I belong to a race whose alphabet contains the letters Q, W and X. They are letters. Just letters like any others. But for the Turkish state, these aren’t just letters. They banned them.… Continue reading →
Shortly after I left my job, a friend said she was surprised, she thought I cared. I told her I left because I cared.… Continue reading →
(A poem by Susan Gordon Byron)
Dali’s clocks were sincere. They slipped over things, slid past and took nothing with them.
They changed. Or I changed them.
Pickpockets.
It takes awareness, intelligence and creativity to compete professionally at sport. Its exponents have to process multiple sources of ever-changing information in real-time and react accordingly, trusting their body to back their decisions. It’s arguable sportspeople are not given enough credit for how good they have to be to compete at the highest level; they are judged on post-match interviews and PR-filtered press conferences, and only their counterparts and opponents truly know what it takes to survive and thrive in any given sporting arena.… Continue reading →
On your whistle-stop tour of the Highlands
and Islands our whispers are said
to be heard by native ears
O Dhia
dè rinn iad?
Oh God
what have they done?
“Obviously, a huge part of recent history has been the AIDS epidemic. It has been a medical, emotional, social, economic, and political topic for so many including those we have lost, and those living with HIV/AIDS who are still stigmatised today.”… Continue reading →
“is there something in adopting the voice of a god, but giving him very human qualities and frailties? It turned out that adopting a persona that revolved at once about both being powerful and powerless was a great parallel for exploring subjects like climate change.”… Continue reading →
They were stones in a champagne flute,
I was always bound to smash.
But they were there for a while,
hanging on, two faceless punters waiting
for the gag, and then it all slipped out
of me as easily as a giggle. Once is a mistake.
Twice is careless. By the end of it
you could hear a pin drop in my heart.… Continue reading →
“What is happening in Iran is heart-breaking, and this poem is testament to that, it is also paying homage to my Father and my Persian heritage, of which I’m so proud.”… Continue reading →
Creative NonFiction: ‘Insidious thing, cancer. I often thought of it as a completely separate entity from my mum.’… Continue reading →
Creative NonFiction: ‘Living with Dad was a bit like being loaded into a comedy cannon and then fired off to land somewhere, who knows where: in hospital, India, or the wrong school. He had this thing about experience, the necessity to experience life, cram as much as possible into it, and ‘develop the ever-expanding mind,’ as he put it.’… Continue reading →
Creative NonFiction: ‘My father and I were both doctors. I use the past tense for my father, Harry Walker, because he died young. For myself, it is because I am no longer a real doctor. I became an epidemiologist and my clinical skills gradually atrophied.’… Continue reading →
Creative NonFiction: ‘Violence gives some men wings, others the bullying power of the privately educated; some it reduces. For me, it is a source of relentless confusion.’… Continue reading →
Creative NonFiction: ‘I feel dazed and dopey, my mind a blur of ideas and images’, writes Julia Bell. This state, and its discontents, will be familiar to many readers. With the relentless acceleration of online life over the last decade arising from the ubiquity of social media platforms such as Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, anxieties of a ‘crisis of attention’ have become commonplace.… Continue reading →
Creative NonFiction: Half way through a story about a child and their canine best friend, I pause to think, “this isn’t going to end well.” There is a peculiar ache to worrying about the fate of a fictional pet, a kind of inevitability that doesn’t quite translate to watching human suffering. … Continue reading →
Creative NonFiction: August, 2020. There’s a funfair on the Common. It is only a small one: a few socially distanced rides huddling well away from one another. But it is definitely there. Its placement has a defensive quality, tucked away at the bottom of the hill down by the High Road, surrounded by a temporary fence.… Continue reading →
Creative NonFiction: Celebration Avenue. Victory Parade. Anthems Way. Olympic Village. Olympic sized shopping centre. Olympic Park. Olympic Javelin throwing you into London in record time. Shaving minutes off your journey. Increasing capacity on the network. Room for more. Squeeze in. Hold on tight. … Continue reading →
Creative NonFiction: I’m desperate for money, and here is an opportunity. I take a photo of the email address with my phone while a man walks behind me. … Continue reading →
Creative NonFiction: I have based my artistic pursuits on the idea that all art is art, or, art is whatever you want it to be, or, there’s no such thing as bad art. I do not actually believe any of this is true. The truth is that I like looking at the art materials on my desk and thinking “an artist lives here”.… Continue reading →
Creative NonFiction: Home for me, my sister and mum and dad was a ground floor three bed council flat on a new-ish estate in Swiss Cottage with a pocket hanky sized garden. Like everyone we knew, we had Christmas dinner at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, so we could watch the Queen’s Christmas message at 3. … Continue reading →
‘Adam picked a foxglove one day, up on Dartmoor,’ I said, ‘when he was little. It was really bad.’ I left a gap for my parents to chip in. ‘Don’t you remember?’ I asked, looking at each of them in turn. Dad took a sip of his pint. Mum sighed. Oh, it’s my imagination again. Right. I sat back in my chair. Clearly, they’d hoped that motherhood had put an end to all that.… Continue reading →
Creative Non-Fiction: It’s no surprise that I find myself confronting a lot of hard truths lately. These uncertain times that we find ourselves wading through on a daily basis have that effect on people, I guess. They foster lucid dreams, like when I dreamt of my mother. … Continue reading →
Creative Non-fiction: I swim against the current of bodies, against the grain of the crowd, swaying as one corpus in a rhythmic harmony of bass.… Continue reading →
Creative Non Fiction. Words and pictures by Elizabeth McGrath
Running, ageing and motherhood. Creative Non-Fiction by Elinor Johns.
An excerpt from Richard Hamblyn’s new book: ‘From the legend of Atlantis to the violent tsunamis of the present day, this book casts new light
An excerpt from The Colony Room Club, 1948-2008 – A History of Bohemian Soho by Sophie Parkin
The next in Gaylene Gould’s Interior Dialogues Series: ‘The way our conscious sense of propriety interrupts our flow is one of the ghosts that must
On the centenary of Scott’s expedition to the South Pole, Jean McNeil chronicles her own voyage to Antarctica.