sturgess’ performance as Dexter was incredible, they were also saying Anne Hathaway as Emma was an absolute disaster. At first I was bewildered as to why an American would be cast in a role that is so quintessentially British. In the film, Hathaway’s Yorkshire accent left much to be desired and I can only think she was cast to bring in international audiences. To this day, I think Emily Blunt was made for the role. Whilst Emma wasn’t the most upbeat character in the book, I feel Hathaway’s performance just didn’t portray the edge that the character had. </p>\r\nI think some adaptations are done really well, for example I loved Kazuo Ishiguro’s <i>Never Let Me Go</i> and think Mark Romanek made a great adaptation but it took me a long time to convince myself to watch the film because I loved the book so much. I think to watch a film soon after reading its book is another thing that alters my judgment. I waited over a year to watch <i>Never Let Me Go</i> because I wasn’t sure how I would feel about seeing the characters I’d visualised so clearly on-screen. I think if I’d have watched the film shortly after reading the book I wouldn’t have been so satisfied. </p>\r\nSometimes I think it’s my own fault that I’m often left unsatisfied by film adaptations. If my standards weren’t set so high from reading the novels first, I would probably enjoy the films more. But as much as I love film, in my opinion, there is nothing better than imagining a character for the first time, or picturing the landscape of a carefully thought-out environment. However, more than anything else, there is nothing better than getting to a twist in a plot that hasn’t been predictably hinted at previously and being able to learn about these twists as the character does, being able to embrace their emotions and fears alongside them.\r\nSo if you’re quick to dismiss a film as rubbish, go and read the book. You might find your opinion changing.  \r\n\r\n', 'An article on how the book is always better than the film.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 31, 31, 'und', 0, 'My first month in Mexico, full of many an adventure, has drawn to a close. Be those adventures \r\ntransvestite shows, car-park raves or the time I caught fleas from Flacco, I''d change nothing.</p>\r\nFrom my weeks of observation, I can safely say that Mexico is a quirky place. Take,\r\nfor instance, the common kitchen: there will be a gas-cooker and oven, much like one would find \r\nin any civilised home. However, Mexicans don''t tend to use the oven. Everything is fried or stewed\r\non the hob, while the oven compartment is used to store a ridiculous amount of Tupperware.</p>\r\nIf that seems strange, how about the common Mexican habit of using a microwave instead of a kettle?\r\nYes, that''s correct: just a mug of cold water, a dunked herbal teabag and a minute or so of\r\nsolid radiation. That''s the local way to do it. </p> And what about cutlery? I think it depends on what is washed as to whether one is presented with a knife, fork or spoon. And that goes for cafes and bars, too, not just at home. Madness!</p>\r\nBut the one particular quirk I''d like to examine today is the humble Mexican bus system.</p>\r\nThere are several breeds of bus in Mexico: some clean, some grubby,some with suspension and some with livestock. The blue and white, local city-runners are the most common way to get around in the city, and are affectionately called the <i>camion</i> or ''truck''. There are thousands of these monsters (impossible to find out exactly how many) and you, too, can be part of the adventure for just under 30 British pennies. Yes, six pesos will take you all around the city and sometimes back again. There is of course, a slight gamble with death, but it''s all character building.</p>\r\nFirst, one must manage to hail the bus. I have been told that not all of Guadalajara city''s stops are marked but, truth be told, I am not sure I have ever come across any kind of markings at all.</p>\r\nStatistically, a person dies every single day in Guadalajara from a bus-related incident, and I am sure that a lot of those deaths must be from people trying to stop the damn thing in the first place.<br> They come shooting down the long, straight avenues like The Road Runner. One must stand halfway into the road, facing the oncoming traffic, finger out, six pesos in hand. The aim is to attract the driver''s attention without getting hit by him or anyone else.</p>\r\nOnce slowed to a stop, the driver will always act as if you have committed a grave injustice. Most likely, you have: the drivers get bored and race each other during the day. The bus will then start to move before you have paid for your ticket, let alone found a seat. </p>On every bus there are between three and six yellow seats which are designated for elderly and disabled passengers. For reasons unknown, this means that a bus will be crammed full of people standing and holding on for dear life, while those four or five seats remain eternally empty. Locals\r\nsitting on the other common-use seats tend to sit on the outside of a pair, unwilling to move along and let anybody sit on the second seat. Friendly bunch!</p> It must be said, however, that most Mexican men are gentlemen, and will offer their seat to any standing lady: young or old, local or pasty-white.</p>\r\nSuccessfully on the bus, ticket paid, seat or standing spot acquired? Great. Now prepare yourself for the cheapest roller-coaster you will ever experience: complete with free entertainment! Often a musician, disabled or homeless person will hop on the bus free - the driver is almost always a friend or “brother”. These people will stand at the front and recite a carefully rehearsed speech, presumably telling their life story and why they are so different from all the other musicians/homeless people and deserve your money.</p> My Spanish does not extend enough so that I completely understand these stories and songs, but it''s easy to judge how good or badthe gossip is depending on whether all or none of the other passengers give money.</p>\r\nNow you have a choice: hop off the bus while we are still in a central district, find a bar or taco stand and see what there is to see, or stay on the bus until the bitter end to see where you end up.</p> I did the latter on Sunday, and ended up in the very back of beyond. After an hour of driving, we finally ran out of road and the bus stopped to cool off before making the return journey. As I stepped off the sticky vehicle, glad for some air, I was amazed to find myself at the foot of a series of hills. Men on horses rode past, staring intently at me (and who can blame them: I looked rather out of place) and villagers came out to sell lemonade to the passengers. It was all pretty surreal, but most definitely impressive.</p> Even if I did give myself a hernia from straining to hold on along the rocky ride, how well does Mexican transport compare against the expensive and infrequent public transport in the UK? 30p well spent, I''d say...', 'The latest in our series of ''postcards'' from our fearless girl in Mexico.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 32, 32, 'und', 0, 'Courtyards are self-contained little worlds where all of life from birth to death occurs. Four walls and a pan-tiled grass laden roof. Underneath the eaves red chillies hang like pendant-shaped earrings.</p>\r\n\r\nThe school boys in their blue shirts and overlong trousers. Girls with pony-tails in their hair, water bottles slung over their shoulders. Smiling they all march off in file into Patan Durbar square.</p>\r\n\r\nThe start of a brand new day.</p>\r\n\r\nCross-legged didis beat rice on ratan mats, complaining of the cost of garlic. How could the price go up so quickly? \r\n\r\nSitting on benches around the edge of the courtyard Topi headed men slurp scalding hot chiya out of shot-shaped glasses. After years of chiya and inactivity the \r\ntips of their fingers are hard and calloused; immune to the heat. </p>\r\nMankaji tinkered with his bike before going off to sell eggs. Every morning his chain comes off his bike and every morning he puts it back on again. How he longed for a Hero Honda. Oh, how his life would be so much easier!</p>\r\n\r\nToday it was Meena''s turn to go and collect the water from the local standpipe. Well, it always seemed to be her turn.<p>\r\n\r\nGreen, snotty-nosed, undressed babies crawl amongst the napping hounds, vying for their tail-wagging attention. Moodily, the scruffy mongrels get up, stretch and find a quieter corner. Well how could they bark all night if they didn''t get their daily eight hours of sleep?</p>\r\n\r\nIn the evenings, teenagers flirt and boast by the light of their mobile phones, praying that the power cut will not end too soon.</p>\r\n\r\nThe courtyard never really sleeps, lit by oil lamps, butter candles and low-watt bulbs, with the hiss of pressure cookers, their safety valves building up to an ear-splitting crescendo. The grating clanking of metal-on-metal. Steel mortar and pestle grinding fresh herbs and spices.</p>\r\n\r\nTelevisions flicker behind the screen-covered windows. Endless Bollywood movies play.</p>\r\n\r\nRats lean out precariously, trying to grab at the cornhusks draped between the arches. Slow-blinking owls stand guard nightly. And it is rumoured that Raj has never left the confines since the Royal massacre. \r\n', 'A travel article, packed with colourful imagery, on life in Nepal', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 33, 33, 'und', 0, 'It’s early on a bright, cold Saturday morning in Camden Town, and tourists are already beginning to emerge from the Underground. Hawkers engage them in bartering on the market, chain-store coffee baristas serve them up steaming-hot drinks, policemen give them directions; activity unfolds in a thousand interactions, growing steadily beneath an uninterested, fragile blue sky, as yet unbroken by a single cloud. </p>\r\n     Back and forth along the High Street the tourists shuffle. The pavement below their feet is clean, last night’s broken glass and leaf-litter of flyers all swept away. Above them, townhouses lean in, listening. These red-bricked buildings are four storeys high and have seen countless processions of tourists. They may have been grand homes, once, and to the passing sightseer they still look impressive. But inside, their once-airy drawing rooms and spacious bedrooms have all been brutally divided up and sectioned off, so as to cram in the maximum amount of rent-paying residents. </p>\r\n     One such tenant is a writer. He lives alone in a bedsit which overlooks the Britannia Junction, a pigeon’s swoop away from the busy shops, pubs, Tube station and flower stall. This morning the writer pays no attention to the pedestrians passing below his home, however, for he is fast asleep. </p>\r\n     Submerged in a bed that’s pushed up next to the room’s only window, he’s wrapped in a rucked duvet, breathing in deep, sleep-regulated breaths. The noise from the street is perfectly audible inside this match-box home – despite the closed and curtained window – engines, sirens, the banshee brakes of buses, an early busker’s shivering chords, the accompanying hubbub of myriad conversations en-masse: it can all be heard clearly. Yet the sleeping writer does not stir. </p>\r\n     The drawn curtains are cream in colour and are not thick, and so the morning’s shade slips in easily alongside its sounds, as if trying to escape the bright sky. Once inside, that dim light gathers up its shadows and casts them about the stark furnishings of the room. The calendar on the wardrobe door is given a good frame of darkness; gloom is pushed back between the leaning novels on the bookshelf; the heap of clothes discarded on the chair develops unnatural depths while the clutter on the table seems to shift, uncertain of its edges. The three pairs of shoes lurking at the foot of the bed by a solid black guitar case look ready to run. </p>\r\n     The writer turns in his bed, oblivious. He murmurs, perhaps in a dream.</p>\r\n     The half-light continues its slow waltz around the room, hiding this, highlighting that. In a space as small as this, the table is the logical hub, and out of necessity it must have to perform many functions. It is undoubtedly a place to eat, a media centre, a workspace, and it is also where the morning light focuses its gentle dance.</p>\r\n     It seems that the table was most recently used as a desk, although there are signs of consumption too. Books are piled dismissively next to an open, dormant laptop, an empty mug, two empty beer bottles and reams of loose paper that very nearly hide a small, crumby plate. Shadows move freely amongst this mess but it does not cover the whole table, for a little clearing has been created towards the front where another book is left with its pages open: the writer’s journal. </p>\r\n     A pen is poised atop the journal, quiescent in the straight paper-valley at the spine of the book, waiting like a bullet in a pistol’s firing chamber. The light allows for a close inspection of those open pages, and discloses the handwritten heading ‘Challenges Facing Unknown Authors’. </p>\r\n     On the other side of the room, the writer turns again in his bed, a frown passing over his face.</p>\r\n     On the left-hand page of the journal, a long, unbroken sentence is pulled in a hurry across the paper, the black ink of some words smudged by the passing of a palm. </p>\r\n\r\n<i><blockquote>Capture some essence from the heart of the process, some problem, part of the struggle. Hint at the strength required? No: the endurance. Give a glimpse of the challenge made to the artist during the discipline of writing; outline the need for patience during its undertaking. To progress with prolonged, sustained quality prose requires stamina: yes. Often a need to dig deep. Especially following failure/rejection. How to capture this problem? Difficult essay to approach. Highlight temptation to give up and start on some other project. Some other, easier project. Highlight fact that successful writers cannot quit, or else nothing started is finished. And anyway, abandoned work is never improved work: so the writer must be hardy and robust. Highlight difficulty of day job, of suffocating city, rent expectations, peer expectation, plus envy of peers’ success. Give detailed image of doubtful expressions seen in response to empty-sound of ideas. Highlight gravity of phone screen, computer screen, television screen; Highlight regret of pointless procrastination, addiction to various home-feeds, fleeting nature of time, tidal nature of sleep. No. Wait. Stop. Subject too dense for such approach. Will ramble, will condescend, won’t be useful, won’t make sense. All bollocks, all pretence. What approach then? Maybe try to ask the page? Ask the page about this problem. Catch problem in a cage of notes on the page. Write it out. And then sleep on it. </i></blockquote>\r\n\r\n     On the right-hand page of the journal, neater rows of writing form a square.</p>\r\n\r\n<i><blockquote>You say you’re a writer. You read, and you love what you read. You think you can offer something too. A similar escape with a different approach; you believe you can offer some image never seen. You have ideas, you cherish them, you write them; nurture them. You tell people you’re a writer. You tell people you love writing. People smile but you know they don’t think you’re a writer. They ask you what you do. You tell them you’re a barman, a waiter, a clerk, a temp; just while you write\r\n                                                 but you know they need proof. Proof of success, measured in money. You say you don’t care about money, but they are not convinced. You have doubts. Doubts about what you are; doubts about writing, doubts about everything. You write down your doubts, and act like writing them down exorcises them, banishes them. But your doubts remain, lingering. Writing isn’t therapy, you think; writing isn’t medicinal. But neither are doubts new; other writers must suffer similary: you wonder how they cope. You set to work studying, mimicking, contemplating, discussing those writers. You meet people who say they are writers too; their numbers dishearten you but you connect with some and it helps. You stick out your job, you keep your head down. You squeeze sentences from spare seconds. You write every day, determined, and slowly your work grows. You take your journal everywhere. People ask you what you’re doing. You say you’re a writer: they smile. Your doubts linger. <i></blockquote>\r\n\r\n     The sleeping writer stirs once more, grunting softly, possibly about to wake. A frown passes again over his face. Perhaps he’s dreaming of the uncertainties cast in black-Biro across the pages of his journal. </p>\r\n     Outside, while shadows continue to shift around his little room, the crowds on Camden High Street thicken in the pale winter sunlight, the blue sky remaining empty above; apathetic, utterly indifferent. \r\n\r\n\r\n                                                     \r\n', 'A lyrical non-fiction piece about the trials of a young, unknown writer.', 'full_html');
INSERT INTO `truefield_data_body` VALUES
('node', 'article', 0, 34, 34, 'und', 0, 'The coffee is bitter. After twenty years of friendship she still hasn’t learnt how I like it. She buys extra strong and leaves it to brew for ten minutes. I like the softer, more subtle coffee. The taste gets stuck as I try to talk and I have to keep stopping to clear my throat. She nods at intervals. I test her, by leaving sentences hanging or diverting the conversation. She continues nodding. Even after a long night out she’s still a professional listener.</p>  \r\n\r\nI stumble on a word as she lights me a cigarette. I feel my lungs aching but right now it’s numbing my mind enough to continue talking. It feels like a stone is stuck in my throat, a thick ball of all the tar and bitter coffee, my saliva having to crawl around it every time I try to swallow. I ask her if she has anything else. Without answering she brings out whiskey and two glasses. The glasses are crystal; deep cuts hacked into patterns. She pours an inch into each glass. I take a deep breath feeling the edges of my throat again as I drink the whiskey. I want ice but I know she won’t have any. I can’t get that night out of my head.</p>\r\n\r\nMy hands are shaking; they struggle to find my mouth. Without saying anything, she lights a cigarette and passes it to me. She’s kind like that, she can sense when I need help. I try to tell her what’s happened.  She may even know. I can’t say the actual words, so I use replacement words for what I mean. She continues nodding. When it comes to mentioning his name I can’t do it. Instead I skip over the word. She doesn’t seem to notice, or she does and chooses not to. I know it’s a bad idea, because when it comes to morning and she still doesn’t understand I’m going to have to spell it out for her. But for now it’s all I can bear.</p>\r\n\r\nThe apartment becomes motionless when I stop talking. She never did like listening to music. I bought her a radio once though it’s tucked it the corner beneath a pile of books. I think about asking her to turn it on but she won’t know how. The window’s open. A motorbike occasionally breaks the silence. The odd footstep of someone on the way home or a night worker on their way to work. She swallows loudly. I wonder if she feels the same pebble in her throat as I do. My coffee is going cold but I take a sip anyway. Then she places a cigarette in my mouth and lights it for me. I want to say no this time but I don’t have the strength. I inhale and feel the smoke move down my throat and into my lungs. I watch it escape from my mouth in circles and disperse in the air. </p>\r\n\r\nWhen my mouth is clear I try again. </p>\r\n\r\n‘I’ve got something I really need to tell you.’ </p>\r\n\r\nShe nods.</p>\r\n\r\n‘You’re not going to like it.’</p>\r\n\r\nShe nods.</p>\r\n\r\n‘I don’t think you understand.’</p>\r\n\r\nShe bends down to take her heels off. ‘My feet are killing me - not as young as I used to be.’</p>\r\n\r\nShe pours me more whiskey. I take a sip and cough as it struggles to find its way down my throat. I look at the clock on her oven, red numbers flashing three am.  I long to hear birds, to hear morning approaching. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to say this. My hands are still shaking. I look down and watch them. I run the backs of my hands against the glass to cool them down. </p>\r\n\r\n‘Can you just let me speak? Let me explain before you say anything?’</p>\r\n\r\nShe knows how to handle this, she sits back to let me speak.</p>\r\n\r\n‘When we were kids, we used to sit on this wall, do you remember? Down the lane between our houses. We would go for walks, our mums would pack us a sandwich and a drink, and we’d go for walks for what felt like hours, just wandering around talking. Then we would find that wall and we would sit with our legs dangling over the edge, watching the stream below that would dry up in the summer. And you, you used to say that, no matter what happened we would be friends forever. Do you remember? No matter what happens?’</p>\r\n\r\nShe pours us more whiskey, filling her glass first. I watch the rusty liquid swirl in her glass and gather at her lips as she drinks. She’s barely looking at me. </p>\r\n\r\n‘Well, from that day, or that time, I’ve felt like no matter what happens we’ll always be friends. Even if we don’t talk for years. I hope that’s still the case.’</p>\r\n\r\nShe lights herself a cigarette.</p>\r\n\r\n‘Remember how you used to think that the same river ran all the way through the world, as a never ending stream of water?’</p>\r\n\r\nShe smiles. ‘I remember,’ she says.</p>\r\n\r\n‘We would watch that stream and imagine the people it was passing, sitting with their feet over the edge just like us, on the other side of the world.’</p>\r\n\r\nMy glass is empty. I reach for the bottle next to her and she passes it to me. I pour myself a drink. I watch the liquid swirl the bottom. Take a deep breath. I can feel my lungs shaking. I’m not even sure if I can say this to her. I look up and try and look in her eyes. She’s looking at her cigarette, or her glass, or the window.</p> \r\n\r\n‘What’s the time?’</p>\r\n\r\nShe looks at the clock for me. </p>\r\n\r\n‘Late. Just after three.’