The Bridge

I had one clear memory of my brother, Seamus. He was hunched over the kitchen table, drawing in a visual diary with a fineliner. Tawny tendrils of hair hung over his face, his lips clamped in concentration. One morning he went for a walk and never came back. My parents glued missing posters on trees … More The Bridge

A Willing Victim

Three months living out of a 1979 Datsun almost killed Ruby. Of course, there was the consolation of iridescent sunsets at Ricketts Point, the absence of house cleaning and the company of her grey Persian, Nala. Her bones ached in the frigid night air, even though the cat burrowed close. In those early hours, the … More A Willing Victim