Pick of the day


The cat was dead.

It lay slumped on its side in the middle of Leonard’s back lawn.

It wasn’t Mrs Forcible’s cat because Mrs Forcible’s cat was black – the sort that, three hundred years ago, would have been tied to its owner and drowned – whereas this cat was grey.

Leonard prodded it with a slippered foot.


He squatted down beside it – a have-a-go detective in a dressing gown.

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Story of the week


‘I want you to sleep with me.’Read more

Poem of the week



Thirty degrees with no air con.
No wonder she fainted,
the girl from HR,
the one the young bucks
in IT spilled their
Gigabytes over,
the one for whom
all the Directors
sucked in their paunches
as if that was ever enough
to cut her out from the herd.

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Bee's Journey

Picks of the Month

Letters to Herself

I woke up speaking in riddles, heart raging
against a world shaking, changing, escaping
my mother cried soft lullabies of light and mystery
in a dream with infinite passages, all conflicted
by the bottle of prescription pills and history
on the borderline between racing time and chasing
the amnesia of memories, a billion theories
she birthed particles of stars, stories and spaces

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Strings (Part 1)

Three hundred, maybe four hundred, people have packed into this sweaty pub to see me.  I’ve been gigging all my life, but I’ve never had a crowd like this.  Finally, I’ve found an audience that gets me. 
I’m sat on a stool singing, ‘Isobel’, strumming my battered Gibson, arched over the guitar, mouth reaching for the mircophone. 

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