UNBOUND BLOG

Author writing rooms

Thu, 09 May 2013 18:08:59 +0100

Unbound is about connecting authors with readers – but where are they sitting when they’re writing their books or talking with their supporters?

Some of our authors share where they write below. Do you work somewhere unusual? We’d love to know where your favourite places to get creative with words are.

Adrian Teal – THE GIN LANE GAZETTE

“I work in my studio, which I rent, as I like to be able to shut the door and leave work behind at the end of a day.”

David Bramwell – THE NO.9 BUS TO UTOPIA

“At my desk. I moved my desk from having a great window view to a wall. Why? Because that’s where the radiator is and my feet don’t get cold when I’m writing in winter.”

E O Higgins – CONVERSATIONS WITH SPIRITS

“Most of Conversations with Spirits is set in Broadstairs, Kent, and - as the name implies - there’s quite a lot of drinking involved within the story. For reasons of verisimilitude, therefore, it seemed entirely reasonable to write much of the book on location in the saloon bars of The Royal Albion Hotel and The Tartar Frigate public house - which both feature in the book. I take this type of research very seriously.”

I Smith – PAVEMENT

“This is a picture of the writing desk inside my head. It’s a Bureau du Roi (the King’s desk) known as Louis XV’s roll-top secretary, designed between 1760 and 1769 and it has a multitude of secret compartments. My actual writing desk comes from Ikea and is not worth photographing.”

Salena Godden - SPRINGFIELD ROAD

“The kitchen table. Any kitchen table. I like kitchen tables. I acquired a beautiful desk and have ordered a new ribbon for my typewriter; I’m really looking forward to getting stuck into a new book soon.”

Vitali Vitaliev – VICTOR VODKIN’S NEW ANTI-GUIDE TO THE WORLD

“My writing ‘shed’, Pegasus Cottage. It’s lovely and cosy inside with bookshelves bursting with old folios, a folding armchair-sofa, where I can have a snooze if tired, a swivel chair and my oak wood desk. The cottage is well insulated: it is warm in winter and cool in summer. But the main thing is that it is at the back of a large country garden and looking out of the window feels like blending with nature: trees, birds, foxes, our endemic black squirrels, and yourself; a great sensation for writing. I joke sometimes that Pegasus writes my books for me, I only type the words on my computer screen…”

Kevin Parr – THE TWITCH

“Our spare room doubles as an office, an art studio and a storage unit and is far too cluttered to fit into a photograph. The view from the windows is well worth sharing though – east and south facing with lots of raptor-spotting opportunity!”

Lisa Gee – HAYLEYWORLD

“Anywhere I can be undisturbed for a good length of time & have a) enough space to lie on my back staring at the ceiling & b) wifi. In my writing room, the notable objects are probably the computer and sound equipment, some pictures, the white board I write my daily to-do list on and my two cats.”

Richard Bray – SALT & OLD VINES

“This varies. I write both in my bedroom and in the library at home. They’re not really set writing spaces as such. For Salt & Old Vines it’s really a case of sitting down and writing in the room that’s the least distracting. There’s a local coffee shop that I’ve used, and my local pub as well. I wrote my first book in my old family home, in a loft space I used to call the Belfry. I turned that into a proper writer’s space, surrounded by personal stuff and the sort of memorabilia that put me at incredible ease. I actually wrote a blog post about what the Belfry looked like, and my blog is still named The Belfry Chronicles.”

You can write a novel - but can you write a tweet?

Tue, 07 May 2013 13:50:45 +0100

Image from Sorensiim

There’s a conveyor belt of content industries moving slowly towards a large crunching machine. The machine has ‘digital technology’ crudely stencilled on it, and as each industry goes through it, it comes out the other side almost unrecognisable: it started with music, then media. It’s hitting book publishing, and other industries, right now.

The ubiquity of information, the flood of content has, along with a myriad of other factors, smacked the book publishing industry in the face, so that an economic model which was shaky in the first place now looks almost impossible. Funding new books is getting more and more difficult. Without wizards, a football career or enormous breasts a book deal can be highly unlikely. And some of us have none of the above.

And that’s why Unbound was brought together - by a wizard, a topless model and a footballer.* They were looking for a different economic model - one that ensured that new writing got funded, by taking the risk out of it. As with the Kickstarter model to which it bears a little resemblance, the book happens when the money is there - and the money is raised by the author (with some help from the Unbound team), not by the publisher. That’s why it’s called crowd-funding. And that creates a new set of issues.

Aside from breasts, a wand and the ability to curve a ball around a wall, authors now need to develop a skill - if one that is acquirable, at least - that of social networking. Authors who have locked themselves away in the creative act (or stared at a wall in a desperate search for inspiration) must now learn the techniques of digital fundraising. And it’s not always easy. Manipulating social media cachet and turning it into something of value is becoming a useful 21st century skill, but it doesn’t necessarily coincide naturally with the ability to craft a decent sentence.

But, you might think, the ability to be reasonably engaging on social media shouldn’t tax the creative mind. There’s plenty of writers entertaining large numbers of people on social media. The issue is one of mindset, not skillset. I’ve spoken to authors who tell me (effectively) that they are too busy writing about make-believe people to bother with anything so trivial as social media.

But the ones that have built up good numbers of engaged followers on Twitter, Facebook, Google+ and LinkedIn are the ones that got their books funded quickly. An author who creates those networks at the same time as they are building up the plotlines will be able to take on crowd-funding with the Elastoplast model - get it done quickly, with sudden (if sharp) pain.

Crowd-funding may not be to everyone’s taste - It takes shameless self-promotion, and plenty of nagging and graft to publicly persuade others, who may only know your avatar, to pledge money to a project dear to your heart. But if it’s that dear to you heart, what have you got to lose? Authors just need to get social.

* That bit may be made up. It may have been John Mitchinson, Justin Pollard and Dan Kieran.

What's your 'guilty pleasure' read?

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 11:27:05 +0100

Image by little-phoenix

Eating copious amounts of chocolate when we’re meant to be at the gym. Watching Made in Chelsea instead of that edifying new documentary on BBC4. Reading something juicy and commercial instead of the Booker-nominated books on our shelves…

We all have guilty pleasures – especially when it comes to reading books. But which novel would you admit to reading when nobody’s looking?

Some of our Unbound authors share theirs:

Adrian Teal – THE GIN LANE GAZETTE

“I do like a Lovejoy novel, as I’m a bit of an antiques nerd. I was a big fan of the show, too. Ian McShane is a damned fine actor, mullet and cowboy boots notwithstanding.”

Martin Baker – VERSION THIRTEEN

“The Godfather by Mario Puzo. It’s relentlessly good fun with sex, crime, and social commentary all rolled into one. It offers a strangely seductive model of gangster-capitalism, in a way that makes gangsters honourable and capitalism something far inferior. I’m still confused by it. And I still remember the thrill of Puzo’s unanswered question: where was Luca Brazi?”

