'Maria' by Andrew Rees

My name is Maria. This has always been important to me, my name. It is the name of the mother of Jesus. It rings like a hammer striking a clean bell.

'Slumbering Through Time and Trace (a modern adaptation of Revenge of the Flowers' by Freyia Lilian Porteous

The second hand alarm clock, which perches, owl-like and wise on her windowsill, reads three thirty two. Father time, she bought him from a flea market, attracted to the strange tinny sheen and old-fashioned bell mechanism. He began his life in the 1950s. 1952 to be precise. On the 15th of February, around midday he was finished, and polished, and packed. He was first sent to a department store in Wakefield, where he was purchased two weeks later by a woman named April with a bad stutter and very bright blue eyes. After serving her faithfully for twenty four years, the clock was lost when April divorced her first husband, and moved to London. She has since lost her bad stutter, as well as her faithful clock.

'The Book of Longing and Regret' by Sahera Parveen

No more birdsong and the sky is cobalt and mercury. As I close my eyes in meditation I see a quick flicker of hot, white light. I think it's just a trick of the mind, but I could be mistaken. Maybe it's the future trying to push its way through.

'In What Capacity' by Mazin Saleem

'See? So the universe can't be empty or heartless.' She'd finally stopped looking at the laptop. I went for broke. 'In fact, everything means something. Understanding must happen! Connection is real! Love exists! And why?'
'Um.'
'Because you do. You're the universe's opening eye. You're the-'
'Um, can you not do that please?'
'What? Oh that,'
'That makes me feel really uncomfortable.'
'Sorry. But I thought. Sorry.'

'Designs On Life' by Elizabeth Stott

Victoria lies back with her eye mask on her forehead and looks at Charlie's latest picture. His report says that he is exceptional, and that the money they send helps him to stay healthy and pays for his schooling. But if only he could find a sponsor to send him to a private school where his intellect could be developed...To send a child to private school here would cost thousands. She wonders if she'll ever have her own Charlie. Forty is not really so far away now and Annie has told her how expensive children are and that a woman must make sacrifices, especially in the you-know-what department. But Victoria is proud of her toned body. So many of her friends have sagged in the middle after children, despite being Yummy Mummies on the outside. She imagines a huge baby stretching her skin, ruining her pelvic floor, tearing her perineum, her breasts overflowing with milk and all of her becoming a pile of wobbly jelly.

'Buffeteering' by Adrian Slatcher

The three of us walked back down Market Street reluctant to split our separate ways but unable to think of a reason to prolong the evening. The septagenuarian flute player is still playing the melody line to 'Money, Money, Money' above a tinny backing track outside Boots on Market Street. Tom and Helen walk off and I stand next to him, unable to move. In my jacket pocket I've a handful of Euros. He nods a thank you. I drop the coins into his open flute-case and hope he doesn't notice I've scammed him. After all, we'll both be back tomorrow.

'The Green Book' by Steven Yates

We can't afford it.
The four words rang through his mind like a thorn in his eye, a constant hinderance.
His mother had constantly said it.
His girlfriend now constantly said it.
He was now saying it to himself as he saw yet another item that was meant to keep him indoors. An item that would be added to his useless bundle of items that he rarely used, nor needed but wanted once. And yet the film he wanted that would at least give him an hour and forty two minutes of ignorance to the world, was out of reach, the glass being a shield and the price tag being a spear, warding him off.

'Gordon' by Jennifer Smith

Lifting a fork of jellied flesh to his nose, he closed his eyes like a wine connoisseur and inhaled. The pink and brown chunks looked moist enough to complement biscuits. There wasn't too much gelatine though. That was a sign of quality. The tin looked very professional too. A royal blue label showed a cartoon Dalmatian wearing a red collar and a sailor's hat. It had a fish in its mouth. The pooch hung its legs over the buoyancy ring that surrounded it. The words 'Sea Bass and Asparagus' were written in the red and white sections of the ring. The young hopefuls watched him eagerly, willing him to love their product. He opened his mouth, and slid the sample in. He ate quietly, revealing nothing. He closed his eyes as he chewed, focussing on the necessary senses. The entrepeneurs waited, awestruck; their mouths dry. He was a genius.

