From Glasgow to Saturn

From Glasgow to Saturn

The University of Glasgow¡¯s Creative Writing Showcase

Issue 22

Summer 2011



Issue 22 of From Glasgow to Saturn was published on

June 23rd, 2011.

Arrangement and editorial material copyright ? 2011

From Glasgow to Saturn. Copyright for all works

appearing in this issue remains with the authors. No

material may be reproduced without prior written

consent.

Kirsty Logan¡¯s story ¡®This is What You Must Do¡¯ first

published in 100 Stories For Haiti (Bridge House).

Please visit for more information,

including submission guidelines and full archives of

previous issues.

Artwork by Tim Sandys

Get in touch at: fromglasgowtosaturn@glasgow.ac.uk

Contents

2

A Word from the Editors

3

Still Life, Catherine Baird

7

Counterpoint, Patrick Holloway

9

Petrichor, R. A. Davis

10

The Waiting Room, Bethany Anderson

11

Extract from a Novel, Izabela Ilowska

14

The Shape of Things, Siobhan Staples

15

Three Poems, Mizzy Hussain

17

Timeo Danaos, Caroline Moir

20

Two Poems, Michelle Waering

21

Abandoned, Andrea Stout

22

Beyond, G. W. Colkitto

23

Screw the Nut, Alan Bissett

29

An Argument about Discovery, Kathrine Sowerby

33

Dickit, Katy McAulay

37

Two Poems, Mairi McCloud

38

Heelan¡¯ Coo, Mark Fraser

39

Depilation, Kirsty Neary

46

One Consonant, Five Vowels, Zero Gravity, Anneliese Mackintosh

53

Three Poems, Katy Ewing

55

Falling Malady in Love, Matthew Baxter

56

This is What You Must Do, Kirsty Logan

58

Whiteout, Gill Davies

61

Three Poems, Angela Blacklock-Brown

63

Invitation to the Dance, Elly Farrelly

64

A Good Wall, George Craig

65

Men of the New Age, Thomas Walpole

66

Grit, Carol McKay

68

It¡¯s the Little Things, Evanglia Daskalaki

69

Three Poems, Vivien Jones

72

Author Biographies

A Word from the Editors

Dear Readers,

Cyril Connolly once said that there are two kinds of literary magazine: hotels

and clubs. Hotels ¡®fill up every week with a different clique.¡¯ Clubs are

occupied by a single clique whose purpose in life is to keep non©\members

out.1

Over our nine©\month editorship of From Glasgow to Saturn, we have

tried to be more of an hotel than a club. We have travelled in a different

direction than James Byrne, editor of the ultra©\clubbish The Wolf, who

announced in a recent editorial that he will publish nothing but ¡®demanding¡¯

work which possesses ¡®layers of multiplicity of meaning¡¯; writing that ¡®hovers

among uncertainties.¡¯2

In the hands of the present editors, From Glasgow to Saturn did not seek

to promote (or discredit) any particular style of writing. We opened our doors

equally to poetry that was free or accentual©\syllabic, obscure or accessible. We

had no preference for prose that was realistic instead of fantastic, gritty

instead of uplifting. All we looked for was writing that worked.

So what kind of writing do we consider to work? Does a poem work if

it makes the reader think deeply about the human condition? Does a story

work if there¡¯s a twist at the end the reader didn¡¯t see coming? Ultimately, the

judgment of what works is subjective; it is felt but cannot be explained; the

editors¡¯ judgment must be final, and like the decision of a jury, does not need

to be justified.

In Issue 22, we offer poetry and prose pieces which, in our collective

opinion, work well. Here you will find concrete verses, experimental formats,

characters dark and delightful. And with that, our task is complete.

It is now time to hand over the editorship to a new and sparkling team:

Paul Deaton, Megan Primrose and Siobhan Staples. We wish them well for

the next incarnation of the University of Glasgow¡¯s creative writing showcase,

and look forward to their launch in the autumn.

With good wishes,

Alan Gillespie, Nick Boreham and Sheila Millar

1 Cyril Connolly, ¡®Fifty Years of Little Magazines¡¯, Art and Literature 1 (1964).

2 James Byrne, ¡®Editorial¡¯, The Wolf, issue 19 (2008), pp 2©\3.

2

Still Life

by Catherine Baird

The floor is cold and I am numb. I wish to move but am reluctant to do so as

he will object. He daubs and daubs and sees me looking at the clock, my eyes

veering up and to the left. I smile at him - quick and shallow - and he looks

back at the canvas, moves his head this way and that and then dips his brush

in the jar. I think he is finished but I do not move until he takes off his coverall

and his painting hat. He walks over to me but I cannot see his face yet; I still

have my head bowed as he wishes. He touches my shoulder and I look up. I

know I look like a frightened bird caught by a child or an animal, I can¡¯t help

it. He holds out my blouse, letting it drape down my back and it is cold, a

silky chill. I reach up to take it and he holds my hand, helps me to my feet

and lets his hand linger then slide along my arm. He moves it towards my

breast and I turn away before he can touch me there. I will let him later, but

not today. When the painting is finished.

Can you come on Sunday, he asks. I tell him I am sitting for another

man at four and he asks me to come earlier, says we might finish then. I

accept. I will be paid then. This has been a good job for me. The man is not a

good painter, but he knows that if he gives me enough hours sitting for him,

then I will fuck him. This painting has taken twenty hours and I have been

here ten times. He will pay me four hundred pounds on Sunday and I will not

have to worry about the rent for this month.

He asks who I am sitting for on Sunday and I tell him the name. He

knows him. They go to the same art caf¨¦; it¡¯s where they all find me. My limbs

are stiff as I hop, pulling my jeans on, and I stumble. He reaches out, helps

me. I pull up the zip and he still holds my arm, reaches over and tries to kiss

my lips. I pull away. He tucks his hair behind his ears. His hair is long and

grey and falls out of its loose pigtail in wispy strands. It is yellowed from

cigarette smoke. His glasses are smudged with fingerprints. I ask him if we

will finish on Sunday and he says I should see the painting.

The canvas is still white at the edges and I am there in the middle,

kneeling on the floor with my hair hanging like a curtain, my face lit in green

and yellow flashes. No one would know me from this art. The image is na?ve

and lumpish, but no matter, perhaps he will paint me again. I nod and make

my face look pleased and interested and this is enough. Sunday, he says and

we agree that I shall come at twelve. He touches my back and this time I let

3

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