Tuesday 26 July 2016

The End of Allotted

Some of you may know that the Slug Society's  "Allotted" exhibition in neo:gallery27 in Bolton's Market Place closed after the session on Sunday July 24th.

The exhibition had been very well received and very well supported and the exhibitors had hoped to fulfil the advertised run until August 7th. However the owners of the Market Place have now found paying tenants for the space occupied by the exhibition and those tenants needed the space as quickly as possible.

We could unfortunately do nothing to save the exhibition, neo simply got a message on Thursday morning (July 21st)  telling them that Moorgarth had to have the gallery cleared by Friday 29th July.

Moorgarth have generously provided a new space for the neo:gallery (also on the 1st floor of the Market Place) so the future of neo:artists' exhibition programme is secure - they will restart with the Print Prize exhibition in August..

However there was no provision available for the continuation of the Slug Society's "Allotted" exhibition, so there was no alternative but to take it down.

Naturally the Slug Society (as a group) are very disappointed that the show has been closed before its planned date. We had known there was a risk that new tenants might need the space but had hoped to keep going until at least the end of the month. A great deal of effort went into planning the show, getting funding, getting pre-publicity and creating the two publications (the catalogue and the writers' booklet). At least some members of the group now feel somewhat disillusioned at not being able to see the project brought to its planned conclusion.

We hope that opportunities will be found to show (and potentially sell) at least some of the artists' works in other venues at other times. David is keeping the blog going for a few more weeks – there may be a few more ‘Thoughts’ and he hopes that the projected 'review' of the exhibition can still be completed and published.

The Association of Bolton Allotment Societies are hoping that they may be able to offer the artists and writers some space for the writers' booklets and maybe a few prints at the Bolton Onion, Leek and Vegetable Show on August 20th but for now  from all concerned with the exhibition it's thank you and goodbye. 

We hope that the Slug Society has a future, exactly what form it will take and whether we as writers will be part of it, will be up to the members once they have time to take stock.

In the meantime, we 'd like to thank everyone who helped bring "Allotted" into existence especially our sponsors The Bolton Arts Forum and the National Allotments Gardens Trust and most of all, all those people who came along to see the exhibition, talk to us, leave comments and more... (especially those who read the ‘Gallery Thoughts’)
THANK YOU

David Jackson / Robert Eldon

July 26th 2016

Tuesday 12 July 2016

DAVID WINS PRIZE!!!!

Emryst Press writer David Jackson was awarded first prize and £100 in 'Writers' Forum's Flash Comp for an 'amusing travel piece'.

You can see the piece 'Welcome to Bolton' in Writers' Forum Issue #178 (the August 2016 issue)

Monday 11 July 2016

The Gelati Man

We're taking part in the "Allotted" exhibition at Bolton's Market Place.

The photo below shows David handing out free ice cream at the launch - we think it's the fact it was free that makes him look so cheerful!


We're also writing pieces called "Gallery Thoughts" - these go up on the wall at the end of the Gallery every Friday morning - so far there have been three pieces - one joint piece and two by Robert - Dave is writing a review / introduction piece (with photos!) this week as well.

You can read our offerings at www.allotted2016.blogspot.co.uk

More new stuff on here soon!


Monday 4 July 2016

BEFORE - DAVID JACKSON

This is a poem about the early days of retirement. It's about the loss of identity that comes with no longer having a job title, with no longer having a role, maybe even no longer having a purpose or a use.

Clearing my desk out, I find a cache
Of old office diaries, dumped in a drawer
Cloth-covered chroniclers, telling the tale
Of the man that I was before

Randomly reading them, scanning the record
Of journeys, and meetings and calls to be made
Of all those things that so filled out each day,
For the man that I was before,

The long days in Dublin, Geneva and Riga
The party in Edinburgh, each Christmas time
That marked out the milestones, and set out the seasons,
For the man that I was before

Bundling the volumes, taking them out
To the recycling bin that stands by the gate
Ruefully, relinquishing the last traces of
That man that I was before



  

GROKEN CHAPTER FOUR - ROBERT ELDON


The Land Rover follows Bron out onto the highway that leads to the capital.
The man in the passenger seat takes out his mobile ‘phone and dials.

Back by the fjord, the watcher takes the call.
‘He’s heading for the capital. What should we do?’

‘Is the tracker on that bike working?’
‘Yes’

‘Then pull back. He’ll be going to see Joansen, get someone outside Joansen’s office ready for when he arrives. We do have the office bugged I take it?’
‘We do indeed.’

