Dear Reader

I was alone in the house when a phone started to ring. I thought it was strange; no landline and my mobile sitting silent on the table. The ringing stopped and a voice picked up. I listened for a minute and realised the voice was yours, so I wondered had you slipped into the house unannounced. I ran upstairs, chasing your voice from room to room but still no sign. I listened more intently. The conversation was light and frothy at first, and, loving the timbre of your voice, I grabbed a coffee and settled in. Like listening to a familiar podcast, I nodded instinctively to everything you said and even thought to anticipate what might be next. The start of a familiar story prompted me to re-check the house, tip-toeing self-consciously into every room, the sound seeming to ghost just ahead of me. I stopped when I heard a fresh intimacy in your voice, the volume dropping to a whisper, as though you knew you were being overheard. My heart was pumping and, when I froze ever

We’re in the middle of the pandemic, When people quarantine with what seems Like infinite amounts of pasta and toilet roll, Make contingency plans for not leaving their homes For weeks, maybe months, when strategies are concocted Behind closed doors, perhaps I too should be thinking Of toilet roll and pasta, of canned goods and cat food; When my thoughts should be focused on the art of stockpiling, A different kind of inventory anchors my mind and I count Goosebumps, kisses, glances, sharp Breaths taken and released when we were in unison; Cups of tea, ideas, drawings, poems, tokens we swapped Particularly for times like these, when a ten minute drive Seems impossible and out of reach. As I add another Item to the online shopping list and steal glances at the date, The time, the hours seem to have come to a halt And never has life reached such a standstill. --- D. Parker spends most of her days surrounded by books both at work and at home. In her free time she r

we spend icebox winters and oven summers  in plug-ugly bedsits; sip halves in pubs, scrape  deposits for a semi in well-dressed suburbs, before the devil curses bathrooms in uncool  cerise, chocolate and avocado, eggs us to lash  artex icing-thick onto walls, stone-clad chimney breasts and screw up stag handlebar antlers. Kitchens harbour party-purchase Tupperware, dinner plates pass through hatches, lap-tops  play host to Vesta beef curry or chow mein, scoffed sideways on bobbled sofas, glued  to Z-cars and Corrie on snowy teles, titbits  snaffled by shagpile carpet, while yuccas  stand starved in corners. Light nights we entertain double-glazing reps on doorsteps, hear bus stop and back fence  gloats about Costa Brava packages, crazy paving and extensions. All this before rooms strip, go minimal and neutral in the nineties – the age we soon discover, beige is boring . --- Paul Waring is a retired clinical psychologist from Wirral, UK. He was awarded second pl

He’s stood outside, he’s on his break. He’s unsure whether to be smoking or swearing. He decides on both. Inhale. Fuuuck! Inhale. Fuuuck! A person, a visitor, or a patient. Heading to the hospital, sees his scrubs and scowls. “ It’s not very professional for a nurse to be smoking and swearing. ” But he doesn’t care. He’s already done his good deed for the morning and by midnight he’ll have done a dozen more. Yesterday was a paltry four. Tomorrow’s shift will be five or two or maybe eight, and another night of finishing late. Inhale. Fuuuck! He breathes a cloud of smoke. Watches it swirling, ascending, a spirit en-route to heaven. The person’s saintly sanctimony means nothing to him. Because he’s on his break. And he’s smoking, and he’s swearing. --- Originally from Scotland, Ian has lived and worked in Worcestershire for the last 11 years. He can normally be found performing his poetry and prose at events on the Worcester spoken word scene