Gareth Writer-Davies

    The Cutters It’s the clatter I hear first of metal tooth biting down scything sharp through the wildings. The most stupid way to die is flaying by hedge cutter. So I wave my arms and jump and the two farmboys with grins like soldiers pause the...

Lucy Dixcart

      I Claim This Sky All winter I have kept vigil on these lichen-licked branches, compacting myself like stone. I’ve laid out the bones of my dead, glued my bloodied edges back together, shredded my pages and fed them to the wind – a lost language...

Jared Sagar

      Watching the Dead It’s how you remember him most. Under the lampshade with no sound, cobalt slip-ons angled by the chair, hands white as plugs (he’d always question the purpose of winter). It’s how you remember him most. Paints in a fossil box...

Kathryn O’Driscoll

      Finishing Touch God chars the edges of the day, the sky turns the colour of the sediment at the bottom of a bottle of cheap orange squash. I imagine it like tea-staining paper to make replicas of old treasure maps as a kid. I remember burning the...