Catherine Ayres

      Christmas Eve tea 5 o’clock. Light silvers the sill. This is the season of curious moons, when we’re lost in the velvet of ourselves, undreaming the deep nights
 between tomorrow and the past. Rooms flower slowly, like stars. Here are steep steps,...

Luigi Coppola

      The Harvester There is a darkness coming a little at first, just ahead of the rest His breath is a slow yawn it draws in a shade a cold and a rustling everything sleeping, drying An idiot-ox striding his March drawing blood from flower herb from...

Laura McKee

      Since it was all about a son I ask my son now that he doesn’t really believe in everything what’s Christmas all about then? I mean what does it mean to you? there is still a hole in the roof to follow a star through but we have just had the boiler...

Edmund Prestwich

      Aqua Alta It started as often before: water, creeping through doors, pushed in by wind and tide, flooded the lower floors. Venetians, grimly stoic, waded to work as dawn broke cold and yellow; waded through ruined books, shoes and baby clothes, or...

Eloise Unerman

    Divorce for Dummies Our divorce was a collection of digestive biscuit meetings, the formalities of splitting our elaborate throw cushion collection, who would have the kids – a pair of ugly goat mugs neither of us wanted but neither of us would...