I have almost nothing from my Mother’s family. Others hoard the sentimental or the precious but my Grandmother was not a saver, definitely not a hoarder. Even the year old jar of honey in her kitchen larder was thrown out, despite my Mother’s protests that they’d found honey in the tombs of the pharaohs that was still edible. No, she wasn’t a sentimental woman, my Nana Hughes - child of Welsh Methodism and Lancashire matter of factness Read more …
by Tara Gould
This story was published in the Asham Anthology “Don’t Know a Good Thing”
Under the old turnover bridge Caspar Bliss holds up his top in a roll above his nipples to let the sun warm his bare stomach. He runs his palm over the flesh to get a sense of living. He is a lean man, the muscle is like tyre underneath the skin.