The watcher settles back. It’s good that Bron’s going to see Joansen. Rationally, that should have been his first port of call on the islands. But rationality is not a trait he often shows. Still better late than never. The watcher looks across the fjord. Soon Bron will go to Huldegarde. The watcher needs a plan.
An hour later, Bron disembarks from the small, rattling ferry that’s brought him from the Thörsvik island. Although the travel distance was small, the change is major. Here in the capital, he’s in a vibrant, thriving town. There are banks and shops and hotels, everything he might expect. He rides down to the waterfront and parks the bike next to the old harbour wall. Sitting on the wall looking at the sleek white shape of the ferry to the mainland, he realises he never got Joansen’s address from the land agent. Still, bustling though it is, it is a small town, how many lawyers called Joansen can there be? He heads for the Post Office to find a directory. Thirty minutes later he realises that just about every lawyer in the town is called Joansen.

He rings Arnesen’s office, the secretary answers.
‘It’s Bron Turner,’ he says, ‘can you give me Joansen the lawyer’s address please?’

 'Oh, dear,’ she sneers, ‘don’t you have it? I’ll see if I can find it.’

 After what seems to Bron a ridiculously long wait, she finally comes back.

‘You want old Mr Joansen, Nils. He’s at 9, Hafnsgatan.’

‘Thank ….’ starts Bron but she’s already cut the connection.

‘What’s eating you?’ he wonders.

Bron sets out to find Hafnsgatan. It’s almost the next street.
He enters the entrance area, where another receptionist, another Miss Hansen look-a-like looks down her nose at him, as if he’s got dog shit on his shoes.

‘Do you want something?’ she says.

‘I want to see Mr Nils Joansen, old Mr Joansen.’

‘Mr Nils is rarely in the office these days, and he certainly doesn’t see people who just wander in off the street with no appointment.’

‘I hope he’ll see me,’ says Bron, trying a winning smile. It fails.
‘My name is Bron Turner, he was, is, my mother’s lawyer or at least her family’s lawyer.’

‘And your mother is …. ?’
‘Anna Turner, she was Anna Frandsen, from Alvanaes, Mr Joansen manages her affairs.’

‘Well, Mr Nils isn’t available today. Leave me a contact number and I’ll ask his secretary if she can arrange an appointment for you with one of his junior colleagues.’
‘I don’t want a junior colleague,’ snaps Bron, ‘I need to speak to Mr Joansen. Arnesen the land agent at Thörsvik said it was important.’
‘Give me your mobile number. I’ve told you, I’ll pass your request to Mr Joansen’s secretary. Now please leave or I’ll call security.’

Bron scribbles his number on a card and gives it to the woman who takes it and drops it into an in-tray, as if afraid it’s infectious. Then he storms out through the front door onto Hafnsgatan. Through a third floor window, an elderly, silver haired man watches his progress. He is Nils Joansen. He mutters to himself, ‘So that’s Bron is it? I will have to see him, of course. Perhaps tomorrow. I wonder how long he’ll last before Thomas Youngman or Eric Krol sends him packing.’
Bron walks through the streets of the capital. Why are people treating him this way? Back home, as the son of a respected academic writer and his beautiful wife, he has always felt accepted. At university, he’d been popular, his reputation in Tae Kwon Do and his lesser ability at sports like rugby and athletics, gave him an entrée of sorts into all sorts of groups. And of course there had been Ciara. Where was Ciara? She’d make sense of this for him, she’d know, with her lawyer’s mind and her psychology degree, what should be done. But Ciara has vanished.

He wishes his sisters were with him. They have inherited their mother’s quiet calm and determination. They always seem in control. As, he muses, his mother had seemed to be, according to his father’s account, on that flight from the islands all those years before. He still finds the story hard to believe, Adam seems such an unlikely knight errant riding to the rescue of his lady. But true it must be, for Adam never lied.

As if wishes could make things happen, he looks up the street, and sees a tall girl with pale blonde hair weaving her way towards him. He rushes forward but a few feet from her realises it’s not his elder sister, but a girl who looks extremely like her.
The girl looks at him in distaste. ‘Get out of my way,’ she says, ‘how dare you approach me!’

‘I’m sorry,’ he stammers, ‘I thought you were someone else, my sister actually.’
‘Do I look like one of your kind?’ she sneers. ‘I’d heard your people had come back to the islands. You’re trying to create a new Huldagarde. But you won’t succeed, my father will stop you.’

