Playing house, but only on the outside.


An image of a heron, wading into the shallows of a river. Large rocks and tree branches frame the heron.

There's our heron under those wanton trees.

Being led astray, no doubt, gossiping

past sky and water, the intricacies

of wings and roots. I can't hear it, of course.


The river's chuckling harshly, irritated.

This window frames the scene, pocked by raindrops

I'm too afraid to reach out and wash off.

Spiders cavort knowingly, confident

that my lapses in housekeeping promise


safety. They're right. Their silks are brighter than

my pyjamas and less clumsy. Kettle

re-boiled and I cut through steam with the

blade of my hand, repeating willingly

to keep worse things at a hubbub, not growl..


My kitchen floor has travelled past cold, now

clammy as a fever and likely as

delirious. A tail, throat: our heron

begins the process of swallowing, and

once again so arrogantly faultless.



An image of Betsie Flynn, a person with shoulder-length light hair standing outside and smiling into the camera.

Betsie Flynn is a Kentish transplant to the Brecon Beacons where she lives with her husband, children, and cats. She doesn't do well in direct sunlight, but loves garlic (so all signs don't point to vampire). Her words are forthcoming or appearing in a few places, including The Odd Magazine, Ample Remains, and Anser Journal.