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Dear Storytime Collective,

As we approach our third annual summer solstice celebration, I wanted to write a short note on the significance of the summer solstice to Storytime and subtly suggest successive sessions over subsequent seasons.

Enough of this utter nonsense!

Why the solstice?

A noted and highly viral poet friend of mine once scoffed and mocked at our marking of the winter solstice.

Great for reach! He mocked, as he gave me a wedgie and attempted to shove my head down the toilet bowl. Why don’t you just call it the Christmas party?

Stop that! I pleaded.

In that case, I partially agreed with him, though I resented the way in which the point had been expressed. The winter solstice is most definitely a more enigmatic and recalcitrant creature, representing as it does the nadir of daylight in a year, a shrunk and withered excuse for the time unit we call a day. The summer solstice a more proud and regal thing, not aloof but most certainly enigmatic, standing discerning at the height of the year, looking over the heads of all the slightly shorter days clustered around it, and the much shorter ones either side in February and November and all those sorts of months.

There is something seductive about the ancient nature of the solstice. But we at Storytime are not especially pagan or of any faith or persuasion other than a commitment to whimsy and delight. The fixation goes further than that and on to the real astronomical and unarguable fact that this is the longest day, when the earth is tilted closest to the burning ball of gas that sustains us. All methods and instruments of measurement (calendars, clocks, abacuses, hourglasses) are absurdly recent by comparison to this mythical fact of the universe.

Long before the species is what it now is, the solstice was itself, and long after we have been reduced to rubble by the chitterings of insecure men, so the solstice will remain. It is an acknowledgment that people of all faiths celebrate many of their own festivals of significance dervised from the same source - the movement of the earth through space and the seasons as we complete our daily rotations through another annual ellipse.

The solstice then allows us to commune and gather with humility in the face of our immense insignificance, tell stories, play music, be together, be silly, be earnest at the true and ancient midway point of another ghastly, wonderful, tremulous year. Insist that all these things are important - deeply, deeply important - as important as anything as ridiculous and impermanent as a human life can be.

The first summer solstice in 2024 was the first time it really felt like we might be building something important - our biggest crowd ever at old beloved Enid Street Tavern and a magnificent assemblage. The summer solstice in 2025 felt like another step. Our first sellout night, and again a tender yet febrile atmosphere in the room with a truly exceptional array of readers from our collective. Diversity is important not only in how people identify and present themselves but also the tone and textures of their voices. We lean towards humorous and absurdist at our nights but the night as a whole is meaningless if we don’t have a wide chorus of different keys, notes and perspectives. This night underscored this perfectly - with a whole range of excellent, moving, hilarious and beautiful stories from across our collective.

On then to Friday 26 June 2026, wherein we have taken on the mantle of wandering bards of London, finding a home wherever we might tell a story. There is a burgeoning poetry and storytelling space in London and we are proud to be a part of that. Anyone who implies that a storytelling night is an original idea devised in the last few years has a fundamental misunderstanding of the human experience. We are not doing anything original or new. Rather, we are the inheritors of an ancient tradition.

We have some familiar voices and many wonderful new ones to join us as we mark the solstice in Peckham on Friday 26 June. I am honoured to be co-hosting the night with my close friend and co-conspirator, Leo Flanagan. It’s going to be a special one.

You can get your tickets here - there is a half-price discount for ten lucky readers who have made it this far in the letter.

Get set.

Love,

Adam

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Friday 26 June 2026: Storytime Summer Solstice at Peckham Levels. Tickets here.

Thursday 16 July 2026 Storytime Unplugged Volume #1. No phones, no cameras, no documentation. Just stories and music. Secret location. RSVP only.

Thursday 13 August 2026 Storytime at the Museum of Croydon. Tickets coming soon.

Friday 4 September 2026 False Idah EP Launch at Morocco Bound Bookshop in Bermondsey. Tickets coming soon.

Audio production by Iona Lowe.

Story and reading by Adam RW.

Originally read at the Storytime Winter Solstice on 20 December 2024.

TOMORROW

Their correspondence continued. His grandfather had resolved the question of the caps lock button and now deployed it at appropriate intervals. But now, he encountered other inbox issues for he was inundated with pitches and recommendations. Though his knowledge of the underlying technicalities was admittedly limited, he found himself increasingly optimistic about Bitcoin’s prospects. As an optimistic octogenarian, he was open to overtures made by some of the more fringe political parties. And, though he had been contentedly married for sixty-two years, Gramps was intrigued by the content of emails with banners bearing the words

HOT

RUSSIAN

WOMEN

Obediently, he would forward each such email to Greg, accompanied by a What do you think of this one? on the line above.

Greg now had to ensure he did not check these at work. After a quick scan, he would reply, Gramps, it’s spam, stop clicking on it.

But Gramps could not understand where they would have obtained his email address.

