Lily Peters was born and raised in south-east London and Normandy. After studying French and Spanish at Durham University she moved to Newcastle and became a secondary school teacher of modern foreign languages. Despite only recently completing her MEd, Lily is about to embark on a MA in Creative Writing.
Rebecca Skipwith is an editor and charity worker, currently working with people with learning difficulties and survivors of violence. She practised writing with Literary Kitchen and has written stories that have been longlisted by the New Writer and performed by Liars’ League.
A collection of work from writers all over the world, and both sides of the conflict.
The brief was ‘no trenches’ and for the stories and poems to address, grief, relief and hope not vengeance, hatred or triumphalism. We were deeply moved and impressed by what we were sent, and picking the best of those for this book has been a particular pleasure.
You can order the book from us direct in our web shop (post free), or come to one of the launches –
Three launch events for An Outbreak of Peace
LONDON! Housmans 14th November
The official publication date for this anthology of new short stories and poems in response to the end of WWI, An Outbreak of Peace is the 8th November, but we are having the launch party on
As our authors are spread all over the globe, we are trying to give as many of them as possible an opportunity to celebrate the launch in person. We can’t afford to jaunt off to the US and Australia, or even Germany or France, but we can manage Manchester!
Northern fans of poetry and short fiction are invited to join us at Blackwells, Manchester. Near Arthur Lewis Building, The University of Manchester Bridgeford Street, M13 9PL
Cathy Bryant’s collection Erratics is being launched at Manchester Blackwells on 28th June at 6.30. Huge thank you to David and team for hosting. tickets (free) on eventbrite
here’s a little taster…
The hills and stones are drunker than us.
Someone spilled a thousand rolls of green velvet
at a party of rocks. We walk over them
and through the glissading stream with our
clompy boots and tupperware.
We’re mushroom hunting on the fells.
It’s like trying to spot a bird in a blizzard.
You have to tune in. There! Look!
Tiny freckles on the hill’s skin.
We boil, fry, make tea to get them down.
Our stomachs fizz as new perceptions kick in.
Otherworld. More dimensions than usual,
but how many is usual? Can’t remember.
There is no word in the world for that colour.
The standing stones are having a laugh.
New eyes open. We cry with pleasure
when the sun sets like concrete.
Later, someone is snoring Mendelssohn.
The stars are edible and slightly acidic.
The fire ambers then greys. In the morning
the miserable comedown is just the return
of normality, and the fact that the stones
have once more fallen silent, standing
sober and still.