Mini Sagas
James the Boxer
by Tom Dodd
Jim needed money so he would throw the fight.
The adrenaline was driving the punches into his
opponent. Opposite, the mob glared at him,
Jim knew it was time, but his trainer knew his
intention. He shouted at Jim, “Don’t do it.”
Jim took the punch hitting the canvas hard.
By Carmen Barros Jiménez
Lisa arrived in London from her African village.
She had achieved her dream: a contract with
FARMACOM, who were impressed with the
vaccine she had discovered. But, why wasn’t
her vaccine used in Africa? She remembered
her past, people she had helped, and decided
to go back. Her formula went missing.
The Girl of My Dreams
by Sohana Alim
Justin stole another glimpse at the girl of
his dreams: tanned, blonde, flawless. As he
watched her jump into the arms of a gangly
man in glasses, his world shattered. Three
drinks later, the girl of his dreams walked in:
pale skin, dark hair, flawless. She was definitely
“The One”...
By Monika Pasztor
Sailing always fascinated David. One day he
bought a boat and sailed across the ocean. The
weather was very hot. In order to cool down, he
decided to swim. Before he jumped in, a shark
appeared. David took his gun and shot it, then
dived in. But he couldn’t swim.
By Marta Navarro
Another Friday in the same place, drinking a
cappuccino and talking to a new man about
silly things, about how life has treated them up
to date. Not very well, Ashley was thinking. She
stood up and the man immediately walked out
the door, leaving her alone, like everybody else.
Looking for love
by Neus Ahís Balaguer
Alice was determined to take the first train
to Paris to find true love. She approached
the ticket desk with difficulty, the station
was crowded. But her purse wasn’t there!
‘What am I going to do now?’ Beside her,
a French boy told an officer he had found
a lost purse…
By Rob Culliford
“Mother!” exclaimed Jared. His hands dripping
crimson as his mother gasped her final breath.
She exhaled one final time and expired. Jared
seethed. The Murderer changed identities to foil
Jared. “We have him,” said Phil. Jared found
and slaughtered the man. “Why?! Why?!”
“For you, brother. To protect you, us.”
11 Sagas
By Qurratulain Zaheer
Travis Montana had dreamt of starring in a
Broadway show ever since he witnessed a
production of Ragtime. On arrival to the US to
pursue his dream, Travis was attacked by a
group of cats and lost his voice, which sadly
thwarted his dream of ever performing as
Billy Elliot.
By Jess Dixon
Jack wanted two things, a boat and girls.
Watching This Morning’s competition he saw a
chance: Ibiza, on a yacht. But oh no! No phone
connection! Sprinting to Paul’s house, he rang
and won the holiday. Later that week tanning at
the bay, he realised boats mostly attract
gay men.
By Kim Morris
Ever since Dennis was young he had dreamed
of painting. Friday’s newspaper showed an
advert, Painting Competition, Post Entries.
Dennis found a paint brush, and a week later
he posted his attempt. The deadline passed.
Dennis heard nothing. A month later his parcel
was returned. He had forgotten the stamps.
By Sue Phillips
Secretly dreaming of ballet stardom, Jeff the
burly labourer danced unseen in the barn.
Attempting an arabesque, he slipped, striking
his head. He awoke remembering only that he
was a dancer. Jeff auditioned for Alternative
Swan Lake. “Elephantine excellence!” cried
the director, “The lead role’s yours – if you’ll
work naked.”
Getting on the Tube
by Emilie Jones
Weird, warm, whoosh of air. One foot. Stop. Panic.
You can’t live in London and not use the tube, and Lucy
wasn’t to be beaten; fear was failure. Resume walking,
‘Mind The Gap,’ One foot, two feet. Clunk as doors
close on the jumble of people inside the pod. Success.
By Maria Calviño Rodriguez
Coventry
Words
Alexander, a Russian boy, wanted to learn
Spanish. So, he decided to go to Madrid to
practise it. When he arrived at the airport, he
realised that nobody spoke Spanish. He tried
in another language, but no one understood
him. Suddenly, he heard a noise. It was the
alarm clock.
Prologue:
The Mini Saga of the Mini Saga
by Matthew Hutton
Seated, Matthew and Alex decided they should
write a mini saga about a mini saga. The A Write to be Published
following; truth not lies! “I want to experience Article by Sue Phillips
fifty pence Strongbow’s at Kasbah, Matt!”
