The Man From Horsemouth – Thomas P. McGrath

The Man from Horsemouth

The Man down the road from us drinks his own urine.
He also invented a cure for the common cold by grinding mustard seeds, ginger, the ash from burnt bones and then enough tequila to make it a paste.

Stencils – Oliver Crellin

Conversation – Cameron Hockly

Conversation

Our talk was scripture perfect,
our mumblings ushered in new dawns,
our pauses swept the whitecaps from the ocean
. no fish would come to the surface,
. none would eat.
Our gestures were simple and profound,
like wiping the table with a cloth of fire.
When we both turned and looked out the window
we saw that the birds had all crowded in and fallen silent.
The garden was full,
it seemed a good time to start again.

Clouds – Daniel Scudder

Gerald

The Garden – Sarah Richardson

There’s this memory of my mother’s, and though it’s not really fair for me to lay claim to it, I think about it often. It comes back to me, and not just when I’m doing the things that remind me of her – feebly attempting the grand sweeping gestures that echo in her wake – but as I’m walking home after school, or drying the dishes, or reading about sixteenth century propaganda for History, and then there they are again, out of breath and grass stained, and I’m getting nostalgic for a childhood I never had.

Untitled – Emma Holder

Jolly Hockey-Sticks – Kieran Clarkin

The Trowel – Cameron Hockly

The Trowel

The man who drove the hearse
later stood at the grave side.
He held a box of dirt and a trowel.
I wanted the trowel to be heavy
when I lifted it out of the box, heavy with dirt
as if it was the last possible thought of you
which I was picking up, casting onto your casket.
The thud ringing like no thought
I ever have had of you while alive.

The Streetlight Eclipse – Alex Lodge

The Streetlight Eclipse

The Whipper and the Snapper are two young men of no real importance.
They sit in concrete public places most days, keeping out of the sun
and living off car fumes. Their skins are loosely draped over their
skeletons. They never touch, each other or anyone.

I first met them when I was in a band. As fellow youth, I wanted them
to be impressed by me and my mild-but-ironic lyrics and Casio
keyboard. But they spoke another language. They sat outside the bar
where our first gig was, smoking, bitching – a vacuum of gossip. I
walked my instruments past them slowly so I could catch snatches of
their talk:

Tania Mead