</p>\r\n\r\n‘I haven’t stayed up this late in years. Remember when we were kids and this time used to feel like it didn’t exist? Like it was a secret time that your parents never wanted you to see? And then when we were teenagers and this time felt early, like the night was only just beginning.’</p>\r\n\r\nShe nods and tips her head to one side, hmms through a closed mouth as if practiced. </p>\r\n\r\nI look at the clock on the oven to confirm. Three minutes past three. Flashing in big red lights. I should go home soon. </p>\r\n\r\n‘Do you remember the last time you stayed up this late?’</p>\r\n\r\nShe looks at me. Her blood shot eyes. ‘With Gary.’ </p>\r\n\r\nI nod. The whiskey has gone warm in my hand. I sip it, not really wanting to drink. </p>\r\n\r\n‘Mine was… mine was… I can’t remember.’ I cough. ‘How is Gary?’</p>\r\n\r\nShe looks up at me, says nothing. I can see her biting the inside corner of her lip.</p>\r\n\r\n‘Gary’s fine. Great in fact. Gary’s fine,’ she says.</p>\r\n\r\nI wish she had a TV or radio to turn on. She never did like background noise, said it was too distracting and filled your head with too many things to ignore your own thoughts. I tap my fingers on the edge of the glass to make high pitched ting. I close my eyes and enjoy the noise for a moment, moving my fingers around the tip to change the pitch. I look up. She’s looking at me. I give her a guilty grin but she just looks away.</p>\r\n</p>\r\n\r\n*\r\n</p>\r\n\r\n‘4am, I wonder if any clubs are still open,’ I say.</p>\r\n\r\nShe shakes her head. </p>\r\n\r\n‘They never stay open this late nowadays. Not in this country,’ I say in agreement with her. </p>\r\n\r\n‘Probably because no one has the strength to stay up this late any more,’ she says. I wonder if she’s hinting at me. I used to be able to read her better. </p>\r\n\r\nShe stands up to wash our glasses. </p>\r\n\r\n‘That’s okay, I’ll re use mine.’</p>\r\n\r\nShe doesn’t stop washing. She goes to the fridge and holds up an empty bottle.</p>\r\n\r\n‘We’re all out of whiskey. Want brandy?’ she says.</p>\r\n\r\n‘Why not.’</p>\r\n\r\nShe takes a towel and starts to dry the cups one at a time and place them back on the table in front of us. She pours us another drink. I realise I have to talk, if I’m going to say it before I leave.</p>\r\n\r\n‘When you going away?’ I say.</p>\r\n\r\n‘Two days.’</p>\r\n\r\n‘On your business trip? </p>\r\n\r\n‘Business and pleasure. He’s meeting me out there. Taking a few days off.’</p>\r\n\r\nShe necks her drink like its water and pours herself another. I hold mine and swirl the liquid in the glass. </p>\r\n\r\n‘Sometimes I think I know you better then you do,’ she looks at me as she says this. She smiles but it’s almost a smug smile, too crooked to be real. </p>\r\n\r\n‘What do you mean?’</p>\r\n\r\n‘Well… you never could get your words out could you?’</p>\r\n\r\nI neck my drink. Pour myself another. </p>\r\n\r\n‘The pier night’ I say without looking at her. The taste of his tongue. </p>\r\n\r\n‘What?’</p>\r\n\r\n‘The pier night. That’s the last time I stayed up this late.’ The smell of his skin.</p>\r\n\r\nHer smug smile drops. I feel sick from the smell of the drink; it reminds me of that night. Of his breath. I swallow. I want to say the words ‘with Gary’ but I can’t bring myself to do it. </p>\r\n\r\n‘You asked. That’s the last time,’ I say.</p>\r\n\r\n‘It’s getting late. You should be leaving. Don’t you have work in the morning?’</p>\r\n\r\n‘No.’</p>\r\n</p>\r\n\r\n*\r\n</p>\r\nThe number flicks from five to one minute past.  I stretch my neck, cock my head from side to side. Small talk’s become difficult, so heavy. The energy used to not say it. I pour myself another shot. As I go to put the bottle back on the table she snatches it from my hand to pour herself another. I bring it to my lips. The smell makes me gag. I look up quickly and the room spins. I rest my hands on the table to balance myself. </p>\r\n\r\n‘Can we open a window?’ I ask.</p>\r\n\r\n‘It is open.’</p>\r\n\r\nThe sun is beginning to rise outside. My eyes are burning with lethargy so I push my drink to one side. She takes it from me and begins to wash up. She takes a long time running the sink, placing the glasses in the water, scrubbing, with her back to me. She takes the ash tray and washes that up too. She places the empty ash tray back in front of me. I open my mouth to speak but it doesn’t form any words. The table is now empty and clean. She keeps her back to me, for a long time. I want to tell her that I’m sorry. That that night shouldn’t have happened. That I should have told her before Gary did.</p>\r\n\r\nI take a deep breath and footsteps pass outside. Fast high heels tap on concrete like someone running late. </p>\r\n\r\n‘I should…’ She’ll always think of me the way he told the story.</p>\r\n\r\nI pick up my coat. My hands are shaking. Something falls from the coat to the floor. I pick it up. The noise makes her flinch but she doesn’t turn around. The brooch. She gave it to me when we were fifteen, an old thing shed found in her grandma’s attic. I gave her a pencil top in return. With my trembling hands I go to attach it back to my coat. I try a few times to no success. As I turn the brooch around I realise the pin is broken. A small lump of air passes my throat, something that would be a laugh if I wasn’t so tired. </p>\r\n\r\n‘I should…’ She’ll never understand my version.</p>\r\n\r\nShe doesn’t look up. Her hands are in the sink but she’s not moving. Her head is down. I wish she had the radio on. I tie up my shoes. Open the door. She keeps her back to me. As I walk out the door I reach back and leave the broken brooch on the side. She doesn’t turn around. </p>\r\n\r\nOutside the sun is rising. I walk home. All the way home.   \r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n', 'A tense short story about things unsaid as two old friends share a late-night drink.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 35, 35, 'und', 0, 'You’d brought a bottle of Southern Comfort with you from London. On the evening after the funeral you sat there smoking in the fading summer light as the dinner plates were taken away. When it became obvious that no more alcohol would be offered you heaved yourself upstairs and fished the bottle out from your luggage.</p>\r\nIt did well, that bottle, lasting as it did until 2am. The widow went to bed so it was just you and your husband and the two teenagers, and the drink hit them fast. At the start, you probably meant to be supportive as you questioned the drunken orphans.  But as anecdotes poured out your eyes narrowed and gleamed. So much information, all of a sudden, after years of conjecture… It was too much for you. You attempted to kick your husband under the table but missed and the oldest girl glanced up, eyebrows raised over tired bloodshot eyes. Later your mouth twisted, your voice vibrated as you reminisced about your own parents. How they forced you to give up your baby boy, how you wished you’d kept him, how you yearned to know what he’d become. Revealing too much was one of the dangers of drink, but then this was no longer a secret, it was a part of your repertory. It was new to the girls though and they reacted with appreciable shock. Shrieks and hugs; one of your best audiences yet. Your husband patted your arm, a little mechanically. His eyelids were starting to droop.  Jarring music kept drifting up from the radio, like rattling frying pans, cut through with French chatter from an excited male presenter. The TV was off – you’d not seen it switched on once. Seriously, this was one weird setup. </p>\r\nChilly air wafted in from the half-open window but no one offered to close it. Typical. Eventually you shuffled over and did it yourself. You sat down again with a sigh and refilled glasses all round. You reached the point of tears, three quarters down the bottle, and you vowed you’d not lose touch with your nieces this time. You were silent for a while, sipping the tepid drink, waiting for it explode inside you and grip at you again. Soon you were prodding for more, strained to memorise every spilt revelation.  So that’s what he’d been like, the man your sister had married! Just wait until you told the others, back home. If you remembered it all…Another problem with being drunk was that you forgot things, sometimes. Then from the tangle of spirals your mind was pulsing with, something whispered, “Who cares- what you don’t remember, you can invent…” So yes, a pretty enjoyable evening in spite of everything. \r\n', 'Flash fiction showing alcohol and funerals just don''t mix.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 36, 37, 'und', 0, '<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/Issue-2">Read issue 2 here.</A>\r\n\r\nHere we are already with our second issue.</p> I must say, being an editor is fantastic. Each morning the Puffin inboxes are packed with submissions from so many countries, in so many genres and in so many styles. Already, we have enough quality writing to pack out months and months of the magazine, but keep them coming. We are constantly on the lookout for new submissions.</p>\r\nIn this month’s issue we have the usual mix of fiction and non-fiction. There’s a healthy smattering of travel journalism too, with Rachael Pells giving another punchy take on life in Mexico, whilst we welcome a new contributor, F. Harvey Anderson, who has written a very vivid and thoughtful article on life in Nepal. </p>\r\nWe also welcome back Sarah Taylor-Fergusson who wrote so beautifully about love in her poem in Issue 1 that we couldn’t help but invite her back with another, packed full of imagery. Joining her in representing poetry in this issue is another new contributor, from Ireland, Michael Ray.</p>\r\nWe’d never forget flash fiction. How could we? This month’s pieces come from Samuel Best, who edits a magazine of his own for young writers, and from Patricia Duffaud.</p>\r\nAlso, we publish our first novel excerpt this month, and it’s from Alistair Roberts. Let us know what you think.</p>\r\nWe have short stories by Nici West and Ellie Stewart, and a very lyrical non-fiction story about the struggles of young writers to get established, the latter being from James Bruce May whom we’re glad to have back after he appeared in our first edition. </p>\r\nFinally, Rachel MacGregor writes an article on why the book is always better than the film, a sentiment I agree with (except for The Shawshank Redemption).</p>\r\nWe’ll also be introducing a book review section shortly. Our team have received plenty of review copies of forthcoming fiction, such as Kate Atkinson’s <i>Life After Life</i> and Margaret Forster’s <i>The Unknown Bridesmaid</i>. The reviews will be published soon, and writers and publishers are always welcome to send their books to us for review. </p>\r\nFinally, we have two upcoming author interviews but we’ll tell you more about that later.</p>\r\nKeep reading and please do spread the word about The Puffin Review. ', '', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 37, 38, 'und', 0, 'This novel is a slow burner. Usually, Kate Atkinson grabs me by the throat before I’m half-way down the first page, and doesn’t relent till the book is done.  Not so with <i>Life After Life</i>, but stick with it and you’ll be ridiculously rewarded. </p>\r\n\r\nThe novel follows the many lives of Ursula Todd: she suffers relentless deaths  but is reincarnated, as herself, to try again and again, finally scraping through childhood into her teenage years and beyond.</p> \r\n\r\nUrsula is only vaguely aware of her remarkable gift, which manifests itself in her ordinary life as flashes of déjà vu or maddening anxiety, provoking troubled trips to a psychiatrist.</p>\r\n\r\nIn one life, the family maid, Bridget, goes off to London to celebrate the end of the Great War but unwittingly brings the deadly flu back home on the train. In the subsequent reincarnation, Ursula is racked with terror at the thought of Bridget going off to London and so pushes her, spraining her ankle, and averting her destined contact with the flu-raddled crowds. Ursula is saved this time,  but death is always just around the corner, as is another go at living life.</p>\r\n\r\nIt takes several attempts for Ursula to dodge the dangers and diseases of an Edwardian childhood and it is only once she reaches her young adulthood that the novel takes flight. Until then, there is a tinge of frustration at always having the narrative reset to 1910 whilst Ursula makes another attempt at surviving her early years. So there is often scant sense of a story moving forward and the narrative fails to build up a head of steam. </p>\r\n\r\nThe structure also made it difficult to develop a sense of Ursula’s character, as we spend so much time seeing her as a baby or toddler trying to emerge unscathed from childhood. Also, in one life she may become a dreary suburban wife, but in another she is leading a glamorous existence in Weimar Germany.  So who is Ursula? It’s often hard to know, as she sprints off to so many different destinies.</p>\r\n\r\nThe novel finally sparks into life when Ursula arrives in London during the Blitz. Finally, she is grounded and solid and, though we have several versions of her life and death in this era, we are at last allowed to stay with her long enough, in the same frightening but familiar setting, to know her. The constant stop-starts are replaced by beautifully elongated snapshots of life. Instead of living a few seconds  before being strangled by her umbilical cord, or a few hours before being smothered by a cat, she steps into fuller life. Finally, we’re going somewhere! The constantly zig-zagging line of the narrative has now steadied and sharpened and is aiming towards a great finale. </p>\r\n\r\nKate Atkinson’s descriptive strengths are best displayed in these Blitz sections and we feel she too knows that this is the novel’s finest hour. We are treated to some splendid, though disturbing, imagery: as Ursula works to remove corpses after a raid, she lifts a body by the shoulders only to see him ‘come apart like a Christmas cracker.’ </p>\r\n\r\nSo, Atkinson devotees - like me - may feel they have a damp squib on their hands but, stick with it, and it’ll soon sparkle into literary brilliance.\r\n\r\n<i>Life After Life</i> is published on March 14th by Doubleday.\r\n\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=0385618670&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n', 'Ursula has the gift of living her life again and again, trying to get it right. Her attempts encompass all the trauma and upheaval of the 20th Century. Sparkles with literary brilliance.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 40, 41, 'und', 0, 'Don’t judge a book by its author.</p>\r\nI open each Margaret Forster novel with quiet reverence and scrubbed-clean hands. I make sure the dishes are done and the mobile phone switched off. I will tolerate no distractions. </p>\r\nThis novel is about Julia, and the narrative jumps between her childhood, her teenage years and her middle-age. </p>\r\nWe are in familiar Forster territory in the working-class North. Life is down-at-heel and there is no luxury, joy or colour in young Julia’s life. She tolerates it well, and is good, meek and quiet - almost irritatingly so. She reminded me of Little Nell: a goody-goody-gum-drops. Indeed, the main spark in these sections comes from her nippy, dissatisfied mother who rattles with frustration at life. </p>\r\nIrritable mother and dutiful daughter go off to Manchester for a family wedding. Here, their straitened circumstances are made painfully clear as Julia’s mother grumbles about the cost, the hassle, the stress, the waste. She takes a nasty pleasure in seeing that the bridesmaid dress doesn’t fit and is grimly satisfied when rain falls on the wedding day. I enjoyed her simmering bitchiness as it sprang from her situation in life: a widow, struggling, living in a backwater, with little company except unnatural little Julia. </p>\r\nHowever, we see no reason for Julia’s strained niceness. Why is she so meek and timid? Life isn’t cruel to her. Why doesn’t she run about and play and get dirty? \r\nSo, it’s little surprise to see that, when the narrative jumps forward to her adult life, she has become  a solid, humourless child psychologist and magistrate. The main interest in the adult sections comes from Julia’s clients. She has to deal with bullying children, vicious, unco-operative children, children who wander off and throw everyone into panic, children who refuse to leave their beds. As before, the main interest here what is happening around Julia, not Julia herself. It was Julia’s mother, and now Julia’s clients, who provide the drama. She remains the maddeningly calm eye of the storm. </p>\r\nWhen will she herself erupt, we wonder? And hope. </p>\r\nFinally, Julia’s smooth surface cracks when she enters her teenage years and nindulges in some truly vicious behaviour. But why? She was always so polite and nice and sensible. She was as a child and is as an adult, so why the aberration in her teenage years? This is never explained and the reader is left dissatisfied as to why she went so horribly off the rails. </p>\r\nOn the surface, of course, she is upset at her mother dying and doesn’t feel quite at home with her new family, but this simply doesn’t explain the dirty tricks and cruelty she descends into. There is a real disconnect between the three strands of narrative. Child could merge neatly into adult, but how do we account for the sour and icy teenage years?</p>\r\nAnd no minutiae. That’s what Margaret Forster does so well: the fabric of ordinary lives, the weft and weave. This novel was altogether too smooth. There is never the sensation of prising something open and peering inside. </p>\r\nSo when my review copy appeared I abandoned everything else on my reading pile and devoted my attention to it utterly. But I was disappointed for I had judged the book by its author. Had it been written by a lesser mortal I may have enjoyed it more. Perhaps Forster’s track record of sheer brilliance dented it for me, for it is a good read, just not of the usual Forster magnificence.</p>\r\n<i>The Unknown Bridesmaid</i> is published by Chatto & Windus\r\n</p>\r\n</p>\r\n</p>\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=0701188057&nou=1&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n', 'The life of Julia, from timid little girl, to sensible, solid adult, but what turmoil lies in between these two stages?', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 42, 43, 'und', 0, 'This debut novel from Manuel Munoz is teeming with scorching hot imagery and skilful narrative, all woven together into a thrilling, atmospheric story.</p>\r\nSet in the hot, dusty city of Bakersfield, the residents are tantalised by the flash and glamour of nearby LA, yet kept forever distant from it as they struggle to make ends meet in the local diners, motels, and shops. </p>\r\nHollywood glamour finally smiles on them when Hitchcock swoops into town with his entourage, scouting for locations in filming <i>Psycho</i>. </p>\r\nThe waitresses in the local diner stare at the shimmering Janet Leigh as she picks at a delicate lunch in her astonishingly yellow silk blouse and smooth skirt. <i>Is it really her?</i> they whisper.</p>\r\nOne of the waitresse is Arlene. She’s middle-aged and weary of her life. Abandoned by her husband and left to manage their struggling motel, whilst spending her days pouring coffee behind the fly-spattered windows of the diner, has worn her spirit thin. </p>\r\nInto her tired life come the Hollywood film crew, trailing their stardust.  How Arlene wishes for a life out of the humdrum, just as Janet Leigh, sipping her coffee, longs for acknowledgement and respect in this new Hitchcock film, a film where she must parade naked and is soon killed off.  A gamble, but how she hopes it will work.</p>\r\nAlongside the longings of these two women we have Teresa, a poor Mexican girl who works in the shoe shop  before going home alone to her prim, one-room apartment.  She wants something too: to be a singer, to throw her arms wide to an audience, in a floor-length gown, with a voice which speaks of pain and love. But she has never experienced love. So, she tempts it into her life, thereby triggering the story, and the terrible murder which occurs. </p>\r\nThe stories of these three women, and their private desperations, are threaded together through the novel, all the while illuminated by hot imagery which brings us the parched air and the sun-scorch on our arms. </p>\r\nAlongside this is the recurring motif of darkness – darkness in the cinema, darkness in Teresa’s stairwell, darkness in the abandoned motel - which neatly alerts us to the ugliness lurking beneath the Hollywood illusion, and the futility in hoping for such an illusion.</p>\r\nDespite being a debut novel, Munoz has the confidence and skill to make brave narrative leaps. He opens the novel with a second-person narrative, so that <i>you</i> are taken by the wrist and hauled into the smoulder of the story. He then moves effortlessly between the thoughts and stories of his three women, plus Hitchock himself.</p> \r\nThis bold approach works perfectly and when you close the book you need to shake yourself, realising you’re in rainy Britain and not in the fierce California heat.</p>\r\n</p>\r\n</p>\r\n\r\n<i>What You See In The Dark</i> is published by Duckworth\r\n</p>\r\n</p>\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=071564517X&nou=1&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n\r\n\r\n \r\n', 'A debut novel, set in 50s California, smouldering with heat and violence.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 43, 44, 'und', 0, '<strong>What’s your day job?</strong> \r\n\r\nI co-run the online creative writing school www.writingclasses.co.uk, which I set up in 2002.\r\n\r\n<strong>With other commitments, how do you make time for writing? Do you snatch time when you’re free or do you plan it into the day?</strong>\r\n\r\nI''m not good at snatching time for creative stuff. When I write I like to know I have the whole day ahead of me. Like Charles Dickens, I find it hard to concentrate on my writing if I know someone is due to visit or I have an appointment later on in the day.\r\n\r\n<strong>Sylvia Plath famously wrote at dawn, whereas other writers sup their espresso long into the night. When it comes to writing, are you a lark or an owl?