Poems
“If this isn’t finished I refuse to go out! I
know, let’s write a mini saga about a
mini saga!”
By Megan Wright
Nilufar
Short Story by Pari Behpour
The answering machine beeped, Thanks so
much for setting me up with your “wonderful”
guy. Maybe he was tired but he yawned at Crazy Kratz Zaheer
everything I said. I suppose the only way to deal Article by Alexander Lauder-Bliss
with a disastrous date is to drink your troubles
Loro Fun
away... so he did! Poppy sighed, then put the
phone down.
Article by Thomas Dodd
World War One
by Kirsty Hewitt
1914, France. Regulation helmet, army boots
Mini Sagas
and rifle make Wilfred the ‘enemy’. Mud covers
everything. Mangy rats scurry about. The stench
of rot, of decay, fills the sickening air. He thinks
of home, his mother, the smell of apple pies.
Inset: Crazy Kratz Zaheer
A bullet, no time. He screams, twitches, and
is still.
ISSUE 2 Jan 2010
www.coventry.ac.uk
Coventry University
Priory Street, Coventry CV1 5FB
www.coventry.ac.uk
 welcome
from the editors A Write to be Published
Article by Sue Phillips

contents editors: contributing writers:

A Write to be Published
Article by Sue Phillips
Poems
Nilufar
Short Story by Pari Behpour
Crazy Kratz Zaheer
Article by Alexander Lauder-Bliss
Loro Fun
Article by Thomas Dodd
Mini Sagas
Short stories, mini-
2 sagas, poems! It’s the
next issue of Coventry
Words. Bigger than last
time and bursting with
3 all the creativity you’ve
come to expect from
our resident writers, I
5 hope this inspires you for a good New Year.
Remember, feel free to send in your own
work for us to exhibit. You never know, it
might be in the next issue!
7 Alexander Lauder-Bliss She is now doing what she should have done
E-mail: blissa@coventry.ac.uk
9 After the success of the
first issue we’ve decided
to print a second, so
here it is. This term we
have a collection of
11 poetry and short stories
from current students to
hopefully give everyone
some inspiration to get
writing. As well as that, we have a bio on
Qurratulain Zaheer, better known as Kratz,
one of the up and coming second year
writers. I hope you enjoy reading this issue as
much as we do making it.
Tom Dodd sci-fi type stuff mainly. But I love the theatre.
E-mail: doddt@coventry.ac.uk
sub-editor:
Alyson teaches creative
writing on the BA English
course. She is well
travelled, and has written,
edited and published
materials for education
and marketing. Alyson is
also involved with a local
theatre and has recently acted on stage.
Alyson Morris
E-mail: a.morris@coventry.ac.uk
Tel: 024 7688 8013
Sue Phillips is a mature
student studying English.
In her life before CU,
she co-edited two
magazines and authored
seven books, award
winning short stories
and numerous articles.
Her work has been translated into three
languages and read worldwide. Her new
book, Green Living Sacred Life (Capall Bann
Publishing) is due out soon.
years ago: getting an education and enjoying
every minute of it.
Sue Phillips marks for your essays, there is every chance
E-mail: phillipss@coventry.ac.uk
I have experienced the
pain of writer’s block
in the past, in fact I
currently have it while
writing this blurb! I have
chosen to be proof
reader for the magazine
as grammar is nice and
easy, and is something
I focus on too much! When it comes to
reading books I enjoy fantasy, adventure and
To act out some of the stories I have read
professionally would be fun.
Matthew Hutton
Email: Huttonm2@coventry.ac.uk
Pari is a recent English
and Journalism graduate
who has a passion for
creative writing. She
is mainly influenced
by her multi-cultural
background and her
interest in History. She
currently works in retail but hopes to get into
teaching. However, her ultimate ambition is to
have a novel published.
Pari Behpour
Email: behpourp@coventry.ac.uk
Writing
to be published
has a lot in common with
academic writing. Many of the
rules apply: your work must be organised,
accurate, relevant, within the required word
count and punctual. If you are getting good
you could earn a little money from writing.
It could ease the pressure on your student
loan.
There is no mystique to getting into print, but
there are certainly some techniques worth
learning. You could simply write something
and then find someone who wants to
publish it. It is possible, just as it’s possible
that you could win the lottery this week. For
a better chance of success, it pays to do a
little groundwork. Do some research early on
and your work will be far more marketable.
