Ink Sweat & Tears is a UK based webzine which publishes and reviews poetry, prose, prose-poetry, word & image pieces and everything in between. Our tastes are eclectic and magpie-like and we aim to publish something new every day.

We try to keep waiting-time short, but because of increased submissions, the current waiting time between submission and publication is around twelve weeks.

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Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

David Belcher

    A defence against all sabotage I shake out the creases from my coat, and climb the hundred steps leading to the feet of a bronze giant, its right hand raised, welcoming. I’m meant to lift my eyes, to take in its magnificence, to be stirred up into believing a myth— I tell it, No. It finds nothing to say. In the early morning, the city feels large and spacious. I watch the few people I encounter. I am training my mind to perceive, not the flash and bang of a pistol, not the white gold in a jeweller’s window, not a man’s taut muscled arm or a woman’s long neck, but to imagine in their place the myths that pull these things into my thoughts: myths of masculinity and femininity, money guns and ownership— I tell them, I cancel all myths. And then I laugh to myself, thinking that complete freedom is just another myth. Leafy branches wave above my head while I read a magazine, turning the flimsy pages with fingers stained and sticky with butter and honey. I see through the...

Holly Conant

      The Slip Hold on tight to my writing hand, darling boy. Who knows how many words I have left. Don’t let me give them all to the page.   Holly Conant is a new writer and mature student, currently studying at the University of Leeds. Her poems ‘Suspicion’ and ‘A Door’ will be published later this year.  

David Sapp

      Groundhog Bachelor and Drunk Ganders Before the art opening, over appetizers downtown, leisurely and expansively, my aunts Evelyn and Jane swapped stories availing the phrase “it’s true, it’s true” too frequently. According to their testimony (not quite requiring sworn affidavits), when they were kids on the Martinsburg Road farm, the Riley Place, they boarded a groundhog. Tame as could be, he was an essential fixture in an already too generous Catholic family bursting at the seams – a peculiar but tidy, rather urbane bachelor who had the run of the house but took his suppers in his room and each night burrowed beneath the parlor davenport. No one found this arrangement at all unusual as Grandma took in Old-Pat-McGogh, an ancient farmer neighbor from down the road who had nothing, no place and no one. And the geese, who oddly resided outside, sipped from fermented squeezings oozing from the base of the corn silo, their own tall distillery. They wobbled, blasted...

Sidrah Zubair

    IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED We have detected a trojan virus! I have developed affinities for dying in peculiar ways such as being choked by the moonlight’s shaking hands or swallowing a cup of live rattlesnake babies Personal and banking information is at risk! I can’t sleep because I keep thinking about God covering me in a salty ocean with lots of shiny urchins To avoid more damage, click on ‘Scan Now’ immediately! I keep thinking about God giving me starfish lungs and muddy seashells as eyes Our deep scan will provide help right now! Subhanallah alhamdullilah allahuakbar is for all the times when I want to be an angry octopus poisonous oozing fakecruel misandry Press OK to begin the repair process! I want to be reunited with my mother in heaven away from my piranha sins and wrongdoings Your computer has been infected! I have stopped recognising myself in the bathroom mirror Install our software to clean your MacBook of clutter! I want God to tell me there is a house...

Jenny Mitchell

    Vanishing Mother A jar of Pond’s cold cream glows in amongst her female debris on the dressing table; talc sprinkled with a lipstick smear across a comb. Tissues fluff out of a slit – half-done magic trick beneath a heart-shaped mirror, picturing the mess made of her room: a king-sized bed stacked high with queen-sized blankets. It is like her clothes – layers but too small; skirt hitched at the back; hinge of bulky knees. The open jar displays her haste, a shield of foil jabbed into snowy peaks, in contrast to her shade – the lightest brown for someone black; called dundus growing up – Jamaican for albino: a throwback to slave masters troubling our family line. I long for it, the cream, to smooth her blemishes. In adverts on TV, white women own the miracle of cheekbones that never sag as they stand tall to gaze into a pond, reflecting back their pristine skin.     Jenny Mitchell has won several poetry competitions. A best-selling debut collection Her Lost...

Previously featured

Holly Conant

      The Slip Hold on tight to my writing hand, darling boy. Who knows how many words I have left. Don’t let me give them all to the page.   Holly Conant is a new writer and mature student, currently studying at the University of Leeds. Her poems...

read more

David Sapp

      Groundhog Bachelor and Drunk Ganders Before the art opening, over appetizers downtown, leisurely and expansively, my aunts Evelyn and Jane swapped stories availing the phrase “it’s true, it’s true” too frequently. According to their testimony (not...

read more

Recent Prose

David Sapp

      Groundhog Bachelor and Drunk Ganders Before the art opening, over appetizers downtown, leisurely and expansively, my aunts Evelyn and Jane swapped stories availing the phrase “it’s true, it’s true” too frequently. According to...

