Welcome!Welcome to Issue 15 of Gold Dust magazine! As always, we have squeezed in all

the best new writing we can find, with 5 short stories, 2 flash fiction pieces and 8poems. This issue’s Best Prose goes to the weird and wonderful Gutterball’sLabyrinth by Craig Wallwork, while Best Poem is Arunjuez by Alex Cleary.

Our Cover Story features an interview with Kevin Brownlow (p6), who wrote and directed the critically

acclaimed film It Happened Here (1965), a look at what might have happened if Hitler had won World War

II and successfully occupied the UK. Kevin directed a second feature film, Winstanley, in 1975 and is now

a respected film historian. A review of his book, Winstanley, Warts and All, about the making of this film is

on p4. We also have an interview with new author Frank Burton (p42), whose first collection of short

stories is out later this year.

Meanwhile, our feature, Publish Me Happy 2009 (p36), is the perfect of-the-moment publication

guide for writers, taking a look at how recent technologies have forever altered this field. Finally, take a peek

at our four in-depth book reviews, which will help you pick out your next read. Enjoy!

Omma Velada (Founder)

Issue 15 - June 2009

Artwork

Cover photograph

Stephanie McKendrick

Cover design

David Gardiner

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Prose Editor & Cover Designer

David Gardiner

Poetry Editor

Claire Tyne

Webmaster, DTP & Founder

Omma Velada

Proofreader

Jo Fraser

Biannual Magazine of Literature & the Arts

Short storiesRate of Exchange by Joe Dornich

Drama

The Dying Glory by Yelena Dubrovin

Drama

Gutterball’s Labyrinth by Craig Wallwork

Science Fiction BEST PROSE

Gone Missing by Joseph Atwood

Drama

Suspicion by Scott Newport

Drama

26

14

22

12

10

Contents

ReviewsWinstanley, Warts and Allby Kevin Brownlow

Reviewed by David Gardiner

Review: Tangled Rootsby Sue Guiney

Reviewed by David Gardiner

Review: Superstition: Belief in the Age of Science by Robert L Park

Reviewed by David Gardiner

The White Road and other storiesby Tania Hershman

Reviewed by David Gardiner

32

30

4

Review p32

Review p30

34

PoemsMeditation on the HarpJoseph R. Trombatore

AFTER SEEING YOUMary Ann Honaker

CoralShivani Sivagurunathan

Looking for a home in someone else’s brainJude Dillon

Thomas Jefferson Speaks ...Peter Magliocco

NephewJames Keane

AranjuezAlex Cleary BEST POEM

Genesis 187Jim Bainbridge

25

44

9

18

19

24

35

Flash fictionWhite Lies by Nick Allen

Science Fiction

The Man who understood Women by

Dennis Vanvick

Comedy

29

20

Review p34

FeaturesInterview: Kevin Brownlow

Film Historian

Publish Me Happy 2009 by Omma Velada

Getting published in the internet/creditcrunch/print-on-demand age

Interview: Frank Burton

Author and Performance Poet42

36

6

Feature p36

45

6

his new book by elder statesman of inde-

pendent cinema Kevin Brownlow tells the

story of the making of the 1975 film Winstan-ley, which he co-directed with Andrew Mollo.

It contains a large number of stills from the film and

photographs of the amazing location at Churt in Sur-

rey, and of the (largely amateur) cast and crew and

their families at work and at play during the filming.

Before describing the book I have to declare an in-

terest: I was the editor at UKA Press for the second

edition of How It Happened Here, Kevin's book about

the making of what was probably his best-known film

It Happened Here, and he asked me to work with him

again on this one. I have also heard that my

IMDb.com newsgroup review of Winstanley is to be

used as the description of the film in the accompa-

nying brochure when the British Film Institute issue it

on DVD and Blu-Ray on April 27th, so I cannot claim

neutrality where either the book or the film is con-

cerned.

Kevin started to make It Happened Here with a bor-

rowed 16mm camera in 1956 when he was 18 years

old and working in the cutting room of a London pro-

duction company. He paired up with Andrew Mollo

(then 16) and for six years they struggled to complete

the film, virtually without a budget, finding actors, ac-

tresses, locations, props and backing as they went

along. It is generally recognised as the best amateur

film ever made. The film was about the German in-

vasion and occupation of England in the Second

World War, which of course never happened. The

English are portrayed as collaborating with the Nazis

in much the same way as the French did, and coop-

erating in the Nazi's programme of genocide and

racial 'purification'. The youthful and perhaps naïve

Brownlow and Mollo used genuine British fascists as

actors in the film and gave then carte blanche to

state their views. The film industry (particularly in

America, and most of all in New York) as well as var-

ious Jewish organisations and others were deeply

shocked by the brief sequence in which the fascists

appeared, and tried to get the film taken off and

banned. Eight years after they started, in 1964, the

film was given international distribution by United

Artists, but with the controversial six minute se-

quence removed. Brownlow and Mollo tried to ex-

plain that the film was profoundly anti-fascist and

anti-war, and that they had allowed Frank Bennet

(British fascist) and his friends to condemn them-

selves out of their own mouths, but the damage had

been done and they had to live with the stigma of

being branded fascist filmmakers for decades after-

wards – it is doubtful if their careers ever really re-

covered.

Kevin became a film historian and documentary di-

rector, and wrote The Parade's Gone By..., the de-

finitive history of early Hollywood, which he also

made into an award-winning TV series, Hollywood,

and highly revered books on people like Charlie

Chaplin, David Lean and Mary Pickford.

In 1973, the passing years and the eminence of their

Review Winstanley, Warts and All by Kevin Brownlow(UKA Press, 2009) £9.99

Large format paperback with 60+ photographsISBN: 978-1-905796-22-9

T

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 7

Review: Winstanley, Warts and All by Kevin Brownlow

talent having won them at least partial redemption

from the industry's blacklist, Brownlow and Mollo

teamed up again with direct backing from the BFI to

make a film of the life of the 17th century leader of

the Digger movement and arguably the world's first

communist theorist, Gerrard Winstanley. The result-

ing film Winstanley made little impact commercially

but quickly became a beacon for far left political

thinkers and an inspiration for anarchist and hippy

communes worldwide.

Most people know very little of the Diggers, except

perhaps from the Leon Rosselson song The WorldTurned Upside Down, popularised in a rock version

by Billy Bragg. The facts are that in April 1649, amid

the chaos churned up by the English Civil War, with

Cromwell in charge and the country alight with all

manner of social visions for the future, a band of

about 40 Diggers inspired by Gerrard Winstanley and

William Everard began to dig uncultivated common

land on St. George's Hill near Cobham in Surrey.

They built simple houses in which to live, sharing all

their goods and produce in common. As word

spread, and the privileged woke up to the implica-

tions of this tiny token action, the authorities turned

hostile. The commune was dispersed by government

troops, Winstanley and Everard arrested, tried, and

heavily fined. Each new attempt to get the commu-

nity started was crushed by violence, harassment

and intimidation. Nevertheless, despite all the gov-

ernment opposition to the experiment and the hostil-

ity that was stirred up against it, the Cobham colony

lasted until 1651. The Surrey Diggers inspired other

colonies in other parts of England, but ultimately

none of them could withstand the forces mobilized

against them. Winstanley's dream of a gentler, more

just and happy world was not to be, or at least not

yet. Three hundred and sixty years later we are still

waiting, the vision perhaps more distant than ever.

The film, loosely based on David Caute's novel about

the life of Winstanley, Comrade Jacob, was made in

black and white for a budget of £72,000, using one

professional actor (Jerome Willis who plays General

Fairfax) and the unpaid services of hundreds of en-

thusiastic amateurs and off-duty professional crew,

working for nothing at weekends and between other

engagements. This is the kind of loyalty that the

Brownlow/Mollo partnership commands: people

know that they will not be paid and the project will

lose money and also that it will be among the proud-

est entries on their CVs.

Winstanley, Warts and All is written in the same en-

gaging and self-deprecating style and inhabited by

the same dry humour as Kevin's previous How ItHappened Here, and takes the reader through all the

triumphs and despair of low-budget filmmaking with

just enough technical detail to bring the experience to

life but without becoming 'technical'. A lot of the book

is concerned with creative partnerships and how they

operate, Brownlow and Mollo being as different in

personality as they are in appearance but with

strengths that fill in for one another's weaknesses

and a shared fanaticism for historical accuracy, both

in terms of the details and the spirit of the times they

portray. This is not just a practical account of the

making of a film, it is a personal 'confession' of an

artist's commitment to a project and the emotions

that drive him in his attempt to 'conduct' the inevitably

huge collection of people involved in the creation of

a feature film so as to realise his artistic vision. Film-

making perhaps more than any of the other arts is an

irreducibly cooperative activity, and this book illus-

trates it on many levels, from the partnership be-

tween the two directors to the business of organising

a shoot and maintaining the support of backers and

the sympathy of the reviewers, all mirrored in the rad-

ically cooperative spirit of the film's subject matter.

For anybody contemplating amateur or professional

filmmaking, or with an interest in either cinema or

radical politics, this book is a 'must read'.

Find out moreWinstanley, Warts and All is now available to

buy from Amazon.

How It Happened Here (UKA Press, 2007) is

also still available to buy.

Interview:Kevin BrownlowOmma Velada interviews the film historian about his workand his passion for the silent movie eraIt Happened Here not only predates other alter-

nate history films The Philidelphia Experiment, IfBritain Had Fallen and Fatherland, but in modern

reviews is generally compared favourably to

them, despite its almost non-existent budget.

What do you think is the key to its critical suc-

cess?

They actually made a number of these films in the

silent days - the biggest of which was The Invasionof Britain directed in 1918 by Herbert Brenon. Sadly

the film was junked at the armistice, all but one se-

quence with Ellen Terry. The critical reaction to ItHappened Here at the time was mixed - those that

liked it probably responded to the element of au-

thenticity.

What lay behind the choice a woman for the lead

role, and also the significance of her Irish na-

tionality?

I suspect I was influenced by Mrs Miniver. I always

saw a woman in the lead. Her Irish nationality was

an accident - a result of casting a friend, born in

Dublin.

Would you be happy for It Happened Here to be

re-made by Hollywood?

There was a flicker of interest from Hollywood at one

time. In the right hands, they could make a magnifi-

cent job of it.

The message of recent film The Reader (2009)

seems to be 'We are all responsible'. How do you

feel this relates to that of 'This could have hap-

pened anywhere' in It Happened Here?

I would like to make an epic documentary on this

subject. There are so many things the average audi-

ence just hasn't been told. I still find what the Ger-

mans did beyond comprehension, but now I find we

did some of the same things. Because we won we

can conceal them. For instance, we maintained the

naval blockade on central Europe for nearly a year

after the armistice in 1918 to get better peace terms

at Versailles. I daren't put the figure down of those

that perished in case I get it wrong, but it was a lot

more than those who died at Hiroshima. We went to

war to protect Poland. We failed to protect Poland in

any way at all. In the end, we handed Poland to an

even worse dictator than the one we had declared

war on. Between 55-70 million people died during

this period. It all makes me more of a pacifist than I

was to begin with.

You began making the film just 11 years after the

war. Did British sentiment at the time influence

your decision for the film's message? Were you

hoping to change opinion, or at least make peo-

ple ask themselves the question 'What would I

have done'?

Yes, I couldn't believe how smug we were with the

oft-repeated phrase 'It couldn't happpen here'. We

now know it could and in places like Ireland, it did. I

must admit that I asked myself - 'It's eleven years

since the end of the war. Is there anyone still inter-

ested in the subject?'

Do you think your career was damaged by the ad-

8

verse reaction of the Jewish press to It HappenedHere?

It didn't need the Jewish Chronicle, etc. Just a few

people muttering about It Happened Here being a

Fascist film was enough to put producers off us for

life!

It took you and Andrew Mollo several years to

raise the money to make your second film to-

gether. Do you think this was, in part, caused by

the controversial nature of your first and would

you have made It Happened Here any differently?

No, we wouldn't have made It Happened Here any

differently - although I would like to fix some of the

performances and adjust the end. The difficulty in

raising the money was due to Winstanley being a

profoundly uncommercial project.

A brilliant idea was the start of It Happened Here,

but what drew you to the story of Winstanley?

We kept trying to find a project that excited us. The

novel of Comrade Jacob had that quality of English-

ness we respond to, had that military element that

we both find fascinating. One of the French critics at

the time of the film's release said we regarded history

as others regard science fiction - it's true.

Was the choice of black and white film a stylistic

or a financial one?

If we could have afforded 35mm colour, we might

have been tempted, but l6mm colour in those days

looked miserable.

Why do you think you are drawn to the media of

film rather than another form of creative expres-

sion?

I have been in love with cinema since the age of 11.

It is a religion with me. And recreating the past is the

nearest you can get to living through it.

You've done a lot to debunk the myth of jerky

silent movies and shown their positives in your

books and TV documentaries - how they tran-

scended language, often had live musical ac-

companiment, etc. Do you think there is a place

for the silent movie for today's cinema-going au-

dience?

If a Multiplex had the courage to reserve one theatre

for silent films, and did it properly, with beautiful prints

and live music, it would undoubtedly draw. We

showed Lubitsch's Old Heidelberg (1928) at NFT-2

with piano accompaniment a few years ago and 25

people came. Next door, a few months later, we

showed the same film with Carl Davis conducting the

London Philharmonic Orchestra and 2,500 people

came. Live Cinema, as we call it, is in effect a new

form of entertainment because you need to be 85

and over to have experienced it the first time round.

It is now possible to download /It Happened Here/

on torrent sites and I see that Photoplay Produc-

tions is in the process of setting up a website.

How has recent technology affected your work

and ability to reach people?

DVD is a godsend - you can slip a feature into your

Interview: Kevin Brownlow

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 9

pocket rather than stagger around with ten reels of

35mm. And if it has been transferred properly, it can

project beautifully. All sorts of forgotten titles are be-

coming available. At the same time, of course, all

sorts of important titles are being overlooked.

You've said you became a film historian rather

than a director because of the difficulty of view-

ing your own films. Do you think this would have

been different with bigger budgets, or is it more

down to being a perfectionist?

I set out to become the second Orson Welles. That

proved rather more difficult than I anticipated! If I had

had bigger budgets, I expect my control would have

been reduced and my disappointment with the film

would have been greater. Most artists have difficulty

watching their own work. I find watching the work of

others far more rewarding.

Congratulations on being awarded the Mel

Novikoff award in 2007. In your acceptance

speech, you questioned whether cinema had ad-

vanced as much in the past thirty years as silent

film did during its 30-year reign. Why do you

think this is?

In the silent era no one knew what wasn't possible. It

was inevitable that after the pioneering period, once

talkies had settled into a routine, audiences would no

longer expect impressive aesthetic advances. I sup-

pose CGI is the advance mostly associated with our

time. That and the unfettered use of extreme vio-

10

Interview: Kevin Brownlow

Find out moreKevin’s Wikipedia entry is at:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kevin_Brownlow

and his imdb entry is at:

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0002206

lence, which alienates me from a whole area of mod-

ern cinema.

