My piece published by Another Chicago Magazine, on the death of my Oma, and how I was unable to attend her funeral due to COVID-19. It’s free to read online, part of a collection of many people’s experiences during these strange times.
Feel like one last sweet treat to farewell Easter?
Try listening to my short story, The Master Class, read by Holly Myers, as part of Quart Short Literary Reading Nights.
Something is not quite right at this bakery…
‘That woman is a red pepper,’ was what he said.
‘A red pepper has such a strong flavour, that whatever dish it’s added to is overwhelmed, every subtle flavour supressed, and I have seen this woman often enough to know that every person who encounters her in conversation is, for a moment, totally absorbed by her presence, and while it can be interesting to lose oneself so completely in someone else, it isn’t long before you begin to feel smothered and afraid that you might never re-emerge at all—or, worse, that you will have to re-emerge by force, and because of this force, this obliteration, you will always carry something of her with you, like that one Tupperware container everybody owns, stained with pasta sauce, a sauce made of a dozen ingredients, and yet… smelling only of red peppers.
Said the bride-to-be to her sister:
‘Mum wants me to have cake at the wedding, but I said, I hate cake! And she said you have to have cake at a wedding, and I said, I really hate cake. And she said, but what kind of cake would you have if you did have a cake, and I said I don’t want a cake, but if I had to have a cake I’d have a chocolate cake. And she said, you don’t have chocolate cake at a wedding, you have fruit cake. And I said I don’t want any cake! but she wasn’t listening so I’m probably going to end up with a fruit cake. God! I hate cake!’
Said the mother of the bride-to-be to her other daughter:
‘Your sister wants a chocolate cake at her wedding.’
Do you have a pet fish? the leggy lady asked the mermaid.
Yes, I have a smelt whose name is Salty, and a pufferfish called Yoyo.
Like yoyo dieting—one moment he’s skinny, the next he’s fat.
Mermaids use that word too?
O, yes. We gain weight very easily, especially when trading with sailors in the summer months. During winter, when we receive few visitors, we are restricted to fish.
Eating fish… isn’t that like eating your pets? Or even your own kind?
No, fish come to us when they are old and offer themselves as sacrifice.
Like you’re gods!
In a way.
I would love to have a pet pufferfish.
The mermaid shrugged. Seals are better, she said.
They are like your dogs. Dutch sailors have a good name for them: zeehond—literally, seadog. But they are much harder to acquire.
Because they choose you.
You’re so lucky, the lady said as she looked down at her thin, scarred legs.
The mermaid suddenly tossed her hair. I must go, she said. I have to find Grumpy.
Wait—I have one more question.
What about your children?
What about them?
How—I mean—are babies easy to bare?
We don’t have babies—think of our figures! There’s a reason you don’t see pregnant mermaids. We lay eggs, only we call them bubbles, like any sensible fish.
Thousands, though only a finful reach adulthood.
How many children do you have?
The lady lowered her eyes. None, she said.
Pity, said the mermaid, easing back into the water.
Will you visit again?
Maybe, depends on my tides.
My mood, said the mermaid. And with a flick of her fins she vanished beneath the waves.
The lady watched the sea until the sun sunk below the horizon. Then she slowly traced the track back over the dunes.
Moments later, my own feet followed, crushing the prints she had made with her small toes.
I watched as she entered a weatherboard house, gently closing the door behind her. After a minute, steam billowed from an open skylight and I could hear the sound of running bathwater.
Every woman has a small, dilapidated mirror hiding in her bathroom.
It may have a porcelain backing, decorated with flowers.
It may have strange remnants from the larger setting that it once belonged to—perhaps an old compact—still hanging from it.
It may be one of those dreaded dual travel sets that contain one normal mirror, and one mirror that magnifies to magnificent proportions.
It may even be cracked.
Every woman has a mirror like this. A secret mirror, used each night to monitor the size of pores and stray facial hairs, to check the back of heads before events or the peculiar mole in the peculiar place.
To clean it is to admit its existence, and so it is usually caked with grime.
It is the most comprehensive witness in the judgement of women, which is why it is concealed in the backs of cupboards, shoved beneath makeup in vanities, routinely slammed between drawers and rarely shared between family or friends.
This is also why it disappears so quickly when a woman dies, lest another person force secrets from its silvery depths…