In A Parallel Universe and Other Stories

IN A PARALLEL UNIVERSE
AND OTHER VOICES
English PEN Readers & Writers

Foreword by Meg Rosoff
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Collection copyright English PEN 2015
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 978-0-9931705-2-2
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Smith & Watts Print
Ipswich Road
Colchester
Essex
CO4 0AD3
www.smithwattsprint.co.uk
Design and photography by Brett Biedscheid, www.statetostate.co.uk
2 Foreword

Listening To Your
Voices
Meg Rosoff
4 Introduction

Landscape and
Memory

Irene Garrow
7 In a Parallel
Universe

Gareth Kerr
HMP Shotts
POETRY / WINNER
8 Kitchen School

Gareth Kerr
HMP Shotts
POETRY / WINNER
10 A Face In The Clouds

Mark Banner
HMP Stafford
PROSE / WINNER
12 The Ragged
Trousered
Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

Paul Prendergast
HMP Swaleside
BOOK REVIEW / WINNER
14 A Letter to Myself

Steven Millward
HMP Guys Marsh
FLASH FICTION / WINNER
15 Wall of Firsts

R. W. Beardsley
HMP Ryehill
POETRY / RUNNER UP
16 The Deceiving
Countryside
Anonymous

HMP Shotts

POETRY / RUNNER UP
16 Tipple
Anonymous

HMP Shotts

POETRY / RUNNER UP
19 The Winding Road

Brian Hannah
HMP Low Moss
POETRY / RUNNER UP
20 The Last Breath

Anonymous

HMP Frankland

POETRY / RUNNER UP
20 Flowers

Shahzad Javed
HMP Low Moss
POETRY / RUNNER UP
21 Hinterland Detour

Graham Gardner
HMP Frankland
POETRY / RUNNER UP
22 A Letter to Myself/
Ambition
48 For Those I Loved

by Martin Gray
23 Going Home
50 The Strange

Voyage of

Donald Crowhurst

by N. Tomalin

and R. Hall
Don-carlos Ellis
HMP Longlartin
POETRY / RUNNER UP
Bob Beck
HMP Grendon
POETRY / RUNNER UP
24 Lifes Lessons Aint

Taught
Anonymous

Brook House IRC

POETRY / RUNNER UP
Ian Holden
HMP Usk
BOOK REVIEW / RUNNER UP
Gordon Chorlton
HMP Guernsey
51 Well, I Never!
26 A Fantastic Journey
28 The Find
53 My Spiritual Home
Sean Meier
HMP Stafford
PROSE / RUNNER UP
Anonymous

HMP Full Sutton

PROSE / RUNNER UP
31 A Letter to Myself

Oisin Hendrickse
HMP Wormwood Scrubs
PROSE / RUNNER UP
32 Anything Could
Happen

Jon Webb
HMP North Sea Camp
PROSE / RUNNER UP
34 The Road Ahead

James Henry
HMP Onley
PROSE / RUNNER UP
36 My House on the Hill

Patrick Regan
HMP Bullingdon
PROSE / RUNNER UP
38 Chance Encounter

on a Sunday
Afternoon

Steven Munn
HMP Bure
PROSE / RUNNER UP
40 Anything Could
Happen

Lee Gilmour
HMP Kilmarnock
PROSE / RUNNER UP
42 Beginning
Anonymous

HMP Parc

PROSE / RUNNER UP
45 Let the Right One

In by John Ajvide

Lindqvist, translated

by Ebba Segerberg

Andrew Craigie
HMP Frankland
46 Roots by Alex Haley

Lennox Watson
HMP Thameside
Craig Topping
HMP Ranby
POETRY /
HIGHLY COMMENDED
Anonymous

HMP Glenochil

POETRY /

HIGHLY COMMENDED
54 Chances

Ian Holden
HMP Usk
POETRY /
HIGHLY COMMENDED
55 Mugs Game

Gareth Cooke
HMP Parc
POETRY /
HIGHLY COMMENDED
55 My Life in 100 Words

Anonymous

HMP Shotts

POETRY /

HIGHLY COMMENDED
56 Ahm Bad
Anonymous

HMP Shotts

POETRY /

HIGHLY COMMENDED
56 In Praise of
Wharfedales

Tony Joyce
HMP Parkhurst
POETRY /
HIGHLY COMMENDED
57 Kane and Abel

by Jeffrey Archer
Anonymous

HMP Parc

BOOK REVIEW /

HIGHLY COMMENDED
58 The Diving Bell

and the Butterfly

by Jean-Dominique

Bauby, translated

by Jeremy Leggatt
Anonymous

HMP Shotts

BOOK REVIEW /

HIGHLY COMMENDED
FOREWORD
LISTENING TO YOUR VOICES
Dear Writers,
I have an important favour to ask you. Please dont make me judge your writing
competition again. This year there were 500 entries and the quality of the writing was
so high that it took approximately ten times the number of hours Id allotted to read and
mull over and argue with myself about who should win. Funny thing about arguing with
yourself is youd think youd always win. Not me, I just got tangled up in knots because
I found it so difficult to choose.
If another judge had made a shortlist, it no doubt would have looked entirely different
from mine but I did my best and I thought you might be interested in knowing what
I was looking for, listening for, hoping for when I read your work.
Mainly, I looked for authenticity. Not fancy words, not perfect sentences, not
punctuation used properly or accurate spelling. Writing professionally or for your
own pleasure or for publication is not like writing a business letter or a school
essay or a thank-you note. Whenever I read someones work, I want to hear a voice
speaking to me whether its via a poem or a story or a book review. I want to hear
someone with a point of view telling me something I didnt know. If the spelling isnt
perfect, I dont care. Im listening to your voice.
Within this body of work, I heard some amazing voices. Your voices. They were
humorous, thoughtful, intelligent, wise, angry, sad and passionate. Some were full of
regret. Most were full of hope.
Some of my favourite pieces contained less than a handful of words. Some had
misspellings and some of your handwriting nearly drove me to drink (thats why God
invented keyboards). In the end, however, none of those details mattered. What mattered
was the fact that you made me laugh and cry. While reading your entries I ran around the
house grabbing various members of my family: Youve got to read this one! A few entries
I typed into my own laptop and sent to writer friends (Read this! Isnt this amazing?) and
some I had to read once, then read again because I was afraid I hadnt picked up all the
subtlety of the structure and language the first time through.
In A Parallel Universe and other voices
The ability to write a nice sentence doesnt make anyone a writer. What makes you a
writer is the compulsion to say something, to somehow express the thoughts that swirl
around in your deepest self, ideas informed by feelings you dont admit to everyone
(sometimes not even to yourself). I want to read writing that clangs like a gong, strikes
like lightning, purrs like a cat, explodes like a volcano. Go ahead, tell me a story about
anything buying a pint of milk, say but tell it in a way that tells me who you are, where
you came from, where youre going. If it makes for uncomfortable reading (and writing),
well, thats great. I wont easily forget it, and no one else will either.
From childhood were told to maintain our self-control: be good, sit quietly, dont answer
back, dont pick fights, be reasonable. And we all know that good behaviour is important
for the smooth running of society.
Writing, however, does not require you to be good. It requires passion and power and
the you that you keep under wraps. Your voice is not your speaking voice, its the
secret you, the inner you, the real you. It will reveal you. If the real you is poison, your
voice will be poisonous. If the real you is full of self-pity, Ill feel it in your words. If the
real you only says what I want to hear, Ill know youre a fake. But if the real you has
something to say, I will hear it, absorb it into my life, think about it, be changed by it.
As will everyone else.
So thank you, all 500 of you, for sharing with me your insights, your thoughts, your
humour, your despair, your wisdom and most of all, your voices. Ive heard them and
they have changed me.
Gratefully,
Meg Rosoff
An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS
INTRODUCTION
LANDSCAPE AND MEMORY
I think it is all a matter of love;
the more you love a memory
the stronger and stranger
it becomes.
Vladimir Nabokov
This is the fourth year of the English PEN writing competition for men and women
in prison, judged this year by the writer Meg Rosoff who chose two themes and a
wonderful landscape image to inspire our entrants. It worked! We had a bumper year
with over 500 entries from 80 prisons stretching from France to Scotland, England and
the Channel Islands. This work has grown out of our Readers & Writers programme which
sends writers and books into prisons to deliver workshops and opportunities to meet
new writers and read new books.
There are many clichs around literature in prison: the freedom of books, a captive
audience, the great escape. But clich is rooted in truth; taken captive by a book, escaping
into your past world through writing, feeling the freedom to tell a story is a way of
understanding your own life and the lives and minds of others. Words call up memories,
ideas, thoughts; they spark the imagination. Books help you learn which is why English
PEN has been campaigning to ensure easy access to books in prison.
In the end we have a small, elegant collection of 27 prize winners and nine
highly commended pieces. There was enough good writing for two collections.
Prisoners are locked up behind bars from weeks to tens of years, time can lie very
heavily. By taking part in this competition, telling us about their favourite reads and
writing poems, flash fiction and stories, the men and women have used their time well,
captured the moments and shared them with us, the readers, in funny, sad, honest and
thoughtful ways.
English PEN thanks you all.
Irene Garrow
IN A PARALLEL UNIVERSE
Gareth Kerr
HMP Shotts
POETRY / WINNER
In a parallel universe:
I found the chimps that typed out the complete works of Shakespeare,
it was infinitely strange.
Gave Schrodingers cat a saucer of milk, it drank the lot and ignored it.
Flew from a black hole, eyes shielded from the glare.
Met myself and argued.
KITCHEN SCHOOL
Gareth Kerr
HMP Shotts
POETRY / WINNER
Aged eight, I ate my
Twelve times table.
Spooning forgotten soup,
Watching coloured felt tip
numbers, recited by wide eyes.
And now the test.
The tables turned, what
have I learned?
Hands on trembly knees.
I see you purple hands: a
wooden spoon: your
knuckles white.
Seven eights are fifty six.
Eleven times would cloud my mind
and break the rhyme;
the spoon would speak, whack
it went and once again.
Id turn, not cry, sometimes,
and learn.
A FACE IN THE CLOUDS

