VOICES Old disfigured hands pass the worn wooden shuttle through the threads Her husband's racking cough locked inside her like decaying yellow papers in a chest The blurred shadow of the apprentice working across the loom reminds her of the dawning days when he was young and strong. Jenny Hardaker It's raining I can't go out I can't get about I can't bend over to pick things up But when I've finished cleaning and polishing washing and ironing I practice my golf shots in the hall Mark Banning His hands in the cold mucky water quickly scrape the gravy off the slimy plate - last night's tea-time dishes, and he spent the night reading under a bare light, the light that shines coldly. No plans for the day, no money. His bed a scattered mess and his book on the floor, brown paper on the wall coming away at the corner, the cold draught coming in low under the door. He dries his hands on the green curtains not bothering to look out and slowly walks over to his bed picks his book up and starts to read. Chris Bolton The man looks out of the window but all he can see is the bare old oak tree. The empty house scares him with his memories. He looks at the antiques she used to collect and turns to see the rocking chair sway. He can almost hear the noise of the needles but he can see the funeral bill tucked behind the photograph of their wedding. Then suddenly his face turns pale, his hands shake as he grasps his chest. Darren Chubbs The flat is dirty and she's depressed Her husband has just left her She's having a cigarette, locked in the toilet The ash is falling on the grey tiled floor It's damp and cold. She's looking at the door Her black eye is puffy and sore. She's dizzy and sick and scared he might come back. She can't hear anything, only herself breathing. Angry. Angry. Annlee Murphy