By Julian Dobson and Ella Hubbard
In Dante’s Inferno, Hell has four stinking rivers. Less well known are the two in Purgatorio: Lethe, for forgetting past wrongs, and Eunoe, a flow of restored and reordered memory before entering paradise.
Read MoreBy Vikki C.
The last autumn of touch was given mutely,
burnished notes dripping their damp vowels.
We were forbidden from bringing the outside in.
Read MoreBy Chitra Kalyani
You would change homes, names, countries, religions, genders, tongues, species -
If only that would unmake it all.
Read MoreBy Rachel Turney
But in the end, she is standing all alone, so deeply unsatisfied.
When he was learning Japanese, his eyes were always down on pages. His fingers gripping a pen. He was learning how to read and write in a way that would even further separate them.
Read MoreBy Özge Lena
A sharp moon blues the Bosphorus.
I stand on the dark edge
of one of Istanbul's seven hills,
and the city lies beneath me
Read MoreBy Eli Rodriguez Fielder
the last map drawn by hand
was sent to me by the last artist to use paper
and I found the last pencil
to make the last annotation
Read MoreBy Jade Bailey Brock
I don’t read the news anymore. Up north, they have this phrase for people like us: tammaqtutit uppirusukkavit nalligijaunnginnirnik?—do you mistakenly believe you’re not loved? All those letters crowding out the spaces where the seers used to go.
Read MoreBy Athena Melliar
Aeolou is a street leading to the Acropolis of Athens.
Aeolou is a road to the Athenian citadel, like a safe harbourage offering to a stranger looking
rather familiar — Τίνος είσαι εσύ;
Read MoreBy Charissa Egger
It rained 165 days the year we moved to Big Cougar Island. Though, at the right time of year, not a drop of rain is to be seen; at the right time of year, the island is only fair weather.
Read MoreBy Jenny Mitchell
I draw a line on a slightly downwards slope from the Meander River in the top right of my map to Mole Creek. This represents the cattle route surveyed in January 1827 for the Van Diemen’s Land Company by Joseph Fossey. Fossey’s track became the Mole Creek Road.
Read MoreBy Alice Kent
Out here in the edgeland, borderland, hinterland, whatever you choose to call it, I came to realise the problem: nobody could hear us scream.
Read MoreBy Helen Grant
I arrive in Manchester utterly unknowing. I have no job and my job applications have only received rejections, so no interviews are on the horizon either.
Read MoreBy David Koehn
I am alone in my study at Tydeman’s in Rijnsburg.
This dialogue between us spares the guilty,
Unbroken fire hydrants on both sides of the Seine,
The identity of the people who betrayed us,
Read MoreBy Asim Mudgal
Sounds of the distant voice, utensils clattering, water flushing out in the sewer are
possessing my rented room.
In this, I am caught up in the directions
Of east or west, north or south.
Read MoreBy Joe Pearson
At the exact moment the world is saved, Anya lights a candle; her mother lies dead on the table before her, storm rain still dripping from the body’s pale face.
Read MoreBy Laurence Lillvik
We’re not asking you to understand. Not begging you to be the goldfish. We’re not a willow in a field, or the groundwater it signifies.
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