Pick of the day

A break with tradition

Wer zu Lebzeit gut auf Erden

Erich has heard it all before. He knows the way this is going to go.  His mother will tell him it’s too dangerous, that you can’t trust the city –its streets or its people. 

But fuck it, he’s going anyway. Of that he’s sure.

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Story of the week

How to train your dog

‘Heel! Christ if this dog doesn’t do as he’s told he’s got to go’, snapped mum as she yanked Major to a halt. He pulled again.
‘I’ll train him’, mum I pleaded as Major strained after the dog ahead.
‘I bet that’s a bitch on heat.’ she said staring at the ball of black fluff on a pink lead held by a middle-aged woman the shape of a boiled egg with arms and legs.
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Poem of the week

I will never understand why

non-Cornish pasties taste of the skid marks in a Croydon
stag’s pants or that I only ever bump in to my abusive ex
masked to hide the clouted bits
why Blighty claims ‘we’re full’ with copious leftovers
on fine-boned Wedgwood plates or doors slam but only
in a certain sort of face or

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Story, Poem and Inspiration Point of the Week

There's been a positive avalanche of quality prose this week! Two series - one finished now and one ongoing have caught my attention especially and I can thoroughly recommend them:

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Poem and Story of the Month September 2015

A few members have been keen to find out which pieces have taken the September accolades so without any messing about this news just in:

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Poetry Monthly

September’s poetry brief was so inspiring because we found poetry in our daily routines; the usual haunts where we pause or pass through were seen afresh with a scrutinising eye and some truly skewered perspectives.

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Bee's Journey

Thu, 01 October 2015
Wed, 30 September 2015
Fri, 18 September 2015
Mon, 07 September 2015
Fri, 04 September 2015

Picks of the Month

Autumn Wasp

You have made of me an autumn wasp.

The last yellow gasp of summer has been uttered

and the air crisped around me, solidifying into

acorns. A quirky carpet for the forest floor,

pebble-dashing the places where leaves could

soon write our epitaphs upon the dying grass.


See the stripes you have painted upon me,

the fluttered slits on my thorax where light

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The deep violet of evening

You tell me that you’re at war with a sunflower.  That you’ve been trying to stand it up straight in the middle of its vase for most of the afternoon; but that whenever you look away, the flower droops to the side, resting on its compadre.  Lazy, blousy thing you say.

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