</strong>\r\n\r\nI used to be a night owl but more recently I''ve found that if I write into the wee hours I can''t then switch off and go to sleep – and I am a big believer in getting my sleep. So, I like to start early, the earlier the better, before I get too distracted by other stuff, then, even if I do have to stop for whatever reason, at least I will have got some writing done.\r\n\r\n<strong>Do you have a set daily word count you feel you must achieve? If not, when do you decide your day’s writing is done?</strong>\r\n\r\nNo, I don''t have a set word limit or set time, but I do like to write for a good six to eight hours a day when I am in writing mode.\r\n\r\n<strong>Which is more enjoyable: the first draft or the re-drafting?</strong>\r\n\r\nI hate the first draft. It is so scary writing it because you have to fill all those blank empty pages and you don''t really know how your story will turn out. I agree with the writer John Gardner when he said: “One cannot judge in advance whether or not the idea of the story is worthwhile because until one has finished writing the story one does not know for sure what the idea is.”\r\n\r\nBut I love the redrafting ie; the shaping and sifting and constructing and moulding and correcting and cutting and creating the finished draft of my story.\r\n\r\n<strong>Tell us about how you got your first publication.</strong>\r\n\r\nAfter I finished writing The Blue Suitcase, my first novel, I submitted my manuscript to agents in the usual way. Despite lots of positive feedback no one offered to represent me. At some point, and I can''t remember when, my husband, Marc, suggested he publish my novel. This is not as radical as you may think – Marc has experience publishing education books and is also a writer. He established Pilrig Press and published The Blue Suitcase in November 2010 and my second novel, Food of Ghosts, in November 2012. He has now taken on new authors, whose books he will be publishing later this year and the rest is, as they say, history.\r\n\r\n<strong>Do you sometimes feel like not writing? If so, how do you muster the motivation and necessary discipline to get to the desk and begin?</strong>\r\n\r\nI usually always want to write but I do have off days. When this happens, like Anne Tyler, I make myself try and sit at the computer and type anything, it doesn''t matter what. In fact, sometimes I rewrite the same simple, inane sentence over and over again. Almost every time I do this an idea or two will sneak into the sentences. It''s as if the act of sitting at my desk and writing any old rubbish fools my brain into thinking that I''m really “working” and the ideas start flowing.\r\n\r\n"The one ironclad rule is that I have to try. I have to walk into my writing room and pick up my pen every weekday morning." Anne Tyler\r\n\r\n<img src="/content/sites/default/files/desk4%2075%20percent.jpg" width="712" height="521" alt=""  />\r\n<i>Marianne''s Desk</div></i>\r\n\r\n<strong>Do you plan your novels carefully before writing a word, or do you set off on the journey and see what happens?</strong>\r\n\r\nI do some planning, yes. I think a plan is good, even if I ditch it later. In fact, I will almost most definitely ditch it, and make many more plans and ditch them too. Because until the novel is actually finished I don''t know for sure what it will be about.\r\n\r\n“I write because I don''t know what I think until I read what I say.” ― Flannery O''Connor\r\n\r\n<strong>Are you ruthless with your characters or do you allow them to develop on paper in ways you didn’t foresee?</strong>\r\n\r\nI''m quite ruthless. I want my characters to do what I want. Of course, they develop and change in unexpected ways, just as the story does. But, no, I don''t put up with unruly characters.\r\n\r\n<strong>Can you offer any advice for a beginner writer?</strong>\r\n\r\nGosh. Let me think. There are two things I tell my students when they start. The first is something by the writer Flannery O''Connor: “The only way, I think to learn to write stories is to write them, and then to try to discover what you have done. The time to think of technique is when you''ve actually got your story in front of you.”\r\n\r\nAnd the other is by Ray Bradbury: “If you are writing without zest, without gusto, without love, without fun, you are only half a writer....For the first thing a writer should be is excited.” Ray Bradbury\r\n\r\n<strong>What work do you have in progress at the moment?</strong>\r\n\r\nI am working on the second novel in the Detective Louisa Townsend Pacific murder series as well as a sequel to The Blue Suitcase.', 'We talk to novelist Marianne Wheelaghan about her writing routine and ask her advice about staying motivated.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 44, 45, 'und', 0, 'Read this book. What else can I say, and how else should I say it? Read this book because it is magnificent.</p>\r\nI’m appalled to think I’ve only recently discovered Tessa Hadley. A few weeks ago, I’d never heard of her, but then I stumbled across a review of her previous novel, <i>The London Train</i>, got a copy of her latest, and have been hooked and devoted since. I’ve greedily acquired all of her novels and short stories and clutch them to me as I read, devouring every word at speed whilst at the same time terrified to finish them.</p>\r\n<i>Clever Girl</i> is her latest novel and tells the story of Stella, a working-class girl growing up in the 60s. Narrated in the first-person, we follow Stella from her childhood in a tiny Bristol bedsit, living with her feisty mother who manages to remain chic despite the damp laundry, the creeping grime and the grassy bombsites amidst which they live.</p>\r\nThey’re scooped into material comfort when her mother remarries but life in the trim suburbs doesn’t suit Stella who’s entering her teenage years. By now it’s now the 70s and she meets the decade with determined glee, strolling to school in her short skirt and heavy eyeliner, desperate for life to show itself.\r\nAn infatuation with a local boy prompts her to move out of the constricting air of home and off she goes on a trajectory, pulling us with her, through a bohemian life in a flower-strewn squat, childbirth, working in a vegan café, an affair with a married man, bereavement, marriage... It’s all here and we’re with her throughout.</p></p>\r\nThere is no easy beginning, middle and end to the novel. There is no neat chart to plot which shows the ‘important’ bits of the story. The novel eases us through each page, like a great ocean liner cutting smoothly through the waves, so that we don’t realise the distance we’ve travelled till we look back and gasp. </p>\r\nHer use of metaphor throughout is divine and precise, with prose so beautiful it cries to be sung aloud, chanted, yelled from some high place. \r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n<i>Clever Girl</i> is published by Jonathan Cape\r\n\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=0224096524&nou=1&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n', 'A brilliant, accurate, pin-sharp novel of the life of Stella, the ''clever girl'' who goes astray.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 45, 46, 'und', 0, 'Britain’s furious heatwave of 1976: cracked earth, water shortages, yellowed grass, and the fraying of tempers and patience. And, in the frantic midst of it all, the vanishing of a husband.\r\nMaggie O’Farrell’s latest novel takes us back to that unbearably hot summer and encloses us in the drama of the tight-knit Riordan family. \r\n\r\nGretta, the archetypal ‘Irish mammy’ is up early baking soda bread (she refuses to let the hot weather dislodge her household traditions) whilst her husband, Robert, strolls off to get a morning paper. He doesn’t come back and Gretta gathers her scattered offspring to the family home to help in the crisis.\r\n\r\nNone of her three children are particularly happy to be summoned, as all are battling with their own private demons but the ties of the Irish Catholic family are too tight to be shrugged off, so each dutifully returns home: Michael, whose wife is ruffled, unhappy and on the verge of mentioning divorce; Monica, who is struggling to find acceptance from her new husband’s sulky daughters and Aoife, the rebellious one, trying to invent a life in New York despite being burdened by a secret. \r\n\r\nAll three children arrive back on the well-trodden doorstep, dutiful and good but, at the same time,  suffocated by mother-love, sibling tensions and the insatiable heat.\r\n\r\nSo begins the family campaign to track down their missing father.\r\n\r\nMaggie O’Farrell is obviously a gifted storyteller, and when you open her novels you are guaranteed a good read. She reels off this family drama with prose that shimmers like a heat haze but I felt it was, at times, too ambitious. She uses a narrative technique which dips and dives between the points of view of so many characters that I felt the novel would have been better served had she restricted herself to one or two.\r\n\r\nInstead, we weave between the viewpoints of Gretta, Michael, Monica and Aoife. This means we are offered glimpses into the backstory of each but with never enough time or narrative space to delve deeply into them. Michael’s segments in particular are fascinating. He is torn between love for his family and the teasing ambition, which he can’t quite snuff out, to finish his PhD and escape to American academia. Meanwhile, his wife smarts at having to surrender her own freedom to be a wife and mother. \r\n\r\nOr what about Aoife’s story? Fleeing the family to start again in New York, working with a famous photographer, shielding her draft-dodger lover, all whilst struggling with an oppressive secret. \r\n\r\nThere is so much material which we are only permitted a glimpse at. I feel the novel would have been stronger had it been done on a smaller canvas but with more detail. However, it’s still a great read: entertaining, atmospheric and with flashes of fine humour. \r\n\r\n\r\nInstructions For A Heatwave is published by Tinder Press\r\n\r\n\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=0755358783&nou=1&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n', 'A father vanishes one morning during the 1976 heatwave. The family are summoned back together to help find him, sparking sibling tensions, dramas and secrets under the scorching sun.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 46, 47, 'und', 0, 'As I walk up Hope Street that night to meet The Clown, I nearly fall. I put my hand out to steady myself and realise I’m drunk. Really though, how could it be any other way? He gives me a few hours’ notice, and I was so nervously anticipating his text all day that I couldn’t eat lunch. Then I have to rush home to get ready, so there’s no time for dinner. And I’m in such a trembling state at the thought of seeing him that I throw back a glass of Rioja. Then another as I’m putting my make-up on. Then a third glass vanishes too. Bah, I don’t have time to stop and carefully measure out the drinks. I’m shaking here! </p>\r\nIt’s 7.40. Twenty minutes till I meet him. I take my phone out and ring Jenben, my sister. I need to speak to someone not involved in this circus panic. She’s wise. She’ll talk me down from my state of free-wheeling madness. When she answers, I launch straight into clown-ramblings. I’m not sure how much of it translates across to Jenben, as she just keeps saying ‘are you all right?’ I want to say ‘of course, I’m all right, just tell me how to defeat The Clown’, but, through the red haze of the wine, I know no-one can pull me out of this except me. And I don’t want out of it. My watch says 7.50. I need to go. Get up the hill to Rose St where the ginger ogre lies in wait for me. She makes me promise to text her when I get home, but I’ve forgotten the promise as soon as I give it.</p>\r\nI’m feeling woozy as I cross Sauchiehall St and I wonder – horribly – if I’m going to vomit. To do that on a date? Oh god, no. But as I enter Rose St, and see the Art  Deco entrance to the theatre – where he is quietly waiting – the nausea vanishes to be replaced with a sharp dread. Any second now, I’ll be face to face with him. My cruel ginger tormentor. I approach the glass doors, and see the foyer is jammed with people. I can’t go in. How can I just walk up to him, like a normal person? So, I pull out my phone, and pretend to be on a call, and patter about in the street for a few minutes to buy some time. I can’t go in. Eventually, I come to realise how absurd I look. I slip the phone into my bag and, step into the dazzling foyer. There is a crowd, but I spot him right away. There he is. I’d see him immediately, anywhere. </p>\r\nWe go into the bar for a drink, and you have to walk down a few stairs to get there. He seems to struggle with the steps, and I notice he is limping furiously. Of course, he said he’d twisted his ankle and that was why he couldn’t see me.</p>\r\nHe hands me the house red in a plastic cup, saying he''s says he’s not drinking as he’s on medication for his ankle (which was the excuse he''d given for cancelling our last date.) He seems very curt with me, tonight. Is it because I’ve turned up drunk? I sneak a glance at him. He’s frowning down at a leaflet of the ‘coming attractions’. Neither of us is speaking. I sip my wine. Oh God, this is bad. Maybe he’s just in pain with his ankle? Or maybe he’s just embarrassed about being seen with a drunken woman. I drain my wine and then start crumpling the rim of the plastic cup.</p>\r\nHe finishes reading the leaflet and looks down at the mangled plastic in my hand. Sighing, he removes it from me and says we should get upstairs to the auditorium. He turns and hobbles up the steps to the foyer, and I follow him.. My face is so hot I’m surprised the fire alarm isn’t going off.</p>\r\nAs he walks ahead of me down the hallway I start to feel defiant. What’s he being weird for? It’s his fault I’m such a nervous wreck, and it’s his fault I couldn’t eat today, and it’s his fault I had no time for dinner, and it’s his hot and cold attitude that has made me so nervous about seeing him that I had to resort to Dutch courage! Then he looks down his snooty ginger nose at me, and acts all superior! My mind is galloping away with this when he turns at the foot of the staircase and takes my arm. I immediately soften. The poor lamb needs my help to climb the stairs. Oh Clown, how I adore you! I relax and all my unease falls away and, as it does, my giddiness surges back. Oh yeah, I’m drunk.  And here was me forgetting! I laugh as we go up, and I suddenly trip over my shoes, and manage to fall upstairs. Think what falling upstairs actually means. And now think what it means when you’re on the all-important third date with a man you are crazy for. He jerks me to my feet. I just laugh, ‘these aren’t even my shoes!’</p>\r\nHe’s not amused. ‘Well, whose shoes <i>are</i> they?’</p>\r\nI snort, ‘Fiona’s!’, as though it’s the most obvious thing  in the world.</p>\r\nHe manages to manoeuvre me into a seat and we wait for the film to start. I don’t want a repeat of the silence between us downstairs so I start up a conversation, but all I remember is that I kept talking  about Ketamine. </p>\r\nMercifully, the lights dim and the film starts. I sink low into my seat and want to die. I’ve turned up drunk and I’ve annoyed him. I really have. He’s being very short with me. Maybe it’s not so bad though. But he’s definitely annoyed. I know that for certain as he  starts poking me on the arm. Oh, what have I done now? I sit up and the lights are on. Everyone’s leaving. Slowly – oh so slowly – I realise what has happened. The show’s over. I have slept through the whole film.</p>\r\nHe insists on walking me to Central Station to wait till my train arrives. Very gentlemanly, especially as his limp is getting worse and he really seems to be struggling. Sounds ungrateful, but I’d rather he just left me. I want nothing but to crawl under my bed and die of shame. We wait at Platform 7 and I am able to look at him, talk to him, see him as an actual man and not my evil, ginger marauder. All the silliness and nerves have been seared away by my embarrassment. All that’s left now is an urgent wish that he’d leave me so I could rethink what I’d done and see whether there was any way to salvage it. When he tries to kiss me I cringe as I know I must taste of cheap wine and have that delightful just-woken-up-from-drunken-sleep look. But if he’s kissing me, maybe all’s not lost? Or maybe he’s just too gallant to deposit me at  the station and leave? There are eight minutes till my train is due. I’m able to look at him and talk and am beginning to enjoy my lack of fear when he places his hands on either side of my waist, under my coat, and I’m reminded in a flash of how big and awe-inspiring he is. That one simple gesture reduces me again to the simpering nervous girl. Ahhh, back to square one! I can’t meet his eye and I fumble for something to say. I go back to repeating how sorry I am for falling asleep, and stress that I hadn’t had time for much to eat today so the wine went straight to my head bla  bla bla.</p>\r\nHe interrupts me, turning sarcastic. ‘Well, next time we go out, maybe it should be for dinner.’</p>\r\nOh, that was a cheap shot, I think. But I deserve it. I’ve ruined this.</p>\r\nMy train pulls in and, as I walk down the platform, I hear him laugh and say ‘remember to get off at your stop.’</p> I turn round to see if he’s joking but he’s already walking away. My mind clears as I notice he isn’t limping.\r\n \r\n\r\n', 'An extract from the popular dating blog, appearing each Monday in HeraldScotland.com and soon to be published by Blasted Heath,', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 47, 48, 'und', 0, '<b>“I have come for my brains,” remarked the Scarecrow, uneasily.</b></p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nMy mouth was a painted grimace</p>\r\non a straw-filled potato sack.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nI could not speak</p>\r\nMy words came from scraps </p>\r\nand wasteland –</p> \r\n<i>rats’ feet over broken glass</i></p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nDust blew into my cracked</p>\r\neyes. I could not cry.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nSometimes I sagged on this pole, like </p>\r\nA stilled flag. I was a wind-beggar.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nI could hold up my bag-head if I chose </p>\r\nbut usually I stared down at my scuffed shoes –</p> \r\nOne brown, one black, no laces,</p>\r\npegged in place by bulldog clips, they </p>\r\nhang from my trousers – like suicides.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nEmpty glove hands flap no fingers.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nWhat wouldn’t I have given for a bone or </p>\r\na blackened tooth? </p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nNow my intestines itch madly. Were I human</p>\r\na tapeworm would be less irritating.</p>\r\nIt’s all kept inside with strong twine and </p>\r\nA belt buckle.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nThese days - I wish I’d tear open. Let </p>\r\nthe crows peck me slack, become </p>\r\na dishrag.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nSix weeks ago,</p>\r\nafter I was given my reason,</p>\r\nthey nailed me up here,</p>\r\ntwo sticks crossed and tied,</p>\r\nbroken broom handles.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nThat’s the biggest joke of all.</p>\r\nBefore, when I was an earwig’s nest,</p>\r\nthese thoughts did not exist.\r\n<br>\r\nNow I know what I am –</p>\r\nI’m a sham.</p>\r\nA pest controller, a bird scarer,</p>\r\nA dead man’s Sunday best.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nAnd I’m useless at it – </p>\r\nThis is my last day on field duty.</p>\r\n\r\nThey’ve been building it for a week –</p>\r\nPaper, twigs, unwanted furniture</p>\r\nlogs. Everything chopped and stacked</p>\r\npiled up like a witch’s hat.</p>\r\nIt’s all been dried out and dowsed in </p>\r\npetrol.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nSacrifice is too strong a word for it,</p>\r\nI’m a device.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nUp there’s a chair with three legs.</p>\r\nThe coronation throne where later</p>\r\nI’ll receive my cardboard crown.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nFrom tortured fool to murdered king </p>\r\nin a flash.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\nOh how my new brains will burn.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n', 'A poem which is guaranteed to linger with you.', 'full_html');
INSERT INTO `truefield_data_body` VALUES
