Lipstick Eyebrows E-Book

• Herausgeber: Honno Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 144

Beschreibung

" Chosen for their contemporary edge in both setting and story, the collection hosts an all-female cast covering themes of travel, arrival, change, reconciliation, departures, estrangement, death, survival and the intricacies of women's lives. ""A brilliant showcase of the next wave of talent from Welsh Women writers."" Rebecca Parfitt, Commissioning Editor, Honno ""And death, like sex, isn't like it is in the movies. For one thing, there has been much more foreplay."" Lipstick Eyebrows by Naomi Paulus ""The future is Welsh, baby.""To Buy an Expensive Dream, Chinyere Chukwudi-Okeh ""The projector clicked again. On the wall was a photo of Mair holding a placard defiantly, her shoulders squared to the police officer who attempted to wrench it out of her hands. In careful writing she'd printed the words: 'Coal Not Dole'.""Scab by Ellen Davies ""She was aware of the swing of her skirt as she went. Old woman crosses gangplank, she thought. Her reflection threw back someone she wasn't expecting. She was recently ancient, she decided. She recalled the same feeling in reverse when she was twenty and surprised at being a young woman."" Pearls Before Swine by Tracey Rhys "

Leseprobe

LIPSTICK EYEBROWS

HONNO MODERN FICTION

Contents

Title PageIntroductionBy the Water’s EdgeSilvia RoseTo Buy an Expensive DreamChinyere Chukwudi-OkehWild RomancesKate WaddonThe King of the FairiesCarolyn ThomasSummer’s EndGosia BuzzancaLipstick EyebrowsNaomi PaulusScabEllen DaviesSomething about WeddingsJulie PrimonPearls Before SwineTracey RhysAuthor BiographiesEditor BiographiesAbout HonnoCopyright

Introduction

Honno has been dedicated to publishing the works of women from and residing in Wales exclusively for nearly 40 years. We are proud to be the UK’s longest running women’s press. There is no other publisher committed to lifting and celebrating the voices of Welsh women. Our entire list proudly celebrates the culture of women in Wales and beyond.

However, we are acutely aware that we are living in a world where the thoughts and opinions of women are still overlooked; and women are still being objectified, scrutinised and abused. So many girls worldwide are still not getting an education. I cannot imagine my own daughter not being able to attend school. But even in the UK, I am aware that she will still have to fight hard to create her own space, she will still be vulnerable when walking alone; she will still experience sexism: sexism, which begins at school age with things such as princess parties for girls and superhero parties for boys, and the belief that only girls should wear dresses and trousers are only for boys.

This anthology was a chance for us at Honno to continue our legacy of elevating the voices of women, creating a space for creativity, narrative and experience. So many of us come to writing under adverse and difficult conditions: we carve a space in the corner of the kitchen, at the end of a long day at work, in the midnight hours nursing babies, catch a moment whilst children are at school; or jotting down a thought whilst waiting with an elderly loved one in the hospital or doctor’s surgery. The title story ‘Lipstick Eyebrows’ so tenderly explores female dignity and care, setting the tone for our ambition for the book. It is compassion for each other that makes our community thrive and drives change for the better. And women will always continue to write. Women write everywhere and anywhere. We are good at that. And we are good at adapting to adversity.

While reading the many stories submitted for this anthology, it became clear to us how varied and vast the experiences of Welsh women truly are today. Women residing in, or originally from, Wales have a diverse range of histories, backgrounds and cultures from which to draw their tales.

Each of the stories chosen invites the reader into a strange new world, giving us a glimpse into the varied experiences of Welsh women, from those that paddle in Italian lakes to those that find peace at a wedding ceremony. Ultimately, the stories chosen are stories concerned with liminal spaces – there are service stations, cruise ships, airports and hospital beds. Throughout the collection, people arrive and depart. Much like the women of Wales, the characters in this book are in a perpetual state of flux – on the cusp of adulthood, entering new relationships, learning new ways of viewing the world.

