Prose Poetry by Julia Rose Lewis

Prose Poetry 

by

Julia Rose Lewis

You Were the Discoverer of the Wormhole to the Gamma Quadrant.
After Bianca Stone

Gamma is the Greek number three: you, me, and Dax (Lela, Tobin, Emony, Audrid, Torias, Joran, Curzon, Jadzia, and Ezri, the joined thrill.)

You run anomaly scans in operations at night to relax. I check you for ticks because you are extremely allergic to insect bites.

Your favorite drink is a Black Hole and your unrequited love was a physicist. The teacher, the explorer, the biologist, the fourth is not given.

Your mentor tried to steal the body of a shape-shifter decades after he washed you out of the program. Still, you miss the hoobishan baths at home.

You look good in blue. In vessels named for the earth’s rivers the Gander, Ganges, Mekong, Orinoco, Rio Grande, Rubicon, Shenandoah, Volga, Yangtzee Kiang, and Yukon.

You have inherited a love of steamed, not fried nor sauteed, azna from prior hosts. I dislike okra of all kinds.

You are attracted to aliens, farangi (a Persian word) and sleeping in the skins of animals slaughtered on a alien world.

You commanded the defiant. Run you boat.

You are late; we schedule our time together in twenty-six hour days. Where do you see yourself in three-hundred years?

I would like to see some of my molecules and some of your molecules in the runabout Rio Grande. Watch the emissary and what you leave behind to understand you are loved.

 

Re: Water’s Monologue

This is the character of water wanting inside the tree where apples are happening; they are bathtub white now. Because the body is not only pipe, nor pump, I must worry about pollution. A cup of tea being a bathtub in miniature some bitterness, same the heat. Here I reside in Nantucket’s tap as great the glasses of water or lakes, a thinking cup its breaking point.

Of capricorns, Enki, and I besides the biologist likes the goats; they give their milk, the fish for dinner oven ready ocean. His voice across the Atlantic reading to me. I want to be an island of water inside the dry this horse a Sagittarius yes.

 

Breaking Again

“Tell me a story…”
Lighthousekeeping

Thank you for taking me to the Moth last night. I do have money for you for my ticket. I’m sorry I forgot to give it to you.

Wil’s breaking project essay is as much a reflection of him as you as me. I am beginning to break old habits.

At the start of my life and at the start of the summer, I said no to you. I held you at a distance. How does a double negative mean differently than a yes? I think double negative implies change and counterfactuals. Not no, in silence’s stead.

I am afraid you will break my brain, the red and gray place in my head.

Holding Pattern is the name of a series of poems in my dissertation. They are old love poems (baltic isopods). I have been avoiding them this summer. They need revision, I know, but I was afraid of confronting old feelings. I have been avoiding the old man (object) of the poems as well. He is on island; we have been friends. After listening to you last night, I feel less afraid. Even braided and soldered sterling silver will unravel now and again.

I love how responsive you are to my writing. I love how responsive your body is to mine. I love that you said, “Descartes was wrong,” in bed.

“This is not a love story, but love is in it. That is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.”
Lighthousekeeping

 

Of Cats and Bathtubs

The flattest sentences I could find. Four and ten are fourteen. Four times ten is forty. The verb to be in poetry, the equals sign in mathematics, metaphor really, where is the mountain in the photograph? The leg of a horse can be a cliff face to a kitten, the thickness of a draft horse.

Be kind nightmare. There is nothing delicate about this old warmblood.

The flat test I created for you.

When I am with you, Mu is equivalent to Enki. Mu is forty. Enki is forty. Force the mouse to sing. This is the story of a cat named Mouse. First named Mu, his brother Pi died, and so his name changed. He was the mewling kitten. Now the muse singing.

The kitten that did not get killed.

Mu rhymes with new. Nu is the flow velocity. Nu is a variable in the Navier-Stokes equation for describing fluid behavior. Remember Enki is the god of water and semen. Where are the other verbs?

The floating rest here.

 

Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum (Margaret Atwood)

Nolite Polite Not lie No light (not quite black hole) Night life (magic)

Te (Tea) Thee The Thou

Bastardes Bastards!

