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Transcript of Read Write South West Report/Anthology
READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT& ANTHOLOGY
Welcome 1
Case Studies 4-8
Case Studies 24-27
Anthology 9-23
Acknowledgements 28
About Read/Write South West 2-3
WELCOME
I am delighted to introduce the Read/
Write South West Celebration Report.
At a time when everyone involved in the
literature sector, and particularly Library
Services, are facing unprecedented
pressures on their time and resources,
this project has provided a fantastic
opportunity to highlight the ways in which
local partnerships and collaborations can
bring together resources, writers and
communities to extend the benefits and
value libraries are able to offer the people
and communities they serve.
Literature Works is a charity which raises money to
ensure that as many people as possible can benefit
from reading and writing. We rely on private donations,
commercial sponsorship and public fundraising
to support the work you’ll see here, and so fully
appreciate the difficulties of the financial climate. In
Read/Write South West we saw a need to support
libraries at a local level in much more practical ways.
The feedback we received from libraries told us that
staff no longer have as much time to dedicate to
working with individual groups and younger library
members in particular rarely had opportunities to
be guided through the full extent of library services.
The feedback from professional writers suggested
they would love to share their expertise and stories,
particularly in ways which help them sustain a living
in their local area as well as building their own work
and audiences. The Read/Write project has enabled
us to bring these elements together, providing
workshops and knowledge sharing to over 80 writers,
embedding skills and experience which has led to
new relationships with local libraries in ways which will
continue to bear fruit into the future.
One of the most satisfying outcomes to this project
is our Young Writer Network through which we are
able to work with libraries to bring forward the next
generation of exciting writing talent by providing a safe
space, an expert writer and an expert librarian to help
them gain access to the world of book and words -
backed up by a whole range of library services and free
internet access!
We’ll be extending our successful Young Writers
Network to include other community groups and
organisations who can offer the space and resources
to help us deliver excellent work with young writers
in their local communities, and Literature Works will
continue to invest in libraries, supporting as many
people as possible to gain the social benefits which
creative writing and reading bring.
As the case studies you’ll see here testify, when
libraries are able to collaborate creatively with local
partner organisations who share their passion for and
commitment to the place they live in, then libraries can
truly take their place as the heart of the community and
lives can be transformed. This project has relied on the
tireless work of our partner libraries and organisations,
the writers involved and the sheer exuberance of the
people who took part, so now I’ll happily hand over to
them and let them tell you about it in their own words.
In Read/Write South West we saw a need to support libraries at a local level in much more practical ways.
1
Tracey Guiry
CEO Literature Works
READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT
ABOUT READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST
Read/Write South West is a Literature
Works project, funded by Big Lottery.
Literature Works is a registered charity
and is the South West’s Literature
Development Agency, core funded by
Arts Council England.
Read/Write South West is a partnership with nine
Library services throughout the region. It began in
March 2012 following an eight month consultation
process with the libraries to establish their needs
and challenges. The main aim of the project was
to build up collaborations and understanding
between libraries and the local communities they
serve, so that people of all ages engaged more
fully with the complete scope of services and
support a local library can offer.
This project has included 19 different partner
organisations, dozens of librarians and teachers,
over 80 South West based writers, and over 4,000
members of the public, ranging in age from 6 to 90!
The project included long-term residencies, where
writers worked with specific groups including
traveller children, young carers and children in
care, refugee children and people with mental and
physical disabilities.
We have worked in libraries, primary and secondary
schools, tertiary colleges, care homes and prisons.
We have delivered sessions on everything to do with
literature, from poetry readings and workshops, to
novelists talking about their work, to storytelling
sessions and reading group talks.
Our library reader and writer days gathered larger
groups of people together to learn what services
their library can provide.
2 3
READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT
This tailored mix of inclusive project work and targeted
approaches made the project incredibly complex,
and there was more than one tense moment! But the
overarching outcome has been an investment of over
£80,000 in library reading and writing groups during
2012/13, and a legacy which includes the Literature
Works’ Young Writer Network, online resource
packs, and the ‘Writer Directory’ which has built up a
database of over 80 South West based writers who
are experienced at working in community contexts,
backed up by training days, seminars and open
sessions for readers and writers of all kinds.
The Read/Write South West project officially ended
on 25th May 2013, but Literature Works will continue
to invest in high quality literature projects. The
relationships and experiences we have all taken away
from this project will enable us to develop similar
work, and we are already extending our Young Writer
Network to embrace other community groups and
organisations who want to help us deliver Young
Writer Groups and support the talent of the future.
To find out more about the work of Literature Works,
or to help us achieve our ambition of ‘literature for
everyone’ please check out our website and join our
newsletter. And, of course, if you think you could
devote some time to raising money for a Young
Writer Group in your local area, we’d love to hear
from you!
From the writers and readers across the South West,
Thank you!
SOUTH GLOUCESTERSHIRE TRAVELLERS PROJECT WITH HOLY FAMILY CATHOLIC PRIMARY SCHOOL, PATCHWAY, AS PART OF A RESIDENCY PROJECT AT PATCHWAY IN PARTNERSHIP WITH SOUTH GLOUCESTERSHIRE ARTS AND LIBRARIES SERVICE & WRITER TOBY HULSE
DORSET RESIDENCY IN PARTNERSHIP WITH DORSET LIBRARIES AND BRIDPORT ARTS CENTRE’S OPEN BOOK FESTIVALWITH WRITERS ROSIE JACKSON, CHRIS REDMOND AND LIZ BROWNLEE
THE PROJECT
A class of 24 Year Four pupils with a high
proportion of travellers of Irish heritage
and Black and Minority Ethnic children
In ten half-day sessions using the school/
community library, the whole class wrote
a piece of poetry for performance, based
on the theme of ‘rivers’
Showcased in the school library and at
a school assembly to fellow pupils, staff,
parents, grandparents and carers
THE PROJECT
Focal point of local book festival aimed at
bringing books and writing to new audiences
Readings and workshops with primary and
secondary pupils, adult writers and adults
with mental health and confidence problems
Short story workshop at library
One-to-one surgeries at library
Performance with primary children
Workshops for adults with mental health
and confidence issues in partnership with
local charity ‘rethink’
Poetry and performance workshops and
performance with teenagers
FEEDBACK
“It was brilliant” THE CHILDREN
“It’s fantastic to see children and their parents who have never visited the library before!” THE LIBRARIAN
“The children gained an enormous amount from this project and we will definitely be working with the writer again. It was fantastic” THE TEACHER
“This was an enormous success. the development of the children’s use of language, and performance skills was very rapid!”
