Calling for Submissions!

Calling all Creative Writing and English students at Brunel! Brunel Writer’s new blog series focusing on work experience is launching soon and we are looking for submissions.

If you have done work experience in a creative industry – whichever it may be – tell us all about how you came across the opportunity and how you found the experience! If you have done more than one you can submit multiple blog posts but please be aware that we may not be able to publish every submission.

Please send all submissions to brunelwriter@gmail.com . We ask that the texts don’t exceed 800 words and that you include an author photo and short bio.

We look forward to reading your submissions!

We Wrote a Book During a Pandemic

by Chloe Perrin

In May 2020, Britain went indoors and stayed there. Out of this sudden extreme burrowing came a flood of tweets and Insta posts documenting the myriad of activities the country was using to keep itself occupied while the world outside shut down.

Some people learned to knit. Others took up yoga.

We, the Horror, Sci Fi and Fantasy module class of 2020, wrote a book.

(Look! our book is the #1 hot new release on Amazon!)

Robots, Rogues and Revenants is an example of what happens when a group of writers are told to use their imaginations during possibly the most anxiety inducing period of their lives. And when you read the anthology of short stories for yourself, you’ll get to experience first-hand the kind of book a global catastrophe makes.

While it’s nice to have something soft and comforting during a time of such ridiculous uncertainty, some of us decided instead to really lean into the catharsis of creating something even scarier than the situation we were already in. I’m not exaggerating when I say this book contains a deliciously wide variety of nightmares, from the relentless pestering cries of the undead to the best canned meat you’ll find this side of London.

And I’m warning you now. There is gore. Lots and lots of gore.

You won’t be safe from it in the non-horror genres either – even our high fantasy authors decided to splatter a sizeable amount of blood on their pages, mixing magic with deaths so bloody they would make George R.R. Martin squirm.

But don’t worry about it too much. If gut squeezing, bone snapping horror isn’t quite what you’re into at the moment, we can respect that. When locked inside for months on end escapism is the name of the game, which is why entire pantheons of gods live in this book. Feeling terrified by the present day? Go back centuries to a time where deities and fairies mixed with mortals. Or maybe you’re simply missing the present we had only a few months ago, and just one more party will do – no problem. The amazingly cosplay-able rave witches of London have got your back.

And there’s the future, of course, where you’ll be provided with a service that allows you ownership of a late loved one’s memories – and in that vein I should really warn you that one or two stories will definitely have you wiping away a tear. Sadness is a catharsis too, and who doesn’t need a good cry while the outside world upends itself?

There is something wonderfully unique about Robots, Rogues and Revenants, not just in what it is but when. This book is a time capsule of a group’s imaginations during a global pandemic. Real life will always influence the stories we produce, making each story in this anthology probably the strangest insight into the strangest time a lot of us have ever or will ever live through.

Which is exactly why you should pick it up right now and read it.

(All proceeds to NHS combined charities)

Chloe Perrin is a North Walian writer living in West London. Her writing has been featured in previous anthologies such as Hillingdon Literary Festival’s We Are Here and Brunel University’s Letters to my Younger Self, and her one act play The Ghost We Live With was produced by Studio Brunel in 2019. She hopes to continue creating funny, strange, and oddly depressing pieces until someone finally stops her.

Screen Love

by Benjamin Parameswaran 

Picture 1

Lines across space will find,
New means to spend some time,
If only for some peace of mind,
It uncorks a realm not quite sublime.

Heads of this hydra may bite one another,
Trying to express to others,
That they themselves are lovers.

Growing fonder, watch out for it
A pedestal, on which they now stand,
A looking-glass for the wistful hearted,
Always shatter-proof upon reflection.

These trees grown together need firm earth,
For wires without roots prevent disclosure,
There is no rain or sun inside this house,
Life travelling on with an electric hum.

Hold on, effort is without limits,
This garden is vast and you were born in it.

Screenshot 2020-06-07 at 16.36.17

When I was a small boy, my mother used to set me writing tasks. Sometimes I wrote about my day, other times I came up with fantasies taken from whatever I could find. She wanted me to read, read, read. But being half-stubborn mule, more concerned with games, I failed at this task. Now at the age of 25, I read at the pace of a snail and have found a love in writing that I once denied myself.

It is still Tuesday

by Linnet Macintyre

Screenshot 2020-04-27 at 18.44.43

It is still Tuesday

***

The light is coming in the window. Unidentified birds sing in the garden and the refrigerator hums. Everything has changed yet everything remains the same.

***

The church steeple points upward but the church doors are locked. The pews are empty and the priest’s robes are hanging in the vestry. His flock are in their homes waiting and waiting for the bells to ring.

***

I live in a city. The only sign of life I can see are in the branches of the trees, where the buds wait to blossom and a slight wind blows cold.

***

I memorise a poem. I feel like a child in a classroom and a person in an old folks home clinging to my short term memory. I also feel dancing around my room repeating, ‘we each took a pear, and ate, and were grateful’ is better than nothing.

***

We are in a period of slowness. The only thing that prevents stopping is a fear of death. Fear is everywhere as is death.

***

I walk past allotments in the morning sun. The daffodils are blooming, some are yellow, some are cream and some are double headed. There are dwarfed by the pale sliver green leaves of artichoke plants. They are new and they are healthy.