Carborundorum Car bore run door rum Cardboard and or um (some) Cared or under hum Carbon dear come home (soon)

From sand and water come castles. Here is calcium carbonate from scallop shells and silicon dioxide on the ground. Sand paper grinds you down, yes, and polishes. The shine and electrical properties of silicon carbide can be mistaken for diamond.

From sand and water come quicksand. You live with the grit of fallen sandcastles. The water will wash you for a time.

 

Bio: Julia Rose Lewis is a working towards her MFA at Kingston University London.  She received her BA in Biology and Chemistry from Bryn Mawr College PA.  Her scientific training has given her an appreciation for the judicious use of terminology, stories of evolution, and evolution of stories.  She is interested in the role environment plays in love poems/love stories.  Her chapbook manuscript is an attempt to answer the questions- Can you love a person as a place? and can you love a place as a person?  She began her love affair with the Little Grey Lady in the Sea twenty-eight years ago.  (She also owns a horse named Apollo’s Lady.)  When not in school, she is living on Nantucket Island.  She is a member of the Moors Poetry Collective of Nantucket.

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Two Shorts by Willie Smith

Two Shorts

by

Willie Smith

NO NAME WILL

I stand under the sun in Seahorse Valley. Sweat to remember what I just forgot. Deodorant applied in a pattern reminiscient of the Tarantula inside the Large Magellanic Cloud. Feel it caked on, swamping pit hair like pity a whore.

Hop in the Ford. Shove a Chev aside. Crush a beetle. Step on it.

Hit the highway right through the center of the short of what term did I say my name is? Well… never remember directly. Now I’ve established character, hell – I answer to anything. So we don’t descend any further into this depression.

Swing the glasses onto the Cloud. Gawk at the Tarantula embedded therein. Drag me 180 thou lightyears to the heart of a star factory. Holy Genevieve de Brabant!

Decide to camp for the night in Goose Holler. Scream of a town inhabited by gophers and actual tarantulas fat as the head of God’s cock. You know – the cock that turns God on. Am I sounding cockamamie?

Hm… starts with an M?

The solution to this ice might lie with let go and float on the outer rim of Neptune’s toilet.

Enter the john. Interrogate myself in the damn mirror.

Spot my eyes are closed. That’s a kick – look in a mirror see your eyes shut tight. Don’t try this at home – might mean you are dead. In a story, of course, means you are dreaming. Especially when the lids twitch – see that?

Too bad. Well, I saw both balls twitch. Like mantises kicking out of cocoons. Turn that cock on God never quits! Some claim a black hole occurs when you turn the cock off completely. All the way to the right, or maybe it’s left… can’t seem to put this issue down…

Hey, baby – won’t you put me down. Show me up. Lay me out flat. Pull my plug with your mouth and a mouse click.

Make fun of me. Flip my corpse onto the fire.

Hire two crews. One to giggle, one to shovel. Strew my ashes to the multitude of maggots lying in wait out by the dump.

Rumplestiltskin? Has an M in it…

Wander into the kitchen. Heft a butcher knife. Hey, baby – put me down so I can carve your soul up. To live one must kill. In reality this fantasy won many, but never the last.

Hey, baby – put me down to spin you up, tight as yarn soaked liquor. Spirit our story to the crib. Hey, baby – put up with me, till that frailty when I beg you put me down. But right now, forget the rites: could you just put my name down on this scrap of asswipe?

(Seem to have ambled back into the john… that it, John?)

YES! John Brant! It’s like I goose myself! Here, let me have a gander – that what you put on the asswipe?

No? C’mon – lemme see. Just lemme open my eyes in the mirror let’s say five hundred blinks. What, OK – fifty. OK – five. Five blinks worth.

What did I say my name is? You can just tell me… mouth syllables if THEY might hear. They aren’t even here. It’s just you and, what did you say your name was – mike?

Dick? OK, Deadeye Dick – how the Jesus does a guy find his way out of Seahorse Valley? My wife and I have decided we don’t need to buy here. OK, Mr…. what did you say?

Jest ride one o’ them hippopotamuses square out of the potty? Suppose makes me feel too camp? Could I see a taste of that feel? That another star already – in the pygidium of the Tarantula? Holy Genevieve de Brabant –  spare any sex change?

Poor Gen! Wrongly accused of cheating. Her husband, Eration X, some kind of fairy anyway. I’m a Boomer. That means I fuck everything up enthusiastically.

