Nikki Magennis’s fiction appears in the London Calling issue. She talks with us the eye, the sparrow, words children need to be taught, and more.

1. Why should I keep my eye on the sparrow?

You can try to forget the horrible noise the sparrow makes. It’s just trying to get out of the wall. In the end though, you have to think of who built the wall and why. And whether it is up to you to cut a new window, to put it out of its misery, or to release it or look after it. We make and remake these choices every day. I don’t think it’s ever easy.

2. What story is the protagonist working on?

I think she’s working on scraps. Polishing the words out of her own mouth. Or maybe an article on gardening.

3. What five words do you wish you could teach children right away?

not a word but the space between – the gap in your mouth in which you smile

4. Have you ever hunted for an animal in your own home?

Fly-killer, mouse-trapper, spider-capturer, bird-chaser. Home is a hunting ground seething with scrabbling, desperate dramas. I am well-equipped but have a poor aim.

5. What would be the password to get into a bird sanctuary?

The place is not signposted. You have to find someone working in a ditch, take the wrong road, follow the swans. When you get there the people are surprisingly friendly, although they talk in tongues.

6. What kind of gun do you want to fire?

An ungun.

Sarah Dalton’s fiction takes up the critically important topic of Pierce Brosnan in the London Calling issue. Today, we get into Daniel Craig’s tears, faith in British celebrities, taking the piss out of someone and so on and so forth.

1. Does Daniel Craig cry too much to be James Bond?

No. I like the vulnerability and human qualities he gives to James Bond. It brings a rather shallow and two dimensional character into the 21st Century.

2. How do you walk the fine line of dialect without alienating your reader?

The fine line of dialect is tricky because a large number of readers may have never visited the area you’re mimicking. Yet on the other hand you want the dialect to be recognisable and authentic. I think it is important not to change every word in a sentence. For instance with the Yorkshire accent almost every word is spoken differently, many words are missed and other words combined. But in writing there is only so much you can change before the sentence becomes completely incomprehensible. People can work out a lot from context if you give them a chance, but to do this you need to leave some words untouched.

3. Which British celebrities do you believe in?

Wow, that’s a tough one! Unfortunately most seem to live up to a certain stereotype such as the plummy but pretty public school girl (a la Keira Knightley or Emma Watson) to the cheeky cockney (Russell Brand). But it does seem to be an era where British actors are taking over American TV and film but whilst doing an American accent which is a little strange. My favourite is Andrew Lincoln who I almost did a double take as the lead in Walking Dead because we remember him from the amazing Teachers in England. If you’ve never seen it, check it out. Witty, sexy and cool, it shaped my teenage years.

4. What do you fight over?

I’m not much of a fighter. I hate confrontation but I did used to have endless debates about music. Controversially I’ve always disliked the arrogant swag of Oasis, whereas my peers love it. I prefer art-house style indie like Radiohead or Interpol which many Oasis fans (not all!) find pretentious and ‘poncey’.

5. Who is the best James Bond?

I think everyone prefers the very first Bond they see and for me that was Roger Moore. I love the Roger Moore films because they are so filled with humour, even if in many places it’s extremely cheesy and unfortunately sometimes really quite sexist. My favourite Bond films are the Spy Who Loved me and Moonraker because I always loved the rivalry between Roger Moore and Jaws. Especially at the end of Moonraker when Jaws finds love – aww!

6. How do you take the piss out of someone?

Well, this is definitely an artform and one I’ve never been particularly good at! Unless you’re taking the piss out of good friends never do it about personal things. There are certain topics in Britain that people banter about constantly, and these are fine with most people – football teams (or sports in general) and region (but really don’t try to do the accent!). In films British football fans are stereotyped as hard nuts with shaved heads but this isn’t true at all. In fact most people you meet will be a football fan, at the very least they will know something about football. And it isn’t just men.

Helen Sedgwick’s fiction is included in the London Calling issue. We talk about her hunting name, what’s in the bag, the relationship between editing and writing and more.

1. How would you blacken Ireland’s eye?

In my mind it’s fairly black already! The island is uninhabited, but it contains the ruins of Martello tower with its entrance, 5m above the ground, accessed by an ominous rope that hangs from the window. It would certainly be the perfect setting for a horror story, backed up by history: In 1852 a woman was murdered by her husband on the island, and I imagine her ghost still swings from that rope. Today, Ireland’s Eye is covered with endlessly screeching seabirds; razorbills, fulmars and gulls cover the rocks to give the island a squirming undergrowth of black and grey.

