Birth

By Andy N

Step into the mesmerizing world of "Birth," the debut novel by Manchester-based poet, podcaster, and ambient musician, Andy N.

Delve deep into the psyche of a young writer as this extraordinary tale offers a poetic, sad, and often hilarious portrait of his coming-of-age journey as his creativity is almost literally dragged out of him into the beginning of his journey as a poet, into fronting a five-piece acoustic band, and so much more.

 

In this captivating narrative, the reader is taken on a profound exploration of the writer's upbringing, skillfully woven with evocative prose that casts a spellbinding charm. "Birth" is a novel where the young writer's world is painted with a palette of feelings, where joy and sorrow dance hand in hand, and humor is found even in the darkest corners.

 

"Birth" is more than just a novel; it is an ode to the human spirit, a celebration of the written word, and a testament to the resilience of the creative soul.

So, open the cover and step into the world of "Birth," where the boundaries between reality and fiction fade, and the heart of a young writer beats with unyielding passion. What happens next is a testament to the magic of storytelling and the boundless potential of a pen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andy N
• Release date: Oct 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223192633

Andy N

Andy N is the author of nine full-length poetry collections including 'Return to Kemptown' and 'The End of Summer' and numerous split poetry books with his wife Amanda Nicholson (also known as Amanda Steel) and the Europa series with Nick Armbrister among others.He is the co-host of Chorlton's always welcoming Literature Open Mic Night 'Speak Easy' which meets on the 1st Weds of each month and he does ambient music under the name of Ocean in a Bottle.He is the host and the creator of 'Spoken Label', a poet, writer and artist Podcast series also the co-creator of 'Reading in Bed', a literature review podcast he does with his partner Amanda Steel and hosts and co-hosts other Podcasts such as Comics Unity, Wrestle Up and the Koll, Andy and Amanda show,His official website is onewriterandhispc.blogspot.co.uk/ and he is always interested in undertaking performing / new projects. His email address is [e-mail] / BOOKS:SOLO BOOKS:1st Book 'Return to Kemptown' (2010) (Reissued 2020)2nd Book 'The End of Summer' (2015)3rd Book 'The Birth of Autumn (2018)4th Book 'the streets were all we could see (2020)5th Book 'Underground Haiku' (2021)6th Book 'Haiku of life (2021)7th Book 'Dock Leaves (2022)8th Book 'In the Midst of Winter' (2022)9th Book - From the Diabetic Ward' (2023)SPLIT BOOKS:'A Means to an End' (with Jeff Dawson) (2011)'Europa' (with Nick Armbister) (2014)'Europa II' (with Nick Armbister) (2016)'Europa III' (with Nick Armbister) (2019)'Run away with me in 7 words' (with Amanda Steel) (2019)'Europa IV' (with Nick Armbrister) (2020)'The lockdown was all we could see' (with Amanda Steel) (2020) 'The snow was all we could see' (with Amanda Steel) (2021)'Run away with me again in eight words' (with Amanda Steel) (2022) 'Europa V' (with Nick Armbrister) (2022)'Europa VI' (with Nick Armbrister) (2022)'Feathers for Hena' (with Steven Flint, Charles R Haffner, Kim Brake, RJ Tungsten, James (Jim) McManus, Dina Nassour, Alta H Mabin and others) (2022) 'Poems from the Rising Sun' (With Alta Mabin, Charles R Haffner, Katerine E Winnick, Janet Scarborough and RJ Tungston) (2022)CHAPBOOKS:'Mystery Story (2014)(http://www.origamipoems.com/poets/211-andy-n)Selected scenes from the end of the world (2020)Games People Play (2020)ROLE REVERSAL:Book 1 - The Hour of the Wolf (2017)THE BARBARIANS OF THE WALLBook 1 - Enemy of the Wall (2018)Book 2 - Buried alive on the Wall (2020)FROM FRIENDSHIP TO LOVEFrom Friendship to love I (2017)From Friendship to Love II (2019)NON FICTION:Adventures in sound and music - articles for the Sunday Tribune Volume 1 - 2019 to 2021 (2021)FORTHCOMING:Europa VII - Total Disarmoument (With Nick Armbrister) (Mar 2023)Haiku in Bloom (Spring Haiku)(10th Full length Poetry Book - May / June 2023)Eco Haiku (Haiku book with Tony Andrews) (Split Haiku book Summer 2023)Changing carriages at Birmingham New Street (11th and final full length poetry book, Autumn / Winter 2023)End of the Party and other flash fiction stories (2024)Untitled Novel with Elizabeth Faitarone (2024 / 2025)Untitled Short Stories Collection (with Amanda Nicholson (2024 / 2025)Untitled Novel (2025)

Book preview

Prologue

When the first bottle flew over my head, I was lost in thought waiting silently for Danny to finish off his guitar solo so I could come back with the bridge to finish off the song.