Visit your local library. Find examples of the
kind of thing you want to write and make a
note of the publisher. Contact the company
to request their submission guidelines, which
you should adhere to as closely as possible.
They exist for a purpose and deviation is
not the way to please an editor. While you
are doing this, ask about the submissions
editor’s name and contact details. Getting
the name right matters. Dear Sir or Madam
does not go down well with everyone.
Published sources may be out of date and it
pays to be one step ahead.
Genre is crucial. There is no point sending
a raunchy story full of explicitly described
passion to a church periodical and a “top
shelf” magazine probably wouldn’t buy an
article on how to knit mittens.
The Writer’s and Artist’s Yearbook, published
by A & C Black, is a very useful tool for
budding authors and journalists. It lists
markets for every kind of literature, from the
academic monograph to comic books, as
well as plays and images. The book is also a
font
of good
advice on preparing
your work for publication. By
browsing its pages you may find that there
your
is a ready market for articles or fiction on a
intended work.
subject you are an expert in – something so
Book publishers require
familiar it hadn’t even occurred to you that
the knowledge was saleable.
two or three sample chapters.
If possible add a short resume of your
I know you probably think you should be relevant accomplishments.
sending off your masterpiece by now, but
It is traditional
hold fire. It is not yet time. The submission
to offer “FBSR” (first British serial rights).
guidelines won’t tell you everything you
This means that after an agreed time,
need to know. What style does the publisher
commonly between a month and three
prefer – how long should the sentences be,
years, ownership of your work will revert to
the paragraphs? What level of vocabulary
you. Smaller publishers (who often don’t
should you be using? Do you even know
pay), may let you retain the copyright of all
what word count will be required? Perhaps
submissions, on the understanding that
something you wrote for assessment could
you don’t let anyone else publish your item
be adapted. Analyse a couple of their
before them. You may need to send out
publications and make notes to keep on file.
proposals to several publishers before you
You could start writing now and send off
your manuscript formatted in double line
get a result and it’s acceptable to do this
simultaneously, so long as you only accept
spacing, but there is another wrinkle worth one offer.
using, especially with publishers who don’t
Finally it is time to start writing. Be sure
accept unsolicited submissions. Create a
to check your facts, even for fiction,
proposal – a kind of application for the job of
and reference any research in the publisher’s
writing your piece.
preferred form. Proof read carefully, checking
Write a brief, one page letter stating that you that your work has the relevant level of
have read the publication and submission political correctness – this will depend on the
guidelines and outlining your idea. Give publication you are writing for and how keen
crucial information, such as title, subject and you are to avoid legal action.
word count. Explain why it would appeal to
One last piece of advice: keep strictly to
the readership. Editors are busy people and
deadlines. Unlike university, you won’t just
will often only glance at the top page. Make
lose a few marks for lateness, you could
it interesting so they’ll want to read on and
lose the sale and the chance of future work.
include contact details on every page. Be
Now, off you go and write your heart out.
brief, be bright and be POLITE. Don’t use
the editor’s first name in your initial letter. Good luck.
Attach a précis and paragraph or two of

English and Languages Department: BA English, George Eliot Building, GE519

1 Welcome Published 2
poems
Fallen Comrade
by David Watson
Another magpie plummets to the ground.
The dead body lies there but not in vain.
Four magpies fly down and gather around,
One pecks the corpse, another does the same.
The magpies feel compassion and grief.
They fly away and return with some grass,
Beside the body they assemble a wreath,
Is this a funeral? The watchers ask.
For a few seconds they stand vigil there.
The ritual over, the birds depart,
One by one they fly off into the air.
The carcass left amidst a broken heart.
This discovery has raised a debate.
A characteristic shared with Adam’s race?
Or are emotions purely a human trait?
Observe, question, wonder what has taken place.
Apollo House, My New Room
by Danielle James
Four walls, a floor and ceiling,
Make up my room.
A draft from the window
And warmth from the heating
Make up my room.
A sense of home,
And a feeling of distance
Make up my room.
A sensation of emptiness
And a world of clutter
Make up my room.
A life from my past
and my future path
Make up my room.
Four walls, a floor and ceiling,
Make up my room.
