The Faithful Remnant at the End of Time
New edits of first or incomplete drafts which have been languishing unloved for too long.
Sir, give me this water, that I may not thirst, nor come here to draw. May never leave hurriedly the town's narrow
Is this everything - your name printed on paper two bunches of flowers and thirty-one people with your genes? Stories were never written on a string of DNA.
Somewhere out there I’ve a home in the city a table, a staircase, a rent-book and you.
It is not you I mourn but the walk to your house through the wheat on Dodds lane and the haze on Pyrford roads in high summer. Now, bereft of my place in those times
The day the world flinched, like sunlight through a coma they carried their dead on advertisement boards. Surgeons waited like ignoble cannibals to strip out their organs or lay them