Root

Root by Becky Tipper Twelve midwives have come already. Have bustled through the sharp wind with their bundles of charms and bitter herbs. Have sighed and prayed and despaired. Frau Mueller now, her cold hands on Ilsa’s belly, prays to…

Gibbet

Gibbet by Mark Cassidy Once I was a young boy, clambered limber, surefooted, into an empty gibbet and swung the blackwood, gristle-crusted cage bang tight. Sat squat-faced, open-legged, in the charnel basket, rocking in the swooping sea fret neath racing…