3 Poems
His Eyes
by Emma Heighway
His eyes, colour of moss,
no amount of paint or patience,
can ever truly capture or put on paper.
He holds the power to crush,
and devastate, in his wake,
broken emptiness, agony.
So it would be, if not for his kindness,
compassion, beautiful joyous light,
that radiates, ever glowing.
Words are futile.
Prose and poetry
pale, and lacklustre.
His eyes, colour of moss,
unguarded,
saved for me.
Back Again
by Amarinda Benson
Back again…
Slam! The door shuts
And I walk the three feet
To my desk, the pile of things to ‘sort out’
They’ve been sitting there a week
Back again...
Screaming, shouting,
Cars driving past
With their music blasting
The theme tune of my room
Back again...
A million miles away from
The trickle of a water fountain
And next door’s dog barking
Familiar sounds to taint the background
Silence. And my mind blocks the din
For as I turn around, there’s only one sound
Of love seeping under my skin.
Rain
by Alex Lauder-Bliss
Water falls from the sky
And I’m inside listening to the gentle drops
Trickling and tumbling down the window
My Room Sweetest Voice (in the style of Byron) Onto the city streets to wash away the grime
by Tumi O’Toole by Clare Whyment
Like a garden, freezing floor, He moves so agile like a bird But sometimes, before my eye
Flowers on the wall, lilies on the lawn, Soaring through the star-full night, It’s with lightning that chops
My bed, His voice the sweetest I ever heard
And thunder enhances the show
Serenading the cloud free heights,
Doily, softly lit and red Seeming never to stop until the end of time
Easily transforming a simple word
Covers encroaching damp above my head,
As no other might.
Peep your head out of the sky,
The elegance bestowed upon this man
It can rain so much that we ask why
Light, a wake up call,
Marks him so well against the rest, As it floods our homes, the streets and the shops
Spattered with lichen,
His radiance reflects around him too
The only fresh air. Being wet we are chilly when the wind blows
But as our sun, he shines the best.
Rays of splendour spill from him And onto the roofs we clamber and climb
Illuminating the lightless depths,
Where circumstance seem so grim
The sun will sparkle in the sky
Rejuvenation occurs with his very breath, When the clouds retreat and the rain stops
So graceful, so eloquent his charm And we’ll get our summer that everyone knows
Undeniable as the spinning earth,
Resit Changeable as the stormy sea and calm, Will be warm, bright and sublime.
by Emma Talbot
With every breeze and turn of wind he proves his worth.
I’m taking a resit.
A resit from the University of Life,
Because apparently I’m not too bright.
I messed it up,
Once, I messed it up.
I get a second chance
To dance and romance
And not slip or trip, B.O.Y.
But fall in love. by Emma Talbot
Ah, love! That rush is absent,
Love, the feeling that grips but its warmth is felt with thoughts of that
And often rips B.O.Y.
The soul into tatters.
I hunt down your photograph.
Against a dirty wall my heart splatters
Pixels make such pleasurable imaging,
And spits its loving remedy;
Yet no combination could amount to the softness I feel when we
Because my soul is heavy
Touch.
With the burden of fear
That my poor heart may shed another cold tear.
That B.O.Y. is not exclusively mine, not yet.
Alone. As before and hopefully soon.
My love, alone.
My digital kisses comfort.
The harsh city drone
It will have to do for now.
On my own.
In cloudy Coventry air And important message I want you to know that will only do
On my own. Lip to lip,
I can’t condone the jealousy Not finger to finger.
I feel on my own.
Just a little bit,
But I’ve got to do well,
I’m taking a resit.
Poems 4
Nilufar
A lone figure stands on the Allaverdikhan
Bridge, looking over her city, Isfahan. The
Zayandeh River is flowing underneath her, the
drumming from the city echoes the thumping
of her heart as she tries to recognise the
young woman reflected in the ancient waters.
The face she thought she knew stares blankly
back at her, where did it all go wrong?
“Allah ou Akbar…Allah ou Akbar” the
Imam calls his community to prayer, but
Nilufar has been up for at least an hour with
her chores. Feeding the animals, hanging
out the washing, and making the tea in the
golden samovar.
“Nilufaaaar? Where’s my tea? I’m in
so much pain today; I think it’s getting
worse!” her mother screeched from the
next room. Scheherazade Hajishirazi had
a different ailment everyday, which usually
resulted in her staying in bed or going to the
public baths; this was the only thing which
would soothe her pains, coincidently the
gossip she heard there was also well worth
getting out of bed for.