What do you think about where cinema is head-

ing now, with the popularity of IMAX/3D movies,

special effects, etc?

These sort of films have always been with us - some

have been marvellous. But think of all the outstand-

ing social films we can see nowadays. And isn't it in-

credible to think that Ken Loach is still making

uncompromising pictures after nearly half a century?

You've had the chance to meet many interesting

people in the course of your work - Beckett,

Kubrick, etc. Who would you most like to spend

an evening with?

The beauty of the first two-thirds of my life was that I

was able to spend the equivalent of an evening with

most of the picture people that interested me - and

how incredibly rewarding that was! That generation

has now gone and I am as old as they were. One of

the figures I regret missing was D W Griffith (Oscar-

winning American film director 1875-1948).

What is your favourite film of all time?

Napoleon.

You have achieved so much already, but is there

anything you would still love to accomplish?

I would like to make a documentary on Douglas Fair-

banks. He got me hooked on film history, so as I

came in with Fairbanks, it would be neat to go out

with Fairbanks.

Finally, what one thing would you like to tell a

budding film-maker today?

I would advise him to find another form of work, but

I don't believe that myself.

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 11

Meditation on the Harpafter Salvador Dali’s painting, 1934

Anointed in endless sky & cloud

the whispers from last night

are in brown

A taupe wash of fingers pointing

& a question mark

Children catching parents

in awkward moments

late at night

We require support from songbirds

to survive a sunrise

Our landscapes lush

with mulberry, magnolia

We climb up their limbs

among angry blue jays

Our hands

trace the carved initials of lovers

on their

muscled trunks

Shadows of a childhood

& a time traveler's journal

Anxious for the next chapter

of Buck Rogers to begin

Those Sunday mornings of explaining

the blood stains on our pants

Joseph R. Trombatore

Source: stock.xchng

12

here are always clues.

Sometimes it’s as simple

as a new sound. It’s the

clicking claws of a small

dog scurrying against hardwood

floors, when you have neither. It’s

the way the air tastes. It could be

that the pillows are too thin, or the

texture of unfamiliar sheets

against your skin. But it’s always

something, and you know immedi-

ately. Without realizing how you

got there, or even opening your

eyes, you know that you are in a

strange bed, and it is unsettling.

What clued me in was the

arm draped over the small of my

back. In my bed, in my room, I

sleep alone, and therefore free

myself from the search of wander-

ing limbs. My eyes open, and I am

mercifully facing a wall. Above my

head is a window, partially cov-

ered by drab soiled curtains that

look like they were used to wrap a

wound. Rays of sunlight stream in,

thick and unapologetic. They can-

vas the sheets and uncovered

flesh, eager to illuminate how the

decisions of the night have carried

over. The light shines on the dust,

floating around the room like a

miniature snowstorm. And as I lay

there watching it fall, thoughts

cross my mind.

Eighty per cent of dust is

human skin.

And. Where. The. Fuck. Am.

I?

Close my eyes again, as if

that will make all of this go away. I

am not ready to face this new rung

of compromised morality. I see

myself back home, crudely finger-

ing the antique globe your mother

gave us. Measuring it out. Cam-

bodia, Phenom Penh specifically,

was as far away as I could get

from you before I’d be headed

back again.

I am staying at the Lucky

Number 7 Guesthouse. The

guidebook boasted of their budget

friendly rooms and outdoor bar,

both of which provide views of

Boeng Kak Lake and its heralded

sunsets. Of course the lake and

surrounding air are heavily pol-

luted, so those sunsets are en-

hanced by the unnatural colors

that occur when man’s chemicals

spill on to God’s canvas.

This arm draped over me

now, this new touch, feels foreign.

It is a pun I think you would enjoy.

This buoys my spirits; knowing it is

a new height from which they’ll

eventually fall. The streets here

are lined with trees on crutches.

Pieces of wood are fitted under

branches to support decaying

trunks. The birds that nest in these

trees line their homes with trash

picked from the gutters. I watch

these birds, living in their squalid

homes, built on crumbling founda-

tions, and already I’m thinking of

us. Young boys and girls compete

with the humidity to see which can

accost me first. All smiles and

eyes, they jockey for my attention.

Displaying their carts, and proudly

Rate of ExchangeEven in remotest Cambodia, there is no escaping the past...

Joe Dornich

T

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 13

Rate of Exchange by Joe Dornich

holding aloft their wares, they

hope to barter and make a sale. A

modest contribution to their strug-

gling families. They are children

well versed in everything but child-

hood.

Lying here now, I find it amus-

ing how fickle intent and desire

can be. I’m sure during the night,

protected by the shadows, I was

overcome with a ravenous zeal

when it came to touching and

being touched. Submissive and

pliable, nothing was out of

bounds, no act or sentiment

taboo. But now, awash in daylight,

my passions faded with the moon,

I do not wish to be touched. To be

claimed. Wanting to sleep with

someone and wanting to wake up

to them, are unfortunately, rarely

related.

Are you disappointed in my

behavior, my predicament? How it

is that I’ve wound up in a strange

bed, without any recall of how I got

there, or what I may have done in

it. Is this unlike me, that I am not

myself? Or is it that you hardly

knew me?

The night isn’t a total blank.

Disjointed images flash in my

mind like a poorly edited film. I see

the guesthouse bar, lit by beer

signs in various shades of dying

neon. I see moonlight reflected off

polluted waters. Faces of young

women who patrol the bar. They

hide in corners, or sit on stools,

slumped and weary like broken

dolls. Things once loved by a

child, and then forgotten. But

every face holds the promise of a

new memory. A history I can build

which will be all my own. Some-

thing to cling to and counter with

when you stomp around in my

head, demanding to be heard.

One of these faces carries gentle

eyes the color of weak coffee. Her

name is Sophal. This I remember.

We drink Tiger Beers and trade

pasts. She is the mother of two

young boys, each sired by a for-

eigner. A fa-rang. They no doubt

came here eager for experience,

fueling their desire with empty

promises. A promise to save, to

stay, to nurture. To pull out. And

now their half-truths have mani-

fested themselves into two young

boys without the hope of a father.

Sophal suggests we go to an-

other bar. She does not say where

her boys are, and I do not ask. I

see our table tucked into a corner.

People appear and vanish into

shadows. American pop music is

extended beyond comprehension

into techo dance beats. Sophal

eyes our collection of drinks, the

pile of change on the table, then

meets my gaze and offers, “The

exchange here is good for you.”

And I am foolish enough to believe

she is referring to the money.

It’s been too long, and the

raw feel of another has become

unnatural, something to fear. Un-

aided by lust or alcohol, her hand

is heavy and full of menace. And I

know my head is crowded with

words I can’t ignore, but this is not

the touch of a lover. It’s the vestig-

ial remains of a conjoined twin.

Spiteful and cheated, he has

watched my life from above, the

decisions I’ve made. The gentle

caress of fingertips on me are his,

tapping out in Morse code along

the knuckles of my spine - I could

have done better.

Is this why you remarried so

quickly? To save yourself from the

trappings of alien flesh and mis-

placed sympathy.

The film cuts to a cab ride

through the city. Our destination,

unspoken, or unheard. In the

backseat, her hands are on my

thighs, my chest, cradling my

head. More hands than seem pos-

sible. She climbs on my lap, her

black hair tenting my face. Her

breath is warm like the evening

sun, and my senses are drunk on

all the ways she is not you. Then

the blackness comes and swal-

lows all.

Gentle footfalls are added to

my menagerie of unfamiliar

sounds. Reluctantly I raise myself

and find the gaze of two young

boys. Inky black hair spills over

their heads. Their eyes are a con-

coction of emotion. They are con-

fused but curious, wary yet

hopeful. They do not know how I

got here, so close to their mother,

but they silently plead for me to

stay.

And oh Amanda, if you could

see me now.

Sou

rce: sto

ck.xch

ng

14

ry not to become a

man of success,

but rather a man of

value.’

Albert Einstein

Dr. Spider arrived home shortly

after eight. He was late for dinner

and paid no attention to his wife

waiting for his arrival. He took off

his coat and proceeded directly to

his music room, his favorite place

in the house, connected to the den

where his collection of Flemish

and Dutch paintings was dis-

played. He sat at the piano, which

stood in the middle of his spacious

music room, and his eyes traveled

slowly around, proud of his cre-

ation, his dwelling, his place of

seclusion, where at the end of the

day he could escape all the trou-

bles, all the unpleasantness and

immerse himself in the world of

music, literature and art.

Tonight, engulfed in senti-

mental emotions, he was in a

mood to play Brahms, his favorite

composer who could always bring

peace to his heart after a long and

stressful day at work. The music

filled the room with its romantic,

rapturous chords. Even the devil-

ish faces on the Bosch painting

seemed to soften their mean facial

expressions, touched by the

beauty of the music.

On the wall across from the piano

was a painting, a moral tale, Death

and the Miser, by the Dutch artist

Hieronymus Bosch, ‘the master of

the monstrous, the discoverer of

the unconscious’, an eccentric

painter with tormented vision, his

favorite. He bought this painting at

an auction house in Germany

where he read in the description of

the painting that Death and the

Miser served as a warning to any-

one who has grabbed at life's

pleasures, without being suffi-

ciently detached, and who was un-

prepared to die. Who would feel

indifferent to this fable? He fell in

love with it. He studied the paint-

ing many times and felt its magic.

Often looking at this picture, Dr.

Spider brooded about his own

death which he feared obses-

sively; he saw it as a demon that

he would fight with all his strength.

Nevertheless, he could not know

how much time there was left for

him and he tried to invest in life as

much as he could. His greatest

desire was to leave a legacy, to

build a monument to himself dur-

ing his lifetime. His voyage

through the sea of time should not

be in vain.

Dr. Spider was one of the greatest

American scientists “the pillar of

science” as his colleagues called

him. He, himself, felt that the re-

ward of his life would be to write a

page with his name in the book of

history with golden letters. Like

Napoleon Bonaparte, he was

gifted with an astonishing memory

and passionate zest for life. At the

origin of his career, when he was

young he wanted to conquer the

world of science, to find the cure

for so many threatening diseases.

Time flew so fast, faster than he

could even imagine; the unfulfilled

dreams did not bother him any

longer. He gazed at himself in the

mirror, and his eyes dimmed with

pain – he visibly aged during the

last ten years.

His favorite dog coiled up in the

corner by the fireplace and rested

peacefully enjoying the warmth

and cracking of the wood in the

fire. Dr. Spider placed his aching

body in his favorite armchair,

stretched out his legs before the

fire and stared at the dancing em-

bers. He was tired and felt his age

pressing heavily on his shoulders;

he laid back and closed his eyes

for a second, slowly dozing, re-

turning in his dreams to his youth,

turning the pages of his life back,

where he saw himself again,

young and handsome, surrounded

by his parents and his servants.

He saw angels above him, singing

to him with their pure beautiful

voices and the white clouds, danc-

ing around him like brides in their

white gowns on the day of their

The Dying GlorySome final reflections on a life less lived...

Yelena Dubrovin

‘T

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 15

The Dying Glory by Yelena Dubrovin

wedding. But, suddenly, through

these clouds, he saw a familiar

face from the Bosch painting, a

face with a twisted grimace, di-

sheveled hair standing straight up

on a longish skull, and protuberant

eyes laughing at him. It was the

face of the Devil or the face of

Death, staring at him through the

white clouds, long bony hands try-

ing to reach for him. He heard his

own loud voice barking like a voice

of a dog. When he opened his

eyes – his dog was asleep at his

feet and the fire in the fireplace

had almost ebbed. He looked at

his watch – half past twelve. The

house was immersed into night-

time stillness. He surveyed slowly

the room with his foggy eyes and

thought sadly that he was sur-

rounded by all these beautiful ob-

jects -- furniture, bronze vases, old

sculptures, magnificent oil paint-

ings in golden frames that he had

collected with such tremendous

passion throughout his life, and

yet, in spite of all these wonders,

there was something missing in

this house and in his life. He bent

his head, staring at the dying em-

bers in the fireplace and fell into

deep meditation. Then he raised

his eyes and observed the room

again with some curiosity, recog-

nizing suddenly that perhaps the

warmth and love that he needed

now the most had been missing

from his rich and successful life.

He felt the coldness of the walls of

his old house, the cool wind pene-

trating through the window’s

chinks, piercing his flabby skin like

sharp needles. He shivered from

the cold and, wrapping his shoul-

ders and knees in a wool throw,

groaned and closed his eyes. And

once again, the face of the Devil

smiled at him through the purity of

the moving away clouds, carrying

along with them the disappearing

devilish face from the Bosch paint-

ing, a sign of destiny.

Time passed by, but Dr. Spider

was still sitting at his fireplace –

his shoulders hunched over, his

head drooped down, and a few

moments later he steeped into a

slumber. But even in his dream,

his mind was searching vainly for

some remembrance of his past,

and slowly, as he disconnected

himself from reality, a mystical

power took him back in time,

where his young free spirit had

had so many ambitious hopes,

seeking new heights. He couldn’t

separate his past from his present

any longer as he could not distin-

guish between the dream and re-

ality. In his hallucination, he now

saw a long, billowy and tortuous,

almost impassible road, covered

with stones. A small stooped figure

shuffled slowly along it, struggling

to reach the end of the road, the

road that was leading him to fame

and success, but there, at the end,

instead of all the expected glory,

he saw the devilish face of Death,

staring down at him from the

Bosch painting in its heavy golden

frame. It was a dark, unfath-

omable road, with neither a clear

sky nor a glimpse of light around

it. As a black curtain of dust fell

upon it, there was no sun, no wind

and no stars, just a black moon,

hanging sadly above it, and the

silent shadows moving slowly

along the road behind him.

Sou

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16

hen Milton Ball was

seven, his father sat

him on his lap and

told him he was a

mistake. The word was like a six-

inch nail resting on his heart. The

hammer that drove it in was the

reason. Milton’s father produced a

small fire match from his pocket

and placed it in a plastic sandwich

bag. With the match still clamped

between his fingers, he began

shaking the bag up and down until

it fell off. “I suffer from what most

people refer to as a pencil dick,

son,” said Milton’s father. “More

than likely, you’ll suffer from the

same condition when older.” While

unscrewing the cap from a bottle

of Wild turkey, he went on to say,

“To stop some girl’s uterus holding

more condoms than a Durex dis-

penser, my advice would be to in-

vest in a lot of elastic bands.” He

filled a tumbler three fingers high,

took a hit and finished with, “I

shouldn’t worry too much though;

you’re so damn ugly you’ll proba-

bly remain a virgin.”

Milton’s father died two

weeks later of an embolism. He

bent down to pick up a bottle of

Remy Martin and never got up.

