Running To Stand Still

Running
to Stand Still
Stories from the Inside
English PEN Readers & Writers
Foreword by Jackie Kay
Inside Cover
Running
to Stand Still
Stories from the Inside
English PEN Readers & Writers
Foreword by Jackie Kay
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Collection copyright English PEN, 2014
The moral right of the authors has been asserted.
The views expressed in this book are those of the individual
authors, and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the
editors, publishers or English PEN.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright
reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the
copyright owner and the publisher of the book.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-9564806-9-9
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Aldgate Press,
Units 5&6, Gunthorpe Street Workshops,
3 Gunthorpe Street, London E1 7RQ
www.aldgatepress.co.uk
Designed by Brett Biedscheid,
www.statetostate.co.uk
2 Foreword Writing as a Lifeline

Jackie Kay
4 Introduction Pen on Paper

Irene Garrow
6 Such a Journey

Heather Stevenson-Snell,
HMP Bronzefield
POETRY / WINNER
7 The Best
Remembered Journey

Robert Beck, HMP Grendon

POETRY / RUNNER UP
9 My First Love

Anonymous, HMP Bure

POETRY / RUNNER UP
9 Winters Lament

KB Pendleton, HMP Kennet

POETRY / RUNNER UP
10 My First Love

Maria Chandler, HMP Low Newton

POETRY / RUNNER UP
10 The Young Traveller

David Beattie, HMP Glenochil

POETRY / COMMENDED
11 Stockholm Syndrome

Craig Roy, HMP Shotts

POETRY / COMMENDED
11 50 Word Life Story

Anonymous, HMP Pentonville

POETRY / COMMENDED
12 In My Imagination

Ralph Anderson, HMP Winchester

PROSE / WINNER
16 Taste of Metal
28 My First Love Affair

John Keenan, HMP Perth

PROSE / COMMENDED
30 The Chamber
by John Grisham

Jeanne Wilding, HMP Low Newton

BOOK REVIEW / WINNER
32 The Ragged Trousered

Philanthropists
by Robert Tressell

David Tattum, HMP Usk

BOOK REVIEW / RUNNER UP
33 The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll

and Mr Hyde
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Brian Hannah, HMP Low Moss

35 The Road
by Cormac McCarthy

Craig Roy, HMP Shotts

36 Americanah by
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Chinonyerem Otuonye,
HMP East Sutton Park
37 Caravaggio: A Life
Sacred and Profane
by Andrew Graham-Dixon

Mr Wynne Roberts, HMP Frankland

BOOK REVIEW / COMMENDED
39 THIS be the verse!

The Collected Poems
of Philip Larkin

Stephen Potter, HMP Preston

Anonymous, HMP Glenochil

PROSE / RUNNER UP
40 The Road Less Travelled

by M. Scott Peck
18 First Light
Ian, HMP Parc

PROSE / RUNNER UP
20 I am Going Out

Nigel MacKenzie, HMP Glenochil

PROSE / RUNNER UP
22 Running to Stand Still

Anonymous, HMP Wakefield

PROSE / RUNNER UP
24 Fences + walls

Ricky Crossley, HMP Frankland

PROSE / RUNNER UP
27 The Magic of the World

Emma Louise Sharkey, HMP Styal

PROSE / RUNNER UP
Ricky Toora, HMP Dartmoor

41 The Old Creepy House

HB, HMYOI Warren Hill

FLASH FICTION / WINNER
43 Merlin
KJ, HMYOI Warren Hill

FLASH FICTION / RUNNER UP
44 Like Father Like Son

WK, HMYOI Warren Hill

FLASH FICTION / COMMENDED
45 Alba (youre in my heart)

Maurice Patrick Crossley, HMP Glenochil
COMMENDED
Foreword - Writing as a Lifeline

Jackie Kay
Nelson Mandela, a man who as we all know spent 27 years in prison and who died
in December last year, was a great inspiration to many. A writer as well as a prisoner
and a president, he said and did much that could lift the spirits and focus the mind.
The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but rising every time we fall,
he said. Writing is a way of rising every time we fall, or as our title suggests - Running
to Stand Still. Writing can throw us a lifeline: a different line caught by various hands,
all showing particular lifelines; and writing gives us a second chance. The very act of
writing stories, poems or reviews, the attempt to hone and articulate, to make vivid
and express, to search for the words and find them, can spin the thread and offer
solace. Writing is a lifeline. But it can also follow the line of our life.
This year there were over 400 submissions in varied forms from 55 prisons: memoir,
poetry, short stories and reviews, as well as flash fiction. The poetry was so strong
that we made a point of making it a separate category in its own right. People from
Inverness to Dartmoor, Norfolk to Newcastle, across the length and breadth of the
country responded to the three themes: SUCH A JOURNEY / IN MY IMAGINATION /
MY FIRST LOVE. I expected that one of those themes might prove to be more popular
than the others, but this was not the case. People wrote in all forms inspired by all of
these themes. I was particularly keen not to pick a theme that would hem in or trap,
but to pick ideas that might spark off memories, reignite the imagination and surprise
the writer. It was also Nelson Mandela who said that when he read Shakespeare
in Robben Island, the four walls of the prison collapsed. Clearly he was talking
metaphorically, but it is a strong image. Reading and writing are liberating: they
can open your mind, knock down walls, open windows and doors, let the light in.
Heather Stevenson-Snells poem Such a Journey resonated with me. Like all of the
best poems, it drew me into its world, asking questions rather than answering them.
I was similarly moved by Robert Becks poem of the same title. He took me on an
amazing journey through time, and his poem sings with fantastic imagery: the seagulls
soared above like tethered kites. Elsewhere in the poetry category there was wonderful
lyricism, especially in the anonymous contribution whose ending was Encompass now
the moon my loves / encompass now my heart.
There is much to enjoy in Running to Stand Still: pieces that will make you think, take you
back and make you pause for thought. Writing whose honesty and bravery you might
recognise and applaud. Ralph Anderson, winner of the prose category, is exemplary.
A piece of work as vivid as it is candid, a devastatingly moving story about alcoholism
and the way it affects the ego and the mind - it had me hooked from the first line.
Running to Stand Still
Writing is a lifeline, but to do it you also put your neck on the line. You take risks.
You expose your heart. You draw a line in the sand. I want to thank every single
person who entered the competition for taking that risk. I want to thank PEN for
making that possible.
The rest of the prose category was also very strong I was captivated by The Taste of
Metal, the way it mixed the lyrical, the presence of the deer, with the brutal reality of
the accident; and I was impressed by the luminous wit of Nigel MacKenzies I am Going
Out, a memoir that describes the growing awareness of being gay. The vivid description
of running in the entry that gave us our title, Running to Stand Still, took me back to my
running years.
That is what good writing can do: it allows you to run with it; it allows you to return.
It also enables you to stand still. But most of all it encourages change. Good books can
change your lives. This is what Jeanne Wilding, the winner of the book review section,
so eloquently proves, detailing her change in attitude to capital punishment. I found
reading these reviews fascinating, David Tattum, Brian Hannah and Craig Roys reviews
made me want to return to the books, to re-read them. Books that youve loved are like
old houses, you want to go back and open their windows. Huseyin Bolat, the winner of
the Flash Fiction prize, recreates The Old Creepy House vividly.
I have found huge inspiration in various visits to prisons over the years, from Wormwood
Scrubs to Pentonville to Maidstone. I was particularly inspired last year by a visit to HMP
Styal and by the dedication of the librarian and writer-in-residence there. Reading my
work to the women in Styal reminded me that writing is above all a conversation with
the reader. Hopefully, many people will hold this small book in their hands, on their life
lines, and feel in the best of company, the company of kindred spirits, the company of
other writers running to stand still, and still crossing the finishing line.
An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS
Introduction - Pen on Paper

