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On the way home, every bright colour calls to me. I feel myself in a way that I haven’t in years. It was the pumpkins. Glowing bright yellow-orange in a sea of endless mirrors. I am calm. Happy. “Nope.” I sigh loudly, closing my banking app and lowering my phone. The desk attendant glances at
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Various unidentified bugs scatter as I pick up the small log. The underside is moist and dark. The perfect hiding spot when you don’t want to be found. In seconds they are hidden in the long grass, and I think to myself I should probably be wearing boots instead of Birkenstocks. There are most definitely
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That night, I dreamed that the cabin had slipped its perch on the dunes and was being thrown around on the violent waves of the ocean. The water was lapping a deep blue against the window, and no one was coming to save us. I woke up in a panic, until I realised that the
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I have a confession to make. I have never read Margaret Atwood. Of course, I know what some of her books are about, especially cultural icons such as The Handmaid’s Tale, but I have never cracked the spine of one. So why did I pick up her latest collection of essays and other writing, Burning Questions? Perhaps it
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Every year. Every damn year. I jump on social media and see the reading goals of others. The enormous lists of books that they have read the year before. The articles: “How I read 100 books in a year”. So I set myself a goal. Compared to these voracious readers, my goal is small. It
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Lucy Irene 