Milton found his father the next

morning, face half black due to the

blood settling. He kicked the body

twice to make sure he was dead:

once in the arm, the second in the

head. Milton then prised the bottle

of brandy from his father’s hand,

took a swig, poured the rest over

his father’s crotch, struck the

same match he used to illustrate

his hereditary lack of girth, and

threw it on the body. When the

fireman arrived, Milton sat unper-

turbed on the staircase in the hall-

way. As feral waves of yellow and

red flames crawled up the walls

around him, Milton yelled to the

fireman, “I’m a big mistake! I’m a

big mistake with a pencil dick!”

The fireman who hoisted him

up and on to his shoulder never

heard a word, nor did he hear Mil-

ton cry out when, during the rush

to get him out of the burning

house, he banged his head on the

doorframe.

Now, some fifteen years later,

Milton Ball can still feel the lump

on his head, and every time he

does, he is reminded of how ugly

he is, and how wonderful a burn-

ing house looks at dawn.

Hector Bingleton is examining the

head lump in Milton’s living room.

Hector Bingleton is a fourth-year

medical student who lacks the

bedside manner and discipline of

his peers, but fortunately for Mil-

ton, he is self-important, cheap

and lives next door.

“You say it happened when?”

asks Hector.

Milton clears his throat, and

says, “When I was seven.”

Hector refers to one of five

medical reference manuals he

brought from his home. Scanning

the page of Signs, Symptoms, andDiagnoses, he says, “And you say

you’ve been having dizzy spells

for how long?”

“On and off, five years.”

Hector flicks a few pages

and says, “Could be just Glue Ear,

but my best guess is it’s BPPV.”

“BPPV? Sounds bad,” says

Milton.

Hector looks up from his book

and says, “It’s four fucking letters,

and the first one stands for benign.

There’s no need to start writing out

your will.”

Hector is overweight, border-

ing on obese, which means his

face finds it hard to articulate emo-

tion. The raise of an eyebrow or

curl of lip that would normally as-

sure a person a remark was made

in jest is almost impossible when

your face weighs ten pounds. For

this reason, Milton is unsure if he

should be worried or not.

Changing the subject, Milton

says, “The local kids, they’ve

started calling me Gutterball.”

Hector returns to his book.

“It’s because I’m always drift-

ing into the road, you know, be-

cause of the dizziness. And my

last name is Ball.”

Gutterball’s LabyrinthSomething is wrong with Milton Ball, aka ‘Gutterball’...

Craig Wallwork

W

BEST PROSE

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 17

Gutterball’s Labyrinth by Craig Wallwork

“You know what people call

me?” Hector says thumbing a few

pages. “Constipated… because I

don’t give a shit.”

Milton laughs a little, but he’s

sure the remark wasn’t meant as

a joke.

“Listen,” says Hector, slam-

ming the reference book shut. “It

appears this knock to your head,

the one you had when you were

seven, has caused fragments of

calcium carbonate crystals called

otoconia to break off within the

semicircular canals of the inner

ear near the cochlea. You don’t

need me to draw you out a dia-

gram, do you?”

Hector didn’t wait for a re-

sponse.

“The canals hold a system of

narrow fluid-filled channels called

the labyrinth, all of which sense

movement of the head and help

control balance and posture. On

occasion, such as an inner ear in-

fection, or head trauma like the

one you had, one of these frag-

ments can get into one of the

semicircular canals, usually the

posterior canal. It’s probably been

sat there for years, wedged in the

labyrinth, which is why it wasn’t

apparent straight away. You said

you’ve been suffering dizzy spells

for how long?”

“About five years.”

“About five years ago you

must have knocked your head,

dislodging the otoconia. Now,

whenever your head moves in cer-

tain directions, like bending down,

or even turning too quickly, this

tiny little fucker bombards mes-

sages down the vestibular nerve,

confusing the brain that results in

a sense of vertigo. That, my ugly

little friend, is why you have Be-

nign Paroxysmal Positional Ver-

tigo, and it’s why I’m going to get a

fucking honours degree next year.

High five!”

Hector holds aloft a hand the

size of a snow shovel. To not

cause affront, Milton slaps it.

“Do I need to have an opera-

tion?”

“Aside from the face lift? No.

There’s a simple cure called the

Epley Manoeuvre.”

“Is it painful?”

“It’s just a series of head

movements that helps move the

otoconia from where it is back into

the vestibule.” Hector misses a

beat before saying, “Seriously,

though; even your mother must

have found it hard loving a face

like that, right?”

Milton looks to the floor, and

through hesitant breath, says,

“She never got the time.”

Milton Ball’s gift to his mother for

giving him life was to take it from

her. She was alive long enough to

hold him in her arms, smell his

head, and ask the doctor if it was

normal for a baby to look so

wrinkly. Before the doctor could

assure her Milton would gradually

iron out, she suffered a major

haemorrhage and died. Milton’s

father, unprepared for the respon-

sibility of being the sole parent, did

what most young men would do

and took to drink.

With no parents left to raise

him, the day after the house fire

Milton moved in with his Aunt Bea,

his guardian by default. She was

an old spinster with a skin condi-

tion that Milton seemed to aggra-

vate whenever they were in the

same room. To keep him happy,

and as far away as possible, Aunt

Bea would buy him pets, which

she made him promise to look

after and keep in his bedroom.

It’s been three weeks since Hec-

tor Bingleton performed the Epley

Manoeuvre. In that time Milton

hadn’t bent down to tie his

shoelace, or lie on the affected

ear, just as Hector had instructed.

Every night he had slept upright

on a small armchair in his living

room, hardly moving his neck at

all. Now, on the twenty-second

day, Hector is performing a few

routine checks. He first makes Mil-

ton turn his head to the right and

then the left. He then tells him to

look up and then down again. His

final instruction is to make Milton

bend down, touch his toes and re-

turn upright, as quickly as he can.

Milton gets as far as his knees be-

fore the world shifts beneath his

feet, forcing him to crash over his

coffee table and land face first on

the hardwood floor. While Milton

lies dazed in a pool of steaming

hot coffee, Hector rubs his mam-

moth chin and says, “You’ve obvi-

ously not told me all the

symptoms. You can’t blame me if

you’re not being totally honest. Is

there anything else?”

Checking his head for blood,

Milton says, “I don’t think so.”

“No headaches? Shortness

of breath?”

“I have a headache now,”

says Milton.

“Stop being a pussy. I’m seri-

ous.”

Then, as the silence around

both men developed, Milton re-

members something. “When it’s

18

Gutterball’s Labyrinth by Craig Wallwork

quiet, I hear things.”

When Milton was eight years old,

he assumed animals lived for only

three days. Never any sign of es-

cape, dead carcass or funny smell

was apparent to Milton, or Aunt

Bea on that third day. All that re-

mained in the room was either an

empty hutch, fishbowl, birdcage or

kennel. Realising love was fleet-

ing, even at the tender of age of

eight, Milton made sure each new

animal Aunt Bea brought into his

bedroom was adored uncondition-

ally: like the small canary which

had its feathers treated every

morning and evening with Aunt

Bea’s Oil of Olay to make them

shine. Then there was the ham-

ster that had its fur washed with

Fairy liquid to keep clean and

smelling lemony. The two goldfish,

Salt and Vinegar, both had their

scales polished with Brasso, and

for the one small chocolate brown

Labrador he named Biscuit, Milton

fashioned small boots from an old

bicycle tire, wrapped them around

each paw with twine, and took him

for long walks around the local

neighbourhood. For each one of

those seventy-two hours, Milton

Ball gave his all to love and pro-

tect each animal before they dis-

appeared. His final parting show

of affection was to allow each one

to share his bed.

“Things?” Hector asks. “What

things? Do you hear voices in you

head? Are you crazy as well as

ugly? That’s never a good combi-

nation, Milton.”

“It’s not voices,” Milton says

calmly.

“Good. Best stick with ugly for

the time being. Nobody locks you

up for being ugly. Though I’m sure

a few authorities might make an

exception in your case.”

“If the doctor thing doesn’t

work out, you should really join the

Samaritans,” says Milton, sarcas-

tically.

“I would, but I’m not gay.

Now, explain the noises.”

“I don’t know…it sounds

like…being in the woods. Would

you mind looking to see if I have

anything wedged in there? I read

that on average we consume five

spiders a year in our sleep; maybe

one found its way into my ear and

is stuck.”

“You think there’s a spider in

your ear… one that makes noises

like the woods?”

“Okay, it’s probably not a spi-

der, but it has to be something

pretty strange if you can’t figure it

out.”

“Who said I couldn’t figure it

out? It’s probably just Glue Ear,

like I said originally.”

“Yeah, but what if it isn’t?”

“I’m the medical student here,

not you. I’ll prove it!”

Hector reaches into his inside

pocket and pulls out a small torch.

Twisting the head to turn it on, he

kneels down on the floor beside

Milton and points the light into his

ear.

“What do you see?” asks Mil-

ton.

“When was the last time you

cleaned your ears?”

Milton tries to remember, but

for a moment, he is unsure if he

ever has. He’s about to apologise

for his poor hygiene standards

when Hector draws in a sharp in-

take of air.

“What? Is it bad? Is it a tu-

mour? Can you get tumours in the

ear?”

“My light… it’s gone.”

“Where?”

There was a long pause be-

fore Hector spoke. “I’m not too

sure I believe it myself, but it’s

gone in your ear.”

By the age of ten, Milton

would go through seven pillows a

week, and at least one bedsheet.

Source: stock.xchng

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 19

Gutterball’s Labyrinth by Craig Wallwork

Every night he’d kneel before his

bed at Aunt Bea’s, say a prayer to

his dead mother and father, and

fall asleep. In the morning, he

would awake with a sore neck and

no pillow. Aunt Bea would ask him,

“Milton; where are all the pillows?

And what have you done with all

your pets?” But Milton never knew

the answer.

Hector is on his fifth carrot, and is

ready with a foot-long cucumber

when Milton tells him to stop.

“How can this be good?” asks

Milton, a nervous tremble evident

in his voice.

“What’s bad about it? Your

ear has consumed two bananas,

one orange and five carrots.

That’s more than your recom-

mended five a day.”

“That’s not what I mean. How

is it possible?”

“It’s not,” he says, pushing

the cucumber into Milton’s ear

canal. “But, God, it’s fun! Have

you a melon? Nothing too big. A

cantaloupe will do.”

Milton tries to get up from the

floor, but he still feels dizzy.

“Enough, Hector,” he says,

falling back to the cold floor. “I’m

thankful for your help, really I am,

but I want to be alone.”

Hector lowers his head, a

gesture halfway between guilt,

and one of contemplation. “You

want me to leave?”

“Yes,” says Milton.

Hector draws back, as if

about to get up and leave, but be-

fore doing so reaches out his arm

and thrusts it deep into Milton’s

ear.

“What are you doing Hec-

tor?!”

“Learning!”

Pressing his head against his

arm, Hector pushes against the

ear and the canal dilates, stretch-

ing wide to accommodate his

huge head.

“Hector, please don’t!”

By now, Hector can’t hear

him. His head is already con-

sumed whole by the ear.

A deep mumbling presents it-

self inside Milton’s head. “I’m en-

tering the Eustachian Tube!”

Hector shouts. “It’s frigging won-

derful in here!”

“Please, Hector, come out!

How will you finish your term pa-

pers?”

Inside his head, Hector

replies, “Who cares?! We’ll go on

the road and make millions!

Milton Ball, the young man

the local kids call Gutterball, can

see from the corner of his eye

Hector Bingleton’s boots kicking

out as they try desperately to gain

the leverage to push his obese

body further through the inner ear.

“I can see the semicircular

canal!” shouts Hector. “And the

cochlea!”

The more Hector pushes

deeper down his ear, the dizzier

Milton feels. “Stop, Hector. The

room is spinning!”

“I don’t believe it!” shouts

Hector.

Concerned, Milton shouts

back, “What? What can you see?”

There’s a long pause before

he speaks.

“There’s a dog in here wear-

ing boots!”

“What?”

Milton hears Hector coaxing

the dog to approach him.

“It’s a Labrador, I think.”

Milton shouts back, “Is it

brown?!”

“It’s hard to tell in this light…

Wait… I can’t be sure, but I think

there’s a canary in here too, and…

two gold…”

Milton couldn’t catch the last

word properly.

“I can’t hear you, Hector!

Shout louder!”

“I said there’s a….with golden

scales!... and loads of pillows… all

the animals, they all look so…

happy!”

Soon Hector Bingleton’s

voice fades to a whisper, and then

surrenders to the silence. The

room is slowing, and since falling

to the floor, Milton is finally able to

raise his head once again. He

shouts Hector’s name a few times,

but there is no reply.

An hour passes, and then an-

other, and still there is no word

from Hector.

Milton Ball knelt in front of his bed

that night and said a prayer for his

mother, his father, and added a

special prayer for all his pets and

Hector Bingleton. He was sad that

he would never see any of those

animals again, and in some way

he was sad he’d never see Hector

either, but he was happy that

though ugly and alone to the out-

side world, he had within him a

beautiful place where no one

wanted to leave.

“When was the last time youcleaned your ears?” Miltontries to remember, but for amoment, he is unsure if heever has...

20

AFTER SEEING YOU

I am a river flowing with golden honey.

You are the downy flutter as sparrows gather

their wings, and lift their beaks to think

of flight; the sound of leaves

caressing each other’s fleshy spans

with a clapping quiet, not like hands,

but like thoughts saluting the breeze,

and a red leaf on the browning autumn grass,

as crisp as the smoke-scented air

that lifts and gently lays it there.

And when the moon, an eggshell crescent

raises itself over the lake,

perches itself delicately

above the black fingers of the trees,

in the contrast of a cotton cloud

suspended in the fathomless depths

of the shining mid-morning sky,

I thrill as at the sly glance of your eye,

and know myself as rich as any queen.

Mary Ann Honaker

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Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 21

Coral

Crackling pink, a sea bird’s

morning eye plunders deep

down the water cage and

finds coral beds firing

polyps to contact the sun.

Vision of a wound, from

acreage of stolen incidents,

an eye borne of the rocks,

musters the creature torn

and parading between

two worlds,

extension of beast

and the soft touch.

The glands of the globe

deliver a sound like a

breath, a marine mantra

softly going north

from a base of genic heads,

a family huddled in but

generous, giving anthems

made from a lung-dwelling,

unlike the scratchings of speech.

The morning eye turns dusk,

and gathers the polyps,

slowly, it sets aim towards

the disk, hoping that the fire

promotes nothing but a pot

of prayer where ashes will

find their utterance.

Shivani Sivagurunathan

Sou

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22

raham sat on his veran-

dah in the warm evening

air, watching as the sky

darkened. His daughter

Jess, ten months old now, was

asleep in his arms.

“Would you like a beer, Hon?”

Graham looked up at the pretty

face at the door, love in her eyes.

He replied with a smile and a nod.

He had known Lucy for five years

now and, by his reckoning, he had

told her six lies.

