Category Archives: Competitions

Star Gazing with the Green Man – a short story by Lynne Voyce

Star Gazing with the Green Man

Calling it a love story doesn’t quite explain it. It was a collision: his world of nature went smash-bang into my world of commerce. Of course, he couldn’t stay.  Still, sitting here, miles from the city where we met, round bellied and sleepy, the January sun reaching through the dirt dappled window, I can’ help but reminisce.

It was the first Tuesday of March, Shrove Tuesday.  In a seven o clock dash around the supermarket, stinking of printer ink, fingers aching from bashing at a keyboard, I bought the ingredients for pancakes. I would make them in my narrow kitchen, douse with lemon and sugar then eat them with my fingers, standing up in stockinged feet, washing it all down with a bottle of soave.  Slut that I am.

‘Pancake Day’ had been big in my family.  But while other villagers celebrated it then observed Ash Wednesday and Lent with excited self-sacrificing zeal, we simply gorged ourselves with fried batter and sugar then gave up nothing after.  Winters were always hard in such isolation, so, for us borderline heathens the celebration of its end with a feast was necessary rather than religious.

So many bleak, bitter winter nights had been spent by a draughty window, staring at the mist hemming in our cottage, that I seem to have missed life as a teenager.  I longed to get out and lose myself in a city full of fascinations.

Then, there I was, slam bang in the middle of the metropolis.  But I was too busy to be fascinated by anything.  My world was as small and grey as ever: my flat, to the underground, to the office and back again. Morning and night.  And while my bank account grew, my life shrunk even more.  I could barely breathe; it wasn’t the city smog that stopped me but the suffocating pressure and alienation.  I was drowning among a tide of papers and monitors.

So, when I stood in the checkout queue, pancake ingredients in my basket, ravenously eating a sandwich I’d yet to pay for, I was incapable of feeling anything.  I wasn’t even ashamed when the checkout girl shook her head in disgust as she scanned the empty butter stained sandwich packet.  It might as well have been a flag emblazoned with the phrase, “lonely workaholic who was too ‘busy’ for lunch”.

I was still licking the egg mayonnaise off my fingers when I stepped out of the supermarket and into the underground station next door. It was then I saw it: a midnight blue poster pasted to the pale green tiles, silver pinprick stars spelling out, ‘Star Gazing.  All Welcome. North Gate of the heath, 9 p.m.’ It was a dreamy, magical notice, shimmering and childlike.

I hadn’t looked at the sky for months.  I didn’t even know you could still see the stars in the city, with all the light pollution.  And surprisingly, even to myself, in that moment I decided to go.

So, after pancakes and wine I put on a coat, hat and perfume.  I didn’t have any gloves.   Somehow, I hadn’t felt the London winter merited buying them, although there’d been moments that year when it seemed as if my fingers and toes would snap off like icicles.

When I arrived at the North Gate of the heath, there was a small gathering of people, breathing streams of steam, each pretending to be an adventurer.  I placed myself in the ring, smiled; there were nods and return smiles.  But the smiles disappeared, when at eight o clock exactly, in the clear dark, there was a shaking beneath the grey tarmac, as if a slumbering earth was shifting in her sleep.  And to add to the excitement, the moment the gasps and terror subsided there was a rustling in the copse that formed that end of the heath.   The low branches of the oaks and beeches began to tremble; the squat bushes at the edge of the wood shook and parted. Our guide emerged, rising from the undergrowth as if he had been there all along.  He strode towards us wearing brown and green, as if for camouflage.  A tall, young, bearded man with shining malachite eyes, illuminated in the shaft of light from the street lamp where we gathered. His sanguine smile only served to delineate our sense of disquiet.

“Did you feel the tremor?” one of the group asked as he joined the circle, right next to me.

“I did.  It’s just the earth shuddering from all the punishment she takes.”

His intoxicating scent of grass and coltsfoot along with his powerful presence were a heady mix.  I swayed towards him.  Then, as if it was a perfectly natural thing to do, he scooped up my right hand.  “Your fingers are cold.  Don’t you have any gloves?”  His sonorous voice swept past me; I had to listen hard to catch it.  He lifted my fingers to his lips, his warm breath making them tingle – the whole of me tingle.  The rest of the circle just looked on.  It may have been just a passing moment to them, something a young, free outdoors man might do to a city woman as she stood on the pavement, waiting to be shown what wonders the natural world still held. “My name is Ingram,” he said to us all, “there are some fascinating constellations visible tonight.” Then we went through the North Gate.