Irene Garrow
Literatures power is to strengthen ones sense of selfhood and individuality
John Carey
English PENs Readers & Writers programme has been sending writers and their
books into UK prisons for 12 years.
Three years ago, in 2011, we created a writing competition for prisoners. This year we
received poems, prose, memoir, flash fiction and book reviews on themes chosen by
our judge, writer Jackie Kay.
Prisoners have limited access to computers and keyboards, so handwritten entries
are more common. The loop and curl of words, the colour of ink and the slant of a
letter are all part of the action that is happening on the page. It is a different way to
read; slower, visual and personal.
Handwriting, like all writing, is part of our identity: its about who we are and where
we come from. We learn from telling our own stories. That process of self-realisation
is an important factor in rehabilitation.
Seeing and receiving hundreds of entries was a pleasure and a privilege.
Thanks to the prison staff, librarians, teachers and writers in residence who made
this wonderful collection for 2014 possible.
Such a Journey
Heather Stevenson-Snell
HMP Bronzefield
POETRY / WINNER
You championed your cause with a single mind
Gave twenty years away; laid it down on the ground
Raised it up like a clock; cloaked others
Then yourself, almost
You sat through each exam, tapping out a tune
Fist clenched; sun burning through your eyes
And the moon speeding days and years
Took you on such a journey like Ulysses!
You shared your bread with anyone who was hungry
Poured wine; gave time; more time
Sitting in the stillness of your garden
Watching flitting birds
And the sprawling dog stretched; eyes still closed
And the sitting dog, panting; yawned
And the next-doors cat ran the length
Of the top of the fence; each one of its hairs on end
And then, one day everything stopped
And your murder was complete
And your murder was discreet
And people came with paints and brushes, to hide the truth
You championed your cause with exhausted grace
Gave twenty years, to the day, with a sigh
And as they finished painting you over
The sky bled red, from one eye.
The Best Remembered Journey

Robert Beck
HMP Grendon
POETRY / RUNNER UP
The long, cold walk through memory that is life.
A narrow wind blows
hunting into crevice and nook with the
persistence of my own search for love.
Here, under a storm-laden sky,
winter-burnt trees huddle together for comfort
against the walls of ruined destiny.
The best remembered journey: I held my mothers hand.
The wind blew her dress up like a Monroe.
Every road I travelled has brought me here.
A window barred
sealing my present and fate with the
confirmation of a lifetimes mistakes.
There, on the grey concrete yard,
a puddle of done rain, dull as lead,
waits for something to happen.
The best remembered journey: I followed my brother.
We jumped the brook but sank into the mud.
One step before me I dread to take.
A dark crow flies
crying for the lost and alone with the
hopelessness of a belief without faith.
Watch, as the breath of chance
tosses the bird about like flotsam
from cloud to boiling cloud.
The best remembered journey: I sat on my fathers shoulders.
The seagulls soared above like tethered kites.
There is no story that lasts till journeys end.
A wire fence murmurs
moving in the winds firm hand with the
rippling of a flat pond disturbed.
Now, in my fingers, a pen,
its life leached out, black as the past
onto paper, blank as the future.
The best remembered journey: we stood on the jetty, she and I.
The mirrored water trapped our faces in a perfect dream.
My First Love
Anonymous
HMP Bure
POETRY / RUNNER UP
My first love,
from your first breath yet
until my last,
a son, pulled wet
and blinking into being.
Into wonder, into pain,
a heart thawed,
drip by warming drip again.
First steps, first words,
this beating muscle stirs.
And stirring
finds its metre there,
of parents triptych,
hope, love, care.
My first love is become too large,
a deep too vast to chart.
Encompass now the moon my loves,
Encompassed now my heart.
Winters Lament
KB Pendleton
HMP Kennet
POETRY / RUNNER UP
Cold bones turn the key
Frost clings, deaths breath is upon the line
silencing the web.
Winters touch chills the stream ice forms,
the still pools are still, the flowing cold
cries snow.
The frost sealed bitter door tombs open,
allowing winters kiss to caress the hearth.
Old flames die in the light embrace.
It is dark now, darkest is the hour

Dark is my heart

Cold are the songs.
My first love
Maria Chandler
HMP Low Newton
POETRY / RUNNER UP
It all started at 13 on the dot, my birthday it was, I just had to smoke pot
The pandy was in the venue, cannabis resin was on the menu,
Just a few puffs was all I needed, then give me some more next time I pleaded
I smoked As for a while and even some weed, but a few months later I turned to speed.
It was good for a while, a gram here an there, but then I tried the needle just for a dare
My mum was told and she started to crack, so what did I do? I started on smack.
It was needle again but this time much worse, I started to steal from my own mothers purse.
I borrowed and scrounged, became a cheat and a slob
And even a mate was robbed.
I cannot recall all the times that I lied, I wanted to be honest, I tried and tried,
I fought to kick the habit but needed a buzz so I stole from a house and then met
the fuzz.
So that was the end of my life as I knew it. I had one chance of living and guess what,
I blew it.
But now I have time to think of my past and dwell on my habit and kick it at last
So take notice of my warning: first its fun, your life has just begun but take drugs and
Its done.
For all I put you through
Sorry Mum XX
The Young Traveller

David Beattie
HMP Glenochil
POETRY / COMMENDED
The turn of the key awakens the butterflies,
The wings flutter to the purr of the engine,
And were off.
Butterflies and excitement soaring as one,
Wide eyed and grin to match,
Thoughts filled with adventures to come.
A journey into the unknown, a tale yet to be told,
Blank pages of a story still to be written.
Names flash by I do not know,
Scenery till now unseen,
A step on a trek into the new,
Travelling uncharted roads,
A secret destination, only the driver knows.
10
Stockholm Syndrome
Craig Roy
HMP Shotts
POETRY / COMMENDED
Hes gone (liberated)
a kaleidoscope of colour inspired, fading;
weaving wishful words,
tapestry of memories,
(meaningful to one, not the other)
An unconventional desire:
one sided.
A talented Puppeteer, oblivious;
severed strings hang loose,
Stockholm Syndrome, they say,
carelessly becoming captor of my heart,
now wandering aimlessly: lost.
Empty illusions of love shattered,
strained stitching
coming undone:
a lesson of the heart,
learned.
50 Word Life Story