('node', 'article', 0, 48, 49, 'und', 0, 'Marianne Wheelaghan, novelist and writing tutor, has written two books, <i>The Blue Suitcase</i> and <i>Food of Ghosts</i>, and is currently writing sequels to both. </p>\r\n<i>The Blue Suitcase</i> was her first novel, published in 2010. Based on the wartime experiences of Marianne’s mother, the novel uses diary fragments and letters to tell the story of Antonia, an ordinary German girl. The novel opens with her diary as a child, and we see her sulking, hoping, and wondering about perfectly normal things: will she win the writing prize at school, what will she get for her birthday? </p>\r\nSuddenly, a huge shadow is cast over her life as the Nazis seize power, and everything ‘normal’ is shaken. The diary is forced to abandon the pleasant childhood trivia. Her ambitious mother is forced out from her job as a doctor, one brother who supports the Communists is viciously beaten, whereas the other is filled with an unsettling fervour and adoration for Hitler. </p>\r\nAntonia struggles with this, as she is still young and centred on her own concerns, and initially resents how the adult attention is wrested away from her. However, when war is declared she is forced to grow up and face the increasing horrors. She moves fast from being a sulky teenager, pinching cash from her parents and sneaking out to drink, and becomes a wartime worker. </p>\r\nShe is posted back to her city of birth, Breslau, to work for The Reich. As the war gets bloodier, and closer, she ends up working amidst rubble, unexploded mines, the dying and the dead, all the while utterly terrified of the approaching Russians. </p>\r\nThis book was a fascinating read, as we sympathise with Antonia – how can we help but do otherwise when we’ve been reading her diary, having access to all her terrors, hopes and worries? – but we are seeing the war from the opposite perspective to which we are accustomed. It was odd to view it from the perspective of a young, decent, ordinary German girl, who hopes her country, and ‘our lads’, will win. </p>\r\nSo, the book forced me to look at the war from this strange, unnatural angle. And it was an angle wholly removed from politics, history and jingoism. It was simply that of a young girl, wishing she had a heavier coat, wondering what she’d eat tonight, wishing her fingers weren’t raw and bleeding. How refreshing it was to see things from this new perspective. </p>\r\n<img src="/content/sites/default/files/Food-of-Ghosts1.png" width="287" height="368" alt=""  />\r\nThe second novel, <i>Food of Ghosts</i>, is as far removed from <i>The Blue Suitcase</i> as it’s possible to get, and I admire Marianne Wheelaghan’s literary confidence in making such a leap. </p>\r\n<i>Food of Ghosts</i> is a crime novel set on the sweltering Pacific island of Tarawa. With the current fashion for ‘tartan noir’ novels set in dark, Gothic Edinburgh or tough, gutsy Glasgow it was pleasing to find one set in this most unusual location.</p>\r\nThe novel tells the story of Detective Sergeant Louisa Townsend, who has left Edinburgh to take up a post on Tarawa, helping shake up the island police force. Amidst the glorious white beaches, blazing sun and waving palm trees, she soon finds herself dealing with some particularly gruesome murders, made all the more horrifying because they are occurring in this seemingly innocent island paradise.</p>\r\nWe feel Louisa’s frustration and impatience with the islanders who allow tradition and superstition to get in the way of her quick, practiced police methods.Meanwhile, the officers on Tarawa don’t take kindly to a woman, and an outsider, telling them how to operate.</p>\r\nLouisa desperately needs to prove herself, to the islanders, and to her bosses, and struggles under the sweltering sun.</p>\r\nAlthough the novel is a good read, and packed with luxurious description of the island, I feel it would have benefited a great deal from some back-story. We are told that Louisa was born on the island, so this explains why she may have applied for this unusual post, but how did her island upbringing shape her? Does she consider herself Tarawan or Scottish? What was her life in Edinburgh before she left? Was she fleeing something? We get hints that she has a strained relationship with her mother, and we are told she slept with her boss, which she regrets, but tell us more. Why has she fled half-way across the world? </p>\r\nWith both novels, the main word which sprang to my mind was ‘refreshing’. The first gives us a new perspective and the second gives us an unusual setting. Both are invigorating books and good reads which leave you keen to see where the author takes them next. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<br>\r\n<i>The Blue Suitcase</i> and <i>Food of Ghosts</i> are published by Pilrig Press\r\n\r\n\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=0956614434&nou=1&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=095661440X&nou=1&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n', 'We review The Blue Suitcase and Food of Ghosts, two novels utterly different in subject matter and setting, but both equally refreshing.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 49, 50, 'und', 0, 'A contender for the 2013 Women’s Prize for Fiction, this is a quirky, tangled thriller which speeds along at a cracking pace. </p>\r\nThe story concerns the disappearance one morning of beautiful, smiling All-American Amy, the perfect wife, the glamorous New Yorker, the blonde innocent. </p>\r\nSuspicion turns on her husband, Nick, who realises things don’t look good for him. He admits he’s been sullen and distracted lately. He admits he’s been stressed since he lost his high-flying Manhattan career and had to pack up his New York life and New York wife and return to his Missouri home-town. He admits he’s been cheating on Amy with a local girl. But did he kill her? If not, who did? And is Amy even dead? Well, there’s no body…</p>\r\nThe chapters about Nick’s worry, pressure, and suspicion are interspersed with old diary entries from Amy where she frets about why her husband stays out so late, why he’s lost the gleam in his eye, why he doesn’t get her cute little jokes anymore.</p>\r\nI was starting to get very tired of perfect, prim Apple-Pie-Amy but then the novel bucked and reared and threw me, and galloped off in a totally different direction. It transforms in an instant from telling the story of a suspicious, shifty husband and his irritatingly perfect wife and goes on a dazzling trajectory of shocks and twists and the ruthless over-turning of any neat assumptions you’d made. </p>\r\nHowever, the price of this was that the plot became a bit unbelievable in places. It jolted into such a massive, complicated, rollicking thriller that, at times, I felt like saying ‘<i>oh, come on!</i>’ in disbelief. But I soon shrugged off this cynicism and decided to just accept the novel for what it was: daring, ambitious and very cleverly plotted. So what if it veers off into the unbelievable at times? </p>\r\nIt also has to be said that I detested both Amy and Nick. However, as the novel is driven by plot rather than character, this doesn’t necessarily spoil the book.</p>\r\nIt was a good read, but sacrifices a lot for the sake of its wild plot. There are far superior novels in contention for The Women’s Prize. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<i>Gone Girl</i> is published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson\r\n<br>\r\n\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=0753827662&nou=1&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n', 'A thriller, in contention for the 2013 Women''s Prize for Fiction. Does it live up to the hype?', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 50, 51, 'und', 0, 'If the purpose of a review is to assist the reader in selecting a good book then, really, all I need write here is <i>read this book</i>. Read everything he has written. Scoop up all his books, secrete yourself in a quiet room, and then emerge pale, shaken and amazed. </p>\r\nRon Rash has written several novels and short story collections, all set in the harsh small towns of the Appalachians, and <i>Nothing Gold Can Stay</i> is surely his finest.</p>\r\nThe landscape is magnificent but has been brutalised by poverty and barbed wire, the earth scarred by desperate farming, broken-down trucks and withered crops. It is a degraded environment which stamps itself on your psyche as you read.  </p>\r\nIn this setting are people, some menacing, some cruel, some utterly dried-up and hopeless, but also some with a spark of ingenuity, courage and humour and who battle to keep that spark burning. </p>\r\nEven though his stories are set where the landscape and the poverty never change, they leap tirelessly from theme to theme, and from era to era.</p> In the opening story, ‘The Trusty’, we are in familiar territory with a convict plotting his escape from a chain gang.  Then we jump forward in time to the title story and see two high-school dropouts who’ll do anything to fund their drug habit. ‘The Dowry’ is a shocking Civil War story about a young couple desperate to marry but the girl’s father objects. An appalling sacrifice is needed to compel him to finally relent. Then we skip in time to ‘Cherokee’ and follow a desperate young couple as they gamble their last dollars at the casino to fend off the threatened repossession of their truck. </p>\r\nThe finest story in the collection is ‘Where The Map Ends’. We see two escaped slaves stumble across the farm of a white man who is raging and bitter at the loss of his son in the Civil War. This horrific story of misguided revenge had an understated power which stayed with me all day and refused to be shaken off. </p>\r\nRon Rash has been compared to Cormac McCarthy and Raymond Carver. They share that same pared-back, stripped-bare style which is quietly resonant and packs a solid punch. It is no exaggeration to place him alongside these American greats.</p>\r\nI sum up this review in the only way I can: read this book. Read this book. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<i>Nothing Gold Can Stay</i> is published by Canongate\r\n<br>\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=0857869361&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n', 'An astonishing collection of short stories, set in the harsh and unforgiving Appalachians.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 51, 52, 'und', 0, 'I love film and literature. Whilst I don’t always think film adaptations do their novels justice, I appreciate seeing the director’s vision of a narrative I’ve previously imagined. </p>\r\nOne of the best things about adaptation is just that – seeing how others visualise characters, sets and events and whether they bear any resemblance to your own personal opinion.</p>\r\nIt’s even more intriguing when the novelist is heavily involved in the creation of the adaptation. I recently saw Stephen Chbosky’s <i>Perks of Being a Wallflower</i> and was astonished at how brilliantly it had been made. Chbosky not only wrote the novel but he adapted the screenplay and directed the film.</p>\r\nThe book was first published in 1999, but Chbosky was supposedly dubious to jump on the novel’s success at first and only began writing the screenplay in late 2005. I always respect when authors are closely involved with an adaptation of their work, but I can’t help feeling that the line between novelist and scriptwriter is becoming quite blurred with the increase in writers optioning their novels before they’re even written.</p>\r\nIf we look at Nicholas Sparks’ novels, I think his plots are always intriguing and his character development is brilliant, but following the success of the adaptations of <i>A Walk to Remember, The Notebook</i> and <i>Dear John</i> it came as no surprise that Sparks wished to be involved with the script adaptation of his next novel, <i>The Last Song.</i></p>\r\nWith the screenplay optioned, Sparks completed the script with co-writer Jeff Van Wie before he even began writing the novel. Whilst I’m a fan of both the book and the film, I feel cheated that the book is essentially an adaptation of the film, rather than the other way around.</p> \r\nAlthough Sparks maintains that his writing of the novel wasn’t influenced by the production of the film, I was shocked to hear that it is becoming more frequent for novel writers to change aspects of their narratives to better meet the needs of film production.</p>\r\nAn example of this supposedly happened during the creation of <i>I Am Number Four</i>. The novel, written by James Frey and Jobie Hughes under the pseudonym of Pittacus Lore, was still in the final stages of editing whilst the film adaptation went into development. It is alleged that film producers asked Frey to incorporate different settings and props into the novel as they would look better on screen. These changes were made to the final edit of the book.</p>\r\nI love adaptation and think that it’s great when authors are fortunate enough to get their books made into a film and want to be heavily involved in its production, but I feel that the increase in the creation of these two types of texts clashing with each other is going to have a negative impact on both the fiction and the film. \r\nWhilst many feel it is important for adaptations to be faithful to their source texts, when both are being made at the same time it feels like an obvious marketing ploy.</p> In the creation of <i>The Last Song</i>, Sparks was obviously going to be influenced by the fact that the most popular teen star of the time, Miley Cyrus, was attached to the film project and with <i>I Am Number Four</i> originally planned to be a franchise, you can’t help but think that the inclusion of more visual props was an excuse for more extensive merchandising. </p>\r\nMore than anything, I feel like the fine line between the production of literature and film is a kick in the teeth to the novelist. Even if it isn’t their ambition for the novel to be adapted, gone are the days when their writing was sacred and they had the final say on its creation.</p> \r\nWith the two industries now seemingly working hand in hand, it seems major literary agents will only be interested in publishing fiction which shows promise of being the foundation of a major movie franchise. This is a sad prospect for the brilliant writers with no interest in the film industry.\r\n\r\n', 'Unease about the influence Hollywood has on new fiction. ', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 52, 53, 'und', 0, 'I pay little attention to the surrounding world. A million different things happen to me as I walk down the street, yet my focus is on none of them. My eyes remain straight ahead and that''s when I see him, lying on the pavement. I doubt very much he is sunbathing so my first thoughts are he''s collapsed. Is he breathing? I don''t know. He certainly isn’t moving. How did he come to be lying there, on the grubby pavement? He looks too young to have had a heart attack but these things happen. Perhaps he''s had too much to drink and is having a lie down. He doesn''t strike me as the type to drink himself into oblivion on a Tuesday morning though. I presume this based on his presentable appearance. No, this man was on his way to work when his health deteriorated. And now he lies on the ground being gawked at by strangers. I approach closer, paying particular attention to the people that walk on by. It''s not that they''re not interested. Some look down while others look straight ahead, pretending not to have seen. No one stops to check on him.  Someone else will do it, they say to themselves. I know this, because the same thought goes through my own head as I get nearer. I don''t want the responsibility. What if it turns out that he''s violently drunk and attacks me? What if it''s some sort of “caught on camera” TV show? I''ve no wish to be involved in such predicaments. I have my own business to attend to. It''s not my place to get involved. So I pass him, offering a sympathetic glance. At least I acknowledged him. He certainly is still. I’ve passed him and I wrestle with the thought of looking back. My resilience caves to my curiosity and I turn. I have no intention of going back. I must make that clear. I haven''t even stopped walking, but I have looked back. To my surprise a young woman has stopped to offer him aid. A man then offers further assistance, closely followed by a third Samaritan. I stop now to watch the scene unfold. The holy trinity roll the man into the recovery position and phone for an ambulance. People continue to walk by but now they are paying more attention than before, as am I. Yes, I could have stopped to help, but I knew someone else would. I’m as comforted by the thought as I am disgusted at myself.  ', 'Do you stop and help or keep on walking?', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 53, 54, 'und', 0, 'Was it twelve or one? I didn''t wear a watch and my vintage mobile was dead.</p>\r\n\r\nI was walking home along Lakeside - the tourist strip in Pokhara, Nepal. The street lights had gone out hours ago - the power cuts made sure of that. The only illumination was from the flashing neon signs of the hellish dance clubs.</p>\r\n\r\nThe trekking shops, bookshops, bars, and the last remaining internet shops had all shuttered up (or is that down?) for the night. Mohammed, my Kashmiri jeweler friend, had probably been in bed for hours, although he was worried about his eldest. She''s got a bad chest infection and sits her School Leaving Certificate soon. </p>\r\n\r\nIn the Standard Chartered Bank ATM booth two streets kids and a dog were curled up asleep. Where you insert your bank card they had placed a piece of cardboard over the flashing yellow\r\nlight. </p> \r\n\r\nUp the street I could see the lights of the <i>Fast Foods Center.</i> It was still open or, rather, it is <i>always</i> open. The <i>Fast Foods Center</i> is a couple of planks on top of four bicycle wheels with glass on three sides and folded out ghee tin cans for a roof.</p>\r\n\r\nOn a steel burner was a perfectly crafted mound of bright orange lentils, the centre hollowed out where the lentils liquidized into dahl. This was surrounded by deep fried samosas, onion bhajees and sticky, pointy sweets.</p>\r\n\r\nDuring the day, he moves his cart up and down our street. You know when he''s coming because he rings a bell. I don''t think he''s taken to me. Even when I read the Nepali signs on the side of his cart that doesn''t seem to impress him.</p>\r\n\r\nHe beckoned me to sit down - bas, bas. </p>\r\n\r\nUnder the cart he keeps a number of blue and red plastic stools. I was soon joined by four off-duty barmen. As they sat and relaxed I could see their shoulders shrink down. </p>\r\n\r\nTwo of them were giggling. </p>\r\n\r\nThey told me they always get good tips from Japanese women. One winked at me. It was probably best just to leave it at that.</p>\r\n\r\nWe were handed small chrome saucers of dahl, chickpeas, and crushed red onions. The sweet smell of the dahl reminded me of being a child back in Glasgow and my mother''s bright orange lentil soup. </P>\r\n\r\n"Why are you are always carrying a book?"</P>\r\n\r\n"I am learning about Nepal."</p>\r\n\r\n"Is it making any sense?"</p>\r\n\r\n"Not really."</p>\r\n\r\nIn the middle of the street, under the pipal tree, three other barmen and a couple of cooks, still with their tall white chefs hats on, sat on the stone slabs of the chautara. They were swinging their legs back and forward, joking and slapping each other on the back. No doubt glad another long day was over. They flicked their cigarette butts into the gutter and ambled across to us, ordering dahl and a side order of samosas. Our little gathering was turning into a convention for hospitality staff.</p>\r\n\r\n"Hey", asked one of the new guys, "are you not Fergoose, Rajiv''s friend? He''s always asking about you and he''s worried that he hadn''t seen you for a couple of years."</p>\r\n\r\nFergoose? That''s why I prefer to be called Fergie over here.</p>\r\n\r\nI told him I hadn''t been able to come to Nepal because my mother back in Scotland had died earlier this year.</p>\r\n\r\n"Expired?" </p>\r\n\r\n"Yeah," I replied, "she left us back in March." </p>\r\n\r\nNepalese always say <i>expired</i> rather than <i>died</i>. </p>\r\n\r\nWe all fell silent. Only the hiss of the cart''s hurricane lamp provided any sound. Then from the shadows, just beyond the white glare of the lamp, came a voice:</p>\r\n\r\n"The circle is complete now. Your mother, for a short time, was a guest on this earth. She''s moved on."\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n', 'Colourful travel article on life in Nepal', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 54, 55, 'und', 0, 'She had taken to her bed\r\nAs they did in those days\r\nAnd there she lingered\r\nLace curtains\r\nKensitas and Camay\r\nA dark wood dresser\r\nHairbrush and cold mirror -\r\nThese were her attendants\r\n\r\nA cottage flat\r\nBut outside no rolling fields\r\nStiff stair rods\r\nCreaking boards\r\nThe smell of lavender\r\nTarnished tap dripping\r\nChime of the mantle clock\r\nMarking the remaining hours\r\n\r\nShe was thin of bone and spirit\r\nSharp in features, speech\r\nHer camberwick lay in folds, like waves\r\nA burning cigarette in a \r\nStainless steel ashtray\r\nSending up signals\r\nBut she waited in vain\r\nFor rescue or redemption\r\n\r\nGrandfather sat in the next room\r\nWith a rack of pipes and Cutty Sark\r\nHis slippers on the hard lip\r\nOf the tiled fireplace\r\nWhite beard and rucked face\r\nBrimming with sighs\r\nHe winked now and then\r\nHonouring happier times\r\n \r\n\r\nThey say it was the illness -\r\nHer mask-like face and tremor,\r\nYet under leaden brows\r\nBlack eyes remembered\r\nHer shaking hands smoothed\r\nRipples on the bedspread\r\nBut the persevering past\r\nWould not be stilled\r\n\r\n', 'A haunting and lyrical poem about time and loss.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 55, 56, 'und', 0, 'I told a lie today. When the butcher asked me if I was on Facebook, I said I wasn''t. </p>\r\n\r\nEarlier in the day I invited some friends over for dinner. When they accepted the invite I realised I had nothing to feed them. No bother, a quick stop at the Lucky Butchery on the way home. The short walk from the office was hot and dusty, and stepping inside the butchers I was hit by the strong smell of raw meat and blood. </p>\r\n\r\nThe butcher was sitting back in his plastic chair, his feet resting against the counter. He was chewing a mango, fingers sticky. His white coat was clean except for a small splattering of red on the front and the juice of mango near the collar, where it had run from his chin down to mark its presence on his coat. He looked up, took one more bite from the mango and lay it down on the work surface before standing up to greet me.</p>\r\n\r\nOnce the greetings had been made, I said ''500g of steak please''. </p>He lifted a hunk of meat from the counter and slapped it down on the scales, carefully measuring the exact amount, hacking off pieces here and there.</p>\r\n\r\nI looked around, swatting at the flies buzzing around my ear. Half a goat was hanging in the window, skinned except for the little bit of fluff at the end of its tail. On the meat counter lay slabs of red, luke-warm meat in plastic trays encrusted with blood. Another tray held a large, squishy piece of cow-liver. I wanted to sink my fingers into it. It looked smooth and jelly-like.</p>\r\n\r\nOnce the precision of weighing the meat was finished, the butcher asked if I would like the meat cut.</p> ''Yes please'', I replied.</p> While finishing his task, there was small conversation:</p>\r\n''Do you like the weather?''</p>\r\n''Yes,'' I replied, ''it''s nice today.''</p>\r\n''So, you are married here in Kenya?''</p>\r\nAnd I thought how strange it was that the topic of conversation could jump from the weather to marriage in one fluid sentence.''No. I''m not.''</p>\r\n''Oh,'' he said, ''how long are you in Kenya for?''</p>\r\nI replied that I didn''t know. I said I''d just been home for Christmas and I don''t know when I''ll next go back.</p>\r\n''Oh,'' he said again, as his metal of his knife cut neatly through the meat leaving imprints on his wooden chopping board. ''But your husband. He is in England?''</p>\r\n''No,'' I replied. </p>\r\n''Your boyfriend? Do you have a boyfriend?''