At the end of that night, after staring at the sky long enough for the pin prick stars to appear from the haze of streetlamps and lit office buildings, the group arranged to meet again at the weekend. Ingram said the sky would be slightly darker then, so it would be easier for us to see.

That weekend was the first time I hadn’t worked a Saturday for as long as I could remember.  During the afternoon I went for a walk, bought a bunch of daffodils, made a meal with vegetables from the local greengrocers and climbed onto the roof of my block of flats to smoke a cigarette I’d found at the bottom of an unused handbag.

I arrived at the North Gate, clear headed and relaxed, joining the waiting circle.  Ingram silently walked towards me from the direction of the wood, immediately taking my right hand in his. I didn’t pull away, rather I let his warmth envelop me. We held hands for most of the night.

I kept returning to the star gazing circle for the whole of March and most of April; no longer was my Saturday spent at work.  Instead, I’d wake early and go about my domestic business while noticing every last detail around me: the shifting clouds; the shade of the sky; the daisies pushing through the gaps in the pavement.  I let my skin feel the wash of rain and the kiss of the spring sun.  The world was alive again.

By mid-April, Ingram and I were seeing each other alone.  We would walk on the heath, or around the garden squares, or stroll beneath the hornbeams and plane trees that lined the avenues off the high street. We watched the bare branches take on their clothes, a whole palette of greens, splashed with pink and white blossom.

By the end of May, the wood that bordered the heath was thick and dense again.  We negotiated it with a torch one night, Ingram leading the way, holding my hand.  At its very heart, in a place invisible to the road or path, we stopped.

“Why are we stopping here?” I said.

Ingram didn’t answer.  Instead, he took his pack from his back, pulled out bed rolls and blankets.  “It’s going to be a dry night.  Let’s sleep here.”

“But we can’t see any stars,” I murmured, feeling foolish and a little afraid.        “Yes, but we know they are there.”

“I’m cold”

“I’ll make a fire.” Almost instantly he set about clearing the leaves and undergrowth, creating a stone circle with found rocks.  I stood in the clearing with the torch, wondering whether to turn and run.

Soon, we were in the orange glow of the flames, stretched on the blankets, a ring of darkness around us.  His daytime scent of grass and coltsfoot still lingered and there was a crackle of magic that seemed to have come alive with the dancing fire.  He leaned over, put a hand on the curve of my hip, kissed me.  His warm, sweet tasting mouth was soft and insistent.  It was a potent sensation.  He smelt earthier now, and when I reached up to his hair, I could feel waxy leaves tangled in the soft curls.  I cannot remember the details of what happened next but I remember the feelings.  We made love and it was, by all accounts, the most thrilling, profound night of my life.

When I woke, to the song of a blackbird, even in the densest part of the wood the stippled sun shone through.   Ingram lay next to me, his face glowing gold, the blanket over his shoulders strewn with emerald leaves and vegetation.  He opened his eyes, they shone a hypnotic black.  “How do you feel?” his voice was a whisper.

“Alive,” I said.

“You know what I’m going to tell you, don’t you?”

I nodded.  I had always known.  His leaving was inevitable.  Yet, I wasn’t bitter or even upset; instead I felt an overwhelming sense of liberation.

“I’m sorry. I have to go.” I sensed his regret; I think he wanted to spend the summer with me.

“I won’t forget you,” I murmured as I stood.  The mellow, woody air was sensual against my nakedness.  He just lay there and watched as I pulled on my clothes.  I turned to leave. But as I was about to step out of our enchanted circle, I looked back to say a last goodbye.  I could barely make him out against the verdant carpet of spring.

On the High Street, the rising sun bled orange across a clear sky.  The early shopkeepers and marketeers wore shirtsleeves and thin jumpers.  Vivid fruit and flowers were being unloaded from the back of vans. There seemed to have been a change.  It was the beginning of summer.