David Bramwell – THE NO.9 BUS TO UTOPIA

“Moominland Midwinter by Tove Jansson. It’s a highly original coming-of-age story when Moomintroll wakes from his winter hibernation and can’t get back to sleep. Why a guilty pleasure? It’s a book from childhood and an indulgent nostalgia trip.”

Katie Huttlestone – KATE’S CLEAVAGE

“My guilty pleasure read recently has been The Hunger Games series. It goes against everything I usually appreciate in a book but somehow I became entangled in the story and had to read all three.”

Kevin Parr – THE TWITCH

“When I was in my early teens I got a book out of the library called Forever by Judy Blume. It seemed to be aimed at an older, female audience and was pretty damned saucy. I read it twice and certain bits about a dozen times before it went back.”

E O Higgins – CONVERSATIONS WITH SPIRITS

“I’m very keen on my New Gresham encyclopedias (1917), which I enjoy as much for their hectoring arrogance of tone, as for the spurious nonsense they report as fact.

“Sloths, for example, are described variously as ‘feckless’ and ‘God’s clumsiest animal’. Alligators, however, are ‘impenetrable to bullets’. French men have ‘weak muscular development’ and the Greeks are designated a ‘turbulent and noisy race’.”

Francis Pryor – THE LIFER’S CLUB

“Can’t say I have any. It seems to me that everything that’s published is worthy of attention and if it’s poorly expressed I won’t read it; not because it’s violent, pornographic or obscene, but because it’s badly written and doesn’t hold my attention. I hope that doesn’t sound too pious.”

Richard Bray – SALT & OLD VINES

“Too many to list. I’ve read every Sharpe novel, I used to read Clive Cussler, but that’s a little too ridiculous for me these days. I’m a big fan of late ’70s - early ’80s X-Men. Guilty pleasure for me is spending 30 or 40 minutes in the morning reading about how the Red Sox did the night before.”

Lara Platman – GIRL RACERS

“Bridget Jones – The Edge of Reason by Helen Fielding. I read this book over one weekend whilst on a beach. I read it before seeing the film and laughed out loud throughout. It was a time when we had books, not iPads; it was a time when you could leave your books with folded corners stuck into the sand whilst you went off for a swim. I loved my holiday because of such a good quick read.”

Robert Ross – FORGOTTEN HEROES OF COMEDY

“I don’t really do ‘guilty pleasures’. One glance at my book, DVD and record collections will alert you to that fact. If I like something, I like it. No guilt is attached at all. I suppose something mainstream and pulp-fiction like the Doctor Who Target novels would fit the bill. I would defend them as great storytelling and the most prolific author of the range, Terrance Dicks, is something of a hero to me.”

An interview with cover designer Mark Ecob

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 14:40:00 +0100

When Mark got in touch with us back in January 2012, we were over the moon. In 2010 he set up his own design studio after having been Art Director for Canongate. Mark’s designed covers for authors like Alexander McCall Smith, Marina Lewycka, Yann Martel, Sara Sheridan and David Nicholls to name but a few, but he was excited by Unbound’s philosophy and wondered if we might like to work together (of course we did!), so we began with the rather unorthodox cover of Jennifer Pickup’s teen novel Unbelievable (pictured above) and haven’t looked back. Our own Caitlin Harvey interviewed Mark this week to find out more about the arcane practice of book cover design…

What’s your favourite part of the design process?

Ideas - the thrill of coming up with the perfect concept to fit a brief still floats my boat. A close second is the feeling you get when you open a box of books you’ve designed.

What’s your least favourite part?

When momentum is lost. Sometimes ego, money or just bad luck can take the wind out of a cover’s sails and then it just becomes work, rather than work you really enjoy. I try to be open and flexible and balanced with a strong vision for a design, which seems to work well. I’ve had to learn to be very patient…

How long does the process usually take?

How long is a piece of string? Sometimes it can be done in hours or days and sometimes months or longer. It depends on a lot of factors, but generally a cover is done in about a month, from briefing to finished artwork.

What’s the usual number of proofs (drafts) for one book?

Three rounds of visuals is a good rule of thumb, but some go into the tens or the hundreds!

What’s the maximum number of proofs that you’ve had to do for one book?

I once worked on a cover that took over three years to get done, and even then the finished cover was dodgy. It will haunt me forever…

Have you ever designed a ‘hole in one’ book cover?

Yep, the most recent was The Man in the Rubber Mask for you guys.

What do you usually look for in a cover?

The right face for the story; it needs to hint at the themes and atmosphere just enough to get you to pick it up. If the design’s interesting or different as well as commercially savvy, then so much the better…

Do you have a preferred type of cover to design?

I’m a jack of all trades (hopefully master of some) so I enjoy lots of things. Most recently I’ve been creating unusual photographic scenes for Iain Banks, alongside illustrative children’s work - I’m getting paid to draw robots at the moment which is cool.

What do you need to start the design process?

Ideally something to read, but most importantly the freedom to do my job from a supportive client and author.

How is working with Unbound different to working with other publishers?

It’s very different. I feel more connected with the author and the book, and we’re developing a cover process that’s the most focused I’ve ever worked in, and that involves the authors like nowhere else.

Tell us about your perfect working environment.

My dream studio would have plenty of natural light, space to store my masses of books and a place to read (hopefully involving a classic Eames lounge chair), not to mention the photographic studio annex, personal cinema…

Seriously, you’d be surprised where and how you can produce successful work, so the answer is an appropriate environment for the project. If I need to read, sometimes a busy cafe is perfect, but generally it’s somewhere you can focus on what you’re doing without too much distraction.

Do you have a dream commission?

Recently I got the chance to work on Roald Dahl - he is my all-time favourite author, and I would LOVE to fully illustrate a children’s book someday.

Do you prefer to design fiction/non-fiction titles? Does this make a difference?

I genuinely don’t mind, I get so many interesting projects that there’s always a good mix.

What’s your favourite font?

Too much choice to say really, but at the moment I love a bit of

What’s your least favourite font?

I’m not that fussy, if an ugly font is right for a brief then I’ll use it!

Do you have a favourite colour scheme to work with?

Again, anything that works to meet a brief but my favourite colour is blue.

Which of the covers you’ve designed for Unbound has been your favourite?

Unbelievable was pretty cool, it did something quite new in the genre, closely followed by the Robert Llewellyn. But I’m working with one of my favourite illustrators on Constable Colgan’s Connectoscope right now which might beat them both.

What’s your favourite cover ever?

Anything by Roald Dahl when I was a kid. Quentin Blake still rocks.

What’s the hardest part of the process?

Remaining positive when you know a client’s choice is wrong.

What advice would you give to an aspiring book cover designer?

Start experimenting; design whenever you can, get any experience you can by working with designers you admire. Get yourself out there on and offline and don’t be shy, it’s not about knowing everything as soon as you start out - just showing you’ve got potential in and out of the design.

To see more of Mark’s amazing cover work, visit his website.

What are your favourite books?

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 10:57:00 +0100

Photo from Eowyn_89

Every so often one special book will call out to you like a ray of sunshine after a shower of rain and it will urge you to shout, ‘Yes! This is the one! This is the best book I’ve ever read!’

