Eastmouth and Other Stories
Sonia stands on the slabs of the promenade, looking out across the pebbly beach.
Writer of fiction,
from novels to a story on a postcard
Sonia stands on the slabs of the promenade, looking out across the pebbly beach.
Sometimes, a story you read or hear will be total fiction, pure fantasy, make believe, a fabrication, a fable, a yarn. And sometimes it won't.
Sometimes, a sound in an empty room is just a breeze coming in through an open window, billowing a curtain, toppling a vase, scattering some papers, slamming a door. And sometimes it's not.
Sometimes, when you open a door or lift a lid, you find exactly what you expected to find: coats in the coat cupboard, bread in the bread bin, toys in the toy box. And sometimes you don't.
Futh stands on the ferry deck, holding on to the cold railings with his soft hands.
In the front garden, in the narrow beds, the flowers which emerged in what felt like the first days of spring lie buried beneath the late snow, their opening buds like small mouths gaping in shock, their stems broken.