And what a splendid summer it was, hot and sultry. I yearned for Ingram but I didn’t feel alone.  The streets were busy; people in the neighbourhood I had rushed past so many times, were friendly to me now.  They’d beckon me for pavement coffees, invite me for beer garden drinks.

It was September before I realised I was pregnant.  Upon my discovery I momentarily wished for Ingram but that gave way to rejoicing at his precious, parting gift.   Even though I was alone, in a small city flat, I felt nothing but hope and excitement.  I trusted – and still trust – that fate will provide for her, just as fate and nature gave her to me in the first place.

Soon, despite the city glowing ochre and bronze in the autumn light, the pavements strewn with amber leaves from the steadfast trees, it no longer bewitched me.  I resolved to move somewhere a child could be closer to the earth, could see the uninterrupted stretch of night sky that is the canvas for the constellations.

Now, here I am in my narrow, rickety cottage in the midst of winter, the raging fire merely biting the ends of the draught from the ill-fitting front door.  The frost is thick and hard across the garden.  The nearest shop for milk or a newspaper is a fifteen-minute walk, but I can walk at my own pace and breathe again.

Every so often I feel the fluttering shift of tiny hands and feet inside me, then a bold, boisterous kick.  She will be born in February. Her name is Muna.  All I can do is hope that one day, next spring, he will return to see her. SLQ

Lynne Voyce

Lynne Voyce

Lynne Voyce has had more than fifty short stories published in books, magazines and online. She has won and been placed in many competitions.  Her first solo short story collection was published in December 2014 by Ink Tears Press.  It is available from their website and on Amazon in first edition hardback and Kindle.  Lynne is currently working on her first novel and blogs outlining her journey.  She lives with her husband, two daughters and various animals in Birmingham, where she works as an English Teacher in an inner city comprehensive.  She is an avid reader, watcher and talker.

Star Gazing with the Green Man by Lynne Voyce won second prize in the Sentinel Annual Short Story Competition 2015 judged by Alex Keegan.

Hutton’s Unconformity – a poem by David Smith

David Smith

Hutton’s Unconformity

The mind seemed to grow giddy by looking so far into the abyss of time.’ John Playfair, James Mutton’s companion, 1788.

It took time to find the courage to attempt the scramble
Down, the cliff path being as treacherous as a kiss.
And once down, the scramble for the words begins.
But they are as slippery as the slope. I fear the worst.
Rocks …… sharper than a serpent’s tooth
Piled haphazardly like an ill-kept country churchyard,
Grey as a winter’s shipping forecast, visibility poor,
Topped with pinks, like a virgin’s blush.
Told you so. Words as stale as a teacher’s coffee breath
Jostle for attention, just like his unmanageable class.
I pick through the jumble, knowing they are worn, second-hand, possibly soiled,
And yet I must make-do and mend and create
If not something beautiful, at least something I would be seen dead in.
Around the rugged rocks the ragged rascal ran.

I see and feel defeated. But, you, sir, looked
And as you looked you knew that we had been staring
Down the wrong end of the telescope all this time.
You understood what these mute blocks and slabs were trying to say:
That time itself was not a murmuring stream meandering
To nowhere in particular but an ocean.
Or rather ocean after ocean after rolling ocean stretching
Further than the mind can see. Multitudinous.
And I bet that knowledge jabbed you with all the force
Of that gannet’ s beak, bayoneting the waves.

High above me, swallows swoop and dive and gather
Around the ruins of the abandoned church;
Below my feet, the sea, always an attentive lover,
Relentlessly, timelessly, licks every nook and cranny in the rocks.

I look around and see with your eyes, sir,
But I hold this pen in my own left hand and write.


Hutton’s Unconformity by David Smith was Commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Competition, May 206, by Mandy Pannett.

The Markfield Tomb – poem by John Gallas

John Gallas

The Markfield Tomb

Though it’s April now, when even shades are bright,
what was A Fine & Noble Wife Below remains unsprung.
Her monument in leafy tongues battered out of stone declares
that The End of Time is the Beginning of Eternity.

So she waits, in a lapidary swimming-pool with four
stone pineapples, departed, but not there yet,
for the Fiery Crane, and watches while she floats,
to the north, south, east and west.

The silver birches hold their silver breaths :
under the pavement Eternity counts – seventeen million
six hundred and fourteen thousand eight hundred
and ninety two. An angel sucks his trumpet.

