Tag: Jo Varnish

  • Chamomile Tea, Undrunk

    Fiction by Jo Varnish The first dead mother was mine. Fifty-eight years old and dead seven Tuesdays ago, not from an incurable disease, nor from a car accident. After making a cup of chamomile tea, she slipped on a piece of slimy maple ham. Her head hit either the sink or the tile floor—the coroner’s […]