Hello Everyone! The deadline for submissions to The Wells Street Journal has been extended to 31st of January! If you have already submitted to Issue 19, you are welcome to take time to make further revisions, we will accept the last version of any work sent to us before the 31st. If you are a … More Issue 19 Submission Deadline Extended!
For Issue 19 of the Wells Street Journal, the theme is ‘Colour’. For this issue we want to hear how your imagination runs wild with the theme of colour! We want you to get creative with how colour can be used as an expressive form of telling stories. We can’t wait to hear your pieces! Accepting submissions until 31st … More Submissions for Issue 19 are now OPEN!
They hold hands on the Clipper as the tour guide drones on about pirates and the heyday of the East India Company, a soft voice drifting through a hazy sky. “So many warehouses,” Jamal murmurs, grey buildings hunched over the grey Thames. “They used to be warehouses,” Agnieszka says, her head resting on his shoulder. … More Cargo
She had been waiting at Heathrow airport for the last thirty minutes. She didn’t mean to show up this early, and technically she didn’t. Arrive early that is. Glancing upwards at the flight departures and arrivals boards for what felt to be about the fortieth time in the past five minutes, she noticed that his … More Delayed
mud howard is a non-binary trans poet from the States. They write about queer intimacy, interior worlds and the cosmic joke of the gender binary.
My sister’s grandson disappeared about a year ago, because the universe is an utter bastard. They said he was last seen in Tulsa, Oklahoma and my sister’s first instinct was to ask, “Where’s Tulsa and what the ever loving shit was he doing there?” but really I’m fucked if I know. She got married young … More My Sister’s Grandson is Missing in Oklahoma
I helped two Americans with directions the other day. They embodied the role of lost tourists with full force. I spotted them when I jumped on the escalator and had surmised their confusion by the time my descent was complete. When I saw one of them rotating the map 360 degrees, staring blankly, I removed … More Lost
1) Missa est I became quite familiar with the correct route to the church, though it was very difficult to find. The old streets that led to it were winding and didn’t follow a standard grid. I was always confused when trying to find it. I don’t come from this place. I suppose, thinking of it … More Two freak-outs in the Roman wall and one outside
Enfield Café Mondays: Frank’s Café, Enfield An old fashioned egg and chip joint that never looked clean enough for me to want to risk the eggs although sometimes I had a (horse?) cheeseburger. The café was five minutes’ walk from what was Friern Barnet hospital, one of the last of London’s old psychiatric bins. A … More Enfield Café; McNicholas 1982
A shimmering of cicadas whir in the trees As I sweat through my business casual Pumping at the gears of a borrowed bicycle Too nervous to get my own repaired Too late to take the bus Too cheap to pay for parking The season salts my skin Ruptures my pores Marks my folds, creases In … More Summer in Philadelphia is the only season worth writing about
Rachel Fallon is an aspiring playwright living in London, originally from Manchester. She also enjoys writing short stories.
The prison of mankind is the mind This is the only space where time exists If I had any super power I’d make it stop Just for this second Just for this now Where the moon looks luminescent And just for this moment When I remember that I am simply being Consciously breathing And though … More Snippets of Summer
She was a good pleaser. She was a good smiler. She was a good anything any woman was supposed to be good at. But she was also a good something no one had ever thought she could be good at. She was a good man. Emily Glass took out her exquisite leopard Manolo Blahniks, and … More Themself
Jane Davenport had moved into the realm of big pants and had never felt happier. They were basically the big, soft cotton ones that snuggled in under her belly button, looked like pink sacks and could double as dusters. A lot o’ wimen don’t put them on the washin’ line – did y’ ken that? … More A Far Cry From The Scottish Hills
Anthelion, 1996 I It is where I am gone, where I am in nothing placed entombed in another world alive with beguiling thoughts of memory and distaste and as guilty as these thunder clouds, it is where I am gone that holds my mind and makes this time a misery as less than useless now… … More Extracts from Anthelion
A storm woke me up very early in the morning. I could say it was early as I couldn’t smell coffee, but the skies were already lit up. I stretched my arm towards the bedside table to get my watch and check the time, but I couldn’t find it. Maybe I left it in the … More Intoxicated
Coffee Capitalism National Park Simon Bracken is an experimental writer, of poetry and fiction and things in between. He’s originally from London and writes a lot about the city.
I Want My Time With You (At St. Pancras Station, London) He put his hands Around her waist And said so lovingly: “I want my time with you.” She put her hands On his cold cheeks, Looking deeply into his eyes, As if looking for some sign, That his words are true. The clock struck … More Poems
Along the river they walked. Two souls in sync with one another. They stared at the unmistakable London skyline they couldn’t take their eyes off it. Waiting for nine o’clock to come they explored the city. Starting at the London Eye watching it stare down on them. Like the eyes of God, it stared. They … More The View
I thought that walking down the Thames path I would send away the desire to catch the infinite blue of the sea combined with the kind breeze of a summer day. Unfortunately, the grey colour of the river did not help me too much. Here and there, occasionally some seagulls were playing with the wild … More Transparent Stones