Harry Wilding

    DIY with Biscuits The sound of the drill was not enough to completely drown out his voice. ‘Sure that’s in the right place?’ Gerry asked. I focussed on the screw disappearing into the wall. ‘Mary? You hear me? You sure that’s not too...

Michael Bloor

WITNESS STATEMENT Case No. 1991/203 Witness – Full Name: Ianthe Jane Frobisher-Forbes Address: 1 Priory Lane, Old Basing, Basingstoke I first met Jason on Johnny Antrobus's yacht at St. Tropez  in July, 1990. I didn't know at first that he was from...

Hanne Larsson

    When this is all over... We will hug. There’re two types. A proper one starts off gentle, a soft caress as two people’s arms find a way through each other’s limbs, as chests start to touch, as each pulls the other tighter to them, as...

Chaucer Cameron

      Cellar Stories: Ash & Elder Sunday afternoon there’s always roast dinner. Then mum and dad go to church. The twins stay and wash dishes. Elder-twin picks up a plastic bag with unused Brussels sprouts inside. The cellar door...

Recent Haiku

Helen May Williams

    Winter solstice 2020   13/12/2020 dream haiku small hours of Sunday morning family’s little strength guarded for mourning   17/12/2020 still growing on old apple tree— mistletoe   21/12/2020 the peanut feeder disappears...

Kashiana Singh

5 Haiku Origami cradle songs on the drive home… my empty womb * my mother’s knitted sweaters- I unravel knots * tears- water raining into an empty cup * drifting snowflakes- I restore the fragile lace of my wedding veil * encounters- his world is...

Xan Nichols

Haiku in the hope of an easing of lockdown   Sunrise early May all flame and pale duck egg blue; Clouds of lilac grey Just before sunrise - a muted bloom of russet On the chilly ground Above the skyline blazing - the risen sun like a young god Tree...

Yvonne Amey

      * you gone I dream I’m chasing darkness through our castle * souvenir scarf in ocean-green I wrap Australia around my neck * alone on a foreign shore silver gulls dine with me     Yvonne Amey received her MFA from the...

Gopal Lahiri

      * sparrows at work on the skylight * laptops sending handshakes from kitchen table * edges of dawn.. goodbyes litter sidewalks * internet dooms day scrolling in lockdown     Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata- based bilingual...

News

Word & Image

Video Channel

The Wood Conductor

The Wood Conductor

    The Wood Conductor by Marc Woodward There was no sign of a woodcutter in the tin shack raised from the...

read more

Featured Poetry/Prose of the Day

David Belcher

    A defence against all sabotage I shake out the creases from my coat, and climb the hundred steps leading to the feet of a bronze giant, its right hand raised, welcoming. I’m meant to lift my eyes, to take in its magnificence, to be stirred up into believing a myth— I tell it, No. It finds nothing to say. In the early morning, the city feels large and spacious. I watch the few people I encounter. I am training my mind to perceive, not the flash and bang of a pistol, not the white gold in a jeweller’s window, not a man’s taut muscled arm or a woman’s long neck, but to imagine in their place the myths that pull these things into my thoughts: myths of masculinity and femininity, money guns and ownership— I tell them, I cancel all myths. And then I laugh to myself, thinking that complete freedom is just another myth. Leafy branches wave above my head while I read a magazine, turning the flimsy pages with fingers stained and sticky with butter and honey. I see through the...

Holly Conant

      The Slip Hold on tight to my writing hand, darling boy. Who knows how many words I have left. Don’t let me give them all to the page.   Holly Conant is a new writer and mature student, currently studying at the University of Leeds. Her poems ‘Suspicion’ and ‘A Door’ will be published later this year.  

David Sapp

      Groundhog Bachelor and Drunk Ganders Before the art opening, over appetizers downtown, leisurely and expansively, my aunts Evelyn and Jane swapped stories availing the phrase “it’s true, it’s true” too frequently. According to their testimony (not quite requiring sworn affidavits), when they were kids on the Martinsburg Road farm, the Riley Place, they boarded a groundhog. Tame as could be, he was an essential fixture in an already too generous Catholic family bursting at the seams – a peculiar but tidy, rather urbane bachelor who had the run of the house but took his suppers in his room and each night burrowed beneath the parlor davenport. No one found this arrangement at all unusual as Grandma took in Old-Pat-McGogh, an ancient farmer neighbor from down the road who had nothing, no place and no one. And the geese, who oddly resided outside, sipped from fermented squeezings oozing from the base of the corn silo, their own tall distillery. They wobbled, blasted...