An unnamed woman is desperate to escape the monotony of her day-to-day life, searching for her own Wild Romances in Kate Waddon’s story. With an incompetent husband and three dependent children, who can blame her for searching for a little excitement? Will she find it if she leaves the service station, or will the road always lead her straight back home? In Carolyn Thomas’ story, two young girls learn that the woods are full of secrets, including The King of the Faeries himself. But what will the rest of the family members make of this chance encounter? It’s the 90s in Poland, the Princess is dead, the Hanson Brothers dominate magazine covers, and a new school term is about to begin in Summer’s End, but Kasia will be taking more than a new school uniform with her come September. Gosia Buzzanca tells the story of a girlhood stripped away too soon. By the Water’s Edge in rural Bosnia, a young girl embraces her discomfort, casting aside her gut instinct in an attempt to impress an older man. Amongst the sweat and heat, the comforting heap of pancakes, and the laughs that come like ‘claps of thunder,’ there is something deeply disturbing about trainee policeman Atso. Silvia Rose deftly weaves this coming-of-age tale with beautiful imagery and a self-sure narrative. Julie Primon proves there is Something About Weddings when Claire strikes up a conversation with Sandra, her ex-boyfriend’s new wife. Perhaps she was right to leave her partner at home, after all. When the house phone in Naomi Paulus’ Lipstick Eyebrows rings in the dead of night, it could only be ‘Little Ears’, the nursing home’s night manager. In this darkly humorous story, a young woman travels across her hometown to the bedside of her dying grandmother. Navigating this familiar landscape, through memories of her past and family history, forces her to reconcile where she has come from with where she is going. Pearls Before Swine by Tracey Rhys sees a couple in their later years getting to know each other whilst enjoying a cruise. When Evelyn finds a pearl in her dinner one evening, it brings her even closer to handsome Gio. This is a story of a woman reclaiming herself, her sense of adventure, her sexuality and her life. In Ellen Davies’ story set in the Welsh valleys, Caryl travels home for her estranged mother’s funeral. While trying to reconcile with her brother and sister-in-law, a Scab is picked away – but will it reveal a fleshy wound, or a scar? In To Buy an Expensive Dream, a flight that will lead to a new life is about to depart … but will our protagonist be on board? Chinyere Chukwudi-Okeh’s tale of travel hinges on the dissonance that can occur when reality does not meet our expectations.

Selecting these stories and working closely with their authors has been a privilege, and we are sure you, the reader, will enjoy discovering these contemporary voices as much as we have.

Rebecca Parfitt Commissioning Editor Honno Press

Mari Ellis Dunning Anthology Co-Editor

By the Water’s Edge

by Silvia Rose

I left the boxy flat with my family squeezed inside – my mother sweating by the window, her unshaved legs spread apart in a warrior position; my grandma sweating by the stove, dipping a finger into the bubbling soup, licking it off with a click; my brother and sister bored and hot and sweating on the sofa.

I was sweating, my thighs already sticky as they rubbed against themselves under my skirt. I called back through the closed door, ‘Just going for a swim!’

I walked down the steps that echoed and smelt like every other hallway in this place – a mixture of cigarettes and stock-cubes. The plastic bag I carried sliced into my hand, weighed down with a towel, picnic supplies, and a book I hadn’t started yet. It was too hot to eat or read but I needed the pretence of having something to do.

Outside, the air was heavy, basting me with greasy heat. Moving was hard and slow. I waited by the road while a tractor passed, wheezing like an old pair of lungs. The farmer waved and beeped his horn.

Remembering the way to the riverbank, I crossed over to the dirt-track lined with unfinished houses on either side. Some were crumbling, clearly destroyed, others were half-built and caged by scaffolding. The grass was dead and yellow, the mud grey and dry. On my right was Mira’s house, a friend of my grandma’s who we’d visited the previous day. I passed the shady patch of garden where we had sat eating watermelon and held her baby granddaughter, all dressed in white.