“The teacher and the head were involved in all aspects of the project”
THE WRITER
“My son came home every night and said this was the best thing he’d ever done at school…”
A MOTHER
“I was struck by the maturity of the piece…it was quite simply beautiful” SOUTH GLOUCESTERSHIRE ARTS OFFICER
“Great to share work in a safe and friendly place” ADULT STUDENT
FEEDBACK
“I felt I was encouraging a writing community…I was reminded of the power of writing to stimulate, inspire, support and heal…it hugely boosted my own confidence as a writer and facilitator” ROSIE JACKSON, WRITER
“First time ever working with a writer – very enjoyable and illuminating” ADULT STUDENT
“Rosie is a great tutor!” ADULT STUDENT
“Liz Brownlee was wonderful – the children were gripped throughout”
PRIMARY SCHOOL TEACHER
“Working with Chris has really improved my confidence in performing and in my writing skills” SECONDARY STUDENT
“The workshops with people with mental health issues especially were a great addition to the festival” DIRECTOR, BRIDPORT ARTS CENTRE
4 5
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READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT
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READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT
PLYMOUTH MUSEUM WORD MARATHON PROJECT RUN BY WRITER KATE CAMPBELL IN PARTNERSHIP WITH PLYMOUTH CITY MUSEUM, CO-FUNDED BY ARTS COUNCIL ENGLAND
READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST WRITER BABS HORTON
THE PROJECT
Young Writers’ Squad based at Plymstock
Library, Plymouth
Run by experienced, Plymouth-based
writer Babs Horton
Hugely popular, with up to 24 young
people taking part aged 12–16, including
some with disabilities
THE PROJECT
Workshops using the Museum’s objects and
exhibitions as a stimulus for writing
Working with many different groups
including home educators, alzheimers
sufferers, residential homes, race equality
council, city college health & social care
students, young people from deprived areas
of Plymouth and many more!
Working with hundreds of people from
6 to 90+
FEEDBACK
“I really love this group… I’ve accomplished more than I ever expected” STUDENT
“An opportunity to learn and share… it is also great fun and I really enjoy It” STUDENT
“It’s really helped me with my English assessments too” STUDENT
“The enthusiasm and energy of the group has been inspirational… an extraordinary and uplifting experience… young people from very different backgrounds have engaged with each other, forged friendships and grown in confidence both socially and in their writing” BABS HORTON, WRITER
“Everyone is enjoying this project … we have some very, very keen young people in the group” LIBRARIAN
“This creative writing project is proving a hit with local youngsters!” PLYMOUTH EVENING HERALD NEWSPAPER
“It gave confidence in their opinions and a sense of purpose” PRE-SCHOOL GROUP TUTOR
FEEDBACK
“Bad dreams of writing/splintered by haiku workshop/invigorating” YOUNG STUDENT
“Cyrus is a boy/a precociously young boy/he loves a haiku” YOUNG STUDENT
“It was great fun… developed my writing…inspirational” STUDENT AGED 59
“Really enjoyed this” STUDENT AGED 78
“It improved my reading and writing… I felt much more confident… it helped me talk to other people” SECONDARY STUDENT
“Very good… want it to keep going for a long time” STUDENT AGED 25
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ANTHOLOGY
The Writer Squads funded by the
Read/Write South West project have
given dozens of talented young people
across the South West region a unique
opportunity to spend quality time with
a professional writer, to learn about and
feel comfortable in their local library,
to improve their reading, writing and
communication skills, and to develop their
social skills and potential for the future by
interacting with, and sharing their work
with both their peers and with supportive
and interested adults. To celebrate the
achievements of this part of the project,
we’re anthologising some of their work
here. We hope you enjoy it!
8 9
READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT ANTHOLOGY
READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST WRITERSARA-JANE ARBURY
THE PROJECT
SARA-JANE ARBURY is a writer based in
Gloucestershire. She has a wide range of
experience of working on community-based
projects
Sara-Jane worked with Read/Write
South West on three different projects;
storytelling for Year 7’s at Patchway
College, South Gloucestershire; a
residency with primary and secondary
school students, including young carers/
young people in care, in Gloucestershire,
and in Bristol with Year 5’s, mainly from
Asian backgrounds
FEEDBACK
Sara-Jane made the following comments and
observations about working with Read/Write
South West on these projects:
“I worked with a lot of young people – and teachers – who had never worked with a writer before, and a great many of them said how brilliant it was to do so, and how it helped both the learning AND teaching process”
“I also worked with some excellent library staff, who also said they had learned a lot from the project”
“One parent was delighted that her son, who had never read much before now loves books, and has joined the local library!”
“Another teacher said that she was amazed at how pupils who were normally very shy and almost silent in class had opened up and become visibly more confident in such a short space of time”
“Working on this project has been extremely rewarding and great fun” SARA-JANE ARBURY
CA
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The Mighty Tree
Green, brown, yellow
The colours of nature in the plants
These are the colours of the mighty tree.
It curves and twists and goes everywhere
A flutter of feathers, a bundle of brown lands near
where I sit in the boughs of the mighty tree
The air is sweet in my mouth
Colours everywhere
Leaves, branches, trunks
This is the mighty tree
Rian
The Snowdrops
The snowdrops tell of hard times past
They huddle together in little patches
To protect themselves from the chilling wind
In the shadows
They hide, waiting to emerge in occasional spells of sun
Gaze cast down as if they can’t face
What stands above them
Quiet and unnoticed, they lie
Soon they will be gone, until a new spring arises.
Hannah
I curl up tight into a ball. I feel safe this way. My
head under the covers, my breath warming the
air. The smell of my room makes me cough, it’s
mouldy and musty. My owners can’t shout at me
from here. They moan about the standard of my
work. It’s never good enough. I never chose this
life, I never asked for it. It’s their fault. Whoever they
are. The taste of dry air burns my raw throat. My
skin, rough as ever, scrapes against the scratchy
bed covers. I am a boulder, stopping anyone from
getting past me. I block the way. It could be the
exit. It could be the entrance. It could be the only
way out. Whatever it is or wherever it goes I am the
defence. I am the one who gets in the way. The one
who is just there because. Because no one knows
why. They can’t finish the sentence. Can’t ever
tell me the answer. I don’t know why they chose
to do it. Why me? But all I ever hear is “IT’S NOT
GOOD ENOUGH”, “YOU’RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH”.
