by J Young
Her brain sits in a large brown bowl, sizzling, bubbling, burning. She packs around it with ice. She speaks to it softly. “Hush, now. Hush.” Once it is cool, she places it back in her head. “Good,” she imagines people saying. “Brenda is quite OK again.” Good, she thinks. Centered and in control again.
J Young is an old chap, grappling with themes of limits, longings, and finitude. Worked for many years with people double trouble: mental challenges and involvement with the criminal courts. Lives in St Andrews, Scotland: an ancient town with an ancient university; home of golf; also—allegedly—of many ghosts. (He has not met any yet.)