Children played in the field ahead, kicking balls through rusty white goalposts stuck in at jaunty angles. Children half-naked, skinny and brown and bare-footed. They ran and screamed at each other. I felt embarrassed, like they were looking at me knowing I didn’t belong, that perhaps they could smell my Britishness.

I walked to the quiet patch by the river, away from the wooden jetty where the dogs played and left their mess to slip on. Through the gaps in the trees I could see the broad stretch of water, glinting and playful.

Cornfields spread out to my left, so tall I felt protected. Grassy mounds and weeping trees surrounded the riverbank, soft and swamp-like. There was noise – hot noise – bugs and echoes of the children screaming. I lay on my towel feeling self-conscious even though I was alone. I straightened it out, moved it so it was level on the ground and wondered which way I should put my head. The towel was starchy and coarse on my back. I stripped down to my bikini and sat bent over, kneading the folds of my stomach. I lay down instead, preferring it flat.

I lay with my hands above my head and gave my body a stretch right down to the toes and I felt it in me, some fleshy heat that travelled up and through me, collecting at my dewy navel. With my eyes closed I felt drowsy, drugged. It was only half-pleasant.

Out of nowhere, the ground vibrated with a thud. I tensed up; my eyes still closed. The thudding stopped and I felt the sunlight blocked out from beneath my eyelids.

‘Čao.’

It was a voice that resounded, stayed static in the air.

I started, sat up, twisted around awkwardly. It was Atso, Mira’s son. I’d only met him in passing, dressed in his light-blue uniform buttoned all the way to the top. Tight trousers. He had smiled down at me, my head only reaching the badge on his chest. My mother had told me he was training to be a policeman.

Now he was standing there, towering over me even more. He wore swimming trunks, white and worn. He had foam slippers on his feet. One of them was almost touching my hand, which was spread out to support my weight.

‘Čao’, I answered back, the only word I could pronounce with confidence.

He crouched down, a violent and sudden action, changing his whole stature. His elbows leant on knees that jutted out towards me. He squinted through the sun and smiled wide. There were small gaps between his teeth.

‘Is hot.’ The words shivered and wafted in the space between us.

‘Yeah.’

He came to sit beside me, I moved over on my towel. I hugged my knees as close as I could. His shoulder brushed mine so lightly I could feel a map of nerves run beneath my skin. He opened his mouth – closed it again – furrowed his eyebrows.

‘Uhh … you swim?’

I unclasped my knees.

‘Yeah.’

‘Aide.’

He stood up, his knee next to my head now, hairs like brambles.

I waited until he had walked right down to the riverbank. I was suspended for a moment – I wondered if it was a joke, if he really wanted me here. He hadn’t brought a towel. I watched as he kicked off his slippers and without a backwards glance jumped into the water. He howled like a wolf. The sound shocked me out of my stupor in time to see his face rising out and sparkling. I smiled. ‘Aide!’ he called again.

I snapped the fabric of my bikini bottoms, pulling them to cover my buttocks. The earth under my feet was smooth and compact. I didn’t jump. I stepped in slowly, my blood fizzing with the cold. He laughed when I threw myself under and resurfaced with a scream.

The river was like a lake – so wide and still. The water was cloudy and filtered green from the bordering trees. I could feel the promise of river weeds tickling my toes as I kicked lazily to keep afloat. Atso did flips underwater. I swam breaststroke, wondering if I looked elegant or just shy.

There was a moment when I turned around and he was gone. I looked in all directions. Then I felt a tug on my ankle. Something was pulling me under. I struggled to get away – splashed and breathed in gulps of water. Then he emerged beside me, hair dripping, an intent smile coursing over his face. I splashed him.

‘Nemoj! Don’t do that!’ I said, laughing.

We swam for hours until the water felt lukewarm and natural, like air around our bodies. The river had soaked off a layer of skin. I felt opened up and stretched out.

