Best Before – by LISE COLAS

 Best Before   Gary yawned and blinked, he would have liked a bit of a stretch too, but then he remembered he was a cake in a box, so that would not be possible.  At least he could see through his cellophane, which was some relief. A swoop had taken place while he was asleep…

I Like This One – by ROB TRUE

I Like This One   I like this one.  Feeds me the same old shit out of a can every day, but at least I eat regular.  He lies down a lot.  That’s what I like about him.  I’ve seen him heating powder up in a spoon, with water.  He draws it into a plastic…

Reality.

We aren’t a cookie cutter publication. We will never be. And, why? Life isn’t like that and neither are human beings. The fact that I don’t put each author, publication or artist in a box has limited SLM’s visibility on certain lists / forums; it’s limited our ability to be seen. Their denial of our…

The Music of Our Youth – by GENE FARMER

The Music of Our Youth by Gene Farmer   Evan first encountered the man in the Panama hat nearly one month ago. Their last meeting may have been today; it’s hard to say for certain. On that first occasion he’d been standing out the back of the research centre taking a smoke break, one he…

The Bus – by KATE JONES

The Bus   I stand among the groups of middle-aged parents lining the pavement beside the bus that contains their beloved offspring.  Excited faces scattered with acne and over-zealous make-up press against glass, or turn away, sharp haircuts bobbing as they talk fast and laugh with friends. I pick out your window.  You sit politely,…

Father’s Guitar – by KATE JONES

  Father’s Guitar   His guitar stands resplendent, Statuesque.  His muse – ethereal, awaiting him to place it into its tomb-like case. He strokes it with long, practised fingers, caressing the taut strings. I watch as he takes the instrument into his arms, gently placing it into the case lined with purple velvet, as one…

The Fear – by SARAH COTTINGHAM

The Fear   I don’t own a fridge. Amelia’s fridge is a Smeg, seriously shiny and effortless to open. There’s a montage of photos on the side: babies with varying amounts of hair, their eyes following me around the room. There is also a calendar – not the Hollyoaks Hunks Amelia had up in our…

Raw and Mouldy – by TEIGE MADDISON

    Daytime sadness frowns you scorning, never finding solace in a good man’s fibres; They’re rare things, raw and in apprehension of their side and the otherside that holds you up in its breaths and heartbeats but strangles you down; fungal python, which you it deciphers, churning your chunks cos you forgot nan’s coconut…

Taking Up Space – by KATE JONES

Taking Up Space It starts off a hot, sticky morning the day I wake up as a man. I hit the alarm and realise something isn’t right when my hand catches the stubble on my chin.  I run my hands down to my chest under my vest: it’s flat.  My large breasts aren’t rolling sideways,…

Our Death/ To be Catholic – by TOM BLAND

Our Death   Night rain taps harshly against the house. Windows stream. You smile with white teeth. Mine golden.   You’re like an angel. Green eyes. Pale cheeks. Ginger curls. I paint your picture with a glance.   Your fingers pull away each layer of my skin to know the ether of the bone. My…