Bookmarks It might be a receipt, a bus ticket, or if you need that ticket to return on, the foil paper ripped from a half-packet of gum, an old hairclip, something humdrum, a pen, or even, in desperation, a tissue, slightly used (do not judge them) or whatever else can be foraged from the handbag’s […]
The Standards Line Beneath ice-tipped oaks, half-angry, amused, wandering beside a party of the beautiful — women in evening sheath and wrap coats, Chloe satchels, furs; men at their MacAllan and Maduros. I come upon her, reading Ferrante on a daybed, Manhattan in a chilled tumbler on the floor. Barefoot, lost in lyrics of Bewitched,
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Inspirations #2 ‘Inspirations’ is our sometime feature where our writers delve into the genesis of their work and/or their creative process. Follow the links to fall in love with them all over again, or visit our ever-growing Archive to discover new favourites. Be sure to check out Inspirations #1, too. Contents: 1. Lara Hurley 2.
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Life After I sit alone, where the jetty soaks its bony ankles in the tide. Bladderwrack drifts, and the waves keep gentle company with the shore. Dusk muffles the lonely curlew’s cry. The reed beds stir: a silent eel wrinkles the water’s surface. A sea breeze ruffles my heart, and I breathe out the remnants
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three Resurrections GOAT On the 6th of January, in the year 2000, a goat, perhaps not the greatest goat of all time but, nevertheless, the last of her species, a bucardo, passed away when a tree fell on her in the Spanish
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Inspirations #1 ‘Inspirations’ is our sometime feature where our writers delve into the genesis of their work and/or their creative process. Follow the links to fall in love with them all over again, or visit our ever-growing Archive to discover new favourites. Contents: 1. david lambert 2. Jennifer Todd 3. Rebecca miles 4. Dominic palmer
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I thought of you I thought of you as gentle sun light dancing in my hair, and as the dandelion seeds that float on hazy air I thought of you as springtime rain that falls and runs away, and as the sweet pink honey in the clover,
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Barcelona During the night I play dead for 6 hours or so, my last rites sung out by drunken voices on the Rambla. There is a wine spot in my dreams, which always seem to take place at the end of my second cousin’s quinceañera. You’re always there – of course you are – your
accidents Sunday evening finds us in the kitchen. You’re washing up, I’m rolling flatbreads out with tension like a mortise in my gut. We’ve heard the news: a relative of yours, a garden afternoon, a sudden slip, and somehow, that was it. My hands still grip the rolling pin, yours soak in a
in that life I’ll have a dog or a cat and it will be the only thing that knows me, my spirit will wear walking boots thrust into the woods, my hair will be thick and understood, I will eat perfect mouth portions, have a single elegant bowl for each occasion,
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