we started at this pond in rockcliffe.
It had been a favourite topic of discussion at dinner parties throughout the years.
The last time I struck a match, I lit the sky on fire. Up, up, up galloped the pillows of smoke, stacked on top of each other like scorched marshmallows.
Sarah bit her lip, not out of pleasure but out of the need to steady herself so she did not dart for the door.
Marisol scrolls through the appointment list and marks the scheduled patients who have checked in.
The winds here are charged, tensed and pressing against the maple barks.
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.
Wandering endless bleached earth.
My father’s funeral was on a Tuesday, on my mother’s birthday.