2. What would be your hunting name?

I think I’d pay tribute to some of my favourite myths and legends by using Artemis of the Wildland.

3. Who would you chase into the ocean?

My brother – although he’s a grown man now and could certainly outrun me!

4. How was “The Lost Things and The Seagull” born?

It was inspired by the true story of a crime that took place in Ireland decades ago. Two young children were playing on the beach near their home, when they found a plastic bag that had been washed up by the tide. The contents of the bag were gruesome, and the crime that was discovered shocked the community. My own grandparents lived near Howth and as a family we often spent rainy summer holidays on the Irish coast. I was always disturbed by the knowledge that, had the timing been different, it could have been my brother and I who found that bag, and its terrible contents.

5. How has editing a journal affected your writing?

My own writing is constantly improving as a result of editing. In general, I think the more you read, and the more you edit, the better writer you become. Fractured West, being a flash fiction magazine, is all about the power and emotional impact that short but perfectly formed stories can have. In the best flash fiction every word is important, and the writing is focused, precise and considered. Every time I apply that same focus – that attention to every detail and every phrase – to my own prose, I know that it gets better.

6. What’s in the bag?

In my story, it’s a dead seagull – at least, that’s what the children think it is. In the original crime, I am sorry to say that a murdered newborn baby was discovered in the plastic shopping bag on the beach. Sadly, truth is sometimes more horrific than fiction.

Two Poems from Harry Giles appear in the London Calling issue. He talks with us about where he would fly, theatrics and writing, the slam scene abroad and more.

1. If you could fly, where would you go?

I’d use the super-ability to get to know Scotland much better. The imagined ease of travel is what attracts me to the dream of arm-powered flight, as much as the aerial views, but I’m not much of a tourist: I prefer to stay in one place and explore it. So I’ll fly all over my home first, then start on the rest of the UK, so it’ll be a decade or so before I start looking over the Channel, let alone the Atlantic.

2. What is the intent of the long title of the first poem?

This is actually a bit embarrassing. I’m really rubbish at titles, so for a period I started pulling phrases I liked from Wikipedia. I surfed the pages about bird flight until I found out about whiffling, of which the title is the definition. Whiffling is when geese turn upside-down in a rapid controlled descent. It’s pretty cool. I just liked the way the words sounded and thought their meaning a nice tangent to the poem’s.

3. How does being in theatre affect your writing?

It makes me think about the reader as an audience. The audio part of that is important. Being theatrical, I began in poetry as a performance poet and slam competitor, and that’s still my home turf — when I write, I still think about how this will feel on stage, in my mouth, in a microphone. Shaping the poem around the way the audience are going to feel it.

4. What is the poetry slam scene like in the UK?

Not having gone international yet, I’m not sure I can comment. Performance poetry is certainly very much alive — it’s a strong community that pulls in good audiences. There’s a lot of mutual respect; performance poets are good at maintaining connections. And a lot of people who can just wow an audience over and over. But the slam part — sometimes it’s great, sometimes it’s amateurish. We suffer from irony a bit too much. Is that the same everywhere?

The real kicker for me is that slam in Scotland, and Scottish performance poetry in general, is totally under the radar of most of England. They find out about it when they descend on Edinburgh for three weeks in August, and then rapidly forget to book Scottish poets later in the year. And we’re so chippy about this in Scotland that we don’t get poets up from England often enough. Everyone uses travel expenses as an excuse, but really it’s about poor communication and a failure to build relationships across the border. I’m being too harsh: loads of people are already working on it. But still.

5. How much do you trust standardized testing?

My partner tells this fucking horror story: she grew up in alternative education systems, which focussed on learning for the pleasure of learning rather than for getting a particular score. When she came to university, where we met, she found the scoring there utterly corrupting. By the end of her degree she really struggled to learn for pleasure any more, so terrified of the mark was she. Me, I aced tests all the way through school up until my final year, when a single C plunged me into depression (and lost me a place at Cambridge). Even now, I can feel that growing up scored over and over again has messed my head up in ways I haven’t properly confronted yet.

So, not at all.

Hey, thanks for asking. There’s a poem in this. Probably one of those ranty performance ones.

6. Are you what you wanted to be when you grew up?

Ambitions by age:

5: Racing driver
8: Chef
13: Writer
15: Famous
17: Not a virgin
18: Academic
20: Revolutionary
22: Director

Four out of eight ain’t bad. And right now is the first time in my life I feel like I’m doing what I want to be doing most of the time.