</p>\r\n''No,'' I replied again.</p>\r\nThere was a pause in conversation. His colleague came into the room and picked a piece of paper from the side. She left the room. And that''s when the lie began.</p>\r\n''I''m going to search you on Facebook,'' the butcher told me.</p> I thought that it would''ve been nice if he''d asked rather than told me.''You won''t find me,'' I said.</p>\r\n''Oh. Why?''</p>\r\nThat''s when I lied. ''I''m not there.''</p>\r\nIt worked. He didn''t say anymore. He just passed me the meat in a small black plastic bag and said ''Nice time.''</p>\r\n\r\nI left the Lucky Butchery and continued on my walk home, pondering the choice of name. Lucky? Lucky Butchery? I wonder who decided on that name and why.\r\n', 'Flash fiction about a strange encounter in the butcher shop', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 56, 57, 'und', 0, 'You will have seen Bernie.</p>	\r\nFrom the window of your Citi2 bus as it circuits through the Cambridge suburb of Chesterton, Bernie is the old man standing at the bus shelter opposite Abacus Nursery. He is always at the bus shelter. Though your eyes pass over countless people as you rest your head against the greasy glass, you will have noticed Bernie. He is the old man in the pyjama jacket, and, as usual, the buttons are undone.</p>\r\nUndaunted by the freezing fog of February or the concrete heat of August, Bernie displays his hard, weather-darkened hide to the traffic passing him by. He has remembered to don his slippers today, and this is just as well considering the shattered Corona bottle waiting to be dealt with by the council sweepers. For you, on your way to work or on your way home - always one of the two, never anything different - Bernie is a landmark.</p>\r\n     The bus never stops for Bernie. Once in a while a new driver will make the mistake of slowing down as they approach the shelter with its covering of scaly blue paint and flyers for last summer’s church fete. As the doors swing open, the new driver will have a moment to take in Bernie''s unusual appearance as he stands on the wet concrete: the tough grey hairs of his chest like an old cat''s whiskers, the blue pyjama top, vaguely reminiscent of long-abolished institutions, and the rumpled beige safari jacket on top, slipping slightly from one hunched shoulder. In his hand is a Co-Op carrier bag heavy with browning fruit. His pale eyes contrast pleasantly with his outdoorsman''s skin as he stares impassively up at the driver.</p>\r\nHe says, "Here it comes again".</p>\r\nIn these awkward moments, some passengers will glance at Bernie and judge him to be a 65 year-old with a hard life behind him. His elephantine ears give the impression of great age, although no-one has ever concentrated on Bernie long enough to make an accurate estimation. Some will think he is a youngish eighty and hope he remembers how to get home. He may have taken part in the Second World War; the blue pyjama jacket, with a bit of work, could be an RAF blazer. Others try to see Bernie as he may once have been: a young man with a pitchfork in his hand, hefting hay out in Madingley where all those American servicemen were yet to be buried. With a little imagination, Bernie could be inserted into a nineteenth-century novel, the good-natured old fool, maybe, or the vagabond father of the hero, because he does carry a certain dignity, in a shabby way. </p>\r\nMost simply think <i>old</i>.</p>\r\nBernie never gets on the bus. Irritated and embarrassed, the new driver shuts the doors and remembers not to stop for that old git again.</p>\r\nSometimes, you will notice another person waiting at the shelter alongside Bernie. On Monday mornings, a lone young man in a Sainsbury’s uniform. On Thursday evenings, a woman with a toddler in a pram. </p>"Here it comes again," Bernie will say as the bus appears, and the young man will raise eyebrows, wipe nose, check phone. The mother will look steadily ahead while her daughter considers this grandfather figure, this strange, earthy-smelling Father Christmas.</p>\r\nBernie likes to watch the buses.</p>\r\nHe knows that the single-decker Citi2 – your bus – begins its day in the depot halfway between the village of Milton and the council houses of Chesterton. He knows it swings into the Science Park, picking up all the people who had hoped their lives would be more exciting than this – including you, don’t deny it – and then takes them on a circuit up to Addenbrookes hospital, which Bernie, for all his difficulty with old wounds in the cold months, has never been to, at least not under that name.</p> During the journey, the bus will snake across the river Cam and through the pretty centre of town where the famous colleges preside. It is their eight-hundredth birthday this year. Bernie does not care.</p>\r\nIt is the circle that pleases him.</p>\r\nBernie knows that your bus will travel over the railway bridge past the old Mill Road workhouse that frightened him years ago. Then, on towards Cherry Hinton, the dreary parish built on layers of chalk fossils that once attracted men in strange, tall hats. The bus will then return in a wide circle via the noisy epicenter of Drummer Street bus station, through which all the other public conveyances pass like satellites on their own regular, unchanging beats.</p>\r\n     One is coming now. He registers its arrival with a mumble of satisfaction: "Here it comes again."</p>\r\n	A Citi2 bus passes Bernie every ten minutes unless it is late, which it often is because, as Bernie could tell you, the narrow streets of Cambridge were designed for horses and carts, not fourteen-tonne monsters of steel and glass.</p>\r\nHe sometimes finds the buses upsetting: their unsuitable size, their solidity, fill him with faint and puzzling distress. It will take a long time for them to crumble into nothing and when they do, they''ll be of little use to the earth. Compounds of metal. Hard to digest. Windows and chassis - which is a silly, short-lived modern word, Bernie thinks, like chardonnay or exfactor - and wheels and handrails and upholstery and petrol made of crushed ancient sea creatures, like whelks and cockles. Bernie doesn''t know much about those. His place is on land.</p>\r\n     "This was all fields, once," was something he used to say very often, but not any more. Bernie has one of those rich fenland accents, crumbly and dark.</p>\r\n     Another ten minutes has gone by, and the bus is passing his stop.</p>\r\n     "Here it comes again."</p>\r\n     Does he not have a home to go to, the passengers around you wonder? A wife? He is always standing at that stop. Whitefriars old folk''s home is just a few minutes up the road, on the bus route in fact, and surely the staff have noticed him loitering? He isn''t a tramp. The Guardian readers onboard are aware that the average life expectancy of a homeless man in Britain is forty-seven years. Bernie is not thin or brittle, nor does he appear drunk. Despite his passive watchful look, he appears strong, even tough. Alzheimer''s, most of the passengers suspect, and are glad when the bus turns the corner.</p>\r\nIn the breeze whipped up by the acceleration, Bernie''s Co-Op carrier bag rustles like reeds on a riverbank. It is a new invention, a bio-degradeable plastic with the texture of skin that flakes into pieces after eighteen months. Before his current bag, the older plastic variety lasted a few summers, and before that, he had a mesh bag like a fishing net, and before that, he can''t recall. At one point, there was something made of hessian. It scratched, he can remember that much.</p>\r\n     Bernie is glad his Co-Op bag will not last long before surrendering to decay, but less happy that this usually results in losing his fruit all over the pavement when it finally splits. Bouncing apples and plums roll into the road where he will watch them being squashed into pulp at ten-minute intervals: bus, bus, bus.</p>\r\n          No one notices Bernie shuffling to the plum tree in the front garden beside his bus shelter. The plums are small but plentiful, and he likes the gripe they put in his stomach when he eats more than two. It is a regular September sensation. Whoever lives in the house with the tree has never complained at having their fruit stolen. Most of it ends up in the grass for this is a wasteful generation. A front garden on the other side of the road boasts a mulberry tree. Bernie avails himself of this every August when the fruit is ripe, and once spied a small polyester Union Jack in the front room, on top of the television. This still makes Bernie chuckle. Plums and mulberries were brought to the British Isles by the Romans, who had a big gold bird, not a flag. No Englishman would uproot a tree and drag it back to his house for amusement. A tree''s place is wherever it pleases. They pick a spot and they stick with it. Like Bernie.</p>\r\nJust as the fruit trees are foreign invaders, each year brings a new crop of students to Cambridge. There have almost always been students, but not this kind, flying in from far eastern countries and leaving again with impressive letters after their names. Some of the bus drivers are Polish or Nigerian. Bernie remembers a time when people stayed put. One house, one parish, one church, a room in which to congregate, a space. His roots are tangled in a time when a fellow was a Cambridge man, or a Grantchester man, or a Royston man, and that was what he would remain.</p>\r\nCatevellauni, Icini, Pict.</p>\r\nBernie is concerned for a moment. These days he finds nonsense words creeping into his head, like doodlebug, and andalucia, and deefessale, and he doesn''t like it.</p>\r\nIt is nearly ten o''clock at night, and soon the last bus will thrum by. It will be empty. Bernie''s pyjama jacket is letting in the cold and the old flesh puckers where it hangs loose on the bones. Bernie stands firm. It is only a pause in the timetable; tomorrow at six, the fleet of Citi2s will emerge again from the depot and Bernie''s watch will go on.</p>\r\n     his Co-Op bag has a pigeon in it, a wild city pigeon, well dead. Some boys in a small car had come careening around the corner from the chip shop and hit it as it dithered in the road. Thunk! Feathers and flapping and dead. Bernie would once have plucked out the feathers and done something useful with the carcass, but ten minutes has passed since the last bus, and he can feel the final one advancing steadily in the distance.</p>\r\n"Here it comes again," he says. The pigeon sits in the bag with the plums for later.</p>\r\n     The weather was warm a while ago, and now it is cold. The Polish bus drivers will start to wear their uniform fleeces, and you, as a passenger, will have difficulty seeing out of the windows as the bodies around you perspire in plastic anoraks and thermal vests.</p>\r\nBernie is unmoved.</p>\r\n"Here it comes again," says Bernie. Bernard. Bernhard. Bearnárd. Berinhard. Bernd.\r\n', 'A short story about that strange figure at the bus stop.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 57, 58, 'und', 0, 'Lawrence Weller, a chronic asthmatic, died on the floor of his parents’ bathroom. It was the day of the party celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. </p>\r\n   He was found by his fiancee, Amy. She screamed until her throat was too sore to go on, and then fell to the floor next to him, sobbing into his still chest. </p>\r\n   He was lying on his back, wide-eyed, as if he had been asked a perplexing question; his blue lips slightly parted, as if he had one last thing to say.</p>\r\n   The bathroom door was nearly taken off its hinges as Lawrence’s brother and father ran in to see the horror they had half-expected since Lawrence had nearly died of pneumonia when he was four years old. And there it was next to the shower unit - the dead son everyone loved, the boy they had watched grow in to a man, so many years of always triple-checking they had packed his inhalers whenever they travelled outside the house - and now he was a grown-up ; they had hoped and prayed he was over the worst of the asthma attacks. </p>\r\n   But fate had decreed that the biggest tragedy of their lives would happen on a day when the family home had never looked happier - plastic banners of <i>Happy Anniversary </i>festooned the lounge and dining room; balloons of every colour and shape adorned every ceiling corner. Music filled the place. Love and life were supposed to be in the air, not the chilly claw of the Reaper.</p>\r\n      ‘Someone call a bloody ambulance ... now, now,’ Lawrence’s father shouted. He moved Amy to one side; his other son cradled her, and then he tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation – he had learned First Aid to try and add another skill to the family health arsenal; in case a day like this one came along. But he had always assumed he would never need the skill; never feel his child’s cold lips beneath his. His child was gone. And he knew it even as he blew deep and added compressions to the chest area. My poor boy, he wanted to say, my poor, poor boy. But he kept trying to breathe his life in to his son.</p>\r\n   The paramedics arrived a few minutes later and took over the job of attempted revival. But it was futile. And after approximately fifteen minutes, one of them looked at his watch, wrote the time of death on a pad and turned to Lawrence’s parents.</p>\r\n   ‘I’m so very sorry,’ he said.</p>\r\n   Lawrence’s father hugged his wife and felt her tears soak his shoulder. He looked at his son’s face – he interpreted the wide eyes as desperation, and was suddenly drenched in guilt; assuming his boy had died silently hoping his dad would find him and save him – wasn’t that a father’s duty, to protect his children? And then he looked at the blue Salbutamol inhaler in Lawrence’s left hand. The lid was still on. He wondered whether his poor boy had been too overcome to even take a single breath of the vital steroids.</p>\r\n   The paramedics insisted the family and friends leave them to ‘take care’ of Lawrence’s body. The house emptied reasonably quickly; lots of tears and hugs were exchanged. Amy was taken, by her best friend, Louise, to the spare bedroom where she and Lawrence had been due to spend the night. </p>\r\n   And after an hour or so, when the body had been taken away – Lawrence’s parents followed the ambulance to the hospital – the house fell in to complete silence.</p>\r\n\r\n     Michael, Lawrence’s brother, and Sam, Lawrence’s best friend, drank copius amounts of brandy and stared in to space. Michael could hear Louise and Amy upstairs talking and crying, and he wondered if he should offer them some of the alcohol too. But he couldn’t move. His arms and legs felt something other than numb – they felt disappeared. His body felt gone. Just his eyes left. How would life go on now, he thought.</p>\r\n   Sam wanted to do something, say something. He was a teacher; used to giving information and solving ‘issues’. He wanted to believe he could offer a shred of detail that might be remembered as a defining point of hope in this hellish scene. But instead he sipped more and more brandy and kept thinking of Lawrence’s last words to him, just a couple of hours ago, ‘I need to talk to you in a minute or two. I really need your advice.’</p>\r\n   What had been so important? Nothing was now. What ever he needed to say was lost for ever. His best friend, the boy with the frail lungs but the biggest heart, was dead. </p>\r\n   He felt alone. He had never even told Lawrence how much he cared for him. Why didn’t men ever do that, he thought, I must tell my friends I love them, and soon, I must. He drank more brandy, leaned across the arm of his chair and patted Michael’s arm, gently smiling and nodding. Michael looked back at him and tried to return the smile.</p>\r\n      Upstairs, in the spare bedroom, Amy and her best friend, Louise, lay next to each other, holding hands. One moment silent and the next clutching each other as emotion and shock poured out in violent sobs.</p>\r\n   ‘We had just ... we had just decided on a wedding date,’ Amy said.</p>\r\n   ‘I am so sorry, Amy, so sorry. He loved you so much. You were lucky to have him. We all were,’ Louise whispered.</p>\r\n   Later that day, when Lawrence''s parents had returned from the hospital - his mother had been prescribed a sedative, which she shared with Amy - Michael, Sam and Louise began to take down the anniversary decorations, quickly filling bin bags with the remnants of the short-lived celebration.</p>\r\n   Sam began cutting the necks of the balloons with kitchen scissors, gently allowing the air to leave; rather than loudly popping them.</p>\r\n   ‘No, no, Sam, stop,’ Amy said. ‘Not that one. That was the last one Lawrence blew up. I want to keep it.’</p>\r\nSam handed the silver balloon to Amy and hugged her, taking care not to crush the prized possession.</p>\r\n    She took the balloon up to the spare bedroom, carefully wedged it between a chair leg and the wardrobe, and put on Lawrence’s pyjama top and took a deep breath of his natural aroma from the sleeve. The scent triggered a sudden vision of him struggling to catch his breath, pulling at his collar perhaps, and trying to call out for help. She clenched her eyes shut and re-ordered her thoughts to the sight of him smiling above her, kissing her forehead and handing her a cup of tea in bed, as he had done on that very morning. And then she crawled under the duvet and stroked the pillow where his head should have been.</p>\r\n   Shortly after, Louise looked in on her, said she would see her tomorrow, and left.</p>\r\n   The following week was like a fever dream to Amy. Michael called her every day, as did Louise and Sam. She tried to find things to distract her, to avoid thinking about the look on her lover’s face as he lay dead on a bathroom floor. </p>\r\n   The nights were the worst, alone in their bed, in their home - wall-mounted sketches by Lawrence they had framed (he had been an architect) and various holiday photographs. They only served as painful reminders of how there was no future to come.</p>\r\n   ‘Do you feel able to write a eulogy?’ Michael asked her, two days before the funeral. ‘It wouldn’t have to be much. I just thought it might be a chance for us all to talk about how much he meant to us.’\r\n   ‘Of course. I want to tell him about, you know...where ever he is.''</p>\r\n   Michael smiled and nodded and stroked her hand.</p>\r\n   Amy barely slept over the next 48 hours, trying to think about what to say. How she could verbalise the depth of her love. </p>\r\n   Throughout each day since Lawrence had died she found herself returning to the hat-box under their bed, where she had placed the silver balloon for safekeeping. It was beginning to look a little diminished – slight crinkles were slowly appearing around the tied neck – and she wanted to find a way to preserve it - not just for a little while longer, for as long as she lived. The balloon held what might have been Lawrence’s last breath. </p>\r\nAmy spent some hours looking up preservation techniques online: Formaldehyde? Dry ice? Some form of jelly?</p> \r\n   She eventually dismissed each one as either unworkable or ridiculous and concentrated on the eulogy.</p>\r\n\r\n   She began with a poem by EE Cummings, a favourite of Lawrence’s, and the one they had talked about using at their wedding. </p> <i> I carry your heart with me, I carry it in my heart </i></p>\r\n   She cried as she wrote down the poem and glanced at a desk photograph of the two of the them, hugging by a Christmas tree. Taken by Louise two years before.</p>\r\n   Eventually, at two o’clock in the morning, on the day of Lawrence’s funeral, she was finished. She re-read the words one last time before falling asleep. And was woken by the radio clock alarm in what felt like minutes later.</p>\r\n   Amy dressed in the black clothing she had bought for this awful day. She wanted to cover herself in darkness; let what ever celestial being(s) might be ‘out there’ know how crushed she felt; how much she blamed it/them for ruining her life. </p>\r\nMichael and Louise called to confirm the time their car would be collecting her, and then she sat and stared at the sketch Lawrence had finished fairly recently. A self-portrait – bright eyes and a sweet smile. Amy had asked him for it as an anniversary present.</p>\r\n  She hadn’t eaten that morning, but instead made a third cup of coffee and sat on the bed. She pulled the hat-box on to the duvet and opened the lid. The balloon was sagging and now looked about half-empty. She cried again. There was no way to preserve a balloon and even if she knew how, it was too late for this special gift. She knew what she had to do. She went to the kitchen and brought some scissors back to the bed.</p>\r\n   She had watched Sam gently cutting the tops of the other balloons during the wedding anniversary clear-up. The air from each one had flown out, some of it making Sam’s fringe rise up. </p>\r\n   Amy lifted the silver balloon out of the hat-box with the care of someone holding a newborn baby. She pressed it against her cheek and then kissed it.</p>\r\n   ‘I will always love you, Lawrence. I carry you in my heart,’ she whispered, her mouth against the balloon skin.</p>\r\n   Then she picked up the scissors, pinched the tied neck and made a delicate cut. Air started to leak out. Amy held the balloon near her face and closed her eyes to allow Lawrence’s breath to wash over her.</p>\r\n   And then she heard words in the breath: Lawrence’s voice, like a recording.</p>\r\n   She squeezed the leak shut, swallowed hard and stared around the room. What the hell was going on? </p>\r\n   Amy ran around the flat, checked the answer phone and the computers. Where had that come from? Then she sat on the sofa and held the balloon up again. She was shaking as she let the last of the air dash across her face. And there were his last words, his last breath.</p>\r\n   ‘I’m in love with Louise ...’\r\n', 'A short story about grief with a nasty twist in the tail ', 'full_html');
INSERT INTO `truefield_data_body` VALUES
