That morning, before breakfast, before tea, she stood in the room by the open curtains, by the window, and felt it tugging. She had showered and dressed, delayed the moment when she knew she'd obey. She was drawing it out, the tension, drawing it into her arms and legs, letting it roost in her belly, her scalp, the tips of her ears. She stood by the window and her mind did somersaults, believing for an instant that she might defy it, might choose to resist. It was a possibility that couldn't exist. She made sure her keys were in her pocket. Tension now at the point where something had to give. She opened the front door, walked down the steps of the close, then out, out, like a note that's been building, a phrase, a cadenza, tilting the edge of the throat, the tongue, the lips. She turned the corner and there it was. Flesh-tugger. Fisher of the finless. The sea.
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue'.
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login
details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are already a member and have not received your login details, please email us,
including your name and address, and we will supply you with details of how to access the archived material.
If you are not a member and would like to enjoy the growing online archive of Stand Magazine
, containing poems, articles, prose and reviews,
why not subscribe
to the website today?