This year, with the inaugural Blackwell’s Short Story Prize, Cherwell aimed to reconnect with its roots as a literary magazine in the 1920s, when our undergraduate contributors (including Evelyn Waugh, Graham...
"The people have solidified since the summer.
Seized up in the cold.
No longer fluid
Melting and melding together in the sun
They can be discerned as individuals now.
Separate entities two metres apart."
"A delicate chain bobs around his neck (his neck being the whole length of his body, which is just one long neck really); he bought it after watching Normal Worms. Maybe if he looked like worm-Connell, he imagines, things would have been different. Maybe worm-Sharon wouldn’t have left him for worm-Darren."
"Rain cracks its whip
Against the windows. The wielder: autumn.
From the cottage in the cleft of the foothills
You can see a flickering light, just out of sight
And it stains the blackest night."
"A worm has beaten me to the hole I’m digging;
when I pull apart the soil, I find
a slender punctuation mark in the mud.
Its pink body threads through the dark clay."
"It was uncommonly sultry and dark when I arrived at the Winchester water meadows. The scene was a
near stereotype, and it reminded me of those decrepit - far too embellished - landscapes you see in many
royal palaces."
"Now, God’s people are soon to flee,
Into the wilderness and coarser sands
He takes them, they at last are free,
But I, loyal servant, loving wife,
What is God’s plan for me?"