J.R. Manawa's Blog, page 7
June 13, 2017
Reasons why I love humans at Download Festival
She only looked back once with a knowing grin before she was at the gates, through the queue, and the festival swallowed her whole.
Instantly the world was one she knew and understood better than the real life she lived every day. No one here quite fit in a box. There were boys and girls in plaid shirts, band t-shirts and stone washed jeans. People shuffling about in fluffy onesies depicting well-loved cartoon characters though there was neither a bed nor bedroom in sight. Skinny boys with tight black jeans and long back-combed hair, girls in powdery white makeup with delicate black lines encircling their eyes and forming spidery webs across their eyelids. Then there were the ones with chunky platforms boots in silver or black, fishnet tights, tank tops and multi-coloured dreadlocks, and boys with long black fringes that sat unnaturally perfect against their pale faces and snakebite piercings, one ring on either side of their bruise coloured lips. There were girls in maxi-dresses with gold body paint in scrawls of lines and arrows all over their skin, boys in combat trousers, steel cap boots and army jackets or sleeveless tees.
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There were matching couples and matching groups, and mis-matched ones too, with someone from every tribe of the social dark-side of society that you could have imagined, the cast-out, discarded, abused, teased, forgotten, misunderstood and labelled. The freaks, the moshers, the goths, the cyber children, the Lolittas, the weirdos, the rockers, the emos, the glam-rockers, and many more that she knew society could not have put a word to. But here – in being different – they were all the same.
Tagged: author, blog, blogger, book, challenge, fairytale, fantasy, goth, gothgirl, gothic, gothicfairytale, inspiration, motivation, poet, poetry, quoteoftheday, shortstory, story, Storyteller, vampire, write, writer, writing, writingchallenge
Reasons why I love humans at Download Festival
She only looked back once with a knowing grin before she was at the gates, through the queue, and the festival swallowed her whole.
Instantly the world was one she knew and understood better than the real life she lived every day. No one here quite fit in a box. There were boys and girls in plaid shirts, band t-shirts and stone washed jeans. People shuffling about in fluffy onesies depicting well-loved cartoon characters though there was neither a bed nor bedroom in sight. Skinny boys with tight black jeans and long back-combed hair, girls in powdery white makeup with delicate black lines encircling their eyes and forming spidery webs across their eyelids. Then there were the ones with chunky platforms boots in silver or black, fishnet tights, tank tops and multi-coloured dreadlocks, and boys with long black fringes that sat unnaturally perfect against their pale faces and snakebite piercings, one ring on either side of their bruise coloured lips. There were girls in maxi-dresses with gold body paint in scrawls of lines and arrows all over their skin, boys in combat trousers, steel cap boots and army jackets or sleeveless tees.
[image error]
There were matching couples and matching groups, and mis-matched ones too, with someone from every tribe of the social dark-side of society that you could have imagined, the cast-out, discarded, abused, teased, forgotten, misunderstood and labelled. The freaks, the moshers, the goths, the cyber children, the Lolittas, the weirdos, the rockers, the emos, the glam-rockers, and many more that she knew society could not have put a word to. But here – in being different – they were all the same.
Tagged: author, blog, blogger, book, challenge, fairytale, fantasy, goth, gothgirl, gothic, gothicfairytale, inspiration, motivation, poet, poetry, quoteoftheday, shortstory, story, Storyteller, vampire, write, writer, writing, writingchallenge
Reasons why I love humans at Download Festival
She only looked back once with a knowing grin before she was at the gates, through the queue, and the festival swallowed her whole.
Instantly the world was one she knew and understood better than the real life she lived every day. No one here quite fit in a box. There were boys and girls in plaid shirts, band t-shirts and stone washed jeans. People shuffling about in fluffy onesies depicting well-loved cartoon characters though there was neither a bed nor bedroom in sight. Skinny boys with tight black jeans and long back-combed hair, girls in powdery white makeup with delicate black lines encircling their eyes and forming spidery webs across their eyelids. Then there were the ones with chunky platforms boots in silver or black, fishnet tights, tank tops and multi-coloured dreadlocks, and boys with long black fringes that sat unnaturally perfect against their pale faces and snakebite piercings, one ring on either side of their bruise coloured lips. There were girls in maxi-dresses with gold body paint in scrawls of lines and arrows all over their skin, boys in combat trousers, steel cap boots and army jackets or sleeveless tees.
