by Katie McCullough
I used to watch her drink cranberry juice with great disdain like clockwork every morning. Red smears in a glass that matched the menagerie of broken veins in her cheeks. She’d pour a robust glug of vodka into her morning juice and shrug with laughter when I happened to frown. “There’s no harm in having a little fun,” she’d sing as she placed another empty bottle in the bin or on the side. She’d been having fun non-stop for the last twelve years and wanted everyone to join in, so far as to lace the fruit punch with gin at my fourteenth birthday party. Her last drink was a tumbler of rum that stuck to the table with its syrupy mass - I’ve yet to touch if for fear of drinking it myself and honoring my mother.
Katie McCullough is a screenwriter and playwright whose tools of choice are her hands and anything to write with (as well as her mouth to talk to people). She's a graduate of Bournemouth Media School and The Royal Court, London, and has had several readings at the ICA and Theatre Royal, Stratford East. Her website is here.