Juliet Humphreys

      Still Life Though I am not a painter this is to be a portrait of my parents and my sister. You don’t have a sister. This is my mother speaking, someone I did once have. I picture my sister in the middle, Dad shuffling along to make her some space....

Julian Dobson

      The small press publisher You too I guess have studied the surviving starlings as they swoop and whistle by the snack trailer at Moorfoot glinting for crumbs of flaky pastry like a glimpsed field of dandelions and everything turns holy – you...

Mark Czanik

      Scavengers I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers, and the sacrifices they made following their hearts. Philip K Dick eating dog food. Bukowski’s candy bars. A forgotten Fitzgerald writing How are you? postcards to himself in the...
Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

Ocean Song at South Head I am born of the folk of the tropical coasts, salt-rimmed hands my inheritance. I trace the vestiges of webs between my fingers— folds printed with the pearlescent stripes of nautilus shells. My foremothers woke with lucent skins—sun dribbling...

Nigel King

      Aquamarine My compass – its needle set with a sliver of blue stone – spins and spins. Breath mists my snow goggles. I wipe them endlessly. Even in these thick seal-skin mitts my hands are frozen. I have been no place as still as this. As white....