I was smoking on the fire escape when I heard the neighbour come up after me. The Neighbour: that’s the way I thought of her, the title capitalised and official in a way I never felt like her given name really was. That, I told myself, was why I could never remember it. Why, thoughContinue reading “Joy”
Tag Archives: writing
Our Dear House
For three weeks the children had the smothering dream before I did, as well. The dream, as the twins described it, was of being pressed into a narrow room by a number of dark figures until their shapes were one, a breathless, pulsing shadow, flat against the wall. Nightly this vision came, provoking both boysContinue reading “Our Dear House”
Magdala
From the steps of the railway station she descended from the rain, a woman like quartz, like dusk, and amber. She walked as if without true weight. Her hair, though soaked, floated about as if it, too, were water. Her eyes—so dark—looked through me. They were the holes of stigmata within her face, black andContinue reading “Magdala”
The Tower
The dark girl in the black coat walked to a disused railway bridge by night. Her eyes were as her clothes—the sky—were, and her nails were lacquered with the red that they would soon be from other matter. A man awaited her, his white hair blown up into the wind like a waterfall in reverse.Continue reading “The Tower”
The Whispers
My sister died when I was nine years old. She has no grave, nor is there any official record of what became of her. Like shallow marks in stone she would have worn away, had I not been left behind to remember. The others that know of her death don’t believe in it, or notContinue reading “The Whispers”
The Morgue 