Handy guide to 6 young Norwich writers

Beth:

The little mutineer, she lies about her age! She is like Son-Gohan from
Dragonball - pintlick but powerful. Sometimes she only has to touch
curtains and they curl up like woodlice. She does not stay so far away
from the booklover's realm as you want her to - she is too
kitty-curious. Too many eyepatches. You encounter her behaving like a
bookend, bat-eared caverns of tomes on her back. She makes herself very
small and writes you prayers on memo-pads. Or she may ring you from her
cavern and practice sonic code. You are learning from her. You kick her
breasts from under her.

Joe:

You have never seen anyone bowl like Joe. He bowls like he runs his
business - arm down like a Welsh dragonhead in a firebox, then uncoiled
- the coal cracks - like Joe's drawing a Colt and firing. A fingersnap!
His hair leaps up onto the mantelpiece and stirs mother's porcelain
teacups. You watch him scatter garlic in a bowl and you lick butter
from your thumbs-up. Be wary at all times. He is not chained to any
death mask, any pulley system.

Joel:

You run into Joel late at night, when you're hauling suitcases between
houses under the stethoscope moon. He's alone, his beard grinning in
the arms of his bangs, and he may be sailing on a bike like E.T, on his
way back to the Garden House. Roads trail from him like wings and he
discreetly stuffs his eyes with polished night, as a bear might before
he eats you. Instead of eating you, however, he blows out the candle of
your patrolling rateyes and hums a smoke signal. This is the process by
which he moves from street to street.

Jon:

You know of my insane jealousies and that I mix with cameras. The
cameras claim most of the victories. They flatten me.

Megan:

Megan catches your eye from a raft in the Pacific. You're polite, so
you come over, stopping at the vending machine for coke. She is older
than the terraced houses by the sea, and has a hand adapted for the
purpose of restyling your eyebrows. She likes to make them into
windmills for her children to blow on, and when you ask her how many
she has, she only laughs and showers you with the tongues of
snapdragons.

Tim:

Tim keeps lizards - you have to pluck them from his hands before
greeting him; they stipple his long room. He apologises for them, but
still you may find a lizard leg or a lizard tail on your homemade
pizza. He is stretched out, sheer and clean as long shore drift, over
the room, and he will try to second-guess your most spontaneous moves.
Sometimes he thinks you are cooking up excuses effortlessly:
"Jon, just listen to yourself," he will say.
This is his way of snatching voices while you're distracted by
discipline.