Gareth Durasow’s instructional incendiary poem appears in London Calling. He talks with us about the mother of all bombs, what he’s waiting for, and grenade wedding crashing.

1. How would you make a bomb out of your mother?

It’s a highly intrusive and delicate procedure; one which I have neither the inclination nor the constitution to carry out. I suppose it’s like Blue Peter meets the Human Centipede with an oedipal twist. If you really want to know, and possess a certain degree of immoral fortitude, you can find the instructions here: http://www.thingsforsickpuppiestomakeoutoftheirmother.com. (Link was active at the time of writing.)

2. I noticed you used a lot of traditional end rhyme in “…Mother”. Why did you choose to use that in writing this poem?

I seem to remember Ouija boarding Plath
I don’t remember much after that

3. How would you mack on Carmen Sandiego?

I’d write ‘Maltese Falcon’ on a highly ostentatious gift box and then wear said gift box as per Justin Timberlake’s instructions in the song ‘Dick in a Box’. Then I’d hide behind a painting in the Louvre and wait for Miss Sandiego to do the rest.

4. Whose wedding would you crash with hand grenades?

In the months since I wrote that poem I’ve moved onto an even more clichéd form of marital intervention; the unleashing of a single baboon wearing a suicide vest made out of cans of cream soda, party poppers and angry bees. So far there has only been one wedding to warrant that kind of intervention and I was the best man, so crashing it wasn’t really an option.

When Rupert Murdoch and Rebekah Brooks get married it’ll perhaps be appropriate to roll a couple of flashbangs under the door of the bridal suite, but nothing that could maim or kill. Besides, I daresay Obama is planning to send the boys round to get them while they’re naked.

Now you need to wash your mind.

5. What are you waiting for?

Here’s my top ten (in reverse order):

10) My illegitimate child to come knocking.
9) Westboro Baptist Church: The Musical.
8) My proposed webchat acronym FUatHURiO to catch on (Fuck you and the horse you rode in on).
7) FIFA to realise that football would be so much more fun if an extra ball was thrown into play every time someone scored.
6) A TED Talk about how Pepé Le Pew is more than a little bit rapey.
5) Hale-Bopp.
4) Someone to give my shoulders a good rub.
3) A 12” garlic margherita with mushrooms.
2) Gemma Arterton.
1) Gemma Arterton to deliver a 12” garlic margherita with mushrooms, and to then, upon handing me the pizza, comment on how tense my shoulders look and offer to give them a good rub. I’d thank her kindly, there would be a moment between us, and then I’d mention, quite casually, how unusual the moon looks tonight. She would laugh, I would politely enquire as to what she was laughing at, she would say, “That’s Hale-Bopp, silly”, I would laugh too (because I actually knew it was Hale-Bopp all along, I was just pretending to think it was the moon) and then we would sit on the roof, watching Hale-Bopp, she rubbing my shoulders and I eating my pizza. Afterwards, I’d bid her adieu with a kiss on the hand, she would saddle up on Hale-Bopp (albeit reluctantly due to my gentlemanly conduct ) and then she’d leave me there, alone in the moonlight, holding the pizza box with its one remaining slice (I wouldn’t have the heart to tell her she’d forgotten to ask for the money), a lonely tear rolling down my cheek as the comet disappears into the night sky, the fleeting oblivion of slumber my only respite from the heart-rending certainty that I would never see my Gemma again. I’d wake up in the morning, hungry, and with the last slice of delicious garlic margherita with mushrooms being the only thing readily available, I would lift it to my mouth – noticing that it had somehow magically retained its heat over night – and there, glued to the base by thick tendrils of cheese and tomato, would be a slip of paper emblazoned with the word FUatHURiO written in fresh ink and followed by a cheeky little x.

6. When do you read the tabloids?

I tend not to read the tabloids. Headlines such as ‘Anorexic at five’ don’t really do anything for me. And I don’t like how the newsprint comes off on my hands. It exacerbates the already considerable feeling of having been soiled. Although, having said that, the day after Osama bin Laden was killed there was a tabloid headline which made me laugh aloud in the shop. It simply read ‘BIN-BAGGED’. They’d probably had that one lined up since 9/11. It wasn’t enough to compel me to part with my money, but it did make me giggle to myself most of the way home. My front door was approximately 26 steps away.

Holly Dawson is featured in our most recent special issue. She talks with us about fixing bodies, doll repair, feral gnomes and other matters.

