From the Special Issue Editor, Kirsty Logan by Kirsty Logan

Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland, England and Ireland – together, we fucking rule. There are 60 million of us and we’re producing some of the finest literature, art and music in the world. I could name names, but I have no doubt at all that if you list all your top [...]

In the Duck Light by Jo Gatford

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My baby son got a rubber duck in his Christmas stocking. It lights up when you press the little metal sensors on its underside and the heat of the unventilated bathroom keeps it flashing all night. It leads me in to land when I have to piss [...]

Bábochka (Butterfly) by Cara McGuigan

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Sometimes, at work, the fur was so soft beneath her fingers that Hannah felt she might be sick.  The colours on the tips were not the same the whole way down – the surface might be dark grey, but part it, look along the shaft and the [...]

Hiccup by Susan Rukeyser

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I’m no expert, but to me, it looked human.  This sea has brought me all sorts of things, over the years.  Nothing like this.

No one’s permitted down in this cove, a rocky beach framed by walls built to hold the storms back.  But I like coming here [...]

Job Opportunities Up North by Andrew Pullan

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There was many a time, when I wanted to say,
that Hardrow Force looked like poured sugar or
how the Ure bleeds when cut by a sunrise.

But I didn’t. I kept shtum. Talked about,

grouting methods, how alternators
are always on the blink or the odds
of getting girls in the sack [...]

The Things We Lose in Tunnels by Holly Dawson

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It was worth getting out of bed today. The waistband of my skirt feels strange after weeks in pyjamas, but it’s good to see how life goes on. People get groceries, kids hang around bus stops. Walking down the street, trains rumble above and below me as [...]

HappyVegetarian.com by Alice Slater

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Welcome to HappyVegetarian.com! You are viewing the most recent reviews for Kitty’s Kitchen, London Bridge (oldest to newest).

A FUN PLACE TO EAT

It was a little difficult to find Kitty’s Kitchen – it’s down a funny little backstreet, behind London Bridge railway station – but it was worth [...]

The gorse is out behind Glencanisp by Mandy Haggith

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The hill is a blaze of rapefield yellow,
formica kitchen table yellow,
angry bawling teenage drumkit yellow
though honey biscuit sweet
with pale primroses at its feet
a demure cuckoo across the glen
and dandelions and tormentils below
all yellow, yellow, yellow.

Trash Ducks by Jarred McGinnis

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She took my empty water bottle and waggled hers.

“Do you want to feed the trash ducks?” she asked. I didn’t know what she meant, but I followed. Of course, I followed. When you meet a girl who is perfect, not real, there is nothing to do, but [...]

Molly Fawn by Celeste Auge

Things you (probably) shouldn’t tell your boyfriend:

That you once exchanged a backseat fuck for money. But it was only one of the Byrne brothers, from down the road in Glasnevin.

That your mother lives in a mental institution – St Brendan’s over in Grangegorman.

That you prefer doodling pictures on the backs [...]

Sonny by Angela Readman

It sounded like a canny deal. The guy was wearing trousers that looked like they’d been picked up at a clown’s going out of business sale. He was necking a bottle of beer with his pinkie out like his hand didn’t know he wasn’t at a tea party. I couldn’t [...]

How to Make a Bomb In the Kitchen of Your Mother by Gareth Durasow

and now for the science bit

the factoids that one overhears on the lash:

I am afraid to eat sandwiches I have made myself

because they always have blood in them

and the tips of my fingers

if you can’t stop sneezing

you’ve got sex on the brain

George Sand by Dawn West

Dear Joan,

November 1st

Claudia called me this morning to let me know you died. When I asked her when and why and how did she get my number, she rushed me with tears and Gaelic. She hung up before I could get her to calm down and speak English. I’m sure [...]

903 Eyre Square by Ronnie Stephens

An aged man in new tweed
takes the floor.

Brass band sets the stage
with a slow serenade.

Saxophone and trumpet
weave tapestries across the room.

His shuffle is careful
but fluid, deliberate steps

carry him across faded wood slats
with a young woman in costume. Tonight
she is a flapper. Another waits her turn.

He has dipped his wife.
He has [...]

The Lost Things and the Seagull by Helen Sedgwick

The tide is coming in. The light is creeping through the heavy layer of clouds; it is dry, still, but for the sea mist that shrouds the beach in an ethereal purple shimmer. Amber is pulling her brother along impatiently by the hand. She is leading him over the expanse [...]

Adrian Dumpleton by Jack Nicholls

Adrian Dumpleton, oh my God. Adrian Dumpleton, oh my God. I could grate cheese on his abs, if he were to develop some, and then use the cheese to make him the world’s most amorous sandwich. Adrian Dumpleton would devour the sandwich and then we would fly to Paris. Doubtless [...]

The House Sparrow by Nikki Magennis

A sparrow swoops out of the thunder-heavy sky, crosses the window, and disappears into the nest built in the eaves. Every time the adult bird returns, the nest explodes with wild plaints from the clutch of chicks. One sharp, insistent voice is loudest of all – the one that fell [...]

Two Poems by Harry Giles

the action of descending rapidly from a height once the decision to land has been
made

If we could fly – if arms were aerofoils
with cambered hands; if a brief jog
built airflow, lift; if up-stroke, down
-stroke, angle of attack were as natural
and hard-won as walking -

if all this, then most of us [...]

Does tha Believe in Pierce Brosnan? by Sarah Dalton

Now then pal, that dun’t know nowt, thee, and tha best listen up an ken what I’m about to tell thee. Them down there they dun’t know nowt either and they gi’ us lot a bad name. Talking poncy? Ooh la-di-da, he says – the baddie in them films. Always [...]

Two Poems by Flora Baker

Bird/Cage

My sister has flat eyes.

I cannot see behind her irises, but they spin like thaumatropes. (One side flashes cages, the other side brown birds with soft wings.)

Stretched out in the sun upon the kerb, heads bent down into apostrophes, we used to watch our legs for bruises, collected them like [...]

To Wakefield by Claire Askew

To Wakefield
after Jenny Lindsay

Wakefield, you dirty bitch.
You patron saint of brickyards and rickets,
leaky filling in the mouth of the North.

There is no better word for you than slag.
Sat out on the dead and yellow lawn
of industry, braless and drunk,

you’re hitching up your negligee
to flash the trains.  Wakefield,
the ultimate lousy lay -

you [...]