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 Threshold

I woke up that morning determined to undergo a journey but with no idea of my destination. While my wife of thirty years lay still asleep, with the first light of day barely breaking, I hastily put on my trousers, shirt, waistcoat, great-coat, gloves and hat, tore a crust from the stale loaf of bread in the pantry, pocketed a few coins from our secret store, eased the front door open and slipped out quietly, without a backward glance.

At first I proceeded tentatively, stumbling uncertainly. As the early morning fog began to disperse, however, I made my way through the frost-stippled streets with increasing urgency, as though I were late for an appointment, my eyes cast downwards. On and on I walked, heedless of direction. Gradually, I had the sensation of crossing a threshold into a new world, where everything was familiar and yet somehow dislocated. Still I ploughed on, wearily now, placing one foot in front of the other, until darkness descended. Finally, as I felt on the brink of collapse, I looked up to find myself – was it possible? – at the gate of my own home. Feeling dread and relief in equal measure, I prepared to enter when I glimpsed a figure in my drawing room, seated by the window. Peering in through the half-misted pane, I froze, for the man appeared to be none other than my long-dead father. I stood for some time – minutes, hours, days seemed to pass – staring stupidly at this revenant, before I noticed that the man was wearing my clothes, the very clothes in which I had set out on my journey. At the same instant, a momentous truth revealed itself to me. I turned my back on the man, on my house, and on my life.

‘Following an online discussion of Nathaniel Hawthorne's short story, 'Wakefield', members of David Brauner’s family were set the challenge of writing a story inspired by Hawthorne's in 30 minutes’:

︎︎︎ Previous
︎︎︎ Next