Exiled in the woods, Gen eats minnow roe, spider spatter, butterfly sperm. She made her bed in a nettle patch, anxious to demonstrate innocence. At length, more time than I have here to hang you by the yarn until enlightened, the false accuser exposes himself.

His Excellency castrates the loser. Tortures pervert into eating his own balls. The prince excels at cruelty. Loves vengeance more than Gen herself. Although he finally does get around to drilling the princess schizophrenic, and maybe that’s why my name really is, glimpse in slot machine flash: Millenial.

No last name. No name will.

APODMENT

I am pod people. I inhabit an apodment. You might think I have a headcold or come from New York, but, no, I actually do inhabit an apodment.

I have on my unit tattooed your name. Once I get you inside the unit, drop trou, unfurl Speedo’s: there it glows: in magenta Braggadocio: Your Name.

Something octopussy about pod. Suckers in the brine some cat heavy into Greek scarfs. Pie, Omega, Delta. Like pie up the delta in Bung County, poppy pods in the jam enough to put to sleep your dog while stuck in traffic. Euthanasia a mere ramp in the mirror off Xanadu.

Did I relate yet about a bout between your hippocampus and my cuttle fish? Knew you wouldn’t remember – didn’t happen ago long enough, too new.

“Screw-belong-arm!” I coo in pidgin. Elbow you out the apodment the second I come.

You got a sister, tell her I got a blister, so hot half-cocked go off clean to the spermbank. Otherwise, a word to the wise: still a few pods unoccupied here in Seahorse Valley.

If you think you remember: Forget it! What happened more anonymous than a virus in the gut of a bug on a rat in the wall of this complex a generation from now, when all the money pulls up stakes. These pods by then one whale of a mistake. Me and the bum squats here then two peas in a pod; only I got the dough, he got the time and you got no sister, ya know, sister?

Now get out before I implode like a twister loaded on every liquor under the moon but time. Time you forget – remember?

I am pod people, see, because I’m the developer. This pod but a pad for my unit to unload.

Why you coming back? Oh, it isn’t, is it, loaded?

Blood is Not Pink by David Rix

Blood is Not Pink

by

 David Rix

“I believe my blood is pink,” she said brightly, “not red.”

Richard Jarvis, the English Gentleman, glanced at her with raised eyebrows.

“Yes?”

        “You know, the red comes from all that red meat you eat,” she explained.  “We vegetarians have pink blood.  Isn’t that great?  Much prettier.”

Richard stared blankly, unsure what to say.  Trying to work out if she was being serious or playing some kind of joke.  Peacock finally looked up from her book and also fixed her with a brief puzzled stare.  But here in the Yellow King cocktail bar, everything was comfortably quiet – too quiet for thinking up a response to something like that.  This place was a strange oasis from the bustle of Camden outside.  An oasis that Richard always loved.  The décor was a surprisingly effective yellow and black, with black wooden tables and soft, low-slung chairs.  Quiet classical music in the background and a drinks menu that went on for six pages.

Fortunately the slightly awkward silence was interrupted by Alice, quietly delivering the starter.  He focussed on the salad before him with some relief.  It looked tasty – packed with leaves, fruit and hot-smoked salmon in a nice seasoned yoghurt dressing.

“Alice,” he said.  “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

Peacock shoved her book away and accepted a plate of antipasto with a smile.

“Princess?” he murmured.  “You sure you don’t want anything?”

“Oh no – thank you.  I am fine, really.  And you know, I really do have pink blood.”

Richard coughed and quickly snapped up a sliver of salmon.

“Um,” he managed.  “Really?”

Peacock absorbed a thin slice of Parma ham and smiled privately.

“Yes – really.  Hey – Peacock.  Those artichokes look great?”

“Uhuh,” Peacock said.  “Yes – marinated to perfection.”

“Hey – mind if I steel one?”

“Are you sure it won’t pollute that pink blood of yours?”

“No no – I’ll take that one – hasn’t touched the ham . . .”

        Before Peacock could respond, the artichoke was captured quickly and ferried towards Princess’s small mouth, which received it eagerly.  It squished in there with a waft of olive oil and she made a happy noise.  “Hey – these are good.”

Richard chewed salad and grinned.

“I am happy for you,” he said.

Princess shook her head.

“I would demonstrate,” she said enthusiastically, “but, well – you can’t can you.”