Anonymous
HMP Pentonville
POETRY / COMMENDED
Born village Sudan.
Have brother and sister.
Father has livestock and farm.
School in town next to village.
Used my donkey for transport.
Called him Bush.
Holidays. Worked on the farm.
Looked after cattle
And brother.
The war starts.
Sold the cattle.
Shared the money.
Family escapes to Chad.
I find my way to England.
Trying to settle.
Til now.
11
In My Imagination
Ralph Anderson
HMP Winchester
PROSE / WINNER
A wave of nausea hits me about ten seconds after I wake up. The dim light allows
me to estimate its early morning and I struggle to sit upright on my sofa. I search the
floor for something to vomit into, knocking over a load of empty cans in the process.
I manage to grab a carrier bag and theres just enough time for me to lean forward and
repeatedly heave into it. Last night, the same bag contained twenty fags and ten cans
of Superturbo cider. Now it contains a sickly mixture of yellow bile and phlegm.
Jesus I need a drink!
I wipe the sweat, tears and snot from my face onto the sleeve of my hoody. I must
have passed out fully clothed and Ive wet myself yet again. I stumble to my feet and
turn on the light. Relief surges through me as I spot two unopened cans on my coffee
table. I throw my sick bag into the bin and notice Im shaking badly. Im feeling dizzy
and unbalanced and have to lean against the wall to remove my jeans and boxers. I flip
over the wet sofa cushions and sit back down. I grab a can and crack it open, drinking as
much as possible with the vigour only an active alcoholic can muster. I fight the urge to
heave again and by taking deep breaths I manage to keep the contents down. I rummage
around for my smokes and I have three left. I spark up and finish my can. The alcohol
quickly fends off my demons and I try to recall last nights events.
I check my knuckles for cuts and bruises no sign of violence thankfully. I reach for my
phone and to my utter dismay Ive been drink dialling. Its now 7.47am but at 12.01am
Id attempted to call my ex. Luckily the conversation time registers 0.00 seconds but
at 2.23am Id sent her the most obnoxious, rude and frightening text Ive ever sent to
anybody ever. I must have been in total blackout because I cannot remember calling or
texting her at all. I open the remaining can, downing it in one, safe in the knowledge that
the shop will be serving soon. As I re-read the horror text the alcohol kicks in and my
arrogance makes its first appearance of the day. Dark thoughts invade my mind shes a
bitch! Made your life miserable, spiteful cow, detest her anyway! I cast the phone aside
and stub out my fag. Time for the shop!
I stagger into my bedroom and hunt for some clean-ish jeans. Fresh boxers elude me so
I dont bother wearing any; neither do I change my socks or hoody with its damp waist.
Personal hygiene is not on the agenda. I pull on a pair of combats, lace my trainers,
grab my jacket, keys and Im out the door. Theres the reassuring feeling of a twenty
pound note in my pocket as I wobble down the road desperately trying to focus on
walking in a straight line. Inevitably theres a long queue in the shop, people on their
way to work buying croissants and sandwiches, locals getting milk and newspapers
and then theres me, four cans of turbo under each arm, sweating profusely, nervously
shuffling from one foot to another. The ciders seem to weigh a ton and are getting
heavier by the second. I curse under my breath the idiot at the front of the queue
paying on his card and taking ages. Twat.
12
Eventually Im home, drenched in sweat but restocked with booze and fags. My flat is a
tip, disgusting, but I just flop down on the sofa cracking open my third sherbert. I switch
on the telly and watch the news. My can goes down like a treat and Im soon into my
fourth, chain smoking and looking forward to Jeremy Kyle in a hypocritical way his
guests make me feel better about myself. Suddenly my phone bursts into life, making
me jump. Its a text from my ex. I drain my drink and crack another, gulping down the
contents in less than thirty seconds. I light a fag and open my text; it reads:
YOU POOR MAN PLEASE GET SOME HELP, YOURE A CHRONIC ALCOHOLIC AND
OBVIOUSLY EXTREMELY ILL. GO BACK TO AA. GET A JOB. DO SOMETHING. ANYTHING!
BUT STAY OUT OF OUR LIVES PLEASE! IM CHANGING THIS NUMBER.
I open another turbo laughing to myself despite the lump forming in my throat and the
blurred vision as my tears well up. She might think Im sick and alcohol-dependent but in
my imagination its all her fault anyway. I take a long drag from my ciggy, swig from my
can. Then I start to cry.
13
15
Taste of Metal
Anonymous
HMP Glenochil
PROSE / RUNNER UP
Terror reaches a plateau, its roaring crests become ripples smoothing to stillness.
The sheer dread of the now is a moment stopped in time, for all time. And it never leaves
you, a lasting legacy, the gift of fear that keeps on giving.
And of course there was the taste of metal.
***
Light from the house was scissored away as heavy curtains pulled to behind the old
oak door; already the farewell has faded, the last heat from the fire escaping into the
night, the dry prickly cold rushing into the void. It was just so very still. The sharp
quiet of the deep winter when all of nature is tucked away under cloudless stars, the
ground so hard, its glittering diamonds neither crunch nor crack under the tread of
my still hot soles. Deep in the wood something slid past the tumbledown birch.
I had driven the back road enough times to anticipate the camber of each and every
bend, their dips and rises. How to speed into corners and let the wheel pull against my
grip. If I drove faster than what a man with a clipboard would call sensible then it wasnt
for thrills, but only to make for home the quicker and my own mothers fire. My hands
moved position evading the icy touch of the wheel.
Across the burn now skimmed with ice, its trickle on the edge of sound, and into the
clearing where metal legs ascended to stars and the sliver of silver that was the moon.
His heart beat faster; not all was right.
The romance of the single track among highland beauty is never lost, as ash and oak
reach fingers out from the verge. Tiny lights came out all down the glen, the ribbon of
the river only visible in the differing textures of its neighbours; field and wood.
The country dodge of extinguishing headlights foretells just how alone you are, the lack
of interruptions allowing your momentum to bring you home, foregoing the slumbering
passing places and their murky clutches.
Down in the valley he could see the lights and the river and the woods. The scent of
resin curled through the air mixing with the rising musk of the cattle huddled in their
dark byre but there was something else. A taste like metal recalled the road that cut
his domain in half. He turned from the eaves and made back for the heart of the wood,
quickening his pace. Tonight the scent of death lay heavy among the old trees.
16
The young trees gave way at the fork with the road to the old ferry. The heater was
kicking in and the whiteness of my breath was thinning. The old Belfast sink which for
all my life had sat behind the fence and watered generations of kye, burst in a moment
of brilliance, the reflection from the cars lamps. I spun the wheel and floored the
throttle turning into the bend. Trees closed over the long winding track down to the
main road and the Toll Bridge. I killed the lights.
Sure of foot from long experience, he moved between the trees in the near dark.
Death lay all around him now and he made for the high ground, safe and deep in the
old forest. The burn was behind him as he made past the far bank in silence; birch and
ash, oak, beech and fir flew by as he took past the rise where the cattle drank.
The taste hung all around him now, a low throb beat with his heart as a fear haunted
his pace. Sanctuary lay beyond the dyke and the stone river, up into the heartland and
the high hill where he was thane. He dug deep and pushed on. It would be a single
stride to cross the mans road, the next would be his own. He leapt.
Ahead the road lay in darkness, untroubled before me, unseen but there. There was
a moment. The shock wave crashed through, arms buckling like plastic, our collective
inertia finding its new footing. Glass crystallising into many-faceted gems cascaded in;
wheels let go of their ground; something snapped. In from the darkness an eye,
full of fear, crowned with death; antlers tore through skin and muscle and bone, until
the tumbling ceased and momentum bled away to heat; and the heat escaped into the
old trees. Oak and beech, birch, fir and ash.
For all time locked eye to eye, perhaps in wonder as much as in fear, for the eternal
journey that lay before us both, the great stag and me. From the cold stars fell
only silence.
And of course there was the taste of metal.
17
First Light
Ian
HMP Parc
PROSE / RUNNER UP
February
Id never been to Russia before, never stepped so far inland as to view the landscape
where Hitlers army like so many before had come to grief in snowy wastes.
True, everyone had warned me. Moscow is truly cold. The suns so bright, it causes
snow blindness, its absence of warmth deceptive of a power thats like nothing you
have met before.
No warning even came close: nothing could have previewed that field of snow and ice,
that cold blinding light accompanying the wind slicing through to thirty-five.
No let up. Not a moments break in the view from the bus from Sheremetyevo into Red
Square, 8.a.m. and thirty-five below.
And even at eleven at night its glimmer remains, will remain, through night into another
cold, reflective day.
June
Id never been to Asia before, never stepped to within one degree of the tropics,
let alone the equator.
True, everyone had warned me. Singapore is truly hot. The suns so bright, it burns
your eyes if youre not careful, easy to get caught out by glare like nothing you have
met before.
No warning even came close: nothing could have previewed that wall of penetrating,
all-pervading heat, attacking factor thirty-five.
No let up. No awning halts the sear or cools the noontides thirty-five degrees.
And yet by seven it fades, in less than thirty minutes sinks for a full twelve hours,
to rise into another hot, brilliant day.
18
August
Id never been in a cell overnight before, never stepped from the free man to life as the
accused, the prisoner, the man in handcuffs.
True, had anyone warned me, I would not have believed it so truly cold. The constant
soulless fluorescent light soaks its way into the dull cream walls like nothing I have
met before.
No warning could ever have come close: nothing could have previewed that unblinking
stare, day and night, of those damned lights, or of the constantly changing guards.
No let up. No chance of physical or emotional warmth in a police cell on a hot
midsummer night with lights full on that communicate such chill.
And then the night brings gradual realisation that this light wont fade. Cell door
propped open as the constable watches every breath of the first lit night of my newly
shattered life.
19
I am Going Out
Nigel MacKenzie
HMP Glenochil
PROSE / RUNNER UP
As long as I can remember I guess I always knew I was a little different from the other
boys in my neighbourhood and it confused the hell out of me.
Imagine as a six year old boy watching Flipper on telly and popping a stiffy at the
sight of Luke Halpin, Flippers cute little blond friend in those wet, tight cut-offs?
Yes, I was a fickle youth and as a matter of fact at thirteen, I was still pretty fickle.
However I had moved on from Luke Halpin to Adam Ant. Wow! What a guy. I used to
put his posters all over my bedroom walls. I think that was when my mother started
to suspect that her only son was gay. I mean, most ten year old boys put up posters of
football teams, sports cars and even the USS Enterprise. In my case, apart from Adam
Ant, my walls were plastered with Donny, Jimmy and the rest of the Osmond clan.
Anyway, as so often happens, my moment of truth finally came. After seeing the movie
Ode to Billy Joe a dozen times and fooling around with my best friend Kevin Fairbairn,
I finally came to the realisation that I was homosexual. Though unlike Billy Joe
McAllister, I wasnt jumping off any fucking Tallahatchie Bridge.
While I accepted the fact that I was different, I wasnt yet ready to admit I was gay
although I had a gay uncle and I had therefore seen first-hand how cruel some people
could be. My own father for instance called my uncle a faggot every chance he got.
They were brothers-in-law yet they had not talked to each other in years.
Set against this background how could I walk up to my dad and tell him his only son
was a member of the same sect as his black sheep brother-in-law whom of course we
never talked about. I was sure my father would have a massive heart attack.
I just hoped if I told him he would not call me a faggot.
I lived with this dilemma for quite a while: should I tell my father or not? Perhaps if I
did tell him he would understand and maybe even forgive me. After all it wasnt really
like it would ruin our relationship or anything. We were strangers really, and had begun
to avoid each other most chances we got.
Strangely enough Id always sensed that my father was disappointed in me and that
always pissed me off. I mean I thought I was a good kid. My bedroom was always
anal-retentively neat and in that day and age Id never been in trouble with the law.
The feelings persisted and I even thought he was disappointed in me because I wasnt
some dumb-ass soldier fanatic like he was. He served nine years in the army then
joined the TA and I think that kind of warps your mind a little. The fact that I wanted
to work in an office did not help my situation either.
20
You know I often wonder what he would have said had he later found out I had fooled
around with his fishing buddys son Billy. Well, I did not mean to. It just happened.
We were in Billys bedroom after school looking at his dads collection of girlie
magazines and well, one thing led to another and pretty soon Billy looked like the lone
ranger riding silver. Unfortunately, the experience wasnt mutual. Billys Catholic guilt hit
him half a second after he shot the sheriff. He started saying we were both going to go to
hell for being queens. Hed been shaving his palms (masturbating) twice a day for the
last three years but he was going to hell for doing me once.
Billy had the nerve to say I had seduced him. What nonsense. He was the one that stuck
his tongue in my mouth all the way to my tonsils. Anyway he did not know how he was
going to face Father OBrian at his next confession. I tried to assure him that Father
OBrian would be more than understanding and would probably even identify with him.
Thats when Billy threw me out.
Although my father did give me problems, I wasnt worried about my mum finding out
I was gay you know what they say, mother always knows. I supposed shed maybe
cry. Then I would cry. Then we would both cry and embrace. It would be one of those
precious moments but it never happened. I wished the rest of the world would be as
open minded as my mum. But I knew it wasnt. I knew it wouldnt be easy being gay.
Hell, its never easy being different.
People who did not know me would probably call me all sorts of names just because
I happen to like men instead of women no other reason. Macho guys with one foot in
the closet would be repulsed by me because I reminded them of a part of themselves
they cant accept. Preachers would sentence me to eternal damnation just because some
book of ancient mythology says its a sin to be what I am; the same book by the way
thats caused many of the wars in this world.
All that said, I didnt like telling a lie and that meant I had to tell my dad.
My intentions were always good and later one day as I left my bedroom and began a
slow walk downstairs to where my father sat drinking a beer whilst watching television,
I couldnt help feeling like the beaver about to tell Mr Cleaver that he and Wally were
butt-buddies. Well I walked, took a deep breath, puffed out my chest and announced
I was going out and would be home later.
I then spent the next twenty-odd years like one of those limp-wristed actors who go on
Parkinson and sit lying through their bonded teeth about all the women they have had.
I never did get round to telling mum, God rest her, but I did tell my father. He said
I thought as much, well you could have knocked me down with a feather.
21