They had met in a park one

autumn when their respective

dogs bounded off together, form-

ing an instant friendship.

“Hi, I’m Graham, Graham

Brown.” His first lie. His next

came three weeks later when,

over their first meal together

(which Lucy had suggested when

it became obvious he never

would), he informed her that he

had been born and educated in

Oxford. The lies came easily.

Lucy arrived with the beer,

which he accepted gratefully. She

ruffled his hair, then sat in her

chair next to him and picked up

her latest novel.

Lie number three came the

same evening when he told her

was just eighteen months older

than her. He could not even begin

to imagine how she would react if

she knew the truth. But he sup-

posed even that lie might be

eclipsed by the fact that they were

not married. They had of course

been through the ceremony, a

grand affair in Lucy’s home village

with all her friends and family

there watching proudly. Even

without his bogus details though,

Graham knew that the vicar would

have declared the marriage void

had he known the truth.

Jess stirred, opened her eyes

and looked up at her father. She

had not said her first word yet, but

Graham could see her lips moving

as she practiced making vowel

sounds while he cooed back with

encouragement. Looking up he

saw that Lucy was watching them

both. She giggled at being noticed

and went back to her book still

grinning.

His final two lies had perhaps

been the most difficult to conceal.

He had not financed their comfort-

able lifestyle from working in the

anthropology department at the

local university and, while it was

certainly an interest, maintaining

the charade did not come easily.

But perhaps the most auda-

cious untruth was the ‘rare en-

docrine disorder’ which, three

times a year, meant a month-long

trip to Germany to a private spe-

cialist. In reality, Graham had

never been to Germany, using the

time instead to return to visit his

parents and old life, of which Lucy

knew nothing.

Graham glanced at Lucy

whose eyes had closed. He de-

cided that tonight he would do it,

before time ran out. Silently he

White LiesGraham has told Lucy six little white lies...

Nick Allen

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Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 23

White Lies by Nick Allen

stood, Jess in his arms, and, walk-

ing quickly, he left his garden and

was soon standing in the field at

the rear of his house.

“Hey Jess, I’ve something to

show you.” He pointed into the

pitch black sky, unpolluted by

street lighting, at a group of stars

barely visible to the naked eye. “I

love your mum with all my heart,

but can never let her know what

I’m about to tell you. And I can

never tell you again after today,

but I must at least once. I am from

one of those stars in that faint

group. They are called ThePleiades.”

He hoped that her young de-

veloping brain would register the

information at some subconscious

level because his love for her

overwhelmed him in a way he

could never have imagined, and

deceiving her too would break his

heart.

Behind him was a noise.

“Graham, what are you up to

out here?” There was no concern

in Lucy’s voice, just curiosity.

“Just showing Jess the stars.

Look, there’s The Pleiades.”

A tiny frown formed on Lucy’s

brow, as if trying to recall a forgot-

ten memory.

“No, you’ve got that wrong

love. They are called The SevenSisters. I learned that at school.”

“Oh yes,” replied Graham, a

small smile forming. “I mean, what

would I know about such things?”

24

he small boy sat behind

me gives my seat another

good kick as the pilot

comes on the intercom to

update us on the small delay thatwe seem to be experiencing.

I think of air-rage, apathetic

parents, a third G&T, but most of

all, my own nine-year-old boy liv-

ing somewhere with his mother,

who I haven’t seen for five years.

Kick.

Some people would no doubt

turn around and narrow their eyes

at his mother, or tut loudly, but I

know what it’s like travelling with

small children on aeroplanes. The

long hours, the waiting and the

rushing, the crappy food taken at

the wrong times, the confined

spaces, and in Sam’s case, all

those years ago, being dragged

from a party and bundled into a

car, driven to the airport and taken

abroad by me, his father. No won-

der kids play up on long journeys.

Kick.

‘Mum, I’m bored of planes.

Are we there yet?’ I smile at this

eternal question. I was asked it

myself, in the car on the way from

the party, shortly after being asked

‘Dad, where are we going?’

(slightly more fundamental ques-

tion, I suppose), but I couldn’t an-

swer either question as in all

honesty I didn’t have any idea.

Sam asked why we had to

leave his birthday so quickly, and

why we didn’t tell his mother

where we were going, and why we

were going to the airport and not

to my house, but I just said that we

were going on a little holiday and

he seemed satisfied with that, ex-

cited even. ‘Will there be a beach

there?’ he asked.

‘We’ll just have to wait and

see, won’t we?’ I said, with a

strained smile.

The first plane out of

Stansted turned out to be a

Ryanair flight to Malaga. The girl

on the ticket desk looked at me

kind of suspiciously, but couldn’t

really give a fuck either way, I sus-

pected, so sold me the two tickets

without even cracking her lip-

gloss.

Now that we had bought our

tickets, even I managed to con-

vince myself that we were going

on a little holiday to the seaside.

We bought sunglasses and sun-

tan lotion, a phrase book, and

magazines for the flight – FHM for

me, Thomas the Tank Engine for

him.

He got excited by the train

from the departures lounge to the

gates. It was driverless, so we

stood at the front and pretended

that we were driving it ourselves. I

looked down at his face, his beau-

tiful, open, excited face, and I

couldn’t help but be excited myself

about the adventures that we

would share, and the new life we

would forge together in Spain, or

perhaps somewhere else, who

knew?

He’d never even been on a

plane before I realised, as we tax-

ied to the runway. He was stood

on his seat looking out the window

at all the other planes lying

around, disgorging suitcases, con-

nected to fuel lines and walkways,

being towed, coming in to land. It

was like nothing he’d seen before.

‘Daddy, we’re in the air, we’re

in the air!’ he shouted as we left

the runway behind. Everyone

around us gave a chuckle, the

warm condescending laughter that

children always seem to induce in

others.

It was then that I thought,

yes, we’re doing it, it’s going to be

OK, we’ve done it, we’re away.

‘Come and give your old man a

hug, mate,’ I said, and he left his

window for a minute and put his

arms around my neck and said,

‘This is so exciting, Dad. It’s been

the best birthday ever.’

Exactly one hour later, Thomasthe Tank Engine lay discarded

under the seat in front, boredom

had set in, and the tension was ris-

ing around us.

I had run out of things to do

with him. We had looked at his

Gone MissingA precious twenty-four hours...

Joseph Atwood

T

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 25

Gone Missing by Joseph Atwood

magazine, my magazine, the in-

flight magazine, and even made a

blow-up ball with the sick-bag.

Now he was wriggling around in

his seat, swinging his legs, and

kicking the seat in front. I was be-

ginning to feel things getting away

from me. Who was I to think that I

could look after a child, anyway? I

could never do it when I was still

fully part of Sam’s life – one of the

reasons that his mother kicked me

out in the first place – so what

made me think that I could do it

now, on my own?

I was telling myself that it

would be easier when we were off

the plane, and we had settled into

a groove. Kids like a routine, I told

myself, half remembering the

mantra from one of the many par-

enting books I had been told to

read.

I tried to remember why I felt

it necessary to take Sam. Rea-

sons that had seemed so urgent

for the past few weeks, culminat-

ing in this afternoon’s snatch and

grab at his birthday (his birthday,

for God’s sake), now seemed kind

of ridiculous. Did I now feel less of

a fraud? Did I now feel less imma-

ture? Did I now feel like the father

I always should have been?

Did I feel ready for a life on

the run with a four-year-old boy?

As we began our descent into

Malaga, and Sam slept curled up

in a ball resting against me, tired

after the day’s various excite-

ments, I knew I was making a big

mistake. If a man runs off with his

child against the order of the court

that has only granted access on

Wednesdays and every other

weekend, only one thing will tend

to happen.

As we boarded the bus to

take us from the plane to the air-

port building, I texted Sam’s

mother to say, Sorry, I’ll returnSam tomorrow, I know that I’vemade a big mistake, please don’tworry.

Two minutes later she texted:

OK, just bring him back. We’ll talkthen. Just bring him back, please.

We had one day, possibly the

last day that I would ever see him.

I hired a car and we drove to the

coast. We took off our trousers

and paddled in the sea. It was late

September so it was quiet, but the

sea was still warm. It was good to

feel the evening sun on my face,

and Sam kicked water at me and

for once I didn’t get angry.

We ate chips and garlic bread

in a seafront restaurant, where I

begged the waiter for change so

Sam could go in the one-euro

rides, over and over, never getting

bored. We walked through the

town as it got dark, and when he

got tired I carried him until we

reached the hotel that I had

booked from the airport.

We shared a bed, and I held

him as he fell asleep. I didn’t want

to close my eyes in case sleep

came to me and robbed me of

those few remaining precious mo-

ments, me holding my son,

breathing, murmuring, the smell of

his hair in my nostrils and the beat

of his heart against the palm of my

hand.

The next morning we woke up and

headed straight for the airport. I

explained to Sam that it was a

short holiday, the best kind. He

wanted to go to the beach again

and ride on the toys but I told him

that we’d used up all the change

that the waiter had given us, and

promised that we’d bring more

coins next time that we came.

It was quiet on the plane

home. We talked some more

about what we would do next time

we were at the beach, and I could

barely keep myself from crying. I

was sure he knew what was hap-

pening, deep down in that four-

year-old brain of his. He stopped

talking after a while and just held

my hand. The tears just streamed

down my face.

I returned Sam to his mother

and had been told that I was lucky

not to have the police involved and

that I would be hearing from her

solicitor and that I would never see

Sam again. And although I never

saw him again, and never will, it

did give me the best twenty-four

hours that we ever spent together.

It unlocked something in me. It

was a stupid thing to do, but I ma-

tured that day. It showed me that I

could love a boy, and be his father.

All I have now are the pic-

tures that Sam had drawn for me,

and a couple of photos of him that

I’d taken ages ago. Other than

these little things, you would never

know that I even had a child. I

wish I’d taken some more recent

photos, reams of them, enough to

plaster the walls with, pictures of

me and him together to say to the

world, Yes, I have a son! I’m not a

great father, but I am a father, and

this is my son!

It’s at times like this when I’m

on my own travelling on a plane I

think of Sam, and our twenty-four

hours, and of love, of good and

bad parenting, and of salvation.

26

Someone I miss comes back

The fire of Christmas wrapped in smoke

Spoiled with visitors

Burning secret papers of my past

Sudden bits remember

Fingered clouds spread rumours

Rain came over spilt with silver

Drunk with light

Jude Dillon

Looking for a home in someoneelse’s brain

Looking for a home in someone else’s brain

Used up shadows

Bright with fumes of us

Warmed by cold water

The toys I put myself to sleep

Bones ache for the cemetery

I hold your tongue with my teeth

Chewing calmly away at the universe

Sliding in like a shovel

There is a lot of dying to be done

Taste the earth in your mouth

Slip a stone in an eagles claw

Take a rivet out of gloom

So

urce

: sto

ck.xch

ng

)

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 27

Thomas Jefferson Speaks To HisBlack Mistress

Passionate freedom is what you pried me

from sharing the obsession of yourself,

a membrane's sepia lust somehow

cascading stream-like across the once dry

bed of our saltwater bodies drowning.

A river of no imminent return to genesis,

or bittersweet sensations for united sin

to deflower itself pitifully before us --

like the idea prohibiting interracial love.

Or until the land germinated between us

over that rich panoply of umber flesh

desire melded into sweet reverence?

We sallied back into grooves our fingers

dug through a dark loam uncovering

our private declaration of independence,

where no legal shackles encroached us.

All with grim founts of puritan hatreds

our coupling dispatched those

dead-hearted angels from His divine

cross of ancient moss, "Forever & again."

Peter Magliocco

Sou

rce

: sto

ck.xch

ng

28

20th January:

I have just woken up from the

most terrible nightmare. I dreamt

that my husband Richard suffo-

cated me and buried me under the

floorboards. Usually I don't re-

member my dreams, but last

night’s is still vivid in my mind. I

went over to the mirror to brush

my hair, and there was the same

black eye that I had been given

the night before. Richard didn't

dare show his face this morning

and was gone before I woke up.

His mood swings are so unpre-

dictable lately that I fear being

near him. After breakfast I de-

cided to go for my usual walk

around the park, just outside our

London apartment. The fresh air

calms me greatly and the park is

so picturesque at this time of year.

Since my son Edward died of

pneumonia last April I try to walk

most mornings to gather my

thoughts.

‘Your depression was brought

on by your son’s death – all you

need now is some rest,’ the doctor

told me weeks ago.

Richard doesn't really care for

me any more and we barely spend

time together. I think he has an-

other woman, because his behav-

iour is so suspicious. It's probably

his new secretary Elizabeth Lan-

caster, whom he talks about con-

stantly.

‘Elizabeth is so efficient and

ten times better than all the other

girls I have been sent from the

agency.’

She's every wife’s worst

nightmare. Every time I ring his

office, I get her on the phone.

‘Richard is in a meeting at the

moment, do you want me to take a

message?’

All he does now is go to work

and attend meetings, or so he

says. Since Richard inherited the

legendary York Hotel Empire

when his brother died he has be-

come obsessed with business.

‘The business must come

first, it always has and always will,’

he says. I don't care for his busi-

ness in the slightest and I distance

myself from such matters. I am so

alone.

27th January:

When I married Richard some thir-

teen years ago, I didn't imagine

that I would become so isolated.

My sole comfort had been Ed-

ward, but with him gone I can't see

what purpose my life has any-

more.

‘Everyone you get close to seems

to die in horrible circumstances,

you're a curse to everyone who

loves you,’ Richard shouted at me

on the day of our son’s funeral.

I couldn't believe he would try to

blame me for Edward’s death, or

tell me that I'm cursed.

He's probably right though, as I

have no one left.

I haven't always been alone –

years ago I had my wonderful fa-

ther and my first loving husband,

George, until they died in the car

crash. It was soon after this that I

began to receive unwelcome ad-

vances from George’s friend,

Richard York. I was disgusted at

his advances, with my husband

not yet cold in his grave.

‘How dare you ask me out, have

you no respect for George?’

His persistence paid off though, I

fell victim to his honeyed words. A

year later we were married. I

found out what he was really like

a long time after when he pushed

me down the stairs when I was

pregnant.

Still, if I hadn't married him I would

have been penniless, as Richard’s

hotel had bankrupted my father’s

hotel. He profited greatly from my

father’s and his brother’s death. I

believe though that his brother’s

death was more of a blow to me

than it was to Richard, who didn't

shed one tear for him.

Increasingly he has developed a

completely separate life to me and

I am just an inconvenience. I rang

him again today and sure enough

I got Elizabeth on the phone.

‘He has just gone out for some

lunch, do you want me to give him

SuspicionDiary of an increasingly desperate woman...

Scott Newport

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 29

Suspicion by Scott Newport

a message?’

‘No, it doesn’t matter.’

I swear she was lying to me. I bet

he was standing right beside her,

telling her to make up an excuse.

Damn them both.

10th February:

The day after my last diary entry I

woke up to find Richard by my

bedside, wiping my head with a

wet flannel.