Sometimes up, sometimes down, from pinkish coffin cliffs
to wet, black, corky beds, the Noble Wife treads water.
Down we go : the lawnmower is coming, tossing wisps of hay
into the springing air. The birches glitter on the wind.

The Markfield Tomb by John Gallas was Commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition May 2016 judged by Mandy Pannett.

Slapton’s sand trails – a poem by E K Wall

E K Wall
Slapton’s sand trails

I laid you to rest decades ago,
wrapped in a kid-smooth shroud,
put down in poetry’s casket, festooned
in an adolescent seaweed-string of syllables.
Words filled the gaps between your wax body and
the edges that we never got a chance to go beyond.

I buried you there, in that stretch between
happiness and pain, where the sky
meets the crushed sand and
you cannot hear yourself scream.
Surrounded by days out, debris, remnants
you seemed happy to be let go of.

Digging with a broken plastic spade,
I placed you amongst crabs’ claws, barnacled
limpets, a child’s sandal
unbuckled and useless now.
Love marked the spot, before the tide
turned, and afterwards too.

Ever so gently, I pushed you down
through people’s discarded things,
beneath disposable knives, seagull
droppings, traces of warfare,
centuries of storm.
Rinsed in tears, unable to damage anymore.

With you, I laid all of the things that you
didn’t say, your fingerprints from the
small of my back, an exercise book full of
questions, my grey-schoolgirl anonymity,
your noticing, the way that you made
my little world big.

Yet, still I open my stiff wardrobe sometimes and
find a handful of Slapton sand beneath the
outfits that you loved me in, or
dusting the bottom of the tiny box
where your letters live, breathing their metaphors
into the hanging space where my current life resides.

Sand trails that always lead back to what
we held, like water, in our already full hands.

“Slapton’s sand trails” by E K Wall was commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2016) judged by Mandy Pannett.

Civil War – a poem by Richard Law

Richard Law

Civil War

You skitter like lizards through fallen
leaves, kick crisp clouds of red and brown
to scratch the autumn air. Quick! Duck!

A passing drone moans below the mound
that bucks with your bodies, whinnying
ghost-shells. “Once more onto the beach!”

Over the trenches, you whistle a warning
to your brothers in arms – keep your nose
out for Napalm – jumping

from the juddering machine gun.
In the fumbling ecstasy,
no harm’s done, but Harry is hit,

gutted – denies it. Offering peace,
you pick a twig to sew
in his shoulder socket. He fires

a final round of lasers – whining
like a crow dying – into the arms
crossed over your chest,

before the battery gives in.
We sit outside the war zone,
Grandad and I. We’re too grey

and stuffed with Sunday lethargy
and roast beef to be conscripted.
Our old man has survived

all the battles he can, yet barely sees
through the Sabbath without his eyelids
drooping over some tabloid. His nose –

a split-ended clover – falls silent
onto foreign surf, lies still
by a red body that you could cup

and warm in your hands.
Harry is wounded; his habitual
strategic stomp softens, and shadows

the silence as he slouches
like a prisoner toward the firing line:
something has lodged deeper

than your weightless bullets.
“All’s fair,” you say, tonguing
the air to take aim:

a red light moth-flickers
on Harry’s arse. And I don’t know
whether to raise my hand

or surrender to the smile
rising slowly like a pistol
to my childish face.

“Civil War” by Richard Law was highly commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2016) judged by Mandy Pannett.

Still Life – a poem by John Darley

John Darley

Still Life

Remember the good one by Caravaggio? The leaves
with scars that spell their histories
on the pallid wall. It told me
do not do; not
do not. Two by two, browning fingers eke
towards the start of something new.           (Hideous).
I push myself towards the fruit at the centre
and wait for the rest.
Somewhere                                     (out of frame)
the crowd screams for peace. An apple at each mouth,
puckered with deep kisses. The fall
of I do, I do, I do: grapes in-hand, sour
and still moving, still not quite themselves. The table plots
a sweeping plane across the x axis; raw
and no sound or silence or balanced
but the joy of foot-warm granite. I am uncomfortably finite,
and, like my fist of glossed pulp, fail to distract from the fact that the fruit died weeks ago.

