Mark Taylor

It had been a sixty-year campaign, and just him for most of that. Him and his chart of constellations – new ones, ones that made sense. He knew when he began that he might get nowhere, and he thought he had accepted it, but now he felt his heart wearing out

It's not your fault, he said to the tears on her face. You know the blobfish? They call it the world's ugliest animal. But it only looks like that when you fish it up. It's the pressure change that does it. You see what

He left late, because the cake had taken so long. But the cake was a disaster, too, an eggy, unrisen mess in the tin. It didn't even taste good with his eyes closed. So he was late and cakeless, except for the smear of it unnoticed on his

In the dream there was wet cloth over her face, and when she peeled it away she found another layer, and another. When she woke, she could still feel it there, suffocating her, blinding her. She lived that way for years, afraid to dream, but hopeful, too, that the next

When the leaves fell, things would feel better. The world would have shaken off its heaviness and he would see the sky through his window again. He knew what he needed. He had everything ready. He was just waiting for one good windy day to strip the branches bare. But

Grey-tongued, he braved sunlight and strangers until he reached the bookshop. Shelves and shelves of nothing. He had a pile of library books, five times renewed, and reservations just come in, but he wanted to buy. He wanted perfect corners and the smell of ink. He wanted papercuts, not words.

I spent all morning at the beach looking for two perfect shells that my mum could make into earrings. I got one straight away, so I thought I'd find another one quickly too, but then they were all broken or the wrong colour or had holes in. She