('node', 'article', 0, 58, 59, 'und', 0, 'The felled death of another Hickory tree signaled the end of one more logging day in Moose Lake, Maine.  Philippe Du Monde inhaled a lungful of sawdust-seasoned air. The taut muscles across his back and shoulders ached, stretching like visceral mizzenmasts across some lost, weathered ship.</p>\r\nAll 16 men on the French-Canadian crew gathered their tools and pulled their ragged bodies towards the bunkhouse. </p>\r\n	Philippe saw his 20th birthday fly past him just a few weeks prior. That night of debauchery had ended with a broken front tooth, a strange burn on his calf and a patch of hair missing behind his left ear. </p>\r\n	Whittaker Flack led the men back towards their living quarters. The well-trodden path between the work site and the camp site swiveled a muddied line. A heavy, wet snow began to descend. Whittaker’s mushroom cap ears stuck out beneath his grey felt hat. The crisp, staccato sound of axes still played inside his exhausted skull. </p>\r\n	Most of the men on the crew built the main camp bunkhouse themselves. The year was 1880. Thick, notched spruce trees were logged, shaped and filled in with deliberate handfuls of soft moss and ubiquitous mud. An entire camp could be built without a single, tapped nail. The men handled axes and froes like butchers wielded cleavers and mallets. Sixteen men slept in one open room measuring 20x20 feet. Inside, the acrid smell of wet woolen socks, pickled bully beef, boiled codfish and deficient bodily hygiene could hit you like Joe Louis’ fists if you weren’t inoculated.</p>\r\n	Warren Jackson loaded firewood into the dusty, cast-iron stove. The sharp crack of splintering, knotted wood made Jack Cloche jump while removing his boots.</p>  \r\n“What’sa matter, Jackie? Afraid of a little fire?” Warren said, his overgrown mustache trembling while he continued his task.</p> \r\n“Hey, why don’t you keep working while I start drinkin?” Jack snapped his calloused fingers and headed for the keg.</p> \r\n“Sounds good, brother. Sounds good.” Warren rubbed his forehead, a leathered patch of skin lined with a week’s worth of filth. </p>\r\n	Several men removed their steadfast, black work boots. Some used one as a pillow in their designated spot on the community bed. One long bed with one abrasive blanket engulfed the entire low side of the camp at Moose Lake. Small boughs of balsam fir lined the makeshift mattress while damp thick socks and washed underwear hung above their heads like laundered ghosts. An uncompromising grindstone sat in the corner, simply to keep all the axes murderously sharp. </p>\r\n	Unbridled snow entered the lodging through a half inch of space beneath the wooden entryway. The wind brushed the sides of the structure like an Arctic refugee shivering for asylum. Though the bunkhouse had no windows, there was nothing to see but Willow and Tupelo trees covered in blue snow for many lonely miles.</p>\r\nWhittaker slouched into a corner chair, drinking a stiff, wood alcohol concoction. He stared into oblivion, raking his right hand across his greasy black head of hair. He steadily pulled out one stringy hair at a time. He would surely go bald in a few months with such an obsessive habit. </p>Warren enjoyed irritating Whittaker and set about the evening shooting spitballs from his hairy upper lip. Whittaker seemed immune to the oppressor. Warren drank three mason jars full of alcohol to Whittaker’s one. </p>The night dragged its cloak across Moose Lake like a surgeon draping the dead. A turgid twilight of bruised Northern Lights slid into night as the weary men indulged in drink after drink. The slurred conversations dwelled on visions of loose women and hot, homemade biscuits soaked in clover honey. </p>\r\n	Philippe and Jack locked left hands in an arm wrestling contest. The long picnic bench they used as a dining room table shook with splinters and ash from the fire. Jack’s unkempt and lousy brown hair stood straight up in the back, distracting Philippe from the fight. Philippe’s small, intense grey eyes locked onto Jack’s twitching, handlebar mustache. Jack added pressure to his grip, squeezing Philippe’s wide, clammy hand like a pale moray eel trying to escape. Sensing his impending defeat, Philippe leaned into that irresistible mustache and looked for a fuzzy, barley wheat kiss. Jack lost his grip to push Philippe away, forfeiting all the glory of a backwoods arm wrestling match. </p>\r\n	A roar of laughter filled the bunkhouse with masculine levity.</p>\r\n	As the men bumped into each other and smashed glasses, Jack smiled at Philippe and then swiftly broke his friend’s nose with one, stiff jab. Philippe fell back, stunned from the blow but still conscious. Warren jumped from his grindstone shenanigans and put Jack into a chokehold. Jack’s amber eyes rolled back in their soft sockets as he slipped into an episode of syncope. Warren let the lumberjack hit the ground and headed straight for Whittaker. </p>\r\n	Within thirty seconds, every single crew member, including the kitchen help, had jumped into the free-for-all of drunken fisticuffs. Heavy leather boots hit unsuspecting glass eyes. Dirty socks landed into stale cups of barley. The taste of boiled blood and sourdough lingered in the mouths of these belligerent men. The walls of the bunkhouse swelled with heat and pressure as bones were broken, lips were busted and spleens were punctured. </p>\r\n	Warren pulled the denim shoulder straps of his coveralls back up and wiped a blood clot from the lobe of his outer ear. He looked detached and deformed as he made a beeline for the wiry and gullible Whittaker. </p>\r\n	Warren lunged at Whittaker with the force of an unmanned locomotive. A drunk across the room started whistling and making an awfully strong pot of chicory coffee. Whittaker continued to pull at his own scalp as Warren strangled him with a steady, pulsing death grip. The young Whittaker’s face flushed with crimson, then swelled with a grey, sickly pallor. Warren’s repulsive act left Whittaker lifeless without a whisper to his last, helpless breath.</p> \r\n	No one noticed Warren as he slipped on an old, greasy piece of salt pork. A fellow lumberman grabbed Warren by the coveralls and handed him another drink. Warren blinked away any blurred recollections of guilt and hopped back onto the back of total annihilation. The threadbare cuffs of Whittaker’s work pants soaked up the froth of ongoing inebriation. </p>\r\n	A plain, aluminum can of butter beans exploded from its contents of botulism and startled several men in the room. </p>\r\n	Philippe flailed his arms in a ridiculous undulation that lingered somewhere between a curious octopus and a drowning boy. He looked terrified and stricken to the core by some unseen and unholy ghost. None of the men noticed him until a whip of winter air licked the sour innards of the bunkhouse. Philippe sunk into the thick, black ink of night with just one boot and his long johns. One of the cooks closed the door and shrugged as he returned to his tall glass of golden oblivion.</p> \r\n	As Philippe approached the lip of the lake, he spied a dark figure struggling across the open body of water. Blocks of ice floated around the electric animal, frightened by its slippery circumstances. A few seconds passed as Philippe kept vigil.  The fragile animal disappeared beneath the glimmering, silent surface.</p>\r\n	Philippe nodded, shivering from the subzero surroundings. </p>\r\n“Gently,” he murmured. </p>\r\n	A harrowing, lupine howl filled the night with a velveteen yearning. </p>\r\n	The feathery dawn lulled the Jumping Frenchmen of Maine into slumber back at the bunkhouse.</p> \r\n	One red wolf found Philippe curled up in the snow. The last thing he heard was a rough, brisk exhalation from the wolf’s moist muzzle. \r\n\r\n\r\n', 'A most unusual story about the antics of some wild lumberjacks', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 59, 60, 'und', 0, 'The third time I returned to the Hotel Prometheus I finally got to talk to the receptionist. Until then, all I had ever seen of her was a silhouette behind that weird screen, or her pale hand as she passed me my room keys through the slot.</p>\r\nTonight, there was no screen and the receptionist was sitting there, her head turned to the left as if listening to something only she could hear. She held a cigarette blithely in her left hand, as though it were an ornament made solely to adorn her long fingers.</p>\r\nI moved closer to her desk. At this time of the evening, the reception area was always deserted: the regular patrons of the hotel were either drinking at the bar down the hallway, or safely tucked away in their little rooms. Right now, the place belonged to us. I looked at her. She was wearing a business suit, cut into a very retro 1940s style that accentuated her very fine figure. Her lips were colored a deep, striking scarlet, an alluring focus away from her otherwise completely monochrome appearance. I suddenly felt I had been flung into the role of a film noir detective.</p>\r\nAnd, right then, I’d found the femme fatale.</p>\r\nShe cut me a look that said she knew about money, and I wasn’t it. She put her blonde cigarette to her lips, and then let a long, languid plume of grey smoke rise up the side of her face that was visible to me. I padded up to the desk, smiling, with a row full of insecurities showing.</p>\r\n“Hello there at last, Miss-”</p>\r\n“You’re back again, Mister Ketch,” she interrupted without looking at me. “The Hotel Prometheus is certainly becoming quite the haunt for you, isn’t it?”</p>\r\nI recovered as gracefully as a drowning man would when faced with the prospect of Niagara Falls. “Um. Yes. Well, I er… don’t really have anywhere else to go. I guess I’m, er, kinda lost right now.”</p>\r\nThe receptionist let out a low, purring chuckle that sent a pleasant whisper through my body. “Oh, honey, that’s what delivers all of us here. You know, I was a pretty good singer, once upon a time. Rising up through the usual circuits, getting attention in all the right places and fun from all the wrong kinds of people. And, lemme tell you, it was a blast, Mister Ketch. A real blast. So anyways, one day I’m singing in some hotel dining hall joint, doing my usual stuff, getting the crowd nice and hot on a cold day. I’m making them forget about their worries, you know how it is when music can make bad things disappear? That’s what’s happening. Back in the day, I don’t mind telling ya I had real talent, and people could see it, feel that certain spark that electrifies every nerve. Just like having sex with a brand new partner who’s got the skills to really open your eyes.”</p>\r\nThings were getting hotter in the room, especially with the receptionist looking at me with her green eye, full of emerald fire. I cleared my throat, and she flashed half a smile.</p>\r\n“Now, this gig itself wasn’t that important- pretty standard, as far as any gig is concerned- but what happened afterwards, well that was so much more… stimulating.”</p>\r\n“Really?” my throat had gotten awfully dry all of a sudden.</p>\r\n“Oh yes. Very. You want to know what happened to a young, slightly mischievous girl on that hot, dark night, Mister Ketch?” Another deep inhalation, another slow plume of smoke, the glitter from her single visible eye smoldering into me. I was hooked.</p>\r\n“Please.”</p>\r\nShe smiled her half a smile at me, a professional to her mark. “Late into the evening, after the encores had been performed and the guests were all neatly tucked up in their beds, there I was, in my dressing room, enjoying some of life’s nasty little habits, when a knock happened at my door. It was late: usually by this time, my manager had gone to bed with Larry, my pianist, and I’d specifically told the hotel staff I was not to be disturbed. This was someone entirely different. I cleaned myself up as best I could, then answered the door. A tall, thin-looking guy - a regular scarecrow to my Dorothy - greeted me on the other side.</p>\r\n“‘I loved your show tonight,’ he told me, in a voice that just oozed confidence. ‘And I just couldn’t resist being a little bit bad and coming backstage to see you. I hope you don’t mind.’”</p>\r\n“‘Well, I’m usually all for being bad, mister-?’”</p>\r\n“‘Generally, people call me Nick, my dear lady. I’d very much like for you to do the same.’”</p>\r\n“I ask you, what’s a showgirl to do, Mister Ketch? I’d already been quite a naughty girl, and Mister Nick was downright bad. It only took one look into his eyes, and things went completely out of control. I don’t mind telling you, Mister Ketch- the gig was good, but this was so much better. Afterwards, he went and got himself dressed, then went into his coat pocket. I thought to myself, after that, he’s going to pay me, like some two-bit hooker?</p>\r\n“‘Hey Nick, what’re you doing?’</p>\r\n“‘Just tying up some loose ends, sweetheart. You got some potential in ya, I gotta say. More than I ever saw in anyone before.’</p>\r\n“All the while, his back’s turned to me. Coward won’t look me in the eye. I get up, saying the usual stupid, angry things you say in the heat of the moment, that you always mean and consistently regret saying afterwards. But hell, I was the rising star, and this backstage jumper was talking to me like I was hardly nothing. By God, I’d make sure he’d face me, and look me square in the eyes. I grabbed him by the arm, pulled him round…”</p>\r\nSuddenly, silence fell. The air around us had become so much colder. My breath quickened, began to fog. The hallway had darkened, shadows lengthened. I had never felt more uncomfortable, all of a sudden. I couldn’t help but move in closer.</p>\r\n“What happened then?” I asked, in a voice that was barely above a whisper.</p>\r\nShe laughed, but that purr it had previously had vanished. “It felt hot, you know? Like being burned with a branding iron kinda hot. Then it was all cold. As cold as a winter alone. I suppose it musta hurt when it happened, way back then. But, then again, that was the forties, and this most definitely isn’t. Hell, time can make fools of us all, can’t it, Mister Ketch?”</p>\r\nI felt my skin whiten. “The forties? But that’s impossible, you’re still so young.”</p>\r\nShe must have ignored me, continuing her story unabated by my outburst. “All I wanted was for him to face me, Jack. Can you face me, Jack? I wonder if you can.”</p>\r\n“What do y-?”</p>\r\nThat was all I could get out, as she finally turned her hidden half of her face towards me.</p>\r\nFirst, I looked at the ragged socket where her eye, pulped and mashed, looked back at me. Her left temple, the right side fair and pale, was instead torn apart by some incredibly violent force, mauling the top half of her face into a vile effigy of destruction. The still fresh and glistening gunshot was still leaking blood, ichors and pieces of dried bone traces horrifying lines down past her cheek to her ruby red lips. I couldn’t even scream as I gazed at the corpse receptionist.</p>\r\n“Being shot only hurts for a second, Jack. But still being on this Earth when I should rightfully be six feet under it? Well, that’s a pain that sticks.”\r\n\r\n', 'Take a dip into blackest noir', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 60, 61, 'und', 0, 'He’s the last. See to him and then it’s over.</p>\r\n\r\n‘Is there anything else for you sir?''</p>\r\n\r\nHe holds a finger to his lips then continues talking to the phone clamped to his ear.‘Just getting served. I won’t be long now.’</p>\r\n\r\nWith his free hand he fumbles for change and slams it on the counter. Without a word he grabs the bag and heads for the exit.  There’s a beep as the automatic doors usher him out into the street. </p>\r\n\r\n‘Thank you sir,’ I say to his back.</p>\r\n\r\nAlone in the shop. It’s past closing time but I’m in no rush. I’ve places to go but nowhere I want to be. I lock the till, take my coat from behind the pharmacy door and tour the aisles. I inspect the shampoo bottles, shaving foam and razors, the packets of paracetemol, contact lens solution and athlete’s foot cream. Everything is where it should be.</p>\r\n\r\nThe new part-time girl has done a good job. She’ll be home by now, getting ready for her party, with her hair straihteners and her glass of white wine. She’ll be making her plans, wanting to look just right for someone. I’m past all that.</p>\r\n\r\nI turn off the lights and lock up. Won’t be back for a few days.</p>\r\n\r\nIt’s started to snow, a thin layer of white on the pavement. Snowflakes fall, illuminated by coloured lights weaved through the leafless limbs of trees. Perhaps they’ll be right about a white Christmas after all.</p>\r\n \r\nAt my doorway, I peel a glove off with my teeth. The light above flickers and dies. Bloody Factor. It will be the new year now. Inside, I bang my boots on the steps to kick off the snow. The noise echoes up the staircase and back again. I answer with ‘Hello.’ </p>\r\n\r\nNothing.</p> \r\n\r\nUp to the <i>penthouse suite</i> as Mum used to call it. I open the door and stoop for the mail: flyers for takeaways, a gas bill, the local paper and an envelope with a handwritten address. My spine cracks as I straighten up.</p>\r\n \r\nI pad my stocking-soled feet along our - my - faded carpet towards the kitchen. I fill the kettle and spread out the paper on the work surface. Standing in the dark, reading by streetlight reflected on snow, I wait for the kettle to boil.</p>\r\n\r\nThere’s nothing much in the paper. There never is. <i>Thieves Steal Main Street Xmas Baubles</i> accompanied by a photo of a councillor, standing, arms folded, by a bare tree. There''s a voucher for a free Gregg’s sausage roll: <i>A Christmas gift for all our readers.</i></p>  \r\nI pick up the envelope, a London postmark, addressed to the McGuigan family. It looks strange written down like that. I can’t think of anyone I know in London.  It’s a Christmas card. A robin sitting on a branch with <i>Christmas Wishes</i> in corner.  </p>\r\nIt’s really him. I have to read it again just to be sure.  Peter Thomson. What did he expect after all these years? Middle-aged nostalgia? Maybe I’m daft, seeing more than is there, he does say it would be nice to catch up with us all, but then ‘especially Jane’. The idea was enough, to know that he had thought of me, perhaps even… No, that was enough. (And yet ‘especially’.)</p> \r\n\r\nI take a pair of scissors to the newspaper and cut around the voucher. The rest goes in the bin, on top of the junk mail and empty soup tins. I place the card and voucher on the mantelpiece beside Mum''s china.</p>\r\n \r\nI finish my tea and rinse the mug in the sink. I walk to the bigger bedroom to change. Their room. Even now it feels like an intrusion. Same floral wallpaper, duvet and curtains, I never got around to redecorating. An old woman stares back at me from the dressing table mirror as I brush my hair. I take a lipstick from Mum''s makeup box and draw on the glass. The silver turns a deep red but she still looks her age. You can''t hide the crow’s feet.</p>\r\n\r\nDressed to go out again, I make my way back to the close, past the Thomson''s door and down the stairs. Outside, its heavier now. Virgin snow cracks under my boots as I leave my mark on the blank street.</p>\r\n\r\nWhen I arrive, she’s sitting in front of the TV. Eyes closed and chin slumped against her chest. Paper chains droop from the ceiling and a fake fir tree slopes half dressed in the corner. Fat women in blue overalls and Santa hats sip cups of coffee, ignoring moans from the grey chair-dwellers of the TV circle. I tut. The blue women don’t hear.</p>\r\n\r\nI pull up a chair and sit at a right angle to her.</p>\r\n\r\n‘Hi Margaret, how are you feeling today?’</p>\r\n\r\nShe lifts her head and looks at me only briefly before her gaze moves to the back of the room.  A smile slowly forms amongst the wrinkles and grey whiskers around her mouth but the eyes are blank.</p>\r\n\r\n‘Oh hello, eh…’</p>\r\n\r\n‘Jane. Just finished work for Christmas, thought I’d pop in.’</p>\r\n\r\n‘That’s nice. When’s Christmas?’</p>\r\n\r\n‘Tomorrow Margaret.’</p>\r\n\r\n‘Oh but I haven’t got any presents for anyone.’</p>\r\n\r\n‘That’s OK.’</p>\r\n\r\n‘But my daughter…’</p>\r\n\r\n‘It’s all fine Margaret. I’m telling you not to worry.’</p>\r\n\r\n‘She’ll be so upset if Santa doesn’t come.’</p>\r\n\r\nI look out the window and see the lights of cars circling the roundabout. I imagine the people in those cars, driving home to their bright warm houses with presents in the boot and their families waiting for them. It feels like a memory. </p>\r\n\r\nBeyond the roundabout, the chapel is lit up in preparation for midnight mass. The congregation will sing the carols we used to, the family huddled around one hymn book. It was always so cold in that chapel. Stealing glances at Peter a few rows in front. A young Beatle with his boots, his haircut and roll neck sweater. How I hoped he would notice me. I was pretty then.</p>\r\n\r\n‘Do you remember your old neighbours, the Thomsons?’</p>\r\n\r\nShe frowns. I can almost hear the rusty gears clank. Then the smile again.‘The Thomsons? Yes of course they lived across the landing. Good pals. I know my memories no what it was, but still.’</p>\r\n\r\nShe laughs and just for a moment she’s back.</p>\r\n\r\n‘Peter, Mary and young Peter. A lovely family,'' she says. ''Mary and I were in the maternity at the same time, when I had Jane. We always said those two would get married one day.’</p>\r\n\r\n‘That’s right I remember you saying that.’</p>\r\n\r\n‘Saying what?’</p>\r\n\r\n‘What you just said. You and Mary.’</p>\r\n\r\nShe sighs and leans her head against the high back of the chair, the remembering taking its toll. I reach behind to plump the pillows that are keeping her upright.</p> \r\n\r\n‘I saw my mother earlier. Doing the rounds,’ she whispers.</p>\r\n\r\n‘I don’t think it would have been her, Margaret.’</p>\r\n\r\n‘No one comes to see her.’</p>\r\n\r\n‘Well. I’m here.’</p>\r\n\r\nI hold her hand in mine. It doesn''t shake like it used to when she was the responsible adult and I was fixing her first drink before the walk to school. Maybe she’s forgotten that too. We sit in silence, watching Jimmy Stewart run down a snow-filled American Main Street.</p>\r\n After a while, I lean over and kiss her forehead. She shrinks away as though it’s a slap.\r\n\r\n‘Merry Christmas Mum.’</p>\r\n\r\nI get up to go. I turn back only once, but she’s not looking. Jimmy Stewart hugs his wife, his daughter in his arms and his friends singing Auld Lang Syne. She stares through the TV.</p>\r\n\r\nI think of Dad, under soil and snow. Mum, in her way, no longer here. I think of the cold empty flat and the card on the mantelpiece. What would Peter think of me now? What would he find if he showed up at the door? Not the girl he left behind. The kohl-lined girl with her plans for the art school and the sketches she never showed, portraits of children with his eyes. He won’t find her now.