One person’s favourite book can be another’s nightmare – but it’s only through sharing our favourites that we’ll discover new gems.

Here’s what some Unbound authors picked as their favourites:

Richard Bray – SALT & OLD VINES

“The Essays of E. B. White. I used to carry this with me wherever I went. I’m on my third copy. It was on the reading list in my senior year in high school and exposed me to a measured tone of quiet wisdom at a time when nothing I did was measured, quiet or wise. Written through the middle 50 years of the twentieth century, there’s barely a word that isn’t still relevant today.”

Nick Valentine – CLUBS, DRUGS & CANAPÉS

“The Magus by John Fowles. It’s one giant, hugely entertaining head-fuck that stays with you long after the final intriguing page.”

Katie Huttlestone – KATE’S CLEAVAGE

“The Hours by Michael Cunningham, The Catcher in the Rye by J.D Salinger and The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath to name three! I’d say they are my favourites because they each deal with a snap shot of human emotion in its rarest and condensed form. I love reading novels that capture the intensity of our lives and are human-driven rather than fantasy.”

David Bramwell – THE NO.9 BUS TO UTOPIA

“A Disease of Language by Alan Moore. It is a perfect blend of poetry, psycho-geography, occultism and philosophy. Better still, it comes with illustrations.”

I Smith – PAVEMENT

“This is a question that does not have an immutable answer. There are many books that can occupy this space. Some of them would be The Roaches Have No King by Daniel Evan Weiss, The Trial by Kafka, Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World by Murakami, Heart of Darkness by Conrad, Noir by Oliver Pauvet and The Road by Cormac McCarthy. The list is long and ever-changing as are the reasons, though to generalise, I like books that challenge the comfortable assumptions by which most people run their lives.”

Vitali Vitaliev – VICTOR VODKIN’S NEW ANTI-GUIDE TO THE WORLD

“The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. Bulgakov had been writing it for over 20 years, but it only saw the light of day 25 years after his death. It is fascinatingly prescient, romantic, beautifully written and structured; acerbic, hilarious, poetic, phantasmagorical and much, much more… Also – a gripping read, with two main plots merging together in the very last paragraph, which leaves the reader with an amazing feeling of symmetry and satisfaction. Probably the best book written in the 20^th century.”

Lisa Gee – HAYLEYWORLD

“In my mid-teens it was Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf, along with a side dish of romantic poetry - particularly Keats’s ‘When I have fears…’ & Coleridge’s ‘Kubla Khan’ (pretentious? moi?). In my 20s it was a toss-up between Jane Austen’s Emma and War and Peace by Tolstoy. 30s - I’d vote for Alasdair Gray’s Lanark (I like a book that’s big enough to set up home in) & Tom Paulin’s The Day-Star of Liberty: William Hazlitt’s Radical Style, which is a brilliant prose-writing manual. And in my 40s? Marilynne Robinson’s novel Home along with her terrifying Mother Country: Britain, the Welfare State and Nuclear Pollution along with most things by Hilary Mantel. I love that she’s winning all the prizes.”

Kevin Parr – THE TWITCH

“The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. No other book will come close because no other book can provide such an escape as this did for my once troubled mind. I had some dark, dark days in my late teens and early twenties and The Lord of the Rings was often the only place of refuge. When I used to get near the end I would read slower and slower, I dreaded the book ending. Thank God for the appendices at the end of The Return of the King - they were like a dose of methadone to ease you out of Middle-Earth.”

Francis Pryor – THE LIFER’S CLUB

“It’s usually the one I happen to be reading, which in this case is one of Ian Rankin’s non-Rebus detective tales, The Impossible Dead. I’ve nothing against Rebus, but I’m trying to ration myself. I’ve now read 13 of the Rebus books and I’m putting off the day when I finish them all. As you may have realised from my Unbound project, I love crime fiction and I think Rankin is the master of the genre.”

Robert Ross – FORGOTTEN HEROES OF COMEDY

“Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne. Although it is very much a family audience novel, it was the first ‘adult’ book I remember reading after I graduated from Disneyland annuals and Whizzer & Chips. Naturally, there’s an exotic, nostalgic and adventurous pulse to the whole book. It effortlessly combines the thrill of travel with the spirit of British Imperialism. I still love it. In fact, I re-visit it every four or five years.”

Martin Baker – VERSION THIRTEEN

“Perfume, by Patrick Suskind. It’s super-smart, darkly funny, diamond-hard and deeply compassionate. Perfume is the only book I’ve read that I genuinely wish I’d written myself. That’s not arrogance, it’s just that I’m driven by passion, not competition, which is a great gift for a writer. You might wish you had someone else’s sales figures, but there’s immense comfort in recognising that you cannot and could not have written the other writer’s book. All that matters is writing the best book you can, being the best you can be. Perfume is the exception that proves the rule. Give me a time machine and a pillow and you’ll discover that I am the true author of Perfume, not the obscure German writer, Suskind – who was smothered by a mystery burglar who stole all his work back in the 1980s.”

Adrian Teal – THE GIN LANE GAZETTE

“Mr Bigh’s Bad Language by Greg Dening, about my pet topic, the mutiny on HMS Bounty. Dening has an uncanny ability to milk every last drop of information from what he calls ‘the texted past’ and the book totally changed my approach to history.”

E O Higgins – CONVERSATIONS WITH SPIRITS

“This will probably change in about ten minutes – but, for the purposes of committing to something, I will say George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London. Orwell’s writing is wonderfully vivid, his characters are very human (despite the purgatory in which they find themselves), and the story is, of course, still very pertinent in the modern day. The 1920s ‘street slang’ that Orwell details is also intriguing. Terms such as ‘boozer’, ‘clodhopper’ and ‘knock-off’ are still with us; whereas others, like ‘sprowsie’, ‘mugfaker’ and ‘tosheroon’ are sadly lost. It is everything a book should be – just an exceptionally good read.”

Who is your favourite author?

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 15:58:00 +0100

Photo by State Library of Victoria Collections

Charles Dickens. AA Milne. Jane Austen. Jamie Oliver…

With so many authors it’s difficult to name one absolute favourite – often our most beloved books aren’t written by our must-read author. But if you had to pick one, who would you choose?

Here are some of the Unbound authors’ favourite writers with a little reason why:

Lisa Gee – HAYLEYWORLD

“Marilynne Robinson. Because of the depth of silence, reflection and compassion that permeates her work, prose that’s fresh, sharp and quiet as the air on a bright January morning (or, in 2013, an April morning). I’d start with Home, but also read her essays. They’re not easy, but more than repay the effort.”

Francis Pryor – THE LIFER’S CLUB

“Blimey, that’s difficult! I think it would have to be Eric Blair, or George Orwell, to use his pen name, but as we’re talking about the man, let’s stick to his real name. I started to read his books in my early twenties and I think I began with The Road to Wigan Pier. Orwell showed me the importance of being honest to myself. You can deceive as many people as you want (or can get away with), but as soon as you dupe yourself, you’re in big trouble. Ultimately I think that’s what 1984 is all about. Yes, it is a political satire, but it’s also about self-deception, surely the biggest crime you can commit, as everything else follows-on from it.”