'Crossed Wires' by Katharine Seymour

She looks out onto the garden scene, enclosed by a box-hedge, tall against an overcast off-white sky, but does not see it. Instead, she sees a chin of images that constantly change. She tries to hold onto one, to grab it forcefully between the imaginary forceps of her mind, and hold it there, so she can examine it, see it more clearly - but she can't, and this upsets her.

'Another Quiet Morn' by Terry Murphy

After he came to he was lay on the floor next to his chair. He could feel the strangest sensation around his stomach and groin. It was a lovely warm and wet feeling. It covered him, and he was thankful for this moment of pleasure during an insane period of his morning. When he opened his shirt he saw blood. The blip of bliss he felt was completely washed away now. Following the blood flow up his chest he came across a deep well leading to where his heart used to reside. He began to cry, because although there was no pain from the wound, he realised that he would have to replace his heart. His happy smiling, cheery pink heart, who was polite and respectful, with the shrivelled and cracked, angry black heart, who was obnoxious and repulsive.

'Getting Through to Natalie' by Catherine Mills

It took him until the third week to notice the girl with dark red hair and scarlet framed glasses sitting in the second row.
They clashed, but she pulled it off; far more interesting than the bottle blonde to her right or the plain mouse to her left. He looked up her name in the register. Natalie Black. She often put up her hand to answer questions. He liked her; she felt like an ally.

'Double-Crossed' by Katy Jones

Thus I cogitated. Many greenfingered hours grew. And it lumed a smite. Musted I hop in, hop in and shackle fore the lume grew full. Ungreened I then my fingers. Made food - custardcake and jellies. Ate. Must needs grind in murkhouse, even this Jemima day. Washed clothes cups forks floor.

'The Christmas We Walked On The Ice' by Sarah Jasmon

Ice forms in stages on the canal. The first ice is thin and delicate, clean and brittle. It stretches across the surface like a membrane, moving with the water below. If you listen carefully, you can hear when it snaps. If you throw a stone, this first ice explodes into glittering rhomboids, and it gives itself up at the first hint of sun. But, though it doesn't last, it prepares the way. If the following night is clear, the air cold enough to leave breath hanging on the air and crystals forming on each blade of grass, the ice will form in a solid plate, lined imperceptibly by the diagonal ripples caught in freeze frame beneath. In the morning this ice has a deceptive steadiness. A thrown stone will bounce, reverberating from the surface, the aural equivalent of the expanding circles of a stone in water. Another such night and there is strength enough to hold a dog's weight.

'Jessyka Hoop: An A-Z' by Laura Marsden

Anthony Winter was the first person I mad e love to. We did it above a newspaper shop in Burnley , England. I was 14. It didn't hurt as much as I thought it would. Afterwards, we played Nintendo, ate Monster Munch and smoked Berkeley Reds. It was remarkably unremarkable. I thought he was exp er ienced , but a few mo nths later , his brother told me that Ant hony had been a virgin too.

'Sundial' by Vincent Heselwood

If you repeat things over and over I guess they get stuck in your head. I even dream about work. Mr Mcclusky screaming at me, calling me an idiot again. I relive that day when he threw his mug at me over and over again. 'Hello Pristine Paper this is Neville speaking, welcome to my dream' I should say. I have a boring job and I dream about work. How boring.

'I Love You Less Now That I Know You' by Katy Harrison

You'd tell me that you'd always found tattoos tacky. I'd say if you played Transmission one more time I'd use it as a Frisbee. You'd say The Smiths were for repressed Catholic gayboys. I'd cut off your festival wristband as you slept.

'Otherwise' by Robert Graham

Laughing, she said, 'But we never had lunch together - in a bistro or anywhere else.'
'Are you sure?'
'And I never had any thought of being a journalist.'
'Really?'
'That must have been another girl. Is that what you writers do?' she asked. 'Bunch the girls in your lives all up together?'
'In a piece of writing maybe,' I said. 'But not usually in our memories.'