“Thank you, I think I may go to the baths
today. Your second cousin has just gotten
engaged, her father must have paid out
a large dowry, don’t know any other way
she could have found a husband, I’ll ask
her mother, I wonder who the lucky man
is!? I bet he’s nothing like your future
husband, Mirza, nowhere as intelligent harem. Girls will be brought from all over
and respected.”
Nilufar had noticed that her mother hadn’t
taken a breath, she looked at the woman
with pity; this was all that filled her life. After
helping her mother dress, and walking her
to the public hammam, Nilufar headed for
the bazaar.
The smell of the spices filled the indoor
market, Nilufar recognised them all; saffron,
turmeric, cardamom. Familiar faces rushed
passed her, nodding in recognition. She
bought some bread, and then as she was
coming up to the spice stall, someone
grabbed her sleeve. Nilufar slowly turned
around, and wondered if they owed money
to anyone. A small elderly woman standing in
front of her; she had wide green eyes, which
reminded Nilufar that she must get some
mint leaves.
5 Nilufar
by Pari Behpour
“You have a great future ahead; love and
luxury…follow me.”
The old woman turned round on herself and
started to walk through the crowd, Nilufar
hesitated. Do I follow this stranger? Love
and luxury…the woman’s voice resonated
in her head; an old lady couldn’t harm her?
She had started to lose the woman within
the crowd and ran after her. They came out
of the bazaar through to the Chaharbagh
Boulevard, into winding side streets where
the woman suddenly stopped. They had
come to a bright purple door; Nilufar had
walked down this street a few times and had
never noticed it. The old woman opened
the door with a rusted key and motioned for
Nilufar to walk inside. The room was full of
antiquities mostly Persian, Roman and Greek,
some covered in symbols she had never
seen. There were paintings of Bedouin tribes
and what she recognised as Romany gypsies
with their brightly painted caravans. She
heard the woman behind her, moving chairs,
placing things on a table.
“My mother was Romany, those paintings
were hers. Please sit down.”
Nilufar took a seat at a round table covered
in a faded black material, the woman had
placed some crystals in the centre and a
white candle, which she lit as Nilufar stared
at it.
“Right my dear, I need to take both your
hands, if you don’t mind.”
Nilufar put her small hands in the woman’s
old, rough ones. She started to examine
Nilufar’s palms, tracing the lines with her
wrinkled fingers as if she were trying to
extract its secrets. Nilufar tried to look for any
clues in the woman’s worn, lined face, as if
the ancient creases and folds would speak “When is this all taking place? Are we to
to her. All of a sudden the woman looked were divided into two groups, his wives and
up from the palms, her eyes had gone a
darker green, and it was as if they were
turning black.
“Take maternal betrayal as a blessing,
an opportunity. Forgive, but don’t forget.
You must forgive, and you will never want.
Love is a dance. A dance Nilufar.”
It was as if she was in a trance, rocking
backwards and forth. Nilufar couldn’t recall
when she had told the woman her name, she
wanted to recoil and take her hands away
but the old woman’s grip was too strong.
“Roots. Keep a hold on your roots. You
mustn’t forget who you are, where you are
from. Keep grounded by humble roots.”
The woman wasn’t making any sense,
mumbling gypsy.
“All of your cattle? Every single cow? Are
you mad? Surely your daughter isn’t worth
that much cousin. Your whole livelihood
gone on one marriage!”
Nilufar’s mother was breathing in the steam
of the baths, passing judgement on her
neighbours until unexpectedly the baker’s
wife came rushing in, nearly dropping her
towel. She stood in front of the women
catching her breath.
“The Shah…the Shah…I was just,” the
baker’s wife bent over, hands on knees,
recovering herself. The women were
becoming impatient; no one should take this
long to relay gossip, especially royal gossip.
The women leaned in closer.
“I have it on good authority, from my
husband, baker to the royal household,
that Shah Abbas wants new girls for his
Persia, India and even Africa. The Persian
girls are more valued of course, and their
parents will be paid.”
The women were stunned; didn’t the Shah
have enough girls? All Scheherazade could
think about was her daughter. Nilufar was
beautiful, everyone said so.
bring the girls to the palace?”
