Gill Lambert

      Peach For Anne Boleyn My velvet skin turns gold to blush. He waits till just before my flesh turns sour, falls, reveals the stone beneath. He rips each layer with his teeth and I can feel him tasting me, licking round the edges so he doesn’t waste...

Imogen Forster

      Crocodile in the Underground A skein of children in neatly matched pairs, name-tagged, wearing luminous baldrics and carrying shiny identical satchels, tittup side by side behind their class teacher, overseen by a motherly rearguard. A lag-behind...

Rowan Lyster

      Weatherproof In the weeks before the windows arrive from northern Norway, where they really understand triple glazing, the house is porous. Puddles form and evaporate on the flagstones, laundry is trailed straight through casements, clouds are...

Vicki Morley

      Weather Gods Winter arrived early in 1443. Prickling air laden with ice needles sweeping down the lagoon snow blankets shutting out light. Galleys half-finished abandoned. I fled from noise of cracking timber hulls my eyelashes matted with snow. I...

Jeremy Proehl

      The Candlemaker’s Office was sparsely filled. The worn brass door knob — a patina countless hands slipping over its surface, polished and discolored by each touch. That oak door — turning my wrist lean into it fighting the rub door against frame...