We spoke through laughter and exclamations of ‘Ahhh…’ The sky was pink and alive – a final burst of colour before nightfall. I followed Atso as he swam to the shore, watched his shoulder blades beat like wings.

It was strange when we stood on dry land. Everything was heavier and more real. I handed him my towel and pretended to search through my bag. I couldn’t look at him as he rubbed his hair dry. The way he bent down reminded me of grazing bulls.

We walked in twilight, his slippers slapping his feet, a rhythm conducting the near silence. Then he asked, ‘How many years you have?’

I hesitated. Two slaps of the slippers.

‘Fourteen,’ I replied, immediately wishing I’d added on three years instead of one. He turned to me, his eyes white, ‘Strašno!’ Then he laughed low and long and said something I didn’t understand.

The dirt-track was lit up by kitchen lights, cosy and orange. There were still people outside in their gardens, stoking mini-bonfires and roasting corn; an old man loading firewood into the back of his truck.

‘Jesi li gladno? Eat?’ Atso asked, stopping outside the bare-brick walls of his mother’s house. Half his face was in shadow, making his long nose stick out and his features look moulded like clay. I nodded, feeling my skin prickle. I followed him inside where Mira was at the sink, her body bulky, the same formidable stance as my grandma. Her face lit up when she saw us. She came to me and kissed my cheeks, said my name in a throaty voice. She spoke no English but I laughed along regardless. When we were here the day before she had sneaked glasses of rakija to my little brother until we realised, as he rushed around, crashing his head on the sofa, that he was drunk.

I sat down at the table, which was covered in a plastic sheet, decorated with gingham and cartoon woodland animals. The news was on the TV. I could make out a shot of some smoke-filled city before it switched to a ‘turbo-folk’ concert. Trashy ballads filled the room.

Mira poured me a glass of strawberry juice, thick and pulpy, ice-cold from the fridge. Atso laid down a plate piled high with ready-made pancakes and next to it, a tub of chocolate spread so big it could have held paint. Still topless, he sat down beside me, stray pearls of river water dripping down his temples. We ate in silence while Mira fussed around us. The pancakes were damp with butter. I could feel the wet bikini soak my clothes.

Atso motioned me to eat more – I refused. He laughed and said something about ‘little’ and ‘English’. Mira laughed back and placed a parched hand on my shoulder.

It was nearly eight. I wondered if my brother and sister were in bed; if my mother was also looking at the clock. I discarded the thought when Atso invited me upstairs, leading me along an olive-green carpet. First, he showed me his brother’s bedroom. It was bare apart from a mattress on the floor. He tried to explain where he’d gone. The walls were painted a bright, sickly blue, covered with graffiti letters in shades of silver and gold. Some words I recognised, ‘Gangsta’, ‘Get Money Fuck Bitchez’, dollar signs everywhere. There was a sort of pride in the way Atso showed me the walls.

His room was next door. It was white and just as bare. His bed had a frame at least.

A red leather punch-bag hung in the corner, swaying from the slam of the door.

He pulled on a t-shirt. It was plain, grey-blue, too big even for him. He sat on a plastic chair while I sat on the bed, leaning against the wall, my legs rigid and straight on top of the duvet. The laptop made a welcoming ping as he turned it on.

‘You watch video?’

‘Da.’

He clicked on a folder and scrolled down, muttering under his breath. He showed me videos, some I’d seen before, of kids falling off skateboards, football tackles gone wrong, singers tripping onstage. He made me jump with his laughter; it burst out of him like claps of thunder.

Then he showed me something else.

It was a man sitting at a table, filmed like a police tape, grainy and official. The man was crying, pleading. I didn’t recognise the language. There was another, deeper voice coming from behind the camera. The man’s eyes were dark and laced with desperation. Saliva trickled down the corners of his mouth.

Then – a gunshot.

The man’s head crashed and spluttered, a mess of red on the wall behind. It all happened in an instant. Then the video ended.