So I curl into a ball. A tight ball. And block off the
outside world. No one can get me here.
Lucy
The day me and my twin felt the pain!
My family and I were making our way through
a graveyard, past a rundown, deserted, ruined,
haunted-looking house, to get to where we had
parked our car. Me and my twin Harriet were
shaking in fear at the sight of the figure in the
window. We looked at each other and thought
that we had been bitten by someone or something
and we could see a figure behind a stick-like tree.
If someone lived in it they sure had a problem I
thought to myself.
When we arrived at our car we got in and drove
off at the speed of lightning – well that’s what it
felt like anyway. As usual sisters being sisters we
have a fight now and again. So that’s what we did:
we started messing about. Obviously that’s when
it happened! First our parents were telling us off,
the next thing you know you’re in a big fire. That’s
when you’re DEAD!
If anyone had experienced such a painful death
it was me. A person going past said, ‘’I couldn’t
believe my eyes. A lorry was coming from one
direction, the person in the car wasn’t looking
where they were going, and BOOM. The oil that
the lorry was carrying set on fire and that was that,’’
explained the lady terrified. That’s how I and my
twin sister became zombies. I’m really sad that my
parents died as it wasn’t their fault, it was ours. If
you’re watching us right now even though we look
revolting we’re really sorry! You should know that
come midnight we turn into Zombies.
Annabel
10 11
ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY
When I look up
peaceful
sleepy
stars
moon
planets
hopeful
warmth
curious
like flying
small
wonder
surprised.
Jorden
I see a wonderful glittery sea-green pool with little
dotted islands all around it. It shines out in front of
every planet and star. Its sparkle makes the universe
shine. It had soft fluffy bubbles gliding around the
surface and a soft baby-blue sky. I have seen little
aliens wander around the islands and I wonder if
they’ve ever seen me.
Jasmine
If a star exploded above you in the sky, what would it be like?
Implosion
Pain blisters
Giant gunpowder BOOM
Craters
Fuses fire
Asteroids.
OW!!!
Ears hurt.
Lian
I woke up. It was cold – snow was throwing itself
from the black stony sky. I went downstairs hurriedly
lighting the Rayburn – ‘Snap, Crackle, Pop!’ It lit
with amazing speed and warmth sprang out into my
watching eyes. Slowly, coldly, I walked through to
every other room and lit the heart-warming hearths.
Despite the deathly cold, I walked outside and
stacked a basket with wood and another with coal.
Once inside I sat on the rug in front of the frolicking
fire holding my chubby red face close to the heat.
My brothers and parents came down to join me.
We knew we’d have to leave the dancing, red flames
soon and get to our daily jobs. I work as a servant girl
at a manor house and get paid five shillings a week.
The rest of my family also work here. I take one,
long, last look at the steaming, cosy, lively fire.
I reluctantly tear my eyes and self away from the
warmth. I want to come back but I know I can’t.
Well, not today anyway. Oh, I do so love fires.
Becky
Halloween
From caves at dusk the black bats fly
like leather flitting through the sky.
As darkness falls, they dart and flap;
with sonar skills who needs a map?
As Jack o lanterns light the night
they give the witches quite a fright
but squashy soup and pumpkin pie
are warm and good for us to try.
Pointed hats and whizzing brooms,
witches fly across the moon.
Let cauldrons spit their sparking smells
as ragged hags cast magic spells.
When creepy cats lurk in the dark,
owls hoot and foxes bark
and all souls fear this spooky scene,
it’s definitely
HALLOWEEN!
Poppy, Eve, Alice and Joseph
Sealife
The solid black of the deep stretches endlessly
below me. Sunlight sparkles form the surface above
me. Little silver fish go swimming past me, leaving
a trail of stirred up seawater. They flicker past, their
shiny scales reflecting into my eyes. Bubbles leave a
shiny trail behind them.
I blow out my sticky net. Oblivious plankton swim to
their doom as I suck them back in.
Scratchy rope suddenly envelops me. I am pulled up
towards the light as I give a mournful wail.
An enormous hunting ship greets me as I burst
through the surface, giving a huge splash. A man is
hauling at the thick rope on a large contraption.
Our eyes meet.
He lets go.
I fall with a tidal wave back to the sea.
I am a blue whale.
Yana
12 13
ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY
The planet was expanding at a phenomenal speed.
Bits of debris were flying, zooming past. You watch
for a second, then a thought comes to your mind.
As earth was close by, if the rocks collided the race
would be wiped out. Soon a massive rock came into
Earth’s orbit, gathering speed. Jade had to stop it
but there was no oxygen; her strength was fading
fast. She struggled and tried not to lose the fight.
Suddenly a rock collided with Jane, pushing her
towards earth. Once close enough, she pushed the
colliding rock out of the orbit but was too weak to
save herself. She plummeted to the ground. Nothing
but black.
Chloe
Fire
Marshmallows toasting,
chestnuts roasting,
baked beans boiling
on the fire.
Flickering flames
playing games
singing song
around the fire.
Red and yellow, orange too,
burning bright for me and you.
Warm and glowing, bellows blowing
cinders dancing,
in the fire
Wet wood’s hissing,
sparks are kissing.
Roaring, blazing,
it’s a fire.
Cinderford YWS group
Water
Dew drop, sprinkle, shower and rain;
puddle, pond and stream;
river, lake and oceans deep;
rush around again.
Froth and spit, squish and spray,
trickle, drip and splash;
foam and boil and spill and flood;
swim and sail and play.
Cinderford YWS group
14 15
ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY
The Pen
Words
Tied up inside
Bundled so small you can only see them with a
microscope
The lens of your page
The nib
Blowing them up to full size
Flowing out unaided from their world to mine
Shocked by what I see
Cities grow, fall, burn
People laugh, people cry
A menagerie enters stage right
And exits stage left
A match flares
The darkness rolled back
Words written on the walls
Hidden until now
And all the while the pen, the pen
Races alone across the page
I watch, helpless
Half afraid
The magic unfolds
There is no end to the words
Great lakes and pools on the page
The pen is infinite
Unstoppable
Even if I wanted to.
