by Helen Ivory | May 15, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
Unseen, But Here My autistic son has wings of shadow. I see them when he stands in sunlight; they blossom behind him like dark clots. He giggles under the full sun and a crown of glare anoints him. He stands on the cracks of the pavement holding the...
by Helen Ivory | May 14, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
Snuff Shakespeare Banquo is dead. Zipped inside a body bag, ringed by Zimmer frames. [Here comes more sugar for the shock. Sweet tea clouds hang.] What will they do now? He’s been lifted up like a rolled up carpet and put on a trolley, the...
by Helen Ivory | May 13, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
Home furnishings Sensing revelation on the fifth floor, she reaches – self-defensively – for tools and next, she is all pocket: the more combed the colder, while at her toes a little pool of not-this, not-that flotsam...
by Helen Ivory | May 12, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
Lugworming Two lumps of men on a plate-glass beach vulcanised by their gear like old buddy bull-seals end-on to the horizon slicing through the daily slap of a low ebb without ever touching. Lindsay Macgregor lives in Fife and is currently...
by Helen Ivory | May 10, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
Slices Bread began to slice the woman. Don’t slice me, cried the woman. Bread had no mercy for women: sliced woman is delicious with husbands and children on top, thought bread – it smelt her rising in the warmth of a loaf: made neat, white, and...
by Helen Ivory | May 9, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
Pastoral Care Dry, scaly Mr. Jenkins, history teacher doubling as pterodactyl, had just that one shrivelled slab of advice (over and bloody over, Form One, Form Two, Form Three). In the army, boys, twenty men will jump to attention when one man...