‘You had a funny turn, Anne,

but you're better now.’

He said he had come back

from work late to find paracetamol

all over my bedside table, with a

bottle of Jack Daniels beside

them. I don't remember drinking

last night or taking any paraceta-

mol, but why would he lie to me? I

am extremely worried. He says I

must have bumped my head and

temporarily forgotten what had

happened, but I still don't under-

stand why he didn't take me to the

hospital. I can tell I'm a burden to

him and I think he would have

been pleased if I'd died from this

collapse. I bet he's been having a

good laugh with his secretary

about me. She was over here ear-

lier trying to find Richard and pre-

tended to wish me well.

‘I do hope you get better

soon. Tell Richard I called,’ she

shouted from her car window.

I won't tell him a single thing

about her visit. Maybe I should

just leave him, but where would I

go? How different he is from when

we were first married, when he

could never do enough for me and

nothing was too much trouble.

He's changed into a completely

different person now. It's hard to

accept that my own husband

would rather be at work all the

time.

17th February:

A terrible row broke out tonight.

Richard shouted at me for going to

his office.

‘Why should I not be allowed to go

to your office? You leave me

alone all this time and all I wanted

was a bit of company.’

I tried to explain that I went along

to his office yesterday to try and

find him, but as he wasn't there I

got talking to Elizabeth.

‘I'm glad to hear you're feeling bet-

ter, Anne.’

‘I'm much better, thank you. I'm

looking for Richard, do you know

where he is? I wanted to try and

arrange lunch with him tomorrow.’

‘Sounds like a good idea, let me

just check his diary... He is free for

lunch one day next week, is that

okay?’ she asked.

‘No, I want to meet up with him to-

morrow.’

‘I am sorry but he is very busy

over the next few days.’

‘Well, I'll have to arrange it with

him later.’

After this conversation I'm con-

vinced that they're having an affair.

She was so evasive and didn't

want to help me in the slightest.

This woman is dangerous.

24th February:

I asked Elizabeth straight out yes-

terday if she was sleeping with

Richard. My suspicions started

yesterday morning, when I found

some lipstick on one of his shirts.

I was convinced it must be Eliza-

beth’s, so I headed straight to the

office.

‘Have you been sleeping with

my husband,’ I shouted.

‘Of course not. How dare you

accuse me of such a thing!’

‘Then how do you explain this

lipstick on his shirt?’

‘I don't know how it got there,

but it's not mine. Go and ask your

husband whose it is.’

I knew she was lying.

I was frightened about

Richard coming home because I

knew she would tell him what hap-

pened. He went absolutely

berserk and began smashing up

the table, and knocking the pic-

tures off the wall. Then he

dragged me into the kitchen by my

hair and banged my head three

times against the kitchen cup-

board until blood began to drip

from my forehead. After that he

carried me upstairs and locked me

in the attic room, which is where

I've been since yesterday after-

noon.

‘You can't be trusted Anne.

You've shown yourself to be de-

ceitful and unstable.’

That was rich coming from

him, he's the one having the affair.

I don't regret going to see her

though, as I needed to know the

truth. He wants rid of me, I know

he does, and he won't stop until

he's finished me off for good.

10th March:

I have just woken up. I've been

locked up in the attic room for two

weeks now and there's no sign of

him letting me go. He seriously

needs medical help.

The attic room consists of a

toilet, a table, a chair and desk.

There's one small window for

fresh air.

He brings me breakfast most

30

Suspicion by Scott Newport

mornings and dinner at night, but

these meal times seem to getting

less and less reliable. Last week

he forgot to give me food for a

whole day. He is trying to starve

me and make me weaker, but I'm

determined to keep fighting, to es-

cape somehow. I tried shouting

out of the window yesterday but

he came home early and heard

me. Now he's boarded the win-

dow up.

‘I'm doing this for your own

protection from the outside world.

No one can look after you better

than I can,’ he says in a most sar-

castic tone.

‘You're a monster. Look at

yourself. You're the one who

needs looking after!’

I tried running to the door and

fighting my way out last night, but

he beat me until I was uncon-

scious. I can barely move this

morning, I have bruises and cuts

all over my body.

17th March:

I've been piecing together my life

with Richard while I'm locked

away in this prison. There's little

else to do. I sit at my desk every

day, like I am now, thinking about

everything. He's always been

possessive, but I never thought it

could get this bad. When the vio-

lence started I thought it was

something temporary, a reaction

to our son’s death, but now I'm

sure it's more serious. What about

my husband’s and father’s deaths,

what about the untimely death of

his brother, after which he conve-

niently inherited York Hotel?

Could he have killed them?

Surely it can't all be coincidence?

They recorded verdicts of acci-

dental deaths in all cases, so I did-

n't know what to think. But now I

know what Richard is capable of.

I'm going to talk to Richard about

George and my father tomorrow

and watch his reaction. He can

never lie well, especially to me. If

I've married a murderer at least I

want to know.

24th March:

He killed them all, he admitted it to

me this morning. I've been drop-

ping hints all this week about

George and my father, but I think

he'd been pretending not to un-

derstand. So I decided to ask

straight out, after all I have noth-

ing to lose now.

He looked at me in disbelief,

as if what I'd said had been deeply

wounding. Then his face changed

to a look of relief.

‘Yes. Why deny it anymore?

I mean there should be no secrets

between man and wife, should

there?’

I was taken aback by his hon-

esty, I hadn't expected him to

admit it. ‘What about your brother,

did you kill him too?’

‘What do you think?’ he

replied.

‘It's obvious that you did, you

killed him to get your hands on the

York Hotel empire. Why did you

kill George and my father though,

what did they die for?’

‘They were your last security;

they were all that stopped you

from being fully mine. But it does-

n't matter now, I have no use for

you anymore.’

I didn't really need to ask the

next question, but I needed to

know, I needed it spelled out for

me.

‘Are you going to kill me?’ I

asked.

‘Now, why would I do a thing

like that – I love you,’ he an-

swered, moving over to the door.

He left the room, locked the

door, and I haven't seen him all

day. I know now that he can't

allow me to live – I know too

much. Any hope that I had of es-

cape is gone now. My poor

George, my poor father and

brother-in-law, what has he done

to you all? He is the devil. I can

hear his footsteps now, coming up

the stairs slowly. I can hear him

calling my name. I never thought

my life would end like this.

I will be with you soon, my

darling Edward. He is unlocking

the door as I write this. May God

have mercy on my soul.

Source: stock.xchng

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 31

ow do I look?” she

called down from

the top of the stairs.

In his first mar-

riage, this question

was enough to drive him into a

fight or flight response – sweaty

palms, tensed muscles, tightened

sphincter. But he had evolved, de-

veloped a profound understanding

of the opposite sex.

“So, how do I look?” she re-

peated, voice a tad more strident.

Clicking off the news, he

placed the glass of Tangueray on

the coaster, and looked up to find

his fiancée poised at the top of the

open stairway. He snatched back

the glass of gin to steal a furious

gulp as she busied herself with a

theatrical first step. Playing for

time, he smiled and nodded en-

thusiastically. She wouldn’t notice

the tic below his right eye.

To answer the question truth-

fully - that she looked like an

aging, plump, pretty, and econom-

ically priced hooker - would be to

take the nuclear option. After all,

this was the night of their engage-

ment party.

More steps down the stair-

case.

“Well?” she said, smiling.

“Say something.”

He began nodding more en-

thusiastically, more disingenu-

ously, as she neared the landing.

“Well? What do you think?”

She asked, no longer smiling. He

hesitated a millisecond too long -

his response and judgment im-

paired by the gin - and replied too

weakly, “It’s nice.”

“I bought two outfits,” she

said, ignoring both the hesitancy

and the response. “I’ll show you

the other one and you can

choose.”

“You bought two?” he said, in

a voice too hopeful, too full of re-

lief. Her unsmiling, clenched face

made it apparent that he had

learned absolutely nothing from

the first marriage. She spun

around and headed back up the

stairs. She didn’t stomp, but there

was definitely a new authority in

her step.

He used the opportunity to

step into the kitchen to stiffen his

drink and mop the sweat from his

forehead with his hanky. Ten min-

utes later, she reappeared at the

top of the stairs.

“Well, what do you think?”

she said, not smiling for her sec-

ond regal glide down the stairs.

He watched her, quickly real-

izing that this second outfit man-

aged to make the first seem al-

most prudish. It featured huge

puffy sleeves reminiscent of a

French maid, yet still managed a

bit of a sinister, sado-masochistic

flavor. Where the hell could she

possibly dig up something like

this? Maybe online at The Marquis

de Sade web site. He had no

choice. After the first fiasco, he

would be forced to produce suit-

able superlatives for this unmiti-

gated disaster.

She reached the bottom of

the stairs and waited for him to

speak. He chose his words care-

fully, “It’s absolutely, incontrovert-

ibly, beautiful and so are you.” She

smiled wickedly at his contrived

comment and delivered the good

news. “My dear, forgive me, these

were two Hallowe’en costumes

from the ‘80s - before you even

knew me. You won’t see my new

dress until tonight, at the engage-

ment party.

“But...” he started, but she

was already halfway back up the

stairs, snorting and chortling as

she made her escape.

He sat down on the sofa,

sipped his gin, and again mopped

sweat from his forehead – a life-

long freshman in the most de-

manding school on the planet.

The Man who understood Women

He knows what women want - after all, this isn’t his first marriage...

Dennis Vanvick

“H

Her unsmiling, clenched facemade it apparent that he hadlearned absolutely nothingfrom the first marriage...

32

"...sometimes being smart just isn’t

enough"

he story alternates between the viewpoint of

John, a cosmology professor working in a

Boston university, and Grace, his mother.

They each talk in the first person.

The first few chapters are narrated by John,

whom the author presents as locked inside his world

view, forever trying and failing to explain things, es-

pecially his own feelings, in scientific terms. He won't

admit the validity of any other mode of explanation –

it is his faith that physics describes the whole of re-

ality if we could but understand it thoroughly enough.

At one point he describes himself as "a man who be-

lieves in nothing except what he can prove with num-

bers". Yet he is capable of some quite profound

insights into the very emotions that intellectually he

would want to reduce to the acting out of physical

laws. He is certainly not unaware of his own feelings,

which is a popular stereotype of the male academic.

At first the qualities I found slightly lacking in

John's character were curiosity and intellectual ex-

citement. Scientists actually care about their subject

and the problems they study – solving the puzzle,

imagining how things might be and testing their spec-

ulations experimentally – this is what occupies their

thoughts most of the time and constitutes a major

part of their lives. Just as composers care about

music and painters about art, and not merely about

whether their work is being performed or their pic-

tures are selling. John's priorities and concerns in

this early part of the book seemed focused outside of

science: all that he seemed to care about profes-

sionally was publishing first, and for me this didn't

quite ring true. It turned out however that I had

merely anticipated something that was to take centre

stage towards the end of the book.

In Chapter 3 the narration switches to Grace,

John's mother, whose funeral we have just seen him

attend. It is some years earlier and she is living in

New York but contemplating her return to what we

know will be her last resting place in England. We

begin to learn about Grace's life, as well as getting

another perspective on John. She sees him as an

angry person, unwilling to talk about many things,

lacking self-knowledge. We soon realise that John

and his mother have many things in common, in-

cluding a feeling that something vital but indefinable

is missing from their lives. It's something with which

I think a lot of us can identify:

"I tried everything. I bounced around from group

to group. One week I was a cheerleader. The next

week I was a beatnik. I tested out everyone and

everything, but I never felt satisfied. That stage

lasted, thinking back now, for something like fifty

years."

Chapter 5 takes us back to John. He continues

narrating episodes from his life, although apologeti-

cally, describing himself as "depressively obsessing

about (his) personal life".

Review Tangled Roots by Sue Guiney(Bluechrome Publishing, 2008)

£12.99Reviewed by David Gardiner

T

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 33

Review: Tangled Roots by Sue Guiney

John describes himself as a man who believes

in nothing except what he can prove with numbers.

“It’s all physics anyway, so why worry about anything

else?” But the more he repeats this kind of mantra

the more clear it becomes that it isn't his real attitude

to life. John worries about everything, even about

worrying. A pleasant though superficial sexual liaison

with a beautiful student does nothing to ease his

mounting depression. He takes medication and con-

templates seeking professional help.

As the book goes on we slowly get to know

more and more about Grace and John and their ear-

lier lives, their friends and their family. What we are

looking at is the road that each of them has travelled,

one to the grave, the other to the book's present. And

this is I think the great achievement of the novel, the

creation of two fully realised human beings whom we

come to know intimately and care about, and even

in a general sort of way understand. The details will

differ for each of us but these are the kinds of things

that make us who we are. Human personality grows

from roots, tangled or otherwise. It is not created out

of the blue by an act of will as someone like Sartre

would have us believe nor is it completely immutable

and inaccessible to our efforts to change it. But as

John says at one point "sometimes being smart just

isn’t enough".

It's a sad comment on the persistence of C.P.

Snow's 'two cultures' that Ms Guiney felt it necessary

to add a glossary of scientific terms and concepts at

the end of the book. But for me the scientific back-

ground was of little importance and I could readily

forgive what looked like small errors of detail or mis-

understandings of scientific concepts. The notion of

'curved time' which I think was intended as a

metaphor for John returning to his family's Russian

roots, 'entanglement' which stood for the connections

between the lives of mother and son and the many

other scientific metaphors and images seemed a bit

laboured and superfluous. This isn't a physics text-

book. It's really an extended essay on human nature

and motivation, which is arguably what any good

novel ought to be. It makes a nod towards the limita-

tions of scientific explanation and the need for an-

other kind of understanding where human beings are

concerned. It goes a long way towards pointing the

differences in the way scientists and non-scientists

see the world, without demonising or trivialising ei-

ther camp. It is also the work of a gifted writer, who

never once intrudes into the story and whose exis-

tence we completely forget about. That is the highest

praise I can give to anybody's writing skill. Most of all

though, it's a compelling story about very believable

people in whom we will all see something, perhaps a

great deal, of ourselves, and it keeps you turning the

pages. What more can we reasonably ask of any

novel?

Find out moreSue’s official website is at:

www.sueguiney.com

Sue’s first work of fiction, Dreams of May(Bluechrome, 2006), is a play in poetry. Featur-

ing 22 poems for a single voice, it describes a

journey that starts on a train and travels

throughout a tumultuous range of emotions be-

fore finding a peace in dreams.

34

obert L. Park, Bob Park to his friends and

the followers of his lively blog

(bobpark.org), is emeritus professor of

physics at The University of Maryland and

a militant enemy of bullshit and bullshitters every-

where. His previous book Voodoo Science: TheRoad from Foolishness to Fraud (Oxford University

Press, 2000) was a criticism of science itself when it

loses its way, for example when its practitioners cling

to cherished theories in the face of contrary evidence

or construct huge theoretical edifices without foun-

dations, like monstrous novels (Freudianism, Marx-

ism), or indeed when they deliberately set out to

perpetrate fraud and befuddle or mislead others as

distinct from deluding themselves. The book was

passionate, witty, incisive, and immensely popular.