Mark Banner
HMP Stafford
PROSE / WINNER
I can remember my fathers hands against the stone; blue-veined like his favourite
cheese. His bones always looked too big for his skin, as if they were about to burst
through as he lifted the stones into place and positioned then re-positioned them with
a desire for precision that I could never understand. Almost forty years later I can still
feel a hint of shame and sadness that I had thought to myself, Whats the point?
I recall watching him as I kicked stones around the path just to let him know that
I wasnt really interested in what he was doing. But I was. He seemed so intent; as if
every stone really mattered; as if they would only feel happy seated in exactly the
right position in the wall.
Recalling the familiar tap of my fathers hammer as he worked, it reminded me how
I could never understand why he chose to build walls, especially out in the middle of
nowhere. Why couldnt he just work in a nice warm office like my friends fathers?
Maybe hed have been able to afford a new car like them, rather than his embarrassingly
shabby Land Rover. I once asked my mum why he did it. There was something strange
about her voice when she answered because your dad is very good at building walls.
That stuck with me for some unknown reason, surfacing during the echoing silences
when my dad sat staring into the fire while my mum lost herself in a library book.
Years can add intolerable weight to words, leaving them heavy like stone.
Standing here now, the wall looks sadly uncared for. Off into the distance my dads
stones had been dislodged over time until it faded to nothing. It was as if the journey
to the horizon was just too arduous and it had simply given up. Maybe it had been
deterred by the sinister looking barns or the dark wood at the edge of the empty field?
My eyes followed the curling line of the path to its vanishing point then up to the
vastness of the sky. I felt like I had run toward a cliffs edge before leaping into the void.
The sky was a swirling porridge of clouds stirred by a biting wind that stung my eyes.
Can you see your face up there? said my father without looking up from his work.
He rarely spoke when he was working. Actually, he rarely spoke.
10
What, I said, affecting my best grown-up, disinterested voice. There were a few
seconds of silence as he paid particular attention to the next stone. He reminded me
of a butterfly collector adding a rare specimen, twisting it carefully until it sat perfectly
in its place.
Well, my dad used to tell me that when God was happy with you he sculpted the
clouds to the shape of your face. So its always worth looking up just to see if you are
in Gods good books.
I thought about it for a while as he stood arching his back with his hands on his hips.
He grimaced at the ache of his bones, spat in his hands, rubbed them together then lifted
the next stone. I looked up, turning slowly on the spot, scanning the sky for any sign of
myself but there was nothing.
That one looks a bit like an old man with a beard, I said almost hopefully.
Maybe its God himself, he said. Or Father Christmas.
Theres no such thing as Father Christmas, I replied with all the confidence I could
muster. I looked across at my father and caught the last, fleeting remnant of a smile.
He rarely smiled. Other fathers smiled, they even laughed out loud. I couldnt help
wondering if I made him sad for some reason. I never asked him though.
As we walked home he put his hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him but he stared
straight ahead into the distance. I remember wondering if he was just checking that my
bones were in the right place. I asked him when hed finish his wall? When theres no
stones left, he answered. We walked on in silence, his hand still on my shoulder.
Now Im walking the same path, wondering if I should bring my own son to see his
grandfathers work. I think Im worried that hell ask why I cant build walls? At the paths
end my father lies nearing his last breath. His blue-veined hands bony and still. His white
beard and wind-worn face silent among the sheets.
Like a face in the clouds.
11
THE RAGGED TROUSERED

PHILANTHROPISTS
BY ROBERT TRESSELL
Paul Prendergast
HMP Swaleside
BOOK REVIEW / WINNER
Do you read? A fellow prisoner asked me.
He seemed one of the more sensible types so I was willing with my reply. Not really,
not nowadays. Why what you got?
This guy gave me a slight smile, then nodding down he passed me a thick paperback.
I got this, he said. Take a look, you might like it.
Nodding back I hesitantly took it from him thinking, I aint never gonna read that.
The thickest book that I had ever read was ALI twenty five years ago.
Whats it about? I asked politely. His answer did not inspire me in any way.
Its about a painting and decorating firm from Hastings at the turn of last century.
Try it, you never know! He retained his smile as he said it, which could have easily
been mistaken for a smirk.
I pursed my lips and nodded back saying, thanks mate, yer, I might give it a go.
I wandered off back to my cell, not sure if this guy was having a laugh or not. I left the
book on my side and carried on as normal.
A couple of days passed by before this chap asked: how was I getting on with the book?
I was frank and honest and told him that I hadnt started the book as I thought he might
have been messing me about. Also, because painting and decorating was not my thing.
The chap laughed, saying, I am not messing you about, and yes the book is about a firm
of painters and decorators. But in fact the real story was about the system and the working
man. How the working man had to survive with nearly nothing, being pushed to the edge
every day. This took me aback as I only knew this guy on passing. His choice of book was
spot on for me. So that afternoon it was with intrigue that I picked up and started to read
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. Each page immersed me deeper into a beautifully
written, heartrending, powerful story.
12
The story was based on a small group of hardworking painters and decorators just over
a hundred years ago. They were being pushed and pulled to their limits, and the last
thing on their employers mind was any welfare. It showed all the hardships of the
poor in pious old England. Zero-hour contracts and every man for himself, almost.
The important theme was the plight of all working men. While most stories from
those times are about the miners or the steel and ship workers of the 19th and 20th
centuries, this story is smaller but just as arduous. A compelling book that brings the
reader into the world of true hardship and poverty: honest men suffering and nobody
caring, except for their very closest; live or die just as long as the work gets done.
The book brings home how little has changed in the treatment of workers from then
until now. I believe that even the most ardent anti-trade unionist would understand that
illiterate working men needed to band together in a union to create change. The Ragged
Trousered Philanthropists is a must read for (any) politically minded person in these
times of austerity.
13
A LETTER TO MYSELF
Steven Millward
HMP Guys Marsh
FLASH FICTION / WINNER
Well hello Ste, oh oh, when will come the day you perform to your age, stop doing
crime earn an honest wage, stop taking drugs that you think enhance your brain,
you think youre entertaining like youre on a stage, I COME BACK TO LIFE as Im
gazing at the silver sky, that reflects off the lake, as I contemplate when I lost my
soulmate, out of jail a single male, even the air that I taste is stale, as I swig from
the bottle of ale, on licence for blackmail, chasing my tail, I lost a good female,
I never got bail she came to visit me in jail, Im trying to shake that memory, closed
visits at HMP, saying this was the end of our story, I say to myself mate, what a
mistake!, how long were you standing there freezing by the lake, I remember
shuddering cause I felt the slam of the gate, we were engaged I was going
elsewhere getting laid, getting pissed and coked up with your mates, leaving her
sobbing all night left her in a state, one night I come back in a state, a letter on the
side shes had enough OH yeah she said dont forget your ID parade, Ste do you
remember getting her bath robe, sniffing the last trace, tears in the back of your
throat, you could taste looking where her perfume used to be, theres an empty
space, looking at a photo of when things were great is this fate? Or have I made
a mistake, lying on the bed looking at the green mould, remember pinching her
mole on the bus, laughing as we went to sign on at the dole, remember Ste how
you felt so alone, the cold, the dead goldfish Joel just floating round the bowl,
looked in the mirror grew a beard, lost weight, remember Ste you lost your soul,
time to walk away from the lake, just dont do this again mate, make your own
break, TAKE CARE MATE.
14
WALL OF FIRSTS
R. W. Beardsley
HMP Ryehill
POETRY / RUNNER UP
First stone laid a lifetime ago
By father and son.
First mornings work at crack
Of dawn begun.
First aches and pains from
A full days labour.
First trapped finger twixt
Stone and caber.
First packed lunch, ham,
Cheese and egg.
First fracture, largest toe,
Right leg.
First drink of ale, sixteen
Years old.
First kiss stolen, sheltering
From the cold.
First drive between the
Walls we erected.
First lamb born in Spring within
The walls protected.
First day without my father,
Feeling low and sad.
First day the wall reminds me
Of all the times we had.
15
THE DECEIVING COUNTRYSIDE

Anonymous
HMP Shotts
POETRY / RUNNER UP
The anaconda road slithers
past drystane dykes like hardened arteries,
past wooden posts like splintered fossilised bones;
past paint flecked weeds,
and bushes like a green giants hairy chest.
And on it goes,
relentlessly rustling through nettles like a hedgehogs back,
through barbed wire thorn bush
and deep water troughs like Victorian baths;
through glitter sprinkled heather,
towards brown hills flaked like sun-burned skin
under a grey fire smoke sky.
TIPPLE
Anonymous
HMP Shotts
POETRY / RUNNER UP
For every man
a tipple is little
thirst for home
16
18
THE WINDING ROAD

Brian Hannah
HMP Low Moss
POETRY / RUNNER UP
Like an oxbow lake

A mind and memory of its own

It twists and turns

Creating a path

Trimming away the edges

The touch of rough stone

Like the yellow-brick road

Leading the way home
Making its impression on the earth

She, the beauty of nature

Travelled so many times

The road well trodden, the sight of footprints imprinted in the dust.

