‘Featuring work from fifty-five contributors, containing thirteen short stories, nineteen poems and fifty-eight pieces of artwork, Time, by Lazy Gramophone Press, is an anthology of work that pays testament to the power of collaboration.

The stories within this anthology entwine, narratives overlapping as they pass through childhood, adolescence, adulthood, before emerging at the last into old age. Exploring the theme of time, this collection embraces that unique relationship between words and pictures.’

Time is an anthology of works structured around a central story. This central story follows the life of its protagonist from childhood through to old age. Each of the book’s additional stories pay homage to the central story’s narrative by referencing its plot events at various stages within their own.

The primary idea behind our project was to create an environment in which independent writers and artists could come together to share their work. By publishing a book in this way we hope to inspire each other as well as those around us, to draw a diverse audience and so help to illuminate the potential of collaboration between artists and writers everywhere.


‘An intriguing book project from one of the most innovative groups of creative people in the city.’

~ Huffington Post

‘Time is a fascinating collection littered with not only wonderful literature but also fabulous illustrations that ultimately make it a credit to any book-lover’s shelves.’

~ Sabotage

‘Time is a bold multimedia enigma, unafraid to take risks, and almost always compelling.’

~ Litro

‘…we’ll bet you’ve never seen time as it’s portrayed in this stunning new publication.’

~ Fabric Magazine

‘Time is a treasure box brimming with creativity and fresh talent.’

~ Rooms Magazine

‘Lazy Gramophone’s anthology, Time, lives up to the high bar it sets for itself.’

~ Annexe Magazine


Eibar (1), written by Sam Rawlings & illustrated by Carl Laurence


Eibar (extract): written by Sam Rawlings & illustrated by Carl Laurence


A thick set of clouds had gathered above. She paused, her hand upon the door handle. Still her mother’s snores filled the house, its walls tombed about her head.
          “I’m sorry Ma,” she whispered, before stepping out into the night.
          The street was empty, rain arrowing downwards. Ember raced over the cobbles. Each window glared at her as she ran past, the falling water heckling her hood. Panting, she stood beneath the sign, and sure enough, squinting up through the dripping sky, she read that word again.
          “Eibar,” she mouthed, as if in confirmation.
          A sneeze burst from her lips, her nose. There was only one thing for it now. She laid both hands upon the wooden door, and taking a deep breath, she began forcing her way in.

Once inside all was quiet, quiet and black, another place entirely, as if cupping your eyes and slipping beneath the bathwater. Ember blinked but the darkness was too thick, impenetrable, it would not be moved.
          “Hello?” she called.
          Her own voice echoed wearily. She strained her ears in hope of a reply. Ember sighed, tucking her hands beneath her armpits. A weight filled her chest. She rubbed her face in exhaustion, squashing her fists into her eye sockets. She rubbed so furiously that a thousand candle lights began blinking into life. They sprang up one at a time, one after another until they had coated the entire room. She moved her hands to her mouth, gasping in disbelief. It was them, the Eibar, they were here.

Disfigured, distorted, some were children, some grown men, grown women, the Eibar appeared on first sight as if a horde of rag dolls, skinny as wire, some fat as oranges, the tall ones stooped beneath the ceiling. Those that were too small to see bustled their way to the front, peering up at her with multicoloured eyes.
          “Hello Ember,” one of them said, stepping forward as he did so, “my name’s Dejan.”
          This one was a boy, a boy of similar age to Ember herself. A soft glow emanated from his skin and she warmed herself against it. His eyes were kind, open.
          “I’m an Eibar,” he explained, “we all are, each of us here is an Eibar, just like you. We heard news of your war and so we came, fast as we could.”
          “You’ve come for me?”
          “. . . course,” he smiled.

Eibar (2), written by Sam Rawlings & illustrated by Carl Laurence


Eibar (Extract): written by Sam Rawlings & illustrated by Carl Laurence

          “What demons?” she said, head cocked.
          “They come and take you away and once they’ve got you they do bad things to you!” someone yelled.
          “They fight over you,” screamed another.
          “. . . jerking you this way and that, tearing off each others arms and heads, they shower you in blood and faeces and spittle,” called a girl from the other side of the table, her voice trembling, “they use you, beat you, they laugh at you and then they throw you away . . .”
          “. . . and then . . .” cried a third voice, “…and then, just as the last of the light slips from your eyes, they mourn you!”.
          “They morn you with such heartbreak as none could ever begin to imagine,” growled one of the older Eibar, “the sadness, it crushes your soul, crushes your bones and evaporates your blood. It’s upon that crest of despair that them demons set out once again to capture another, another to help ease their mourning, another to fuel their addiction. That’s what it is, an addiction. Them demons, they carry a deep and endless black hole inside their rib cages. It swirls within ’em, is slowly ingesting ’em from the inside out. Without us to feed ’em, them demons, they’d implode within days. It’s the saddest of truths, that such darkness breeds such thirst for life;” the speaker hung his head as he spoke, “you’d think they would give up their damned lives. But not so. Seems instead that their darkness only magnifies the light. That’s why they hunt us. They hunt us so as to glimpse one more second of our light.”