Tabitha
The Pond
The water glistened a green shimmering glisten.
Dragonflies hovered over the vast expanse of the
pond like stars on a clear night sky. Willow trees
wept dew drops from their elegant branches. The
breeze filled my lungs with the very essence of
nature. The sun a shimmering orb in the glassy
reflection of the pond. The contra flow of traffic
buzzing with life at the corner of the landscape. The
silence was so loud it hurt to listen to the calming
hush of Mother Nature. The lush grass under my feet
was like a velvet carpet luring me to a swim. Like a
hungry cheetah I ran. Like a bird I soared through the
overall feeling of euphoria in the pond had planted
in my soul. If only I had taken the time to judge the
depth of the lake I would not be here in a smelly,
dirty and disgusting hospital with a cast around
my neck.
Sam
Snow
Snow
Falling slowly like whispers
Ice in my hair
Softly, softly
The world is grey
Because that’s what white and cities make
Branches droop
A flurry, a rebound
The snow a little thicker on the ground
And softly, so softly
The silence surrounds me
Peace in isolation
I walk in the woods
A close-pressed world
Sounds flutter down to join the leaves
Stepping on eggshells
My feet sink deep
Lost in the quiet
Calm and beautiful
Shadows lengthen
Evening falls.
Tabitha
Alone
I sat upright, fear smoothly running through
my body like silk. I didn’t want to move, I just
couldn’t help myself. He told me to. I got up
and stood next to my bed. He whispered in my
ear sending chills down my spine. His voice was
like a beautiful nightmare. I didn’t want to listen
to him, but when he wasn’t talking to me, I was
pulled into a black hole and swallowed in misery.
His voice was my drug.
I walked over to the old wooden drawer carved
with Victorian patterns, and pulled out the metal
shiny blade. Certainly something a magpie would
have wanted. I have done this so many times, he’s
told me to! But every time, he saves me. Only to
put me through this misery once more.
I lifted the knife to my chest and plunged it deep
into my heart; creating another hole. I could feel
myself struggling to breathe. My lungs felt knotted
and dried out. I started to jolt uncontrollably as
my vision began to fade. That’s when I saw him.
That face I knew oh-so-well, yet not at all. A
booming laugh echoed around the old dusty room.
I suddenly realised. How long have I been here? A
voice interrupted my thoughts. The same voice I
heard every day, every night. Except this time, it was
full of hatred and disgust.
“I’m not saving you anymore, Bo.”
Those words rattled in my skull, even after I
was gone.
Elsie
Where will tech take us next?
Where will tech take us next
Facebook is a hook grabs you and
pulls you into the web
Twitter is a tiny little critter
With the trolls being bitter.
Youtube is the main video site
although the spam people bite
Wikipedia is an online encyclopedia
Full of facts some real and some fake
Amazon is an endless shop
With prices to make your wallet pop
Danny
16 17
ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY
Striving for Perfection
Her heavy breathing was clearly audible in the stone
prison. Dank and dirty floors caressed her back,
relieving her from the day’s toils. Etchings in her
skin burned as moonlight streamed through gaps in
the barred window. Clanking chains rubbed against
the raw wounds on her ankle, adding to the blood
smattering the floor. Then she heard the footsteps.
They had decided what to do.
He stood at the window, watching the scene before
him. The sprawling lawn held a sea of black and
white. The mourners came in tidal waves, coming
to appease the greatness of The Eldest. “Great in life,
even greater in death.”
He muttered bitterly, turning away, head down and
shoulders hunched.
His mother had certainly left a large impression.
He looked down at his suit, sighing as he picked
at the fabric. The expensive clothing could have
bought thousands of sought after flowers.
Looking back towards the mourners, he noticed that
each had brought a more elaborate gift than the last,
showing their love and appreciation. As a keeper
of antiques, his mother prided herself on having all
possible makes of all possible technology; and yet,
there were more bizarre and extravagant contraptions
in the fields than had ever graced the halls of his
mother’s house. The stampede of people slowly
made their way towards the giant wooden doors. He
groaned at the tyre tracks being left by the old Model
T’s and various sports cars; his prized gardens were
going to ruin.
He stormed down the many levels of stairs and
threw open the front doors, making the mass stop.
“That is it!” he screeched, flapping his hands
dramatically, “I don’t care if she is dead, it does not
warrant the destruction of my life’s work!”
And with a loud scream he stormed back inside,
leaving thousands of shocked faces in his wake.
Closing the doors behind him, he slowly slid to the
floor, cradling his head in his hands.
She huddled against the wall below the window,
shrouding her face in darkness. From her position
anyone who stepped through the door would be
bathed in light, but would be unable to see any
expression that crossed her face.
As the ring of moving bolts echoed through the cell,
she cowered further into the wall. The ominous
clanging signalled the imminent arrival of The Mace.
The large, imposing hood obscured the scar riddled
face she knew to be there. His large boots produced
billowing dust clouds as he padded into the cell. His
towering frame filled the small expanse of a room
as he loomed closer. He flung his hood back and
stalked towards her. The moonlight caught the dents
in his face, casting eerie shadows against the pale
shape that was his head. His blackened and chipped
teeth showed through his shiny flesh.
And before he had even reached for his infamous
tool, she had started to scream.
Anna
Fools
They pull against the chain they think they have me
leashed with, but I’m not so easily trapped.
The three boys dressed as men cackle at each other,
laughing at their prey. I smile.
I’m not the one who’s prey.
There are three of them, two on the end of the chain,
one in a cap, the other in a Just Do It jumper.
Cap Boy cackles as his feet slide over the grainy gravel
making a grinding sound like crunching bones.
“Make a nice coat!” Just Do It grins.
They laugh while the third in the trio shuffles nervously
in front of them, holding a gun in his shaking hands.
A part of him knows what I am.
Who I am.
And it’s scared him senseless.
Smart boy.
“Pete, just shoot it,” cries the boy in the rather fitting
Just Do It jumper.
Pete steps closer, wiping sweat off his brow.
“Shut it, Max,” he snaps back.
I slacken on the chain, causing Cap Boy and Max to
straighten and adjust their hold.