“I dunno,” Richard said.  “Got a knife?”

Peacock winced.  “No no – please.  Alice would not be happy . . .”

Princess gave a smug grin.  “Then you’ll have to take my word for it, wont you,” she cried.  “How’s the salad?”

        Richard sighed and pushed the plate in her direction.  She grabbed his fork and picked around in there for a moment before capturing a scoop that was safely fish-free.  Again that perfect tiny mouth absorbed it with an inbuilt smile.

“Hey,” she protested, muffled.  “I know what I am talking about.  My blood is pink.  End of story.”

        She swallowed.

“You don’t believe me – I can tell.”

Richard pulled a face.  “Well,” he said, “it’s just that prevailing scientific wisdom . . .”

“Fuck that,” she said.  “Scientists all eat meat as well.”

“Do they now?” he muttered under his breath, while Peacock coughed over a pickled mushroom.

        “After all,” Princess continued happily, “humans never evolved to eat meat, you know.  It was after the fall of the Roman Empire that the starving masses were driven to desperation and started to eat each other.  And since then we have never managed to shake off the taste for our own flesh.  Only now, of course, we are forced to use other animals as surrogates.”

Richard swallowed the last morsel of salmon, carefully saved until the end, and slid his plate aside.

        “Yes,” Princess continued.  “Back in the middle ages, the favourite dish of the lords of the manor would be a slow roast baby, not three days old, which the villagers were forced to provide as a part of the tithing system.  Roasted whole on a spit and with honey and spice.”

“Please,” Peacock said sarcastically, “You’re making me hungry again.”

“Oh tut,” Princess scolded.

        Just for a brief second something flickered across Peacock’s face – an almost invisible warning frown.  Richard coughed and glanced at her uneasily.  The salad was making him feel comfortable and relaxed though.  Relaxed enough for something to click in his mind slightly.  He leaned forward with an ever so slightly alarming twinkle in his eye.

“Ok,” he said smoothly.  “Lets get to the bottom of this.  You have some rather interesting theories there.  I always had the impression that the red had something to do with iron oxide, haemoglobin, something . . .  Um – you are offering to prove this pink blood thing I take it?  The essence of science is visible evidence and proof, you know.”

Princess gave him a startled look.  “What do you mean?”

“Pink blood,” he said with a happy smile.  “That is easy to prove, I think.”

Princess looked uncomfortable.

“You want me to cut myself or something?”

“Please,” Peacock said, “this is a high-class establishment.  If you want to cut yourself, do it in the ‘ladies’.”

Richard grinned.  “Not at all, hang on one moment.”

He hauled his case up onto the table and, while Princess watched nervously, began rummaging in it.

“Um – Richard . . ?”

        “Here we are,” he said, plucking out a green first aid box.  “And here,” opening it, “I happen to have a small hypodermic . . . and a sterilized needle.  I reckon that would be much more polite, don’t you?”

“Richard,” she said unhappily, “I promise you, my blood is pink.”

“Yes yes of course,” he said.  “I believe you.  But hey – I think Peacock is a bit dubious.  And seeing is the ultimate believing after all.”

“Hey,” Peacock growled, swallowing the last of her artichokes, “leave me out of this.  Richard, are you going to . . .”

“Hush,” he said, grinning wider.  “Princess, give me your arm.”

“No way,” she cried crossly.  “Here – give me that thing.  I’ll do it myself, if I have to.”

She snatched the hypodermic and turned away sulkily, rubbing at her arm.

        But then Alice arrived again, bearing plates, glancing rather curiously at the hypodermic.  Richard gave her a wink.

“One T-bone steak, rare,” she said.  “And a side order of our special croquettes.  And one Thai Prawns.  With jasmine rice.  Your friend is not eating?”

“Thank you,” Richard said.  “Um – no, I don’t think so.  You don’t want anything now?”

“Oh no thank you,” Princess insisted.  “I really am not hungry.”

Richard shrugged.

“Especially now,” she muttered, looking at his plate uneasily.  “I am a vegetarian and you order a rare steak?”

        Richard shrugged again and Alice withdrew.  “I like rare steaks,” he said simply, that twinkle still in his eye.  “No mystery.  And you know . . .”

He cut the steak, which bled red blood onto the plate.

