by Jon Banthorpe | Apr 12, 2020 | Poetry
(For John Prine) Like the poordon’t have it bad enough,this virus seems tobe singling them out.And they’re re-openingPotter’s Field,and the Blacks and Hispanicsdon’t stand a chance. If you’re froma shit hole countrythen you’re doubly screwed.‘Cos for oncewe have the...
by Jon Banthorpe | Apr 8, 2020 | Non-fiction
John Prine died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know… I first heard him at the student union bar at my university in North London. I worked there and the bar manager, Tom, had a friend who was a punk from Northern Ireland. He saw that I liked country music and...
by Jon Banthorpe | Apr 7, 2020 | Fiction
She said she saw the devil, in the vacant lot on Chandlers Row. ‘It’s true mummy,’ she said tearfully as she kicked off her shoes in the front hallway and shucked her book bag on the living room floor. ‘He had a funny hat. And his smile wasn’t nice it was mean. And...
by Nick Tabone | Apr 4, 2020 | Non-fiction
Green Bay, Wisconsin to Duluth, Minnesota Tom Weafer was an old colleague of my dad’s. They worked for the Ontario government. Both were new to the country. Tom was from Ireland. He was a little older and had been in Canada a bit longer and my father looked up to him....
Recent Comments