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...
The light from distant days
The woman sits before the computer, her hands away from the keyboard. Beyond the window the Atlantic has turned the colour of pewter, and the waves come in livid and boil...
The Dog and the Android
The dog had learned the shape of absence before he learned the shape of the ruined streets that now surrounded him. His human — a woman whose smell of woodsmoke and warm brea...
Welcoming the Autumn
In the middle of October the wood at the end of the lane stops pretending. All summer it has held a single colour, a green so steady the eye slides across it as it slides across...
Argos and Ulysses
“There lay the hound Argos, full of vermin; yet even now, when he marked Odysseus standing near, he wagged his tail and dropped both his ears, but nearer to his master he had no...
No Place like Home
The sea had been hard on him that day, the swell rising grey and indifferent under a sky that gave nothing away. But as the boat turned for home now the choppy water settled by de...