A look Inside 002

Hello poetry readers! This post is devoted to 002 of Foxtrot Uniform, we’ll unveil the cover art and show you the poetry, prose, and art being published in 002.

First things first, we’ve been working with a great young artist for our cover of 002. The art is a woodblock print produced and created by Isabel Duffy. You can see some of her other works on Instagram @isabelva.art.

To pre-order a copy of the magazine email us…

Ok so here’s the list you’ve all been waiting for, the list of published works:


Blu Maximo, ‘Artists’
Daniel de Culla, ‘Snorting Poetry’
DS. Maolalai, ‘The Girl in the Café’
DS. Maolalai, ‘The Trouble Publishing Poems’
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner, ‘Abandonment’
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner, ‘Mayakovskay Metro Station’
Gareth Hughes, ‘Marlon Brando’
Gareth Hughes, ‘The Moth’
Gilsenan, ‘Sixth Time Around’
Grace Rennison, ‘Beauty according to Byron’
Grant Tabard, ‘Soft Underbelly’
Grant Tabard, ‘To Be Cohabitants’
Holly Royle, ‘Our Species Greed’
Holly Royle, ‘The Unknown’
Jack Houston, ‘The not sure and the why’
Joshua Cialis, ‘Midnight in Suburbia’
Joshua Cialis, ‘Underpass of exit 3, Westminster Station’
Len Carber, ‘The Old Tracks’
Luke Scarisbrick, ‘Ian didn’t like my Rock Song’
Luke Scarisbrick, ‘Records for Liam’
Michelle Parkinson, ‘Bildungsroman’
Omar Ferro, ‘Are You Present’
Paul Fahey, ‘1313 Virgil Tracey Towers’
Poppy Harris, ‘We Sat on the Beach Listening’
Reece Merrifield, ‘2/3’
Reece Merrifield, ‘Compromise’
Rehan Qayoom: ‘A Poem of Maturity’
Sean McDonagh, ‘Notes from a Dream Sequence’
Sean McDonagh, ‘Sun’
Yohann Okyemba Ngassaki, ‘Cheat’
Gregory Santo Arena, ‘Hallo my little militant’
Gregory Santo Arena ‘I cry in bed at night’


Edward Little, ‘Mount Haku’
Rosie Saxon, ‘The Lady on the Roof’
Rosie Saxon, ‘The Noise in the Night’


Daniel de Culla, Collage
Matthew Kay, ‘Beyond this Place’
Matthew Kay, ‘On Thursday’
Peter Campbell Saunders, ‘Café’
Peter Campbell Saunders, ‘In the Snug’
Ruhi Cialis, ‘Danger’

Hungover in Scandinavia

Words by Reece David Merrifield; Photo by Annika Mailahn

A short story by Reece David Merrifield.

As a child born and raised on the south-west coast of England, I’ve never really seen snow. We’d get this this slushy, industrial-looking grey that would disintegrate instantly in the warmth of your palm, frantically searching for the nuggets of white that could be thrown at our nearest friend. So, it is for two reasons that, as of two days ago and as I write these very lines, that I could be forgiven for thinking that what I could see wasn’t actually there.

Waking up from a hangover (not as atypical as I would hope it to be), it wasn’t the sight of unfamiliarity but of a buzzing that alerted me to the notion that ‘we have snow! We have snow!’. Still dazed, I pulled down the blinds and drew a blank. It wasn’t true. My sight wasn’t to be trusted, so I knew what I could do. With only a hoodie and underpants, I walked out onto the balcony, and as my feet came into contact with the ground could I really open my eyes to what was happening. A blizzard, monstrous to me yet insignificant to Nordic locals, was swirling around, given a magical tinge of glitter in the struggling morning sunlight. Hangover: cured, given over to years of childish expectation a month before our beloved tradition of gift-giving that I had always wanted to have in stereotypical surroundings of fireplaces and snow(wo)men.

I ran (not before changing) outside in unworn snow boots designed for this very occasion. Across the road stands a cemetery, an already elegant lament, now illuminated by a natural sweeping of leaves, a sudden arrest of one season ushering in the next with pleasing effects upon its newest spectator. The imprints of feet in snow, the deepest I had ever left, were only a fraction of what imprint it had left on me with its first encounter, and before me stood a hill I had never really appreciated until it was glossed over in its current form. Reaching the top, I could see over the whole of the cemetery, but it was not that which had caught my attention. Over the hill, as if one step had become a million, were children sledding and screaming with joy, whilst their parents, with 10 layers between them, seemed ever closer in their union. I spun slowly around, as if screwing a corkscrew back onto a bottle, and revelled in the sights and sounds that snow can bring to a little town.

After falling down the hill (both through complacency and idiotic glee) I walked back to find the Germans in warfare with one another through the medium of snowballs. A split between boys and girls (best left to anthropologists) had occurred but it was clear that no-one could lose. Children from the neighbouring buildings attempted to flank from behind, the giggling giving them away, and I tentatively joined, unsure of how well it would go down if I had managed to hit someone directly in the face.

Afterwards I joined my next-door neighbour (once again in hoodie and underwear) and we sat in awe over coffee and toast, laughing most when we noticed a couple of Spaniards taking pictures from numerous angles, for obvious reasons of course.

The day went pale after that, nothing special occurred, but to recount with such clarity a morning such as this, was worth the trade of hours passed and moments gained.