by Jilly Allison   This room is 8 by 10, cold, no sun. They paint the walls cream, dirty cream. It’s a cell, my cell, my place. I was always on the outside looking in, ‘skinny little thing, like skinned rabbit,’ Ma said, never fitted in. Ma, round, fat little body, grey hair in a … Continue reading Max

End Game

by Jilly Allison   This is my space, my bubble. I have been here six weeks cocooned in the plastic, hands come through in specially prepared places and give me sterilised food, my clothes come in cellophane wraps. I can see people in white robes, masks on faces − my parents, nurses, doctors − they … Continue reading End Game

Maggie’s Tale

by Jilly Allison   I’ll leave it half an hour and then call the polis, nasty mess, head smashed in, glad he missed that nice blue car though. Eighth floor, not much hope of survival. That’s my son down there, why don’t I feel anything? 1980’s, as was I watched his father get ‘sent down’ … Continue reading Maggie’s Tale