I Smith – PAVEMENT

“I would always recommend Kafka; everybody should read Kafka. Twice…”

Vitali Vitaliev – VICTOR VODKIN’S NEW ANTI-GUIDE TO THE WORLD

“Bulgakov. His life and his writing were inseparable. His life is a lesson of dignity, integrity and perseverance, which every writer, and every human being, must learn. The Master and Margarita and Dog’s Heart would be my first recommendations.”

Adrian Teal – THE GIN LANE GAZETTE

“Douglas Adams. I love the way he made the ordinary extraordinary. Either of his Dirk Gently books would be my pick, as they bubble with ideas and inventiveness.”

Martin Baker – VERSION THIRTEEN

“Charles Dickens. I love the dedication of a life lived in words, the passion, the profusion of character, the complexity of narrative, the radical use of language – outrageous at the time (see the opening passage of Bleak House, which caused great controversy). Dickens was not the most consistent of writers – hardly surprising, given his prolific output – but the sublime narrative peaks far surpass the occasional troughs.”

Nick Valentine – CLUBS, DRUGS & CANAPÉS

“A young Mediterranean-based Hemingway for his languid, escapist take on an era I should have been born in and the creation of quirky, engaging characters I wish I had broken bread with.”

Robert Ross – FORGOTTEN HEROES OF COMEDY

“That’s an almost impossible question, but I suppose the author I genuinely cherish more than any other is Charles Dickens. My Dad was a devotee and I inherited his treasured, leather-bound collection of Dickens. With respect to M.R. James, Dickens wrote the very best ghost story of all time – The Signalman – and it almost goes without saying that Great Expectations should be consumed by absolutely everyone.”

Richard Bray – SALT & OLD VINES

“William Faulkner. He’s hard work. Some of his books defeat me. But his sense of mission as a writer is inspiring. His Nobel Prize acceptance speech should be close to every aspiring author’s heart. The last few paragraphs of his short story The Fire and the Hearth from Go Down Moses are as moving as anything I’ve ever read or seen.”

E O Higgins – CONVERSATIONS WITH SPIRITS

“There’s just nothing bad to say about P G Wodehouse - his books are beautifully crafted, his use of language is exceptional, and his characters – though perhaps not always very likely – are always brilliantly funny. The fictional world that Wodehouse creates with his 96 novels is, putting it simply, just much better than real life. Evelyn Waugh once described PG Wodehouse as ‘the head of my profession’ - and he was right. After all, when did Shakespeare ever ponder the eternal question of why dachshunds wear their ears inside out?”

Unbound Live! at Hay Festival 2013

Thu, 11 Apr 2013 16:48:52 +0100

We’re delighted to announce that there will be two Unbound Lives at the Hay Festival of Literature this year.

Unbound Live 1 - Monday 27th May - 7pm, Digital Stage. £6. BOOK HERE.

Legendary writer and performer Salena Godden pitches her childhood memoir, Red Dwarf star Robert Llewellyn presents his science fiction sequel, novelist Charles Fernyhough asks whether neuroscience changes love, Strangler Hugh Cornwell and archaeologist-turned- crimewriter Francis Pryor compete for your support with a little help from publisher and QI Elf-master John Mitchinson. Light poetic relief from performance poet George Chopping

Unbound Live 2 - Tuesday 28th May - 7pm, Starlight Stage. £5. BOOK HERE.

Meet comedian Katy Brand and her hilarious alter-ego Brenda Monk, hear Adrian Teal tell how utterly scandalous the C18th really was, join David Bramwell on his quest to find Utopia, and learn how everything is connected to everything else with Steve Colgan. Light poetic and extremely humorous relief from performance poet, George Chopping.

A fly on the wall at an Unbound cover meeting

Thu, 11 Apr 2013 16:42:00 +0100

As you already know, we’re not like traditional publishers. But one of the lesser-known ways in which Unbound differs from other publishing houses is that we think it’s really important to have our authors more deeply involved in the cover design process. We always encourage them to meet with the designer; the book is their baby, after all.

The process starts with an initial meeting with the designer (the fantastic Mark Ecob in this instance), the author (it’s E. O. Higgins today), our Production Manager Cathy and Isobel, the editor of the book. Each comes to the meeting with an open mind, but also with a few ideas to begin the discussion. All Unbound books normally have two covers to be considered: one for the jacket which wraps around the beautiful cloth-bound special edition hardback books, and another similar jacket, usually for a paperback, for the version that can be bought in the shops.

This morning, as everyone begins to discuss the book – the excellent Conversations With Spirits – talk focuses on alcoholic protagonist Trelawney Hart and how the title of the novel is a spectacular pun around alcoholism and the supernatural. The image of a bottle is played around with for a while as Mark starts to get creative with pen and paper. This segues into ideas of early twentieth century alcohol labels, old cigarette packets and even Ouija boards, prompting some raucous laughter as they recall Higgins’ hilarious (and rather sweaty) stint as the host of a séance which took place last Halloween. As the giggles die down, thoughts turn to mist, smoke, steam and all things mystical and opaque. ‘Yes, there is a lot of mist in the book’, agrees Edward.

After considering some of the symbolic motifs that could be used for the cover, someone mentions old magician and Houdini posters and Mark, of course, has an example up his iPad sleeve. To reproduce a poster like this we’d need to have permission from the original illustrator or their estate, and once granted Mark could start to make it work for the cover of the book.

With so many ideas being thrown around, Mark now has a lot to work with. He asks Higgins to send him any examples of old magician and movie posters that he likes and to have a look out for any turn of the century labels that have interesting typefaces. Higgins leaves to meet a fellow author at a nearby pub, and the Unbound staff watch him go longingly – it’s back to work for everyone else.

You can still support Conversations With Spirits and get your name in the back here.

How Ade Teal crowdfunded The Gin Lane Gazette

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 12:55:00 +0000

We love THE GIN LANE GAZETTE - a beautifully illustrated compendium of the ‘best bits’ from a fictional newspaper of the latter 1700s.

Author Ade Teal successfully crowdfunded the project on Unbound. Here’s how he did it.

How did you start off telling people about your project? Twitter and email. Also did press releases to local press, and did a local radio interview. Went in Londonist too. Just found anybody who had publications or online ventures that related to any of the topics and themes in the book and asked them to mention it.

What do you think worked best in terms of people knowing about your book? Twitter, and imploring people to retweet. Also, guest blogging - piggy-backing on other people’s success, essentially - was invaluable.

