stories

My first memory is of static. It started with my feet being caressed by the soft, cocoa-scented hands of my nanny, the one who could make me laugh with a wiggle of her

My little brother will die soon. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after that.

The woman was in her mid-thirties, black-haired, brown-eyed, and dressed hurriedly in the pale light of that autumn morning.

On a rocky beach somewhere in Scandinavia I walked along the curvy length of the shore, pausing every so often to pick up a stone or a shell which caught my eye.

I learned about the curse on my father shortly after he died.