How you make a Monster

When Frankie heard what she thought was her name being called, she turned to see a group of jeering children quickly scatter. . . Francesca Goldstein is tall for her seven years; dark eyes match her long raven black hair. Her skin is too pale, so Mama has taken to rubbing a dot of pink lipstick into each cheek to give them a healthy glow. Her nose is just a little too large for her…

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‘Mother’

“But there's a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heart-breaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because hers is where yours begin.”― Mitch Albom, ‘For One More Day’. I’m in my local convenience store buying a bottle of ‘red’ to go with dinner. I think of my mother. In her twilight…

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The Anniversary

The clack of the letterbox jolts her into sudden wakefulness. And then gradual realisation. It’s the anniversary. Layla struggles her reluctant feet into decrepit faded slippers. On her way to the kitchen she bends to pick up the morning paper from the unwelcome doormat. Good intentions will persuade her to flick on the kettle, but today the lure of a bottle of cheap red wine will overrule them. She pours a large measure into last…

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In My Mother’s Day

It’s dark outside but I know its morning, because I hear the weary stamp of Mam’s tightly booted feet, on the bare boards of our rickety staircase. She is nearing the end of her fourth pregnancy and her swollen feet and ankles must, at all costs evade the prying eyes of the midwife. As I wait to be carried downstairs into the warmth of our sparse kitchen, I marvel at the feathery pattern Jack Frost…

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