Monday, 1 June 2009

East of Here, Close to Water

I have a review up on wonderful short story siteThe Short Review.

Josephine Rowe's beautiful, staggering, tiny collection of short stories is called East of Here, Close to Water.

I loved every word of it, and fell overwhelmingly in love with the stories and her poetic style.

Read my review here

Here, as usual is a brief excerpt from it.

There is an intimacy to these stories that draws the reader in, makes us witness or party to the characters’ most difficult or revealing moments. Secrets are shared; inner thoughts, loves/ hates, anxieties and vulnerabilities. Characters are introduced with such precise brevity, we might instantly know them...


Tania Hershman said...

Thank you, Annie, for your lovely review, there have been many people clicking out to read the link to Josephine's story at the bottom of the review which means you whetted their appetite for more!

Michelle said...

" You’d look out towards the wash of the city lights and think of how you used to dream of nights like this, of men like him, and you’d wonder what was missing, what had fallen away between the now and the then."


You're a skilled reviewer, Annie. And how lovely to hear that East of Here, Close to Water is self-published and such high quality.

Anonymous said...

I thought of pigeons. Black and white, Turkish, Tumblers. All edible I thought I was hungry for Fish and Chips but I had no money.

I had suffered long and it would never leave. The fancy people call it Child Abuse but I know it as my very own death that is crawling about inside and made of hard wire, like in the pictures of the trenches and rats all over and the wire wanting to tear out and I cannot pull

My now, in my fourth death, all I had was the Silence that surrounded me and the grumble of the sea behind the sea wall.

Violence is a part of me. I want my revenge against that family. The place I had been before here, before the sea. The place that emptied my pockets of money and filled me with loathing and bile.

I am a very big man but all I can think now is being small. Listening through closed doors and here the big ones planning my suffering. Rough pubs are better. I take of my shoes when I get into a fist fight. Bare feet. Traction. who cares. It might be the end of everything everytime so bare feet in the snow is nothing. My scars are all in the right places and I still look good and the only mashed nose and ears and back are inside of me. The enclosed spaces of a small boy, Trampling in leaves. Ice-skating on the river, anything to escape. But then there are the Dodgy men in the park and they know who I am. They see my Identity and they know about my parents and they are drawn to me even though I am ig. My therapy for a while was drawing these men and hitting them, my fingernails dirty with their old blood. No big brothers. I am too big to be invisible invisible. There is simply too much that makes me. Absence. Arson. Maggots. Tattoos. Back yards. Bitchy mates. Abandoned mills.

Now, with the wine, I am
Hearing voices. And I am Telling stories.forgetting the time, forgetting my hunger and not having a lost love because I have wasted all of my life, my little life and now my little life Hiding in wardrobes.