Sidrah Zubair

    IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED We have detected a trojan virus! I have developed affinities for dying in peculiar ways such as being choked by the moonlight’s shaking hands or swallowing a cup of live rattlesnake babies Personal and banking information is at risk! I can’t sleep because I keep thinking about God covering me in a salty ocean with lots of shiny urchins To avoid more damage, click on ‘Scan Now’ immediately! I keep thinking about God giving me starfish lungs and muddy seashells as eyes Our deep scan will provide help right now! Subhanallah alhamdullilah allahuakbar is for all the times when I want to be an angry octopus poisonous oozing fakecruel misandry Press OK to begin the repair process! I want to be reunited with my mother in heaven away from my piranha sins and wrongdoings Your computer has been infected! I have stopped recognising myself in the bathroom mirror Install our software to clean your MacBook of clutter! I want God to tell me there is a house...

Jenny Mitchell

    Vanishing Mother A jar of Pond’s cold cream glows in amongst her female debris on the dressing table; talc sprinkled with a lipstick smear across a comb. Tissues fluff out of a slit – half-done magic trick beneath a heart-shaped mirror, picturing the mess made of her room: a king-sized bed stacked high with queen-sized blankets. It is like her clothes – layers but too small; skirt hitched at the back; hinge of bulky knees. The open jar displays her haste, a shield of foil jabbed into snowy peaks, in contrast to her shade – the lightest brown for someone black; called dundus growing up – Jamaican for albino: a throwback to slave masters troubling our family line. I long for it, the cream, to smooth her blemishes. In adverts on TV, white women own the miracle of cheekbones that never sag as they stand tall to gaze into a pond, reflecting back their pristine skin.     Jenny Mitchell has won several poetry competitions. A best-selling debut collection Her Lost...

News

Word & Image

Video Channel

The Wood Conductor

The Wood Conductor

    The Wood Conductor by Marc Woodward There was no sign of a woodcutter in the tin shack raised from the...

read more

Previously featured

Holly Conant

      The Slip Hold on tight to my writing hand, darling boy. Who knows how many words I have left. Don’t let me give them all to the page.   Holly Conant is a new writer and mature student, currently studying at the University of Leeds. Her poems...

read more

David Sapp

      Groundhog Bachelor and Drunk Ganders Before the art opening, over appetizers downtown, leisurely and expansively, my aunts Evelyn and Jane swapped stories availing the phrase “it’s true, it’s true” too frequently. According to their testimony (not...

read more

Recent Prose

David Sapp

      Groundhog Bachelor and Drunk Ganders Before the art opening, over appetizers downtown, leisurely and expansively, my aunts Evelyn and Jane swapped stories availing the phrase “it’s true, it’s true” too frequently. According to...

Harry Wilding

    DIY with Biscuits The sound of the drill was not enough to completely drown out his voice. ‘Sure that’s in the right place?’ Gerry asked. I focussed on the screw disappearing into the wall. ‘Mary? You hear me? You sure that’s not too...

Michael Bloor

WITNESS STATEMENT Case No. 1991/203 Witness – Full Name: Ianthe Jane Frobisher-Forbes Address: 1 Priory Lane, Old Basing, Basingstoke I first met Jason on Johnny Antrobus's yacht at St. Tropez  in July, 1990. I didn't know at first that he was from...

Hanne Larsson

    When this is all over... We will hug. There’re two types. A proper one starts off gentle, a soft caress as two people’s arms find a way through each other’s limbs, as chests start to touch, as each pulls the other tighter to them, as...

Chaucer Cameron

      Cellar Stories: Ash & Elder Sunday afternoon there’s always roast dinner. Then mum and dad go to church. The twins stay and wash dishes. Elder-twin picks up a plastic bag with unused Brussels sprouts inside. The cellar door...

Recent Haiku

Helen May Williams

    Winter solstice 2020   13/12/2020 dream haiku small hours of Sunday morning family’s little strength guarded for mourning   17/12/2020 still growing on old apple tree— mistletoe   21/12/2020 the peanut feeder disappears...

Kashiana Singh

5 Haiku Origami cradle songs on the drive home… my empty womb * my mother’s knitted sweaters- I unravel knots * tears- water raining into an empty cup * drifting snowflakes- I restore the fragile lace of my wedding veil * encounters- his world is...

Xan Nichols

Haiku in the hope of an easing of lockdown   Sunrise early May all flame and pale duck egg blue; Clouds of lilac grey Just before sunrise - a muted bloom of russet On the chilly ground Above the skyline blazing - the risen sun like a young god Tree...

Yvonne Amey

      * you gone I dream I’m chasing darkness through our castle * souvenir scarf in ocean-green I wrap Australia around my neck * alone on a foreign shore silver gulls dine with me     Yvonne Amey received her MFA from the...

Gopal Lahiri

      * sparrows at work on the skylight * laptops sending handshakes from kitchen table * edges of dawn.. goodbyes litter sidewalks * internet dooms day scrolling in lockdown     Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata- based bilingual...

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