Picks of the Month

When my father died, I asked for the body and they put it in a bag. It was a lot heavier than I thought; I had imagined a certain weight, I had scoped it out in my mind, but for some reason it turned out to be much heavier.

No smile or words. Rigid, unyielding, for that last photograph. His arm, slack, around my shoulder. I turn from the shot. Hide my tears, knowing he...

'into the darkness… light' a winter Wednesday open-mic in a dingy pub in Pontefract or was it Halifax? I don’t rate poetry but if the beer’s good and...