By Carol Elva Greenwell Sibyll is still lying. Still in bed. She has not gone to the kitchen, made tea, logged on, sent and read emails, for a fortnight. She has not rung any of her daughters. Fiona has added both of her sisters’ numbers to Sibyll’s speed-dial. Not her own. Catherine is lying at the bottom of the stairs, left leg at a daft angle, the guilty feline draped across her silent breast. The others haunt their empty bowls and ‘go’ elsewhere, than amongst the litter

By Patrick Julian Hunter I had been fascinated by the idea of seeing my innards for years, and finally mustered up the courage to do the inevitable. I began by filleting my sides with slow, careful cuts— to grasp the meat and begin the laborious task of peeling and pulling the flesh, working inch by inch until I had the desired effect. Once completed, I stitched myself a Saran Wrap suit to hold everything in place and keep the alley cats from licking the vital parts. Oh, the

By Mike O'Brien Dazed, I walk through the house In pursuit of the ghost of her. A bookmark reveals Where she’d finished reading...for now. Her hand would have smoothed that page, Warmly caressed the print. Though her hands were often cold; Her eyes burned, processing the words, Triggering thought, The kind of thought that transports, Leaving me stranded. The blanket she kept On the back of her chair, Slumbers like a sleeping cat. She wrapped it around her legs in the even