I had been driving all night. My only thought was of coffee. I needed it and I needed it fast, or I was going to fall asleep at the wheel. I couldn’t even take in the little Cornish cove that I had pulled up in front of as I was drawn towards the only source of caffeine I can see. The small cafe is only just putting out the signs, but as I stumble towards it, I don’t care. I can’t even process the fact that I had arrived in Cornwall at long last. It was long overdue. There are a couple of paddleboards lined up against the wall, covered in sand, a couple of wetsuits slung over chairs, water oozing onto the ground, and a trail of sandy foot prints. I knew instinctively that these were my people. I had found them. It was for this reason that I didn’t hesitate as I cross the car park to the cafe door. A girl was scrubbing a counter down, wearing a pair of board shorts and a bikini top. ‘Hey,’ she says as she heard the door squeak behind me. ‘I put the wetsuits out.’ She looks up. ‘You’re...

Treading Water By Sophie Reid Chapter One We found the ants in the honey the morning my father made an announcement at breakfast. It was two days into the summer holidays and this seemed important, although the ants stick more in my memory. After all, it wasn’t every day you came across drowned ants in a honey jar. The morning sun bounced off the gold lid, lighting up crumbs that were scattered across the table. ‘Marian,’ my father said, the rejected honey pot in front of him. He laid his knife down on his plate. His voice was hesitant and hoarser than usual. His movements were slow. I paused as I buttered my toast. I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to hear what it was that he had to say. I stared at that honey pot, with the tiny black bodies floating in the thick mix. They were small dots that could have been breadcrumbs or bits of dirt, which I would have looked past in my morning daze. How had they even got there? They were ants on a suicidal mission. It was sad to see that they had all followed one another, like...

The market stall is selling white lilies, Buds still closed, the stems delicately thin, Bundled into buckets of water.   You would have stopped, And dragged me over, to choose A bunch or two to take home.   The house would have been full Of white flowers dropping Their stamens as the petals opened.   When you were gone they decorated The church with vases everywhere Crammed into every corner.   I walk past the stall and pause, See the lilies propped up in a bucket, Heads closed, nodding.