An incredible journey

I can still remember the butterflies and brambles

The cattle are grazing

The sheep are lambing
The trees are maturing

The road ahead is clearing

The sky is getting ready for the night

The trees in front calling with the sound of birds

Coming to an end

A time to unwind
To prepare

To look forward

People. Places. Promises.
19
THE LAST BREATH

Anonymous
HMP Frankland
POETRY / RUNNER UP
I am chaos, destruction and death
The asphyxiating last breath
Of two lovers, torn apart
A past, future, infant at heart
I am the epilogue, epitaph and end

The solitary searcher condemned
Within my consuming cage
The robin red breast and heavenly rage
FLOWERS
Shahzad Javed
HMP Low Moss
POETRY / RUNNER UP
Their fragrance blessing
Their colours marvel
They bloom gentle
They fall humble
20
HINTERLAND DETOUR
Graham Gardner
HMP Frankland
POETRY / RUNNER UP
The hinterland before Monk Quay,
A walk down hill, from Normans Mount,
Where the village of Pink Haven rests,
Follow Queensbury Avenue, winding this way and that,
Almost forgotten, repossessed by natures cloth,
The trail is still there if you look with care,
Narrowed by the wild growth, shrunken from
The wide way of trade it once guided,
Cobbles pushed by grass and weed,
Now lie unevenly away from their bed,
Some raised, some sinking, none sleeping sound,
Carefully rest your tread as you walk,
Too easy to join this paths moving slumber,
Hear the creatures stir as you wander,
Watching you, complaining of your trespass.
21
A LETTER TO MYSELF/AMBITION
Don-carlos Ellis
HMP Longlartin
POETRY / RUNNER UP
Sometimes I feel I have no-one to talk to
Sometimes I feel I have let everybody down
All alone, inside I am yelling out help!
So I pick the pen up and write a letter to myself
I ask myself whats important to me? family wealth and health
But first what ways can I better myself
Good or bad decisions, they say the pen is more powerful than the sword
So its good to have things handwritten
Whats a Man without a plan so my plan is written
They can take away my freedom but not my ambition
I ask myself what have I learned
Would I take a step back, what way will I turn
I have learned how to have patience
I have learned that education leads to greatness
I have learned that repetition is more important than reputation
There is a lesson to be learned in every situation
I write a letter to myself but I wont receive a letter back
I have learned why pick up a weapon when I can pick up a pen and pad
I have learned to use my time wisely, because time waits for no man
You can spend it but cant get it back
I write a letter to myself but I wont send this letter off
How can one find himself if he is never lost?
I have learned that to learn is a blessing
So I express myself, with words of expression
22
GOING HOME
Bob Beck
HMP Grendon
POETRY / RUNNER UP
When I was walking home
I used to think that life might get better
when I was home.
Somewhere there is the place we hid our rings
behind a loose stone in the wall
the rings of twisted flower stems
they meant nothing our teen love vows
after you left.
I looked for them sometimes
when I was walking home
I used to think that life could start again
if I found them.
But when I came home it was different
I live under a smaller sky now
the walk kicks up a new dust
the house is empty at the end of the road
and home no longer has soup in it.
Somewhere there is the place we hid as children
where the wall kinks round a ditch
and we could be soldiers in a fort
Im the injun crawling through the grass
or Vikings or Romans
Im your horse whatever the play.
Its a long road without end
going home.
23
LIFES LESSONS AINT TAUGHT

Anonymous
Brook House IRC
POETRY / RUNNER UP
You can lead a horse to water,
But you cant make it drink.
You can educate empty minds,
But that doesnt make them think.
Lifes lessons aint taught
In a classroom nor in any school.
The only way youll learn them well
Is by looking like a fool.
Follow your heart not the pack,
And ask questions along the way.
Speak out clearly, though your voice may shake,
But always have your say.
Suffer fools if you like,
But never look to them for advice.
Because if you do, youll learn at once,
Never to ask them twice.
Live life for each day,
For each sunrise and sunset it brings.
Dont concern yourself too greatly,
In the grander scheme of things.
The world is built on countless designs
And each has its own goal.
It rarely fits together well,
Be sure to make your own hole.
24
25
A FANTASTIC JOURNEY
Sean Meier
HMP Stafford
PROSE / RUNNER UP
Reading has always been a very important part in my life, from the very first time
I visited my local library where I read about the exciting adventures of Henry the
Helicopter to the book I am currently reading, War of the Crowns by Christian Jacq.
Reading is like all pastimes: I have read book after book, but also, usually when Ive
been extremely busy, there have been a number of weeks or even months before I have
picked up another book. I even have to confess, heaven forbid, that I nearly turned to
the dark side. I followed the IT crowd and purchased an electronic reading device
called a Kindle and proceeded to download complete series of e-books. However, I felt
something wasnt quite right there was something missing! The feel of flicking over
each rough page, the sometimes earthy smell of a well-worn book and the jubilation
of finishing the last word on the last page were absent. I flicked over the power button
and it now sits in its box, never to see the light of day again (or at least, until I decide
to sell it). It can never compare to a book.
When I saw the advert for this writing competition on my wing, it ignited an unknown
fire in me. Something like this I have never attempted or felt the need to, but I was soon
brainstorming ideas. It wasnt easy, but here is my attempt.
I am standing at the beginning of a long journey. It is reminiscent of when I start reading
a new book. I stare at the cover, take in the view. Eagerly I turn over the cover and find
the first page, and on the picture I begin to walk. As I travel up the muddy, well-worn,
uneven dirt track, it reminds me of the creased, discoloured, well-used pages you buy
from second-hand shops or car-boot sales.
As I travel further along in my journey, I notice a rough, irregular, partially damaged
stone wall that seems to guide me along my path, allowing me to go only where it
lets me; it surrounds me, akin to the creamy, white border that surrounds the regiments
of words on a page. Here and there, part of the wall has fallen down, much like the spirit
of a leading character, temporarily broken due to some major catastrophe. The grey,
never-ending wall twists and turns ahead of me, reminding me of all the ever-changing
plots and sub-plots contained within a book youre never certain exactly where it
will take you.
26
I wander a little further where I notice sheep happily grazing on the field of lush,
green grass. They are eating all thats around them, devouring each blade of grass like
a reader taking in each word. When a sheep has eaten all the grass that it can reach,
it will move onto another area with new grass reminiscent of me when I finish a book
and find another one. Its like a hunger in my brain; it needs constant stimulation,
constant feeding.
I start to move over gently undulating land, up and then down, resembling all the
emotional highs and lows that a novel contains.
As I wander further and further, there is a sense of loneliness and escape from the real
world. Im taking this journey alone as I would when I read a book and in times of stress
and worry a book is a welcome escape from it all. I am happy in this books world,
even if its only for a short time.
Im nearly at the end of my walk now. The few, bare trees, with their long branches
stretching up nearly touching the sky, remind me of a character whose inner thoughts
and feelings are exposed, laid bare for everyone to see. I feel their love, their anger, their
sorrow and their joy contained in the space of a few hundred pages and then I arrive at
my journeys end. I feel a great sense of euphoria and satisfaction; its like looking up
into that bright, azure sky on a midsummer morning. However, this experience is also
tinged with a little sadness because I have completed my quest, my journey, my book.
Although, I know that very soon I will leave on another adventure.
27
THE FIND
Anonymous
HMP Full Sutton
PROSE / RUNNER UP
Already miffed by the community sentence she had received for being drunk and
disorderly again, and knowing nothing about repairing dry stone walling save for the one
day of instruction shed received, 17-year-old Gemma Atkins stared disconsolately at the
bleakness of the moor and definitely felt hard done by.
Well pick you up at four! they had said as they dropped her off alone in the middle
of God Knows Where. Watching the tractor and trailer trundle into the distance along
the muddy track, she heard the catcalls of the farm workers dissipate in the wind and
ultimately fade into silence. Now alone with only the sheep for company, she gave the
track a disinterested look and turned her attention instead to the dry stone walling on
each side that she was ordered to repair. The scenic splendours of the north Yorkshire
moors leaving her completely unmoved, Gemma glanced up at the April sky and prayed
that it wouldnt rain. Gemma didnt do rain. Gemma was a city girl.
Five feet four, slim, with a blaze of long, red crinkly hair that spilled across her shoulders,
she reached down into the front of her jeans for the miniature bottle of vodka she had
hidden earlier. After taking a hearty glug, she got down to the business of repairing the
right-hand wall. Hours later, and having improved matters little, she leaned against it
and polished off the last of her lunchtime sandwiches. And then she noticed it.
She saw something glinting on the side of the track. Curious, she stooped to pick it up.
Obviously metal, she rubbed away some of the mud and noticed it was a silver-coloured
crucifix an inch and a half long. Designed to be worn around the neck, whatever chain
or thong it once had was now missing. Extracting a Kleenex and administering a bit of
spittle, she rubbed the crucifix clean. Then, purely by chance, she spotted a word and
date on the reverse side. Scratched roughly into the metal was the name Eadie.
Below it was a date: 1601.
28
Gemmas brow creased as she concentrated upon the relic in her right hand.
It suddenly occurred to her that this was more than just a metal cross. It had been
somebodys possession, perhaps even a treasured one. Eadie was obviously a female
name so Gemma wondered what she had been like. Had she been a girl or had she
matured into womanhood? Who gave it to her and how had she come to lose it?
Gemma looked around at the surrounding hills and wondered if she and her family
had lived and farmed the area. One thing she did know, however, is that the hills and
dales had changed little over time. And inevitably, they had stories to tell. Her school
history lessons had taught her that much.
Still thinking deeply, she pocketed her find.
*****
1607. Dragged along the muddy, winding track, Eadie Bell felt her heart pounding in
her chest as the inquisition guards goaded her with what was to come. Four on horse,
four on foot, they continued to drag the terrified young woman the six miles to North
Allerton where she would be placed before the consistory court on charges of witchcraft.
Spotting the metal crucifix, a guard ripped the leather thong from around her neck and
threw it to the ground. Sobbing, and still terrified, she pleaded for its return. She begged
in vain. The guard laughed.
Through watery eyes, she took in, perhaps for the last time, the area shed grown up
to think of as home. The track, muddy and winding, shed walked it regularly. The hills,
green and verdant, she knew them well, too. So beautiful...so beautiful...
Two days later, and found guilty by the Catholic court of assisting other women through
childbirth, Eadie Bell was sentenced to die by fire.
29
30
A LETTER TO MYSELF
Oisin Hendrickse
HMP Wormwood Scrubs
PROSE / RUNNER UP
Weve not spoken in a while... So long I barely know you. Now confined in these
four walls youd think Id be forced to listen, but sometimes those closest to our hearts
receive the least of our attentions, so now with these words I hope that maybe we can
have some time to say, I know I did you wrong. And Im sorry.
Yours have always been the hardest words to digest, your praise is often bland and
unseasoned, your scorn thick, coarse and stodgy, and often with no mind paid to my
delicate tongue and sensitive palate. These words are not weapons, though they may
cut you. They are not tools, though I hope to build you with them. And my tongue is not
silver, though it may seek to buy your favour in return for good fortune when I say,
I know I did you wrong, and Im sorry.
You barely turn to face me any more. I loved your fickle dreams, I fanned your selfish
fires and catered to your wanton needs, spent a lifetime raising you up in delusion, a king
of a lonely kingdom, God of an empty space. Have I built you a lonely cell to rule over?
Did we find ourselves a dark corner to rock in, back and forth for eternity shrouded by
illusions of unachievable utopia do we live there now?
Alone in this place I need you more than ever but find Im more distant than Ive known,
and before I seek the forgiveness of others Ill seek the redemption of the only one who
truly knows me and say, I know I did you wrong, and Im sorry.
In this room away from the civilised world where they make of great men, beasts and
cattle, and though you never listened to a single word I said, its time we had a simple
conversation, for all the quick replies that seem to rattle round my head, all the good and
bad advice and mysteries unravelled and the crumbling institution of myself, I want you
just to know that I recognize your pain, and Ive robbed you of your health.
I know I did you wrong.
Sincerely.
31
ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN

Jon Webb
HMP North Sea Camp
PROSE / RUNNER UP
Its the worst trip weve had.
Its only a bit of snow, Bob.
A bit? he chattered. Its up to me bollocks!
Laughing, we trudged on, sensibly dressed in smart jeans, boots and winter coats, eight
of us staying away from trouble, on a three-nighter in an Eastern European city with two
mafias to choose from!
White lights loomed above the perfectly parallel planted trees down both sides.
The street opened up revealing tracks down each pavement, snow piled high to the
sides. Paths to cafs and bars were blurred by red and green neon signs, with windows
of twinkling lights looking pretty with that tinge of 80s naffness. Buildings displayed
the superior might of 1960s communistic styling, the floors above disappearing into
the snowy night.
Gentlemen, said Kevin. Weve not had a drink for 20 minutes!
I had noticed, said Bob stepping from behind a tree, adjusting his fly.
At a pound-a-pint we decided to take it easy!
The bar across the street was lit by bright warm spots, the black marble faade, mirrorlike with long glass windows exposing its customers. A couple were welcomed by the
smartly dressed clean-shaven doorman, the young woman on her sugar-daddy arm
reaching up and kissing him on the cheek in indication of repeat custom. The row of
shiny black Beamers, Mercs and Audis were no older than a few months.
Gentlemans Bar! slurred Bob, rushing ahead in the direction of the cracked sign.
Bob! we all shouted in unison, realising that hed been drinking all day.
At the top of the steps stood a pair of military boots, beneath a grey woollen trench
coat. Igors breezeblock face was covered in a well-worn beard spilling over the side of
his enormous neck. A black hat easily converted into a balaclava was pulled down to his
eyebrows, his eyes scanning like a facial recognition device, as his lip curled showing a
cheap gold decayed smile. His nose had been broken forever. He pushed open the door,
NATO gloves warming his hands.
His coat fell open. Then I saw it.
Fuck!
Hanging from his shoulder was an AK47 with folding stock.
I stepped into the warmth, the emptiness of the place surrounded the centrepiece stage,
brass pole from floor to ceiling, booths in red velour illuminated by down lights and bar
stools topped with faux-leather.
32
Igors clones were strategically positioned wearing tight jackets hiding the contents
of shoulder holsters. Kevin negotiated with the jacketless one, gelled hair no gun
perhaps his hands were his weapon of choice?
We seated ourselves in booths as noise erupted from the speakers. Attractive girls
appeared dressed in belts, bra-tops and heels, their makeup hiding natural beauty and
a lifetime of drug-fuelled enforced labour. Each held a laminated menu, as they
squeezed in between us.
A perverse smell of bleach-cleaned sex fought with counterfeit perfumes and stale
cigarettes clinging to broken English-Latvian conversations.
Five quid for a local bottle, ten for a Bud, said Pete.
As I see it, we pay or we try and leave now, said Kevin, glancing at the Igors.
Fiver it was!
Helena placed her hand on mine, her piercing glassy-blue storytelling eyes full of
held-back fear, penetrating my conscience. I failed to notice that she was only a child,
14, 15 maybe, the needle marks on her arms covered badly with blusher.
Bottles clattered onto the table, her startled hand gripping me as she slid a folded note
into my hand, looking around nervously, before she was gripped and encouraged out of
view by an Igor. I slid the secret into my pocket.
Lights came to life, a disco ball exploding its reflections around the stage, bopping to
Euro-pop. Thong-clad girls in scaffold pole heels began doing what they were badly paid
for on stage as Bob clapped like an excited sea-lion in anticipation of a fish-treat.
Why do men come here? Because Thailand is too far away for a weekend and wives
and girlfriends prefer to believe that Eastern Europe has amazing cultural history and
architecture.
Time to move, said Kev, disappointing Bob.
Gathering ourselves we left and headed for the Russians without Helena.
The 86 Granada with standard broken, dull headlamp and squealing engine rolled
slowly past, the rear privacy glass jerking down. Helenas undamaged eye screamed at
me in pain, as tears ran down her knuckle-bruised and bloodied cheeks, diluting the
blood pouring from her nose. A gloved hand pulled her commandingly back into the
darkness, the car disappearing.
Finding the secret in her pocket, I unfolded a corner at a time revealing:
PLEASE HELP ME
33
THE ROAD AHEAD

