Pulp Idol: Firsts 2012

By Writing on the Wall

Pulp Idol - Firsts 2012 is the third collection of first chapters from new and up and coming novelists who were finalists in the Pulp Idol writing competition organised by the Liverpool-based Writing on the Wall Festival. The competition takes place each year during the festival (usually held in May) and features writers taking part in a series of heats and a final, reading from their work and answering questions from the judges, who are all published writers themselves. The purpose of the competition, and the 'Firsts' publication, is to support new writers and bring their work to the attention of publishers and agents. The judges for the Pulp Idol 2012 final said of this year's collections of 'Firsts':

This year's Pulp Idol yielded some of the most powerful and original prose I've read in a long time. A truly notable collection of Firsts. - Helen Walsh, Brass, Go to Sleep, Once Upon a Time in England

The standard of the entries I read at this year’s Pulp Idol was exceptional. It’s a superb competition, seeking talent in places where many don’t think to look, and the variety of the writing I was introduced to impressed me enormously. - Luke Brown, Senior Editor, Tindal Street Press

New writers pen their first chapters, and judging by this standard, the future of the novel is in good hands. - Debbie Morgan, Disappearing Home

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writing on the Wall
• Release date: Jan 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301695645

Writing on the Wall

Writing on the Wall celebrates writing, diversity, tolerance, story telling and humour through controversy, inquiry and debate. WoW works with diverse communities across Merseyside, organising projects including Rebel Rants, Pulp Idol and Liverpool Young Writers, which culminate in an annual festival that brings together local audiences and the best local, national and international writers, artists and social commentators.

Book preview

Firsts

2012

Published by Writing on the Wall, Smashwords Edition

Cover design Wes Storey

Proofreading Debra Williams

Copyright © remains with the authors, 2012

Writing on the Wall

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www.writingonthewall.org.uk

Firsts

2012

Contents

i Foreword

ii The Chapters

1 Albion Jon Gale

2 Made to Measure Jessica Malone

3 The Ginger Stepson Adam Baird

4 Our Amy Lorna Louise Hutchison

5 L24 - The Soldier's Story Andrew

6 Gabriel's Descent David Hartley

7 Never Alone Again Jack Lingard

8 The Undead Residents Association Clare Kirwan

9 The Rocks Below Jeff Prescott

10 Charybdis Catherine Selby

11 Crowbone Christopher

Foreword

Pulp Idol is about giving an opportunity for the voice of the new novelist to be heard, and for you to be able to hear them, at the very moment they are working to find that voice.

The digital revolution is opening up new possibilities for writing and publishing; this year, for the first time, it allowed us to hold an online heat with entrants posting their work via YouTube.

So why Pulp Idol, for the writer and the reader?

Self publishing suits many forms of writing, but the legacy of vanity publishing still seems to hang heaviest over novelists. Novelists need a validation for their work, one that has traditionally been offered by the publishing industry. However, many novelists self publish due to the difficulties of gaining interest in their work from a publishing industry that seems to do little else but chase the tail of celebrity endorsements, or mimic the latest bestsellers.

Pulp Idol achieves many things: it provides the validation of a strong judging and editorial process, gives the writer a chance to share their work and gain valuable feedback from professional writers and editors, and publishes and promotes their work to agents and publishers across Britain.

For you the reader, Pulp Idol is a mark of quality, and a guarantee that you too are playing your part in supporting a new generation of writers.

This year, as part of our commitment to inclusion and personal regeneration, and our belief in the role of creativity in personal and social development, WoW teamed up with Big House Arts to hold a Pulp Idol heat in HMP Walton. Nine inmates took part, delivering some incredibly strong writing to our judges. We are proud to be able to publish the work of two of the inmates who reached the final as part of this collection.

Mike Morris Editor

The Chapters

John Gale’s Albion, the Pulp Idol 2012 winner, a tale of disaffection entwined within the vitriol of the English Defence League, won praise from the judges for its strength of character and raw, pacy narrative.

Charybdis by Catherine Selby is a magical story of Anna, a young girl trying to make sense of the world in the absence of her mother who she thinks may be a mermaid. Community Worker Laura thinks her new job is hard enough when she spends her first day dressed as a carrot; but things soon get a whole lot weirder in Clare Kirwan’s The Undead Residents Association. Christopher’s love of historical and fantasy fiction shines through in Crowbone, and in his masterful handling of Olaf Tryggyasson’s brutal campaigns in pre-Christian Europe, where Gods old and new vie for power. In L24 – The Soldier’s Story, Andrew offers a heavy dose of realism where redemption for his young narrator may literally be in his own hands, once he learns to use them as fists.

