She longed to go outside and sit with her new tenant, Tom, but she restrained herself from doing so.

I don’t feel the need to lie when she arches one eyebrow and says: “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

Gaz has nabbed a road sign of a man digging a hole, Bilbo’s picked flowers but he won’t say why, and Matty’s filled his handbag with salt and pepper

Over wire-rimmed glasses, Virginia Woolf peers down at the drawing, takes in the words, breathes in an imagined Argentinian starry sky.

Normally, I ignored calls from numbers I didn’t recognise but twenty-two missed calls in the span of an hour was worrisome.

She seems unaffected by the midges now, her light clothes flapping them away. It needles you, her comfort in surroundings that make you feel so out of place.

The sign was a few kilometres back, but I’d told myself I wouldn’t stop. That she isn’t there.

I drop my son on the floor and he shatters.

Is it kidnapping when it’s your own children? I hope not.

I often think about the moon. I wonder how I may sail to her.