The eleventh Month
They call November the month of sadness. The last copper leaves let go, and the colour drains from the hills into grey rain and drifting fog. The sea turns to slate. The lights of...
Halloween Gothic
The Winner
The email arrived on a Wednesday at eleven minutes past three in the morning, the hour when Norman Ashe did most of his living.
It came from a name and nothing behind...
A Man Walks down the Street...
The road is longer than I remember roads being. It may be that I have not walked one in some time — not like this, not with a suitcase and no particular arrangement wa...
Carrying the Lantern
The Guardian had carried the lantern for longer than the alley had existed.
That was the first thing — the thing that distinguished his fatigue from any human version of the w...
Wings of Light
I did not mean to paint a theology. I meant to express in images something I could not name.
Most of us carry it — that particular longing that has nothing to do with anything that h...
Broken Wings
She had not consulted a map. Maps implied return.
Maren had driven through the small hours with the particular deliberateness of someone who has made a decision and is moving inside it...