What do you think worked in terms of people discovering the project and then actually pledging for it? Making it clear they were getting very involved (subscriber’s list, pledging parties, and the personal elements of the pledging levels). Also, all the sex helped [we’re assuming Ade means the sex in the book, not that he offered sex for pledges! - Ed]

Which channels did you find the most effective for gaining support for your pledges and how did you use them? Twitter. It was shameless plugging, and people know that, but if you do it in a witty way and take the piss out of yourself while you’re doing it, people don’t mind. Do it little but often. And keep your Shed updated, not just with droning on about how tough writing and crowd-funding is, but with interesting, engaging stuff. I wrote short historical pieces that were never destined to end up in the book just to give a taste of what was to come. And posted cartoons.

What did you spend time on that you think didn’t work as well as it could have done, or wasn’t beneficial? Trying to get national papers interested in a book that doesn’t exist yet. Journalists don’t understand that, as they have no imagination.

If you had to go back and start the process again, what would you do differently and why? Nothing, apart from the above.

What advice would you give to new Unbound authors? When you first launch, there’s a honeymoon period when pledges flood in. Then it slackens off in the middle. Don’t lose heart. This is where the real work starts. Do a press release. If it’s a novel set in a specific location, tell the press local to that location. Get some business cards printed with the book’s title and the link to your Unbound page on them, and scatter them like confetti. Organise local events where you go and talk to audiences about your book and the Unbound model, and make sure your local media knows you’re doing it. Email everyone in your address book about it, and get them to spread the word. Put a link at the bottom of your email signature. I did some Gin Lane Gazette Xmas cards which I sent out to all my clients. I even put a piece in my parish magazine, and did posters for a pub!

Buy THE GIN LANE GAZETTE.

Follow Ade on Twitter: @AdeTeal

Follow Unbound on Twitter: @Unbounders

Our favourite World Poetry Day haiku

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 15:08:00 +0000

Photo from tkw954 on Flickr

Thanks very much to everyone who sent us your World Poetry Day haikus! We had lots of fun reading them and even made up a few of our own. It was great to get involved in our small way and prove that you don’t have to be Wordsworth to enjoy writing poetry…

Our CEO Dan says it was a very close call, but after much deliberation we can announce that the winner of the competition is :

——

Tulips in a jug

Shoved leaves squeak like wet rubber

Raucous spring balloons

- by Joan Lennon

——

Congratulations, Joan! A gorgeous hardback copy of George Chopping’s Smoking With Crohn’s will be whizzing its way to you shortly.

The runner up prize goes to Thom Wong, whose haiku made us giggle:

——

As spring approaches

I think of how I bumped my head

Who are you again?

- by Thom Wong

——

Get in touch, Thom, and we’ll send you an ebook version of George’s book.

We were interested to see that most of the haikus were about spring. Perhaps, like us, you’re looking forward to it finally arriving, even if in the meantime we’re having to make do with putting some daffodils on the windowsill and turning the heating up to 11. We’ll leave you with some of our other favourites from the competition.

——

World string words unbound

Birds take flight, soft flapping wings

So much to see now

- by Paddy Dean

——

The clouds they do leak

Where is this ‘spring’ of which we speak?

Sun, you are too meek

- by Wendy

——

Wind, rain and blizzards.

Snow freezes spring flowers. Ten days to

British Summer Time

- by Heather Culpin

——

Our sacrosanct place

Intricate with memories

Nothing without us

- by James Atkinson

World Poetry Day haiku competition

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 12:36:00 +0000

Today is World Poetry Day and like all publishers we love poetry. We’ve already published George Chopping’s brilliant first collection Smoking With Crohn’s and we’re hoping that renowned lady poet Salena Godden’s memoir Springfield Road, which is peppered with daydreams and poetic language, will be funded soon too.

To celebrate this ancient form of literary expression we want to see your best haikus. Post yours on Twitter with the hashtag #haiunbound & #WPD (if there’s space!) or on our post on Facebook.

Our favourite (chosen by CEO Dan!) will receive a gorgeous cloth-bound, hardback special edition copy of Smoking With Crohn’s by our very own George Chopping, the man John Hegley calls ‘the cream of Devon poets’. We’ll announce the winner by lunchtime on Friday 22nd March.

To give you a bit of inspiration, and because we wish spring weather would arrive to cheer us up, here’s one of our favourite of George’s haikus:

12 Words Worth

On the twelfth of March

bluebells’ heads shrivel up but

daffodils flourish

We can’t wait to read yours. Good luck!

“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies," said Jojen. "The man who never reads lives only one.”

Mon, 18 Mar 2013 12:11:14 +0000

There are more than a few self-confessed Game of Thrones addicts collecting around the water cooler here at Unbound HQ, and this week we’ve been thinking about what Jojen says in George R. R. Martin’s A Dance With Dragons. We might have Jojen in common in the office, but there are plenty of other books dear to our hearts for special – and very personal – reasons.

Out of every book springs a whole host of characters for a reader to meet, and these are the people who stay with us long after the last page has been turned and the book’s put back on the shelf. Are there any characters from your favourite books you wish you could be friends with in real life?

Here’s what the Unbounders said:

Isobel (Editor) – “I’d definitely have a pint with George Emerson from E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View. I bet he could teach me a thing or two about life…”

Dan (CEO and co-founder) – “Snufkin from The Moomins by Tove Jansson. Surely the most philosophically astute of all fictional characters. I’d like to wander aimlessly through fields and forests listening to him.”

Adam (Outreach) – “George! Out of George’s Marvelous Medicine. He’s amazing; he makes giant animals. GIANT ANIMALS. Admittedly, his grandma is now like ten feet tall, but that would be so cool! Imagine his cooking!”

Xander (Head of Digital) – “The Giant Alexander. Because he is the Giant Alexander. He’s from The Giant Alexander by Frank Herrmann.”

Deirdra (Events) – “Mine would be Cathy Earnshaw from Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. I have a love/hate relationship with Cathy but she’s my ultimate gothic heroine. She’s exasperating and irritating, but so loveable at the same time. Melodramatic, selfish, passionate and generally a bit bananas, there would never be a dull moment with Miss Cathy around.”

Jenna (PR) – “I’d like to be John Self’s friend in Martin Amis’ Money. I just think he would be completely inappropriate and hilarious to share a whiskey with.”

Justin (Creative Director and co-founder) – “I’d like to be friends with Titus Groan from Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast trilogy. Titus inherits the title of 77th Earl of Gormeghast whilst still a child but is torn between his pride in his ancient family and their traditions and his desire to escape the endless cycle of meaningless rituals in the vast and crumbling castle of Gormenghast. In the end he escapes, just like I told him to.”

Christoph (Chairman of the Board) – “Snoopy. I always liked Snoopy.”

Cathy (Production Manager) – “My favourite series of books as a child was Malory Towers by Enid Blyton and I would have given anything to have been friends with the protagonist Darrell Rivers. I loved how smart, strong-willed and determined she was, but that she wasn’t portrayed as perfect. Her adventures made me want to go to boarding school and have midnight feasts more than anything in the world.”

Caitlin (Community and Editorial) – “I would like to be friends with Sally Lockhart from Philip Pullman’s Sally Lockhart Mysteries quartet. Sally is brave, clever and independent, preferring to do things the hard way rather than give up. I think she would be a fierce and loyal friend; we could solve mysteries together and she could show me the sights and scenes of Victorian London.”