</p>\r\n\r\nDownstairs in the entrance hall, I squirt alcohol solution into my palms and rub them together. I push the release button, the door clicks and I’m out in the cold. It has started to rain. Crisp snow has turned to slush, taking the footprints and the white Christmas with it.\r\n', 'Winter cheer for some, but not all. A woman is reminded of her past one lonely Christmas. ', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 61, 62, 'und', 0, '<A href="http://www.puffinreview.com/content/Issue-3">Read issue 3 here.</A>\r\n\r\nThis month we invite you to step into blackest noir with the <i>Hotel Prometheus</i>, feel the wither of time in the poetry of <i>Signals</i> or wonder who that odd character is at the bus stop in <i>Bernie</i>.\r\n\r\nWe also welcome back F. Harvey Anderson from last month with another article on the quirks and colour of life in Nepal. \r\n\r\nWe another extract from our editor''s blog about online dating. This month she goes on a date with a sinister clown. \r\n\r\nAnd we have more. An embarassment of riches, so dip in, enjoy, and leave a comment if you want to let our writers know what you think.', '', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 62, 63, 'und', 0, 'Dellarobbia: an ethereal, beautiful name. A woman of this unworldly moniker surely sits in a Florentine palazzo, plucking a harp or eating a grape. Not in this novel; Dellarobbia lives in grim poverty in the Appalachians, her days spent wiping her children’s noses, pouring coffee for her dim husband, getting filthy and worn in the endless grind of farm work.</p>\r\nShe is still young and pretty and is desperate to be lifted out of this world, and so she indulges in a flirtation with a local man. They agree to meet in a cabin, high in the woods, and this is where the novel opens, with Dellarobbia climbing the hill, fiercely ready to cast off her roles as wife, mother, daughter-in-law, farm-hand and throw herself into an affair.</p>\r\nSomething stops her: a shimmering lake of fire on the mountain. She is astonished. This is surely a vision, sent from God, to make her return to her family. She luxuriates in the beautiful sight and then retreats down the mountain, to her family. But everything has changed. This was not a vision, but a phenomenon caused by climate change: masses upon masses of delicate orange butterflies have been driven north from Mexico by the changing weather. They chose to alight on Dellarobia’s farm and they flit and wink and shimmer in their countless millions upon her hillside. Soon her tiny back-water is jammed with scientists, reporters, campaigners and tourists, and they all want to meet the flame-haired Dellarobbia who ‘discovered’ the phenomenon.</p>\r\nA novel about climate change? Don’t let that put you off. The story of how the fragile butterflies have been cast out of their environment runs alongside that of Dellarobia, with her unusual name and her unusual colouring, equally beautiful and exotic, who has found herself grounded in a life of damp dishcloths, muddy fields, and making  a few dollars last all week. The coming of this phenomenon offers her a glorious chance to switch her life onto a different track. </p>\r\nThe lead scientist, Dr Byron, is equally as ‘exotic’ as Dellarobia or the butterflies. Together they form a triangle of beautiful difference in the grey, dilapidated town. He shows Dellarobbia a new way of life, and soon has her working in his make-shift lab on the hillside.  She is thrown open to new experiences far more exhilarating than her liaison in the cabin would have been . We read that ‘each morning she rose and rose to the occasion of this man.’</p> \r\nDellarobbia changes. Her spirit unfurls from its poverty and she takes wing. She refuses to be a drudge, or a dutiful daughter-in-law and soon ‘the arguments she’d always swallowed like a daily ration of pebbles had begun coming into her mouth and leaping out like frogs.’</p>\r\nBut, just as the butterflies could no longer exist in their changed environment, can this new Dellarobbia flourish in a small-town which will never change?</p>\r\nThis is a beautiful novel, with poetic prose and sparkling imagery to match the glinting butterflies on the hill. </p>\r\nAt times, Kingsolver does over-indulge in science. There are pages where Dr Byron is explaining about the migration and breeding habits of the butterflies and these convoluted sections are simply not necessary. </p>\r\nLikewise, Dellarobia’s poverty is similiarly over-emphaised. There is one scene where she wanders along the aisles of a thrift store and seemingly picks up and assesses each item, only to place them sadly back on the shelf. She’s poor, we get it. </p>\r\nSo, I think the novel would benefit from being trimmed back significantly. It is, at times, quite flabby with science but, this aside, it is a beautiful and exhilirating story, with a most unusual  premise, and will surely be a front-runner for the Womens’ Prize. \r\n<br>\r\n\r\n<i>Flight Behaviour</i> is published by Faber and Faber</p>\r\n<br>\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=0571290779&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n\r\n ', 'A novel about climate change? Don''t be deterred. This is a great read. ', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 63, 64, 'und', 0, '<strong>Describe your typical writing day. </strong> </p>\r\nI always write best in the mornings, so I try to clock up the words in the first part of the day.  I never used to be a morning person, so it''s amazing to me now that it has become my most productive time.  The best feeling is when I can get the writing in early, before the rest of the house has woken up (I gave up weekend lie-ins long ago).  When this happens, it feels like a minor victory, getting the words on the page before any potential disruptions can derail me!  I tend to break up my working day with a run or a walk with the dog around lunchtime.  Not only does this give me fresh air and get me away from my desk, it allows me to brew any ideas about the project I''m working on (or to get away from it, depending how it''s going!)</p>\r\n\r\nI juggle writing with lots of other things (teaching creative writing workshops; freelance editing for the consultancy Cornerstones; and hosting residential courses for the creative writing charity, Arvon) so I''m often squeezing it in around other activities.  If I have only half a day to write I''ll always prioritise the writing to get it done when my energy is at its highest.  Writing can be such an intangible thing; it''s the first thing that disappears when other things crowd in and take on more immediacy (like sick children or domestic disasters).  The main thing I''ve learned over the years is to try to protect that time.  It doesn''t always work.  But the moment I considered myself to be a writer was the moment I realised that I''d never do any unless I actively set that time aside.  </p>\r\n\r\nMy writing space is in an outbuilding at the back of our house, so  when I''m at my desk I''m away from the phone and the doorbell, and there''s no temptation to get sidetracked doing laundry or washing up.  I even have a ''closed'' sign so the rest of the family know not to disturb me! That said, I also like to write in cafes and sitting up in bed.  It''s good not to be too attached to the desk. </p>\r\n<img src="/content/sites/default/files/Rachels-workspace1.jpg" width="400" height="534" alt=""  />\r\n<i>Rachel''s desk</div></i>\r\n<strong>Do you set yourself targets, such as a daily word count to be achieved? </strong></p>\r\nI don''t aim for a daily word count, but I do find it useful to break down the writing into scenes.  So, depending on the amount of time I have to write that day, I aim for a whole scene or half a scene.  I''m quite a slow writer.  For years I beat myself up about it, thinking that everyone else seemed so much more prolific than me. I''ve since learned that (a) everyone has different writing speeds and the only marker of success is if I feel happy with what I''ve achieved that day; and (b) comparison to other writers is pointless, destructive and definitely to be avoided.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong>We know writing can''t always be enjoyable. For those times when it''s not, how do you muster the energy or motivation to keep going till you’ve crested the hill?</strong></p>\r\nFirst draft writing is agony.  I feel I''m constantly trying to cut out that little voice in my head that tells me it''s boring or not good enough.  Then there''s that mismatch between the ideal conception of the idea and the messy reality on paper.  Getting the words down on the page feels like wrestling with an octopus sometimes.  I wonder about why I have such a drive to do something so difficult on such a regular basis.  It''s quite perverse, when I think about it.  But, that said, when everything comes together there is no feeling like it.  Once the first draft is done and I reach the revision stage I enjoy that so much more. I love that process of cutting and pasting and getting a sense of the whole thing and how it hangs together.  Even better, at the very end is the polishing and getting the line-by-line writing just right.  I love that bit.  </p>\r\nI think what keeps me going is trying not to think about or analyse what I''m writing in terms of value (see above - it''s about cutting out that critical voice).  It''s just about getting a rough shape for the scene or the chapter to make it workable.  The best strategy I''ve found for getting the first draft down is to write in specific chunks of time.  What works for me is to write for no more than 90 minutes in any one session, and to schedule short five minute breaks each half hour.  It''s my own variation on the Pomodoro Technique, which is a brilliant time management tool (http://www.pomodorotechnique.com/). Incentives are good, too. Especially when they involve chocolate or cake. The other thing that keeps me going is thinking about the audience at the end of it.  That''s something that has changed since I was published, and one of the best things.  I love meeting readers and talking about the book, and the ideas in it.  It feels like a sort of reward for all those months/years of isolation and sheer hard graft.  </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong> How do you begin a new writing project? Do you plan every detail carefully or do you free-wheel and see what happens?</strong></p>\r\nI definitely need a plan.  I wouldn''t last long at all if I just tried to wing it.  At the same time, though, I know I need to allow for the writing to take its own shape.  I learned a lot from my mentor, Sara Maitland, who talked about structure and plot as a sort of jelly mould: with a definite shape, but flexible and able to change.  I find it useful to plan each scene before I start writing, jotting down details about the setting and so on.  Often, the writing surprises me and moves in a different direction from the plan.  But the little plans on index cards help me make a start if I''ve thought ahead and jotted down some snippets of dialogue, or objects I can weave in to make the story world feel authentic.  Plus, index cards are brilliantly portable. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong>Your novel <i>Sisterwives</i> is your first. How difficult was it to find an an agent/publisher given that it was your debut?</strong></p>\r\nMy story is different from most, in that I won a competition with a writing development organisation (http://www.cultureword.org.uk/), who published my novel with their imprint press.  This has been a brilliant thing and allowed me to get my work out there.  I still don''t have an agent.  I''ll probably look for one once I''ve finished the next novel.  </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong>What advice would you offer a new writer who is seeking publication? </strong></p>\r\nA good agent-writer relationship can be a wonderful thing and certainly in the run up to <i>Sisterwives</i> being published I longed for someone else to share the burden of getting it out there, particularly when it came to promotion. But my main advice would be: stay open to the idea that you could do without one!  There are so many opportunities for writers now through e-publishing and small presses; I don''t think having an agent now is as crucial now as it was, say, five or six years ago - when that was the only route open to emerging writers.  It''s great that these days you can be enterprising about how and where your stuff is published.  I think it gives writers a lot of possibility and allows a lot more creative control. </p>\r\n<br>   \r\n<strong>What do you have in progress at the moment?</strong></p>\r\nI''ve always got small projects on the go, whether that''s blogging (my website is at www.rachelconnorwriter.com), writing short non fiction articles or short stories.  I don''t have a great track record with finishing short stories - there are lots of rough first drafts languishing on my hard drive!  </p>\r\nAs far as major projects go, I''ve got two on the boil at the moment.  The first is a commissioned afternoon drama for Radio 4 called <i>The Cloistered Soul</i>, which is set in an enclosed order of nuns.  I''ve almost finished the first draft; it will be recorded in November and broadcast in early 2014.  I''m also deep into the first draft of my next novel, provisionally called <i>The Long Path to Desire</i>.  It''s set mainly in Glasgow and is partly an imaginative reconstruction of the Charles Rennie Mackintosh story and the history of the Glasgow School of Art.  After <i>Sisterwives</i>, which flips between multiple voices and different time frames, I swore I''d keep the next one simple.  It started off that way, but now I have three main characters in different eras whose stories are all interconnected.  It seems I can''t escape complexity!\r\n\r\n\r\n \r\n \r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \r\n', 'We speak to Rachel Connor about her writing day and how she got her first novel published. ', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 64, 65, 'und', 0, 'The idea behind this book is startling: the world is having another ordinary day when suddenly there is a crackle of static. A voice breaks through the hiss, telling everyone not to be afraid. </p>\r\nThe world is stricken. Whose voice was that? Some are ecstatic, convinced they are hearing God. Some suspect a terrorist plot, others fear an alien attack. Some say it’s a prank. A small number don’t hear it at all, and are fearful. Why have they been singled out? </p>\r\nThe book is narrated by a range of different characters - I’d say there are about 25 different voices – and they are scattered across the globe. We have a White House adviser, a Johannesburg drug dealer, a Barcelona housewife, a Florida teenager, a Vatican nun, and the list goes on. Each gives their own experience of hearing this voice, and what they think it is. </p>\r\nSo the novel is composed of tiny chapters, each from the point of view of the many narrators, and it skips between them all, often at a break-neck pace.</p>\r\nAlthough we have a unique approach, and a bold and unsettling scenario, the multiple narrators weaken the novel.  There is huge inconsistency amongst them. For example, the White House insider has, obviously, much to say about ‘The Broadcast’, as it comes to be known. He is at the frenzied heart of The White House, advising the President on how to keep the population calm, and urging their finest scientists to track where the voice is coming from. Then he must deal with terrorist attacks, as a jihadist group thinks ‘The Broadcast’ is The West trying to impose its God on the world. Naturally, then, his chapters are developed, detailed and lengthy. However, we then skip to the blander, shorter or meaningless chapters as we hear from characters who have little to say. It was irritating to be caught up in the White House terrorist drama only to leap to a computer nerd in Shanghai who grumbles that no-one is logging on to play games any more.</p> \r\nI feel the book would have been stronger if the author had focused on fewer narrators. He’d then have had the time and space to beef them up, whilst trimming the fat elsewhere. If there was a narrative need to gather in worldwide stories and experiences, then there could have been a section devoted to ‘vox pops’ from the frightened populace, or we could have been given newspaper reportage. There are many alternatives besides devoting space to these non-contributors. </p>\r\nFinally, although I favour character over plot, a novel like this is clearly driven by events. So, we wait to find out whose voice it was. God? Aliens? Terrorists? Garbled radiation from the big bang? A prank? I won’t give away the ending, obviously, but it was rather a damp squib. If we aren’t to be blown away by the plot, then we need strong characterisation instead to prop up the story, but we don’t get that as the narrative is fractured into a thousand different voices. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<i>The Testimony</i> is published by Blue Door</p>\r\n<br>\r\n<br>\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=0007467729&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n', 'A brilliant and unsettling idea, but weakened by its narrative technique.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 65, 66, 'und', 0, 'This novel has left me feeling quite conflicted.</p>\r\nSet in the small town of Brownsburg, Virginia, the story begins in a slow, dreamy pace, which matches the peaceful, uneventful life of the townsfolk. It’s post-war America, and the country is blooming with wealth, progress and energy, but life in Brownsburg floats by as always: ladies attend church in their smart hats and dazzling white gloves, shopkeepers know your name and always smile, every day is happily the same, fading into warm, lazy evenings on the porch and, of course, no-one locks their door at night.</p>\r\nInto this small-town paradise enters a stranger, Charlie Beale. The residents are politely wary of him but he charms them, gets a job, buys some land, and settles into a home of his own. </p>\r\nAll is far too relaxed and warm and fuzzy. Is anything going to jolt us out of this idyll? Then we remember the opening pages of the book where the narrator, Sam, warns us he has a story to tell, a story which people say must have left him damaged. What could possibly enter into this serene, sleepy town to inflict <i>damage</i>?</p>\r\nLust.</p>\r\nCharlie Beale develops an infatuation with Sylvan. She is married to the arrogant, hideous and filthy-rich Boaty Glass. It is a loveless union and she is all too ready for the thrill of taking a lover.</p>\r\nOnce the affair begins, the novel crackles to life. Until then, it had threatened to become a repetition of chocolate-box scenes from small-town life. The story stumbles upon lust, lies, intrigue and abuse and the readers surely revel in it with a sense of gratitude. </p>\r\nHowever, the sudden introduction of this fierce affair – and its consequences – does make the novel rather lop-sided. There is the feeling that the author spends too long in setting the scene and is then forced to cram all the ‘action’ into the latter half of the novel. </p>\r\nThere is also a narrative inconsistency. The story is told by Sam, who witnessed most of the events as a child. He is telling the story now, as an adult. However, he ventures to tell us how Sylvan felt about the affair, but he can’t possibly have known. He was only a six-year old at the time, and can have had no insight into Sylvan’s emotions. And she certainly didn’t confide in a child. So, the passages where Sam tells us precisely how Sylvan and Charlie felt are frustrating. Sam tells us that Charlie ‘hoped, so secretly, that he couldn’t even say it to himself, or even write it in his diary’. Well, how can Sam know it then? He awards himself a narrative omnsiscienece yet, at other times he says things like ‘you may wonder why and I’m telling you I don’t know.’ This inconsistency was jarring and frustrating. Sometime he claims to know the innermost thoughts of these adults and at other times he throws up his hands and reminds us he was only six and can’t possibly have known what was going on.</p>\r\nIf you can overlook the glitches in the narration then this is an entertaining read and evokes very well the cosiness and claustrophobia of small-town life.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n<i>Heading Out To Wonderful</i> is published by Hutchinson</p>\r\n<br>\r\n<br>\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=0091953677&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n\r\n \r\n', 'Full of atmosphere and imagery but with some frustrating narrative glitches.', 'full_html');
INSERT INTO `truefield_data_body` VALUES