        “You know, cows don’t usually eat meat – though it has been known – and yet the blood is still red.  That’s curious.  But anyway, you were about to demonstrate something I think?”

She scowled and turned away, trying to hide what she was doing from the rest of the diners.

“Ok – now don’t look,” she said.

“Don’t look at your arm?” he asked, puzzled.

       “Don’t look at my arm,” she reiterated.  She didn’t even roll up her sleeve, simply felt about for a moment, then the hypodermic found its mark.  Both Richard and Peacock stopped eating, ignoring her injunction and watching curiously.

There was a flash of pink.

        Slowly, her blood coursed into the clear barrel of the hypodermic.  Richard and Peacock stared, eyebrows up.  In the light from the window, the pink liquid almost seemed to fluoresce – almost glisten and sparkle.

Then Princess whipped it out of her arm and held it up with a triumphant look.

        “Happy now?” she demanded, grinning.  Richard took it without a word, stared at it from several angles, then squired a tiny amount out onto his napkin and sniffed.

“Ok,” he managed.  “I am impressed.”

He vaguely reached for a croquette and bit into it, still frowning.

        Princess grinned happily.  “So what say?” she said.  “Are you interested? You can tell a lot about people from their blood colour.  If your blood is red, it is a sign of the impurities.  That’s why period blood always remains red.”

Peacock signalled urgently to Alice, who came over.

“A glass of Calvados please,” she said with a sigh.

“Yeah, I’m interested,” Richard said doubtfully, “Though I am still going to eat this steak.”

        Princess gave the meat a distasteful look.  “Look at it,” she said plaintively.  “Blood all over the place.  How can I try anything that has been on that plate?”

“Why don’t you order a meal?” Peacock demanded.  There was a glitter in her eyes and Richard hastily placed a hand on her knee.

“I shouldn’t,” Princess said.  “I don’t like to eat too much.  I’m on a diet.  Richard, you seem very naïve.”

“Naïve?” he cried, shocked.

“Make that two calvados,” Peacock called, and Alice signalled acknowledgement.

“Hey,” Princess cried.  “Can you make it three Calvados?  I’ll pay.”

        She sat back comfortably.  “Food and perversion are inextricably linked,” she said.  “From ancient times right up to that – that thing on your plate.  In 19th century France, young girls like me would be taken on the day of their 18th birthday – on the day their sex organs opened.  Their eyes would be put out and they would be kept in a dark box – and force-fed huge fucking amounts of sweet and spicy food.  Until they blew up like soft balloons.  And every night they would be massaged for three hours.  Then, after a couple of weeks of this, they would be trussed and wrapped and then roasted alive for the king’s banquet.  Served whole and basted in their own fat and seasoned by their own food.  That was the real delicacy of France.”

She shivered.

“We are a perverted species.”

Richard stared restively at the shimmering pink syringe.  “Yes – I have to agree about that,” he said gently.

Peacock drew a deep breath.  “Richard – whatever you are thinking, please don’t.”

“Hey,” Princess murmured, leaning forward.  “Those croquettes look good.  Are they nice?”

        Richard flashed her a look.  “They are great,” he said.  “The Yellow King really knows how to make its special croquettes, but . . .”

“Hey – can I try one?”

Richard hesitated.  “Well sure,” he said.  “But . . .”

“Richard!” Peacock hissed.

“I really don’t think you ought, it’s . . .”

        However, she had already speared one on a fork and swallowed.  She made a happy sound and a few more bites and it was gone.

“That’s fabulous.  What’s in it?”

Richard coughed.

“You . . . like it?”

“Yes – a very nice taste.  What’s in it?”

He sighed.

“Bacon, mostly.”

She blinked at him.

“You’re joking?”

“Uh uh – can’t you taste it?”

“I never t-tasted . . . before . . .”

        “Very finely minced and with a dash of smoked paprika – adds such a wonderful flavour to the potato.  I love these things.”

Then Princess was lurching to her feet with a clatter and a choked sound.

“Hey,” Richard cried, spreading his arms, “I was going to warn you, but you just took it . . .”

        But Princess was already heading across the room towards the ladies, blundering past a startled Alice and knocking a wine glass from her trey with a dismal smash.

“Richard,” Peacock wailed.

He glanced round at her sharply.  “What did I do?”