1. What things do you often lose in tunnels?

I should be careful how I answer this, in case any Freudians are reading! Most of my travel is for work, so the thing I lose most often in tunnels is phone reception – and all those missed words the other person keeps saying before realising you’ve gone. Somewhere on the roof of all these tunnels are thousands of sentences. Mainly boring ones, like “Hello? Hello? Oh she must be in a tunnel”.

2. How do you fend off a feral gnome?

The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Gnomes advocates a Gnomish-speaking negotiator…but everyone knows an irate gnome is a hard nut to crack. I usually find some nettles, a spade, strong parcel tape and some old tuna tins does the trick.

3. Where would you work in a doll hospital?

Probably the geriatric ward, for dolls beyond repair. The ones that would have been heirlooms if they hadn’t been puked on, weed on, bitten to shreds and been flushed down the toilet by several generations. Come to think of it, there’d be a lot of counselling involved.

4. How would you fix your body?

I’d like another couple of pairs of hands that faced the other way, so I could always be writing stories behind my back. So I guess that would also entail some sort of fold-down writing desk being welded to my coxis. That sounds like the worst super-hero, doesn’t it? CatWoman…WonderWoman…that one from X-Men….’WriterWoman’…

5. What made you write “The Things We Lose In Tunnels”?

I find the morality of survivor-status a very rich furrow to plough. There seems to be a blanket virtuousness attached to survivors of traumatic events – tragedy as baptism. We imagine, or hope, that people would always be humbled and ‘changed’ by such experiences. So I wanted to see what happened with a character who was rather unlikeable and exploited the experience for her own gain. It was a natural choice to make Claire a journalist, as I read at the time about a reporter fabricating their experience. The ‘magpie’ relationship between the media and events like 7/7 is deeply unsettling – this blurring of the personal and public. In fact, I have to confess I am still really uncomfortable with this story being read publicly, as I too am ‘stealing’ people’s experiences and I don’t feel good about that. But I do have a personal connection to 7/7 and this story was written with the utmost respect for all involved.

6. How does running a reading series influence your writing?

I help run a live lit night in Brighton called Story Studio, which has really influenced my writing. I used to have quite a traditional style – third person past tense, lots of poetic language. But performing some of those stories can be like trying to talk chewing toffee. I’ve shifted more into first person, present tense, dropped the language obsession, made plots more immediate, and even tried injecting some humour. Reading aloud changes everything. Most importantly, I’m learning from hearing so many fantastic stories. I always come away feeling fired up and inspired, and pretty humbled. I’m right at the beginning – I’ve still got a heck of a way to go.

Dawn West’s epistolary fiction appears in London Calling. She talks with us about the language of lost, the charms of Chloe Sevigny and much more.
1. How often do you journal?

I haven’t kept a journal since high school. Actually, I rarely write longhand anymore. I don’t miss journaling, but I do miss writing letters. Real paper letters. The kind you can kiss and burn. Emailing back and forth just isn’t the same, despite how much more convenient it is.

2. What language would you speak after finding out someone you loved died?

This one: “The first language humans had was gestures. There was nothing primitive about this language that flowed from people’s hands, nothing we say now that could not be said in the endless array of movements possible with the fine bones of the fingers and wrists. The gestures were complex and subtle, involving a delicacy of motion that has since been lost completely.

During the Age of Silence, people communicated more, not less. Basic survival demanded that the hands were almost never still, and so it was only during sleep (and sometimes not even then) that people were not saying something or other. No distinction was made between the gestures of language and the gestures of life. The labor of building a house, say, or preparing a meal was no less an expression than making the sign for I love you or I feel serious. When a hand was used to shield one’s face when frightened by a loud noise something was being said, and when fingers were used to pick up what someone else had dropped something was being said; and even when the hands were at rest, that, too, was saying something. Naturally, there were misunderstandings. There were times when a finger might have been lifted to scratch a nose, and if casual eye contact was made with one’s lover just then, the lover might accidentally take it to be the gesture, not at all dissimilar, for Now I realize I was wrong to love you. These mistakes were heartbreaking. And yet, because people knew how easily they could happen, because they didn’t go round with the illusion that they understood perfectly the things other people said, they were used to interrupting each other to ask if they’d understood correctly. Sometimes these misunderstandings were even desirable, since they gave people a reason to say, Forgive me, I was only scratching my nose. Of course I know I’ve always been right to love you. Because of the frequency of these mistakes, over time the gesture for asking forgiveness evolved into the simplest form. Just to open your palm was to say: Forgive me.” (from The History of Love by Nicole Krauss)

3. Who have you broken?

I actually disagree with my narrator’s take on things. It’s incredibly hard to truly break someone. Humans are almost endlessly resilient. It takes a lot to kill a body, let alone a mind, so I don’t think I’ve broken anyone. Cracked, perhaps. Bruised, silenced, smothered, made small, unraveled. Those are all unfortunately easy.

