Ali Jones

      The Mathematics of Past and Future Selves  There’s a small child sobbing, oppressed in her Sunday best, red velvet dress, patent mirrors scuffed. There’s a bear, one eye estranged, dangling free. There’s a shade on the path, looming up in...

Tom Kelly

    Memory Stairs (Terry Kelly 1958-2016) It’s not a constant ache, more longing, email will suffice, something bridging this gap. I see your doppelganger in a city street: high forehead, eyes alert, searching for the book no-one else will ever have.   I am...

Michael Bloor

      The Night I Ordered the Smoked Eel It’s late, late at night and I’m sprawled on the couch watching a DVD of Mel Brooks’ ‘The Producers.’ Somebody says, in a low drawl, ‘Must you keep picking your nose?’ I’m immediately alert: there’s no-one else...

Anna Milan

    Five Times   1 Mother rubs her eyes at the kitchen table. Says she’s drunk. The midnight light stares at me, and I wait for the shade of bed.   2 I am almost naked under a duvet of dried grass cuttings. The morning sun warms me in this hidden place,...

Jo Young on Remembrance Day

    Of All the Extraordinary Gothic Places they settled you in this wild necropolis. Angels bruised with lichen and frantic ironwork fastening down the decades. I have come to find your corner below soaring cedars hinting at their under-blue side with arms...