Anonymous
HMP Wakefield
PROSE / RUNNER UP
I used to run. I ran incessantly, day and night. It was necessary to keep the world moving
at a reasonable pace. Movement is always relative, but for my world back then it was
critical. In the moments when I couldnt run, the world around me accelerated almost
exponentially. The crescendo of blurred bodies and jumbled words that built while
walking pace gave me a breather was overwhelming. So I kept on running.
Blame for everybodys high speed fate rested heavily on my fearful psyche. To view
all that was once normal, showing this erratic and sudden sprint on every occasion, my
speed brought me towards an appreciation of what I once took for granted. Sprinting
and out of breath I passed family and friends chatting, empathising and enjoying each
others company. There was no stopping to join in; it was no longer possible. While my
feet pounded pavement to park my sister Fran waved me by the playground as my two
nieces laughed and screamed. The dilemma: to save them all from accelerated extinction
by continuing the marathon, or to play a part in their lives while I still could?
The sights of my newfound world dazzled me, and all as they occurred at the mundane
pace of normalcy. The fast forward lens offered exhilaration too. Aromas from the glue
factories, takeaways, dirty pets and car exhausts were all blended, smudged into an
olfactory sledgehammer. Everyone was always so much older once Id picked up the pace
again. It was terrifying. Watching in half-hour bursts as things aged at a rate of years per
hour! I became dark with fearful doubt fuelled by a crushing guilt over my solipsistic
role. Why is this happening to my world? shouted my old, inner self.
After years of rushing my life at a hectic pace, I wanted so much to be in equilibrium.
Hour after hour of dissociation, avoidance and wishing things older, later and all for this.
For a while my father Ronnie, and sister Fran jogged with me, forgiving me my perceived
role in the impending fate of time. That forgiveness broke my resolve and fear.
22
Eventually I ran out of steam. My feet wouldnt take anymore. I laid down to wait for the
end. First the blurring and static, noise-filled nausea. Then I was the only moving part;
my entire surroundings frozen in a resonating crystallised glass form that shattered into
billions of tiny pieces about my petrified corpse.
It says in the Talmud, We dont see the world as it is, we see it as we are!
The numbness I felt was a deafness and blindness born of my worlds new relative
brilliance. Was this how I was going to experience things for eternity? I waited, fretted,
questioned. I just wanted the pain to seem purposeful.
My breakdown was gradual, then sudden. Unexpected yet long anticipated by those
closest to me. I unravelled like a tangled ball of thread that had been clawed and chewed
by feverish cats. None of it had anything to do with life. It was a complete absence of my
worlds normal pain and sorrow. It was natures way of filling the void inside me.
The psychosis had been acute, but now my real life experiences taste so sweet.
Voices sound like velvet. Images from this hospital window glow in colours Im sure Ive
never seen before.
Everything moves at my pace. If anything, the world has slowed too much, but Im not
complaining. With all these new sensations and appreciations awaiting me, I feel like
going outside; maybe even for a run.
23
Fences + walls
Ricky Crossley
HMP Frankland
PROSE / RUNNER UP
I step out once more. Same gates, same 14ft fence, same CCTV cameras. Beyond that a
slither of grass, tarmac road and twenty-foot wall lording it above us.
Leaves on the treetops just above the wall show shades of green as they hang on in protest
at the coming winter months. The lowering sun casts shadows, dancing pixies jumping
through the branches. Time out is valuable. A chance to escape con gossip, screws shouting
and hemmed in cell walls. Blandness made more prominent by a view of grass just through
the fence and yet untouchable. If we are lucky, that just-cut aroma fills us with nostalgia.
People think we follow each other like ants, all around in one big circle. We dont!!
Groups of two or three follow the outer circle, able to chat and not think about navigation.
Its just round and round. Some elderly gentlemen walk alone in smaller inner circles.
Maybe its more a fear of conflict. It doesnt interfere or disrupt the outer circle so they
can walk slower. Heads down. Remembering, remorseful and full of regrets.
I head for the centre of the yard. A bench this end, one at the other. Set off in a straight
line, reach the far bench, walk round it and head back again. Repeat and repeat. It doesnt
disrupt anyone and I get solitude. My mind wanders without worrying in case I bump into
someone. Have I a fear of conflict? I continue my line. Repeat and repeat.
I dont look at the floor like the old men do. Head up. The wind makes treetops appear to
dance on the top of the wall, just for me. Clouds join them in a waltz under a spotlight of a
descending sun. My mind drifts to being in the country. The yard, a grass path through wild
flower meadows, masses of colour punctuated by random wild roses. The peacefulness,
a gentle lullaby, swathes of pampas grasses rustling in unison to the winds caresses.
A small hawk hovers over watching for the slight movement of scurrying field mice. Its
feathers glisten as rain on a heavy leaf. Its eyes black as jet, its legs cornflower yellow.
For a few moments I am free. I am that bird in my own little paradise.
I long for a straight line or road where I dont have to turn after so many steps.
Fences dictating where I walk. Turn and repeat. If it snowed Id leave a worn out track
like a wolf in a zoo enclosure. Not actually going anywhere, just going!! Im caged for a
reason though.
24
A couple of young energetic lads come out looking for a space to run without colliding.
They position themselves either side of my space so they can at least run in a straight
line. They set off, stop, turn round and run back again. Repeat and repeat.
I take a seat and listen intently to sounds drifting in from the outside world.
Directions get distorted but theres a slight rumble of a train along with horses
neighing and the drone of a far off motorway. Occasional gunshots signal at a Sunday
shoot and the telling of a great tale. A nature reserve nearby maybe? It could be a
mile away or thirty feet away. Flocks of geese fly low at dusk, the sounds reaching us
before they do. Swans, beautiful swans. Large wings wafting a unified ballet, heads
outstretched and regal.
Seagulls say the coast is near or maybe just rough at sea so theyve come inland.
Thats the problem with giant walls holding you back, they leave you with a blindness
as to what is actually on the other side.
On this side of the wall, I hear an engine approaching from around the corner and
guess what it may be. Its not just me, we all do it. It could be a transit van, a large grass
cutter or a low loader with a machine of some sort. I watch the corner in anticipation,
a few seconds of change to a routine. A works van appears trailing the outer fence at
5mph. A screw leads the way in front and workers walk behind, almost processional.
I watch them, not out of curiosity, just something to look at. The zoo similarity hits
home again. They are looking in at us! We are caged, they are not. Theyve got freedom,
families and feelings. We have terrible deeds, lost families and a fence to remind us.
They stare all the way around, curious about what weve done. We just keep walking,
theyve lost our interest. In two minutes they will be forgotten but in a few hours we will
be the subject of bar room chatter.
Fucking animals. Good enough for them.
25
26
The Magic of the World

