Sherry Morris

Dad’s wife Shirley calls. Invites me to Thanksgiving.   He’s getting old she cajoles. Misses you. He’s your father after all.   Her nagging nasal voice whines down the line—an earworm I still don’t know how to treat. My no-show at his big 7-0 hasn’t been forgotten. I tell myself that like the times, he’s […]

When my seven-year-old niece describes the active shooter drills they practise at her school, I struggle to control my hands. They pinch and squeeze at my throat as if that could somehow choke back her words. They itch to cover my ears. If I let them, they might press themselves to my cheeks and pull.

Hills and land are gone this frigid February morn. Lost in river haar. The sun’s a dim and distant disc, shroud in thick cloud. From her croft doorway, Eilidh shivers. It’s only four strides away, but there’s no trace of the protective dry-stane dyke today. Legends say calculating kelpies lurk in the murk. With all

    She waits for her cue.   Mallets raised. Hands poised. Ready to roll out some orchestral riff that zig-zags over two rows of burgundy bars.       But—       the xylophonist struggles to read sheet music.   Bumbles black holes—or is it wholes? Stumbles over treble clefs and half-rests.