There is a wicker chair propped up against the sun-baked brick wall outside. Every day I study it from my bedroom window. Every day it does the same thing – nothing. While I stand there teasing the knots from my hair, I take in its worn fabric seat, now all baggy from the years of
She needs to tell him. She has to tell him. But when? Where? How? There are voices inside her head, recurring echoes spoken by a long line of female relatives, all of them dead now, but their voices still very much alive: her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. They all tell her the same thing. Leave
There are rows of them aligned in columns, great pillars of oak, pine and mahogany facing our house. We’re not exactly sure how they came to be there but somewhere along the line, someone must have planted them, sewing their seeds into the fudge brown earth. I envisaged cookies rising from out of the ground,
They have not spoken in nearly forty-eight hours and the silence is killing them. They have been ordered to keep facing the front, to keep their eyes fixed in the infinite distance, and to not even think about turning around. Whose idea it was to come here in the first place has long been forgotten.
We passed him on our way to school, loving the way his black and white spats struck the pavement with a rhythmic trick trick trick; the hypnotic cadence following us like a liquorice shadow, forcing us to slow down. I fancied his shoes to be just as snug as my dad’s thick-lined, even thicker-soled bear
Like flowers they project from the walls, sucking the nutrients out of each conversation that passes. They form lithe clusters resembling Angel’s Trumpets, while grateful dew drops hibernate deep inside. I prefer to call them my fleshy flowered babies, but know they are really ears tucked up inside one another and creeping further and further