This piece was written in response to Philip Larkin’s poem, Afternoons.
Iris stands apart. The smile playing on her lips is temporarily eclipsed as her mouth pinches a cigarette. Continue reading “Thank Heaven For Little Boys”
Paulie: Has it stopped ringing now?
Kerry: It comes and goes. At night it’s worse. My jaw hurts when I swallow. At least I should lose some bloody weight now.
Paulie: Sometimes he hits me hard, too. Continue reading “Running Away”
“You never cook me a proper dinner.”
He was bullying her again.
“All the boys at work tell me they come home and their wife has dinner sitting on the table for them. I’m the only one who doesn’t have a dinner waiting when he gets home. What kind of a wife are you?”
“And do all those men stay out drinking in the pub all night? How am I supposed to cook a dinner when I never know what time you’ll be home?”
But he won the argument. When it was over she felt bruised, battered, guilty.
So the next day she decided to cook him a big roast dinner. Continue reading “Nothing Is Ever Simple With Family”