First Prize, Reflex Fiction Spring 2022 Competition
’One, two
Buckled into sturdy shoes she gimbals on a walking stick…’

First Prize, Edinburgh Award for Flash Fiction 2022
’It spins up on a thermal, fluttering in a sparrow-brown envelope (second class)…’

First published in Mslexia Issue 86, June 2020: Other Worlds
‘He was there mornings, evenings; by night the rising and dimming glow of his cigarette was visible. She stopped opening the curtains. Resented the loss of daylight…’

First published in Popshot Issue 30, November 2020
’Me? I spent twenty years in the army, five in the nick, five in the rodeo. Snakeskin boots, pretty as a girl…’

First published in Epiphany, August 2021
’Never trust a man who wears jewellery. It was her mother’s best advice, but she’d always wondered where one drew the line. Cufflinks? Wristwatches?’

Published in The Tiger Moth Review, January 2021

‘…this drifter cadges

black Costa coffee, a cigarette,

watches from a bench

lycra cyclists click in and fly, starlings. ‘

Published in The Southampton Review, Winter/Spring 2019

‘Omens colored the first moments of our working day. So did the junkies, of course, the discarded furniture, the tipped-over garbage cans…’

2nd place, Charroux Memoir Poetry Prize 2019

‘…casting loops elliptic round moons
Danish blue and white.
I am neon night, fast-train tracing
ley lines point to point…‘

Published in Ambit 238, Autumn 2019
’It was as though the hilltop had opened and closed like the mouth of a great fish.’

First Prize, Winter 2019, Reflex Fiction
’Marco watched from an unlit window, two storeys up. The old building ticked and sighed around him. Squat housing, an abandoned warehouse backed against indigo strings of railway track.’

First Prize, Scottish Arts Trust Story Awards 2019
‘When their eyes locked over the cheese dip at the Bodleian Library’s Christmas party, Alexandria Pergamum and Constantine Celsus felt the stirrings of something long overdue.’

National Flash Flood, 2019
‘…we hurtle day by day down this self-same track blind to the whipcord land, ridge and furrow, ridge and furrow…’