A breeze tousled the silver birches that loomed above the trail, provoking a flurry of golden autumn leaves.
Some years before, I had moved to a coastal town thinking that fortune smiled on writers in picturesque places.
My father’s funeral was on a Tuesday, on my mother’s birthday.
“You’re late, Isaac.”
At five o’clock that morning, like he had done every morning, Ibrahim Delgado woke to the sound of screeching roosters.
Illustration by Andres Garzon Chained-up whimpering farm dogs, Brexit signs, and lucent yellow fields slowly disappeared. Hedgerow […]
Illustration by Andres Garzon “I kept thinking how marvelous it would be if I could somehow tear […]