Ilana (Head of Strategic Engagement) – “I would be friends with Roald Dahl’s BFG because we could have lots of lovely adventures. I’d ride on his shoulders and cause a scene in London, and when I went to bed I know he’d give me lovely dreams.”

John (Publisher and co-founder) – “I always thought I’d get on really well with Sir John Falstaff, Shakespeare’s great jolly hero. We share a love of food, big nights out, have beards, and I think are fundamentally kind in our dealings with the world and other people. A session with Falstaff would be epic.”

Are these characters as special to you as they are to us? And which fictional character would you most like to be friends with?

can i support this unbound book smart tart from the USA?

Mon, 31 Dec 2012 11:00:44 +0000

Of course you can. There will be an added charge for postage, and the address that we ship books to is the one we have registered for you on the site. I hope this helps. The Unbounders.

FlashFic WINNER! The Returned, by Julia Coleman

Fri, 30 Nov 2012 13:00:18 +0000

Children played here once. The remains of a coloured football lay like a spoiled soufflé in the corner by the wall among a pile of dark, sodden autumn leaves.

There was other debris too, the rusting wheel of a scooter emerging from the long grass onto the pathway – a death trap if you didn’t spot it – and an old fashioned doll. She was sat looking out from behind the window, and her sightless eyes followed the path all the way down the garden to the rotting wooden gate, as though she was waiting for someone.

She had matted chestnut hair and only one foot, and I had a sudden and terribly strong image of a warming fire in the hearth, and a little girl in a tearful tug of war with a playful puppy, and I found myself smiling benignly at the doll through the filthy glass.

After I had fought with the stiff and creaking lock, finally turning the key with what seemed a peculiar ease when I had almost given up, and then with the door itself, which had seemed determined to keep me on the outside, I stepped gingerly into what might once have been the kitchen. Much of the ceiling now lay shattered on the floor, exposing the faded wallpaper and ornate ceiling rose of the bedroom above.

There was little else in the room except for a large porcelain ‘Butler’ sink and over it a brass tap, its end discoloured green. A solid oak table stood in the centre, a thick layer of dust covering the well-worn surface, upon which a message, clearly written with a finger, said ‘Welcome Home Darling’ which was not shocking in itself, but for the fact it looked as though it had been scribed there in the dust only moments before.

Dismissing the small shiver in my spine as somebody ‘walked over my grave’, I crossed the kitchen floor towards the cellar door. Like the last one, it would not budge, resisting every turn of the handle, every push or pull. Eventually I decided a shove with my shoulder would do it, but just my left shoulder was about to make contact with the grimy peeling paintwork, the latch clicked and the door swung open.

Most people might have been a little frightened at this point, but I had never held any belief in ghosts and such like; it always seemed like a lot of nonsense, and anyway I needed to get down into that cellar, measure up and check for moisture content and any obvious signs of flooding. A property of this age and this close to the underground river may stand on very perilous ground, and if, as Mr Connolly had implied, all three terraces were to be bulldozed in order to rebuild, then as the surveyor, it was very important that I got the water levels correct in my report.

I was down there for just a few moments, ten at most, when I became aware of a sudden, strong feeling of sheer, utter joy; the trouble was I just couldn’t have truthfully said it was mine. The feeling stayed for about three or four minutes, and it was so lovely I smiled as I made my notes, and when I went up the stairs I found to my delight that I was whistling that old World War Two song ‘We’ll Meet Again’, and I had a spring in my step I hadn’t found in quite a while, at least not since the divorce. Twenty-three years of marriage and every one of them had choked and squeezed the joie de vivre out of me. Trapped, that’s what I was from the moment I said ‘I do’ and signed my life away in the Register.

I shut the cellar door behind me, walked across the kitchen to the back door I had entered through, and turned the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. No matter how much I tried, the thing was completely stuck. The tiny windows would be impossible to get through and there was no other way through the rest of the house, the property having been condemned some time ago.

Just seconds before the ceiling fell I sensed it, but there was simply nowhere to go. The whole place must have caved in as the last thing I saw as I looked up was that beautiful plaster ceiling rose falling through the gap in the kitchen ceiling.

Sometime afterwards I became aware of myself once more, and I must admit to feeling a little wobbly.

It’s very strange, but the ceiling is back where it should be, and the kitchen feels warm and oddly familiar, I just can’t put my finger on it…

…but then it’s just so difficult to write in this dust.

At last, we are very excited to announce the winner of the Conversations with...

Fri, 30 Nov 2012 13:00:00 +0000

At last, we are very excited to announce the winner of the Conversations with Spirits supernaturally-themed flashfic competition. It was an incredibly hard decision for the judging panel - the quality of ALL the entries was absolutely top notch, which was why we wanted to recognise Paul, Loris, Claire and Ian’s brilliant writing. We would love to invite the four of you to E O Higgins’ launch party to congratulate you properly.

Now! Without further ado, the winner of the competition, and two tickets to the launch party, a signed first edition of Conversations with Spirits and a character named after them in the book itself is…

Julia Coleman, for The Returned.

This quite literally hair-raising composition (which you can read here) had us all riveted. Congratulations Julia, and we hope to see you and all the other finalists at the launch party for a celebratory toast and lots of hearty back patting.

Thank you also to all of the other entrants in this competition. We’ve thoroughly enjoyed hosting alongside E O Higgins and the Jottify team.

FlashFic Runner-Up: The Organ Grinder, by Claire Rowe

Thu, 29 Nov 2012 14:53:00 +0000

Jimmy was running. The sounds of the city, including the slapping of his booted feet on the slippery cobbles, were muffled by the fog, but the wail of the street organ was clear and sharp. It seemed to be coming from ahead even though he had taken to his heels in order to leave it behind. Was there a scampering of paws beside him? Was there the faint clink of a chain in the mist? Surely it was just his imagination.

His mam would be worried if he wasn’t home soon but he daren’t head back towards the marketplace in case the organ grinder was still there. He would keep going on towards Dunoon Hill and cut through the park. That would be quickest. The oscillating meow of Ring a Ring o’ Roses herded him, stumbling blindly, towards a thinning in the murk.

Jimmy was breathing hard as he burst from the tendrils of brume and was hit with the forlorn keening of the organ ahead of him. The organ grinder was hunched over his instrument, nursing the noise before it fled his grimy fingers and sought cleaner ears in which to shelter. The musician’s face was hidden in the shadow of his creased top hat but Jimmy knew what he looked like. All the kids knew the organ grinder. Didn’t their mams tell them every night?

The organ grinder has one eye and pointy teeth. The organ grinder has the same face as his little monkey. The organ grinder has a mouth like a phonograph horn and that’s where the music comes out. The organ grinder eats little boys who are late home. The organ grinder has red eyes like a wolf. The organ grinder has no eyes and needs his monkey to guide him. The organ grinder will get you. If you hear the music; run!