Scheherazade’s neighbours gaped at her.
You can’t take your daughter there, they said,
isn’t she engaged? The humiliation on his
family! Would you rather your daughter be the
Shah’s prostitute than their son’s wife?
But Scheherazade didn’t care about his
family; they had never been kind to her or her
daughter. She gathered her things and went
home, Nilufar would understand.
"Esfahan nesfe-e jahan ast"
Nilufar hadn’t understood. Her mother had
pleaded with her; we need money she had
said. Her father had just sat there silent,
vacant. They walked to the Chehel Sotoun
Palace, her parents standing at either side, as
if they thought she would run away. She had
thought about it, but family duty had kept her
there, following them. Hundreds of people
were gathered outside the palace gates,
carts with girls were being let in. Nilufar
noticed some were very young, perhaps not
even fourteen. Mothers were wailing their
goodbyes; a father wrenched a girl from her
mother’s arms. Nilufar followed her mother
who went to speak to a guard.
“Sign her in. Give her full name, age,
name of her parents, race and your
address, or wherever the money
should be delivered. That is if she is
found worthy.”
He laughed to himself and pointed to a
queue. There were no emotional goodbyes in
the Hajishirazi family, just bitter resentment on
their Nilufar’s part.
Once inside the palace walls, the girls were
divided into ethnicity groups. Then divided
even further by age. Nilufar recognised girls
from her street, girls she had played with as a
child. They were brought into empty rooms in
groups of five and carefully examined. Some
girls were taken away; Nilufar later learned
that they had been returned to their parents,
who had beaten them for failing.
The remaining girls were then brought to
the harem, the guards left behind, handing
them over to the eunuchs. The harem was
beautiful, made of white stone, with a long
garden, where somnolent women were
lounging on vast cushions, watching their
painted faces reflected in a pond filled with
water lilies and goldfish. The Shah’s women
his concubines. The wives had separate
apartments to the concubines, which were
far more luxurious. Nilufar was put with the
concubines. For the following twelve months
the girls were taught how to dress, dance,
and how to paint their faces to accentuate
their individual beauty. At the end of every
day, whilst the girls were eating their evening
meal a name would be announced, and that
girl would be taken off.
- Isfahan is half of the World
To introduce the Shah to his new The figure walks the remaining length of the
concubines, there was to be an evening of bridge, towards the edge of her city. Where
festivities. Each girl would dance individually. to go from here? Two years had passed. Two
The girls had rimmed their eyes with kohl and
years of miscarriages, babies lost forever.
died their raven hair with indigo to make it
Suleiman had needed a son, an heir. The
shine blue like glass.
empire was under threat by the Uzbeks and
he had needed to know his throne was safe.
That evening is a blur to Nilufar, all she
He had been advised to take a second wife,
remembers is the smell of roses, and smoke.
and told Nilufar it was only so he could have
All the men were smoking their ghalyun
children. No one had thought he would fall in
(hookah), and the sweet smoke had filled
love with the new concubine.
the room making the experience more like
a dream than reality. She doesn’t remember Nilofar looks up at the city gates, ‘Esfahān
the steps or hand movements of her dance, nesfe-e jahān ast’. Isfahan is half of the
just the beats of the daf and tombak drums World? Perhaps she will see the rest. She
and the quick plucking of the setar. Eyes, had no roots left here.
watching her every twist and turn. Then a
face, his face.
Recounting that moment makes her stop.
She’s back at the bridge, watching the
palace from afar. The same drumming
resounds. No wedding would compare to
theirs. The whole of the Persian Empire
had celebrated with them; a prince had
married a local girl. Isfahan had never seen
a celebration like it; streets were strewn
with roses, hyacinths and lilacs. Lilies were
placed everywhere to represent Persia’s new
Princess with her traditional beauty of the full
moon face and almond shaped eyes.
Searching the water for answers she recalls
one incident, before the last night she had
spent with him. She had gone to the market
with two of the Shah’s wives. The women
had been tired and bored of the harem walls,
and decided to see the market that Nilufar
had always talked of. Whilst browsing the
spices, an old woman had grabbed her arm.
“Nilufar is that you? Your father and I are
so proud! We never thought you would
marry a prince, let alone Prince Suleiman,
heir to the empire! Do we not get some
kind of recognition as your parents?
Perhaps a small sum?”
