Other Writing

In April 2006, Banksy created a sculpture based on a crumpled red phone box with a pickaxe in its side, apparently bleeding, and placed it in a side street in Soho, London. It was later removed by Westminster Council.

A big thank you to Michael Bartholomew-Biggs, the poetry editor at London Grip for including my poem Red Telephone Boxes in the recent publication.

Libby’s birth mother manifests in glass and steel,
In red boxes standing sentinel by roadsides,
Where memory bleeds into countryside....

the taste of Bramleys from our orchard—

tart enough to make eyes water,

staining fingers with windfall juice—

except we never had trees.

memories arrive pre-weathered,

like vintage clothes bought new,

trauma should leave holes,

not these crystalline scenes

flawless pixels.

i dream in binary now........

'A sumptuous banquet of love, death, betrayal... authentic and moving.' —Louise Stokes 'Wonderful images that engage all of the reader's senses.' —Debbi Vosey.

In these crystalline fragments of lives interrupted, a Pushcart Prize nominee presents a kaleidoscope of human experience—each story a shard of colour in a larger mosaic of love, loss, and survival.

From ghostly visitations to visceral revenge, from tender family moments to brutal betrayals, these stories capture the prismatic nature of...

A showcase of poetry from some of the darkest and most lyrical voices of women in horror, Volume II.
Edited by Lindy Ryan and Lee Murray

A follow-up to the award-winning poetry showcase Under Her Skin, UNDER HER EYE features the best in never-before-published dark verse and lyrical prose from the voices of Women in Horror, themed on domestic horror and the terror women too often experience in their own homes.

These petals, time-stained at the edges, hold memories

of purple bleeding through the veils between worlds. Our dying

is both ending and beginning—each curl and crisp echoing

through mirrors of might-have-been, where gravity

releases its hold on our stems.

Watch how we catch starlight differently now,

our flesh turned translucent as ancient maps,

our veins threading paths between was and will-be.

Even as we scatter into stardust, we're teaching

new languages of grace.

Don't press us between pages just...

Judged by Eugen Bacon, Katherine Quevedo, Colleen Anderson and Timothy Flynn , edited by Angela Yuriko Smith.