Skip to main content

The Tobacconist


There was a period of my life when I saw wombs all around me, and so of course the chandeliers were uteruses. Uteruses of crystal and chrome, suspended in air. Brass Fallopian tubes. Dozens of them hung in the shop. Some were gorgeous, some tacky. But none of them could be called hostile, like my own womb.

This story is locked

Get unlimited access

Login  OR  Subscribe

Recommended Reading