My oldest friend e-mailed me from the sands of Afghanistan and then went back to his gun, leaving me to reminesce on a hundred discussions, and a hundred games of racquet-ball On the T.V.,

This could just about stand as a short story but when i wrote it i had a novel in mind unfortunately i've thus far drawn a blank - see what you think.

I have only these hands, Hands that worked the dark earth, Hands that held the kicking gun fast, Hands from which blood can never be cleansed. I have only these hands,

Lillian Rutherford arrives in Venice to look for her 'prodigal' son Andrew.

had the old musty smell of damp fur as he prowled the shopping precinct, nosing in waste bins for scraps of some lost life or leftovers to build a future, circling round the shoppers

It stared up at me, the lidless eye in thick white fat, a fixed look of one-eyed surprise. The object was dissection, to get at how this unseeing eye worked, peer and poke

As I slowly lift my head to face the sky, I feel the warmth of the summer rain, Slowly kiss open my swollen eyes; And in the midst of their fall, A sound... delicate...

Our spirit’s dream of unashamed and uplifted flight. As they curl upon uplifted wings; Their rose fragranced path, Lift us from this dour untrammelled shore.