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 Wendy Greenhalgh
We have been sitting watching it now for eight hours, that thin sliver of sky. Grandfather has wrapped himself in old sacks, the dry, dusty hessian sends out little puffs of chaff every time a raindrop hits it, his hat is pulled down low over his face, and his eyes are shut in meditation. Above us the clouds are storm purple and the sky is swollen. The slates of the roofs glisten slick in the downpour Read more …
Wendy has been writing stories since she was a child, & narrative is part of her Visual Art too. Transformations, inner worlds and secrets fascinate her, and she enjoys playing with the fantastic or the futuristic Read more …
by Wendy Greenhalgh
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I make myself gratuitous cups of tea. My editor calls asking about the pages,
“Yes, yes,” I say, “I’ll have them with you by the end of the month.”
But I know I won’t and already her voice has a strange quality to it, tinny and far away and I find my gaze being drawn back to the screen on my laptop, to the skittering of letters on it, and I’m sure some of them are missing. Read more …