READ
Fiction, Poetry and Creative Non-Fiction.

featured

The Olive Orchard by Philip Kavvadias

Short Fiction: “The orchard belongs to the Vasdekas family. It has been with them ever since that first olive shoot defied all laws of botany.”

ANDY by Ogu Nnachi

Poetry: Andy scoots past Woolworths and The Amhurst/ dazzles grey building blocks / roller skates tops / of brown brick walls…

latest in fiction

The Olive Orchard by Philip Kavvadias

Short Fiction: “The orchard belongs to the Vasdekas family. It has been with them ever since that first olive shoot defied all laws of botany.”

In Memoriam by Stephen Vowles

Short Fiction: “From the fires of hell,” I inform him. “Or perhaps the blood of Christ?” His uncertain gaze returns to scrutinise me

Fossils by Alice Ivor

Short Fiction: …I know it’s just his way of telling me he’s sad to see me go. I slip my hand into my pocket and run my fingertips over my ammonite.

Mr Howard’s Girls by Abigail Seltzer

Short Fiction: Before I could stop myself, I had him in swimming trunks, kissing me. Next thing I knew, we were lying on a beach, gazing into one another’s eyes.

The Man in the Red Cap by Duncan Grimes

Short Fiction: I can see him holding on to the far buoy with his head leant back, staring out to the horizon. I watch his bright red cap bob between the waves as I sit in my lifeguard Kayak.

latest in POETRY

ANDY by Ogu Nnachi

Poetry: Andy scoots past Woolworths and The Amhurst/ dazzles grey building blocks / roller skates tops / of brown brick walls…

THE CORONA PRINCE By Daniel Hinds

Poetry: By now, you must have heard his legends. / You abide in his empire. / In the kingdom of the rising star / He rose from a small bowl of hot bat soup…

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

The Object of All Studies by Daniel Cullen

Creative NonFiction: ‘I feel dazed and dopey, my mind a blur of ideas and images’, writes Julia Bell. This state, and its discontents, will be familiar to many readers. With the relentless acceleration of online life over the last decade arising from the ubiquity of social media platforms such as Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, anxieties of a ‘crisis of attention’ have become commonplace.

Does Something Terrible Happen to the Dog? by Daisy Henwood

Creative NonFiction: Half way through a story about a child and their canine best friend, I pause to think, “this isn’t going to end well.” There is a peculiar ache to worrying about the fate of a fictional pet, a kind of inevitability that doesn’t quite translate to watching human suffering.

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.