euananthony

The writer sits in their treehouse. Borrowed pillows cushion the weight of the day. How am I going to keep this up? They overlook a verdant city. A bright white sun sets above it. Soon it will slip behind the Kilpatrick hills, but not yet. Not until it first burns its round form into a… — read more

Excitement bubbles. The writer is back. Like spring, some things are inevitable. But they did not expect this to be one of them. Sprigs of white flowers hang like chandeliers above the back alley. I should make cordial. But the idea is met with barriers; reasons why not, rather than reasons why. This is how… — read more

A writer sits down at a desk. Is this a mistake? Rain pours outside the window. Two days ago, their charismatic, aren’t-I-fun mask had almost melted off from the heat. France had been pushing forty degrees Celsius. Glasgow was now a meagre fifteen. They stare at the green shoulder outside their window. A habit. Look… — read more