Stories from Story Fridays Feral, first heard at Burdall’s Yard, on 7th March 2014.
For March we thought of the wild March hares and the thrill of spring, so set the theme of Feral. Our writers were not so kindly. Cannibals and monsters, wild woods and feral witches heralded much tearing of flesh for this event. We had stories about cannibals and monsters, wild women of the woods and wild men of the desert, feral children and the mildest of men forced into feeling feral. Oh, and an octopus who suffered from a bad bout of vanity. So there were some laughs and some very moving moments in amongst the bloodshed.
These are the writers who read at Feral, and the titles of their stories: Tricia Wastvedt ‘You Know Which Way Is South?’, read by Olly Langdon; Jonathan Pinnock, ‘Nature’s Banquet’; Sophie Holland, ‘Can I Keep Him?’; Mark Rutterford ‘Letting Go’; Stephanie Weston, ‘Cephalopod Stardust’; Doc Watson, ‘On A Hyding To Nothing’ and Anne Corlett ‘Bob’ (with Olly as Voice of Bob).
One to make you smile: Cephalopod Stardust, written and read by Stephanie Weston.
A haunting story from Tricia Wastvedt: You Know Which Way Is South? written by Tricia Wastvedt, read by Olly Langdon.
A sinister tale, published in Jonathan Pinnock’s collection of short stories Dot Dash: Nature’s Banquet, written and read by Jonathan Pinnock.
We’re up in Edinburgh for this one from Doc Watson, it might make you shiver as you grin: On A Hyding To Nothing, written and read by Doc Watson.
Comedy and drama from Mark Rutterford: Letting Go, written and read by Mark Rutterford
Sophie Holland gets into the head of a 9 year old boy: Can I Keep Him? written and read by Sophie Holland
And a little something to read:
By PAULINE MASUREL
Sometimes I want to go where the words run feral. To corner them yapping and snarling in the street. Mow them down, or be bitten, whichever comes first.
I can’t make that happen. It comes only by surprises. With raw barks risen from dry throats. It twists in the air from an awkward leap and is swallowed into silence by air so cold that it takes each syllable and wrings it out before birth.
Watch the van round them up from the alleyways strung with fresh laundry. See them disappear, one by one into steel cages, leaving only the trail on the pavement of mud from their paws. Somewhere else, out of sight, each one is precisely and humanely dispatched.
But I should like to remember them wild. As they were. On the prowl, so to speak…