PIYE ISSUE #1 IS ON SALE NOW!
PIYE Magazine is an independently published anthology of quirky prose and poetry based in the United Kingdom. The aim of this project is to showcase new and upcoming British writers and help them reach new readers.
This issue focuses on the weird and wonderful; from monsters in your closet to sentient lighters. If you like what you see why not get involved?
Copies are £4.00 and available here.
Calling all writers!
PIYE Magazine is currently accepting submissions for the next issue. We’re looking for new and upcoming talent so why not give it a go?
Deadline is 31st May 2012.
Copies of the current issue are available here.
PIYE issue #1 all packaged up and ready to post!
It’s an A5 booklet with full colour, quality pages. Each order comes with a free PIYE logo badge and sticker. For £4 it’s all yours, just send an email to PIYEHUB@gmail.com with your postal address and we’ll organise the rest.
Issue #2 will be out at the end of June, if you’d like your work to be considered for publication please read our submissions info which can be found here.
Last chance to be published!
Deadline for submissions for issue two of PIYE Magazine is tonight. If you want to be published in our quirky mag get your poetry and prose sent to PIYEHUB@gmail.com by midnight.
More information can be found here.
Pictures of issue one can be found here, just so you can see how snazzy your work could look!
Get on it writers.
Only 3 copies of Issue #1 left!
If you want one, better get your skates on. Once they’re gone we won’t be printing any more!
Copies are £4 and included a badge, sticker and P&P.
To order simply email PIYEHUB@GMAIL.COM
In other news, Issue #2 is well under way - expect copies to be available in the next few weeks.
Issue #2 has arrived at last!
It’s a 60 page A5 booklet printed on high quality paper and costs just £4. This includes a free badge, stickers and P&P to the UK.
To order please email PIYEHUB@GMAIL.COM
PIYE Magazine now available from Rare & Racy, Sheffield!
If you’re in the area we definitely recommend a visit, it’s brimming with books and the guys who run the place are pretty cool.
Ionie and Luke
You have until midnight to get your 500 word horror stories sent to firstname.lastname@example.org for a chance to win some Halloween goodies and be published on our sites with an accompanying illustration done by our designer.
Congratulations Sarah Tarbit!
You are our Halloween contest winner, expect some goodies in the post this week and your winning short story Butterflies and Hurricanes will be illustrated and published on our sites along with the following runners up.
The runners up, in no particular order, are;
- Christopher Parvin - Carnival
- Frankie Lewis - Nightmare
- James Rice - Nine
- Ben Dunham - No Purpose Here
- Matt Creswell - The Tidelings
- Sharmay Mitchell - The Camera Never Lies
Thank you to all who entered, we were stunned at the quality of the entries and we hope you’ll participate in our future competitions.
Ionie and Luke
by: Christopher Parvin
Corpse Aristo stroll along pavements, bustles clogging with gore, as human heads roll down the gutters splashed red like autumnal leaves. A duke and duchess, heads inclined to each other in smiling conversation, hold parasols against the streetlamp’s sodium glare their children collecting their trophies in coal sacks.
Boots shining like beetle carapace and sharp mouths locked on bloody toffee apples young wide-eyed witches gaze around like babies at Mardi Gras. Their mothers are about charming locks and dragging boys from their beds, little faces frozen dead before they cross the door jam. They trust their offspring to skeletons who in the wider streets manipulate car alarms to punctuate their dances.
Laughter, violins and the blood beat of drums somewhere in the estates. None visit the home I sit on. I wish they’d not be so formal.
To the north fire blooms like a loved one returning home. Cheery orange waltzes from house to house, tongues of blackened brick and exploding glass beautiful enough even Aristos offer polite applause. The older spirits fail to acknowledge it as they always will.
The rooftops offer a wonderful view. I greedily suck in a lung full of wood smoke and cooking puppy fat. Such merriment, the bruised candy colours of entrails and skin draped in tree branches like festive bunting. Is it the same every year as some suggest? How can it be when humans spend so much time inventing new toys to play with?
Beyond the dome of light pollution monolith shapes blacker than night move with the glacier pace of beings long bored with flippant violence. Their ways are subtle lifting whole buildings with muscle corded arms and moving them like chess pieces a few feet to the left or right. Neat, correct, not a join in sight.
In contrast furry ball like Imps all mouth and leg destabilise a railway’s overpass. Each to their own.
Suddenly below me geysers crack tarmac and splatter upstairs windows with mud and water. A ballet they erupt into life along the street to the ’ohhhh’ and ‘ahhhh’ of passing Banshee. In a large square of grass pumpkin unearth themselves withered and exhausted but content with their work.
A full solid feeling lists drunkenly in my chest; it might be pride.
All too soon a clock tower strikes the hour. I count thirteen and clap my hands the echo travelling miles. There are some frowns but the tide of night is turning. The last pancakes are eaten, the last heads fought over, and my family sink back into darkness.
