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Fluid
In 1970s Hull, a tiny revolution is brewing. Young sex workers find their creativity and independence. Besotted artists perform outrageous stage-shows, and young women discover the beauty of feminism, book clubs, and shower heads. This intersectional collection of short stories paints a picture of a post-hippy, bohemian lifestyle, where punk, art, and abjection meet.
Fluid is an interconnected collection of short-stories, each chapter based on a piece of 1970s artwork containing or alluding to body fluids. All the artistic pieces examined were chosen because they fitted within two categories: they all included the use or suggestion of body fluids, and they were all successful in creating controversy. The artists included are Vivienne Westwood, Mary Kelly, Valie Export, COUM Transmissions, Andy Warhol, David Wojnarowicz, Bas Jan Ader, Dennis Oppenheim, Ana Mendieta, Carolee Schneemann, Judy Chicago, Suicide, Chris Burden, and Jenny Holzer. The chapters bleed together to create a cut-and-paste plot reflecting northern England during a time of social unrest.
Fluid is a story about people and their bodies, their connections to each other, and their unwavering primality.
And Marvel
Death is hard. It's as inevitable as manipulation and misogyny; as inevitable as love, conflict, insanity, sleep-deprivation, and broken hearts. It's coming. It's here.
On the 28th April 2018, a young poet called Dan "DC" Collins was found dead in the woodlands by his home in Birmingham. He'd taken his own life. This was done, at least in part, because I had made the incredibly selfish decision to stop being his girlfriend. This decision would go on to affect the rest of my adult life.
I decided to escape from this reality by moving away to Basque Country, hoping to Eat, Pray, Love my way out of the survivor's guilt and PTSD. This did not work. Instead, I had a nervous breakdown. Away from all the people who loved me, un-medicated, and isolated in a country where I didn't speak the language, I managed to incredibly successfully push myself over the edge. It was a bad decision. I did however, manage to keep a diary of this inevitable mental decline. That diary is And Marvel.
Cheeky, Bloody Articles
If you’re a fan off transgressive fiction or writing craft be sure to check out Cathleen’s impressive first release in the Tales for Well-Dressed Cynics and Optimistic Ragamuffins series.
Cheeky, Bloody Articles is full of acid trips, terrorists, and exactly one hundred birthday candles. You can expect icy baths, burning bodies, and everything in between.
This thought provoking short story collection pulls no punches. Expertly skewering readers' expectations on failing relationships, cabin fever, police violence, feminism, loss, and loyalty; each unique character tells a tale of the dissatisfied, the angst-laden, and the justifiably outraged.
Straddling horror and humor, this poignant yet provocative collection is terrible, wonderful, but most of all insightful
'Hands Up'. Active Shooter: Issue Five Spring Equinox. Last Girl's Club: March 2022.
There’d been a heavy rainfall the night before which had kept Jack awake, but things were slightly calmer now. On opening the windows to the hot and humid air, he noticed that everything smelt fresh and earthy, but the clouds still hung heavy overhead and the wind was fierce. Jack had lived in Florida long enough to know that this meant the thunderstorm wasn’t over.
'Prostitution'. Erotica: Before it Was Cool. Weasel Press. January 2022.
It was the tail-end of summer, and the girls were still comfortable bare-breasted, although it was chilly enough to ensure that their nipples were stiffened into points of red and brown. Gypsy stood dancing, her arms held high abover her, turning first her wrists and then the rest of her body, her head lolling to her porcelain chest and circling round so that her throat shone forward. Tracy swayed along with her, following her movements but seeming to find the whole thing a little more amusing. Creep was naked from the waist down, stroking himself casually. His eyes rolled back, the music seeming to entrance him far more than any girl dancing ever could. Then there was Joe. He was still fully dressed and sitting silently, indifferent to these beauteous and pagan celebrations. There was no denying it at this point. Revelations had to find the boy a sense of purpose.
'The Old Castle'. Queer Life. Queer Love. London: Muswell Press. November 2021.
The Old Castle was falling apart these days. The bricks were loose and the roof tiles were a death-trap. They kept the harsh, flourescent lighting in the loos, and you could see the years of grime sticking where the sealant should have been around the sinks, heavy make-up streaked the mirror until you almost couldn't see yourself. They had a smoking area outside now, with heaters that never bloody worked. You either froze or burned your crown, there was no inbetween. They'd tried to spruce the place up, but frankly I preferred it dilapidated. It held more of a charm that way when you were sipping your Barcardi and coke, or else one of the new cocktails they'd introduced with names like 'blowjob' and 'wet pussy'. 'Gaping arsehole' was a personal favourite. Not that I was drinking much these days. Tonight, I wasn't drinking at all, something I planned to announce quite proudly with the little cotton wool ball taped to my forearm beneath my usual, toned-down, button-up shirt. You'd have thought at my age and with the prospect of sobriety I might have preferred to stay home, but Friday nights are meant for dancing and anyway, I'd promised.
'Pete'. Running Wild Anthology of Stories: Volume 5. Running Wild Press. May 2021
Pete was our leader and he did alright. If you ever got sick or lonely rolling around the house or standing round the gutters looking for something to poke with a stick, you could always find Pete in the woods nearby. He was never alone. He had playdates every second of the day. It made you wonder when Pete ever went home, if he even had a home. Though we never really thought about it too much.
'Prince Charming.' Vagabonds Anthology of the Mad Ones: Volume 9. Weasel Press. November 2020.
She couldn’t stop her phone from shaking. That was all I could focus on. It felt tacky, annoying, like something out of a cheesy, horror flick. Maybe she’d watched too many of those ghastly things. I suppose that’s why she started the way she did.
'Time's Up'. Love Bites: Fiction Inspired by Pete Shelley and Buzzcocks . Dostoyevsky Wannabes. August 2019.
He lit a cigarette and tried to work out how much of the pint he had left. At first, he guessed maybe three quarters, but that was wrong. It was exactly four fifths. He’d worked that out mathematically. See, the empty part of his glass (still coated white with foam) was around two fingers deep if he held his hand sideways. All he had to do then was put the index finger from his left hand on the place where his right-hand fingers ended, and then move the right hand underneath the left index and work his way down strategically all the way to the bottom of the glass. A pint was, in total, five two-finger measurements deep or ten fingers, he supposed. Since the top two-finger segment was empty, he had four fifths left. That made sense. He was impressed at how clever he’d been working that out. Still, he’d have to be careful. He only had five bob left and she’d want a drink too, when she got there. She’d probably be there soon.
'Mud and Misogyny'. Red Ink Vol 1: Rites of Passage; Rights of Womanhood. RED INK. 2o14.
Festivals are difficult for anyone who doesn't like feeling disgusting. Of course it's not impossible to remain presentable. Many of the women I saw looked dressed to the nines and done up to perfection even after four days without a shower, an ability I envy greatly as grace and elegance have never really been my forte.
'Natural Selection'. Underworld: The UEA Undergraduate Creative Writing Anthology 2014. Eggbox Publishing. June 2014.
There was a bullet-hole in my school. They didn’t even try to cover it up with educational posters. The perfectly circular hole exposed the brown plaster underneath, white paint peeled around the edges. I suppose they assumed none of us would guess what it was. The teacher, Miss Jones, didn’t address the issue. She must have been terrified. I’d been at that school a few years and she’d always taught in the same classroom; I knew that because I had her last year, there wasn’t a bullet-hole then, and I wondered if she’d been shot at. I worried about her. She was nice to me; sometimes she asked me to read aloud in class.