Nilufar examined her mother closely, then
pushed her away, “You are no longer my
parents.” She rejoined the wives and asked
to go back to the palace; she couldn’t stand
being near the peasants any longer, roots she
thought, keep grounded by humble roots.
Nilufar 6
 (Interview article - Profile on Qurratulain Zaheer and her poetry by Alexander Lauder-Bliss)
Crazy Kratz Zaheer:
Ticks and Talents
One of the most active Second Year poets
with several blogs, each containing a plethora
of poems, Qurratulain ‘Kratz’ Zaheer
talks to me about what makes
her a creative writer.
Kratz, 19, has lived in Coventry her whole To Kratz, songs are poetry and drawing
life and came to Coventry University to from this contemporary medium really
study English. Not really knowing where helps her get an idea for the next piece
she wanted to go and lacking a set aim she writes. Having rarely any time to leave a poem for two weeks, completely
for the future, her one passion was creative read, songs help to bridge the gap unfinished, and come back to it with a
writing. for inspiration.
Having written for a long time, things “I write usually because I’m angry or
ranging from poetry to prose, Kratz made upset. For me, I find it’s like sharing a
a blog just over a year ago to put up her problem and helps get it off my chest. website, and as for a job,
work for everyone to read. I find I feel much better after I’ve lost in a world of formation,
voiced everything.”
Curious to see what made her tick, I met
up with Kratz at the university café. I began Finding it difficult to write more positively,
with asking what inspires her. “it sounds cheesy”, she writes to convey
a deeper message. Preferring prose over
“I mainly get my inspiration from songs
poetry she finds it easy to bring a message
that I hear and relate to. If I hear a song
across, but to Kratz, “Poetry is an
I like, or a certain lyric, I have to look it
interpretation.” Her favourite piece she
up to find out what it’s called and how
has written is Infantile.
the rest of it goes.”
“It’s about growing up and wanting to
remain innocent. We can all relate and
agree that growing up brings a lot of
responsibilities and our innocence is
lost in the process.”
7 Ticks and Talents
Poems by Kratz (Qurratulain Zaheer)
When writing, Kratz, likes to write in one
go, but returning to a piece can bring new
life and new wisdom for her. Often she can
whole new approach and put the finishing
touches on it.
Infantile
For the future she hopes to have her own
Those fantasies that consume me,
those mysteries that bewilder me,
“Making money out of something I
searching within the daydream,
enjoy would be a bonus.”
it seems that I’m wrapped in my own reflection.
Kratz’s work can be found at I perceive your face in every soul.
The little girl within me,
www.thatgirlkratz.blogspot.com
the one I cannot conceal,
overlooks the faults and lies,
Best of luck to her in the future.
it seems she wants to keep,
her trust, principle and virtuous eyes.
River
Follow the shadow of a smile to the river,
allow the sun to conceal imperfection.
Await the significance of circumstance in the air,
guard the darkness that descends.
Direct focus to truths being proclaimed,
tend to an existence that consumes you.
Listen to the echo of the stream,
let it guide you home.
Immoral Pleasurable Capture
She has the appearance that repels gravity, Replace my heartache with oxygen,
she has the smile that imprisons attention, I plead for you to allow me to breathe once more.
she has the walk that captivates judgment, Intoxicated with yearning,
she has the clothes that yearn worship, I permit you to drain me all over again.
she has the build that embezzles thoughts. Empowering my thinking,
She has the ideal exterior,
Dominating my judgment,
but with immoral friends.
I sanction my values to perish.
Perfection is not real.
I become your fabrication,
something I pledged never to befall.
Poems - Kratz 8
Loro Fun
A fascination into the natural world, and Along the sea front, lined with winter sun The first enclosure is a gigantic Jurassic key insight into interactional behaviour
the wildlife that inhabits it, lead me to seekers, there are lots hidden between park style exhibit with three inch thick which is often hard to obtain in the wild
Tenerife’s Loro Parque in Puerto de la the cafes and bars. The cheapest tour glass and high voltage wire fencing, as they live deep in the cold seas of the
Cruz. The thought of some of the park’s operator is Red Arrow Tours owned by home to a whole community of gorillas northern Pacific and Atlantic, and are an
endangered tropical wildlife created a an aging rocker in an old Motorhead who sit grooming each other in the endangered species.