“That thing ain’t right man. Look at its eyes,
they’re smart”
Cap Boy and Max laugh as Pete’s cheeks redden.
“What you been smoking?!” Max guffaws. Their holds
on the chain loosen as they laugh.
“It’s just a big dog,” Cap Boy says dismissively.
I laugh, the sound coming out as a broken growl
through vocal chords not made for laughing.
Oh, I’m more than that. And I think it’s time I show you.
I stalk forwards, Pete’s gun clattering as it hits the floor,
falling from his slack grip.
“Pete, shoot it!” Max cries in horror still desperately
clutching the chain.
I bite through the cursed leash, shattering it between
my teeth leaving metal shards that rattle like ice cubes
against my teeth.
They run.
I pounce and, soon, the metallic taste of the chain is
replaced by the taste of their blood and fear as I reduce
them to an unidentifiable stain on the ground that
shines in the lamplight. All that remains of the boys is a
cap, gun, a Just Do It jumper and clumps of their flesh.
I shift and watch the magic play over my form in the
pool of blood, my skin rippling back to that of a man
with my father’s dark hair and eyes.
Only fools mess with the Devil`s son.
And they only do it once.
Scarlett
The lights of the car ahead blinded us for a
second as it shot by. Mum’s hair was silhouetted
momentarily against the window as headlights flew
past, carrying cars on their backs.
Today I discovered the meaning of my Grandad’s
favourite saying, “Go where the road takes you”. The
curves and bends of the road led us instead of Mum’s
steady hand on the wheel. A journey of chance.
I turned my gaze to the window. A full moon. Even in
the dark I could see birds covering huge patches of
midnight sky; each one with the moon on their wings.
“Hungry Em? I’ve got food in my handbag, if you want.”
Mum’s eye caught mine in the rear-view mirror.
“No thanks, I’m not hungry.”
“Alright darling, it’s there if you want.”
I didn’t waste breath replying, I wasn’t into talking
tonight. Mum risked a few worried glances at me,
thinking I didn’t notice.
“Go on Mum, you obviously have something to say.
Come on then, tell me it’s time to go home. I know
you want to. But I don’t. Not now, tomorrow or the
next day. I’m not ready.”
“Honey, you have to go back sometime. You can’t just
run away when things get tough. Life isn’t made with
escape routes, sometimes you just have to face up to
things. It might seem like the end of the world now
but...“
“But it isn’t and some day, I’ll understand. Yeah I
know, thanks for the reminder. But where’s the harm
in avoiding something for awhile?”
It was lashing it down with rain, clouds filling the sky
as though it was an end to happiness. Forever. I was
just about to talk to my Mum, when all of a sudden
she slammed on the brakes.
Screeeechh!
“What the…?” I began. And then I saw him. The boy
with the baby blue eyes. The boy that stole my heart.
He was wearing a black leather hoodie and jeans
that looked as though they belonged to his dad.
The hood of his jacket was pulled right up, over his
hair and most of his eyes. But I saw them. A flash of
lightning illuminated his eyes. His baby blue eyes.
He was standing just a metre in front of us – soaked
to the skin but standing there in the rain. His hands
were in his pocketes, clenched in fists. His mouth a
straight line, droplets touching his lips.
But then I blinked. I should never have blinked.
Because when I opened my eyes after a millisecond,
he was gone. No trace of him left.
“Stupid boy. What does he think he’s doing?” Mum
snapped.
“Um, er, er…”
Mollie
“Something? Or someone?”
I didn’t reply, so she carried as if she’d never
expected an answer.
“We’re going home tonight and you’re going to
school on Monday. End of.”
I didn’t have the heart or energy to argue any more -
after everything she’d done for me. So I just nodded.
We hardly spoke on the journey back. I think Mum
guessed I wasn’t in the mood. She made a point of
turning on the radio and humming away to herself;
trying to get in my good books. Typical Mum, feeling
like the bad guy for doing the right thing.
But home? There, everything was wrong.
Sometimes, I like to think I’d go back to find him on
my doorstep, telling me he loved me and I’d forget
he’d ever broken my heart. Ha, Fat chance.
Niamh
As I lay on the grass in this secret meadow I feel
alive. I love smoothing the grass and running it
though my fingers, I know I’m safe here as I have
my dog beside me and now and then she glances
at me and nudges me with her cold wet nose, I
feel her panting down my arm. I see the geese
soaring, screeching high up above. I hear the sound
of the wood pecker on the big old oak. I hear baby
ducklings calling out for their mother.
That’s one thing I haven’t got. I’ve got a step mum.
Dad says I have to call her Mum, but to me she is
just a step monster. I miss Mum. The only reason I
come up here to this secret meadow as Mum called
it, is to escape the step monster and forget about
reality and think about the beautiful memories me
and Mum made. As I sit up to watch the sunset
slowly into the horizon, I sit quietly and watch the
swans nestle down together in their warm nest on
the bank, so elegantly. The heron tucks his head in
so delicately under his wing and carefully lifts one
leg up.
I see the deer frantically leaping to get to their
mates, their antlers bashing into every tree.
I turn to lie on my belly and watch the hedgehogs
wake up and snuffle in the undergrowth, little
fox cubs come bounding out of their den, rolling
around, stumbling over their brothers and sisters
and themselves.
It starts to get cold but it doesn’t bother me;
I am used to the cold.
I like coming up here but I never have told anyone
where it is. Dad doesn’t even know as Mum used to
say that we were just going for a walk. We would spend
hours here, on the rope swing and feeding the ducks.
There is only one other person who know where this
place is and how to get in and that’s Maggie. And her
dog Skip. Skip is a Jack Russell terrier. He’s a dirty white
with one big black spot on his eye and back, the rest of
his spots are brown. Maggie helped me make a bench
when Mum passed away. With a memory plaque.
This is mine and Mum’s place. When I’m here I feel free.
Amy 18 19
ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY
20 21
ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY
I saw them come with their parents and dungarees.
They were here to enjoy the freedom of fresh air,
giggling at worms and childish jokes. Their mothers
watched with a relaxed smile, wishing they could
always stay this age. The little girl swung me unsurely
of the clouds; the little boy as fierce as someone
who hadn’t yet suffered.
I saw them come after school, full of grazed knees
and scruffiness. The nostalgically bright jumpers
once worn with pride were unravelled, tugged at in
the last few moments of irritation before lunch and
playtime. He joked as they swung on me in unison
that they were married, oblivious to her blushes.