('node', 'article', 0, 66, 67, 'und', 0, '<strong>Can you summarise your novel <i>The Almost Lizard</i> for us? Where did the idea come from?</strong></p>\r\n \r\n<i>The Almost Lizard</i> is the fictional autobiography of Daniel Lizar, completed in the weeks leading up to his 21st birthday, which is also the day he will kill himself. It charts the story of his parents from their births and runs right through to Daniel''s 21st birthday. Influenced by a childhood infatuation with soap operas, Daniel starts living his life as if it were one of those programmes. It''s a story about the influence of television on a developing mind, but also manipulation, the constantly blurring lines between fact and fiction, and also about growing up.  I hope it''s both funny and sad. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n \r\n<strong>When did you decide to become a writer? Do you write full-time or is there a ‘day job’ in the background?</strong></p>\r\nWhen I finished my degree and moved to Manchester nearly 10 years ago I lived with two musicians.  They were quite inspirational in getting me started, because I wasn''t musical but I had enjoyed writing in my teens.  I wrote a novel, and it just followed from there that I wanted to write another and start writing projects. It became my ambition, but I could never have been certain that I''d be published.</p>\r\n \r\nI''ve worked full time since leaving uni.  I work as a public health researcher at Manchester University and submitted my PhD at the end of last year as well.  I write at lunchtimes and in the evenings and weekends.  I like the variety, and I find being pushed for time encourages me to write whenever I get the chance.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\n \r\n<strong>Have you ever formally studied creative writing? Do you think it’s valuable to a new writer?</strong></p>\r\n \r\nI ducked out of studying English after A-level, which killed the fun in literature for me for a good while.  I can''t really comment on the value of it, having not experienced it. I certainly don''t think it''s essential, but then perhaps I would have been published sooner with formal education in the subject.  A lot of authors have studied creative writing and I assume that''s helped them in some way. There''s a lot to be said for being in an environment with like-minded folk, which is one of the benefits.  The scary thing is the cost of a degree these days. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n \r\n<strong>What is your daily writing routine?</strong></p>\r\n \r\nI don''t have a daily routine in place, I''m a bit too chaotic for that.  If I don''t have plans at lunchtime, I go to a bar near work and drink coffee whilst writing frantically.  Other than that it''s at home in my spare time.  I''ve travelled a lot with work in the past, and usually that gives me lots of time to write in notepads on flights and when I''m not working.  It really is when I can, but Sundays tend to be my most productive days.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\n\r\n<strong>Which do you find most enjoyable, the first draft or the editing?</strong></p>\r\nThe first draft because it''s all about getting the story out.  It''s the most consistently creative, and therefore rewarding, part.  The second draft is the least enjoyable because in my heart I just wish it was perfected by that stage, but all I can see is what''s wrong with it.  I think that''s the time when I have the least confidence in the story. The later drafts are good as well because it''s just tweaks here and there, more positive because you know that each one is a small improvement.  </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<img src="/content/sites/default/files/DSC_0538_0.JPG" width="467" height="698" alt=""  />\r\n<i>James''s desk</div></i>\r\n \r\n<strong>Did you plot and plan your novel carefully before you began writing it?</strong></p>\r\nFor <i>The Almost Lizard</i>, and the one I''m writing now, I had numerous false starts that were only resolved when I mapped out the whole story on walls.  In my old house I had coloured card running around the top of all my walls, but we''re not allowed blu-tac in my current flat so the coloured card is hanging from pieces of string instead!  I have a detailed outlined that I''m always prepared to shift away from as and when it seems necessary - new ideas crop up all the time and sometimes the planned ones just don''t turn out when I get to writing it up. Having that general idea is enough to keep things together though.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\n \r\n<strong>How do you stay motivated on those days where any creative endeavour seems impossible?</strong></p>\r\nI don''t beat myself up about it.  I used to - sitting in my chair getting frustrated and not producing anything worthwhile, but some days just I''m just not up to it, so I step away from it for that day.  First and foremost I enjoy writing, so forcing myself to do so goes against that a little.  In those situations I just do something else.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n \r\n<strong>Can you tell us how you got your book published? Did you secure an agent firstly?</strong></p>\r\nI entered a competition run by Legend Press in 2008 - <i>The Luke Bitmead Bursary Award</i> - and was awarded runner-up with a book I had written called <i>Shot Down</i>.  I tried to re-enter the competition with <i>The Almost Lizard</i> in 2010, but as a previous beneficiary of the bursary I wasn''t eligible, but they said they''d consider me for their general list.  I got the e-mail offering me a contract on the day that the riots kicked off in Manchester.  It was quite out of synch with the rest of the city to be celebrating in a beer garden just down the road from where it was all going on, but that''s what we did! </p>\r\n \r\nI didn''t secure an agent and I still don''t have one.  Whether or not I should I still can''t decide.  I should really be asking people for advice on that one!  Perhaps your readers could offer me their views on the matter.  I need to be sure that if I''m going to give someone a cut of whatever I earn from writing, it has to be worth it.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\n<strong>Which writers have you learned most from, and which do you read simply for pleasure?</strong></p>\r\nFor <i>The Almost Lizard</i>, John Irving was an influence in terms of the scope of the stories he tells.  I always read simply for pleasure, but that''s not to say I''m not learning at the same time.  Mainly it''s learning what I like and don''t in a story and hopefully taking lessons from that, absorbing good storytelling rather than trying to emulate something I''ve read elsewhere.  When I''ve not enjoyed a book, I probably learn more from that, because first and foremost I need to entertain myself.</p>\r\n \r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n ', 'We talk to the debut novelist about how he got his book published ', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 67, 68, 'und', 0, 'This novel is odd, quirky and utterly charming.</p>\r\nWhen I read the publicity online I was wary of it, thinking this kind of story really isn’t my cup of tea. It seemed rather offbeat and surreal and not to my taste. How wrong I was! This strange novel has won me over completely.</p>\r\nThe story is narrated by Lucy and we are taken under her wing and made to see the world from her own point of view, where everything is slightly askew and we are forced, gladly, to re-evaluate the world around us. Lucy has been cast off by her mother and sent to a strange farm to live. She is nervous and afraid, worried that if she ever leaves the farm then her mother will never find her again. </p>\r\nAmidst this confusion and upset she forms a friendship with Samantha and when Samantha’s baby vanishes Lucy casts off her own fears to try and unite mother and child.</p>\r\nAn unusual story indeed, told by an even more unusual narrator, but the plot and narrative voice are secondary to the quality of the writing. Sarkissian’s prose is keen and rich and filled with light. It was a sheer pleasure to read it. She makes us stop and think yes, that is how sunlight feels when it touches your skin, yes, that is what the press of damp soil against your cheek would feel like. Ordinary sensations are filtered through Lucy''s consciousness and are delivered to us fresh and startling. You can crack the book open at random and point to any sentence, guaranteed you will alight on something lyrical and fine. It was sometimes hard to believe this is the work of a debut novelist, as she is so confident and brave in her prose. </p>\r\nSo, the plot, the twists in the story, and the point of view are all bold and memorable and will leave reviewers and book-lovers chattering about them for a long time to come but, for me, these things all come second – albeit a close second – to the sheer beauty of the writing. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<i>Dear Lucy</i> is released on 25th April, by Hodder and Stoughton</p>\r\n<br>\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=1444767607&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n\r\n\r\n', 'Surreal, strange, offbeat and totally charming.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 68, 69, 'und', 0, '<strong>What is your daily writing routine? </strong></p>\r\n\r\n\r\nI begin the day as soon as I can and before I check emails, read the news, or use any social media sites. Hilary Mantel once said that writing first thing in the day could be the best thing that you ever do as a writer and I agree. If you write while your mind is fresh and is not persuaded by the thoughts of others, then your writing will generally be easier and your time more effective. It is best to write with no distractions, so I only use the internet during writing breaks unless I am researching.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\n\r\n<strong>Do you have a set word count you feel must be achieved each day?</strong></p>\r\n\r\n\r\nI think for most writers this varies, and I can write anywhere between 500 words and 1500, but I aim for around 800-1000 per day if I can. The longest piece of writing in one day was somewhere around 2000. I don''t tend to write at weekends as much but during the week I also work in the evenings. Writing ebbs and flows but the most important advice is to write every day and I treat the every day rule as Monday to Friday at the very least.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n<img src="/content/sites/default/files/Writing%20desk_0.jpg" width="912" height="684" alt=""  />\r\n<i>FC Malby''s desk</div></i>\r\n<strong>Is there a specific time of day when you feel you function best as a writer?</strong></p>\r\n\r\n\r\nYes, mornings and evenings. Most people have an afternoon lag and that is when I will write blog posts, guest blog posts, and catch up with admin. You need a break from writing at least every ninety minutes if you want to make the most effective use of your time. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n \r\n<strong>Would you agree with Hemingway’s advice that you should stop your day’s writing whilst you are still raring to go on?</strong></p>\r\n \r\nAlthough I can understand his thinking, I don''t agree, purely from the perspective that there are days when you are not raring to go but you still need to write. As a creative persuit writing can be inspiring, but it can also be incredibly hard work when you get to a difficult section of the plot or particularly when you are editing your work. I haven''t yet met a writer who is raring to go every moment of their writing day.  </p>\r\n<br>\r\n\r\n\r\n<strong>In those periods where writing feels dry or difficult, how do you stay motivated to continue?</strong></p>\r\n\r\n\r\nI read and I believe every writer needs to read widely. Ian McEwan reads for as many hours each day as he writes and it shows in his writing. Every writer should be well read and I find when I enter the dry periods, as every writer will at some point, it helps to read books in my genre. At the moment I tend to read and write mainly Literary Fiction but I do read in other genres as much as I can. I also watch a lot of films and I think when you write it is important to be able to visualise your scenes. Watching films can really aid the writing process and inspire new ideas. Having a word count and writing goals can also be helpful. I am also a photographer and because I am a very visual person, I find it helps to photograph people and places to inspire ideas, especially for short stories.</p>\r\n<br>\r\n \r\n<strong>When you begin a writing project do you plan it out precisely or do you tend to free-wheel and see where it takes you?</strong></p>\r\n\r\n\r\nAlthough I am not keen on planning, I know that it speeds up the writing process and helps with structure. I am naturally someone who likes to let my writing take its own course so I use a bit of both methods. With my last book my writing was linear with some necessary flashbacks added later. With my current novel I am trying something new and am writing in a non-linear style. I have been writing out key scenes and will thread them together when I am ready. Writing style, despite the rule books, is very personal to each author and very few people work in the same way.  </p>\r\n<br>\r\n \r\n<strong>There is constant debate about the value of creative writing courses. What is your opinion on them?</strong></p>\r\n\r\n\r\nI think that they can be really helpful. I don''t believe they can teach everybody to write, but if you have a flare for writing within you then a course can help to free your ideas and develop your style. \r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \r\n', 'Novelist whose debut, Take Me To The Castle, was self-published and went on to win the The People''s Book Award.', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 69, 70, 'und', 0, 'This is an eclectic batch of short stories, moving confidently from a greasy spoon to a dinner party, and from Bond Street to Budapest. </p>\r\nThe theme uniting these disparate tales is the frantic drive and push of desire and how, when it alights on the heart, reason and logic often flee.</p>\r\nThe author has taken Manet as an inspiration. It seems that they both seize upon one frozen moment and use that to illustrate wider themes. Just as Manet’s famous paintings portray seemingly ordinary life - enjoying lunch, sipping beer – so they reveal a thousand tiny details and provoke many interpretations. </p>\r\nLikewise with Charles Boyle’s tales. In the title story, Robert becomes enchanted with the girl serving coffee. When he learns she is an artist he becomes madly keen to help her throw off drudgery in the steamy café and get back to her canvas. However, she soon moves far beyond the help he offered her and vanishes, though not in the way he had imagined. His helplessness in the face of her ambition and his own inability to act are all delivered to us via the small details, such as the bandage on her wrist she wears due to the RSI she has incurred from endless pouring, dicing and cleaning. This one image – a tatty, simple bandage – contains so much: the degradation of her artistic hopes, the healing and re-emergence of her ambition, and the constriction in which Robert soon finds himself. </p>\r\nAs with the ever-changing settings and subjects, Charles Boyle’s narrative style changes with lightning speed too. In one story he is philosophical and poetic, telling us ‘his heart wandered off, looking for other places to graze.’ Then he veers off to the simple and direct, ‘He just wanted to get her into bed.’ </p>\r\nHowever, his chameleon style did leave me often unsatisfied. There is sometimes the feeling that each story spent too much time skimming the surface in a brave attempt to gather in as much detail and surface as possible. He wants to paint on a vast canvas. I would have preferred the author to try being a minituarist and calmly and slowly take us to the heart of the matter.  </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<i>The Manet Girl</i> is published by Salt</p>\r\n<br>\r\n<br>\r\n<iframe src="http://rcm-uk.amazon.co.uk/e/cm?t=thepufrev-21&o=2&p=8&l=as1&asins=1907773452&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe>\r\n\r\n', 'A collection of short stories about desire ', 'full_html'),
('node', 'article', 0, 70, 71, 'und', 0, '<strong>Can you describe your typical writing day? Is there a particular time of day when you feel you write best?</strong></p>\r\nA typical day for me begins with making coffee. Then I sit down at the couch, if I’m in a purely creative stage, or my desk, if I am trying to work on analytic or editing issue. I love working on the couch with my laptop perched on the arm of the couch, but I am trying to wean myself off of that. I write for a few hours in the morning, then break to take a yoga class at my local yoga studio. Then it’s back home for lunch- I usually eat leftovers or peanut butter and jelly – and a few more hours of writing. Once or twice a week I work a dinner waitressing shift at the café where I have worked for years.  </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong>Which do you enjoy most, the first draft or the editing?</strong></p>\r\nHands down, first draft. I love feeling uninhibited, not hemmed in creatively. I love having language guide me, rather than rising action, or plot. It is a struggle for me to analyze my own work in order to see what necessary details are missing, where tension needs to be heightened, where I need to pull back and be more subtle. I think I have a decent ear, and can hear where my language doesn’t ring true, and I enjoy polishing language, but working on structural editing – putting all the pieces of a story in just the right order – ties my brain in knots. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong>I found your prose in <i>Dear Lucy</i> to be very rich and poetic. Are you a keen reader of poetry? Do you think there’s value for a prose writer in learning and committing poetry to memory?</strong></p>\r\nThank you! I love poetry, reading it and writing it. The first creative writing I ever did was poetry, and actually won a big regional writing award for my poetry when I as thirteen. During middle school and high school I thought of myself as a poet first. My first short stories were extensions of my poetry and it means a lot to me to have my writing called poetic. </p>\r\nI love many poets, TS Eliot, Sylvia Plath, Wallace Stevens, Robert Frost. I learned a lot from studying the theory of Gertrude Stein; the importance of putting one word next to another, even if semantically the significance is hard to understand. I am so grateful I got to study these amazing poets in college, because certainly much of the meaning of their words would have been lost on me without reading it in the classroom setting. My parents are big lovers of poetry, and my mother said one of the reasons she fell in love with my dad was because he could recite all his favorite poems. </p>\r\nI absolutely believe there is value in prose writers reading poetry. I believe there is value in all humans reading poetry. I am perhaps biased because language is my first love as a writer and a reader, and I do believe that the emphasis on word choice is more underscored in poetry than in prose. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong>What’s your approach to beginning a new writing project: do you plan each aspect scrupulously, or are you content to jump in and see what happens?</strong></p>\r\nI certainly jump in, make a big mess, and then try to clean up the mess. Once I tried outlining and planning at the onset of a project and it blocked my creativity. I was very disappointed because intellectually I was inspired by the project. But I found when I was leading with plot and structure, I had no voice. So it was rather excruciating trying to get words on the page without an inspiring voice. But I still feel that particular book is in me, but that it wasn’t the right time to work on it. I’m still waiting for the right voice to introduce herself to me. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong>Is there anyone to whom you show your work when it’s in progress, or do you prefer to wait till you have a polished manuscript?</strong></p>\r\nThere are a few people I will show an early draft of my work to. I share a lot with my dad. He is a very open, optimistic and nurturing person to share my work with. I trust him but he is sensitive to my vulnerability. And I love sharing things with my mom but she has a Masters in linguistics and literature so she can be a bit analytical to show an early draft to, though in terms of analyzing plot and structure she is incredibly shrewd. Nothing gets past her.</p>\r\nI share things with my fiancé but I’m a little more neurotic about that because he is so eager to help that sometimes I can’t hear all his advice because I get too defensive. I also have a girlfriend who is an avid reader, has a brilliant mind, and is an actress, and she strikes that wonderful balance of being honest but supportive, helpful but gentle. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong>How did <i>Dear Lucy</i> get published? Did you have an agent?</p>\r\nI do have a wonderful agent, Judy Heiblum at Sterling Lord Literistic, who took on the project many years ago, when it was essentially a version of my MFA thesis. We edited the book together for about a year and a half, then we sold it to Simon & Schuster and edited it for another year and a half. </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong>The book received notice from great writers like Joyce Carol Oates and Ron Rash. Which authors have influenced you in your writing? Which do you read simply for pleasure?</strong></p>\r\nThank you! For many years it has been hard for me to separate the anxiety of influence from reading for pleasure. I am always conscious of how what I am reading could influence my writing. That doesn’t make what I read any less meaningful, it just means I am conscious of what I am reading in a way that sometimes makes it hard to read with abandon. </p>\r\nMy favorite authors and greatest influences are Faulkner, Toni Morrison, and Flannery O’Connor, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I love the modernists. I have always loved Joyce Carol Oates, and she was a beloved professor of mine at Princeton, so her blurb about my book meant so much to me.  </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong>What advice would you offer a new writer who is seeking publication of their novel?</strong></p>\r\nMy advice would be to get the manuscript in the absolutely best place possibly before seeking out an agent. Don’t jump the gun because you want the external validation of an agent or publisher. There is no such thing as perfect, but work to get your manuscript as close to what you see as its perfection as possible. You pay in spades for all the problems you choose not to address before sending out your work. I know this from experience! </p>\r\n<br>\r\n<strong>What do you have in progress at the moment?</strong>\r\nI am at work on a manuscript - the working title is <i>The Pirate Carnival</i> - which is about a fair on an old pirate ship, run by a band of gypsies, that travels the United States, making money off selling whatever it is that the ego wants more than anything but has always been too afraid to ask for. When the carnival docks in a sleepy New England town, a young woman must chose between the life she thought she wanted, and a life where pleasure, passion, and beauty are valued above all else. It’s a bit of a mess right now, but I’m still in the early purely creative stages, so we will see if I can hammer it into workable shape. \r\n', 'We talk to the author of Dear Lucy about her working day, the value of poetry to a prose writer and how it felt to get a good review from Joyce Carol Oates.', 'full_html');

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