Emma Louise Sharkey
HMP Styal
PROSE / RUNNER UP
It was around 9pm. I tightened my dressing gown belt and quietly crept down the stairs.
The living room was glowing and familiar. It was a mixture of contemporary and cosy.
I sat on the brown leather couch, on the side closest to the door that met the hallway,
enabling me to hear any sounds coming from upstairs. I reached for the TV control, which
was laid out on the coffee table next to a bowl of nuts, and a small glass of red wine.
A few small symbols of thought from my dad, before hed left with my mum for the party.
I flicked through the channels and watched the usual shows you might find on a
New Years Eve.
With my slippers up on the poofie, I popped nuts and raisins in my mouth and sipped
the wine from the crystal-cut glass. I imagined everyone around the world at various
parties, all dressed up. However the feeling of responsibility made me complete and
happy. A broadcast of Times Square, New York then caught my eye, and I added it to my
mental list of places to visit one day.
As time got closer to the hour, I crept upstairs, past the framed picture of my sisters and
me, and into my childhood bedroom.
The room had clean white walls and soft cream-coloured carpet; the large window framed our
childhood world. A huge tree stood at the bottom of our reasonably sized garden, which still
contained the blue metal swing with wooden seat our dad had made, and a large well-kept
grass field behind. It was my favourite place, and I had spent hours of my childhood life
studying everything. The leaves that shimmered in the breeze, the birds that sat in our tree,
boys playing football on a summers evening. At night time I would study the stars in the
mass of sky above, and my eyes would follow the glow of houses that bordered the field.
And now here I was years later; nothing had changed. I looked down to the little bundle
sleeping on the soft white sheets. His closed, long lashes curled, and his mouth was open,
where his dummy had fallen out. As I heard the fireworks pop, I knelt down to the bed.
Happy New Year, I whispered. Sweeping the blond hair away, I kissed his warm forehead.
Then something caught my eye at the window. Thick drifts of snow were softly falling from
the sky. After spending a few moments debating whether to disturb him, I scooped him up
with blanket and with both arms underneath, I carefully stepped down the stairs.
I walked around, into the kitchen and towards the back double-door that opened onto
the decking. As we stepped out, his eyes opened, lashes blinking at the snowflakes.
Its snowing! I said, in a quiet but excitable voice. Happy New Year. The little child drew
in a gasp of air and smiled with wonder and enchantment in his eyes. That magical look
was across his face. The one that makes us remember The Magic Of The World. The feeling
we all forget as we get older and mundane tasks take over. When people ask about my
favourite New Years Eve, this is my best one.
27
My First Love Affair

John Keenan
HMP Perth
PROSE / COMMENDED
It was a Friday night in 85. I was one of the lads. I had a little job off the cards and off to
the pub for a night out. After a few pints, a couple of chasers, I went to skin up a joint in
the toilet. I saw that the cubicle door was locked. I called out and heard a friend from the
other side of the door. He opened the door and gestured me in, saying he would like to
introduce me to Heroin, something completely unknown to me. As I looked down at the
sheet of silver foil I saw a beige powder turn to a dark brown shiny liquid-type blob.
I had never seen this before.
I was immediately attracted to it; the excitement started as I put the foil tube in my
mouth to inhale. He put a naked flame under the foil to heat it. Ah, lovely! The taste, the
smell. After ten or twelve lines I felt I had found the meaning of life. I fell in love with
Heroin. I had a feeling of warmth and calm, feeling things that I had never felt before in
my 14 years of life. It felt like I had died and gone to heaven.
A few days had passed and I wanted to meet up again so we did. Each meeting better
than the last. More and more you were in my head and more and more I wanted you.
When I was cold you kept me warm, if I was sad you made me happy, if I was lonely you
were there. My love for you just started to grow and grow. I just had to have you. It soon
became clear to me that I could not function without you. More and more we became
one. I never needed anything or anyone else. It was you and me against the world.
I was intoxicated by you.
Time quickly passes when you are having fun. After we had been together for about five
years, things started unravelling. I got sacked from my work. Things were getting tough,
but by now I didnt just want you: I had to have you. I couldnt get by without you, you
were my all. I went and stole for you from my family and from anyone. I even stole from
houses and businesses for you. Guilt, shame and manipulation were very good powers I
had perfected in order to possess you, but it was never enough. I lied for you, I cheated,
schemed and scammed for you, but it still wasnt enough.
One of the hardest parts of my love for you was when the police took me away and I
would end up in prison, where I could not cope without you. I would be sick, hot and cold
sweats, shivers, stomach and leg cramps, spewing from every orifice and sleepless for
weeks at a time.
I would pray to God: if he took the pain away, I would never have you in my life again, but
you would sneak in via visits or a dodgy Screw and all my good intentions went out the
window so that I could have you in my life again. All the pain, heartache, worry and stress
were gone the moment I had you back.
28
After about twenty years together, I decided to step up our relationship and commit
further. I stopped smoking and started injecting you. This was very intense as the highs
got higher and the lows got lower and I honestly feel this was the downfall of our
relationship, because by now the physical abuse that you were inflicting on me was
going too far. I even contracted a virus that caused me to have a form of chemotherapy
(Interferon) for six months. Luckily for me the treatment was successful, but for me it
was the last straw. I felt it was time to move on so I left you for a green sickly medicine,
Methadone. I swore blind I would not go near you again. However, the Meth was not the
same so I came back to you over and over again, as your allure is so strong the comfort
and warmth I get from you is second to none.
I know you dont love me, but when I think of you my head tells me it will be different
this time, but it never is. So here I am again with nothing and back in jail.
I dont love you no more
I dont want you no more
Its time for me to change the game
Heroin is so cunning, baffling; it took over my heart.
This time, I hope I make a brand new start
29
The Chamber by John Grisham