“You . . . she . . . agg, you did that on purpose.”

“No I didn’t,” he said dryly.

Peacock buried her face in her hands.  “That fruitcake is going to flip,” she said heavily.

        “Oh gawd,” he muttered.  “Yeah – I had better go and see.”  He scrambled to his feet and made to follow her, then paused and grabbed up the first aid box.

“Excuse me – sorry Alice.  Put that wine glass on my bill.”

“What’s happening?” she demanded.

        “Look,” he growled, “If a medical helicopter is needed, I’ll let you know.  I don’t think she likes your croquettes.”

“What?  But . . .”

        With Alice following close behind, he plunged into the sanctum sanctorum of the ladies room, looking round sharply.  It didn’t take long to find Princess, either through vision or hearing, for she was on her knees over the toilet bowl, dry-heaving noisily.

“Princess,” he cried.  “Take it easy.”  He hurried in and grabbed her shoulders, turning her to face him. He stared sharply – at her baggy top flopping open, revealing a glimpse of a small flat pouch strapped to the skin of her arm.  A pouch that shimmered a startling pink.  He stared at it a moment, then shrugged and fumbled in the first aid box.

“Here,” he said producing a couple of small pills.  “Take this – Alice?  Some water?”

Princess ignored him though and fumbled in her pocket.  He didn’t realise what she was doing until she had grabbed the straight razor and drawn it across her arm.

“What the hell are you doing?” Richard demanded sharply.

        “My blood,” she stammered, gazing at the red that flowed from her with huge eyes.  “It’s red – it’s fucking red.  I – I mean . . .”

“Of course it’s fucking red,” he cried.

        She gasped and spluttered, tears streaming down her face, and Richard held her shoulders.  “It’s ok,” he said gently.  “Hang in there.”

“Meat,” she stammered, cringing with some kind of ultimate horror – cutting again, deeper this time.  “I’m – I’m meat.”

“Princess, give me that thing,” he growled.  He finally got the razor away from her and held her face firmly.

“Open up,” he commanded.

“No,” she cried.  “You will feed me meat . . .”

“No I wont – these are just to calm you down.”

She blinked at the two white pills.  “Is there any meat in them?”

“No – no there isn’t.  Just herbs and things – and a little sugar probably.  They’ll calm you down.  Here.”

        Alice handed her a glass of water and at last the pills followed the artichoke, salad and croquette down her perfect pink throat.  And hopefully, unlike them, they would stay down.  She gave a splutter and clung on to him, while he and Alice struggled with bandages, eventually getting her slashed arm under control.

 “Alice – I think you had better call someone.  There’s going to be stitches here.”

She nodded and hurried out.

       “You’re ok,” he said, ruffling her shoulder.  “Nothing is happening to you.  We all love you . . . you make life interesting for us all.  Just take it easy – from the look of things, that croquette was only in contact with you for a minute.”

“But,” she stammered, “But – it’s all red.  I’m – I’m . . . red.”

He helped her up and finally supported the floppy figure of the Princess back into the Yellow King and back to a chair, where she sat looking blinky and unhappy.

“Thanks,” she mumbled.  She sat there in silence until some friendly people came in to take her away and patch her up – make sure that the red stayed inside where it should be.

Richard picked up the hypodermic and stared at it quizzically – then put it down again with a sigh.

“Fake?” Peacock murmured.

“Of course,” he said.  “Alice?  Any chance of warming this up a bit?”

“Sure,” she said, taking his plate with the almost untouched steak on it.

“Tell me,” he said wearily, “what would you say to serving braised Princess tomorrow?”

She nodded gravely.  “With ginger and crispy potato wedges perhaps?”

“Sounds good.”

“Well – it would make a change from the usual.”

“And don’t forget to serve it on a pink platter.”

 

Bio: David Rix is an author and publisher from the UK. He runs and does the design work for the specialist Eibonvale Press.  His published books are What the Giants were Saying and the novella/story collection Feather, which was shortlisted for the Edge Hill prize.  In addition, his shorter works have appeared in various places, including many of the Strange Tales series of anthologies from Tartarus Press and Monster Book For Girls, from Exaggerated Press.  As an editor, his first anthology, Rustblind and Silverbright, a collection of Slipstream stories connected to the railways, was shortlisted for the British Fantasy Award in the Best Anthology category.