In his current book, Superstition: Belief in theAge of Science, Park sets out to explain to us the dif-

ference between science and other modes of thought

and enquiry, all of which he cheerfully lumps together

as 'superstition'. This might sound like a dry and ac-

ademic endeavour – it is anything but. Always hu-

morous and ironic and at times laugh-out-loud hilar-

ious, the obvious style comparison would be with the

works of Bill Bryson, but in my opinion Bob Park at

his best is funnier. Here is a modest example, taken

from Park's section discussing the notion of a soul or

'spark of life':

... a priest, a minister and a rabbi were dis-

cussing the beginning of life. "Life begins at the mo-

ment of conception," the priest said. The minister

disagreed. "Life does not begin until the foetus can

survive outside the mother's womb." The rabbi shook

his head. "Every Jew knows that life begins when the

last child leaves home and the dog dies."

Despite the humour Park's intention in this book

is totally serious. He is offended by what he sees as

a failure in the popular mind to understand the dif-

ference between science and 'the rest'. It is widely

thought that science is something that scientists 'be-

lieve in', just as Christians believe in The Bible and

New Age hippies in herbal medicine. Belief systems

are often seen as being on a par with one another,

we make our choice as to which to accept and which

to reject. In fact, Park argues, that isn't the case. Sci-

ence is not an affair of faith like the others, it works

in a different way. The essential differences are that

it is evidence based and systematically self critical.

The whole point of 'doing' science is to undermine,

overturn and replace deficient theories and beliefs

with better ones. Scientific knowledge is permanently

provisional, permanently up for revision. None of the

other modes of thought are like that. If they were they

would simply be part of science. Hence there is sci-

ence and there is superstition (belief based on au-

thority and revelation). There is no third category,

those two exhaust the field.

This is subtly different to the argument found in

the works of Richard Dawkins (The Selfish Gene,

Review Superstition: Belief in the Age of Scienceby Robert L Park

(Princeton University Press, 2008)$24.95

Reviewed by David Gardiner

R

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 35

Review: Superstition: Belief in the Age of Science by Robert L Park

The God Delusion, The Blind Watchmaker) which is

more that people have looked at the evidence and

wrongly concluded that it indicates a conscious de-

signer behind the universe, particularly behind

human and other biological life. Park's claim is that

evidence is irrelevant to non-scientific belief, its roots

are elsewhere. It is a more radical and more thor-

oughly philosophical argument than Dawkins', even

if it takes us to substantially the same place.

Park's book begins with a moment of high

drama and perhaps even higher absurdity, fully wor-

thy of You've Been Framed: a large tree falls on the

author. The incident, he tells us, really happened,

and the first chapter of the book deals with his re-

sultant befriending of two Catholic priests who wit-

nessed it, and the subsequent discussions he had

with them. I wonder if a better 'hook' has ever graced

the beginning of an academic work. Throughout the

account he keeps returning to the tree and to other

events in his own life to give context to the material

he is presenting. This is a writer who knows how to

get his ideas across and keep his readers enter-

tained.

If there is a weakness in the work at all it is I

think Park's occasional arrogance with regard to the

reliability of the present state of scientific knowledge,

something which flies in the face of his own argu-

ments. He tells for example of how he ridicules his

students' acceptance of the possibility of interstellar

travel by getting them to calculate the energy that

would be required to accelerate a spacecraft to even

a fraction of the speed of light, forgetting how easy it

would have been to demonstrate the impossibility of

most technologies even a few years before they were

invented (the telephone, radio, photography, X rays,

supersonic flight). He can also be a bit selective in

his choice of examples of faith-based belief systems,

and is not above ad hominem arguments regarding

their founders. He is scathing, and I think rightfully

so, about the claims of political ideologues, faith heal-

ers, fortune tellers, acupuncturists, purveyors of

homeopathic cures and quack medicine, but he also

gives space to a cancer cure based on the revela-

tions of an all-knowing four-foot tall blackbird that ap-

peared to a fifteen-year-old boy on Nootka Island

near Vancouver and telepathically downloaded all of

the world's knowledge into his brain. Sometimes we

don't need a scientist of Park's abilities to alert us to

the fact that we are dealing with bullshit.

Fundamentally, Park argues, we are designed

to formulate beliefs, without them there could be no

concepts, language or strategies for dealing with the

world, and the beliefs we form early in our lives are

particularly unshakable and resistant to the accumu-

lation of contrary evidence. We don't really know

what's going on in the universe but we want to know,

and we want it to be watched over by a benevolent

parent figure who has our deepest interests at heart,

whether we can understand much about him/her/it or

not. We want there to be somebody or something at

the helm, we don't want to think of ourselves and our

planet as merely adrift on a sea of indifferent natural

laws. So we give ourselves what we want. We create

a deity to our own specifications – very few of us can

resist the urge to do so.

And let's face it, it's a lot easier to do that than to

learn some actual science. I think for myself I'll have

the four-foot-tall blackbird who downloads all the

world's knowledge into my brain without my having to

lift a finger. I'll build a giant birdbath in the garden and

see if I can attract it to cross the North Atlantic.

Until it gets here, goodbye and tweet tweet.

Find out moreRobert L Park’s Wikipedia entry is at:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_L._Park

36

ania Hersh-

man was for

many years

a science

journalist on the staff

of New Scientist and

the front cover of this

collection carries an

extravagant testimony to her writing talents from that

journal. As a lifelong New Scientist subscriber and

lover of science fiction and short stories in general I

really wanted to like this book. I have to report that I

found the stories disappointing, although viewing the

comments of others, both on the back cover and on

the review pages of the on-line bookstores etc. I

began to wonder if there was something about the

work that I had completely failed to grasp.

Most of the stories are accompanied by a short

quotation from a New Scientist article or letter, and

are allegedly influenced by the ideas and preoccu-

pations of scientists, without necessarily being sci-

ence fiction. This connection is often a bit tenuous,

but that is of no importance; what matters is whether

or not the stories stand up as stories.

Let me make it clear, Ms Hershman is a com-

petent writer, as you would expect from a career jour-

nalist, and these tales are elegantly put together, with

a light touch and many fresh and vivid images, but

the term that kept suggesting itself to me was 'in-

consequential', particularly where the ultra-short

pieces were concerned. More than half the stories in

the book are in the region of three pages or less, or

about two-to-four hundred words. Of the longer

pieces the title story is certainly one of the more

memorable, but it didn't really work for me because I

was unable to understand the motivation of the cen-

tral character.

As a crude generalisation, the longer pieces are

explorations of ideas, or the social implications of

technology which is either already here or just

around the corner, while the shorter pieces are more

like character sketches or accounts of fleeting inci-

dents, some of them totally surreal, that are obvi-

ously intended to charm or engage. The best of these

ultra-short pieces for me was the one entitled Mugs,

which is a very simple story of two people meeting

and starting a relationship as a result of attending the

same evening class. Of the longer pieces my

favourite was Exchange Rates, a poignant piece

about a woman trying to become pregnant. What dis-

tinguished them I think was that in these the author

wasn't trying too hard to be clever and ended up with

simplicity and quality. A theme of several of the sto-

ries is the notion of going blind, or of the things we

see when our eyes are closed, which makes me

wonder if it has some personal significance for the

author. Often however there doesn't seem to be

much there beyond the suggestion of something that

could be worked-up into a more substantial offering.

In golfing parlance I felt that she teed them up but

didn't drive them down the fairway. With my hand on

my heart, I think that very few of these stories, either

long or short, would have been accepted had they

been submitted to Gold Dust.Writers are often seduced into the belief that

creating a successful ultra-short story is easy, when

in fact nothing could be further from the truth. This

collection only serves to strengthen my conviction

that good 'flash fiction' (as they call it in the trade) is

as rare as an honest politician.

Ms Hershman is skilled in the technicalities of

her craft and enormously readable, but a writer also

needs to have things to say, and despite occasional

flashes of inspiration it is in this area that I think she

still has some distance to travel.

Review The White Road and other storiesby Tania Hershman

(Salt Publishing, 2008)£7.19

Reviewed by David Gardiner

T

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 37

Nephew

A latch-key kid is not prepared to tread around

his robed mom, head frozen in a yawn, dead

from self-infliction. Better to retrace your childhood

steps back through the door to the solid ground

of your childhood friends. Till the death you could not bear

was averted. But back inside again, you found your childhood

deserted. Youthful as your years were, they crawled, while

a new path to self-infliction cleared. Oh Danny, dead at 23,

what did you see

of beauty that makes a happiness of strife. Of peace that

happiness makes of life. Of love that living cannot touch

when living is too little and too much.

James Keane

Source

: sto

ck.xch

ng

)

38

Abigail Reynolds, a writer of Jane

Austen fan fiction, has just signed

a deal with mainstream publisher

Sourcebooks Inc - who snapped

up her novels after spotting how

well they were selling on self-pub-

lishing website Lulu. ‘Self-publish-

ing has been a journey filled with

surprises’, says Abigail. ‘After an

unsuccessful effort to find an

agent, I decided to self-publish

Pemberley by the Sea, my mod-

ern novel. I didn't think it would ac-

tually sell to anyone but my

friends, but I wanted to be able to

say that I'd tried.’ Abigail’s books

are now among the highest

ranked fiction titles on Lulu, with

sales to date of 14,000 novels. So,

can other authors replicate her

success?

Over the past 10 years, the

publishing industry has seen vast

changes, with more books being

published than ever before

(around 100,000 a year in the UK)

and at lower cost. The oft-disputed

Net Book Agreement of 1900,

which ensured that books could

not be sold below publisher-

agreed prices, was finally ruled il-

legal in 1997, a kiss of death to

small bookshops, but a massive

boost to the big chains and super-

markets, who could now sell best-

selling titles at knock-down prices.

The result is that publishers’ mar-

gins have been greatly reduced,

leaving only a few surviving pub-

lishing giants, who, like the super-

market chains, prefer to focus on

big name authors and celebrities.

So where does all this leave

the unpublished, undiscovered au-

thor? Approaching one of these

sprawling mainstream publishing

houses is not the likeliest, and cer-

tainly not the only, route to publi-

cation. With the downturn in the

book market at around 12% year-

on-year and likely to worsen, com-

mercial publishers are pickier than

ever, so writers are having to be

far more creative about finding

their way on to readers’ book-

shelves.

Self-publishing

A few years ago, if you did the

round of the big publishers without

much joy (in common with the vast

majority of new authors), you

might decide to publish your book

yourself. Margaret Atwood, Mark

Twain, E E Cummings – it’s a long

and respectable list – have all self-

published.

The simplest route is to pho-

tocopy a few copies of your book,

staple them together in your front

room and take them around your

local shops. While this might

sound archaic, these days you

can produce a pretty professional-

looking copy of your masterpiece

in this way and, for a book of local

interest, might still be the best

route, being extremely cost-effec-

tive.

Then there is the fancier

method – edit and lay out your

book professionally, get a quote

from a printer, set yourself up as a

publisher, acquire an ISBN (so

people can order your book), a

CIP definition (gets your title listed

in the British Library bibliographic

service), a barcode (machine-

readable ISBN, allowing book-

shops to handle and sell it) and

send off your legal deposit to the

British Library. You’ll also need to

decide on the price – traditionally

five times its production cost, but

for a small press book three times

is more realistic, not forgetting that

bookshops will want at least a

third of the cover price. Then you’ll

need to set up a website to flog it.

But why would you go to all that

trouble these days, when print-on-

demand (ie, each copy of your

book is printed to order) is a frac-

tion of the cost and available at the

click of a mouse?

Assisted self-publishing

To give you an idea of how fast

things are moving in the world of

book publication, take a look at the

new ‘Espresso’ machine from On

Demand Books. Priced at $50,000

(around £35,000), it produces 2

books simultaneously in just 7

Publish Me Happy 2009Getting published in the internet/credit crunch/print-on-demand age

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 39

Publish Me Happy 2009 by Omma Velada

minutes, which includes printing,

binding, copying, plus a laminated

full-colour cover. The next gener-

ation machine will get that down to

3 minutes. If you like the idea of

being able to have out-of-stock

books printed while you wait in a

shop, this is for you. Blackwell has

already signed a deal with the US

makers of the Espresso to trial the

‘ATM for books’ in their stores.

Surely it’s just a matter of time be-

fore every supermarket has one of

these babies close to the check-

out, while bookshops will be re-

duced to a line of Espresso

machines churning out tailor-

made books, perhaps alongside a

line of computers where cus-

tomers can download their choice

direct to their eBook reader.

For authors, websites such

as Amazon’s Booksurge and the

UK-based iUniverse have sprung

up in the name of ‘assisted self-

publishing’. These organisations

take on all the tricky tasks of self-

publishing, while you just sit back,

pick out a pretty cover and await

your beautifully bound book. How-

ever, it doesn’t come cheap – any-

thing from £300 to £3,000,

depending on your publishing

package. A cheaper alternative is

ForwardPress, a clever idea for

poets and short story writers. It fo-

cuses on anthologies and covers

costs with compulsory author pre-

orders, making for an outlay of

around £100. And then there is

Lulu.

Lulu, which describes itself as

a ‘digital marketplace’ rather than

a publisher, is the real success

story of the print-on-demand ex-

plosion. Doubling in size every

year, Lulu has helped thousands

of frustrated authors (and musi-

cians, artists, photographers...) to

achieve their publication dreams

over the past six years. The idea

is tantalisingly quick, easy and

free – upload your masterpiece to

Lulu’s website and – bingo! Your

book is available for sale online,

earning you 80% of all creator rev-

enue, compared with just 10-15%

via a traditional publishing deal.

For a little extra cash outlay, Lulu

offers all the frills, such as editing,

layout, covers and ISBNs. Not

wishing to miss out, Borders has

recently joined forces with Lulu to

create Borders Personal Publish-

ing – assisted self-publishing for

authors, with the added bonus of

the Borders brand and in-store

kiosks to produce your book from.

So where’s the catch in all

this? Well, if you actually want to

shift lots of copies of your book,

you’ll need to find a way to make it

stand out among the thousands of

titles published by commercial

publishers, with their vast adver-

tising & distribution budgets. De-

spite the economic downturn

(publishers are feeling the pinch

like everyone else), the self-pub-

lished print-on-demand book will

struggle to compete. And, of

course, there is traditionally less

kudos with self-publishing than

commercial publishing. Tony

Frazer of small press Shearsman

Books, says, ‘If you want to be

taken seriously, self-publishing

(assisted or otherwise) won’t help

your career. There is a role for this

kind of publishing, however: for a

writer who has a small local audi-

ence and perhaps some presence

on the local “scene” this kind of

publishing can help. Also, for

poets who can’t get their work ac-

cepted by a “real” press, it’s some-

times the only option. Most of

them offer no editorial input, and

don’t even correct obvious spelling

errors, so it’s simply a question of

validation for the author, or per-

haps a statement of self-belief and

rejection of the “marketplace”,

such as it is’.