***

I take photographs on my walks. When I post them I think it is my way of saying I am here and I am alive.

***

I see the morning sun pierce the copper plate of a shop front. A small streak of burning light.

***

I take a flask of Genmaicha tea.  It tastes of toasted rice and is comforting. I drink it while sitting in the branches of an old tree. As I sit, the steam rises from the flask and I am still.

***

In the windows of a London brick house there is a rainbow. The outer rim is pink, the inner silver and in its centre is a dark arch like a tunnel. I try to focus on the colours not the tunnel.

.***

In this time of lockdown, two engineers have visited. I have endured Brexit discussions, survival tips, shaking of heads and hollow promises. The oven door is still broken.

***

I don’t understand anything about my new life. I crave space and waves and salted air and laughter and dance. I am sitting in a gigantic dial that goes from 0-5. I long for a 6 or 7.

***

Mike Tyson said, ‘everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face’ I leave that here.

***

Kinetic movement tumbles through word space. An orchestra warms up and plays. A new language is formed. The meaning is clear, the words unintelligible.

***

My inside is raw and angry. Boils grow in my throat. I look for them in a pool at low tide. The water is clear, the sea anemones livid.

***

I cross the train tracks, the wooden sleepers seep tar, the metal girders glisten. They lie between my childhood home and the sea. The train comes and goes 3 times a day. The timetable is inside me.

***

Dead bodies are piling up in hospitals and making their way to makeshift morgues. In cemeteries the wind blows through the desolate space and  invisible mourners lay floral wreaths on coffins.

***

I knock on locked shops windows and look at empty playgrounds. I queue quietly yet I yell at joggers and ask for space.

***

It is still Tuesday

IMG_1301

Linnet Macintyre is studying for a part-time MA in Creative Writing at Brunel. She got here somewhat circuitously.

Winner of the Brunel Writer Flash Fiction Prize 2018

All Creative Writing students starting at Brunel University London in September 2018 were invited to submit a piece of flash fiction in any style or genre, which reflected some aspect of becoming a student at Brunel. The quality of the submissions was very high but one piece in particular was felt by the judges (drawn from Brunel’s Creative Writing academic staff) to be the strongest. This is a very well executed and imaginative piece of writing by Chloe Perrin. Many congratulations to Chloe!

You can read Chloe’s winning entry below.

The Creative Writer

by Chloe Perrin

A flock of pigeons scattered as I sprinted through the square. I waved one particularly flustered pigeon out of my face while I dodged a doughnut stand.

“Stop! Police!”

There was no way I was stopping. I was this close to getting away. I skidded so hard I fell and scraped my knee on the damp pavement, which bloody hurt, but at least it gave me a chance to chuck my bloodied screwdriver into a bin before I raced down another alleyway.

I could still hear the police behind me, but further away now. This was good – I was sweating pretty bad and had a stitch like you wouldn’t believe. All I had to do was carry on down the busy street, keep shoving tourists to the side and once I was around the corner I’d be home free, there was nothing in my –

“Chloe?”

I swear I had to stop so fast I probably left a dent in the pavement where my feet skidded. The lady in my way was only marginally better than the police. I tried to stop gulping for breath and stretched my cheeks into a smile.

“Aunt… Olivia,” I panted. “Lovely… Surprise… I’m actually in a bit of a –“

“What are you doing in London? I thought you were up North! Don’t tell me, the job didn’t work out?”

I tried hard not to groan, but Aunt Olivia made it difficult. She was difficult. I could see her already drafting what she was going to say to the family as soon as I left: “Oh yes, she was running through the street like a crazy person, such an oddball. Scruffy, too. Still no job”.

“Actually,” I said. “I… Go to uni here.”

Aunt Olivia’s eyes widened. “You got into university? How marvellous!”

Somewhere in the distance I heard angry voices – “Which way did she go?” I couldn’t wait around too long.

“Yeah, well, clearing so…”

“Which one?”

I blinked. “Hm?”

“Which university?”

Oh, Aunt Olivia, you crafty fox. I started tapping my foot, antsy to leave, when I saw an advertisement on the side of a passing bus. My eyes followed the name…

“Brunnle.” I said.

Aunt Olivia smiled wide. “I think it’s pronounced Brunel. To study Art?”

“Creative Writing, actually.” I tried to sound casual but I definitely heard the clatter of a bin being overturned, and the sounds of steel toe capped boots getting closer.

“Oh,” said Aunt Olivia. “I just assumed Art because of all the red paint.”

She nodded to my jumper. I swallowed.

“Yeah, well, I’m in a society so…”

“There she is! Stop! Police!”

“I really do have to run,” I side stepped my aunt before she could say anything else and gave her a quick wave.

Aunt Olivia waved back. “I’ll call in sometime! I live in Hillingdon, just down the road!”

I turned and ran as Aunt Olivia was bowled over by a group of angry police officers, but I was already down another alleyway, wondering how late Brunel accepted applicants for Creative Writing degrees.

2018 Brunel Writer Flash Fiction Prize Winner

About the author

Chloe Perrin is a 25 year old from Wales and would always rather be reading. While she hopes to be an accomplished novelist and script writer in the future, her main ambition for this year is to keep her cactus alive.