James Henry
HMP Onley
PROSE / RUNNER UP
As I embark on the road ahead the closing theme song to the First Blood movie looms
in my mind. Its a long road. But this is one I must take in order to get home. The road is
quiet, the silence is deafening. The only audio comes in the form of the cold and cutting
wind that strikes at my body. The stones look as if they were extracted from a chapter
of the Old Testament. The road is dark and visibility is severely hampered without the
assistance of street lights. I am forced to rely on my other sensory organs for direction.
My nose and my ears act as a satellite navigation system. An eerie smell lingers in the
atmosphere. It is the stench of desperation and hopelessness. There is wild grass for
miles. The grass looks lifeless; a sense of existence I can relate to. The grass appears as
if it is just existing and not living. This is exactly how I feel on this journey.
The terrain is hard and at times extremely steep. It is physically challenging, the muscles
in my legs hurt. Every segment from my hamstrings to my soles is in agony. My feet ache
and my stomach hurts from hunger. Hunger has become my companion although its
company is most unwelcome. This physical pain is nothing in comparison to the mental
torture. Bitterness, anger and frustration constantly fight for supremacy. The battle is
idiotic like the Three Stooges. Nevertheless this is what passes for entertainment on this
road I seem trapped on. I see no light at the end of the tunnel.
At times I see scenery that I could have sworn I had long already passed. Am I lost?
Am I going around in circles? Was it even the same shrub, stone or marking? I am
struggling to decipher reality from fiction. Every few miles I get an image of a
ghost-like figure walking in the opposite direction. A stateless refugee, a victim of
famine, a hostage or an insurgent. We never talk nor do they acknowledge my existence.
They just continue along the road.
I am now growing extremely homesick. I miss the warmth of my own bed and Mums
home cooking. I miss conversation, female companionship and the camaraderie with
the lads. These desires are becoming more intangible. The further I travel this road the
further I feel from home. The road has remnants of Middle Earth. I feel like I am in the
Lord of the Rings movie, travelling a treacherous road to Mordor. What awaits me at the
end of this road? Will it be my jubilant family filled with nostalgia and happiness at my
return? Will it be those who seek to do me harm and want nothing more than to put me
in a hole in the ground? Will it be my loving girlfriend or will resentment have changed
her beyond all recognition? I remember our last conversation, she was so angry at me
for taking another tour. Her anger stems from me taking the one thing no amount of
compensation can ever redress, her youth.
34
My mouth is dry and engulfed with a metallic taste. I feel like Moses when he crossed
the desert. In the distance I see a bush and it appears to be on fire but no matter how
delusional my current state, I know it is not God.
I have lost track of time and my sense of direction has all but abandoned me.
I no longer know if I have been on this road for days, months or even years.
Suddenly I hear a noise in the near distance. It sounds like voices. This is not an
illusion or my minds cruel attempt at a joke. This is the real deal, the Evander
Holyfield. It gets louder as I draw closer.
Excitement has possessed me like the Holy Spirit and my body is now full of
adrenaline. My heartbeat has accelerated tremendously and I now begin to gather pace.
The pain that has become a part of my body is now ignored like an infant by a neglectful
mother. My movements that only recently could be described as sloth-like are now akin
to a cheetah. Caution and all sense of danger have escaped my thoughts as I hear the
voices grow louder. I am now in full flight sensing the end of the road is nigh. The voices
seem aggressive, filled with panic and anxiety. I cannot make sense of what is being said,
I need to get closer. Panic grows louder it sounds like a battle taking place...
MEDIC! MEDIC! ON ME! ON ME! Mike stay with me, keep your eyes open,
youre going to be OK...
Wait a minute. I am Mike, whats going on?
35
MY HOUSE ON THE HILL

Patrick Regan
HMP Bullingdon
PROSE / RUNNER UP
As I walked up the dirt track towards my house on the hill, I fingered the house keys
in my pocket. This was my house. This was the first house I had ever owned. I had the
mortgage paperwork in an Aldi bag-for-life over my shoulder. I was so chuffed that
I had got the mortgage. The woman from the bank was so helpful and friendly when
I applied for a mortgage. The bank was called WongerQuickCashLoans. Their mortgage
advisor Janice advised me that I needed a fixed-rate mortgage. Fixed to what? I asked.
Fixed to the Greek national interest rate, she replied. I like Greece. Went on holiday
there once. Janice said this fixed rate was an introductory offer for the first 12 months
then it became a tracker. Tracks what? I asked. Tracks the Spanish national interest
rate, Janice said. Sounded fair to me. I went to Spain once for a holiday. Janice pointed
out that I could opt for my mortgage to track Ukraines interest rate if I paid a small
fee. Why would I do that, Janice? I asked Janice. Why wouldnt you do it? she replied.
Sounded fair to me. So I said yes sign me up. Janice said the small fee was from a loan
I had to obtain from a nice American company called Fanny Lehman Something.
What do they do? I asked. They give mortgages to poor and unemployed people in
America who want to buy a house but have bad credit rating and cant get mortgages
anywhere else. Janice mentioned subprime but I thought it best not to ask about it.
Janice said it was the parent company of WongerQuickCashLoans and my mortgage is
from one of their holding subsidiaries. I liked the thought of helping poor unemployed
Americans get on the property ladder. Such a noble, charitable thing to do. I signed the
paperwork for the loan. Janice said I should read the small print now that I have signed
for it. She gave me 120 pages of terms and conditions printed in a font size of half a
millimetre. I couldnt read it but Janice assured me it was all standard stuff. Janice then
put on her serious face and asked if I had thought how I would pay my mortgage if I
became unemployed or ill. I had not. She said I can take out PPI. Whats PPI? I asked.
Pretty Poor Insurance, Janice blurted out, laughing. I laughed too. She said it was
compulsory and I cannot have a mortgage without it. I asked for more details but
Janice said I dont need to worry my pretty little head about such things. She was
probably right. I trusted her. If you cant trust a banker then who can you trust! Janice
put on rubber gloves. What are they for? I enquired. I need to take a blood sample,
she said. Why? I asked. Janice explained that in the unlikely event of me missing one
mortgage repayment then not only will my house be repossessed but copyright of my
DNA goes to the bank as well. Janice assured me I dont really need my DNA and she
said I can have a free Parker pen and a 100 Marks and Spencer voucher for my trouble.
She is such a generous woman. After taking my blood Janice chanted in Latin and cut
the head off a dead chicken (health and safety rules) and smeared the juice from a
hedgehog on my forehead. She muttered something about my firstborn child belonging
to them now but I may have misheard. Janice shook my hand, put the mortgage
paperwork in an Aldi bag-for-life (We are a green, ethical bank!) and shoved me
towards the door. What a lovely woman Janice was, I thought as I walked towards
my new home.
36
37
CHANCE ENCOUNTER ON
A SUNDAY AFTERNOON
Steven Munn
HMP Bure
PROSE / RUNNER UP
Please do be careful if youre going to sit and watch me; Im afraid there are no real
seating areas around here. Ive written to the council a number of no, not there;
theres a section of loose shale on that wall which will tip you off as soon as look at you.
Still, it does you good to be in the open air, doesnt it? The scenery is beautiful around
here but of course, you can see that for yourself. Thats why I paint here, every weekend
without fail. I suppose you could say that this is my spot my hiding place, my wife
used to say Lord rest her soul but of course a person could hardly hide in the middle
of an open field.
Could you pass me that tube, please? Just by your right hand thank you. Yes, every
week I come to these dales to paint, come rain or shine. Well...not rain, of course the
canvas would get awfully wet. Ive tried making a little umbrella for the easel, but its
the moisture in the air more than anything.
Im sorry; I do tend to go off on a bit of a tangent sometimes.
You may think that theres only so many times you can paint the same old scenery
this road were next to will always have that blind left turn uphill just ahead, and
certainly these dry stone walls have been here since I walked to school down the
lanes some 60 years ago. Theyll probably still be here in another 60. You have to
look deeper than that, though this beautiful sky will be different tomorrow. I shant
be here to see it, of course I dont paint on Mondays, and in any case I have to pick
up my new glasses. You dont know how lucky you are if you have good strong eyes
treasure them! I hear they can do all sorts with lasers these days, but Im too old for
that sort of thing. Jean my wife was going to have it done, but sadly she missed that
appointment. Very sad. Could you please pass me that Ultramarine? So kind.
I prefer to come here quite early in the morning you get far nicer colours in the sky.
Do you know, if you saw this sky most mornings, you wouldnt believe it? Pinks, oranges,
purples even touches of green sometimes. The problem with painting is that colours
dont always seem real; people expect a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. Show them
a bright pink sky streaked with orange and they look at you like youve cracked.
Of course, you could sit in a different position I would have a completely different
picture sitting the other way round on this stool. Perhaps if I faced you, I could even have
a portrait! Dont worry though, I shant. Im terrible at portraits, Im afraid too many
ratios and dimensions to remember.
38
Thats why I like this landscape that wall youre sat on doesnt care if I paint it a little
too close to the road, and if I get the shading of this fence wrong, it shant be offended.
I did try a portrait of the wife once, but she said Id made her look like Tony Hancock.
Jean used to paint too, you know. She got me painting, in fact it was something to do
on a weekend; wed get in the car and drive until we found a nice spot, set up the easels
and pass a pleasant morning. Wed bring a packed lunch and have a little bit of a picnic.
These days I just bring a bag of sandwiches ham, for preference. Im terribly sorry I
cant offer you one, but Im afraid I had lunch shortly before you arrived. Im here every
week, you know, if youd ever like to join me. Itd be nice to have a little company
sometimes a walker like yourself stops for a little chat, but sadly thats a rarity now.
Im always here, every Saturday and Sunday, weather permitting, and always next to
the road. The road must be in the picture.
Jean wouldnt like it. She preferred rolling hills, but that road must be in my paintings.
It wasnt in my painting that Sunday, and I feel that somehow caused what happened.
Silly, isnt it? The car was speeding, and she had no chance. The driver didnt stop and
has never come forward. I do wonder if they even remember her. I cradled her here
just here as she slipped away, held her until someone came.
So now, for my poor Jean, I must do my penance. I must paint here every weekend, and
I must include the road.
One day I shall paint away the memories.
39
ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN

Lee Gilmour
HMP Kilmarnock
PROSE / RUNNER UP
With feeble hands ravaged by time and legs like aching clumps of wood the old woman
made her way through the labyrinth that was the hospital. There was a strange quietness
at this hour, never fully silent, like the absence of some lingering ghost or that feeling
you get when you think you are being watched. There was something there, some
invisible shadow hanging over the heads of those unfortunate enough to call this place
home. She had always felt it, the curious prickling of hairs along her arms and neck,
the gnawing twang of sorrow and guilt that this was a place of death and there was
nothing she or anyone could do to prevent that.
She passed Ward 3; through half closed blinds she saw the tiny beds filled with sleeping
children. She felt that all her worries were so insignificant in comparison to those in
there. If there was a god (she had wrestled with that idea all her life and had come to the
conclusion there must be) then why would he let innocent children suffer? Would god
let them be consumed by the vicious disease growing inside them? If the old woman had
learned one thing in her life, it was that death would come for everyone at some point.
The fleeting notion of immortality will fade along with youth and leave you with the
smothering thought that you will be gone from this world. Death, she thought, wasnt
what people feared. It was the idea of being forgotten, that you would come and go
without a trace, never reaching all those goals, never daring to strive for those dreams.
So much potential lost.
As she entered the small room, the sound of machines struck her like a physical slap.
The clawing stench of bleach was in the air. On the bed lay a man, a breathing mask over
his mouth, long cables dangling from beeping instruments attached to his chest.
Hello my love, she said moving towards the bed. She managed to pull herself up onto
the mattress beside him. She pressed her hand down upon his chest and felt his heart
gently tremor beneath. She had almost expected there to be no pulse now that the
machine had taken over, leaving behind a pale imitation of the man she loved. But he
was still with her, still fighting on. She had thought long and hard about this wondering
was it the right thing to do. Despite everything she had to believe that anything could
happen, that if she wanted it hard enough then surely that would make it real.
40
Her thoughts churned in her head like dark waters. Robert had always been the one to
soothe her worries, she could just imagine him now wrapping his arms around her and
telling her that everything would be OK. She was brought back by the memory of him
to when they first met so long ago now it seemed. He, a cocky sure-of-it-all traveller
and her a well-to-do girl whose family did all they could to keep her away from people
like him. He had tried all he could, his charm backfiring at first. But each day she would
find a sunflower sitting outside her door in the morning before school, with a little
poem or song written on it. It was not long before she fell for his ways and 50 years
on nothing had changed.
A light danced behind her eyelids. She opened them and saw her husband was
out of bed.
Robert! she exclaimed beyond wonder. But they said you wouldnt wake up again,
they said you
Shh, my love, he said, pressing a finger to his lips. She was so surprised to see he
was smiling, his eyes danced with some secret fire. They dont have a clue whats really
going on here. He held out his hand. Are you ready?
For what? she hesitated.
For an adventure. His smile widened.
She got off the bed and took his hand and instantly felt the room around her dissolve
as if plunged into warming water. And when she opened her eyes now there was nothing
but light around, standing in a field on giant sunflowers that tore up towards
the heavens.
Nice eh, he said with a wink. Then he kissed her and nothing else seemed to matter.
The nurse on duty found them and did not raise the alarm straight away. The old woman
was hugging her husband, her head rested upon his now still chest. She hoped that
wherever they were now they were together and happy. And she remembered what
her mother used to say: that anything could happen if you really believed.
41
BEGINNING
Anonymous
HMP Parc
PROSE / RUNNER UP
Hadnt seen her glass smile for 15 years. She waited half a mile down a grey-brick road
that winded over a matching horizon. Her curled blonde hair held in a subtle breeze.
A cheap holdall over my failing shoulder, I sipped the musky air, flirting with my nostrils.
The boots held me back as I paced faster, losing myself in sweet pollen of a summers
morning. Bees hitting my face, I flinched. Not looking back, I felt the Victorian walls
reverberate to me:
Youll be back.
Forging forward, I saw a figure next to my wife, young, skinny, pimply even from this
distance. Glasses from the 60s big enough to pick up BBC Two covered his cramped
face. Lynne started to run towards me, the smell of her perfume jetting me back to the
early nineties. I ran in my uncertain boots. As we embraced, I held her with a love I had
forgotten. My arms couldnt let her go. I closed my eyes, let the moment stand with me
like a best friend. Opening my eyes, I saw a reluctant teenager saunter along towards
us on foreign legs.
Dad, he hesitated.
Bigger than the last time I saw you, I replied, surprised at my sense of humour.
Hes missed you, you know. My wife was failing to dam up tears.
I know.
Weve got a nice tea on for you love, my wife quivered.
Holding each other, we walked down the country lane to a car, my son playing with
a tiny mobile.
What was it like? Jamie asked, not looking up from his flashing phone.
The well of fights, the slop outs, pulled me back to episodes of jangling with
passive eyes.
Better you never find out.
The summer draught drew us forward. The car was small; grey with Star Trek lights.
Sitting down, my stomach turned with the car. I faced the sprawling trees that
danced passed the road. The seat was soft against my dry skin that perked with
the steady drizzle.
42
Wont be long now, theyre all ready for you. My wife placed her hand on my knee,
the first time without eyes of white shirts staring back. Faces replaced the parting trees
in my mind. A stomach rumble informed me of hunger or fear. I couldnt speak.
Jamie, get off that iPhone, you spent fifty quid last month on those bloody
download tracks.
Its my money mum, Ill do what I wan with it.
Oi, nicer to your mother, my intimidation voice made Jamie flinch.
You cant tell me what to do, youve been in prison all my life. You dont even know me.
I didnt reply but slumped back in the car seat as Jamie withdrew in a cocoon of loud
shouting from earphones.
Itll be alright love, hes just a moody teenager, youll see.
Youre right love, my hesitation betrayed me.
Your parents have brought all the family together.
I didnt want anything big.
I know, love, but its been a long time, weve all missed you.
I know. The car slowed on a junction, taking a left into the car park of a large
supermarket.
Bloody hell. When did this all go up?
Ten years ago, I wrote to you about it.
Oh yeah.
I got up to go with her but Lynne whispered: Get to know him, looking at Jamie, hitting
his phone held in ninja focus. Muffling a groan, I nodded in reply.
You, uh, like any girls? A rhythmic pounding of Jamies head accompanied the first
swear word in the overloud song. I pulled the earphones out.
Whatd you do that for?!
43
I said: You like any girls?

What?
Is there anyone you fancy?
No. Awkward silence was breached by more rhythmic pounding from his phone.
I pulled them out again.
What?!
Im sorry. Id practised this in my cell for the last month.
For what?
Not being there when I shouldve been. He shrugged.
I... I want to make it up to you.
What? My entire life?
Yeah.
Dont bother.
I meant it. You know I grew up without a dad too. I want something better for you.
Got any cigarettes?
Cheeky git, youre definitely mine then.
Huh?
The car door opened, Lynne saved us both.
Got some Nutella for you, I know how much you like it on toast.
Thanks, I replied, obvious relief on my face.
Howd you get on? Her tone was hushed.
Good practice for my probation officer.
44
LET THE RIGHT ONE IN

BY JOHN AJVIDE LINDQVIST,
TRANSLATED BY EBBA SEGERBERG
Andrew Craigie
HMP Frankland
Probably the most over-represented figure in horror fiction is the suave and
sophisticated vampire, and once you have read one you have read them all; not so with
John Ajvide Lindqvists attempt, which breathes new life into a stale clich. Let the Right
One In is not just a horror tale, though it is horrific at times, it is more a dark fairy tale
dealing with themes of alienation, abuse and neglect.
Set in 1980s Sweden, the story follows troubled young Oskar, who when we are first
introduced is collecting newspaper clippings of atrocities, and role-playing violent
fantasies as a way to deal with schoolyard bullying. The fairy-tale feel is further
enhanced by the snow-deadened estate he lives on, the blocks of flats taking the place
of dark crumbling towers.
His sad little world is one day turned upside-down with the arrival of Eli, who moves
in next door, melting the snow of young Oskars heart, and introducing him to feelings
other than anger. Though Eli is no simple love interest, that is part of the role the
character serves in a sort of damaged, dysfunctional way.
Both characters, regardless of their flaws, bring pathos and a lost sadness that is
timeless, and speaks to everyone on some level, especially given the current focus of the
media on child abuse in its many forms and consequences. If a victims ongoing pain can
last a lifetime, what if the abuser curses the victim with immortality? Forced addiction,
co-dependency and enabling, concepts and words not usually found in a traditional
vampire novel, bring the genre horribly up to date with horrors less tangible than giant
bats and werewolves.
All-in-all a fresh take on an old tale, which blurs the lines between monster and victim.
45
ROOTS BY ALEX HALEY