Eibar (3), written by Sam Rawlings & illustrated by Carl Laurence


Eibar (Extract): written by Sam Rawlings & illustrated by Carl Laurence


          “Come with me Dad?” she pleaded, “come home with me and we’ll fix this.”
          “Look Ember,” was his only reply.
          He laid an object on the bar, its weight wrapped in a dark cloth.
          “Our little secret,” he winced.
          “What’s that,” she whispered.
          “Just look,” he replied.
          Ember peeled back the cloth and as she did so she felt herself gasp for breath. A gun. Her father had a gun.
          “Why, why’d you have this,” she rasped, her voice still a whisper.
          “This is our secret Ember,” he said, “just me and you Ember,” he put his arm around her, “just you and me.”
          Ember sniffed, consumed by the smell of his jumper, cosy and safe beneath his warmth. She lifted the gun, turning it in her hands.
          “It’s beautiful,” she smiled. “It’s . . .”
          But, before she could finish her sentence, she saw it. Engraved upon the barrel, there it was again, that same word.
          “Eibar!” cried Ember, and her father quickly hushed her quiet. “Eibar, Eibar, Eibar,” she sang, “Look, written along the barrel, it’s written Eibar! You’re one of us,” she bellowed, “Dad, all along, you’re one of us.”
          She hugged her father tight, kissing him and laughing as she did so, forgiveness in her eyes.
          “Fuck!” her father hollered, jumping to his feet.
          He pulled Ember behind him and snatching at the gun with his mighty hands he roared into action.
          “You fucker, you get yourself away from here!” he wailed, and hurling the man to the floor he himself then dropped to his knees. He held the gun only inches from the assailant’s nose.

The man beneath her father was that same man she had noticed earlier, his grandeur and eloquence remained and yet now a swathe of terror dashed his eyes. The boy was no longer anywhere to be seen.
          “This is my party sir and I will do as I please,” the man snarled, and yet her father would not be swayed.
          Ember blinked, a fog of disbelief destabilising her thoughts. Everything fell into slow motion: that rage wrinkling her father’s face, that wave of terror undulating through the crowd. Ember flung herself upon her father. If she could not stop him no one could. This was it. She peered upwards, past the mass of people surrounding her, eyes searching out the tavern’s only window. Pressed against the glass she saw them at last, the misshapen faces of the Eibar. They had come back. They were cheering her on. She returned her attention to the scene at hand. She focused her energy on her father, on that gun. He was an Eibar too, surely she could save him. She hugged tightly at his shoulders, words streaming from her mouth, hands caressing his arms, his hair. She pleaded for him to stop. She gave everything she had to give and yet still her father remained. No matter what she did he would not soften. Her heart had begun to beat, sweat coating her skin. Full of panic, full of desperation, tears fled down her cheeks. She was crying, the people in the crowd were crying, that man with the gun upon his forehead, he was crying, her dad also, even he was crying, crying the most silent of sorrows. Ember reached out, her fingers pressed against his cheek . . .

She heard it as if a clap of thunder; a deafening boom. Blood slapped her face, clattered her clothes. Ember reeled backwards, stumbling for balance. The entire room throbbed. She found her feet, wiped at her eyes and through the smears of red she watched on as her father bolted. He dropped the gun to the floor and bolted, knocking men aside like skittles as he careered out of the door. Ember herself could barely move. She looked down at the man with no face. She saw him now as she had seen her mother upon the floor of her house. She had failed. It was over. Once and for all, it was over. Ember could hear herself begging for forgiveness but still the Eibar withdrew. Only the gun remained. She bent over and picked it up, fingers feeling out the warmth of her father’s hand. Its weight bent her wrist and buckled her skinny arms. She peered again, up at the crowd, each face a witnesses to her failure. She had lost the war. She must retreat. It was all she could do. It was her turn now, her turn to run.


Haunted by the Perpetual Roar of Gravity, written by Sam Rawlings & illustrated by Jeannie Paske


Haunted by the Perpetual Roar of Gravity (Extract): written by Sam Rawlings & illustrated by Jeannie Paske

Whereupon the sun sank,
sweeping its shadow across the city floor;
as if leaves that day’s echoes falling,
peppering us all.

Sam Rawlings