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Alice Hattrick
Alice Hattrick is a writer and producer based in London. Their book on unexplained illness, intimacy and mother-daughter relationships, titled Ill Feelings, will be published by Fitzcarraldo Editions in 2021.


Articles Available Online


Ill Feelings

Feature

Issue No. 19

Alice Hattrick

Feature

Issue No. 19

My mother recently found some loose diary pages I wrote in my first year of boarding school, aged eleven, whilst she was clearing out...

Art

February 2016

'Look at me, I said to the glass in a whisper, a breath.'

Alice Hattrick

Art

February 2016

Listen to her. She is telling you about her adolescence. She is telling you about one particular ‘bender’ that...

there is no meaning Hanging a picture on the wall I           give           a little too much force to my thumb skin breaks under pressure an orb of blood      red        red to dark red       to dry red       to skin       to iron       to rust      to heat        to sweat        to yesterdays as we move, we move Tuesday Going into the city with the rest of them sliding down the greased pole of means become ends Let me tell you I slipped and travelled against the sharp grain of escalator, one flight of metal before I hit flat floor and crack, to the back of my head I cried like a child oh I oh I said me        am in pain   I was at work by the afternoon At home by early evening feeling burning scratches on the backs of my legs and the bruised curve of my head My mind curved bruised   In bed, the sheets scraped and tugged me sore any way I tried to lie I     face down, looking for a cool place, stretched out an arm and all that was solid dematerialised I     a nothing slipped into water Water, as pressure I felt the water as pressure I’d always thought of pressure as a pushing down     oh      it was every drop of water for miles working into me There was nothing to my fingers, no weight, no force on the pads of my feet, no cold draught wafting past the hairs of my skin, no sound, no sight I couldn’t set my watch to nothing   I waited I couldn’t scream, unaware of mouth or lungs to do so not breathing, not dead, not alive No fear Not yet Eyes wide open into dark, and no sense Unsayable   The Friday, I dropped in on Uncle Padana It was early summer: shadows fold neatly round corners, light warms the backs of the hands until four and cools before six He answered the phone in a lady voice as I stood outside his consulting room door, then buzzed me in, He’s ready for you now He was sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, looking boyish, expectant, tired A Ceropegia hung from the bookshelf and fondled

Contributor

August 2014

Alice Hattrick

Contributor

August 2014

Alice Hattrick is a writer and producer based in London. Their book on unexplained illness, intimacy and mother-daughter relationships,...

(holes)

Art

July 2014

Alice Hattrick

Kristina Buch

Art

July 2014

There are many ways to make sense of the world, through language, speech and text, but also the senses and their extensions. In his...

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Interview

October 2014

Interview with Jem Cohen

Steve Macfarlane

Interview

October 2014

Jem Cohen may be one of the quintessential New York filmmakers of our era. Peerless in his knack for...

fiction

April 2014

Biophile

Ruby Cowling

fiction

April 2014

– I’m down maybe five feet. I take a moment to thank the leaf-filled rectangle of sky, and with...

feature

March 2014

Burroughs in London

Heathcote Williams

feature

March 2014

I first met William Burroughs in 1963. I was working for a now defunct literary magazine called Transatlantic Review...

 

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