Oh, yes, Jimmy knew the organ grinder alright. He was a pungent, rheumy-eyed old man with a rickety box and a flea-ridden monkey. Last week, Frank from up the hill had jeered at him while Jimmy had thrown stones at the animal. They were twelve, fer Chris’’s sake, and too old for the bogey-man tales their mams told them to make them behave. Little Jenny Goodhew was scared of the organ grinder. She was only ten and she said he whispered nasty things to her while she scrubbed the front step. That was why they had rushed to her defence with curses and cobbles flung in equal measure. Seeing the old man at the market recognise him and point morosely at the fiend who had been the cause of the bandage on his monkey’s tail had panicked the boy and so he had run.

And yet… This organ grinder was …different. He didn’t sway and hum along. He didn’t have a dancing monkey at his side. He was poker straight, yet slumped like a jacket on a hat-stand. He turned the handle sporadically as he shuffled forward. Lon-don-Bridgeisfall-ing-down – fallingdown-fall-ing-down, it wheezed forlornly. He didn’t look up as he approached and Jimmy was starting to wonder if his mam was right after all.

Step by shambling step Jimmy gave ground as the organ grinder took it. The boy was being pushed back into the fog. This time he was sure he heard the chime of a chain on stone and then there were claws at his neck. The monkey! It jabbered in his ears as it wrapped the chain around Jimmy’s throat and pulled with an unsettling strength.

Gagging, Jimmy stumbled forward into the shadow of the organ. The music was not coming from the horn on the side of the box; in fact, the funnel was sucking him towards it. The force of suction was so strong but there was no breeze, or any change in the fog. It was acting only on Jimmy. He clawed at the feet of the organ grinder, but he could not get purchase on the slimy corduroy trousers between his fingers.

With a crunch that stopped the music dead, Jimmy was squeezed into the phonograph horn. The organ grinder continued to turn the handle, but now the delicious waft of roasting meat was emitted in the place of strangled folksong. As the man walked off up the hill into the fog, the shape of the monkey grew beside him until it seemed almost child-sized. With each step, the white vapour cleared until a shabby old man with a tray of wares was clearly visible to potential customers.

“Hot pies!” cried the monkey-child beside him. “Fresh-made, hot meat pies!”

FlashFic Runner-Up: The Pyschic World of Marvin Clay, by Ian Williams

Thu, 29 Nov 2012 14:52:00 +0000

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seats,” announced the assistant. “The moment has arrived to welcome the Master of the Spirit Plane, Psychic Troubadour and Occultist Extraordinaire, Mr Marvin Clay.”

A smattering of applause followed the announcement as the dozen people gathered in the small church hall found space around a circular, baize-covered table. As the doors clattered open the assistant flicked off the lights, leaving only a single, bare bulb burning above the table. A figure emerged from the dark. Marvin Clay would have been an unremarkable looking man, were he not clad from head to toe in shiny black polyester, a red satin-lined cape hanging loosely from his thin frame. The look was topped off with an ill-fitting blond toupee balanced precariously on his orange-hued face.

“Greetings, fellow travellers of the spiritual highway,” intoned Clay, as he raised his arms in a supplicating gesture. “Greetings and welcome to an evening that will be both challenging and rewarding, as together we navigate the shores of night’s eternal sleep.”

With a flourish, Clay divested himself of his cape which was swiftly gathered up by the assistant and removed from sight. Giving an affected sigh, he lowered himself into the single vacant seat at the table and, with a predatory glance, took in the people gathered around him. This looks like an easy crowd, he thought.

A handful of familiar faces had assembled tonight. Opposite Clay sat June White, an elderly woman in a tightly buttoned woollen coat, hoping to hear from her sister who had recently died. Across from her sat Nik, a man who wished to contact his departed mother seeking approval for his “choice of lifestyle”. The rest were strangers, the rest, that is, apart from the man immediately to Clay’s right. Posing as another sitter, Herman Getz mingled with them before the séance started; gathering snippets of information about their lives before passing that to Clay via an intricate system of finger movements while their hands were joined in the sitter’s circle.

“Now, friends, I would ask you to join hands with those to either side as we seek to peer through the veil to the other place. As the spirits gently enter me, for I sense that they are with us tonight, I will be able to communicate messages to you from those beloved ones who have passed across. Please do not interrupt me but follow any instructions given by my assistant, Mr Head. So, let us begin.”

The room was quiet, dark and seemed cooler to Clay than when he had entered. Above the table, the light bulb swung imperceptibly from side to side. A series of squeezes from Getz determined that the first message Clay would deliver this evening would be from the old lady’s sister. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and began.

“I have Ethel here; she is calling to us from the other side. Ethel, speak up dear, do you have a message for June? What’s that? Ethel says she is happy you’re here and she knows you miss her, but she wants you not to worry. She knows that you’ve not been feeling too well of late. She wants you to take it easy.”

Overhead, the bulb dimmed then flickered. A chill settled over the room. Opening one eye slightly, Clay noticed Arthur Head staring off into the distance, an unsettled look on his face. All other eyes were on him. Another series of squeezes interrupted his thoughts before he continued speaking.

“Ethel says you’ve come into some money recently, but to be careful with it, don’t spend it straightaway as you might have need of it soon.” He smiled to himself.

With a flash the bulb suddenly exploded, showering the sitters with tiny shards of glass and plunging the room into inky darkness. Around the table, people cried out in alarm before a piercing shriek cut through the noise. The stench of burning flesh and hair filled the air while the sound of hundreds of tiny feet clattered round and round the table. Chairs scraped across the floor as people jumped up, vainly trying to escape the terrible darkness. The shrieking resumed, followed by a loud pop just audible over the din, and then, as suddenly as it started, the cries stopped and the lights clicked on.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please stay calm,” called the assistant from across the room, where he had managed to get the remaining lights on. As the sitters stared, fear etched bold on their terrified faces, the singed remains of Clay’s cape fluttered down to land on the table. When the haze of orange smoke cleared all that could be seen of Marvin Clay was his toupee, gently smouldering on his chair.

Join George Chopping at The Society Club, December 1st

Thu, 29 Nov 2012 11:35:12 +0000

The Society Club and Unbound welcomes poet George Chopping as he reads from his brilliant new collection; ‘Smoking with Crohn’s’.Join us in Soho on Saturday, December 1^st 7pm – 9pm.

A few years ago George Chopping left a glittering career as a shelf filler for a major supermarket. Now he works in a cafe in Oxford. He was born in Torquay. John Hegley has called him “the cream of Devon poets”.

In 2002, as an alternative means of therapy to excessive drinking and jay-walking in South London traffic, Chopping started writing. At first he kept a diary; noting daily observations and recording a satirical account of his views of society and of his place within it. A year and two very short stories later, he had discovered his passion for words, and particularly poetry.

Lightheartedly describing his experiences of living with Crohn’s disease, drifting in and out of minimum wage jobs, spying on waterfowl from his narrowboat home, and people watching in pubs, shops, trains and other pubs, George’s poems appealed to most who heard him read them – even those who did not consider themselves poetically inclined.

