MY CITY IS GREY – An Impromptu Interview W/ Lois E. Linkens.

I’ve been interviewed?!!

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

A few moons ago, a few glasses of wine decided that Lois needed a spotlight tossed onto her, and so this impromptu (and unprofessional, because I’m not a professional) interview was begun simply for appreciation. Enjoy learning more about her!


Q: I’ve been made aware that you’re in Europe somewhere—a marketplace for historical and/or haunted locations—do you have any experience with what you might’ve perceive as the supernatural?

A: I’m from England, specifically, which is obviously quite the destination for ghost hunters. However, while I have been to some places, which might be dubbed as haunted – such as Kirkstall Abbey in Leeds, and the Clink Prison in London – I wouldn’t say I go looking for the supernatural. In my mind, ghosts and demons are like bees; they’ll only harm you if you go interfering. Keep your distance – my mum told me that a friend of hers used…

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Are You Fucking New Here?- A Weyward Sisters Collaboration

another fierce weyward sisters piece:

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

You dropped by today

dissected my verse

thoughtfully pointed out

all the ways I could

smooth out my edges

improve flow

to slide more gently past

your discerning eyes

you must be fucking new here

if you think

I was asking for it

not a fan of unsolicited advice

my “friend”

I like my truth

raw

bloody

with a hint of lemon for acidity

that stings going down

(Christine Ray)

Oh, hello,

I didn’t see you there

although I can already tell you like to stare,

as if it is your obligation

to females everywhere.

And everywhere you seem to be.

You’re the type who lingers in keyboards,

assaulting our letters

with ones you would never dare to speak.

You’re the type who visits galleries just to sigh,

point out the vulvas in the petals

and tut at a landscape you’ve never visited.

You’re the type who slumps way down…

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pret

the cafe had white mugs that fit snugly into our hands, a milky pine leaf adorning our lattes like a christmas decoration. the young student barista confused our order so we got a free brownie; in the busy lunchtime rush, we found stillness and a silly bit of luck.

baked contentment

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to sit with you
in the upstairs of a Wetherspoon’s,
with last year’s Christmas lights
still strung lazily to the twisted rungs of the balcony,
knowing a cheesy baked potato
marked in my name
is on its way,
is such easy contentment,
i can scarce believe my luck.

january 12

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we sipped on peach liqueur and lemonade,
as night fell.
old, comfort music sang in the rafters,
and glasses of jelly-beans
cost £1.50.
an evening of pleasantries,
broken up by bathroom trips,
golden minutes of social recline
with a smartphone and a locked door.
but i saw it,
saw the white flash of deprecation
behind your friend’s shoulder.
in my hypocrisy,
the modern addicts faded behind the classic.

january 9

i drank coffee in a public armchair, at a table too low for comfort. my back ached, so i left my work and watched the early-morning shoppers traipse through, the grey faces and the day-trippers, in a shiny building made of money.

dinner out

we ate our supper at a restaurant, and took the baby with us. she cried and cried, and the other diners watched us in cold disdain, though they thought i did not see. take those salty looks, i thought, and put them in your plates – it’s just an evening, and our world is very full.