“Lisa Blower is a rare thing – a working class voice in the world of the short story. I’m certain her work will stand out in the current market giving a voice to characters who we seldom hear of. Her stories are at times the laugh-out-loud funny of Alan Bennet and at others, the achingly sad of the great, David Constantine.”
Paul McVeigh, Writer, Director of London Short Story Festival
“I can’t get this tale out of my head […] That bounce you have between the tale and the teller, the story and the audience, the turns and the vivid scene-setting that you give us and then take away again, is fascinating.”
William Gallagher on ‘Prawn Cocktail’, writer
‘The Trees in the Wood’ – ‘Spindles: The Science of Sleep’ – Comma Press, 2015. “Emotionally draining, hard-hitting & brilliantly written.”
‘The Land of Make Believe‘ – Highly Commended, Bridport Prize 2015 Anthology, Redcliffe Press
‘The Casual Electrocution of Strangers‘ – Literary Salmon, October 2015 download here. Longlisted for Best Anthology, Saboteur Awards, 2016
‘Prawn Cocktail‘ – for Short and Sweet, Birmingham Literature Festival, October 2015
‘Dirty Laundry’ – Short Story Sunday, January 4th 2015.
Or watch Lisa reading Dirty Laundry at the Word Factory November 2014 here
‘Chuck and Di‘ – The Luminary, ‘Hidden Voices‘ anthology, September 2014
‘Pot Luck’ for BBC Radio 4, broadcast May 2nd 2014 at 3.45pm
Listen to a snapshot here: Pot Luck on Radio 4
‘Johnny Dangerously’, in The New Welsh Review, March 2014
‘Barmouth’, in BBC National Short Story Award, 2013, Comma Press
‘Barmouth’, broadcast on BBC Radio 4, September 2013 as part of the BBC National Short Story Award
‘Broken Crockery’, Winner, The Guardian National Short Story competition, 2009
‘Oceans of Stories’, Runner-up, Oceans of Stories competition with Liverpool John Moores University, 2008
To buy Lisa’s short fiction please click here
Extract from ‘Barmouth’
The shortlisted story that took the annual family holiday as device to tell a life story over 40 years…
Leek New Road, Stoke-on-Trent
The car was second hand: A Triumph Herald soft-top the colour of my Daddy’s overalls. He would drive, Mummy sitting aside of him in the passenger seat surrounded by food: Barley sugars on the dashboard, sandwiches and flasks at her feet – the only time she was ever thankful for being short. She’d be knackered by the time she buckled herself in – baggy-eyed, short-tempered, hair rush-dyed with a home-snipped fringe – she’d been packing and shopping for weeks, filling up a box on the kitchen floor marked ‘holiday’. I’d look down on it and think, when I grow up I won’t be nothing like you. We’ll eat fish and chips twice a week.
On the backseat were Nanny and Grandy Jack; Grandy Jack’s chest wheezing like a burglar alarm. Nanny would press a fiver in my hand for holiday spends and make a big deal out of it, say – ‘I know it’s not much but we give you what we can’ – and that chocolate would rot my teeth.
Then there was my sister. Four years younger, prettier and carsick, she’d be passed around the car to perch on knees. Every year we’d squabble over the caravan’s top bunk and every year I’d be told – ‘it’s Looby’s turn’. But she was even carsick on top bunk.
As for me, I’d been fashioned a bench from a plank of wood that slotted in behind the front seat. I’d spend the first half of the journey sitting astride of the handbrake navigating – ‘Second left at the roundabout,’ and ’33 miles to Shrewsbury’ – as if Daddy had never been down this road before.