4. What have you secretly wanted to lose?

Nice try honey. It wouldn’t be a secret if I told you.

5. What made you write “George Sand”?

Because like I said above, I miss writing letters. I wanted to write a story made up entirely of love letters. I kind of fell in love with George too. She was like the embodiment of nostalgia, and just so fucking sad. I wanted to ride her sad-wave and see where it took me. Sometimes I wish my stories didn’t seem so fucking sad, but I can’t help it. I have certain preoccupations. I guess I’m not a good time girl.

6. Who would you leave me for?

Chloe Sevigny. I’d leave just about anyone for that lady. I’m all dreamy now just from typing her name.

The poetry of Ronnie K. Stephens appears in the London Calling special issue. We talk about period dress, slam mastering in the Ozarks, taking the floor and more.

1. Why did you choose to deviate from the patterns of couplets you had going in “903 Eyre Square”?

I chose to deviate from the couplet pattern in the fifth stanza to better illustrate the line of women waiting to dance with the old man. Though the poem mentions only two women, there was actually closer to six or eight standing near the band in the hopes of a dance with the man.

2. How do you take the floor?

For me, taking the floor happens when someone comes onto the stage or dance floor and immediately clears the rest of the room. In this instance, literally the entire club spread out to allow the old man and his partner as much space as he needed because we were so impressed with the fluidity and energy of his dance.

3. What historical period would you dress as?

I think I most identify with the Harlem Renaissance, so I would likely dress in the style of Harlem’s early African-American poets and musicians.

4. What was slam mastering in the Ozarks like?

Slam-mastering in the Ozarks was an incredible experience. I was introduced to slam at the University of Arkansas, but Doug Shields taught me everything I know about the community and the movement. He served as slam master for several years with very little support, and he capitalized on my curiosity by grooming me to help him host and manage events in Fayetteville. The community is fantastic, the city was wildly supportive, and the university often brought in features that kept our scene lively.

5. What would you dip your wife in?

I think I would dip my wife in iced coffee, but only up to her neck (she hates getting any sort of liquid in her ears). Milk is great for the skin, and coffee grounds smell so delicious. It’s really a win-win.

6. When do you dance?

I most often dance at the grocery store. I’ll admit to having no rhythm whatsoever, but the joy of food and the general presence of my wife make me want bust a white-boy move as we wander the aisles for breakfast food.

You can read his work in the London Calling issue and today Jarred McGinnis discusses The Mighty Ducks, canal chases, and more.

1. Who would win in a hockey match: Trash Ducks or Mighty Ducks?

Trash Ducks will be clogging canal drains long after the bones of the Mighty Ducks’s children’s children have turned to dust.

2. What trash would you eat?

Depends what vintage of Nuits-Saint-George is being served. I understand a 2005 Château de Puligny goes well with potato peels and
coffee grounds.

3. What is your damage?

Tinnitus and paraplegia. You?

4. What would you trade a big toe for?

I’d pay more for Phillip Roth’s or Richie Havens’ but, if were just talking any old toe, I’ll give you twenty quid. I still regret not buying a tiny square of a saint’s skin in a glass reliquary at a yard sale outside of Antwerp.

5. Where did “Trash Ducks” come from?

I live near Camden Lock in London. It truly is a nasty strip of water, but it’s peaceful. You see a unique side of London from its banks and you can walk miles and miles along it, robbing the house boats as you go, lovely. I was wandering along it with my best gal by me [sic] side and the wind was blowing the garbage around as I described. It was the image I needed to pull together some thoughts that had been rattling around my brain. First and foremost, the story is a love letter to my wife. But also it’s about what is actually beautiful vs what we are marketed to believe is so. It’s a lot of work to filter out all the
crap the stores on the High Street try to sell you: people, books, feminine hygiene products. It’s much easier to have your opinions given to you, but I’d like to have a few of my own. It’s also about how much better my time is spent with people I know and know truly, damage and all. By the time we got back home, I knew what the story was and how to tell it.

6. How would you chase me down a canal?

If we’re still talking about Camden, it would be slipping on vomit and piss and tripping over teenage goths dry humping. Afterwards, we can
go to the Hobgoblin pub and do Jager shots with the metalheads. It’ll be fun. How’s next Thursday for you?