Nikki Williams

He swaggered along the lip of the pool—she held her breath, knew what came next. 
The noise that could destroy daylight, could shake you awake.

The walls watch her clear the breakfast things, never her thoughts. Her hopes hang like ghost-grey fog. Seasons cycle on.

She sits alone under berried limbs, her bare legs blanketed by blackness, the crickets’ ceaseless song spilling into dusk.

Then, footsteps on gravel. One turn too many.

Sudden flurry of movement, black flash against the black night. Her red eyes swallow the perfect sluice of white.

His voice booms—unclear, unintelligible. Words that no longer matter.

NIKKI WILLIAMS is a copywriter and music critic. Her work appears in The Citron Review, Ellipsiszine, Sublunary Review, LEON Literary Review, Sky Island Journal, Literary Yard, PreeLit, Nymphs and New Pop Lit. She munches trail mix and takes stunning photos when not busy writing. She tweets: @ohsashalee / See more: linktr.ee/writenowrong

Rob Yates

put the orchids down there
            and watch out for the spine.

it came up in the night like that memory
            you hug far too tight

but when the singing cuts out
            there’ll be song, loud enough to cook with.

whitewater of the soul, fugue with scales and tongue, 
            joke upon joke collapsing like an accordion. 

prevention of sleep, steps in the wrong mud,
            the drip drip drop of manna on marshland.

you’ve disturbed the undergrowth again
            with your unclipped feet.

red clots left from the open sky burial
            even the kites won’t feed

to their monstrous young – prepared for life,
            wheeling for death, the flat music 

of merry-go-rounds, dissonance as tonic,
            mistakes made with harmonic intent,

a magazine no longer in print,
            a printed date, the inner stone, a thunder that precedes its maker,

old train approaching long distance through the day before
            tunnels of smoke and the stamping of bulls 

and leave the orchids on the side, right there,
            next to the rest of the morning.

we can always turn them into something else,
            soon as I get this reptilian bear

back in its cage. don’t help me, I’ve got it. 

ROB YATES has appeared as a bookseller, a bartender, a casual gardener, and a charity worker both at home and abroad. He originally hails from Essex but is currently journeying through New Zealand. Some of his work has appeared in Agenda, Bodega, Envoi and other literary magazines – he tries to keep everything under one roof as much as possible via www.rob-yates.co.uk.