Clare Mendes

A traumatised bank teller from the East End, a US postal worker with itchy feet, an Australian fleeing a crime, a Kiwi obsessed with body parts, a student yearning for his heritage and a closet poet who has been stuck on the same three lines since 1973:

Oh! to be an insect that was not in any way appealing to a bird.
Alas! I must transform.
Forsooth! These mandrils they do appear to be firmly fixed …

Five loud-soft voices, seven trips into the past, at least thirty pigeons, frequent conversations with Alexander Pope, John Donne and Emily Dickinson (plus a flying visit to Patrick Süskind), plenty of truly awful poetry, more phonemes than you can poke a stick at, one weather machine who meets a grisly end, and five other murders which, in my opinion, could not have been avoided.

Plus the occasional lesson in English grammar to keep you on your toes.

This is THE UNVOICED CONSONANT.