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Fiction, Poetry and Creative Non-Fiction.

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FISSURE by Val Whitlock

Poetry: If you could slit the black, sucked-in skin, / you’d find her there, alone in a chasmic closet.

FUNFAIR by Michael Eades

Creative NonFiction: August, 2020. There’s a funfair on the Common. It is only a small one: a few socially distanced rides huddling well away from one another. But it is definitely there. Its placement has a defensive quality, tucked away at the bottom of the hill down by the High Road, surrounded by a temporary fence.

latest in fiction

Julia Roberts by Len Lukowski

Short Fiction: I was sorry for trying to kiss her if it’s not what she wanted. Hey, it’s OK, she replied. It’s just I’ve never been with a woman. I’m not a woman. You know what I mean.

The Ahp by Kaliane Bradley

Short Fiction: Vision and colour crowded in. She was awake too; he could feel her wakefulness through the mattress.

The Rainbow Ruckus by Thomas McColl

Short Fiction: It’s well known that there’s always a crock of gold at the end of a rainbow. What isn’t so well known is that a double rainbow’s different, and at the end of that there’s simply a big ruckus.

Onrabull by Aisha Phoenix

Short Fiction: In lime green flares and a marigold shirt that set off her conker-brown skin, she waved her arms as she described the kind of beasts into which our enemy could transform…

The Baobab Tree by Zahirra Dayal

Short Fiction: You reach for a book and blow the dust off, watching it fly around the dimly-lit room. It’s the story of the Baobab Tree.

latest in POETRY

FISSURE by Val Whitlock

Poetry: If you could slit the black, sucked-in skin, / you’d find her there, alone in a chasmic closet.

latest in creative non-fiction

FUNFAIR by Michael Eades

Creative NonFiction: August, 2020. There’s a funfair on the Common. It is only a small one: a few socially distanced rides huddling well away from one another. But it is definitely there. Its placement has a defensive quality, tucked away at the bottom of the hill down by the High Road, surrounded by a temporary fence.

THE JAVELIN by Sam Simmons

Creative NonFiction: Celebration Avenue. Victory Parade. Anthems Way. Olympic Village. Olympic sized shopping centre. Olympic Park. Olympic Javelin throwing you into London in record time. Shaving minutes off your journey. Increasing capacity on the network. Room for more. Squeeze in. Hold on tight.

THE BUTCHERS by Jonathan Morrow

Creative NonFiction: I’m desperate for money, and here is an opportunity. I take a photo of the email address with my phone while a man walks behind me.

THE ARTIST WHO LIVES HERE by Claudia Lundahl

Creative NonFiction: I have based my artistic pursuits on the idea that all art is art, or, art is whatever you want it to be, or, there’s no such thing as bad art. I do not actually believe any of this is true. The truth is that I like looking at the art materials on my desk and thinking “an artist lives here”.

CHRISTMAS NIGHT AT SYLVIE’S by Caroline D’Arcy

Creative NonFiction: Home for me, my sister and mum and dad was a ground floor three bed council flat on a new-ish estate in Swiss Cottage with a pocket hanky sized garden. Like everyone we knew, we had Christmas dinner at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, so we could watch the Queen’s Christmas message at 3.

FOXGLOVES by Lyndsay Wheble

‘Adam picked a foxglove one day, up on Dartmoor,’ I said, ‘when he was little. It was really bad.’ I left a gap for my parents to chip in. ‘Don’t you remember?’ I asked, looking at each of them in turn. Dad took a sip of his pint. Mum sighed. Oh, it’s my imagination again. Right. I sat back in my chair. Clearly, they’d hoped that motherhood had put an end to all that.

THIS IS THE COFFEE THAT NEV BOUGHT by Isabella Naiduki

Creative Non-Fiction: It’s no surprise that I find myself confronting a lot of hard truths lately. These uncertain times that we find ourselves wading through on a daily basis have that effect on people, I guess. They foster lucid dreams, like when I dreamt of my mother.