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...

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....

Clare Bryden

      The long arc I seek justice and you hold a seashell to your ear hear oceans whispering limitless sssshhh history heaps sheering waves shattering across reefs sweeping shallow bays rearing breakers pound shelving beaches scatter shells with...

Gail Webb

      Something Missing He cuts. I lie still, teach myself to dream of St David’s Bay, seaweed strewn on incoming tides, surfers slice big waves in half. He butchers with hammer, saw. No nightmares, though he says it’s possible-you could wake in the...

Kim Cullen

      Being Morandi’s Bottle I pull a dress over my head calm foggy blue linen sleeved in lavender, press frizzed hair between two hot blades. I drag a lipliner across my cupid’s bow like a violinist gliding hair over string hovering on a velvety G. I...