A Fisherman's Tale
The village existed in that peculiar geography where land surrendered to sea without ceremony, where houses huddled against the wind like penitents. Thomas Carrick had lived there...
The Standing Stones
The cottage smelled of damp stone and the pine tar her grandmother had used on the door frames, and underneath both of these the older smell of turf, which had not been burned in...
Broken Wings
She had not consulted a map. Maps implied return.
Maren had driven through the small hours with the particular deliberateness of someone who has made a decision and is moving inside it...
That Summer Afternoon
Eliza stands at the water's edge, her feet bare against the sand that holds the day's accumulated heat. The sun is lowering now, its light turned honey-thick, and she watches h...
The last Journey
The rain had been falling for three days without reprieve, not the soft Irish mist that Maeve had grown accustomed to in her forty-seven years, but a relentless hammering that turne...
Seagulls
The man stood at the harbour's edge, watching the gulls work the turbulent water. His shoulders curved inward against the wind, not from cold but from something more persistent—a weariness...