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rss feedCold mornings like these take me back, up the stairs to the second storey of that borrowed house. These mornings, so glacial and clear, seem to have had their edges clipped, widening their imagined ends outward. This perished sky and the thick knit jersey that Mango gave to me, open up spaces between spaces for scrutiny. The house, like so many others on that [...]
My missives had been piling up on the presidential desk for eons. Missives that were initially clothed in diplomacy, polite innuendo and carefully crafted sentences. As time marched inexorably on, as my plaintive pleas were shrugged off like yesterday’s clothes, my tone changed. Where allusions and word-mincing failed previously, I hoped that some scathing remarks [...]
With my mouth gaping open, I stared at the small piece of paper in my hand. I turned my eyes to the newspaper next to me, then back to the small paper. Then back to the newspaper. I was starting to feel like a tennis umpire, who keeps his eyes trained on the ball and [...]
Martin Carroll is an Irishman living in Holland. He is currently working with Sin Sin Collective on pan-media projects including film, music, animation and theatre. He enjoys bending things. See www.sinsincollective.com
She stretched out a yellow hand and growled at it. Reaching for the fridge door she growled again to steady her hand. She did a sustained kegel exercise to try to detract her strength from the action of opening the fridge, but she still pulled the handle off. Grabbing the milk, the claw of her left thumb punctured the carton and white liquid poured out onto her dark fur. She thought of the Milky Way spilling from Hera’s breast as she howled in morning frustration. The prick next door banged his fist on the wall they shared.
She called her neighbour Nose-lobe, due to his extraordinarily long nostrils. They flapped slightly when he was angry, or when caught in a strong breeze. With all the cups too small or broken to hold in her present state, she resigned herself to coffee in a saucepan. This also saved on damage to the kettle, as she only had to hold the pan in her page-sized hands to heat the liquid. Her own body heat clouded the cold morning.
I have tried more than three times now to tell him. I have tried to be kind and nice about it. I smiled and I was polite. I smiled and I said:
“Please do not call me baby, it makes me sick to the point where I wish you would disappear off the face of the earth.”
I told him of the woman in China (or was it Mexico? Maybe it was Scotland) who chopped a man to pieces because he had whistled and said something about her behind.
When Questioned by the police, that woman said the man had made her sick. The feeling of someone shouting the secrets of her behind, shouting as though he had been there, as though he lived there, that feeling, she said, could not be compared to anything.
She imagined he had seen her naked, right there in the street. She felt she had walked naked in the middle of the street. It was her fault then, was it not? She was naked and he had seen.
Once upon a never, a little girl was not. She had neither an evil step-mother nor a knight in shining armour. She did not have curly blonde hair, and she never wore pink. Nor did she ever wander in the woods that wouldn’t be found near her grandmother’s house. She did not talk to strangers – she didn’t talk very [...]
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What Wonderland is like without Alice: fiction
by Zoë Hinis
Jiggered is the second glance taken in the smudged mirror of our minds.
We are an arts and literary, socio-political, eggshell-breaking electronic magazine, based in South Africa, that showcases the works of artists who dare to voice their opinions.
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