Between the Lines
John had always found women hard to read. Some favoured long, looping fonts, a copperplate calligraphy like wedding invitations.
After the potter is cremated
the father whispers, let’s get the hell out of here. At home, the father and son walk the path to the shed to put in a home-brew.
Body as a Single-Family Home
My ribcage must be the foyer, all high ceilings and wasted space and a place for the air to circulate. Small voices echoing off the walls of my lungs.
Bare Hands
My Uncle Louie beat a man to death with his bare hands, the same hands that now hold my baby in the living room of my newly dead grandmother’s house.
Appeasement
I’m late downstairs for breakfast and find Charlotte has already mauled today’s Manchester Guardian, folding it clumsily to the small ads.