a fleeting ripple

It’s Christmas morning. It’s just a regular Sunday. I’m in another loud cafe, my computer on my lap, a mug of coffee in hand. Writing,...

Some guitar chords echo from the speakers at the far side of the room. A raspy woman’s voice starts singing an old song. Thick, red...

It’s chilly in the house, a hearth without its fire. The late morning sun is already up, giving wispy layers of bleak, grey light but not...