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The still summer day’s sluggish temperature was broken intermittently by the chirping of birds. Not even the wind could bring itself to muster a gentle
During a creative writing class on Modernism we were asked to write a short piece exploring the stream of consciousness style. We were also given
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
By Fraser Wilson A shower of sparks and explosive colours cascaded from the sky, flecks of firework ash and gunpowder scattering onto the hedges beneath.
A spider web of bare branches tangle with gelid air. Webs of naked silver birch trees trap Pacific sunsets in warmer sands.
Not to worry – the spider creates and navigates new roads each day, a brisk flurry of snow in mid-March keeps the stone skeletons at
Open marshes are dangerous places, like the minds of young girls. They’ll suck you in with innocent grin, and chase you out with your fear.
Chasing seconds the sun moves across the sky, to my mortality.
Dry skin, cracks on the back of these ageing hands. Time ticks on, eternally. Numbers patiently wait for shadows to fall on their moment.