Jeanne Wilding
HMP Low Newton
BOOK REVIEW / WINNER
Alongside The Green Mile, Grishams The Chamber stands as one of the strongest
arguments against capital punishment ever written.
The anti-hero/protagonist of The Chamber is an unrelenting, unrepentant and vicious
white redneck in the USAs Deep South (played by Gene Hackman in the film), who
murders two sweet and beautiful 11 year old black girls.
There is nothing to like or sympathise with in this man, as his estranged nephew, a trainee
barrister, quickly finds. With his uncle facing the death sentence, his nephew is charged
with arguing against execution.
The Chamber, as its title suggests, is about death row and the horrors of execution.
As the story unfolds, any reader with an ounce of liberalism or humanity cant fail to
support the nephew in his struggle, albeit reluctantly.
As in The Green Mile, the reader as well as many of those working on death row witness
the state barbarism of gassing, electrocution and hanging, and in the end is more
revolted by these old and calculated killings than the original crime, horrific as it is or
appears to be.
As the final day draws near, we find ourselves desperately rooting for the trainee lawyer
and feeling some sympathy for the killer. Here was a man who had committed the most
heinous crime, and yet, and yet...
Im not easily inclined to extend my sympathy to rapists and child killers. Let them rot
comes to mind, but as I faced the horrors of execution and what it says about those
who consent and pay for others to commit the deed in our name, I found execution
unbearable. We can perhaps forgive the killer who commits murder in blind rage or
ignorance, socially reinforced prejudice or whilst under the influence. But can we really
tolerate our state employees calmly and coldly chopping off a human head, frying a
human brain, hanging someone until they choke after theyve endured years awaiting
the day on death row?
Grisham, a lawyer himself, has a tense, unsentimental, economical and unfrilly style,
and uses no emotion or polemic to persuade. There is no pulling of heartstrings,
no flowers or violins and a complete absence of maudlin sentiment. His characterisation
of John Redneck does nothing to capture your sympathy.
Even leaving aside that the majority of death row inhabitants are poor and black and
some inevitably are innocent, I came to the view that such barbarism was intolerable and
have opposed capital punishment strenuously ever since.
30
31
The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell
David Tattum
HMP Usk
Readers will often say a book was good, was enjoyable. Occasionally they may say a work
was amazing, had a deep and lasting impact. Such is Robert Tressells The Ragged-Trousered
Philanthropists. This draws on Tressells time in Hastings, where he lived and worked
as a painter between 1902 and his death in 1911, and offers a coruscating attack on
untrammelled capitalism.
Following the lives of a group of workers, the philanthropists of the title, and their
employers in the decorating trade and undertaking business, the action takes place over
the course of a year in the fictional town of Mugsborough. The novel clearly exposes the
greed, trickery and duplicity of both groups, of the workers in the dog-eat-dog world of low
wages, hard work and uncertain employment and particularly of the bosses in their search
for higher profits.
It also offers a challenging and poignant expos of the social conditions resulting from the
system. The wealthy, flagrantly affluent lifestyle of the employers is in stark juxtaposition
to the almost continual grinding poverty of working class families. There the struggle to
pay rent on shoddy accommodation, feed families with tainted, poor quality food and the
pathetic struggle of daily life is captured in heart-rending detail and engenders a wealth of
emotional responses in the reader: horror, pity and anger being a few.
Do not think, however, that this is simply a catalogue of unrelieved doom and gloom.
Tressell was too good a writer for that. Flashes of humour are seen in the daily life of the
workers and he skilfully draws the reader into the life of his workers: Frank Owen, socialist,
atheist and skilled craftsman, with a sickly wife and young child; the Eastons, a young
couple with a young baby; the mysterious Barrington, Philpot and others. We care for
them; we share with them their small triumphs, their hopes and their pain.
Written during the Edwardian period with its labour unrest, this is an angry novel, bitter
about the perceived iniquities of the system. Tressells naming of the employers and the
local worthies Pushem, Sloggem, Smeeriton, Leavit, Doemdown and Rushton indicates
his attitude towards the corruption and hypocrisy of the system. His attack on the morality
of organised religion and the Christianity of the bosses is scathing.
This book, read many years ago, drove home the glaring economic inequalities and the lack
of opportunity that result from an unregulated market and the enervating impact poverty
and uncertainty have on the many for the enrichment of the few. It confirmed a belief that
there has to be a better way, a fairer scheme of things.
That message still resonates today. At a time of rampant venality among bankers, company
directors and politicians, together with the sustained attack on the welfare state and the
demonisation of the poor, this work is required reading. Do we really want to turn the
clocks back a hundred years?
32
The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

by Robert Louis Stevenson
Brian Hannah
HMP Low Moss
A book that made a significant impression on me is Robert Louis Stevensons Jekyll
and Hyde. It describes the dual nature of man. Dr Victor Frankl also refers to it, in Mans
Search for Meaning, as having the potential to operate in both personalities. I believe
it has been true of my own life, having been in active addiction with alcohol and drugs.
Robert Louis Stevenson contrasts an outgoing, pleasant Dr Jekyll with a dark, obscure
and withdrawn Mr Hyde. Until of course Dr Jekyll finally succumbs to the darker nature.
You can also find many references to this in scripture. Jacob and Esau wrestling in the
womb. Pauls inner battle in the book of Romans.
Carl Jung described a shadow which can be found in personality; which may identify
with personal and social identity. I saw this evident in this book as Robert Louis
Stevenson also uses the neighbourhood to set the scene. He describes the shops in the
area as inviting, which may identify with Dr Jekylls friendly nature in contrast to the
description of the outside of the house in which Dr Jekyll lives, which is described as
dark with no window and a door that is blistered and disdained, which is the access point
for Mr Hyde to this area of the house; and can be compared to other areas of the dingy
neighbourhood. This also may be contrasted to areas of London today where you can
find that affluent areas accommodate not only affluent and professional people but you
could also find single parents and people on benefits living in the same area, which can
also be compared to other parts of the world. We can also find many savoury upstanding
characters in the story Mr Utterson, the lawyer, who is concerned about this mysterious
relationship between his friend and this unsavoury character, who is alarmed that his
client and friend may be getting blackmailed by Mr Hyde. He then says that if he be Mr
Hyde he had thought, I shall be Mr Seek. He also sets out to pursue Mr Hyde because of
his curiosity, but after having an encounter with him, he is left startled.
We can also find in life that there is no great evil. That it is transformed into
something very small. Most human beings may instinctively know what is good and
what is acceptable, which may be the reason for Dr Jekylls self destruction. In his
correspondence with a friend he says, You must suffer me to go my own dark way.
I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am a
chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also.
Clearly there is a danger in continuing with active addiction, it has been true of my own
life when I was aware that my whole appearance had changed.
33
34
The Road by Cormac McCarthy

Craig Roy
HMP Shotts
Cormac McCarthys The Road portrays the fragility of humanity and morality through
beauty and cruelty alike. The main protagonists are a father and son trying to survive in
a post-apocalyptic world, where they face adversity from those who will do anything to
survive. Through McCarthys decision not to use chapters or inverted commas and for
the protagonists to remain nameless, he cleverly reflects a world with no rules and the
collapse of society, culture and decorum.
With the world having decayed into ruin, survivors have adapted into moral tyrants willing
to kill, some resorting to cannibalism. After killing a man in order to escape a group of
armed men, the father returns to retrieve their belongings:
He found the bones and the skin piled together with some rocks over them. A pool of
guts.. No pieces of clothing.
Through the use of imagery alone McCarthy describes the severity and desperation of
humanity as these men eat a fellow comrade. This desperation is heightened by the
missing clothes indicating that nothing goes to waste; the basics have become luxuries.
However, the use of the stones covering the remains suggests that the cannibals are
thankful and respectful for their meal.
The father and sons is an important relationship in the novel, the son having been born
into this new world. He symbolises the innocence, morality and naivety of the past,
which the father recognises and wishes to protect:
If he is not the word of God, God never spoke.
He wants to believe that God is the reason that his son must bear this new age and that
he must be a symbol of hope, a saviour, otherwise faith is pointless as no God would be so
cruel. The sons morality is shown through his acts of kindness like when he asks his father
to give an elderly man food. Understandably, the father has mixed feelings, his reluctance
is caused by fear of an ambush and sharing limited resources but he agrees. This highlights
the strength of faith he has in his son and the hope he inspires as he goes against his
better judgement, effectively making the father face his past.
McCarthys imagery and depiction of human nature is heart-warming. It has made
me realise that, even today, there is so much cruelty in the world but despite this there is
also so much hope and kindness. It raises a real possibility of an apocalyptic event; if such
traits were lost we would easily devolve. Equally, it sends a clear message that family
relationships are important and, no matter what happens, we should stick together
because if we dont, what hope do we have? On reflection I have a wider perspective of
human nature and, despite the cruelty, that glimmer of hope will always survive whether
through helping the elderly or an inquisitive child. This is something we must preserve
and inspire, which is why I consider Cormac McCarthys The Road to be eye-opening.
35
Americanah
by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Chinonyerem Otuonye
HMP East Sutton Park
The writer brought two different worlds together spread across three countries:
the United Kingdom, America and Nigeria. The reader is taken into the lives of the two
main characters, Ifemelu and Ibinze, as they learn to adjust to the cultural change they
find themselves journeying through. It is a journey of comparison, opportunities and
challenges that pose questions to them about who they are, putting their beliefs aside as
they experience homesickness while grappling with reality. I found it fascinating to read
how two destinies planned together can now change as they move into different worlds.
Their lives have changed but their feelings for each other remain the same, cemented by
a bond of truly humble beginnings.
The writer brings out the characters survival instincts; for instance we see Aunty Uju
move from being a kept woman to qualifying as a medical doctor in America and
the racial undertones she experiences while living in a contented town... She is so
funny! Growing with Dike in the book was very emotional, from the time of his being
born, moving to America with his mum and growing up in a predominantly white
neighbourhood, to his suicide attempt and finding his roots in his home country Nigeria
with the kind and understanding assistance of his cousin.
The richness of the Igbo language is portrayed in the proverbs and stories behind
the stories to explain the very simple and complex things going on in their lives.
I particularly like the relationship between Aunty Uju and Ifemelu and how it switched
from the former being a role model to Ifemelu now playing the role of a grown up.
Ifemelus father amuses me with his love for using big English words to express the most
simple of things. Ifemelus blog on race is used by the writer to give a voice to unspoken
words on peoples minds, questions we ask ourselves with very real scenarios.
The book opened my eyes to the euphoric feelings people felt when President Obama
was elected the President of the United States of America the election news highlights
on television and the description of peoples facial emotions of hope and the thought
of coming so far. I felt it too during that time. My eyes saw the lives of people who had
done very well in their spheres of lives and acknowledging the richness of their culture,
clinging on to everything that related to this in the country they now call home.
I sometimes wonder if the words of one of the characters are true that sometimes we
marry the person around when we are ready to get married, not necessarily the person
that we fall in love with.
This can make you relate to Kosi or Ifemelu with empathy or disdain as each try to keep
their man and marriage. A book birthed with the wealth of bringing two traditions,
cultures and a yearning to belong to each other. Bravo!
36
Caravaggio: A Life Sacred and Profane

