After a record-breaking 600 entries, we are delighted to announce the shortlist for this year’s Short Story Prize. The selected stories will be judged by Omar Robert Hamilton, Kishani Widyaratna, and...
before, we were all girls. then it changed. then there was Eve. then there was Madonna. heaven help...
After Carrie Mae Weems ‘The Kitchen Table Series’
Hands placed just so, I instructed the mirror to document transformation – becoming my mother with nothing more than a gesture and the sheen of bright red gloss Who knew ten years later, I’d avoid mirrors that threw her in my face Did I say all mirrors? Except I was crashing them against concrete Finding the most triangular edge Digging the earth of my body for a reflection I could believe Hospital windows wouldn’t break I’d know That was a long time ago Different time Today my mother’s hands are a constant shiver I stand behind her Frame her hands in mine and pull the lipstick across The mirror looks at us I don’t break it I don’t avoid her eyes staring from my face and hers at the same time How could I? I’ve now lived long enough to know what it took to be her
From a past life I am warning you that I have come into my grand unified theory. My cheeks...
When she comes home there is no fanfare, no bank holiday
Still, the sun shines in all seasons She is greeted with light,
dry winds, the fresh fruits of December ‘What citrus’,
Father asks, ‘can compare to the citrus of Orange County?
O foolish daughter, what winters you have missed!’
On her first night they serve a meal of fish and aubergines
and ask her to recite the details of her Grand Adventure
But Mother interrupts: ‘O dear, how false you are! How altered!
How can you speak that phoney English?’ She will not say
that she too has found things altered, things that only
a prodigal daughter can detect – the sad upholstery, a lock
that sticks, less green in the garden, Sister’s bad new fringe
Though still so far away from things, she knows the old love
must be imminent; it must be home because she’s longed for it
