Mailing List


Rebecca Watson
Rebecca Watson is a freelance arts writer, and works as an Editorial Assistant at the Financial Times.  

Articles Available Online


there is no doubt, here it is, on the sign:                Prawn chowder   prawn                                    chowder   (words already unfamiliar but growing more distant as I say them in my head for a third time)   prawn ?           chowder ?   on reflection        cream of cauliflower doesn’t seem so bad which is why I’m ladling (eyebrows peaking, just a little, at how the soup matches the sides of the takeaway container) And now I’m paying                                                               tap your card darling and tapping (darling)          and     walking and my hand!, container too hot, palm softening, losing lines, switching hands (surprisingly pink!), round to the lifts, sound chiming, me picking up pace, just fast enough to make it, stepping in someone else asking                                                             what floor   One ‘One’? Christ, should’ve said ‘first’ rubbing my leg against the side   Intercom, now,                                                                      First Floor Out, doors wide, down into the corridor (averting my eyes, upwards, away from the red and orange concentric circles across the carpet), upper arm preparing to negotiate the swing doors, nudging myself and the soup carefully slowly slowly through   I must walk as if I am not checking whether the sofa and table are free, I have no purpose, nonchalantly wandering, with my soup that is not too hot and my spoon that is just in my hand for whenever I fancy using it, purely making a casual parade of the office, bearing to the left, towards the kitchen area where a certain sofa resides, not that I’m hoping to get that exact sofa and table I use most days, just after the fridge, hidden behind the coffee station, and which may or may not be occupied, no no, just walking, just scheming at how, if someone has their lunchbox firmly on the table, how I can walk (not dejected, not me!) as if I am only passing by, not turning around,   (approaching now, scanning for a foot sticking out, a coat draped on the side) I will keep walking, I decide, walking, and just go
Little Scratch

Prize Entry

April 2018

Rebecca Watson


READ NEXT

feature

July 2012

Ways of Submission

Saskia Vogel

feature

July 2012

On a pale marble fountain in Dubrovnik, I posed. I pretended I too was a stone figure, water gushing...

poetry

January 2012

Matisse: Tahiti (1930)

Campbell McGrath

poetry

January 2012

If I were young again I would forego Tahiti and move to America to begin a new life in...

fiction

Issue No. 6

Stolen Luck

Helen DeWitt

fiction

Issue No. 6

Keith was not the songwriter. Darren and Stewart wrote the songs. Keith hit things, some of which were drums....

 

Get our newsletter

 

* indicates required