Issue 1 index

Meet the Editors & Designers


Rhys Shanahan

Rice Paper
Damon Young

Hopkins & Hallam
Note from Naomi Lebens

Before I go I have to say...
Kate Pursglove

Some Other Where
Steven Matthews

Weekend Poems: Breakfast
Eleanor Burleigh

Aged 7
Jean Watkins

Childhood & Plastic People
Zeng Chen

Street Scene
Peter Robinson

A Martian Writes
Michael Hutchinson

The Tarot Reading of The Fool

Stop Making Sense & Bla bla bla
Jenna Fox

Fringe Festival
Claire Dyer

When you have hope of life returning, this
Kate Noakes

Broadwood 7362
Gill Learner

A Drop in the Ocean
Lindsey Jones

Pitch of Ghosts
Vic Pickup

23rd February 2021
Kitty Hawkins

The Sofa
Tara Bermingham

Trophies on a Windowsill? & Still (monetizing) Life
Laura Rozamunda

Good to know perhaps, but nothing to be done
Kate Noakes

Heading Out
Michael Anania

The Threshold
David Brauner

Hannah Lily

Park Recollection
Liam Anslow-Sucevic

Rhianna Bryon

Ephemerality of the World
Salma Haque

The August Elvis Died
Gill Learner

Michael Anania

Hit Me Gently
Daisy Dickens

The August Elvis died

for Bruce and Emma

It was Dad’s idea – north but not quite Scotland
where we’d had a fortnight’s drench three years before.
The cottage greeted us grim-faced but inside there was
pine and shine; a stack of logs, a grate we used most nights.

Each day was an adventure: shoeless through a beck
to dodge a bull; skittish horses on a sea-splashed ride;
damming a burn and feeding bread to elvers;
the helter-skelter sands of Bamburgh Dunes.

But best was Lindisfarne. Remember how the Cortina
raced the rising tide, Tango and crisps outside the Iron Rails?
The castle was a playground: you dashed ahead to hide,
played sword-fights, scrambled up stone steps to rake

the horizon for Viking ships. Dad and I read every notice,
tried to guess which bits were sixteenth century; shivered
at the ghosts of Cul-de-sac. And the Priory: sandstone ruins
arched against the blue. You lapped up tales of fiery dragons

on the wing, how they predicted heathen raids, the trampling
of saintly bodies in the street. Later, on Keel Head beach,
we adults hunkered out of the breeze, watched you
quartering the sands for Cuddy’s beads.

We drove back into a golden-orange haze, stopped
for fish and chips, reached the cottage late. You two
put yourselves to bed. Under the Milky Way, I banged sand
from pumps while Dad fired up the ancient radio.

That’s when we heard the news: the King was dead.

Biography: Gill Learner’s poetry has been published in a wide range of magazines, won or been placed in numerous competitions, and appeared in quite a few anthologies, e.g. from The Emma Press (, Grey Hen Press ( and Two Rivers Press ( Her first collection, The Agister’s Experiment  (2011), her second, Chill Factor (2016), and her third Change (Autumn 2021) are all from Two Rivers Press; the first two have received positive reviews. More can be found on her web pages at:

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