When lonely, beleaguered Clyde, in Adam Baird’s witty and touching The Ginger Stepson, visits the graveyard to speak to his dead father, it becomes a haven compared with the rest of his afternoon. David Hartley’s Gabriel’s Descent begins in a heavenly workshop where angels sculpt future human beings. When Gabriel infringes the celestial rules, a conflict opens up between his roles of sculptor and of dutiful creator. Jessica Malone’s Made to Measure is a campus thriller with a difference. Clever, sparky Georgia Darlington is a Liverpool student and a talented seamstress, and, after a night out ending in horror, a soon to be sleuth.

Our Amy, Lorna Hutchison’s poignant story, told in the voice of eight-year-old Danny, is instantly beguiling - sometimes deliciously comic, at others quite heart-rending - as he creates his own fantasy world and embarks on his search for his missing sister. The Rocks Below by Jeff Prescott grips from the very beginning, with a vivid narrative featuring an apparent suicide and allegations of child abuse. A portrayal of Blackpool in all its seediness is the backdrop to Jack Lingard’s Never Alone Again, the story of a young man setting out for one last fling before his wedding. It’s grimly realistic, but like Blackpool, with a beating heart for anyone who cares to look for it.

Jenny Newman & Penny Feeny Editors

Jon Gale

I finished the first draft of Albion last year and have been re-drafting and editing it ever since. My influence and inspiration comes from writers such as Alan Warner and Niall Griffiths. I am currently part of the Young Writer’s Programme at the Everyman Theatre, where I am developing my first play. Albion is my first novel.

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Albion: Jack Garrity is a disaffected, frustrated and damaged eighteen-year-old, growing up in twenty-first century Britain. His search for identity leads him into the far right movement and the newly-formed English Defence League.

Albion

The Bizzies had made a stretch for us to march down. They used metal barriers to cram us into a column four men wide. They were riot police, hiding behind plastic shields. There were hundreds of us; some lads had their hoods pulled up, white hockey masks with red crosses painted on covering their mouths. Me and Lewis were given an England flag to share. We filed down the stretch singing I'm England till I die. Richie wasn't singing. He was bouncing up and down, looking through gaps in the line.

'I can't see the UAF, probably haven't turned up, the shithouses.'

Everyone carried England flags above their heads or draped around their shoulders. A lad in his late twenties put his arm around my neck and drew me close. I pushed him off; he just smiled. His breath smelt of dog shit and cigars. I moved away from him back to Richie. Our own stewards wore luminous orange jackets. They were interspersed with us and the police, trying to calm people down. But they had no chance.

The Bizzies stood outside the Tesco Express like doormen. Lewis broke away from us and darted towards it. Richie grabbed his elbow.

‘Where are you going?’ Richie asked.

‘Just going to get a few tinnies.’

‘And do you think they’re going to let you in? Get back next to Jack, soft arse.’

I still wasn’t sure about taking the piss out of Lewis. It was only banter, but every jibe from Richie looked like it winded him. He trudged along next to me and mumbled, ‘And I’m starving.’

‘What was that?’ Richie said.

‘Nothing.’

Richie pulled a Double Decker out of his inside pocket. ‘Here you go, Mardy Arse.’

Lewis grinned and snapped the gooey bar in two. ‘Want half?’ he asked me.

I shook my head. I couldn’t have kept it down.

River Island hadn’t put its shutters up. An auld girl in her forties was shaking her fist, shouting something I couldn’t hear. Someone doused her in water from his bottle. He bolted through the crowd, taking in the applause. A Bizzie thought about chasing him but retreated and ushered the woman back into the shop. A few lads ran into the shop and tipped the mannequins over. The security guard, with a gut that sagged that low it looked like it could trip him up, shook his head and walked back inside.

Three Pakis had the cheek to stand next to the Memorial statue. Only twenty Bizzies penned them in. The crowd swerved towards them. The Bizzies knew if we got through we’d tear them apart. They hauled the Pakis over the grass and towards the Rag vans. The loose poppy petals from the memorial scattered on the ground.

‘You Paki-loving bastards,’ Richie shouted at the Bizzies. He put his arm around me. ‘Stay close. Looks like they’re up for it today.’

A placard twatted me in the back of the head. I turned around, thinking some whopper would hold his hands up and say sorry. He had his back to me; a skinny fella with a Lacoste polo three sizes too big. He threw wild slaps at a black-capped man. A small pit erupted, like you see at festivals. Richie guided me away.

‘Fucking idiots. Leave them to it,’ he said.

I don’t know what it was over, might have been a Nazi salute or placard to the back of the head. The news that the UAF were up ahead rippled through the crowd. The pit split up and we broke into a jog, standing on the backs of each other’s feet as we ran into the city centre. The shops all had their shutters down. The remaining shoppers scurried away. I saw the purple placards by the town square. The UAF were being held back by the Bizzies. They must have broken through because the Bizzies were running around trying to set up two lines of defence.

About three hundred UAF had turned up; more spilled out from the side streets. I hadn't seen them up close before. They were mainly all young Pakis, which surprised me. Richie always said they were liberal student dickheads.

My heart beat hard in my chest. Mouth dry,