Peter Burrows

      Night Train Tall lights beam downwards blanking the night sky casting long sleeping shadows across the yard. Darkness edges the mainline.  A taxi, yellow light on, returns over the bridge. Slow, uncertain shunting starts up. Stops. Rain tries,...

Ian Seed

      Cottage I turn around to see my mother on the roof, clinging to a chimney. How did she get there? She’s shouting down instructions: which apples to pick from the orchard behind me. And then, as if waking from a dream, she looks around in...

Ava Patel

  Six Feather gashes cut the deepest because I can’t figure out their motives; this game of Russian roulette we play will kill me because you always load six cartridges. I think there is a wolf cub lost in this city, lost from his pack. My wrappers fall from my...

Maggie Mackay

      Lady Mary Hamilton If you were to be wandering through the Kunstkamera in St Petersburg, last century, you’d likely have spotted a glass jar on a dusty shelf and inside it a head, pickle-floating in spirits. This belonged to Mary Hamilton. It was...