However, Abigail, who has

also placed her books on Ama-

zon’s Kindle store, has a very dif-

ferent point of view: ‘Two books I

originally self-published at Lulu

are already in bookstores, so the

idea that self-publishing is the kiss

of death to publishers is truly a

myth. My theory is that they're let-

ting writers prove their saleability

on Lulu, and then picking up the

books that do well.’

When asked why she chose

Lulu over other assisted self-pub-

lishing sites, Abigail responds,

‘Because it didn't require any

money upfront and didn't require

me to sign away any rights’. Not

demanding any money upfront

seems to have been key to Lulu’s

runaway success, leaving no ob-

stacle to that most tantalizing of

I suspect, are just typical Shears-

man titles: ie, not predictable, and

some way off from the standard

mainstream of current British

verse’.

As many small presses are

set up by authors in order to self-

publish themselves and who are

keen to help fellow struggling writ-

ers get noticed, retain their content

rights and sales profits, there is

likely to be a less cut-throat feel-

ing to the whole process. For ex-

ample, Flame Books is a small

press that aims to be as ethical as

possible, both in terms of author

relations and environmental con-

cerns. Sean Wood explains its

conception: ‘The company was

originally set up by an individual

who wanted to help new writers, to

help keep quality and original writ-

ing alive, and to create an ethical

framework for publishing – notably

seeking to provide higher royalties

for writers, a goal we still aspire

to.’ Bookake hopes to publish new

writers in the future, as James ex-

plains: ‘Bookkake began very

much as an experiment. I've been

watching and writing about the

confluence of literature and tech-

nology at http://booktwo.org for a

few years, and had seen that a

range of new tools available to

publishers - fully digital DTP, print-

on-demand books, online direct

selling and the web as platform

and conversation - could be har-

‘Two books I originally self-published at Lulu are alreadyin bookstores’ – AbigailReynolds, author of Pember-ley by the Sea (SourcebooksInc, 2008)

40

Publish Me Happy 2009 by Omma Velada

dreams – instant publication. But

how exactly do you get your book

noticed in the digital maze of

Lulu’s vast output (almost 100,000

new titles published each year)?

For Abigail, the answer was also

found online: ‘My novels are re-

lated to Jane Austen, and I dis-

cussed them on a number of Jane

Austen websites and forums.

Many of my readers came from

this niche marketing. Once people

started to buy my books on Ama-

zon, they started showing up in

recommendations for other read-

ers who had bought similar books,

and that's when things really took

off. It's important to target a mar-

ket to get those first few sales’. In

the meantime, Lulu continues to

grow, with 15,000 new registra-

tions every single week.

Small press publishing

And then there are the small

presses, publishers whose sales

are below a certain level, or who

publish only a few titles per year,

generally more about the books

than the money, labours of love

rather than hungry businesses.

The technological advances that

have helped so many authors self-

publish have also facilitated

growth in independent publishing.

Start-up small press

Bookkake is perhaps the best ex-

ample of this new zeitgeist – a

publisher perfectly poised to take

advantage of current trends in

both technology and publishing.

Offering print copies as well as

eBook versions, its initial print-run

of lesser known classical gems

along a sensual, if disquieting,

theme is ideal for today’s censor-

ship-shy, internet-savy readers. As

James Bridle, who runs Bookkake

(a cheeky pun on bukkake), says,

‘I'll leave intrepid readers who are

happy to do a bit of NSFW [not

safe for work] googling to uncover

the meaning of bukkake, but it's

more than just a pun: it stands as

well for the taboo and the chang-

ing, often shocking, experiences

that the Internet has enabled’.

At the other end of the scale,

Shearsman Books is a long-es-

tablished small press (since 1982)

and publishes around 60 titles a

year. It’s run by Tony Frazer, who

says, ‘The key difference between

a small press and a big press is

the manpower. If I were to employ

a couple of extra people, the sales

(or the subsidy, if there were any)

would have to rise dramatically. I

think sales would need to increase

five-fold for me to be able to afford

staff, and to achieve that kind of

increase would mean having to

look seriously for titles that would

sell more, which, in turn, would

damage the editorial independ-

ence that we currently have’.

The strength of small presses

is often this ability to specialise in

niche markets ignored by main-

stream publishers. As Tony puts it,

‘Commercial presses could not

risk many of the books that

Shearsman takes on; partly this is

because we have an active “ex-

perimental” list, but also because

we have a commitment to publish-

ing new (ie, previously unpub-

lished, and not necessarily young)

writers. Some of our books are

definitely in the “experimental” or

“avant-garde” niche — although

definitions of such words are no-

toriously hard to pin down; others,

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 41

Publish Me Happy 2009 by Omma Velada

nessed to create a new kind of

publisher. So eventually I went

ahead and did it, hooking together

a range of services to create

Bookkake. I opened with a list of

out-of-copyright classics because

I didn't (don't) have much money,

but with the community created

and the direction it's headed in

means I'd love to publish new

work as well. We'll have to see

what the future holds’.

So what does the future hold

for the next generation of small

press publishers? Tony of Shears-

man Books assures us, ‘There are

going to be more of them, espe-

cially if the market for literary fic-

tion, and short fiction, gets any

worse. I fully expect more niche

publishers to start up. The pub-

lishing giants have only them-

selves to blame for the mess that

they’re in, chasing celebrities

rather than developing real writing

talent. And in poetry, the involve-

ment of the “majors” runs to

maybe a dozen titles a year. If it

weren’t for Carcanet and Blood-

axe, there would be almost no po-

etry on the shelves in bookshops.

There was a time when the com-

bination of large press, plus distri-

bution, plus bookshop, meant that

the majors had a stranglehold on

the marketplace’. Sean of Flame

Books adds, ‘The sales and mar-

keting power of the mainstream

publishers and their links with the

retail chains can mean that it can

be very difficult for small inde-

pendents to compete and get a

foot in the door’.

Tony of Shearsman Books

continues, ‘Things are changing,

thanks to new technologies — and

I fully expect more products such

as the Sony Reader or the Kindle

to play a role here — and this per-

mits new entrants to do things that

were previously impossible for

them. Print-on-demand and digital

printing are absolutely key to the

progress at Shearsman over the

past five or six years, as they elim-

inate substantial costs and re-

move the necessity for holding

large inventories. In Shearsman’s

case it also permits us to print in

the US, and has helped us de-

velop an active North American

list’. James of Bookkake agrees,

‘Without POD, Bookkake couldn't

exist, as it allows us to operate

without huge up-front printing bills

and warehousing and distribution

costs. We're watching the publish-

ing industry with interest in the

current climate: many see books

as somehow recession-proof, but

we think there'll be some stumbles

along the way. That said, low-

overhead, web-oriented small

publishers probably have the best

chance of anyone of weathering

the storm.’

However, don’t think that

small presses are going to line up

to accept your work – competition

is (almost) as fierce for small

press contracts as for mainstream

ones. Tony of Shearsman Books

leaves us in no doubt: ‘For book

manuscripts, we probably average

2 or 3 submissions every day. Ac-

ceptance rates are very low’.

ePublishing

No writer can afford to ignore the

internet – from Twitter to Amazon,

forums to blogs, this is the place

to generate cyber-buzz, post

tasters for download and get no-

ticed on sites such as Books for

Publishing (bringing your manu-

script to the attention of publish-

ers) or Published.com (for

marketing published books).

Of course, you can also pub-

lish your book electronically, so

that folk can read it on an eBook

reader or on almost any new

phone (see www.booksinmy-

phone.com). No longer just for ob-

scure new titles, Stephen King

recently gave epublishing his es-

teemed seal of approval with free

digital downloads of short story,

Riding the Bullet (www.simon-

says.com). eBooks have ISBNs

just like regular books, so can be

ordered in bookshops and cost

about half of their printed counter-

parts. Royalties can be as high as

70%, because there is far less out-

lay for the publisher. On the flip-

side, you’re unlikely to secure an

advance, eBooks still don’t have

the kudos of printed ones and tend

to sell far fewer copies – 500 might

be considered a successful sales

figure.

As to whether this new

medium will take off, Sean of

Flame Books says, ‘I don't think

eBooks would ever replace

42

Publish Me Happy 2009 by Omma Velada

printed versions, but I do think

they will be important in the future,

from the environmental and con-

venience points of view. I person-

ally wouldn't want to have to read

on a screen any more than is nec-

essary, but I would like to know

that if I was buying something in

print that the environmental cost

was reduced and offset as much

as possible. I think eBooks suit dif-

ferent genres more than others – I

doubt they will have a strong pres-

ence with fiction titles in the

forseeable future.’ However,

James of Bookkake has higher

hopes: ‘We think it's very impor-

tant for publishers to support

eBooks at this crucial stage. Mass

adoption is coming, and publish-

ers' duty at the moment is to grow

the market and help readers un-

derstand new technologies. When

that happens, we'll all benefit’.

It’s true that the eBook reader

is still a long way from doing for

printed novels what the iPod has

for CDs – readers have an emo-

tional attachment to their books

and don’t like reading from a

screen. But this is all set to change

and publishers ignore eBooks at

their peril. The current generation

of eBook readers uses a brilliant

technology called eInk. Black on

white, it is not backlit, which

means that - like a book but unlike

a laptop – you can read it in sun-

light and it doesn't strain your

eyes. Further incentives? You can

already read all the out-of-

copyright classics for free, thanks

to sites like Project Gutenberg.

Online shoppers don’t like waiting

even 24 hours for delivery – when

you buy an eBook it arrives in sec-

onds, not hours. We all like a guilt-

free read – and eBooks are seri-

ously tree-friendly. Sean of Flame

Books comments,‘We would con-

sider offering titles as eBooks

alongside print versions. The ideal

is to offer books printed on 100%

recycled, post-consumer waste

paper, printed by a company that

buys (or generates onsite) its elec-

tricity from a renewable source,

and to offer titles as eBooks as

well.’

Meanwhile, eBook readers

are shaping up – slimmer, lighter,

faster, more multi-functional (Ama-

zon’s Kindle 2 holds 1,500 books

and can read them to you) and,

above all, cheaper (iRex’s Iliad

costs around £400, while Sony’s

Reader is only around £225), so

before you can download the com-

plete works of Shakespeare, no

self-respecting handbag (or man-

bag) will be complete without one,

emotional attachment be damned.

And when that happens,

even the likes of JK Rowling will

be sorely tempted to self-publish.

In the current market, as many as

95% of books make a loss, so the

vast majority of the profits come

from a few big-name authors. This

means that, if ePublishing were a

viable alternative, those million-

selling authors could stop sup-

porting the industry and make

themselves a lot more money. At

the moment, authors only get

around £1 for each book they sell,

but self-published books that did

well via ePublishing would earn

the writer much more, even with a

cover price reduced to £2-3. Abi-

gail comments, ‘I made eBook

versions of all my books available

on Lulu, and later on the Amazon

Kindle store. I've had quite a few

sales that way. Given how simple

print-on-demand publishing is

now, I think I'd always do a print-

on-demand/eBook combination,

but I think we'll see more and

more eBooks out there’.

Publish me happy

So which route should new writers

take? Tony of Shearsman Books

has this advice: ‘For fiction writers

it would be worth talking to an

agent, but not for poets. Serious

agents won’t take on poets be-

cause there’s not enough money

in it for them. Most poets earn little

or nothing and a 10% share of lit-

tle or nothing won’t pay for the pa-

perclips, let alone the agent’s time.

We always advise poets to work

up a portfolio of magazine accept-

ances, then progress to a chap-

book or two, and only afterwards

look at producing a full-scale

book.’

Sean of Flame Books says,

‘Different routes suit different writ-

ers and manuscripts. Do lots of re-

search. Think about what your

goals are, and what fits those

goals. Look at other books similar

to yours, and other writers in your

field, and see what routes suited

them and their work. Think objec-

tively about your target market

and what route best points to that

audience. So start by focusing on

the route you think is best for you,

but it's likely that you might have

to try every option you can before

getting anywhere. Don't be down-

hearted with rejections, this will

definitely, probably frequently,

happen along the way. But do

seek out feedback and listen care-

fully to the response from the

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 43

Publish Me Happy 2009 by Omma Velada

other side. As well as looking for

responses from the industry, work

with other writers, and readers, to

get objective opinions about your

work. It is important to be able to

detach and step back from your

writing and look at it from the pub-

lisher and reader's point of view.

There is the reality that many writ-

ers are more suited to writing for

themselves (which I believe is a

completely valid practice), not for

the public or for the commercial

marketplace. But, although there

are many barriers, and it's the few

who succeed, a good piece of

work does have a decent chance

of publication if it gets in front of

enough people in the industry – so

try what you can and believe in the

work’.

James of Bookkake encour-

ages authors to look at all the op-

tions: ‘In the first instance I'd

always advise new writers to find

an agent to protect their best in-

terests, and a traditional publisher

who can do the best by their work

– whether that's a small house or

a multinational depends on the

writer and the work. But for some,

ePublishing and self-publishing

may be the way to go, and it's get-

ting easier and more useful all the

time.’

Whichever route you take to

publication, you can rest assured

that, even if you only sell a few

copies to your mum and neigh-

bours, you can hold your book in

your hands (or at least view it on-

line) and know that you have

achieved what, for the majority, is

a lifelong, unfulfilled ambition –

you are a published author.

Self-publishingSelf-publishing advice

www.selfpublishingmagazine.co.uk

www.publish-yourself.com

ISBNs

www.isbn.nielsenbook.co.uk

CIP codes

www.bl.uk/bibliographic/cip.html

Assisted self-publishingLulu (www.lulu.com)

Free (pay extra for ISBN, editing,

custom cover, etc)

ForwardPress

Compulsory author pre-orders

iUniverse

Packages from £599 includes

ISBN, cover, 5 copies

Writers World

(www.writersworld.co.uk)

£2,998 includes ISBN, cover, copy-

editing, legal deposit, Amazon &

Google search inside, 5-9 days

shipping at Amazon, 100 copies

Small press publishingFiction presses

Flame Books

(www.flamebooks.com)

ethical publishing

Poetry presses

Shearsman Books

(www.shearsman.com)

around 60 titles per year

Carcanet (www.carcanet.co.uk)

Sunday Times millennium SmallPublisher of the Year (2000)

Bloodaxe

(www.bloodaxebooks.com)

around 30 titles per year

Fiction & Poetry presses

Salt Publishing

(www.saltpublishing.com)

around 90 titles per year

UKA Press

(www.ukapress.com)

since 2004

ePublishingRead an eBook week is

2-8 March 2009

Find an ePublisher

Gatto Publishing (www.gattopub-

lishing.com)

Online Originals (www.onlineorigi-

nals.com)

charges reading fee

Where to buy eBooks

eBooks (www.ebooks.com)

Fictionwise (www.fictionwise.com)

the top independent eBook sellerin the world

Where to download free eBooks

Hidden Cave

(www.hiddencave.com)

Project Gutenberg

(www.gutenberg.org)

Classic Literature Library

(www.classic-literature.co.uk)

Scribd

(www.scribd.com)

Interview: Frank BurtonOmma Velada interviews up-and-coming writer FrankBurton, author of Collected Words (Lulu, 2007) and A History of Sarcasm (Dog Horn, 2009)

First of all, how did you get into writing? Was

there a period of writing for yourself before you

decided to share your work with others?

