Well written:

www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/a-televisi...

A sun-browned man labours resignedly past on a squeaking rust-flecked bike. His yellow-stained vest loose upon him, extending folds of leathery skin. The wagon paint-blistered pulled behind him is filled with dead branches and an empty paint-tin-turned-bucket.

Late night radio sounds the same in every language.

(Zhongxing - Qiannan)

The steadfast and barren mountains of South Africa like the un/familiar topography of my father’s love.

(Glen Cairn - WC)

Clutched around the headrest on the back of the seat in front of her, she couldn't decide what colour her hand was. The fingers were an almost artificial pink while the palm was a cold, dead, winter blue.

I am paper thin. A glance could cut me open, and all my ink would slide unwillingly out, bowels and gutt feelings uneasily gathered in desperate clinging full-fisted scrawls.

Great ghosts of wind turbines looming out of the sun chapped mist. One or two lift an arm to wave us on, the others look on in silence.

(Haixi - Ulan)