Lennox Watson
HMP Thameside
I remember the year clearly; it was 1988, and I was in the prison library in HMP
Wandsworth, where Id picked up the book Roots by Alex Haley. That was 26 years ago!
The first thing I noticed when I took the book from the bookshelf was the size of it.
I then quickly flicked through to the back, noticing that the book consisted of 1,000
and something pages. My immediate reaction to this was that there was no way I could
read a book that big. I had only ever read books with no more than 400 pages.
Therefore, holding such a big book in my hand at that time was extremely daunting,
intimidating and challenging. I quickly read the back cover and was intrigued. I thought
to myself fuck it, Im going to read this book the biggest book Ive ever read in my
life. So I borrowed it from the library and took it to my prison cell to read.
The main character is a slave named Kunta Kinte, a Mandika warrior, born in the Gambia,
West Africa in 1750, who as a newborn is held up towards the skies and blessed by his
African warrior father. It was a time of slave traders.
At a young age, Kunta Kinte was a part of and witnessed the horrifying brutality of his
slave masters, consisting of racial discrimination, lynchings, executions and brandings of
his fellow black slaves who were punished for their misdeeds and nonconformity to their
slave masters wishes.
The book also exposes generations of the harsh and brutal reality of the white mans and
white womans oppression and inhumanity towards people because of the colour of their
skin. In this instance it regards that the colour of a black mans or womans or childs skin
is unworthy and unequal to that of a white persons skin, whether male, female or child,
against the notion that human beings are all Gods children no matter what race, creed
or colour of their skins! But this was not so in the 17th century in West Africa, where the
African race was disgracefully captured, enslaved, oppressed and downtrodden by the
white imperial slave masters of their time, who had despicably treated the black race
unfairly, unjustly and inhumanely.
Reading about the slave markets, where the slave owners would bid and sell slaves as
human cargo, really touched upon my emotions, alongside the branding of slaves with a
red-hot piece of iron that would burn through the flesh of their bodies. I was transfixed
and appalled by the punishments and deterrents of slaves that tried to escape from their
so-called slave masters; it was very heart-wrenching indeed.
Overall, the book is absolutely a painstaking and painful account of the slave trade that
I will never forget in my lifetime.
46
47
FOR THOSE I LOVED BY MARTIN GRAY

Ian Holden
HMP Usk
As we advance in years and, supposedly, wisdom, it is salutary sometimes to revisit

works read in our salad days; it serves to verify memories and to reflect on maturity
and development.
I read Martin Grays autobiography in my 20s; happy with life, marriage and career
all providing contentment and comfort. Thirty-five years later I read it anew; my life
then was already very different from 1975, but with no idea how dramatically it would
deteriorate further, or how valuable Grays lessons of never giving up, refusing to be
beaten by anything thrown at him, would prove.
Born a Jew in Warsaw in 1922, he found himself hounded from ghetto to ghetto:
a teenager in earshot of the rumours, disbelieved by his contemporaries, of what was
befalling Jews transported to supposedly better lives elsewhere in the Reich.
He believed, he feared, and he decided to fight.
He fought, was captured, escaped, fought again and again, avoiding execution only by
feats that defy belief even when armed with knowledge of other concurrences. He saved
some, but not many: close family, friends, and fellow fighters. His descriptions of that
life harrow beyond description: their vicious ferocity, hardly fading in my mind between
readings, remain undiminished.
48
He survived the war and emigrated to America in 1946, but later returned to Europe.
He married Dina, a Dutch lady, and they raised a family on Frances Cte dAzur.
Gradually, life provided him contentment akin to mine in 1975: a good career, an adoring
wife, and four children in whom he vested the sort of upbringing he had been denied.
Refuting the convention about lightning, in 1970 fate dealt him a blow of unimaginable
horror. Leaving his wife and family in their secluded woodland home, he returned that
evening to learn of a huge fire: his whole family dead, his home destroyed, his clothing
of the day his only remaining possessions. I remember weeping in disbelief when I first
read this unpresaged development. How could life kick him in the guts again, so hard,
so totally? Why? How much can man withstand before giving up?
Gray did not give up. He founded the Dina Gray Foundation and in his 90s still travels
the world telling his story and promoting the preservation of man in his environment.
He remarried, and has a second family.
I never met him: I missed one of his talks by three days in Switzerland in 1978 too late.
My loss, without doubt. But after twice opening my eyes, three years after re-reading
him, his words sit with me in prison as I review my life. In 25 years I have lost my wife to
ill-health, my career to mental illness, my freedom to wickedness and stupidity, and my
family as a result of all three. But nothing compared to Martin Gray.
If he can survive, rebuild, and restart twice over, so can I.
So can we all.
49
THE STRANGE VOYAGE OF DONALD

CROWHURST BY N. TOMALIN
AND R. HALL
Gordon Chorlton
HMP Guernsey
November, 2014; a new international yachting competition has just started, a non-stop
single-handed transatlantic race. The British television news stations are all reporting
on the race and showing interviews with one of the competitors. In the interviews he is
bright and optimistic about the race and says that he was the first person to sail non-stop
single-handed around the world when he won the Sunday Times Golden Globe
round-the-world race in 1969. He wrote an account of that race in his book, A World of
My Own. In 1967, Sir Francis Chicester had sailed around the world single-handed,
in Gipsy Moth IV, faster than anyone else - though he had made one stop.
What is not reported is the story of another competitor from that race.
An unknown amateur yachtsman called Donald Crowhurst, an electronics engineer
from Bridgewater, Somerset, entered the race in 1969 in a trimaran called Teignmouth
Electron, and this book tells his extraordinary story first hand using the log books he kept
during the whole of his time at sea. That this amateur, who had never entered any major
race before and in fact had very little real yachting experience, should even think of
going round the world single-handed is incredible and astonishing and has led to some
discussion on his mental state. However, he was deemed fit, physically and mentally,
and he started the race on 31 October 1968, setting off from Teignmouth Harbour.
In the final days before he set off, his preparations were chaotic. He bought four sets
of log books before setting off and when his boat was discovered only three were found.
It seems that he had kept a meticulous dual set of log books during his entire voyage and
one of these sets is reprinted and analysed here in mesmerising detail. What emerges is
as astonishing and poignant as any fiction could possibly be. Crowhurst fools the world
into thinking he is circling the globe to win the race by sending false radio reports of
his co-ordinates. He writes one true log book the one reprinted here and it seems
he kept a false log book account of his imaginary trip around the world. Fascinating
detailed maps and many photos taken by Crowhurst before and during his voyage are
included in this book.
This is a fascinating and tragic true story of one mans battle against the forces of
nature and his struggle with his inner self. After sailing over 16,000 nautical miles
in seven months alone at sea, battling with his fears and anxieties, he starts to have
bizarre, strange and compelling thoughts. Incredibly, he keeps writing in his journals,
right up to the very point that his strange voyage reaches its awful yet seemingly
unstoppable finale.
On 10 July 1969, nine days after Crowhursts last navigational log book entry, his boat,
The Teignmouth Electron, was found drifting in the mid-Atlantic about 1,800 miles from
England. It was completely deserted. This is one of the most haunting and poignant
books I have ever read.
50
WELL, I NEVER!
Craig Topping
HMP Ranby
POETRY / HIGHLY COMMENDED
Anything could happen, the old man said
It was true a minute later he was dead.
We were sleeping in cloths, up on a roof
When suddenly he was struck by a bloody big hoof.
No, honestly guv, Im telling the truth.
We was homeless you see, and it being cold
We climbed us upwards, you know, us being bold.
So there was me, with him too, you see
No not like that, our beds was separate.
Besides, he stunk of day-old pee!
Merry Christmas says I it was Christmas
And you too said he for Christmas it was
Thinks you well see him? asked I
What, him? Who knows. Look to the sky!
So down I lay, and looked I did
Just like some big, overgrown kid.
I waited and waited with breath bated...
The feeling of bated breath was truly sated.
The old man just smiled and nodded his head.
Anything could happen was all that he said.
Then I heard bells, and I shook in me bed...
Down come Blitzens hoof, right on his head.
Bloody hell! cried Blitzen, Ive killed Father Christmas!
I thought that old man looked familiar.
51
52
MY SPIRITUAL HOME
Anonymous
HMP Glenochil
Rhythmic chanting;
many voices raised in unison,
filled with hope and expectation,
dreams carried on a prayer
as they gaze upon hallowed ground.
So many faces;
black, white, brown and yellow
but all of them red.
They stand tall
as they await the second coming.
Not one of them will ever walk alone.
Side by side;
we stand whatever the weather.
In this is the moment,
here,
now,
anything could happen.
One day soon
Therell be glory again,
around the fields of Anfield Road.
53
CHANCES
Ian Holden
HMP Usk
This is 1912.
Lines re-drawn on maps. Areas coloured in red, green, or favoured hue
become walls built of stone and promises. Defend, attack, protect, extend.
Dynastic successors feel compelled to maintain, to carry through
their fathers plans and dreams to whatever bitter end.
So, seeing the chance, progressively erode the trust and the walls of neighbours, who
respond in kind. Anything could happen as the world into global conflict descends.
This is 1914.
This is 1918.
Proud victors draw their own lines. History and dictated terms belong to them alone
as do the spoils of war. The defeated ground into a broth of simmering resentment;
new regimes, new dreams, spawn new armies who will for those insults atone.
Prosperity for all ahead! Respect once more! All promised to end our discontent.
So, seeing the chance, these new heroes quietly plot and plan for their new zones;
Anything can happen as new alliances form, and break, and lives once more are spent.
This is 1939.
This is 1945.
This time round, of course, we have learned. Divide and rule so we our future ensure
safe from aggression, safe from greed, and safe from further bloody costly war.
And so turn allies into foes both east and west, and hatch new ills to replace those
we cure.
Squabbling new bureaucracies arise while the vanquished become greater than before.
Did no-one see the chance, the threat from foes as allies clothed, by whose strength
they lure us hence, and all the good that could have happened is by greed and
self-centredness thwart.
This is today.
Is it tomorrow?
54
MUGS GAME
Gareth Cooke
HMP Parc
Door opens
the light creeps in.
Takes me a few seconds to realise
Im still in prison.
Great.
Jump up, roll a fag, try to wake up,
wash my face,
brush my teeth,
get dressed.
Make myself a cup of coffee
ready to do toe by toe again.
Different day, same routine
I feel like a robot.
Is this really me?
Mugs game.
MY LIFE IN 100 WORDS