Between the figs and the grapes and the pale
sweet pear, a torched car like a heart. Its beat dwindles
from contracting steal and cracked plastic puddles.
The arteries were cut off
nine days ago, so someone               (still out of frame)
is boiling saltwater. Inside the apple
the crowd screams for one more song.
                                                                  (A wedding in a crater)
                                                                  (A bombshell for an eye)
                                                                  (A vacation to war)
A violin plays itself through a closed window
– the air-con turned up full – and a fruit basket
where next-door used to dry their linen, split
open, still empty.

“Still Life” by John Darley was highly commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2016) judged by Mandy Pannett.

A Smallholding in the Fens – poem by Elisabeth Sennitt Clough

Elisabeth Sennitt Clough

A Smallholding in the Fens
We began with myths and later included actual events
– Michael Ondaatje, Handwriting

There was an attempt at a pond,
but it was never lined
and the water didn’t want to be contained
by that black earth.

I don’t like to think of the fish,
their gills silvering the soil.

There was a drought one summer.
It made my mother thirsty.

Irrigation dried up most of the dykes,
but I still dreamt of wading birds.

Once my stepfather caught a linnet:
as his hand tightened around it,

it pecked at him,
but it was the small heartbeat

he felt through the gourd of his palm,
that made him set it free.

It was a place of hooks: for fish and for game
(sometimes there was a right hook).

When he was a boy, my stepfather saw a pike:
it was so huge, it had to shunt back and forth
at the river’s mouth in order to turn.

My mother hung game-birds in the kitchen.
They looked like upside-down bouquets.

There was an otter skin on the wall.
My stepfather said he shot it by accident.
Its whisker holes were pink on the inside,
as if it had measles.
The boy we called The Milky Bar Kid
peed himself in the corner
after his dad punched his door,
his room smelt of particle board and vinegar.

Some nights his mum gave him cat-food for dinner.
After he scraped the jelly off
he said it tasted like Fray Bentos.

There are mini-twisters in the Fens.
They bustle along the headland,
chests puffed out like bossy toddlers.

Things about my eighth summer:
I cracked a toe-nail on the pavement.
I bent down and huffed the tarmac
when it started to blister in the sun.
They used a hose on the soles of my feet,
when only sand-paper would’ve done.

“A Smallholding in the Fens” by Elisabeth Sennitt Clough was highly commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition May 2016 judged by Mandy Pannett.

& Bless – poem by Mara Adamitz Scrupe

Mara Adamitz Scrupe

& Bless

            all the illness    people all the streaming
pilgrims’ barren scatter stripling bark             & tender
bless the bandit’s head rolling/ stalling/ staring
moth to moon             dusk to cavern            ebon nail gnawed
&           stub
               &         yes god bless          god bless this packed
plaza today’s & yesterday’s suns’ deep reserve glint &
fracture a fallen woman’s foreign veil & stoned          her kin
deny her/ prostrate for life for living being & bless
the skittered     lifeblood          under the floorboards

between plates & piers             gallanting out bold
before dawn      supine back-wriggle striped
coming                          & going & bless the rift-open aura
illumined           astral pink morning watercolor wash
along the ridge I stammer as a         child my attachments
to objects misunderstood     as linkage as hairy-stalked
kudzu climbs the boxwoods’ backs; lovers     or foes?
           & bless the bumbling bamboo           too ruinous      &
every spring’s speckless ripped blade & bucket & bless &
bless bless the kleptomaniacal          ruling class’s

Panglossian sputter     pompous lapse and unbelieving
slumber            I bless this copse this gussied-up graveside
chat     antipodal woolly muddied smear what drear
measure         what a month            to die & bless
our slave chapel moved over harrowed field &
passion smoothed over hanks            & marrow
             hees & yaws     & wept white amplitude scale & hands
that blind and feed                  some bone some splint some salt
glazed sherd      a shine plucked clean from rubble
silica & sodium vapor dure: the potter’s thumb prints

fired forever in wet smoke & rouged iron
oxide              & bless the hangers-on released
to creep & tarry matched sets paired birds all set
for the Sunday shoot      & bless the frog-of-the-field
            stacked bump-backed & clutching
one atop           another in a bucket on the feeding floor
            & bless this breeding wire this hedged             tendril &
foothold           tension rib & shore & bless the suffocate ivy
clutch & ramble cling-stem stout roof            pitch & mortared
stroke & bless & bless all these crumbling                  castes

