The new woman said she would love some raspberries. ‘I was told to choose one small luxury,’ she said as if she were on Desert Island Discs. ‘We don’t have raspberries, but we do have soup,’ one of us said. There was the usual pot of cabbage soup on the go. Of course, she asked …
First day back at work for Clara. She rolls off her driveway – a truck driver yelling encouragement as she pulls out in front of him. A scraping noise comes from somewhere behind her, the car groaning back to life. The car has three mirrors – one above her eyeline and two on the exterior. …
We were married not a quarter hour when I saw how it would be. As I walked up from All Saints with my sister, the orange blossom fresh on my bonnet, William went on ahead with my brothers, and she came running, hatless, wild, from the farmhouse door and fell weeping into his arms. They …
Inseparable is what we are. I am the same as her. She is the same as me. We have never been apart, never been alone. She is my mirror and I am hers; our face, our hair, our smile. I am half of her self and she is half of mine. She likes what I …
We joked about what might happen if and when they closed the door on the room with the bars on the windows. You wanted to be banged up with Burglar Bill – swap stripy shirts, stories of swag bags. Mum walked out whenever the subject came up. It wasn’t a laughing matter, she said. The …
You are rocked by the rumbling machine, the rhythm pecking at your feet. It’s the first wash that’s been on since. Since the day that knocked you. Blocked you, chopped you and then swapped you. Swapped you for a woman you no longer know. You tumble out the jumble of a family in pain. Black …
Let it be a trick of the morning sun, or even of the gods I don’t believe in, but please let it not be real, I think, turning away from my reflection. But when I look back, it’s still there: within my otherwise dark hair is a thick streak of white. I walk into the …
A reimagining of Jeanette Winterson’s ‘The Green Man’ from the wife’s perspective They’ve been coming here for years. I remember seeing them as a child, wanting to clamber up into their painted wagons, peer inside, run away with them. Away with the gypsies. Away with the fairies. There’s talk of course. There is always talk. …
In eighth grade, I gave my eyes to a boy named Kurt. He stood three steps away, his blue eyes bright and his arms covered in fuzz. I watched the sun paint the small hairs gold. “Move, fatso,” Kurt said. His eyes felt strange, dragging my chin down with their weight. Strong legs, my mother …
It’s her voice you hear first. A high-pitched shriek that brings up your skin in pimples. You’ve been sitting at your wobbly-legged desk, mindlessly nibbling a cinnamon swirl that bloats you, sipping lukewarm tea on your swivel chair which is stuck at one disappointing level and makes the rope of your spine crooked and painful …
A Sense of Commotion on the Sixth Floor by Hannah Sutherland Read More »
I murdered my mother when I kicked my way out of her womb. My hooves were still soft then, shrouded in tissue that would soon shred away, but even a soft hoof is still a hoof and the flesh of a human body does not stretch the way a horse’s does. Before I was born, …
The reading room is state of the art, climate-controlled to keep the rare books, manuscripts and prints in their best condition. Outside, it’s too hot for even a light jacket. In here, I wear a sweater, pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders. Precious things, fragile things. There are foam rests to put the books …