I had given up two gigs before trying to play rhythm alongside Danny on that song and we all decided to just let Danny fly with his solo after seeing the struggle I had trying to keep up with him on the second guitar and we had all eventually decided instead, I would stand there giving the impression I was in the middle of a big deep reflection while Danny’s guitar roared around me reflecting on the torment flying round in my mind which was probably why I missed the first bottle almost hit me in face.

The song itself had come together quickly before during our second rehearsal and had proved a favourite for all of us almost straight away when Danny asked me what I had been writing when my notepad fell out of my pocket shortly after I walked through his front door and without moments he had started some deep almost magical chords almost out of nowhere that made me whisper in a stunned silence.

Tara’s face was the best when she just looked at him when he had finished and simply said How the fuck am I going to play anything over the top of that?

That was just before both Eric and Brownie joined the band and I didn’t doubt they would have said the same if they had been there.

I was still in the beginner stage of playing the guitar and although had been doing okay with it had no chance of keeping up with him there on that song and wisely gave up a few rehearsals later when Danny’s electric’s guitar-playing left my head spinning after trying to keep up leaving it to Eric and Brownie to play the backing while Tara dropped in and out

with the Keyboards using her singing more to back me more than anything else.

On that night, all in all, it had been a pretty good gig until that point, all things considered.

The Club which we had played at had booked us after seeing us play support to a now long forgotten now Irish trio had really liked us a few weeks previously, although I wasn’t sure to this day whether their lead singer fancied Danny truth be told more than us as a band and put a good word in behind the bar for us who offered us a headline spot the following month and we flew through the first three songs with a ton of energy leaving me stood there when we got to the third song ‘Ghost of Liverpool Empire’ leaving me stood there thinking simply wow.

After it began to kick off, I looked over at Danny who had started his guitar solo again thinking clearly that we had missed our cue to come back in before Tara whispered a bit more urgent as the second bottle flew over my head Danny.

He looked up without missing a note away with the sound of his guitar and simply said Oh Shit.

Eric simply stopped looked at us grabbed his bass under his arm and ran with no hesitation.

I couldn’t blame him.

Brownie, despite being the gentle, quiet giant among us, was furious and I actually. thought for several seconds he was going to jump into the crowd and take on everybody single-handed before Tara got in front of him, her little

frame somehow managing to persuade the nearly 7-foot giant off-stage quietly.

I stood there silent in total shock. Danny put his arm around me Come on lad, we better get out of here before it really gets nasty. I’ve seen crowds like this turn really nasty.

He was right of course as I looked outwards Dave stood there not with one chair in his hand but two and started screaming

at anybody who dared come near him Come on, I’ll take on the bloody lot of you.

I don’t know what had been said to him, but his face was bright red. He had turned up during the soundcheck and said to me with his big booming voice I’m looking forward to seeing you lot play tonight.

He had had a few beers which was fair as Danny ushered me off stage had gone wild swinging and hitting anybody who came near him.

The Police arrived quickly but by the time they had arrived all hell had literally broken out, the windows by the bar had gone smashed, some of the landlord’s prized 300-year-old Whiskey and two of the legs on the pool table had collapsed.

It didn’t get any better the morning after either.

One

Two photographs that were taken roughly at the same time.

Not one or three on the corner of a bookshelf in an old-fashioned study, but two.

Two faded, slightly torn photographs—smoky reminders of over twenty years ago before I moved away from Chorlton Cum Hardy for good.

Two photographs taken close to the same point some years ago, give or take a few days or weeks off each other, linked together like clues to a bigger, larger picture or puzzle.

Two photographs that need a third photograph to complete the story but currently offer little more than an incomplete fragment dangling up in the air like cast-off memories from a different life.

Two photographs sat on opposite sides of a shelf as if the owner of them was afraid to leave them next door to each other, like a poet who has written two verses of a poem but is now unable to write anything else.

One of the two photographs shows me standing there with my parents a few weeks after my brother was born.

You could see me, my mother and my father standing outside the hospital shortly after she was allowed to go home, waiting for an ambulance in the middle of a bitterly cold April.

If you look carefully enough at the photograph for a few seconds, you can see me standing there just off the left side with shoulder-length, long, dark blond hair blowing slightly in the breeze and a huge frown on my face. I am wearing huge flared jeans and an orange cardigan, which I can remember quite clearly hating and saying that day, why do I have to wear this?

My sister, Ren is unusual in her absence here. 

I have no memory of why she was not there. 

Father, you can see clearly in the centre of the photograph as he always was in all of my childhood pictures growing up leading the way, and in the second photograph, he was wearing underneath his grey, tatty raincoat one of his seemingly endless wardrobe of tweed jackets, which I hated even then as a young boy, and you can see by the smile in his face that he was proud of wearing it.