They were as close as always. I was their favourite
place of all time, ever ever ever.
To everyone else, I looked like your normal piece
of apparatus. So expected, I blend into the park
landscape, only noticed on a second look. But
to them, I was magical. I could transport them
to the clouds and back, in under five seconds. A
brave scream, and... WHHOOOSSSH! You’re flying!
And for that brief moment, they were completely
happy, worries on the horizon. A less than graceful
landing, but a few tumbles were worth it. I was more
wonderful to them than jobs, money, all the things
adults hold close to their hearts.
I saw them grow up.
I saw her wander to me alone. She almost was the
same, cautious makeup distorting her youth. She
absently sat down on my right swing, her side. The
left was empty. Her phone was in and out of her
pocket, last hope shattered at each glance. Time
crept by as it does when you’re waiting, and I saw
through the brave face. Hopelessness shone in her
eyes; finally stood up and walked away, her face
fixed on the grass.
I saw them both again when they were here with
“friends”. Shock seemed to ripple through the park,
and his apologetic smile was finally accepted. With
excuses plucked from the top of their heads, given
to their peers, they shuffled over to me. Time apart
was nursed with his explanation, and an awkward
hug banished her disappointment.
They met me and each other most days, and they
were taller, mature every time. Brown envelopes
were strangers to their meetings once, and a
joy-bomb exploded when they were opened.
Universities suddenly burst open, brimming with
opportunity and promise. But a shadow was cast.
Different choice and futures constructed a barrier
as solid as a lighthouse in a storm. They both knew
what was coming, and twenty six days later, sad
smiles sealed their separation.
I didn’t see them for a handful of years, all my other
visitors blurring into one. My seats became creaky
without their affection.
I saw them again when they had grown. Her hair had
the same streaks of colour as her school jumper,
his hands still slightly grubby. I could see remains of
childhood as strongly as they felt delight at being re-
united. They still swung on me, age and expectations
flung into the clouds. She joked as they swung on
me in unison that they were married, oblivious to
his blushes. Both slowing down, he stood up to get
down again on one knee. A velvet box was shaking
in his palms; upon opening it, her face crumbled into
a teary smile.
I see their children swing on me. They watch from a
distance, and smile. The joy has been passed on.
Kitty
A Lonely Crow
The garden was wildly overgrown, with unwelcome
weeds sprouting everywhere you looked, so the young
boy on the old swing did not look out of place there.
His hair was a mad fiery red, long and very knotted.
You could barely see his nose, and no one had seen his
eyes for years. It was a pity because they were certainly
the best bit of him. They were a bright crystal blue;
always appearing to look right through you. His clothes
would be better described as rags, and as for his shoes,
well he didn’t have any. His poor feet were filthy, and
rubbed almost raw.
This small boy went by the name of Crow. No one knew
his real name, in fact they had never asked. No one
dared to speak to him at all, and that was the way he
liked it. He was Crow, and he didn’t need anyone else.
He never had. He didn’t remember having parents and
certainly never any friends. His past was forgotten, never
to be remembered. His future was to be lived, not to be
imagined. Those were two of the rules that he lived by.
He had only one other. Never be emotional. That was
his strictest one of all. He had never yet broken it, and
was determined that he never would. “Feelings are for
girls,” he would say, if anyone asked him.
Crow liked to watch people. He would hide in this
garden, where no one ever went, and watch from
his special tree. His tree was the highest one in the
garden, it was an oak tree, and he was very proud
of it. He was also very proud of his climbing skills,
though he never said so.
On this particular day he was up in his tree, watching,
as he did every day. He had spotted a big family, out
shopping together. They were fun to watch, because
there were young children, who were being naughty
for their mother. They were all very happy though,
Crow could see that.
All of a sudden the youngest boy fell over, and Crow
could see the scarlet blood on his knee. The boy was
crying, but Crow kept watching. He watched the
mother fall to her knees beside the boy, and hug him.
He watched the mother scoop him up and kiss his knee
better. Crow felt something inside him, as he watched
the family leave. Something he had never felt before.
He knew what it was. It was breaking his rules. He was
feeling lonely. His heart pounded at the thought of it, but
it was true. Watching the way that little boy relied on his
mother to make him better, to take away his tears and
replace them with a smile, made Crow wonder what it
would be like to have a family. The people he watched
didn’t normally affect him this way. Watching was fun
and Crow enjoyed it. It wasn’t meant to make him feel
things, to make him need someone.
Crow tried to make himself forget the family he’d
seen; for the rest of the day he pretended he was an
adventurer, trekking through a jungle, with vicious
beasts chasing him. It was a fun game and Crow liked it.
But it wasn’t enough to make him forget. Crow began
to feel frightened, what if he could never forget that
family? Then he felt angry. Why had they walked past his
garden? Why did that boy fall over, just in front of Crow?
Why didn’t they see him and ask if he was alright, ask
him where his family was? Then Crow remembered. If
they had asked, he wouldn’t have known, he couldn’t
have answered. Crow didn’t have a family. Crow would
never have a family. Crow would never have anyone. He
was Crow and that was the end of that.
Niamh
“No, but I’ve only gone and booked us in to see the
skateboarding competition in Newcastle today!”
he cheered.
“Oh wow! I had a dream about that! Oh thanks Dad!”
“That’s ok. Hurry up and get dressed!”
In no more than twenty minutes, we had had breakfast
and were on our way to the most exciting thing I had
ever gone to in my life.
Crowds. Busy. Amazing. That is how it was.
Dad would shout “Go on!” to my favourite skater; Steve
Rogers, and it would look as though he was miming.
I would boo and hiss to Quentin Smith (the most
rubbish skater on Earth), and the person sitting next to
me would give me a filthy look. That is honestly what it
was like. But I enjoyed it.
Though every good thing has to end, and my skating
dream was just one of many that I will have. And
I hope that you too will one day have your dream
come true. I’ve had my skating dream and I am now
one step closer to making it happen. Maybe this is the
start for yours, too?
Mollie
22 23
ANTHOLOGY ANTHOLOGY
He appears beside me, dark red hair swept over
his face, the lamp light making it look like a licking
flame. We both wear black.