They must be friends of friends or something, he replied.

Gramps, no… there are massive databases with these things. I’ll set up a rule so they all get deleted without you reading.

But I might want to check them? Gramps asked with a question mark.

No Gramps, Greg said, just leave them.

A pause then in their correspondence.

Alright, said Gramps finally.

These were not the only issues. Gramps found himself exploring the formatting boxes, pushing the text into a range of fonts and effects.

“Fuck’s sake”, Greg would whisper, as an email zoomed in from Gramps with a slow motion, sparkly reveal of a message in comic sans font size 196 that read: Next door neighbour’s dog been hit by a car.

How does he even do that? Greg murmured to himself. “I literally would not know how to do that if I wanted to”.

Is it alright? Greg replied.

Nope, Gramps replied, in Verdana, font size 8, dead.

Gramps ventured further into the settings box, discovering the delay send button and clicking it indiscriminately. Greg emailed one Sunday about a visit the following day and received the reply from his grandpa, a one-liner reading: “Looking forward to it” three and a half weeks later.

In more irritable moments, these things enraged him, and he wondered why his older relative could not learn how to effectively program the machine. But in smaller, and more significant ways, he came to rely on their emails.

“Not doing that well this week, Gramps, off work. Struggling a bit. Hope you and grandma are well”.

Gramps tended not to delay his replies to these.

Sorry to hear it, boyo. Look after yourself. Work can wait. Take good care. Get outside if you can. Lots of love from both of us.

This was good advice from the older man. But somehow, Greg lacked the requisite combination of will or ability. And he sank down and denser, further still. Their emails could elicit a brief smile but something had stopped filtering through. Dissolution, not quite there, standing in queues, walking to work, checking his phone.

Not sure about tomorrow, Greg tapped out to his grandfather, sorry gramps.

He lay down at night, staring at the ceiling, truthfully not thinking of much at all, kitchen floor cool against his back. The pre-emptive guilt a shield against the blade, contemplating his father having to drive the half an hour or so, parking carefully, getting out and pausing momentarily to lean on the roof of the car, heavy with it, to tell them. The prospect of his own responsibility for that moment was what held him back most times, right wrist upturned to the fluorescent light, left hand shaking, before dragging himself to bed.

Gramps slipped away quietly on the morning of his favourite sort of autumn day, clear blue, ice in the air, leaves ablaze in the trees, mushrooms clustered on rotting oak. Greg had not received a reply to his last email. There was some clarity in the grief, something sharp about the jobs to be done. But as days passed, the compression returned. There was a funeral, he knew, he had been, pushing himself into a dark enough suit and making a quiet speech. But the fabric and substance of the day, Greg could not comment on. He retained nothing of it.

The days cracked and popped as they shrank, as if they were releasing something. He would wake to check the time at some inexplicable hour, drape a limp hand across his forehead and roll over, try to sleep, push it back, wake in the evening, spend the night on his phone. He knew now that there would be no more emails, no warming buzz, no more requests to screen messages from would-be brides or business partners or tell an uncle something or help with the attic room. His inbox was empty.

Then there was one, a little red “one” above his inbox icon early on a Saturday morning, from his grandfather’s email address. Greg assumed it was an administrative cock-up or a tone deaf prank from a cousin. But then he saw it was titled TOMORROW (all in caps) and he remembered his grandfather’s adventures with the delay send button.

Hello boyo, Gramps said, in lower case, sorry to hear you’re still not feeling well. I know you’ve seen a doctor and I hope that it is useful. I know it helped your mum for a time. I’m not sure there’s much I can say but.

Gramps had pressed the enter button twice here.

Firstly, I did some research and you were right, the Peruvian royal family doesn’t even exist. Thank you AGAIN (in capitals) for helping me with the emails.

I am always very grateful.

If this had been a conversation, Greg would have sensed Gramps on the cusp of struggling to say something.

Tender isn’t weak. It makes you what you are. And that means many, many (the second many was inexplicably in superscript) people care about you. I am at the top of that list.

You might not be quite where you want to be. And I’m sorry about everything that’s happened. But - two dashes, new line, font change.

I am very proud of who you’ve become.

I can’t promise you that things will definitely get better. But please just make it to TOMORROW (the word had been capitalised).

And see where you get to from there.

Lots of love,

Gramps

PS. We’re both on our sick beds at the moment - sleep terrible. Trying to sort those damned settings buttons how you showed me - hopefully this will get to you later this morning so it doesn’t wake you up. Send me an email when you get this.

Greg wiped his screen. 9.20am on 21 December. The days were getting longer.

Huge thanks and credit to Iona Lowe for audio production and editing.

Story and reading by Adam RW. Full story below.

Please get in touch if you enjoyed this new format and want us to do more.

