Paul Short

      Midnight Swingball Sleep. Elusive as lucid dreams. Closed eyes teem wotsit-orange, spiderweb scarlet & thatch-brown body      jerks                  like      a swingball. Conscience and subconscious flailing paddles back forward|forward back...

Ash Bowden

      Composting Out again with the pitchfork churning compost into the old green bin, stinking and silent as an ancient earthen vat. Here, dirt makes no distinction between trench beds and the twirling earth. Onion shavings conspire to life by bringing...

Mallika Bhaumik

      In search of a tawaif’s tale (Dilli love) This is not a frilly, mushy love letter to a city whose allure lies in defying all labels and holding the mystery key to a man’s heart, though none has ever been able to lay an absolute claim...

Jena Woodhouse

      The Kelpie Around midnight, the hour when pain reasserts its dominance, a voice behind the curtain screening my bed from the next patient’s: an intonation penetrating abstract thoughts of distance, time-lapse; tempered by the Haar, the briny...

Kate Bailey

      Us and Them They’ve mended the park fence again, patched it over with the usual ugly metalwork, like a riot barricade. That’ll keep them out – the delinquents, the ne’er-do-wells, who break in and sit on the grass in the...