My brother, Bobby, said to me recently: father told him years later that he got into them through his father, who brought him one when he was a young man, saying it was the thing a young gentleman should always wear. Thankfully, by the time it got to me and my brother growing up, it was out of fashion, while it is an understandable thing for children to follow in their parent's footsteps, and perhaps I should have followed in father’s footsteps more than I did despite the hatred that built up between us later, it does not hide the fact that while it may well once have been fashionable, by the time my brother was born, it looked painfully, painfully out of date, bordering on the actual ridiculous if you want to be a bit blunt, which I, of course, would have never said back then to him.

Of course, if you ever met my father, you would know he would not have cared less what anybody said to him. I know of one story about him when he dealt with it in a quite forceful and blunt way after a few wise-cracking teens, just outside the Beech Chippy on Beech Road, tried giving him some lip over it (Not recommended when dealing with him, believe me, and I suspect the lads never went near him again after that.)

My mother was wearing a blue, long-lined dress with purple stripes in contrast on the shoulders that was a good match for the white blanket Grant was in, which would have done precious little to keep him warm from the bitterly cold breeze that blew across that carpark on that day in question.

Looking at the picture, you can see a half-cut smile on her face, which was trying to put a brave smile on things but probably wanted to be home, not standing there in a hospital car park for over two and a half hours with nothing but a little coat to keep her warm with a cold breeze smacking her on the legs and anywhere else it could.

I believe it was Sean, Uncle Sean, father's friend (Not an actual uncle by blood; an honorary title), who lived a few blocks around the corner from us, who took that photograph and carried on taking a few more over the next few weeks.

I know father would have asked him for the picture he knew with a camera back then (owing to the cost, etc.). back then, he certainly drove my mother crackers with some of the places he popped up taking pictures of her with my newly born brother, Gary, when she least expected it, claiming he was under orders from his father to get as many different kinds of photographs of my newly born brother as he could.

I can remember him sticking his head over the fence on one occasion doing that when she was in the middle of a lengthy conversation with one of our neighbors at the back of where we lived back then with my then tiny little brother in her arms. There was also other occasions when she in the middle of Safeways going to visit my father (My mother has told me on several occasions he nearly got arrested by security for that after he jumped out at the wrong woman there near the alcohol aisle) and even once when she came out of the outside toilet next door to the bus station with Bobby when he was very young after he was sick cutting across the meadows towards the shops (I wouldn’t have dared do that even after I grew up to her and am amazed she didn’t crack him for that).

In contrast to my mother, it has a very different meaning to me, a symbol of a far-forgotten past, a memory in-between generation from one decade to the next. This is a memory that remains vivid in my recollections. It lingers in my mind, surpassing the emptiness between events, like a prologue at the beginning of a book or a fleeting moment tucked away amidst the chapters.

The other photograph on the other side of this bookcase was taken at Sean’s last home in Chorlton-Cum-Hardy, just after he moved a few miles up the road. 

Looking again at the picture, you can see me standing there with a terrible, terrible flower-like shirt with a bright yellow flower, which was probably a daffodil all over, that I cannot believe I ever, ever agreed to wear (even when I was that old).

You can see father’s hand on my right shoulder, which is meant to show affection but has such a fire in his eyes that it almost makes me shiver even now, many years later. Perhaps it was the fact that he was unhappy that I had argued over wearing that foul top with him.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Gerry, one of Sean’s friends, a taxi driver, had been having problems getting the camera to work to take the picture (It was a work of art without a doubt).

His other arm was holding the fish and chips he had just got for us from the Chippy on Beech Road, a street away from where Sean lived.

Sally was standing there talking with Sean in the background.

Sally, who I will talk about in more depth has her face turned slightly away, making it look like she was aware the picture was being taken but didn't really want to be in the photograph, or perhaps Sean was in the middle of telling her one of his famous blue jokes.

She was always pale, whether because of the bright walls in the chippy or Sean’s house, it was hard to work out looking back as a child, but she was young. A lot younger than him. Not as young as me, but young enough to get at least one person to comment that I remember that she and Sean looked more like a Father and Daughter, not lovers.

Perhaps it was a rainy Friday or Saturday night on the way home from work. She called into the supermarket that Sean used to manage before ill health forced him to retire. He threw his Irish charm at her as he was originally from Cork before disagreeing with the politics of the government in the 1960s and moving over here.

He had a way of cracking rude jokes, often coaxing my mother into fits of laughter over the telephone. I do not doubt he could have done the same with Sally, making her blush like a strawberry if she was complaining about something in his office.

He could have met her at the Horse and Jockey on Chorlton Green. He lived just around the corner from there and would tell my sister and me that he was very handy if he got drunk and that there were ceilings that could knock you out with their lowness if you weren’t careful when you walked in.

The first memory I have of her was outside the Beech Road Chip Shop. I distinctly recall my Father leaning in and whispering into my ear as I debated getting a pie instead of fish with my chips. In his gentle yet persuasive tone, he uttered,

They're busy, Andrew, only for me to change the topic, asking intrigued, Who is that with Sean?

I found out afterwards that Sean had known her for a good eighteen months