A Letter in a Sandcastle_Lillies_The Golden Frog Hotel_In Defence of Happy Endings
Catalog Guide:
A Letter in a Sandcastle
Dear A,I’m writing this letter in the back of our last month’s electricity bill –the one I have yet to pay –on the arm seat of a train to Oran, and by the time it reaches you, there will be many borders, many languages, an ocean and a sky separating me from you.I’ll be a life away from you but right now, I’m still on the M-O12 train, still a few stations away from the place we both called home, holding nothing but my old black leather purse and Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous to keep me company. It’s what actually sparked in me the urge to write to you, this book.Because you’re g...
Lillies
I lied. I’d bought them for Lily.Perhaps because she’s named after them, though I don't really believe that anyone is especially attached to their names. I’m certainly not a fan of bills.Perhaps because the small crinkled lady in the corner florist had looked like she’d needed a sale. She had sprung from her plastic stool as I’d sidled into the shop, leaving me without the option of walking back out again empty handed.Or perhaps because I am hopelessly in love, to twww.onedoor.cche point that I don’t even recognize myself, and God knows now I don’t recognize Lily.I’d wanted to patch things up after another ...
The Golden Frog Hotel
Beside me in the passenger’s seat, Dad’s eyes are closed. If he is not already asleep, he is close to it. He is in his eighties now, and this is where I usually find him, in a sort of dreamy, half-awake state. “Are you alright, Dad,” I ask again. He sighs, gives me a small smile and a nod. “Fine, just fine,” he says. This is the answer he always gives, an answer he doesn’t have to dig too deeply to find.It is a Saturday morning, and we are leaving Panama City, driving into the mountains, to a small market village called El Valle de Antón. Decades ago, as a child, I travelled this road in the b...
In Defence of Happy Endings
Up until recently, Lesley Brownlow had been content to merely collect her salary, which wasn’t marvellous, but was enough, and to not over-think things. But it was a chance remark from one of her fellow students –or former fellow students, for it was now, disconcertingly, five years ago – on the Creative Writing MA that made her start to have these awkward moments of self-questioning and introspection. She was sure, or as sure as she could be, that Kelly had meant no harm. Kelly was one of those people who were generally credited with meaning no harm. “I mean, at least you’re earning your mo...