[image error]
There were matching couples and matching groups, and mis-matched ones too, with someone from every tribe of the social dark-side of society that you could have imagined, the cast-out, discarded, abused, teased, forgotten, misunderstood and labelled. The freaks, the moshers, the goths, the cyber children, the Lolittas, the weirdos, the rockers, the emos, the glam-rockers, and many more that she knew society could not have put a word to. But here – in being different – they were all the same.
Tagged: author, blog, blogger, book, challenge, fairytale, fantasy, goth, gothgirl, gothic, gothicfairytale, inspiration, motivation, poet, poetry, quoteoftheday, shortstory, story, Storyteller, vampire, write, writer, writing, writingchallenge
Reasons why I love humans at Download Festival
She only looked back once with a knowing grin before she was at the gates, through the queue, and the festival swallowed her whole.
Instantly the world was one she knew and understood better than the real life she lived every day. No one here quite fit in a box. There were boys and girls in plaid shirts, band t-shirts and stone washed jeans. People shuffling about in fluffy onesies depicting well-loved cartoon characters though there was neither a bed nor bedroom in sight. Skinny boys with tight black jeans and long back-combed hair, girls in powdery white makeup with delicate black lines encircling their eyes and forming spidery webs across their eyelids. Then there were the ones with chunky platforms boots in silver or black, fishnet tights, tank tops and multi-coloured dreadlocks, and boys with long black fringes that sat unnaturally perfect against their pale faces and snakebite piercings, one ring on either side of their bruise coloured lips. There were girls in maxi-dresses with gold body paint in scrawls of lines and arrows all over their skin, boys in combat trousers, steel cap boots and army jackets or sleeveless tees.
There were matching couples and matching groups, and mis-matched ones too, with someone from every tribe of the social dark-side of society that you could have imagined, the cast-out, discarded, abused, teased, forgotten, misunderstood and labelled. The freaks, the moshers, the goths, the cyber children, the Lolittas, the weirdos, the rockers, the emos, the glam-rockers, and many more that she knew society could not have put a word to. But here – in being different – they were all the same.
Tagged: author, blog, blogger, book, challenge, fairytale, fantasy, goth, gothgirl, gothic, gothicfairytale, inspiration, motivation, poet, poetry, quoteoftheday, shortstory, story, Storyteller, vampire, write, writer, writing, writingchallenge
June 1, 2017
London Goth Top Ten #6 Cross Bones Burial Ground
After a short break, it’s definitely time to return to my favourite 10 Gothic London Sight seeing locations.
For me, Cross Bones has to be on my list. As a burial ground, there is little left to see as developments have encroached, and most of the remains of the estimated 15,000 interred have been removed to Brookwood Cemetery in Woking.
(Interestingly this is where the line from the Necropolis Station, which I’ve also written about, terminated. I also wrote a book which features a visit to the Necropolis station. You can listen in audio book form, here)
Simply known as Cross Bones, the burial ground off Union Street near London Bridge Station, started off as a place to lay London’s poor to rest, but was immortalised as it became a “Single Woman’s Cemetery” which at the time referred to prostitutes. Much disputed historical records place the purchase of the ground in the 1700’s for use as a burial place. You can read in detail about the debates as to the origin, use and consecration (or not) of the burial ground here on wikipedia
[image error]Photo credits to Max Reeves and the Cross Bones website.
Whatever the truth, evidence and local knowledge tell us sad tales of what Cross Bones meant in a different age. An archaeological dig which took place in 1992 unearthed another 148 bodies from the site, of which over a third were still born or children under one year of age, and the remainder were mostly women. Today the remaining evidence is a small memorial garden, sometimes open to the public, and possibly the most tearjerking memorial you will ever come across, the iron gated wall running along Union Street is always covered in ribbons and flowers, toys and messages. Somehow it is beautiful, peaceful, sombre and tragic all in the same moment.
