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I grew my hair out all summer so that I could wear it up in a high and slightly off-centre ponytail. Gone was my chin-length bob that framed my round child face, that I was sure made me look chubby. I wasn’t chubby — easy to see that now — but a steady campaign of taunting had made me believe I was. I thought that being fat was the worst thing I could possibly be.
My short story ‘The Farm’ is included in the ninth collection of The Wire’s Dream Magazine, a publication featuring fiction, poetry, essays, art and photography from creators around the world.
Read an excerpt here.
It was forty-three days after she came to be that the first spark began.
Nothing more than a flicker; the sort of thing doctors measure to make blanket statements. Alive. Dead.
She was alive. She was nothing more than a cluster of cells, and on the internet people kept comparing her to food stuffs. Small as a pea. Small as a pomegranate seed. As though I were a farmer of specifically minuscule produce and not a pregnant woman.
The following pieces cannot be read in isolation, one after the other. No story is complete without another; no piece acts as a beginning or end point. Readers, like space travellers, must move forward in loops.
I woke up in the morning when my Bernese Mountain dog, Humphrey, jumped on my side of the bed. His warm weight pressed against my back and I reached a hand out sleepily to stroke his ears. Harry stirred beside me, rolling onto his back, the filtered light through the thin curtains covering our bedroom window drifting over his bare chest. He smiled as I nestled my head into his shoulder and felt his lips brush my forehead.
I dreamt once that I was Lavinia, or Philomela. I had no hands and no tongue, so really I was Lavinia, but somehow I was Philomela. The Blade had cut my tongue sheer off, close to the trembling Root. The mangled Part still quiver’d on the Ground.