TODAY

There were a number of less notable differences between Greg and his grandpa. Greg’s warm embrace would be met by an uncertain pat on the back from his older relative. The ease with which Greg said “I love you” would be greeted with a sombre nod and a single “yes”. Greg’s commitment to whimsy, his grandpa’s taste for order and calm. These were all by the by, a standard and predictable set of contrasts that would not look out of place in your average dining room.

But there was one fundamental difference between them. And this was his grandpa’s insistence on shouting.

WE ARE WELL

THANK YOU

Two lines. No punctuation. Phone calls, increasingly infrequent, face-to-face meetings even rarer now with the busyness of day-to-day life. So they came to rely on emails to communicate. But his grandpa did not appear to be aware of the existence of the caps lock button. So every exchange took on the appearance of a terse tennis match, Greg gently lobbing small invitations to his grandpa who then smashed them back in his face.

Sorry for the slow reply, Gramps,

Greg would type in the proper case and tense, as if his own style might serve as a gentle hint to his grandpa on the correct means of expressing himself.

Things are a bit crazy at the moment. How are you getting on, how was your weekend?

Two hours later:

IT WAS GOOD

Enter, enter.

THANK YOU

Then, another email, five minutes afterwards.

HOW ARE YOU

Hours later in the pub, Greg would flick open his phone and look down at the email before sighing and hastily stashing it away. He pulled out it back out at the end of the weekend and tapped out a quick few words in response. His grandpa fired back.

BOUGHT FISHCAKES AT THE SHOP TODAY

Nice! Greg replied some two days later. He allowed himself an exclamation mark in some attempt to match his grandpa’s tone.

How were they?

Proper case, question mark correctly sitting at the end of the sentence.

Grandpa came back.

NOT BAD BIT HOT ON THE INSIDE THOUGH

BURNT MY MOUTH

Greg chuckled. A few hours later. What are you up to today?

GETTING MY PROSTATE CHECKED

Ah!

Greg paused, unsure of how to respond with the requisite level of seriousness.

Hope it goes well, he typed. Smiley face.

DON’T WORRY JUST A CHECK-UP

THE DOCTOR IS A NICE CHAP

And so it went.

Greg could not help but be slightly confused by these exchanges. Because by hand his grandfather had been an excellent writer of letters, punctuating them with great distinction, displaying a full mastery of the usage of upper and lower cases. But these modern methods of communication seemed to do something to him, render him unable to convey himself with the gentle precision that was his trademark in normal speech. What was it in a computer’s keyboard and screen that transmogrified him into something less. Greg was unsure. He did not have the time to come to a firm conclusion.

Weeks passed and their correspondence slowed. But on a morning in the height of summer, Greg opened his phone and scrolled down through a cluttered inbox. There sat within it tickets, bookings, marketing assaults, photos, reminders, maps of life. He descended passively, a waiter in an elevator, until the bell dinged as he reached a single glistening unread email from his Grandfather.

It was titled TODAY. Quite naturally, all in caps.

TODAY IS 8 HOURS AND 49 MINUTES LONGER THAN THE SHORTEST DAY

OBVIOUSLY THATS NOT RIGHT - BOTH DAYS ARE 24 HOURS LONG

It was still all in caps. But he did not hear him shouting anymore.

BUT TODAY - THERE ARE 8 HOURS AND 49 MINUTES MORE DAYLIGHT THAN SIX MONTHS AGO AND SIX MONTHS TIME

IT IS AN UNLOVELY NUMBER

THERE DOES NOT APPEAR TO BE ANY SPECIAL SIGNIFICANCE TO IT

BUT STILL THE THOUGHT - NOT THE NUMBER - WARMS ME

THAT THE DAY CAN MORE THAN DOUBLE IN THE SPACE OF SIX SHORT MONTHS

NEED TO REMEMBER THIS

WHEN IT GETS COLD AGAIN

AND I KNOW THE LAST FEW YEARS HVE BEEN HARD FOR YOU AND I HAVE NOT BEEN VERY GOOD AT SPEAKING TO YOU ABOUT IT

BUT I MISS YOUR MUM EVERY DAY

I THINK WHEN SHE WENT THAT WAS ALMOST IT FOR ME

I KNOW YOU SHOULDNT HAVE A FAVOURITE BUT

Grandpa left this line unfinished.

SO I AM SORRY

BUT

I ALWAYS LOVED THAT SHE WAS BORN ON THE LONGEST DAY

Greg wiped his face and looked up at the sky. He had never relished the length of the solstice, each extending second a reminder of what the day had been. He paused for a moment then typed back.

Thanks Gramps. I really appreciate that. Lots of love to you and Gran. Coming down next weekend - looking forward to seeing you both.

Ps. There’s this thing called the caps lock button in the middle on the left hand side of your keyboard. It helps you switch between cases. You can probably Google it - but otherwise I’ll show you when I’m down.