“Yes us. We’re the same you and I, or did you just
think I was so lonely I had to waste my time with
some damn do-gooder?”
I’d never really thought about it, he was just a
nuisance, a buzzing fly in my ear trying to tempt me
away from saving innocent lives.
He sighs.
“You’re doing this all wrong you know.”
I ignore him again.
The girl is getting closer to them now. I crouch on
the edge of the roof, leaning over and fixing my gaze
on the youths as they hear the feminine footsteps.
“We’re not meant to save them.”
There’s that we, that suggestion he knows exactly
what I am. Who I am.
“What?” I ask impatiently, if I lose concentration at
the wrong moment, she dies.
“How did you know this would happen? How did
you know to track her?”
I don’t answer.
“You felt it didn’t you? A pull, a sort of magnetic pull
dragging you towards her. Only you assumed it was
a cue to save her.”
I growl again.
“What else am I supposed to do?!” I curse myself
for falling for it and turn my attention back to the
youths, the girl has spotted them now. She tries to
turn and escape but they’ve already seen her.
“We, my dear brother are not meant to save her.”
He unfurls his black wings just as I do the same.
“We are meant to harvest her soul.”
Scarlett
The Skating Dream
I opened my eyes and suddenly realised I was upside-
down. Finishing my flip and landing, I put my foot to
the floor and stopped just before the next ramp. That’s
when I actually realised how much the crowd was
cheering for me. I was impressed. For a moment, I just
gazed into the crowds before I was interrupted by the
judge’s voices.
Then they called me over. Oh no, the scores I have
been waiting for, for my whole life go up.
“It’s a ten, nine and a half, ten and…What? Another ten?
That’s got to be the highest score ever achieved! Well
done, and give a round of applause for Tony Day!”
“I’m now the world champion!”
At least I thought I was…
It’s pitch black and there’s nothing to see. This isn’t the
podium where I should get my trophy that’s as gold
as the sun. This isn’t where the crowds are cheering
so loudly I can hear my heart banging in my ears. This
is home, boring old home. Where my Mum has died
and my Dad is down at the pub 95% of the time, drunk
and unable to come home on his own. I look over at
my platinum clock. It’s funny really, my Dad can afford
pretty much anything but to other people, we look
poor. We live in a run-down house, with a garden that
has weeds growing in every space possible.
Anyway, it’s 4:45 in the morning and I decide to turn
my lamp on. I want to fall back to sleep and be lost
in thoughts all over again. But I’m awake now. No
chance.
Then I hear the door open, and at first I think we’re
being robbed. But soon, I come back to reality and
realise it’s Dad coming back from the pub.
I quickly turn my light off and pretend I’m asleep until I
hear my Dad get into bed. Soon enough, I feel my eyes
slowly close and then I fall into another deep sleep…
“Hey! Tony! Wake up! Guess what?”
“What? Are we going to see Manchester United
play against Chelsea at Wembley Stadium?” I asked
sarcastically.
Reaper
I don’t know me.
Who I am, I mean.
All I know is I’m different.
She crosses the road, hugging her elbows against
the cold.
Not that I can feel it.
Her blonde ponytail sways with each step, her heels
clacking in the stony silence of the night. The street
lights cast an orange-yellow glow on her, the leather
of her jacket seeming to catch fire as she passes
under each one. But soon, the street lights become
few and far between.
I close the distance between us.
I don’t know if she can feel my presence, a change
in the air pressure or an electric current seeming
to prick at her skin, but she starts to worriedly cast
nervous glances around her. Maybe she has heard
the tales. If she can feel my presence then she
knows that something bad is about to happen.
That’s why I’m here. I leap onto the next roof as
she speeds her pace, stalking like a panther and
watching like a hawk as the hooded, rowdy youths
begin to accumulate further down the street, not
that she can see that.
“Don’t do it,” a familiar voice says quietly from behind me.
I ignore him.
“You can’t protect her forever.” He laughs. “How will
you save all the others if you’re watching her?”
I growl, short and sharp my eyes catching the glint
of a knife in one of the boy’s hands.
“Come on, just let one go will you? I’ll take you for a
pint, I know a place, one of us owns it.”
My concentration wavers, he’s never mentioned an
“us” before.
I tilt my head fractionally towards him.
“Us?” my voice feels rough, unused.
24 25
READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT
BUILDING COMMUNITIES FOR A NEW LIBRARY: THE LAUNCH OF JUNCTION 3 LIBRARY, BRISTOL
THE PROJECT
Read/Write South West provided opportunities
for activity in and around Junction 3, the new
Big Lottery funded library and learning centre
in Easton, Bristol
Working with library users, writer
Sara-Jane Arbury and graphic novelist
Joff Winterhart encouraged visitors to
write about what libraries mean to them
and hundreds of visitors experienced the
vibrant sessions in progress and many
gained first-hand experience of working
with writers through active participation
“As all participants were self-
selecting and the entrance policy
was completely open, the groups
were truly diverse and represented
the vibrant local area. Among
others, members came from
the local Pakistani community,
were newly arrived immigrants
(from Spain, South Africa and
Poland), were members of the
established African and Caribbean
community, or were in recovery
(from drugs/alcohol and mental
health crises). This diversity led to
fascinating writing, and to truly
inspiring discussions about what
characterises our city and what it
means to be Bristolian”
AMY MASON, WRITER
“The project provided an excellent
opportunity both to strengthen
Bristol Libraries’ relationship with
two excellent local writers and to
allow them to explore working with
new groups and communities. The
library is in an area of considerable
deprivation – the majority of those
participating in Read/Write South
West activities have not previously
had the opportunity to benefit
from working with a writer”
ANDREW COX, BRISTOL LIBRARIES
CA
SE S
TU
DY
SIX
Junction 3 Launch event
FEEDBACK
“Safe and secure”
“Completely at home and proud to be a Bristolian”
“Happy - like an elephant squirting water”
“It’s lovely and playful”
“It gives me breathing space”
“Amazing”,
“Exciting”
“Magical”
“Extraordinary”
“Fantastic”
“I gained more confidence in managing to produce something”
“Very helpful and inspiring”
Sara-Jane Arbury helped to strengthen
and deepen the library’s relationship
with the adjacent Millponds Primary
School. Pupils were chosen by teachers
to attend two library based workshops
each to encourage their creative writing.