“& Bless” by Mara Adamitz Scrupe won third prize in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2016) judged by Mandy Pannett.

sylvia plath knew my mother – poem by John Wilks

John Wilks

sylvia plath knew my mother

a single red eye and a flick of ash
she shows me photographs
of men she gobbled but did not swallow
she goes down in a rain of hennaed hair
her fake tattoo a barcode bruise

brute fingers that struggle to squeeze ecstasy
from the marble veins of a colossus
when I see rubber dinghies deflated on the shore
and barbed wire fences unfurled once again along europe’s borders
mother I seek entry to your country
mother I am a refugee at your gates
no need for tear gas in this war on terror
mother let me tell you
god ain’t so great
god runs a polski sklep – a mosque – a cardboard city

your pity is an empty container truck
mother I know you gave a fuck once
I do not find her in clouds of vape
not in the legal highs of love
they cannot legislate against the razorblades

I break on granite wrists
she danced the twist at my wedding feast
that defied a famine
her hair a gamine feather-cut
her hem forty years too short

her thighs revealed as pink as gammon
if she has a god his name is mammon
my verses splutter from my lips like curses
I forego full stops
for they would pierce the page with voodoo pins

prick me and I will not bleed
my skin lies discarded
with those life rafts on a foreign beach
she’s a bitch for thinking I can give her up
cold turkey for the chicken flesh of my husband’s scrotum

worship at his fun-size totem
instead of taste her sacramental flesh upon my tongue
open her lock without a key
that’s how it’s done
that’s how it’s donne

that’s how it’s dun and drear
he calls me sweet she calls me dear
but I am bitter herbs with no day to atone
angel see my blood on the lintel stone
but do not pass by

my true love is the one who lets me die -
- die on my way from a bombed city
via self pity
just to drown in that wine dark sea of ancient renown
I wear death as a crown

“sylvia plath knew my mother” by John Wilks won second prize in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2016) judged by Mandy Pannett.

Les Fleurs D’Azur – poem by Jocelyn Simms

Jocelyn Simms

Les Fleurs D’Azur
6th to 8th August 1945, Hiroshima

‘You’ll miss the train,’ I say.
Dallying over a gift from her fiancé,
she laughs, collects her lunch box,
tickets for the journey. Swings
down the garden path. Draped over
her shoulder the lustrous shawl,

embroidered silk: delicate azure,
palest lilac, embellished with tones
of purple, turquoise, threaded gold,
silver, bronze. A filigree of leaves

and roses. Cameos of lovers, children,
lovebirds, wistful watery pearls, woven
into a fanciful dance of pleasure.
I open the window and call to her,

‘Will you make a fan with it?’ She’s
out of earshot. The siren sings its note.
I compose a prayer, bow to our ancestors,
arrange my daily offerings.

Then the flash – ten, or a hundred
or a thousand times
brighter than any light imaginable –

pierces my eyes. Blinded, reduced
to a blank shadow, I become a ghost.
The window shatters. Then silence.
Where is my daughter?

I push on shoes, rush to the station.
A naked girl, torso stripped of skin, cries,
‘Mother, water, I beg you.’ I scurry by.
She is not my daughter.

Bodies strewn everywhere, people
dead or groaning. The undead, open-mouthed,
gulp as globules of black rain fall.

I fasten my hood, hasten home. No word.
Next day my neighbour batters the door,
‘Your daughter. She has been sighted
on the bank of the Ota river.’

I grab a bundle of bedding and clothes.
The bridge is ablaze. So many indecipherable
faces. At last I recognise her voice.

A white liquid oozes from her. Maggots
spawn in yellow wounds. I brush
them away but they multiply.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

I wrap her in linen and silk. Across her chest
an imprint of roses and leaves; a blessing
of love burnt upon her peeling skin.

I talk of her childhood, of how we walked
along this same riverbank, of how she’d fish
with makeshift rod, cavort along the edge
catching cicadas.

“Les Fleurs D’Azur” by Jocelyn Simms won first prize in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition May 2016 judged by Mandy Pannett.