buzz in my head. Knowing the park was t-shirt who welcomes visitors with a grin. morning sun. Their humanlike looks
The park puts on various shows, all of
in aid of conservation and rehabilitation For 34 you get the entrance ticket and convey their emotions as if they were you
which are on at least three times a day.
of endangered species made me feel coach journey with a pick up point of or me. Their sheer size is intimidating,
The other shows include dolphins, sea-
comfortable in the knowledge the your choice. but when the silverback decided he
Lions, parrots and one all the children
animals would be well cared for. didn’t like one of the younger males
The coach travels the coastal road really enjoy is the baby parrot feeding
and charged him down, the roar chilled
Landing on the shimmering tarmac of bordering the Teide national park with session at 1pm. For an extra fee you
the mind into panic. When satisfied the
Reina Sofía Airport is a slightly traumatic volcanic sea views and the tropical can have a guided tour around the park,
threat was over, he perched himself on
event as the runway is rather short and highlands central to the island. One of which gives you priority seating to all
a log and rose up to a towering height
ends protruding into the ocean. So when the most common sights on the journey the day’s shows and events. There are
of almost six feet, his gaze fixed on the
the captain’s voice echoed, “We have is the many banana plantations the plenty of places to get food, such as a
frozen audience. The enclosure has the
arrived in Tenerife, the local time is climate suits to farm. The island itself is Pizza café and BBQ area, but the food
largest number of male Lowland Gorillas
10:00am and the temperature is 28ºc,” a combination of luscious green foliage is expensive and taking a packed lunch
in the world. The park keeps the gorillas
I finally felt at ease. Stepping off the and igneous rock formations that trickle allows you to eat on the go.
as part of a breeding program due to
plane asserted the relief, while the warm into the Atlantic.
them being an endangered species in After leaving the arena you encounter the
November sun washed me with
On Arriving at the park I was the wild. largest iceberg outside the Arctic Circle
giddy excitement.
informed that if I was not on this ‘hot’ volcanic island. It’s housed
The main event for most visitors is the
A good place to back by 5pm the inside a giant dome refrigerator pumping
Killer Whale show, which is on three
stay is in the El Teide coach would snow into the bubble. Thousands of
times a day giving everyone a chance to
southern Mount Teide is the highest mountain be going penguins waddle across the ice fixated
watch. The show attracts thousands of
town in Spain. It is due to the eruptions of this without me, on the ceiling lights, as if they were the
tourists each year and the best show to
of Las vocano that the Island has grown to the size it “Charming!” arctic sun.
see is the morning act, when the whales
Americas is today. Sitting central to the island the summit The
are desperate to show off after being After visiting various other enclosures,
only a hits 3,718m above sea level and is responsible entrance
asleep all night. Walking into the whale aware I was out of time, I had to run
short for the huge 73 sq. miles of national park to the park
area backed by an orchestra of six killer back to the coach much to the anger of
walk from across the island, protecting the natural steals the
whales singing, fills the crowds with the driver - who hadn’t left without me
the historic wonder and its wildlife. attention of
excitement and anticipation. Choosing after all.
port of Las visitors, even
a seat isn’t easy, too close and you get
Cristianos. The children stop in By Thomas Dodd
wet, too far back and you don’t get a
town is backed by silence for a moment.
good view. Luckily I secured a middle
large volcanic hillsides where Elegantly situated in the
area seat. The surrounding crowds were
dark clouds condense on the peaks Spanish hillside is a traditional
murmuring, “We won’t get wet in this
and dark green forests run through the Thai Village complete with Koi Carp
bit,” while a man cracked, “Whale be
valleys. The peak of Mount Teide can swimming amongst lilies. Following the
alright here!” much to the dismay of his
be seen in the distance overcastting the meandering path across the bridge and
wife and three children.
surrounding hilltop villages with the raw into the Giant Bamboo forest you are
power of its furnace within. greeted by two live McCaw parrots who The orca trainers put on a fantastic
are only too happy to pose for a photo. show demonstrating the agility and
The park is situated in the northern part
The parrots are the park’s mascots as intelligence of these large mammals,
of the island near Santa Cruz, which
the park started as a parrot reserve whilst explaining the reasoning for
means tracking down a tour operator
in 1972. keeping the animals in captivity. It gives
and booking a coach trip to the park.

9 Loro Fun Loro Fun 10