The word ‘ebb’ itself feels eroded. Like my once opulent patience or my once abundant temper. Like my hairline. Ebbing. Ever further. Like my days remaining. Like friendships that stood as great cliffs, now feeding oceans. Ever decaying. The innocuous, innocent ebb evolving into the black hole of all things.


His Last Words

I won’t be a minute”, he said, slamming the front door.

By 11pm she’d called the police, having exhausted all possibilities. They searched. Nothing.

His credit card untouched for the next four years before expiring.

They’d been so happy, she thought, but she’d never escape those (now) ambiguous last words.

The Notes

She never thought she’d understand the notes; cried for months before trying. He’d bequeathed the apartment, funds, (even land), but 21 notes (handwrapped) remained unexplained. He’d loved her, she knew that. But here came emptiness. Years passed before she heard Vera Lynn sing the inimitable. And those notes rang out.

A Grand Plan – Part 18 (Benefits)

“Essentially trying to hone what might be 100,000 word novels into 50 word epigrams, trying different genres, playing with form , conceit, experimenting with…are we connecting here?…you seem to have glazed over somewhat.”

“I’m afraid, if you haven’t found a genuine job within a fortnight we’re suspending your benefits.”