For me, Cross Bones is a memorial to those society have judged and lost. To the disused and abused. To those who in many cases had their freedom and dignity striped from them, or who never really got a chance at life. I wish I could say we’ve changed, that life is different now, but I’m not so sure it is.
And so we remember them.
Lest we forget.
To the innocent dead.
To the outcast dead.
IMPORTANT NOTE FROM ME: If you visit the burial ground, or feel moved by the stories you hear, there is a petition to stop further developments and create a proper memorial garden on the site. You can sign the petition here.
You can also visit the Cross Bones website, http://www.crossbones.org.uk.
With love, from this side of darkness, J R Manawa xxx
p.s I can’t find my own photos of Cross Bones amongst the thousands of pointless selfies on my phone (confession there) so I will have to go back and take some more soon. These ones are borrowed from the Cross Bones website.
[image error]Photo credit to Katy Nicholls and the Cross Bones website
Tagged: Burial ground, cemetery, Cross Bones, Crossbones, goth, gothgirl, London, RIP, Taphophile, taphophilia
May 20, 2017
How to spot a writer
I wasn’t going to blog again so soon as Starlet Fey was the first real story I had written in a while, but sometimes those moments in life just happen that take you away, entertaining your mind with droplets of inspiration.
How to spot a writer. J R Manawa.
She’s sitting opposite me on the tube. In a world of her own. Not paying attention to much.
I realise she’s staring. At me? I’m not sure, but she’s looked away as soon as we make eye contact. We both know London Underground etiquette.
She smiles to herself as she looks away. Have I got food on my face? No. I go back to writing my blog on my phone.
Moments later I glance her way again, curious. She’s looking up and away, with a frown while she thinks, imagines, explores the thought she’s had.
I suddenly click. A writer. Not an eye contact making weirdo, just a writer.
And I’m right, 100%. A moment later she’s pulled a small laptop out of her bag, just like mine, a light and compact laptop perfect for fitting in a handbag on the go. She lies her coat across her lap to make a steady table, just like I would, and she begins to type. The document she’s working on must already be open.
The stalker in me sees the reflection of her screen in the carriage window behind her. Definitely a writer, a cluttered word document layout filled with paragraphs upon paragraphs of closely knit prose.
I smile, and go back to my own writing – on my phone. I wonder what inspired her in that moment to take out her work and start typing flat out on the closely packed underground?
Her smile grows as she types. A big, wide, I’m-pleased-with-myself, I’m-excited-by-this-thought-I’ve-just-had, smile. She looks at the people around her, pauses, smiles, and starts to write again.
I have to smile too, because I do the same thing. Normally people are staring at me like I’m the weirdo, but it’s all about capturing that thought as soon as you’ve had it. Writing about that person as soon as you’ve met them. That scene, as soon as you’ve seen it. While the experience is so fresh you can reach out and touch it.
It’s surreal how simply making eye contact with an unwitting stranger on the path of your life can inspire a character, an individual – the idea of a personality, as you read it in their eyes. Another story, a new story – their story, unwittingly flutters by the edge of your mind.
This is exactly how I met George, and a handful of my other characters too. They walked into my life and walked straight back out, but in those five seconds of contact they left me with a whole life story.
Some people have stories written on their faces. Not their own human stories, but rather the fictional elaborate fantasies of who they could be, and the secrets they might hide behind their eyes.
My friend Liliana and I were shopping in Fortnum and Mason when we met George, and the encounter inspired an entire story. See if you can find us in George’s tale here.
In the mean time, to the cute African girl on the train with the corkscrew ringlets, the tiny white laptop, and the smile that barely contained the delight of the story she was telling – I wish you all the best. May your tales change the world.
Tagged: alternative, altgirl, blog, blogger, fangs, freak, girls with piercings, girlswithfangs, girlswithtattoos, goth, gothgirl, gothic, London, London fantasy, magic realism, Storyteller, teen romance, twilight, Urban Fantasy, vamp, vampgirl, vampire, vampireprincess, writer
May 17, 2017
The short life of Starlet Fey
My name is Starlet Fey, and I was born on the 14th of February, 1921. I was nineteen at the time, kind of cute – if a little chubby. But I could sing, and London loved me.