Sara-Jane used a series of exercises
to encourage the children to draw
inspiration from books, pictures and their
own knowledge and experiences
Writer Amy Mason has worked with
elders (some more than 90 years old)
from the area’s large African Caribbean
community, encouraging and enabling
them to tell their own stories. Amy used
lived experience/oral histories to inspire
creative writing and sessions were
recorded to enable those with poor
eyesight to take part
JOFF AND SARA-JANE
26 27
READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT
CA
SE S
TU
DY
SEV
ENC
ASE
ST
UD
Y EI
GH
TREAD/WRITE SOUTH WEST: LIBRARIAN EMMA SHERRIFF, OUTREACH SUPPORT OFFICER FOR PLYMOUTH CITY COUNCIL LIBRARIES
THE PROJECT
The set up and coordination of Young
Writers Squad Plymouth, a group for
young writers aged 12-16 years running
fortnightly at Plymstock Library. Emma
also hosted a blog writing skills workshop
with the group and facilitated library
sessions. The young people now regularly
publish work on their own blog: http://
youngwriterssquadplymouth.wordpress.
com. Emma worked closely with local
writer Babs Horton who led writing
activities. An anthology of the squad’s
writing is to be published this year
FEEDBACK
The Librarian made the following comments and observations about working with Read/Write South West on these projects:
“The Young Writers Squad have been inspirational to work with, reading their stories and poetry is exciting and incredibly entertaining”
“Working with a professional writer has enabled young people to become more confident in themselves as individuals, and hone their writing skills”
“With the support of a professional writer, librarians and library facilities, a young person with special educational needs, and experiencing difficulties with writing and speech, has been able to attend independently, share work with peers, integrate with other young writers, and develop in confidence”
“The Squad received a welcome tour of the library and made use of library resources made available to them, including teen and adult novels, free internet access and use of word processing software”
“I am delighted that the library could help to unlock and share their creativity and talent” LIBRARIAN
EM
MA
SH
ER
RIF
F
READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST: WRITER AND LIBRARY SALLY CRABTREE, WRITER
THE PROJECT
Sally Crabtree was able to use her
experience in inspiring young people and
working with different partner organizations
in Cornwall to present a series of workshops
that would help libraries reach local primary
schools in their area
The aim of the workshops were to bring
words to life, give children the confidence
to find their own voice and break down
preconceived ideas of what reading and
writing could be – to add an element of
surprise and delight into peoples’ notions
of what literature is
Those taking part experienced the
unexpected – they discovered that they
themselves could write and make books
in all shapes and sizes using their own
imaginative ideas, that they could perform
their poems and songs, create dancing
poems and even eat their words and
become a walking living poem! Literature
really could come alive. They discovered that
grown ups aren’t always boring, that poets
can do cartwheels, that words can carry in
their arms one’s own amazing ideas and
hand them like a present to others – not
necessarily just in book form but perhaps as
an objet d’art, a song, a performance poem,
in an installation or as the icing of an edible
poetry cake
The project showed that libraries can surprise
you by offering you somewhere to discover,
and be a place of vibrant, meaningful fun
FEEDBACK
The Writer made the following comments and observations about working with Read/Write South West on these projects:
“As someone who has always found libraries exciting places, it was inspiring to see children who had never set foot in one before become enthused after a session and ask “ How can I join?“
“The project brought the libraries to life and proved that young people are eager for such positive experiences. It made me as a writer want to think of even more new ways to capture their imaginations”
“The project was a very successful way for the libraries to forge a link with local schools and to see how projects such as this can bring communities together in positive and exciting ways. It showed the schools that libraries can offer a fresh approach to literacy and bring it alive in ways that young people respond to, giving them a new found confidence that they can take back to all their lessons and their life”
SALL
Y C
RA
BT
RE
E
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS WRITERS
28
READ/WRITE SOUTH WEST CELEBRATION REPORT
Literature Works would like to thank the following people and organisations for their
support and hard work in making this project such a success:
Arts Council England, South West
Bridport Arts Centre
Bridport Open Book Festival Polly Gifford
Bristol Library Service Andrew Cox
Cornwall Library Service Merryn Kent
Devon Library Service
Dorset Library Service Sharon Kirkpatrick
Gloucestershire Library Service Carole Bowe
HMP Leyhill, South Gloucestershire
Hall for Cornwall, Truro Isobel King
Learning SW, Taunton Gill Millar and Anna Sayce
Lit Up! Literature Project Poole & Bournemouth Amy Mason
Patchway College, South Gloucestershire Kerry Roberts & the English Department; Sherie Humphreys
Plymouth International Book Festival
Plymouth Library Service Emma Sherriff
Plymouth Museum & Arts Gallery Kate Campbell
Rethink
South Gloucestershire Library & Arts Services Alison Catlin
Take Art, Somerset Mark Helyar
Torbay Library Services Paul Trainer
Plymouth University Marc Lintern
Wiltshire Library Service Chris Moore
Writers in Prisons Network Clive Hopwood
Moira Andrew
Sue Ashby
Sara-Jane Arbury
Carly Bennett
Sarah Benwell
Phil Bowen
Liz Brownlee
Mark Bunhope
Kate Campbell
Sarwat Chadda
Lucy Christopher
Julia Copus
Jo Corcoran
Sally Crabtree
Barry Cunningham
Sophie Duffy
Debi Evans
Jane Feaver
Jonny Fluffypunk
Thommie Gillow
Ann Gray
Helen Greathead
Deborah Gregory
Rebecca Gregson
Anna Groves
Babs Horton
Clive Hopwood
Toby Hulse
Printed on 100% recycled stock
Rosie Jackson
Sally Jenkinson
Susanna Jones
Tim King
Steve Lake
Amy Mason
Simon MacCormack
Annie McKie
Tina Orr Munro
Brenda Read-Brown
David Reakes
Chris Redmond
Ali Reynolds
Carol Rifka Brunt
Sophie Rochester
Vicki Ross
Patrick Ryan
John Seagrave
CJ Skuse
Helen Slavin
Sophie Tallis
Rebecca Tantony
Liv Torc
Tom Vowler
Clare Wallace
Rachel Ward
David Woolley
Cliff Yates
Literature WorksPeninsula Arts, Plymouth University Roland Levinsky Building Drake Circus PLYMOUTH PL4 8AATelephone: 01752 585073
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