Anonymous
HMP Shotts
You say your first word.
You take your first step.
You go to your first day of school.
You try to fit in.
You learn to make friends.
You move, to high school.
You try to fit in, again.
You make friends, again.
You fall in love.
You utter those words I love you.
You learn to hate.
You think you dont need to ask for help.
You should have asked for help.
You learn about consequence.
You are sentenced to life.
You question if it was your fate.
You learn that lives are intertwined.
You learn the hard way.
55
AHM BAD
Anonymous
HMP Shotts
The judge sez Yer bad
Ah sez Ahm no
Ah sez Ahm no!
Ah sez Ahm no!
The judge fuckin won
IN PRAISE OF WHARFEDALES
Tony Joyce
HMP Parkhurst
Mounds of misty moors; rolling rural retreats
of birdsong, of bahs and bleats.
Winding wire netting walls
in which to keep, and sleep, the sheep.
Farmers fields fallow and fertile
left for lambs to lunch and munch
on Wasswater and wildflower.
Herb and herbivore
self sufficient
and cheap to keep;
the Wharfedale sheep.
56
KANE AND ABEL BY JEFFREY ARCHER

Anonymous
HMP Parc
BOOK REVIEW / HIGHLY COMMENDED
In solitary confinement going just a notch or two short of mad, I wanted anything to
take me away from where I was. Lodged behind the metal bunk, I found a crumpled
book used to stop the bed from wobbling.
Picking through the pages I read the authors details: Jeffrey Archer is a former
politician. Later, I found out hes also an ex-con. Wanting a TV more than a book,
I was disappointed. I started on the first page after several minutes of maybe, maybe
not. I read for thirty-six hours without sleep. I finished the book with my jaw hanging
from my face.
Archer tells the story of the separate worlds of Abel, adopted by Polish peasants,
and Kane, raised by American millionaires. Filled with adventure and a history (based
on true accounts) of life in Stalins prisons, we follow Kane and Abel throughout their
contrasting lives until they meet and instantly dislike one another, tearing each
others lives apart.
But, Kane and Abels children fall in love with each other in true Romeo and Juliet style.
The contest is on between Kane and Abel to eliminate each other. Will Kane and Abel
be able to solve their differences, or will the result be more devastation and heartache
for their children? Archer keeps you guessing until the final page.
Stretching across the history of 20th century Europe and America, Kane and Abel live
through loss of loved ones on the Titanic, nearly having an arm cut off and fighting
through two World Wars.
Throughout, Archer evokes an emotional response that impels the reader to want
everyone to triumph and overcome adversity. Kane and Abel is a dominant story of
anger and jealousy, with sharp characters mixed with a powerful plot that spans the
lives of two strangers united by their horrific experiences and hatred for each other.
Archer is also clever in pointing out how similar the men are to each other, a tragic
humour in a dusky book.
This pre-Dan Brown thriller has made me dazed by the power of the human spirit to
overcome all odds and the pointless nature of harbouring hate and violence toward
one another. This book has stayed with me for years and sparked a passion for reading
that continues to this day. No book however has boarded my mind as much as the
story of Kane and Abel.
57
THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY

BY JEAN-DOMINIQUE BAUBY,
TRANSLATED BY JEREMY LEGGATT
Anonymous
HMP Shotts
BOOK REVIEW / HIGHLY COMMENDED
Life as I knew it was snuffed out on Friday 8th December 1995... Jean-Dominique
Baubys thoughts in his book The Diving Bell and the Butterfly hint at the ominous
direction the book is heading towards - a depressing real-life story of a person suffering
from locked-in syndrome. The book took me through what it felt like to be locked-in
and feeling vulnerable: paralysed from head to toe, mind intact but unable to speak
or move, only communicating by blinking a left eyelid; this was Baubys diving-bell
experience. Emerging from 20 weeks of deep coma to find himself in a mind-shattering
situation, he had initial hopes of a quick recovery. Isnt it surprising how we latch on to
any positive development no matter how small, and how we conveniently ignore any
negative aspects staring at us in the face?
My mind too had once gone into overdrive, thinking of ways I could recover the lost time
spent behind bars. A number was assigned to me, similar to Baubys patient number.
Nobody noticed the devastating effects of being a quadriplegic for him and being a lifer
for me; feelings we kept hidden behind a dam of emotional restraint. Loved ones from all
over write letters and send cards; unable to do anything other than offer prayers to God,
Allah, Krishna and any other deity who cared to listen. Sleep beckons and we rest hoping
that one of these countless pleading prayers whispered quietly to the heavens above,
on dark restless nights, is finally heard. While Im stuck in here, like Bauby my mind is
free to fly back home to my family and on neverending nights to places I have always
wanted to visit; Bauby calls this his butterfly experience. When not drowning in
emotion I feel nostalgic about everything I see and hear around me and this revives me;
memories are like life support prolonging my miserable life.
Misunderstandings plague brief conversations; Baubys because he cannot speak, mine
because of separation. Deep emotional stress is felt by people who remember both of us
fondly. Is this different from grieving for someone who has died I wonder? What makes
my loneliness and anguish different is that I have no one to share it with. But would I
want anybody to be touched by the soul-sapping emotions that course their way through
my veins? Baubys telephone calls are an attempt to catch fragments of the passing lives
of people outside, whilst mine feel like they are a lifeline. Baubys emotions are similar
to how I felt when travelling through routes reminiscent of memories, now kept outside
by razor-topped fences and high walls. We both hoard correspondence; reminding us
of past lives.
There is no happy ending for Bauby but then our lives do not necessarily have happy
endings. The book was a revelation to me and my eyes were opened to appreciate the
beauty of life, to cherish experiences and the loved ones I have had in my life.
58
59
60
COMMENDED
Eddie MacDonald (HMP Warren Hill) The Rugged Road
Daniel Smith (HMP Guys Marsh) Embracing the Journey
Jeffrey Bernard Church (HMP Wormwood Scrubs) Back in the Day
Peter Bell (Arnold Lodge) Memoir
Jamie (HMP Glenochil) Birch
Anonymous (HMP Parc) Letter to Myself
Anonymous (HMP Shotts) Not About the Countryside
Les Cunningham (HMP Grendon) Four Furry Friends and the Crafty Fox
Robert Hutchison (HMP Low Moss) Letter to My Present Self
and The Long and Winding Road
Michael Wyatt (HMP Erlestoke) Happy Days (Memoir)
Ronald William MacRae (HMP Frankland) Letter to Myself
Theo Roberts (HMP Wandsworth) Todays World
Darren Coppard (HMP Addiewell) Unwanted News
Scott Geddes (HMP Low Moss) Letter to Myself
Anonymous (HMP Frankland) Destinys Road and The Road
61
In a Parallel Universe and other voices

From Readers & Writers - the literature education programme of English PEN
Edited by Irene Garrow and Rebekah Murrell
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 Meg Rosoff, Prison Reading Group, Inside Time, National Prison
Radio, the prison librarians who have supported our work and our funders the
AB Charitable 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.

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IN A PARALLEL UNIVERSE

AND OTHER VOICES

English PEN Readers & Writers

10 A Face In The Clouds

19 The Winding Road

20 The Last Breath

48 For Those I Loved

24 Lifes Lessons Aint

34 The Road Ahead

36 My House on the Hill

45 Let the Right One

46 Roots by Alex Haley

55 My Life in 100 Words

57 Kane and Abel

58 The Diving Bell

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

A FACE IN THE CLOUDS

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

THE RAGGED TROUSERED

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

THE DECEIVING COUNTRYSIDE

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

THE WINDING ROAD

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

THE LAST BREATH

I am the epilogue, epitaph and end

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

LIFES LESSONS AINT TAUGHT

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

THE ROAD AHEAD

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

MY HOUSE ON THE HILL

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

In A Parallel Universe and other voices

An English PEN book / READERS & WRITERS

ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN

In A Parallel Universe and other voices