This is Not My Beautiful House
Someone was in the kitchen again. Cupboard doors opened and closed. Footsteps, not loud but not furtive either. Plates rattled in the sink and a coffee maker gurgled.
The Stink in the Corridor
Just that morning, I had found a tiny hole on my black merino turtleneck. As I pulled it over my head, a pinhole of light shone through.
Black Bird
With the tide right out the three boys made their first rectangle on the flat, hard sand, near the water line. “Wider,” said Stone.
The Oregon Trail
The earliest parts of our story are fuzzy, a pointillist painting made of memories borrowed from others.
The Desert Road is Prone to Erosion
December 05, 1984, New Zealand. The arse end of the night.
Under Anaesthetic
Before I walk into the room, I whisper an apology to my body for what’s about to happen.