Lucy Goldring

The Brian Blessed belch I once found hilarious is reverberating around my parents’ tiny dining room and I catch your expression which says ‘yes-I’m-burping-without-restraint-because-I-reject-society’s-arbitary-conventions-and-don’t-care-if-I-am-embarrassing-you-because-I-am-being-real’ and your forearm is crumpling my mum’s best napkin and it still bears the lyrics of adolescent rebellion and as the flabby bass note sustains the room shrinks and shrivels and it’s not my family’s revulsion I feel but my own despair curdling in the warm juice of your gob-hole and if you will never meet me halfway I may as well stay where I am and where are your principles now you’ll accept work from ‘any-posh-cunt-stupid-enough-to-fork-out’ and I hate you using women’s body parts as shorthand for vile people and you are powering the belch through to its foghorny climax and your moth-eaten Anarchy t-shirt is clinging to your second trimester beer-baby when I’m the one who should have a bump to nurture rather than a man-child who suckles himself nightly on homebrew and conspiracy theories and homebrewed conspiracy theories from the safety of a skip-dived swivel chair encrusted in crow shit which is the only thing you have contributed to our so-called home and your booming Brian bugle is diminuendoing and the ribbity undernote is moving to the fore and as your lungs finally empty I realise the burp is not the only thing to have tapered off and a foggy silence reclaims the air and I think about my cosy teenage bedroom and Mum’s spag bol and later I will tell you if you really want to live in an echo chamber how about an empty flat with dodgy wi-fi and a crap-stained plastic throne and then my once enchanting man you can sit on it and swivel down down down into the murky depths of your very own lonely rabbit hole.

Lucy Goldring is a Northerner hiding in Bristol. Lucy has a story in Best Microfiction 2022 and features in Dr Tania Hershman’s 2023 charity flash anthology. She’s been shortlisted by the National Flash Fiction Day three times and twice selected for their anthology. Find her on Twitter (@livingallover) and her website.

Two Stories

Lizzie Eldridge


I was a bonnie wee lassie growing up in Glasgow. My Dad taught me not to be sectarian when it came to football. Hatred doesn’t mix well with anything, he said, passing me the ball in a moment of shared joy. I was a bonnie wee lassie with a Dad who showed me how to live.


Bagpipes are traditional at a Scottish funeral, but I’d never buried my Dad before. Melodies aching of bleak hills and glens left me standing, alone, by a cold mountain, scanning the empty landscape to find him there again.

Lizzie Eldridge is a writer, actor and human rights activist from Glasgow. She has two published novels, as well as poems, CNF, stories and flash fiction, and she cares deeply about language, truth and social justice. 

Two Photos

Alastair Jackson

Bus Stop

Calum’s Road

Alastair Jackson has spent the last 18 months photographing & travelling around his native Hebrides of Scotland, putting together enough work for a book-length publication. Concurrently, he has been accumulating images of the slightly odd, unique things he has seen by these island roadsides. These images are part of a small series, ‘Strange Currencies’. Alastair likes to move between and amongst different genres of art, and his first book with poet Kenneth Steven was longlisted for the Highland Book Prize in 2019. He also published a zine, ‘Futures Past & Present’ with ADM Publishing in 2021. Find his website here.


Georgina Titmus

they made me wade. 

the fingering weed. the goosefleshing badass 



than the thing that plucks 

my duvet, 

as i lie 

in-terror waiting. worser—than school. 



glass-slippery-toes-pumpkin-ooze. they made 

me pay— 

        at midnight. 

Georgina Titmus is a 60-something Cornwall poet and carer. Her work has appeared in South, The Journal, The Frogmore Papers, Fenland Poetry Journal, Orbis, The Moth and others. She has twice been shortlisted in the Bridport Prize.

Two Stories

Cathy Ulrich

Where They Found You 

That part of town where the snow never melts all winter. Cackle-crows chatter something that could be your name. Your body a prayer. Your body a comma, a hyphen, a dash. When I knew you, your hands were never colder than mine. 

Other Worlds Than This 

After their son dies, Helena’s husband becomes an astronaut. Finds a spacesuit online, buckles the helmet over his head. He sits on their rooftop and stares up at the stars, mumbles. Helena thinks he must see their son’s face there. She is in the quiet kitchen, holding an empty plate and a naked fork, listening to the scrabble of her husband’s hands digging into the rooftop tile. He is talking about building rockets, she thinks, he is talking about taking to the sky. 