My lineage was forgettable, and my family on the edges of middle class, though I had my Irish grandmother to thank for my auburn hair and green eyes. Possibly she was the one to thank for my voice also, because no one else ever sang. But beauty and a voice don’t last forever, so my daddy always told me. In truth, this may be the only thing I remember him saying to me, other than his advice that Dean was a good man and a good option, lest we forget that men have rather high opinions of themselves and each other.
“George is a good lad,”
“That David, you know, Alfred’s son? He’s growing into a fine young man.”
“John’s twenty-three now, you know? He’ll be taking over his father’s business before you know it.”
Back then – much as they do now – they also knew exactly what a woman was supposed to be, her function in society and what she was good for. For daddy, this translated into exactly who I should marry.
But let’s get one thing clear. Dean was never a marrying option, or a good option. In fact, he was the worst kind of option. But he was good enough. I still bring flowers to his unmarked grave every Valentine’s Day. And for the most part my confusion and anger toward him has been replaced with a sly gratitude. The kind of gratitude you are amused to have when you realise it is for someone who did you wrong but set you on a path to greatness.
It’s all bittersweet. Gin and tonic and a noose made of lace.
So. Anyway. it was February the fourteenth, a night of lovers, for babies conceived and heart-fluttering proposals. I wore a gold ribbon choker and my hair in tight finger waves rolled into the nape of my neck, pinned with a comb of pearls that I didn’t own, with a thin little silk slip over the top of it all.
And I wore it all because I expected to be given two valentine roses. One purchased from the stall outside Hampstead Heath, I expected, and the second? The bud of pink lips stealing a kiss from mine, somewhere in a quiet corner after my show had finished, after the first rose had been offered, and before midnight when daddy’s curfew came into force.
I sang the fire of desire and sweetness of love that night, and I think for the tipsy patrons in this intimate little club, I sang the best I ever had. Each note on the piano smouldered into my voice, cutting through the cigarette smoke that hazed the air. All eyes on me, except those lovers for whom my voice was only the soundtrack to their infatuation.
Dean arrived at nine-thirty-three, slipping into the back of the crowd with twelve roses clutched to his side. Twelve roses.
And not a single one of them for me.
It was Sophie he asked to step outside with him. Sophie Harris, all slim and blonde with a rich daddy. So I watched those twelve roses and a secret card that read ‘be mine” walk out the door with Dean and Sophie hand in hand, giggles and butterflies. When I look back, I felt like my heart was dying in that moment, because daddy was always right, my voice and my beauty wouldn’t last.
My daddy was wrong. I found another suitor that evening as I sipped my gin and tonic at the bar. A rich man with thin white skin and rings on his fingers. He said my voice enchanted, he said he would walk me home. He could see I was upset.
The rest of my story would read like the pages of a history book, because I don’t remember it. I only remember what came after.
My name is Starlet Fey, and I was born in a tomb.
I was born in a pool of blood with a broken neck and a torn dress, and the only satisfaction in the pain of my birth was the moment I heard Sophie’s screams of rejection when Dean forced himself on her in the graveyard above where I lay. She didn’t want him, not in that way. She was a good girl. She was her daddy’s girl.
But Dean was hungry.
Actually, so was I. So damn hungry.
I could tell you about that first taste of blood, how easily I found them through the darkness. I could tell you what death felt like in my mouth and as it gushed down my parched throat. I could tell you how Sophie ran for her life and how Dean wasn’t enough. He could never have been enough for me.
But I think this is an appropriate moment to pause. The evening has been long and cold after this short winter’s day. Ice is caking in crystalline sparkles down the edge of the marble tomb as the moisture in the air gravitates toward it. Each new cluster a wonder of mathematical perfection.
My veins itch as I feel my strength returning. “Where is George?” I ask aloud as I scratch at the puncture in my wrist. It has been less than twenty-four hours but you could almost call it healed. A mere scratch.
Peter is at my side in an instant after my voice breaks the silence, his cool brown lips kiss my hand, “He’s not ready.”
“Oh my beautiful. Descendent of Gods. Bring him to me.” When Peter looks into my eyes, I see the fall of man. He loves me because he sees in my eyes the reflections of his own desire. He is a simple and beautiful creature, a young god, once worshiped, eons later forgotten.
