by Elodie Barnes || I am not supposed to be here.
by Annabel Hynes || I tell her he’s beautiful even though all babies look more or less the same, round-cheeked and pink and squinty.
by Holly Aszkenasy || The spring my marriage came apart it seemed the world had recast itself in exaggeratedly biblical relief.
by Jo Lennan || With fox sightings up in cities, Jo Lennan examines why the animals captivate us in literature and in urban life.
by Rebecca Clark || There is a woman sat next to me, in the middle seat.
by Cathleen Davies || I think I owe a thank you to the girl with long black hair - twisted and clipped up in seminars, trailing down her back in dresses and up my nose when she lay next to me at night.
I was bored of playing games, so we made our not-so-subtle excuses and went to your flat.
It felt a little ridiculous, a little bit like I was fourteen again, hiding in my childhood bedroom, afraid of getting caught.
In memory of Mary Glaisher - 4th June 1928 - 24th December 2014
‘The thing is…’ I said