Apricity.

One Guy Fawkes' Night - which will add only some vague, meagre and purely incidental, albeit handy, visual and historical, romantic poetics to this otherwise quite ordinary detailing of a boy, a girl, a guest, a cat and heroin addiction - I discovered a tiny shadow at the front door. It mouthed its black miaow, … Continue reading Apricity.

Tomorrow in Chideock.

I cut the hair at the nape of her neck. “There’ll probably be a bouncy castle, too,” she says. “At the church?” “No,” she says, suddenly serious. “Afterward, at the wake. But, yes, the way things are going, it won’t be long before the vicar is on the castle herself. Up and down, up and … Continue reading Tomorrow in Chideock.

Butter Door.

The old man passed over the rooftop of Brinton farm and Middlely. The night orange hiss glowed above the county towns to the north. The countryside. He threaded the stars orange spangleblue and white. There was a sound that followed him. Not the hissing electricity sparking from the shoulders of the pylons over the towns … Continue reading Butter Door.