Archive

by Alwyn Gornall I ran from the roar of life like a frightened beast, away from the hard-angled city, to hide under your petticoat and float in your stillness. Your silence wrapped me like a duvet spreading a warmth over me like a log fire.  I took the paths that demanded walking and fear, frustration and anger fell away like ...

by Philip Charter Pen to Print Short Story Competition 2018/19 Runner-Up “The hare is on the move for the 20:53, run over 480 meters. Byker Grove is in trap one, the odds-on favourite Droopys United is in the blue of trap two, outside him is Moscow Flyer, Not Now Bernard has a ...

by Tomas Beranek Pen to Print Short Story Competition 2018/19 Runner-Up This is what I remember from the afternoon she began to work on my face. The moment she carved my lips with a small gap, which was big enough to feel the cold air frisking inside me in circles. Even though ...

by Christopher Whyte Pen to Print Poetry Competition 2018/19 Highly Commended. Somewhere along the Estuary, We sit for a long while. The vast landscape engulfing me Outstretched for miles and miles. Seagrass smiles on our faces We talk well in to dusk. Fleeting moments - in these places - Desperately cling to us. There are certain complications That grow (sticky) in time: Only ...

by  Sasha Callaghan Pen to Print Poetry Competition 2018/19 Runner Up. Midsummer, and the lane is splashed in sunshine. Unpaved, and bordered by hedgerows, The narrow track runs, like a seam, to the river. Embroidered with pink and cream roses. Threaded with meadowsweet. Quilted with orchids. Fortress Arcadia, holding out Against the patchwork blanket of city Amongst the swaying ...

by Demi Whitnell                                                 Pne to Print Poetry Competition 2018/19 Runner-Up My stumpy bearded boy who can play any song on guitar if you ask him to which will ...

by Sylvia Anne Telfer                                                 Dusk falls on Conor Boyle’s wake, calling a shake of moths to lamppost to dance in wonky rings, awry yo-yos in moonless night. What weary hobos with ...

A B.A.D. BOROUGH by Gertcha Cowson I live in a B.A.D. borough, a B.A.D. borough I have grown to adore, it is a multi-cultural borough, mixed-raced to the core. I hear all the snooty remarks, spoken with their noses upturned, like our name provokes a rotten smell, akin to old shit that’s ready ...