“Must you be so stubborn?” his brother asks
August.
In August’s eyes I see sweetness and betrayal. I am his Dean. One day he will thank me and hate me, but for the moment he quietly watches me as I take my roses to Sophie. He can read the expression on my face already though he attempts to hide it behind his steel eyes.
He sighs. “I will get George.”
Then the room is quiet again, the two brothers leave me to my own company, as do all the rest of our kind. They fear me and love me, but they cannot handle me.
I am the queen of their night.
Peter almost surprises me with the speed of his return. “You should come,” he says. “This is one you should not have made.”
This is one I should not have made.
I turn the thought over in my mind as Peter takes my hand, all the gentleman, as he goes before me down the steep flight of stairs into the earth.
One I should not have made.
Ha.
I’ll do what I like.
* * *
To read more about George, click here
To read more about August and Peter, click here
To read the account of Starlet Fey’s birth, click here
Tagged: 1920s, 1920s fashion, goth, goth girl, gothic, Gothic Fantasy, gothic romance, Hampstead heath, journal, London, Queen, vampire, vampire queen
May 8, 2017
“Beneath the Necropolis Railway” Gothic Audio Book
An amazing and talented artist friend of mine surprised me last week by sharing an audio she had recorded and mastered of one of the chapters in my novella, Emmeline, entitled “Beneath the Necropolis Railway”.
For those of you who don’t really do the reading thing, you might like to take a listen, I’m still really blown away by it and I think in shock of how awesome Emmeline’s story sounds in audio!
As a forewarning, it’s possibly a little dark and deals with some ‘meatier’ content than normal. But it is one hell of a cool listen, I love the Eater’s voice, I love Emmeline’s disdain, and I want to slap Charon around the ears for being arrogant, so it’s pretty en pointe! (insert laughing crying emoji here).
I guess the next steps are moving from audio to visual – anyone interested in optioning the film? (jokes, but for real!)
With love from this side of darkness, J R Manawa xxx
Tagged: dark, Dark Fantasy, Fanstasy, goth, gothic, Gothic Fantasy, london underground, necropolis, Necropolis railway, tfl, Urban Fantasy, waterloo
April 30, 2017
London Goth Top Ten #5 The Natural History Museum and other Gothic Masterpieces
The Natural History Museum has to be on my list because, well, just look at how beautiful this building is….no more need be said.
[image error]Photo from nhm.ac.uk
Every time I pass by South Kensington I’m overwhelmed by the scale of the building and the unique beauty of the Victorian Gothic Revival architecture. Of course, inside there are bones and remains and unusual finds galore to inspire and mesmerise you, but even for the building alone I could wander and stare in awe for hours at each unique little animal-inspired detail in this Alfred Waterhouse designed structure.
Free admission is always a great thing, not to be undervalued in London, and further details about visiting the museum can be found here; http://www.nhm.ac.uk
Also, cool fact the museum is often open late on Fridays (until 10pm) for adults and occasionally hosts adult sleep over events. The science museum around the corner is worth a visit too, though going to either on a bank holiday is a recipe for frustration amidst a sea of screaming small people.
[image error]Photo by me
And if we are speaking on beautiful gothic buildings in London, there are a couple of others that stand out, but are not as easily ‘visitable’;
St Pancras Station (aside from a drink at the bar here, you can pop next door either side to visit the British Library and their ancient collection of manuscripts for free (which are amazing by the way, if you are remotely bookworm inclined or interest in history), or to the other side for Kings Cross station where you can visit Platform 9 3/4 and grab the train to Hogwarts, if you are that way inclined.
[image error]Image my own ^_^
The Royal Courts of Justice. Just pretty to look at, you can’t really go inside, but the pub next door used to be the bank of England and has a secret tunnel under the road to where the new bank of England was situated so funds could be transferred without employees being robbed crossing Fleet Street. Also, a plaque on the wall on the south side of Fleet Street here tells us the Devil’s Tavern on the site was destroyed in the fire of London. Although all on Fleet Street, none of these have any relation to the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, Johnny Depp. Sorry, I mean Sweeny Todd. However, you can enjoy more superstitious fun by popping into the Inns of Court here as well, and alongside enjoying the gardens, you can pause to wonder at Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code speculations about Temple Church (notably another masterpiece of gothic revival architecture) and the legends of the Knights Templar here.