by Andrew Graham-Dixon
Mr Wynne Roberts
HMP Frankland
This is more than a book, it is a life. The life of Caravaggio is lived in the blood and
sweat of yesterday, today. He is seen through the eyes of many, but felt by so few.
Henceforth, I tell his story as if it was mine, yet it cannot be. I am not a painter or an
artist. I read to learn or to enjoy. Its that simple.
Perhaps not with this book. This is more than a book, it is an experience. I have lived
and loved. I know how he felt, and I can feel the sorrow of every page that I turn upon
my life. Caravaggio had not tomorrow, only the merest glance of yesterday. He travelled
afar, yet went nowhere. He painted upon a canvas of a memory of pain and hatred, and
he washed in the desolate dirt of his mission. His eyes submitted to a pain of the loss of
colour. He stressed the grasp of love, and felt the terrible cost of his despair.
He was alone, yet his paintings spoke to him, and reassured him that he was not
unkempt. Someone did care, and the brush strode a thousand lines upon the canvas of
a memory. His delusions were not lost upon his paintings, yet his life would pay a heavy
price for its success. There was to be no glory in his name, yet the cardinal sin of taking
a life, and emerging in anger. His vision of anger would smear along his canvas, and he
signed his name in blood and despaired. How could a long lost soul live for the love of
warmth upon the cold embers of his heart? Could he not recognise that the further he
travelled he would love his own strength? He ran where the devil dare not go and the
water that carried him afar. Where would he end up and with whom? He did not know
and perhaps he did not care.
Yet, someone somewhere would one day remember him for the longing that we all
have, the touch of life upon the slime of the picture that was a smile that he could not
bring. How many young men did he paint? Yet he was old upon the stone of life, and
the comfort of a picture could not replicate this young mans dreams. No, he said.
I have found the love of paint and I have wrapped myself in its body. There will never
be the warmth of a log fire to keep the chills away. Where will he go, and will he be
remembered for the lost painting upon his life? He has painted the prettiest of all, yet
he is surrounded by the ugliness of life. What have I done to deserve such sorrow,
what have I done to experience so much pain? He can paint in colours that sadly do
not reflect his living. Yet, he is an artist and the memory of his life is in the melancholic
artistry of his occupation.
37
38
THIS be the verse!

The Collected Poems of Philip Larkin
Stephen Potter
HMP Preston
Some time ago, I stumbled across the archives of a long gone poetry society with
the intriguing name of Jabberwocky, which had flourished briefly in the late sixties.
In a pristine collection tied neatly with red ribbon, I discovered a treasure trove of
letters signed by some of the greatest poets of the 20th century. It seems the secretary
of Jabberwocky was nothing if not ambitious. The cross between Hyacinth Bucket
and Frasier Crane had blithely invited everyone who was anyone in the poetry world
to her literary soirees. Their replies (in the main polite but emphatic refusals) were
autographed by Gods of the poetic canon. I blinked, amazed to be looking at signatures
of the truly greats Auden, Betjeman, Kavanagh, Jennings, Hughes and Heaney.
But one signature made me stop in my tracks. Philip Larkin the man who opened
my eyes to poetry!
Poetry played little or no part in my working-class childhood. Like many I produced
some awful pre-pubescent verses and even had one published in the school magazine.
However the abstruse and pretentious stuff we were taught in school, combined with
a survivors instinct to run with the crowd on the council estate where I lived, soon
doused that insignificant little flame.
Many years later on an adult learning course, I was required to write an essay on a set
poem. It was called Mr. Bleaney and it had been written by somebody called Philip
Larkin. I read it and was entranced. It was about the sad life of a sad man told through
the eyes of the narrator who had inherited Bleaneys room in a nondescript Midlands
boarding house. Although the subject matter was mundane, Larkin has turned this mans
life into a thing of beauty. His tone reminded me of the doleful voice of Hank Williams
at his mournful best. But most of all what mattered was I got it! I understood what the
poet was trying to say. I could engage with the writer without having to negotiate the
intellectual barbed wire that surrounded most poetry. The kind that came with warning
signs: KEEP OFF! NOT FOR THE LIKES OF YOU!!
I bought a copy of Larkins Collected Poems and my journey truly began. In that book,
I found a voice I could relate to. A man who wrote about the things I cared about love,
loneliness, life and death in a simple but beautiful way. It was a watershed moment.
I realised that poetry like this was for me. Poetry like this was for anybody.
Since then I have gone on to enjoy the works of hundreds of poets and even to write my
own work, some of which has been published. Poetry plays a major part in my life today,
part inspiration and part antidepressant. I possess a treasured and well-read collection of
over a hundred books. None more treasured though, than my dog-eared copy written by
the Hermit of Hull.
39
The Road Less Travelled by M. Scott Peck

Ricky Toora
HMP Dartmoor
For years I heard comments with reference to the above-mentioned book, which
I have found to be an amazing journey of insight, inspiration, challenging and
meaningful growth.
I grew up in the so-called care system for societys most vulnerable children and
my experience manifested into self-destructive behaviours. I left care faced with
multiple disadvantages: no qualifications, poor social and cognitive skills, no life skills,
no sense of purpose or direction, carrying the stigma of negative labels, low self-worth,
self-esteem and confidence negative indicators in relation to my emotional well-being
and educational potential due to numerous moves and changes, no real sense of identity
or belonging, addiction issues, deeply held negative self concepts, no employment
prospects, mental health problems, psychological scars which led me to believe that the
world was an uncaring, unsafe unpredictable and hostile place on top of all the damage
inflicted by the deprivation, neglect and abuse that I suffered at the hands of my
so-called carers (well documented).
The Road Less Travelled highlighted that the residue of my own personal history was
having a destructive influence in my present life. I was holding onto and clinging onto
things that were damaging and were taking up so much time and energy that I would
in fact be better off letting go of. It took me through the process of change and has
encouraged me to not only address my disadvantages but to also begin tentatively
to repair the damage inflicted.
I was able to build a new outlook on life, others and myself; the latter is still a work in
progress due to my deeply held negative self concepts.
The day came when it was more painful to remain tightly closed as a bud than... it was to
open up and blossom. This is my truth!
Once I began letting go of all that baggage I actually found myself enjoying life more
as I experience new things: gratitude and appreciation for life has been an amazing
experience.
Further Along The Road Less Travelled and The Road Less Travelled and Beyond are two
books that I will seek out when the time is right. I am sure that it will be another journey
that will challenge me, and my willingness to change will allow me to better myself and
my ways.
Good luck, stay safe... Im outta here!
40
The Old Creepy House