Gramps replied instantly in the proper case:

I know, he said. Just wanted to make sure that you could hear me.

Mac Goodwin is a writer from Manchester, currently living in London. He writes poetry about family, nature, and mental health.

Temi T is a Spoken Word Artist born and raised in South London. She debuted in 2021, and has since headlined on stages globally. Spoken Word Poetry for Temi began in the form of self-reflection and the journey of finding her true identity amidst chaos of life. Her poetic style fuses consciousness, internal rhyme and humour to take the audience on an experience of raw emotion.

Hosted by theadamrw.

Rachel’s Substack is here and her Instagram is here.

Leo Flanagan is a Lancashire born actor and writer as well as Artist Director of the theatre company Gutter Street. Leo has worked on a wide range of projects across TV and film including: Doctor Who, Gentleman Jack, Waterloo Road and the Irvine Welsh film ‘Creation Stories’. Gutter Street curates regular writing and creative events across London as well as producing multiple interconnected plays and short stories, all set along one long fictional Red Road. The tales shared at Storytime are part of a larger project titled ‘Molitor’s Fables’, a collection of stories written by fictional author and resident of the Red Road, E.F. Molitor. Follow Molitor’s Fables on Instagram and TikTok or Gutter Street on Instagram to find out more.

Maia Watkins is an actress, poet, author & reiki, sound practitioner from West London. Whilst recovering from a brain haemorrhage Maia wrote and released her poetry collection ‘The Dressing Gown Poet: Life. Loss. Love’ which can be brought on Amazon. Maia won best female spoken word poet 2024 for the Wordplay and Flow Awards and has also performed her poetry for Sofar Sounds London.

Hosted by theadamrw.

Grace Gachoki

Through the art of poetry, Grace loves to tell stories that live within her world and the one around her. She’s been sharing her work since 2022, performing at shows and gracing theatre stages. Grace has two poetry collections out, that can be found in the link in her bio.

Tim Foley

In his poetry and photography Tim visits his inner and outer worlds. Exploring the nature, people and things that live in them. He is working to raise up voices of poets who are healing in poetry in his ongoing project Write Speak Recover. Which features portraits, poems and stories from poets in any form of recovery.

Jakey Newton

Jakey is a Northern writer, theatre maker, and producer with an affinity for the absurd. They achieved a Masters in Dramatic Writing and have since then gone on to co-create Dawn Train Theatre Company, which is now into its third production. Jakey received an OffComm award for their debut play, Breast Baring, back in 2023, and is currently working on multiple projects tackling themes of identity, queerness, and masculinity.

Hosted by theadamrw.

Kofi Achina is a London-born writer, spoken-word artist, and National Slam champion.

Aliya Lewis is a poet and playwright based in London.

Rory Haworth Galt is a writer, copywriter and social media manager currently based in London.

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Rosaleen Cox is an award winning Irish/Australian actor and writer specialising in dark comedy. Her work has been commissioned by Soho Theatre, Meta and the Australian Academy of Cinema and Television Arts (AACTA).

Harper Walton is a writer of poetry, fiction and essays. Their first poetry collection, Common Only in Name, was published by Porter Books earlier this year. They were the editor of the short story anthology ‘Carnival at the End of the World’ (Buoy Press). They were Highly Commended by Creative Future and the Manchester Cathedral poetry prize, achieved Third Place in the Brick Lane Bookshop short story prize, and have won two Young Poets Network challenges.

Hosted by Adam RW.

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Sumner Brook is a writer and performer from London. They write short stories, poetry, games and articles. Their website is here and their instagram is here.

Ellie de Satgé is a poet and facilitator from London. She completed both her undergraduate and postgraduate degrees at the University of Birmingham. She runs a regular poetry night named Everything Poetry Night (which you should go to). She also provides poetry mentoring. Her first collection of poetry, Rein It In, can be purchased from Broken Sleep Books here.

Maheni K. Arthur is a poet, writer and workshop facilitator from South London. As a certified lover girl, she is perpetually inspired by the liminal space of the human experience, writing and performing work that speaks to the beauty and confusion of the connections we share as opposed to our differences. She is currently working to publish a collection of poetry and continues to facilitate creative writing workshops for young people in London. Her instagram is here.

Hosted by Adam RW.

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Episode #2 features sets from two of our most beloved and important collective members at our winter solstice:

Charlie-Charlies Charlie

Rishi Rian.

See Rishi on stage in Murder on the Orient Express! Tickets here.

See Charlie around and about. He will be everywhere soon enough.

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Lovely people,

Delighted, buzzing, and chuffed to announce our first podcast series.

Including today’s episode, it will run for ten weeks.

We will feature a handful of some of the wonderful stories and poems shared at our nights over the last few months.

New episodes every Wednesday. Subscribe here on Substack.

Love,

Storytime

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