Writers in Prison – Scottish PEN Poem Why grant us with such voices? For you do not want to hear us Why let us
I hate getting four buses: Lothian buses you are such a state and not worth my one pound fifty at any rate The driver
By Aryana Motaghian I killed myself with a bottle of barbiturates. In the glowering half-light of a late autumn evening I departed this world, taking
By Kieran Fallon Daze of summer, memories.
By Aryana Motaghian I woke up to birdsong and a feeling of regret. Ana is next to me, like a cat bathing in sunshine, her