‘Your father?’ asks Bron.
‘Birger Krol,’ she snorts, ‘even you must have heard of him.’

‘I’ve heard of him, he married my mother’s sister. You must be Freya, we’re cousins.’
The girl looks horrified.

‘So my mother’s suspicions are true!’ she says. And she rushes past him through the crowded street towards the harbour.
Bron’s mind is racing. Too many people seem to know too many things about him that he doesn’t know. He needs some answers, and he wants them quickly. Who can he turn to?

‘Hello,’ says a voice behind him, ‘can I speak with you?’
He turns to find a small, brown-haired girl looking up at him.

‘You’re one of the Huldegarde folk, aren’t you? I’m Rachel, I’m really interested in your project.’
‘So, talk to Thomas Youngman,’ snaps Bron, still angry at two rejections in one hour.

‘Mr Youngman won’t talk to me, he doesn’t like journalists.’
‘So why should I talk to you?’

‘Well, you’re out of Huldegarde on your own. That makes you unusual. And you’ve just had a run-in with Freya Krol. That makes you interesting. And you look like you need someone to talk to ….’
‘And what does that make me?’ says Bron.

‘Attractive?’ says Rachel. ‘Well, shall I buy you a coffee?’
‘I’d like that,’ says Bron, smiling despite himself. It seems hard to be angry with this girl. ‘But I should tell you I’m not from Huldegarde. My name’s Bron Turner, I’m from the Isle of Man. You’ve probably never heard of it. And I’m currently camped out near Alvenaes on the Skarafjord. Still want to buy me a coffee?’

‘More than ever,’ says the girl.
Ten minutes later the pair are sat in a harbour-side café, eating cinnamon buns and drinking coffee.

‘So,’ says Rachel, ‘sing for your supper, or at least your buns and coffee. What’s your story?’
‘I don’t think I know all of it myself yet,’ says Bron, ‘but I aim to find out. I told you, my name’s Bron Turner and I was brought up on the Isle of Man. My Dad was Adam Turner, he was a writer on archaeology and ancient languages and my mother was Anna Frandsen, who was brought up at Alvenaes.’

‘You say was,’ asks the girl.
‘They were both killed in a car crash a couple of months back. A real shock. I’d just finished uni and ….. well it knocked me back really….

And then it turns out that I’ve inherited this huge tract of land out here from Mum. It’s on both sides of the Skarafjord, it includes Alvanaes and Huldegarde. So I’ve come over to find out more.’
‘Your parents hadn’t told you about the land?’
‘No, not a word. I just found out from a journal my Dad left and a pile of legal documents that their solicitor handed me after reading the will. I’ve tried to ask Mr Arnesen, the Land Agent out at Thörsvik about it all, but he just said I had to speak to Nils Joansen, the lawyer here in the capital. But Joansen won’t see me, I have to wait for a phone call.’
He pauses, then asks, ‘Why am I telling you all this?’

‘Maybe I’m just an easy person to talk to?’
‘You remind me of someone. But then everyone here seems to remind me of someone else, but then they never are that person. I mistook Freya Krol for my sister, that’s why I was rushing towards her. They’re very alike, I suppose because their mothers were sisters.’

‘Your mother was Sigyn Krol’s sister? You get more interesting all the time. And you’re the heir to Huldegarde, curiouser and curiouser.’
‘So, why are you interested in Huldegarde?’

‘Thomas Youngman is trying to establish some kind of community out there. He’s started bringing back the scattered remnants of the ‘Hidden Folk.’ They’re starting to retake Huldegarde. But his project stands in the way of Birger Krol. Krol has an idea for a place called ‘Ny Asgard’ – a new paradise, a new heaven, a leisure and tourism place for birdwatchers and naturalists. It’s likely to get interesting, few who challenge Birger Krol seem to survive.’
‘You seem to like the word “interesting”!’

‘I do, don’t I? Why don’t we work together then? Between the two of us, we can find out more than working alone.’
‘And then you’ll write your story? But about what, and for whom?’

‘Let’s wait and see shall we? That’s the good thing about stories, you never know how they’ll end.’ smiles Rachel. ‘Now where will you sleep tonight?’
Around six o’clock that evening, the watcher on the hill gets a text.

‘Gröken staying in capital tonight. He’ll see Joansen tomorrow. Have an early night.’
The watcher texts back ‘Take care, sister dear, take care’.