Tents – Poem

There’s a tent in a garden by a stately home where butter, yeast and flour make dough. Where Mary Berry detests soggy bottoms and an orange man scoffs bakers’ dozens. It’s a quaint sort of place and the people kind of funny but in that tent they try and bake community. There’s a tent in…

Pilgrimage – Short Story

I walk into the bar and no one smiles at me. It is a world lit by the slit light of the disco ball. Toned torsos undulate in the screens on the wall, they possess no hairs, they barely possess faces but they do promise: they promise of all the things I could have, of…