George has been performing, comparing and organising gigs for the last few years. He regularly performs at venues all over the country, including participating in the Edinburgh Fringe and at venues and festivals around the UK

“…Had the audience in hysterics” THE SUNDAY TIMES

“…One of Unbound’s raw talents, and, as quickly becomes obvious, a true performance poet. MANCHESTER LITERATURE FESTIVAL BLOG

“…Droll and witty poetry delivered in amusingly deadpan style” THE OXFORD TIMES

“A poet who bridges the page-stage divide and demonstrates that a book can be quirky
and slightly mad”
APPLES & SNAKES

“…A perfectly balanced mixture of sweet natured observation and steel melting bile” NIGHTSHIFT

“…Impossible for the sane reader to read, so I lit the fire with it!” SIOBHAN (You Tube comment)

“…The Cream of Devon poets” JOHN HEGLEY

Join us for a night of poetry, sly humour, and cocktails galore as we welcome George Chopping to The Society Club

Saturday, December 1^st
7pm – 9pm

The Society Club
12 Ingestre Place
Soho, W1F0JF

Copies of ‘Smoking with Crohn’s’ will be available for purchase on the night

FlashFic Highly Commended: Chain Me Not in Heaven, by Paul Holbrook

Wed, 28 Nov 2012 13:17:24 +0000

They said she was evil. They said that she’d go and burn in hell for what she done to them kids. All I can say is that when I saw her laid out on the slab in front of me, all cold and lifeless, I thought she the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. When old Barleykins left the room, I told her so as well, told her that I would have given anything to meet her, to look into her eyes and tell her that she was the only girl for me and that we should be together forever.

I spent the night in The Two Brewers and had spent up all my spare ready for the week. I thought that I could forget the sadness that had come upon me; forget the woman of my dreams, as she was already dead. Little did I know that back there in the infirmary we had made a bond me and her, and it was a bond that would take me to places I never thought existed - dark places.

Back at my lodgings, is when she first showed herself. As I drifted off to sleep, that’s when I heard her voice, it was soft and soothing and I knew, who it was. She was stood at the end of my bed.

“Want to be with me, do you?” she asked and I felt like just reaching out and touching her. “I can make that happen, my lover. I can make it so that we’ll never be parted. You just needs to do me some work, my good man.” I couldn’t speak, I was enchanted, I looked at her face and took in her beauty, then nodded to show that I was game.

The next night, I set about our dark business. “Start slow,” she had told me, “build up a reputation. You need to work at this if you want to find me at the end.” Just after midnight, I found myself outside George Yard Buildings where I waited just behind the archway in the dark. “Be patient,” her voice whispered in my ear, “You just be patient, my man, and you will get your rewards.”

I heard the drunken footsteps approaching, I felt my hackles raise and I gripped my blade so hard my knuckles cracked. The first blow was the hardest and my, did she squeal, but only for a moment, because my gander was up and I felt the blood rushing through me as I tore at her. All the time I did it, I heard my darling’s voice calling me on, telling me to rip her, telling me to do my work. I left our first at the bottom of the stairway and made my way back to Wentworth Street. Lucky for me I weren’t seen, because I was covered in claret and shaking with the excitement of it all. I got to my room and shut the door behind me, breathing hard. My love was stood there waiting, “Grand work, lad,” she said, “very good for a first go, but you got to get better if we’re to be joined.”

A couple of weeks later I played my games again down Buck’s Row. I enjoyed that job, took my time and used one of Mr Barleykins sharp knives from the infirmary. All the time she whispered to me, telling how with each splendid slice I would get nearer to her.

I worked hard for her and kept my day job going, I even helped Barleykins when some of the ladies was brought in. I had a smile when that happened and I could hear a little laugh from my girl, not loud enough to be heard by anyone but me.

It all finished just three months after it had started, our work, I had really got a taste for it, becoming a real master at cutting, taking bits out when I wanted to and making a pretty mess for me and the dear old boss to go through the next day.

When the last one came, she told me to make it my best and give a good account of myself, I did the works as well as I could. “You’re done now, my man,” she whispered as I left the whore. “You’ve earned my companionship, just as I promised.” So I walked to the river and threw in my bag of tools, keeping one back for the last job. I watched the black drops fall into the water below. As my strength left and I dropped, it was like falling into her arms, the water was cold but I was warm, in the embrace of my love.

Set to be together.

Made for each other.

Made for Hell.

FlashFic Highly Commended: The Night Before the Morning After, by Loris Clements

Wed, 28 Nov 2012 13:15:52 +0000

The cold from the bare boards is numbing, and my spine is rigid against the door frame. I reach up and rattle the handle. Locked. On my knees in the dark I press my ear against the keyhole, straining for the sound of breathing.

“Are you there?”

“Yes.” At last.

“Will you open the door?” I’ve never begged for anything in my life.

“No.”

“Why not?” A pause. Shuffling.

“It isn’t up to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It isn’t up to me to let you in.”

“But I want to see you.”

“You’ll have to wait. You wouldn’t like it in here, anyway.”

“How do you know? I might. You’re in there, so why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re just better off out there.”

I put my eye to the keyhole, but the darkness is total. My body could use some sleep, but I pray the cold and the lonely hardness of the floor will keep me awake.

“I just want to talk to you. I miss you.”

“You’re talking to me now.”

“But not properly. You’re in there and I’m out here. I want to lie down on the bed and wrap my arms around you.”

“I know.”

Another long pause. Can I hear snuffling?

“Are you still there?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“How are you?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t expect it to be like this.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you won’t leave me alone, for starters. Can’t you give me any peace?”

There sharpness in his voice hurts even more than my frozen knees.

“And you’re late. Where were you, before?” he demands.

“You know where. At the hospital. They kept me waiting. Paperwork.”

“No, I know that. Not then, before. Before before.”

“Oh. My mother’s.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Why? Where did you think I was?”

For the longest moment, I wait. Then, “Where did you think I was?”

“I don’t know. With him, maybe.”

“Him? Him, who?” Frozen realisation stabs at my heart. “Oh my god, is that why?

Another silence. Then, “Yes.”

The cold holds me firmly in its grip as I rattle the handle and pound the door with my fists.

“Let me in, you idiot! How can you think that? Let me through that door right now! There’s only you. Always. I love you.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. It’s too soon.” Misery and love bind us together on either side of the locked door as I press, sobbing, against it.

***

As a pale stain of light seeps around the windows, and November draws its first, tentative breath, I clamber stiffly to my feet and try the door handle again. It turns with a quiet click and the door swings silently open into the empty room.

The bedroom curtains are open, and thin sunlight falls on a smooth quilt. I lie down, fully-clothed, on a bed scarcely warmer than the floor. The heavy platinum ring on the chain around my neck is bulky and uncomfortable, so with reluctance I take it off. I go to place it carefully on the marble-topped washstand beside the bed, but at the kiss of stone on my hand I drop it, and it rattles like old bones. Cold stone. Cold metal. Cold bones. I lie on my back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, the silence from the empty space beside me drowning out all possibility of sleep.