My parents bought me a writing desk for Christmas

when I was about seven years old, and I started writ-

ing stories and poems on it. The desk was really old,

and probably only cost them a quid from the second-

hand shop, but in hindsight it was the best present I

ever had.

I was very secretive about writing as a child, and did-

n't share my stuff with anyone outside my family. I

"came out of the closet" when I was about seven-

teen, but my writing was pretty rough round the

edges at that stage. I had my first short story pub-

lished in an anthology when I was twenty one. The

story was rubbish, but it was a start.

Why do you think you focus on poems and short

stories, rather than novels or another form?

I have lots of different ideas, so I tend to let them out

in short bursts. Sometimes you can fit as many ideas

into a short story or a poem as you can into a novel,

because there's less waffling involved. Contrary to

what some experts will tell you, people like reading

short fiction and poetry. I think this is because of the

immediacy of these forms.

This is not to say that I'm against producing longer

work. I recently finished writing a full-length novel,

which I would like to think is waffle-free.

As a performance poet, do you get nervous when

you perform your poetry? How would you say

‘performance poetry’ differs from just reading it

out?

This is going to sound arrogant, but no, I don't get

nervous - I really enjoy it. The performance part is

important because words need expression, and they

need to flow. However, it's possible to over-do the

performance side of things. There are some real

hammy acts out there, and some of them are unin-

tentionally funny. Some people find my style of de-

livery a little too understated, but I think it suits the

material.

How did you come to select the small press Dog

Horn to submit your short story anthology, A His-tory of Sarcasm, to? Did you consider the

commercial presses first?

I didn't consider the commercial presses, because

generally speaking you need an agent to get in there,

and agents aren't interested in short story collections

by first-time authors. I approached Dog Horn be-

cause they're a countercultural publisher, and I can

relate to their ethos. They're interested in rebellious

and subversive work that doesn't take itself too seri-

ously.

I see you have recently been broadcast on Radio

4 - how did you get involved with this project?

I submitted a short story for the Afternoon Reading

and they accepted it. I'd recommend this to other

44

short story writers, as it's a great platform for your

work. Have a look at the guidelines on the BBC web-

site - www.bbc.co.uk/writersroom.

Congratulations on winning the Philip LeBrun

Prize for Creative Writing in 2003. How did this

come about?

The University of Chichester awards it to their best

creative writing student every year. I was very

pleased to have won it, because it was my first real

achievement as a writer.

You’ve made some of your work available for free

– your novella, About Someone, and your poetry

collection – is it more important to you to be

widely read, or are you most interested in making

a living from your work?

It's far more important to me that people actually read

my work. I make a bit of money from writing, and I

obviously don't object to conventional publishing, but

it takes a long time to get your work into print. I like

being able to post my work online as soon as I've fin-

ished it and get an instant response from readers.

Potentially, this is also a money-making venture. I'd

like to think the work that appears on my website is

a good advert for the book.

How has recent technology affected your work

and ability to reach readers?

Without a doubt, the internet is a great way to get

your work read by a global audience. I like the fact

that anyone with a computer can go to my website

and read my work.

However, I don't think new technology has affected

the publishing industry to the extent that many peo-

ple claim. I don't think ebooks will ever replace print

publishing.

You have used quotes from out-of-copyright

books in your novella and you also have a ‘found

poem’. Why is it significant to you to re-work or

re-display previously written work in this way?

I like making things appear strange by taking them

out of their original context. Most of the information

we receive on a day to day basis isn't necessarily

aimed at us - whether it's adverts for products we'll

never buy, or TV shows for which we aren't the in-

tended audience. Taken out of context, a lot of this

second-hand information may appear surreal or

ridiculous. I'm having fun with this idea.

One of your characters writes poetry when drunk

– is this something you’ve done yourself and, if

so, with what results?!

A few of the poems on the Collected Words CD were

written after a few beers. I think they needed some

editing the following morning, though.

Your writing is very pithy, but also rather dark –

do you think the two go best together?

This may be an entirely un-pithy thing to say, but I

don't know. Obviously the two aren't mutually exclu-

sive. You can be pithy and lighthearted. Or you could

be a dark rambler. I suppose it depends on the style

of the author.

What are, respectively, your favourite poem and

favourite short story of all time?

B Movie by Gill Scott Heron, and Kafka's Metamor-phosis. The greatest ever analysis of the media and

American politics, and a story about a bloke who

turns into an insect.

What is your greatest writing ambition?

Write well, and write lots. I don't need to win loads of

awards or write number one bestsellers. I just want to

produce lots of good work.

I see you turn 30 this year – do you think this

means a new era for your writing?

I'd like to think I'll be a better writer when I'm in my

thirties. Writers are quite lucky, in a way. There aren't

that many jobs where getting old is a definite advan-

tage. A lot of models, actors and musicians are con-

sidered over the hill by the time they get to thirty. I'm

just getting started.

Finally, what one thing would you like to tell a

new writer?

Write whatever you want. Don't let people like me tell

you what to do.

Interview: Frank Burton

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 45

46

Aranjuez

Ten days sleeping in your bed

When you grew your hair you said

It was for the boy who’d left without a word

Midday sleeping in the sun

Remember I’m the only one

Whose every dirty secret you overheard.

My Spanish rose, my sweet dark star

Behind a Cape Town hostel bar

Carving words with your dusty pocket knife

I’ll remember you at sixteen years

Chasing hidden pilot fears

And the piano-shadow fire that took your life.

For all your forlorn cypress dreams

You came apart at the seams

But kept your mother’s mottled rosary hands

Born into a thunder storm

Cello bow to keep you warm

When you forget all your father’s misplaced plans.

Box of magnets, Isaiah’s name

And hurtful things you overcame

Kissing on a boy inside the grove

Born with your eyes closed tight

Weeping with all your tender might

Remembering the days we dove and rose.

Three years old he went away

Three years came back old and grey

With a beard and the saddest eyes you’d seen

A minor key on cello strings

Box of magnets and secret things

Dying before he told you where he’d been.

For all your loss and all your tears

You’re a beacon shining down the years

A fuckup and a derelict and alone

My Spanish rose, my sweet dark star

You were never far apart

From the things you always felt down to the bone.

Alex Cleary

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BEST POEM

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 47

Genesis 187

The android is pleased with the set of breasts

he has fabricated: four, stacked 2 x 2

that he will strap onto his chest to nurse

the first children.

He already has names for them:

Kyla, Sophie, Eddy, Jace.

Soon, using eggs from his mistress,

departed a half-moon ago on Galactic Seed II,

and genetic material from

other enhanced homo sapiens

aboard her dispersion ship,

he will complete the design

of the coiled strands of DNA,

those twisting tornadoes of possibilities,

then nine months later will pull

four wet infants crying and kicking

from the artificial wombs,

and nurse them on the quadruple

heated breasts strapped to his chest,

where they will suck and coo,

cough and spit and wiggle themselves

into caramel-smelling slumberous calm,

their doughy thighs and pudgy little fingers cradled

in his arms, their heads pillowed

in his cruciform cleavage,

their anterior fontanels -- crested

with black, blond, brown, and auburn downy hair --

visibly pulsing to the warm, red,

iambic rhythm of human life.

Jim Bainbridge

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number of pieces published in a variety of ezines. He is a

generalist rather than specialist and has written twist-in-

the-tale stories, romances, humour and horror. Many of

his stories include medical themes, as he believes in the

maxim 'Write what you know'. He is in the process of build-

ing his own website, with a view to showcasing his

favourite works. When not writing he enjoys scrabble, fell

walking and poker.

PoemsJames Keane

James Keane resides in northern New Jersey, USA with

his wife and son and a menagerie of merry pets. He has

made his living in magazine publishing, public relations

and advertising for the past 25 years, including 15 years

in New York City. He earned bachelors and masters de-

grees in English Literature 100 years ago at Georgetown

University in Washington, DC. His poems have recently

appeared in two anthologies, Freckles to Wrinkles and

Harvests of New Millennium, as well as Tipton PoetryJournal, Gold Dust, Mississippi Crow, Sage Trail, Conceit,Ocean Diamond, Cherry Blossom Review, and Mirrors.

He was proud to read a poem he dedicated to his wife

called My Hero at the open reading at the Geraldine R.

Dodge Poetry Festival, held this past September at Wa-

terloo Village in New Jersey.

Joseph R Trombatore

Joseph R. Trombatore: a Pushcart nominee, whose award

winning collection of poems, Screaming at Adam was pub-

lished by Wings Press, 2007. Recent poems have or will

soon appear in JASAT (Journal of the American StudiesAssociation of Texas), Origami Condom, Right HandPointing, Spoken War, Oak Bend Review, Dead Mule,

Ken Again, Sugar Mule, Wild Goose Poetry Review, WordRiot, & Offcourse Literary Journal. Editor/Publisher of the

online Literary Journal of the Arts:

www.radiantturnstile.com

Alex Cleary

Alex Cleary lives somewhere in the West Midlands though

is often found in strange places further afield. He has been

spotted living in a car near a beach, sleeping in a record

store in Brisbane and subsisting in isolation in the Scot-

tish Highlands. Sometimes the spirit moves him and he

writes short stories or songs, or other things should he feel

Short storiesJoe Dornich

Joe Dornich is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Ange-

les. He has repeatedly been published in the LA Weeklyand on Nerve.com.

Yelena Dubrovin

Yelena Dubrovin is the author of two books of poetry: Prel-udes to the Rain and Beyond the Line of No Return. She

co-authored with Hilary Koprowski a novel, In Search ofVan Dyck. In addition to this, her short stories, poetry and

literary essays have appeared in different periodicals,

such as The World Audience, 63 Channels and others.

Her short stories have been accepted for publication in

Cantaraville, Bent Pin Quarterly, Bewildering Stories, Pen-sonfirev and others. She is a bilingual writer, published in

both Russian and English.

Craig Wallwork

Craig Wallwork lives in the UK. He describes his stories

as more Odd-Beat, than Off-Beat. They have appeared in

Cherry Bleeds Magazine, Colored Chalk, Beat The Dust,Thieves Jargon, The Beat, Laura Hird, Nefarious Muse,

and Dogmatika.

Joseph Atwood

Joseph Atwood is an unpublished writer trying to fit his

writing around a hectic family life. He lives with his wife

and three children in Hertfordshire, where his other inter-

ests include cycling and escaping to the allotment.

Scott Newport

Scott Newport was born in 1984 in Reading, Berkshire. He

read English at the University of Winchester, graduating

in October 2006. He currently works as an Editorial As-

sistant for Macmillan Publishers in Oxford.

Flash fictionDennis Vanvick

Dennis Vanvick spends his summers in Wisconsin and

his winters in Bogota.

Nick Allen

Nick Allen is a Mental Health Nurse from Manchester. He

has been writing flash fiction for around a year and has a

This issue, our contributors largely sent in their work from the US and the UK

Contributors

Peter Magliocco

Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, and has

poetry in The Smoking Poet, A Hudson View Poetry Di-gest, Heeltap, The Beat and elsewhere... His new novel is

The Burgher of Virtual Eden from Publish America

(www.publishamerica.com). He was Pushcart nominated

for poetry in 2008.

FeaturesDavid Gardiner

Ageing hippy, former teacher, now psychiatric care worker,

living in London with partner Jean, adopted daughter

Cherelle and Charlotte the chameleon. Two published

works, SIRAT (a science fiction novel) and The RainbowMan and Other Stories (short story collection). Interested

in science, philosophy, psychology, scuba diving,

alternative lifestyles and communal living, travel, wildlife,

cooking and IT. Large, rambling homepage at:

www.davidgardiner.net.

Omma Velada

Omma Velada grew up in Wales and read languages at

London University, followed by an MA in translation at

Westminster University. Her short stories and poems have

been published in numerous literary journals and antholo-

gies. In 2004 she founded Gold Dust magazine, which

continues to promote fresh and established literary talent.

Her first novel, The Mackerby Scandal (UKA Press, 2004),

received critical acclaim. She has also self-published a

short-story anthology, The Republic of Joy (Lulu Press,

2006).

compelled. He hopes one day to write a Great American

Novel, though he has never been to America.

Jim Bainbridge

Jim Bainbridge is a graduate of Harvard Law School and

a recipient of a National Science Foundation fellowship for

graduate studies at UC Berkeley. He was awarded Sec-

ond Place Prize in the 2008 Red Cedar Review Flash Fic-

tion Contest and an Honorable Mention in the 2008 Lorian

Hemingway Short Story Competition, the New Millennium

Writings Short Short Story Contest, and the Wilda Hearne

Flash Fiction Contest. Other work has appeared or is forth-

coming in Yomimono, Thin Air Magazine, and RoanokeReview.

Mary Ann Honaker

Mary Ann Honaker holds a BA in philosophy from West

Virginia University and a Masters of Theological Studies

from Harvard Divinity School. She has previously pub-

lished poetry in Harvard’s The Dudley Review and Crawl-space of Cambridge, Massachusetts. In her writings she

primarily explores the transformative power of love and

the intersection of the spiritual world with mundane reality.

Shivani Sivagurunathan

Shivani Sivagurunathan has been writing since her teens

and has been published in a few poetry publications in the

UK, including Agenda Broadsheet, The Wolf and light-house city. Her poems are generally written in free verse

although she has written sonnets, sestinas and villanelles.

Her poems are best described as being introspective but

this is usually manifested through an engagement with the

natural world. Being an artist as well, they tend to be very

visual and she often paints pictures that not only accom-

pany the poems but flesh them out. This allows for a re-en-

gagement with the poems and a consequent reworking of

them. She draws inspiration from the works of Ted

Hughes, Pablo Neruda, Geoffrey Hill,Derek Walcott, Alice

Oswald, David Malouf, Dylan Thomas and Federico Gar-

cia Lorca. She is currently working on a long poem on the

history, culture, religions and the natural environment of

Malaysia.

Jude Dillon

Jude Dillon was born in Ontario, Canada and graduated in

English from Queen’s. He was a photographer for the

Kingston Whig Standard and the Calgary Albertan, win-

ning several press awards. He studied painting at the

ACAD. He reads his work first Tuesdays of every month at

the RMR Poetry Reading Series on 17th Avenue. Jude

lives in Calgary, Alberta.

Issue 15 June 2009 www.golddustmagazine.co.uk 49

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Gold Dust magazine

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