I wait, swinging my legs from the roof edge, always the last to leave. I notice some of the destruction sluggishly revert to normal, the universe balancing the books like a moody accountant…but only some.
What a pity is it that they’ll explained it all away when they wake. Child run-a-ways, shoddy council road works, teenage vandals; such imagination humanity has.
Dawn is sour to the east, curdled light finding my spot empty of life.
by: Ben Dunham
I am late to work and even the wind is against me. What should one blame for this transgression, and others? Is one entitled to resting blame’s burden on anything or only to oneself? Many may say the latter is a principle that amounts to harm and self-loathing; I see it as being. For deducing it to the hand of God seems half-assed and irresponsible, much like blaming the wind for my tardiness.
Walking into the familiar drab lobby of drudgery, Michelle predictably says hello. To fulfill social obligations I respond accordingly. It isn’t genuine, but what is, in an age where authenticity of purpose is amounted to a sum of paper. As if it couldn’t burn.
Now seated in the usual chair behind the desk, I wait and wait and wait. For a sense of purpose. A gal hazel eye with red hair that is clearly inauthentic walks up. She needs help opening her mail box even though she possess the combination. As this beseeches me, she turns the corner to the wall of metal boxes.Then all of a sudden a screech of “got it” echoes down the halls. No purpose here.
My purpose is elsewhere, it isn’t between these walls. It isn’t to be delivered like mail. I take my leave like a blind man on stilts, bound to fall. Not one person notices as the metal doors swing and seal. Beneath the scattered clouds that wisp across the autumn sky, I seek purpose. On pathways of cement I stride, oh how good it must feel to have concrete purpose.
At the cross walk, I wait. The red hand of light demands I do not cross the hardened tar river. The silence of the city is ominous the world around me is static. A splitting burst pierces my ear followed by feminine shrieks, this static world is ousted. Another shot is fired, then another, and another. These calamitous sounds are soon accompanied by flocks of sirens and law enforcement officers. Men in armor—modern day knights approach the metal doors outside the drab lobby of drudgery I had just fled.
Curiosity and guilt swarm around pushing me toward the side door of the lobby. Through the glass within sight I see Michelle running toward me. She never seemed so authentic, so genuinely petrified, she was alive.Then the assailant, the man who had brought me temporary purpose between those walls maniacally cackled and yelled, ‘You fucking cunt!’ I could see his blood thirsty eyes set upon Michelle, sawed-off in hand he relieved her of all desires. Her flesh and blood splattered upon the glass, like mashed maraschino cherries.
The assailant’s bloodlust subsided, as if he had just seen his dying mother’s face. He tip toed around the maimed bodies, with a peculiar sense of respect. Without hesitation he sat against the wall of metal boxes and placed the barrel beneath his chin. His placid blue eyes gazed toward me, he smirked. Then with a pull of his tender finger—a flower of flesh and blood sprouted from his neck.
We are not dead, though i’m sure you’d started to wonder… We trust you all had an excellent Xmas and are looking forward to the new year?
We’ll be publishing our next issue of PIYE Magazine in January, at long last, and will be announcing the writers that will be included in it shortly. Thank you to everyone who submitted, they have been a pleasure to read as usual.
Ionie and Luke
To all of the following writers -
Beckie Jordan - Drink Poison Desires (Poetry)
Charlie Benson - Andy’s Angel Awakens (Prose)
Chris Parvin - Carnival (Prose)
Claire Walker - Haunted (Poetry)
Eva Marie Wilshere - Trust (Poetry)
Fikayo Francisca Balogun - The Boy That Cried Wolf (Poetry)/Red Christmas (Poetry)
Frankie Lewis - Nightmare (Prose)
Gavin J R - Dirty Fingernails (Poetry)
Ireti Odugbesan - Heavy Elements (Poetry)
Jack Oughton - Haiku x3 (Poetry)
James Rice - Nine (Prose)
Jamie Bunting - Untitled (Prose)
Katherina Maria Malinowski - Lake (Prose)
Michael Holloway - They Were All Ridiculous (Prose)
Nick Sadler - Hands (Prose)
Nicola Hawcroft-Heighway - Tory In A Yellow Tie (Poetry)
Rachel Betteridge - Severed Souls Part Three
Robyn Donaldson - B (Poetry)
Sarah Crewe - this pony will self-destruct (Poetry)
Sarah Tarbit - Butterflies and Hurricanes (Prose)/Belonging (Prose)
Simon Armstrong - The Zombie Whores (Prose)
Terry Naylor - Impact In: (Prose)
Zakk Appleyard - Rock Talk With God (Poetry)
You will be published in the third issue of PIYE Magazine. We will be in contact in the next few days to discuss editing and illustrations.
We received excellent submissions from all of you and to those who didn’t make it into this issue - don’t despair! There’s always next time.