Cathy Ulrich doesn’t know anybody with hands colder than hers. Her work has been published in various journals, including Black Fork Review, Wigleaf and Pithead Chapel.

Three Ways with Hope

Annie McCann-Gomm

52 North, imagined

dusk dies around our ears,
sometimes a hare crosses my path
its fawny grey barely visible
in wheaten grass and gloom,
late afternoon, midwinter birches

wild nights and soft, and a breath
that can be all we have
and hope, and hope.
hope falling, hope sighing.

wild nights and soft,
two faces in disco lights, and eyelashes between
heavy seed pods and half-laugh sighs.

next hope, next hope

this is someone else’s laundry, someone else’s life
and we get to do this gladly
we live in the eaves of our desires
and we get to do this gladly
even through hurt, even through pinpricks
we get to do this gladly. 

certain grey joy

in your dead mouth
there is also hope
love lies in places
a new snow, even now, barely seen
falls, still

Annie McCann-Gomm is a grad student, waitress and writer in the Netherlands. She studies and writes about the anthropology of the environment, thinking about how we can live with the earth and each other. 

N Judah St.

Lu Knight

When everything feels wrong, you try to fix it – or move on or even ask for help. They prepare you to problem solve all throughout your school years – trying is better than giving up and giving up is better than admitting that you need help – because who would want to help the little dirty girl that’s been on this bus for hours on end?

I’ve watched adults come and go and come and go. I’ve watched them drag their noisy families up the stairs of the bus as their children point fingers at me. I’ve counted the times we passed N Judah Street. Seven times I’ve thought about getting off this bus. Seven times I’ve remained on this bus, digging my nails into the skin of my hand.

Lu Knight is a creative writing student at Appalachian State University. 

Two Photos from ‘Graveyard of the Gods’

Raye Hendrix

Acolyte #1

Furrow #2

These photos were taken on the Oregon coast near sunset as a storm was beginning to blow mist in from the ocean, which, combined with the expired film, resulted in a pleasant, almost silkscreen-like effect in the form of large, prominent grain. The title is inspired by a man who was praying aloud at the water’s edge for hours (pictured in “Acolyte #1”). He and I were the only two on the bluffs that day, and the solitude and his spirituality, coupled with the incoming gray storm, lent a powerful yet peaceful aura to the area, which reminded me of being in a cemetery – but for something much larger than us.

Raye Hendrix is a writer and photographer from Alabama. Raye is the author of the poetry chapbooks ‘Every Journal Is A Plague Journal’ (Bottlecap Press) and ‘Fire Sermons’ (Ghost City Press). She is the winner of the 2019 Keene Prize for Literature and Southern Indiana Review’s 2018 Patricia Aakhus Award. Their written work appears in Poetry Daily, American Poetry Review, 32 Poems, The Adroit Journal, and others, while their photography appears in North American Review, Olney Magazine, Press Pause Press, and various newspapers. Raye is the Poetry Editor of Press Pause Press and co-edits DIS/CONNECT: A Disability Literature Column from Anomalous press. Raye is currently a PhD candidate at the University of Oregon. Find out more here.

Loving Him Epiphany

Jesse Saldivar

He said,

     I feel so loved
     around you

So that must mean I love him. 
How true,
that must be

if even I cannot see
our course we run –

inches make the love-journey!
In this country culture we endure
the othering of love –

The tongue that tastes true-love
discerns the gaslight

I shout theater! I shout
love is out there.

Jesse Saldivar is an undergraduate writer studying at the University of California, Davis. They have one poem published in issue five of Oakland Review and one short story published in Open Ceilings. They love writing with concern for space, history, love, and queerness. 

Two Photos

Claire Nora

Tides of Sunshine and Peace

In the Eye of the Sky

Claire Nora is 25 years old. A bored poet living in the city of Lagos (Nigeria), she loves writing, taking pictures, reading and thinking. She believes in the simplicity of life and the Chaos of being subtle. When she isn’t doing any of the things above, she’s studying law in a lawless Country. Find her on Twitter (@Clairenora1).