On a foul night in fickle early autumn, when the wind sobbed and wailed like a lost wandering wraith, Constance awoke from a garish dream, aghast to hear her garden crashing into the sea. It clattered down the cliff thud by thud into darkness, sodden by the pelting rain and bludgeoned by the gale.
Up at the farm, we kept an eye on our neighbour, so the next day I tracked through the glen to discover how she was. I remember the feral scent of the earth after rain – how that smell takes me back to that day. As I arrived, I saw Constance through a shroud of mist, waiting for me outside her house, wearing an ethereal smile; I remember thinking, ‘She looks frail’. How anyone could live here in such precariousness – crumbling in a cottage on a cliff edge, without electricity or gas, drawing water from a corroded pump, surviving in such isolation, always beggared belief, but especially someone of her age. Continue reading “Unturn This Stone by Aviva Treger”
We share this space, this
same space, occupied by you
and I. The same time,
identical air, the very light. Continue reading “A Rift in Our Continuums by Charlotte Ozment”
Fog hung heavy in the alley that housed Mr. Fenway’s Body Shop. It licked the wet cobbled path, leaving a dull glow around the dimly lit lamps that perched atop the stone. Little of Salter Alley was visible to the naked eye. A blessing maybe, to those who wandered past.
There too, was a definite thickness in the air, a dewy sort of damp. It clung to the bricks and pawed at the assortment of stores that ran parallel to one another. Stores that were distinct in their goods, but alike in their nature. Decrepit, unwanted, flogging items of little worth. Continue reading “The Body Shop by Emily Harrison”
Here was a hole, very pale, shapely, a most comely hole. It was a hole we enjoyed for it was always moist. This was a sipping hole, an oft tasted delight. We flew down, we sipped, tasted, and we were refreshed. Our conversation was vital, sparkly, like the water; vibrant. Our nests we set all around in the gentle arms of white stone. The cliffs appeared to form a temple, all delight and all beauty, our voices funnelled into one chorus, the warm air buoyed the small crescents of our wings. Here was gentle living. It was home. Continue reading “Yet These Birds Do Fly by Nick Norton”