HB
HMYOI Warren Hill
FLASH FICTION / WINNER
One of them acted as lookout while the other two approached the old creepy house.
Dirty smoke rose from its chimney like an omen. When they heard the cough they rushed
to hide. The glass in the window was broken and they could smell something rotten
coming from the inside. They heard the cough again and a strange tapping sound.
They crept around the back of the house and found the door open.
One of them pushed the other inside and said, Go on! Ill follow you!
It was dark and smelly at first and they could see little. Then they could make out that
they were stepping on an animal skin rug. They looked up to see the head of a tiger with
big scary teeth and eyes on fire. One of them started to shout but the other boy covered
his mouth to silence him. Now they could see animals all around the room: black fur,
glowing eyes, horns, teeth, giant ears.
Suddenly they heard the tapping noise behind them. They looked back and saw the old
man with his walking stick looking straight at them.
What are you doing here? he asked calmly.
The kids screamed and ran out as fast as possible. One of them dropped his mobile.
The next day they came back to the house and knocked on the door. The old man stood
there, coughing. He smiled and said, Did you forget something? Come in, come in.
He talked to them about the animals he had collected from all over the world. He showed
them creatures they had never imagined existed.
A few weeks later there was an ambulance outside the house. They never saw the old
man again. New people moved in. The window was fixed. The smell was gone.
41
Merlin
KJ
HMYOI Warren Hill
FLASH FICTION / RUNNER UP
His eyes opened to a familiar sight: a prison cell. He had no recollection of how
he had arrived here. There was an unholy noise beside him that resembled snoring.
He shifted his body to locate the source of the noise. He saw what seemed to be a man
lying next to him. He studied the body carefully; it was definitely a man, he thought at
the sight of this persons feet, until the figure rolled over, still snoring through what was
unmistakeably a dogs snout. And this thing was sleeping in mid-air. He screamed and
sat upright. Unfortunately his screams awakened the creature and he was now staring
at a snarling Great Dane with the body of a man. He thought to himself: this cannot be
happening. Things got even stranger when he heard the beast say, Morning Merlin,
bad dream? Then darkness fell.
When he woke he was still in prison but now in a single cell and was being woken
up by a loud banging on his door. He looked up to see a prison officer smiling through
his flap. Your papers here mate, youre gonna like the front page! He got up and
grabbed the paper. He was shocked to see himself on the front page under the headline
Wizard attempts to escape prison. As he scanned through it he became more confused.
He read, Merlin the wizard attempted the interdimensional portus spell... Having failed
the spell he lost his memory... He cannot remember anything before the spell or his past
life... He has been sentenced to death via the morte stasis spell and will be sent to the
underworld on 6/6/06. In shock he looked up at the date on the paper: 6/6/06...
That darkness was back again.
43
Like Father Like Son

WK
HMYOI Warren Hill
FLASH FICTION / COMMENDED
Max had always dreamed of owning a shop. His friends teased him about it but Max
didnt mind. He lived at home with his mum, Shavanah. His dad had left when Max was
still a baby. When he was 16, Max got a part-time job in an electronics shop. He didnt
like the owner at first because he was hard on him but gradually the mans attitude
softened and he began to praise Maxs work. The shop owner often talked about
wanting to leave the business to his son if he had one but he wasnt married as far
as Max knew, and he never mentioned any children.
One day Max came to work late and looking like he had had no sleep.
Why are you so late? asked the shop owner.
Ive been helping my mum with moving, said Max. Our house on Stephen Street is
really cramped.
Stephen Street? I know one beautiful lady on that road in fact you remind me of her
sometimes.
Well, maybe its my mum, joked Max.
Her name was Shavanah.
Max started coughing like he was choking on something.
Thats my mums name.
Well, Im gonna come round your house then and congratulate her on how well shes
brought you up.
Thats not funny, said Max.
That evening there was a knock on their door. Maxs mum opened it to find the shop
owner standing there with a grin. She was totally shocked.
You! What...
I was young. And stupid. Can we start again, please? Youve got a good son, Shavanah.
She paused for a moment, remembering. And so have you, she said at last.
Max thought he was dreaming when he came out to see the shop owner and his mum
hugging each other.
44
Alba (youre in my heart)

Maurice Patrick Crossley
HMP Glenochil
COMMENDED
I dont know if you can see,
The changes since 1603
Over the years fae the groat tae the pound,
510 years of the union wis sound,
Reciting Rabbie Burns, supping whisky n Irn Bru,
Pondering where I came from,
Contemplating Scotlands success too,
So let me tell ya about ma country,
Ill tell ya in ma ain time,
Scotlands daen jist fine,
I can hear the highlands calling,
So Im aff oan holiday,
If I return a foreigner,
Ah widnae get sad,
Scotland youre everything
Westminster governments are just bad,
Oan ma return Im sitting here with nae coal oan the fire,
A cold room, nae longer goat a shipyard choir,
Flames courtesy of Christopher Brookmyre,
An industrial nation ripped apart,
With only passion burning in ma heart,
The way is clear,
Theres nothing to fear,
Forget the mystery, fulfil your own destiny,
Vote YES on referendum day.
45
Running to Stand Still: stories from the inside

From Readers & Writers the literature education programme of English PEN
Edited by Irene Garrow and Grace Hetherington
English PEN is one of the UKs leading literature and free speech charities, based
at the innovative Free Word Centre in Farringdon, London.
We promote the freedom to write and the freedom to read. The founding centre
of a worldwide writers association established in 1921, we are supported by our
active membership of leading writers and literary professionals with an elected Board.
Our education programme develops the writing of prisoners, detainees, refugees,
asylum-seekers and other socially excluded groups. We also run a full programme
of public events and award prizes to outstanding British and international writers.
Special thanks to Jackie Kay, , Prison Reading Group, Writers in Prison Foundation
and Inside Time, and to our funders The Monument Trust.
Support the work of English PEN
find out more at www.englishpen.org
English PEN is a company limited by guarantee, number 5747142,

and a registered charity, number 1125610.
Writing is a lifeline, but to

do it you also put your neck
on the line. You take risks.
You expose your heart.
Jackie Kay

Running To Stand Still

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Running

2 Foreword Writing as a Lifeline

4 Introduction Pen on Paper

Robert Beck, HMP Grendon

Anonymous, HMP Bure

KB Pendleton, HMP Kennet

Maria Chandler, HMP Low Newton

10 The Young Traveller

David Beattie, HMP Glenochil

Craig Roy, HMP Shotts

11 50 Word Life Story

Anonymous, HMP Pentonville

Ralph Anderson, HMP Winchester

28 My First Love Affair

John Keenan, HMP Perth

Jeanne Wilding, HMP Low Newton

32 The Ragged Trousered

David Tattum, HMP Usk

33 The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll

Brian Hannah, HMP Low Moss

Craig Roy, HMP Shotts

Mr Wynne Roberts, HMP Frankland

39 THIS be the verse!

Stephen Potter, HMP Preston

Anonymous, HMP Glenochil

40 The Road Less Travelled

Ian, HMP Parc

Nigel MacKenzie, HMP Glenochil

22 Running to Stand Still

Ricky Crossley, HMP Frankland

27 The Magic of the World

Emma Louise Sharkey, HMP Styal

Ricky Toora, HMP Dartmoor

41 The Old Creepy House

KJ, HMYOI Warren Hill

44 Like Father Like Son

45 Alba (youre in my heart)

Foreword - Writing as a Lifeline

Running to Stand Still

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

Introduction - Pen on Paper

Running to Stand Still

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

Running to Stand Still

The Best Remembered Journey

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

Running to Stand Still

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

The Young Traveller

Running to Stand Still

50 Word Life Story

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

Running to Stand Still

Running to Stand Still

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

Running to Stand Still

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

Running to Stand Still

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

Running to Stand Still

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

Running to Stand Still

Running to Stand Still