Blood We Cannot Wash Away
Every time she was about to gut a fish, she first whacked the fish's head with the side of the knife blade to stun it. She said it was less cruel that way. Then she sliced their throat in between the gills.
Writing
Short stories
An August for my July Mother
My mother would like a man who didn't let his supplements expire. A man who looked after himself so that he could look after her. She would approve of how he was heating his dinner in a bowl covered with a plate. She'd often said this minimises the radiation in food.
Things I Used to Believe
Winner of the 2018 Deborah Cass Prize