[image error]Image borrowed from britaininformabove.org.uk
Russell Square Hotel, at Russell Square (duh) is mostly just pretty and photo worthy from the Victorian exterior I love to dream about opening my own gothic department store in this building….one day! But for now it’s a classy hotel, so you can pop inside to the bar for a good looking, expensive cocktail if it takes your fancy. Also, the British Museum is just around the corner and full of the best samples of history and curio from around the globe.
[image error]Photo credits unknown – sorry!
All Saints on St. Margaret street, just off Oxford street in the West End is a secret little haven. I found this stunning little refuge some years ago when the catastrophic earthquake hit Christchurch in New Zealand and I needed to get away from my workplace while I waited to hear news from home that my sister was alive and well (and, thank God, she was).
All Saints is fairly hidden and appears nondescript form the exterior (you must enter through a courtyard squashed between other buildings) though the patterned red and purple brickwork stands out, suggesting at hidden greatness beyond. The interior is stunning, bursting with colour and infinite detail more so than any other church I’ve come across in the U.K.
[image error]All Saints Margaret Street (Image borrowed from Wikipedia)
More to come soon!
With love from this side of darkness, J R Manawa x
“London is like a cold, dark dream sometimes.” Jean Rhys.
April 17, 2017
London Goth Top Ten #4 “London Below”
[image error]Her eyes. Clytemnestra and her bloody axe.
In the sub basement of the Guildhall Art Gallery you can witness through the darkness the actual remains of Londinium’s amphitheatre. Similar to the coliseum in Roman, this once great site was the heart of Roman society in the ancient city, and yet almost no one now remembers it exists. The ruins were rediscovered when excavating to build the Guildhall Art Gallery.
The Guildhall Art Gallery also houses some of my favourite paintings in its basement, including the terrifyingly beautiful portrait of Clytemnestra, bloodied axe in hand, having freshly murdered her husband Agamemnon after his return from the conquest of Troy (his crime was bringing home the Trojan princess, Cassandra, as a spoil of war).
From the Guildhall it is easy to dip in and out of subterranean vaults all over the city. St Brides church, off Fleet Street, houses an iron coffin to prevent grave robbers and a blackened church altar, the sole surivivor of the great fire in 1666.
St Dunstans-in-the-East near the Tower of London was partially destroyed in the war but remains as a gothic fairytale like Garden that always inspires me when I walk between its crumbling walls.
[image error]Fairytales and fantasy to be dreamed up in the gardens of St Dunstans in the East
Back up on the hill above the Tower of London you’ll find All Hallows’ by the Tower, a quaint little church where the vault beneath the ground has become a funerary chapel where you can shuffle down high stacked and closely packed avenues of cremation caskets which seem haphazardly stacked with little plan.
[image error]Fancy a brain haemorrhage at the London Stone, anyone?
There are a myriad of little gothic secrets below and above ground in the City, but I would personally recommend you top it off by popping into a pub with a delightfully sexy name like The Hung, Drawn and Quartered across the road from All Hallows, or the restaurant in the vaults beneath St. Mary-le-Bow, or perhaps even Dirty Dick’s, a pub across the road from Liverpool Station with a mummified cats in the basement and a sad tale behind the amusing name (just ask someone behind the bar when you visit), or the London Stone, a basement pub on Canon Street running a Gothic theme complete with Gargoyles, a creative shots menu, and toilets accessible through a secret passage behind a bookcase.
In short (or perhaps long because I clearly got carried away) the City of London is always overlooked but should never be underestimated…
“Young man,” he said, “understand this: there are two Londons. There’s London Above―that’s where you lived―and then there’s London Below―the Underside―inhabited by the people who fell through the cracks in the world. Now you’re one of them. Good night.”
Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere.
[image error]
Tagged: City Of London, coffin, colisuem, Dirty dicks, gothic, guildhall, guildhall art gallery, iron coffin, Londinium, London, London below, London Stone, Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere, St Brides, St Dunstans in the east, travel, Travel blogger
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